Kristin Lavransdatter Part 1

Kristin Lavransdatter.

by Sigrid Undset.

INTRODUCTION.

LADY WITH A PAST.

MY FIRST FORAY into the world of Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter, the n.o.bel laureate Sigrid Undset's celebrated trilogy of novels set in fourteenth-century Norway, turned out to be a reading experience like no other. I'm thinking here less of the books themselves (though these were an unexpected delight, a convincing twentieth-century evocation of medieval Norway) than of the personal encounters the books fostered.

The trilogy runs over one thousand pages in the old three-in-one Knopf hardcover I'd picked up secondhand, and I chose to read it slowly, for weeks on end, lugging the hefty, handsome volume everywhere I went. One of its themes is the stubborn power of magic-the bewitching allure of pagan practices in a society that had officially but not wholeheartedly embraced Christianity-and the trilogy did seem to work magical effects: it drew elderly women to me.

Memory tells me that this must have happened seven or eight times, but probably it was more like four. In any event, the encounters were much of a piece. An older woman sitting by me on the subway, or waiting beside me in a line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, or having lunch at a nearby table, would cross the boundary separating strangers in order to volunteer that she, too, had once read Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter-a remark accompanied by that special glow which comes at the recollection of a distant but enduring pleasure.

Early in the trilogy arrives a moment emblematic of Undset's over-arching ambitions and designs. For the first time in her life our heroine, Kristin Lavransdatter, age seven, leaves the valley that has heretofore circ.u.mscribed her existence. A new sort of panorama beckons and beguiles: There were forest-clad mountain slopes below her in all directions; her valley was no more than a hollow between the enormous mountains, and the neighboring valleys were even smaller hollows . . . Kristin had thought that if she came up over the crest of her home mountains, she would be able to look down on another village like their own, with farms and houses, and she had such a strange feeling when she saw what a great distance there was between places where people lived.

The revelation is geographical for Kristin but temporal for the reader, who also is to be granted a breathtaking new vista, as a world many centuries old emerges with crystalline clarity. Indeed, the book's deepest pleasures may be retrocessive. The trilogy advances with a relentless forward motion, following Kristin methodically from the age of seven until her death, at about fifty, from the Black Death, but the reader's greatest thrill is the rearward one of feeling tugged back into a half-pagan world where local spirits still inhabit the streams and cairns and shadowy forests. The trilogy sets us in an earlier age that looks back, uneasily, on a still earlier age.

Kristin Lavransdatter was a publis.h.i.+ng phenomenon. My own edition was the seventeenth printing-an elaborate clothbound hardcover published in 1973, a half century after the trilogy first appeared in English. The trilogy was a main selection of the Book-of-the-Month Club, where its striking success elicited an unprecedented testimonial: "We consider it the best book our judges have ever selected and it has been better received by our subscribers than any other book." was a publis.h.i.+ng phenomenon. My own edition was the seventeenth printing-an elaborate clothbound hardcover published in 1973, a half century after the trilogy first appeared in English. The trilogy was a main selection of the Book-of-the-Month Club, where its striking success elicited an unprecedented testimonial: "We consider it the best book our judges have ever selected and it has been better received by our subscribers than any other book."

Continuously in print for three-quarters of a century, Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter is today that rarity of foreign twentieth-century novels: one with competing translations available. Still, it plainly hasn't captivated later generations as it once did. Though Undset may well be, even now, the best-known modern Scandinavian novelist in the United States, she has been little embraced by academia (which has overlooked Scandinavia generally, apart from its play wrights), and the trilogy is perhaps gradually moving, in the language of the blurb, from "beloved masterpiece" to "cult cla.s.sic." When, in 2001, Steerforth Press brought out is today that rarity of foreign twentieth-century novels: one with competing translations available. Still, it plainly hasn't captivated later generations as it once did. Though Undset may well be, even now, the best-known modern Scandinavian novelist in the United States, she has been little embraced by academia (which has overlooked Scandinavia generally, apart from its play wrights), and the trilogy is perhaps gradually moving, in the language of the blurb, from "beloved masterpiece" to "cult cla.s.sic." When, in 2001, Steerforth Press brought out The Unknown Sigrid Undset The Unknown Sigrid Undset, a collection that presented both Undset's wonderful early book Jenny Jenny-a novel set in modern Rome-and a sampling of her letters, its t.i.tle raised the question whether there is a "known" Undset in this country.

Kristin Lavransdatter's dense, decade-spanning plot might be summarized as the story of a daddy's girl who refuses daddy's choice of a husband and marries for love, with often harrowing long-range consequences. Kristin's father wishes her to marry Simon Andressn, an honorable, thoughtful, devoted, and woefuly unglamorous man. Kristin falls instead for Erlend Nikulaussn, a proud, impulsive, fearless young knight who seems const.i.tutionally unable to steer clear of scandal. After having pledged her love to him, she finds out that Erlend has already fathered children through an adulterous liaison, and when he and Kristin are wed-for the headstrong girl squelches all paternal objections and marries the man of her choice-she is already secretly pregnant. For Kristin, the wedding turns out to be a literally nauseating dissimulation, an unshakable bout of morning sickness as her father gives her away with all the pomp appropriate to a virgin bride. No matter how many children she has under the sanction of holy wedlock-she and Erlend wind up with seven sons-she still feels like a transgressor.

Like the earlier Jenny Jenny, whose heroine is a modern Norwegian art student in Rome who disdains a suitor for the suitor's father, Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter is the tale of a scandalous woman. That the trilogy's readers are meant to regard Kristin sympathetically is but one sign of Undset's bold and nuanced treatment of s.e.xuality. Although the trilogy's s.e.x is hardly graphic (almost the only reference to genitalia arises when, in a skirmish, Erlend receives a spear wound to, significantly, his groin), Undset repeatedly lets us know that her heroine is a slave to carnal desires, as when, not long before his death, Erlend discomfits his wife with a casual, jesting reference to those days when her nails dug so deeply into his skin as to leave him bleeding. is the tale of a scandalous woman. That the trilogy's readers are meant to regard Kristin sympathetically is but one sign of Undset's bold and nuanced treatment of s.e.xuality. Although the trilogy's s.e.x is hardly graphic (almost the only reference to genitalia arises when, in a skirmish, Erlend receives a spear wound to, significantly, his groin), Undset repeatedly lets us know that her heroine is a slave to carnal desires, as when, not long before his death, Erlend discomfits his wife with a casual, jesting reference to those days when her nails dug so deeply into his skin as to leave him bleeding.

In the annals of literary "fallen women," Kristin Lavransdatter, that twentieth-century/fourteenth-century literary figure, occupies a curious and fascinating place. After they fell, a number of Kristin's nineteenth-century counterparts were whisked offstage, often to meet a premature end. In the latter part of the twentieth century, many of Kristin's successors were s.e.xual adventuresses whose exploits were pure and liberated triumphs. Writing in the first quarter of the twentieth century, Undset chose a middle path for her heroine. Kristin never doubts that she has covertly sinned, and the pain of her deceptions remains a lifelong affliction. Even so, her unshakable guilt in no way paralyzes her and she carries on with her life. Throughout the trilogy, Kristin is an indomitable presence in every role she undertakes-mother, mistress of an estate, and even, in her final days, sometime religious pilgrim who chooses to close her life in a nunnery.

Kristin's painful wedding is both a commencement and a culmination: her life progresses as though her squalid seduction, set in a brothel room obtained by Erlend as a means of protecting their privacy, must forever discolor connubial relations. "The Devil cannot have so much power over a man that I would ever cause you sorrow or harm," Erlend naively vows after seducing her, yet he has already planted the seeds of distress that eventually will all but destroy his beloved. Actually, their doomed marriage-they eventually part physically, although psychologically they can never sever the tortured bonds between them-is but one of the trilogy's numerous portraits of domestic discord and blight. At the very close of the first volume, we learn that the marriage of Kristin's parents is also rooted in deception. Undset's characters are near-contemporaries of Chaucer's pilgrims, and they might likewise "speke of wo that is in mariage."

Undset's greatest literary strength reveals itself bit by bit, in the way the pa.s.sions of Kristin, Erlend, and Simon Andressn play out in all their intricate and lingering aftereffects. Simon's transformation is particularly affecting. He begins as a promising and enthusiastic suitor of a beautiful young girl, Kristin Lavransdatter; comes to harbor doubts about her devotion; discovers her affair with Erlend and, brandis.h.i.+ng a sword, seeks to "rescue" her; in time enters a kind of collusion with the lovers, who convince him not to disclose the affair to Kristin's father; and eventually marries a homely but wealthy widow, leaving unspoken much of the hurt and regret he clearly feels. The trilogy achieves an exceptional sense of acc.u.mulating dailiness, of momentous actions concatenating in all sorts of minute and unexpected evolutions.

The burning l.u.s.t between Kristin and Erlend feels doubly real, not merely plausible but also proximate. But no less real is that variable, volatile mixture of remorse, shame, loyalty, and fondness which their youthful pa.s.sion retrospectively stirs. It's one of the reasons the two of them can never fully part-the memories of a pa.s.sion so urgent that all other considerations, moral and practical, were subsumed by it. When you enter Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter, you enter a marriage, a contract expansively unfolding through time. Disturbingly, fascinatingly, it's a union of two people who share a proud, combative stubbornness that ultimately undoes them.

As a writer renowned for her medieval epics, Undset came by her calling honestly. Born in Denmark in 1882, she grew up in Norway, within a household permeated by vanished societies. Her Norwegian father and well-educated Danish mother collaborated professionally, he as an archeologist and she as his secretary and ill.u.s.trator. Sigrid was reared among archeological relics and ma.n.u.scripts. Her naturally derived feeling of being at home in earlier centuries protected her from the great occupational hazard of the historical novelist: the urge to display just how much scholars.h.i.+p has gone into the past's disinterment. Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter reflects deep reading, as well as a close-at-hand tactile familiarity with the everyday objects of fourteenth-century Norway, but Undset's research is mainly concealed. You never sense the burden of heavy labor in her prose. Yet she seems intimately acquainted with the clothes and the diet, the customs and the politics, the architecture and the thinking of the people she writes about. The farm where Kristin grows up feels like a working farm. reflects deep reading, as well as a close-at-hand tactile familiarity with the everyday objects of fourteenth-century Norway, but Undset's research is mainly concealed. You never sense the burden of heavy labor in her prose. Yet she seems intimately acquainted with the clothes and the diet, the customs and the politics, the architecture and the thinking of the people she writes about. The farm where Kristin grows up feels like a working farm.

When Sigrid's beloved father died, in 1893, the family found itself in sharply reduced circ.u.mstances. She abandoned her formal education while still in her mid-teens and took a secretarial job in an electrical company. She worked there for ten years. She wrote in her spare hours, embarking unsuccessfully on a pair of novels set in medieval times. An influential editor advised her to abandon such projects: "Don't attempt any more historical novels. You have no talent for it. But you might try writing something modern. You never know."

The pursuit of "something modern" led to Fru Marta Oulie Fru Marta Oulie, a contemporary tale of infidelity, published in 1907 and not yet published in English, and a collection of stories, presumably drawn from life-a number are about Norwegian office workers-followed a year later. The books were respectfully received and sold well. Nonetheless, Undset's pa.s.sion for an older world was unquenchable, and in 1909 she published a short novel set in the Middle Ages. (Under the t.i.tle Gunnar's Daughter Gunnar's Daughter, it first appeared in English in the thirties, and resurfaced as a Penguin Twentieth-Century Cla.s.sic in 1998.) The first volume of Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter was published in Norway in 1920, with the second and third volumes appearing in succeeding years. The trilogy was quickly translated and just as quickly embraced across the globe. A medieval tetralogy, was published in Norway in 1920, with the second and third volumes appearing in succeeding years. The trilogy was quickly translated and just as quickly embraced across the globe. A medieval tetralogy, The Master of Hestviken The Master of Hestviken, which also has at its heart a pair of pa.s.sionate but troubled and guilt-stricken young lovers, followed in the mid-twenties. In 1928, at the age of forty-six, Undset received the n.o.bel Prize, chiefly for her medieval epics. She had surmounted every obstacle. In sales, number of translations, significant honors and reader loyalty, Sigrid Undset in 1928 was probably the most successful woman writer in the world.

Perhaps it's unsurprising that things proceeded less smoothly in her personal life. In 1909, while traveling in Italy, she fell in love with Anders Castus Svarstad, a Norwegian painter thirteen years her senior. He was married, with three children. After an eventual divorce, Svarstad wed Undset, once more fathering three children, one of them severely r.e.t.a.r.ded. In time, their marriage foundered and in 1924, after Undset converted from Lutheranism to Catholicism-a seemingly inevitable move for someone whose imagination was rooted in a pre-Reformation Europe-the marriage was annulled.

During the decade of her marriage, Undset published a book of feminist essays. As her translator Tiina Nunnally wryly points out in a helpful introduction to the trilogy's first volume: "Her written positions were often in direct contradiction to her own life choices." (Svarstad turned out to be a highly demanding partner, and it was only after she separated from him, in 1919, that her work took off.) For all the upheaval in her personal life, she remained steadily industrious and generous. She donated all her n.o.bel Prize money to charity and, a decade later, when the Soviets invaded Finland, she sold her n.o.bel medallion to support a relief fund for Finnish children. When the n.a.z.is invaded Norway, Undset fled to the United States, settling in Brooklyn for a five-year exile, during which she traveled on many speaking tours on behalf of her homeland. She returned to Norway after the war to find her house seriously vandalized. Her health was broken, and she died in 1949, at the age of sixty-seven.

For an English-language reader, much about Undset's life remains inaccessible, locked away in bibliographies that point toward Norwegian books and articles. This situation was somewhat amended by The Unknown Sigrid Undset The Unknown Sigrid Undset, also translated by Nunnally, which includes Jenny Jenny, a pair of stories, and-especially welcome-a selection of Undset's letters that throws welcome light on those apprentice years when the lowly office worker dreamed of a higher life. All of these letters were addressed to Andrea Hedberg, a friend who shared Undset's literary interests and ambitions. The correspondence, which lasted more than forty years, originated through a Swedish pen-pal club. For any reader who has succ.u.mbed to the spell of Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter or or The Master of Hestviken The Master of Hestviken, there's a privileged thrill in having these letters available, in hearing an elusive authorial voice, previously filtered through the Middle Ages, speaking immediately of its own concerns, whether in youth ("I'm only happy when I'm alone in the woods") or in full adulthood ("On the morning of the 24th I gave birth to a son-a big strong boy-5 kilos").

It's a voice, one should add, that offers few surprises-insofar as the earnest, fervent, ambitious, far-seeing young electric company secretary is so recognizably, while yet in embryo, the author of the mature novels: Undset was high-minded from start to finish. She spoke freely and unselfconsciously to Hedberg about her coalescing artistic aims. Here is Undset at age seventeen: Sometimes I want so much to write a book . . . I've started a few times, but nothing comes of it, and I burn it at once. But it's supposed to take place in 1340 . . . and there isn't a single romantic scene in it. It's about two young people-of course-Svend Trst and Maiden Agnete, whose unhappy story . . . an unhappy marriage that I won't bother you with right now.

And here she is two years later: But it's an artist artist that I want to be, a that I want to be, a woman woman artist, and not a pen-wielding lady. . . . Furthermore, marriage makes most women stupid, or they dilute their demands on life, on their husband, and on themselves so much that they can scarcely be counted as human, or they become uncomprehending, vulgar, coa.r.s.e, or unhappy. artist, and not a pen-wielding lady. . . . Furthermore, marriage makes most women stupid, or they dilute their demands on life, on their husband, and on themselves so much that they can scarcely be counted as human, or they become uncomprehending, vulgar, coa.r.s.e, or unhappy.Yes, my dear Dea, I certainly hope you will take great joy and comfort from this edifying epistle. I'm keeping one consolation for my own use: I will! will!I will hold my head high, I will not buckle under.I will not commit suicide-will not waste my talents. If I have any, I will also find them and use them. I will be whatever I can be.

While Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter is firmly rooted in a specific place and era-southern and central Norway in the first half of the fourteenth century-I suspect for most American readers the story has always been set in some misted Long Ago and Far Away. The medieval historian may find in it a careful account of political maneuvering and uncertainty, but the s.h.i.+fting intrigues following, say, the death of King Haakon (who reigned from 1299 to 1319) are likely to feel impossibly remote to the general reader. The trilogy's earlier translation, by Charles Archer, may also have worked to deracinate the plot from its historical grounding. Archer's many archaisms ("Yet did he look in his coa.r.s.e homely clothing more high-born than many a knight," "he had wrought scathe to the maidenhood of her spirit") encourage us to transplant the plot into a realm detached from time, some enchanted Arthurian landscape of gallant knights and comely maidens. is firmly rooted in a specific place and era-southern and central Norway in the first half of the fourteenth century-I suspect for most American readers the story has always been set in some misted Long Ago and Far Away. The medieval historian may find in it a careful account of political maneuvering and uncertainty, but the s.h.i.+fting intrigues following, say, the death of King Haakon (who reigned from 1299 to 1319) are likely to feel impossibly remote to the general reader. The trilogy's earlier translation, by Charles Archer, may also have worked to deracinate the plot from its historical grounding. Archer's many archaisms ("Yet did he look in his coa.r.s.e homely clothing more high-born than many a knight," "he had wrought scathe to the maidenhood of her spirit") encourage us to transplant the plot into a realm detached from time, some enchanted Arthurian landscape of gallant knights and comely maidens.

Nunnally's translation redirects our attention. The florid constructions and whimsical quaintnesses have dropped away, and Undset emerges as a writer of spare vigor. Nunnally unquestionably brings us closer to the heart of the book than Archer did. While I have a lingering fondness for the Archer translation-he was the museum guide who first led me to the tapestry-on the grounds of lucidity and authenticity the nod must go to Nunnally, who has surely done as much as anyone in recent years to bring Nordic literature to this country. (She has translated, with fluency and grace, Knut Hamsun, Jens Peter Jacobsen, and Peter Heg's Smilla's Sense of Snow Smilla's Sense of Snow.) If Archer's translation scanted the trilogy's treatment of medieval history, it may thereby have encouraged comparisons to figures less remote in time. Readers may have found in the trilogy's headstrong and often self-destructive heroine a distant cousin to Vanity Fair' Vanity Fair's Becky Sharpe and Gone with the Wind' Gone with the Wind's Scarlett O'Hara. In Erlend and Kristin's ill-starred but unstoppable love affair, they may have detected a kins.h.i.+p with Wuthering Heights Wuthering Heights's Heathcliff and Cathy. But Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter has a dimension these other books rarely aspired to: an encompa.s.sing religiosity. Only in the third volume does it grow apparent that the trilogy registers a gradual but inevitable repudiation of the flesh. The appet.i.tes of the young girl who lost her virginity in a brothel grow distant and Kristin finally winds up in a nunnery, ministering to others with extraordinary courage and selflessness during a sort of hallucinatory apocalypse-the arrival of the Black Death, which some historians estimate may have wiped out at least half the country's population. has a dimension these other books rarely aspired to: an encompa.s.sing religiosity. Only in the third volume does it grow apparent that the trilogy registers a gradual but inevitable repudiation of the flesh. The appet.i.tes of the young girl who lost her virginity in a brothel grow distant and Kristin finally winds up in a nunnery, ministering to others with extraordinary courage and selflessness during a sort of hallucinatory apocalypse-the arrival of the Black Death, which some historians estimate may have wiped out at least half the country's population.

The growing call of religion renders richly ambiguous the culminating events of Kristin's life. One might view the trilogy as an accelerating accretion of tragedies, as Kristin's poor abandoned suitor, Simon, whose love for her is hopeless and perpetual, goes to his deathbed with his faithfulness largely unnoticed or misunderstood by Kristin; as her marriage founders and she loses Erlend to a spear; as illness and blindness and plague pluck her children from her, one by one. The story might also be viewed as the record of a long, hard-won, n.o.ble victory, as the pa.s.sionate teenager who brooks no curbs on her desires, recklessly sowing pain and destruction in the process, decades later renounces the decaying kingdom of the flesh for the indestructible domain of the spirit.

Undset owed an incalculable debt to the anonymous Icelandic sagas of the thirteenth century, as she was the first to acknowledge. When she was ten, she fell under the spell of the longest and perhaps greatest of them, Njal's Saga Njal's Saga, whose elaborate chronicling of violent and implacable feuds overwhelmed her young imagination; she later declared this the "most important turning point in my life." Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter reflects many of the signature traits of the sagas: a matter-of-fact abruptness when unexpected catastrophe supervenes; a tendency to view characters externally, with only occasional ventures into the inner workings of their minds; a wry stoicism in the face of life's merciless cruelty (Undset notes about Kristin's mother, who lost her three sons in infancy: "People thought she took the deaths of her children unreasonably hard"); a fondness for characters p.r.o.ne to lengthy brooding silences finally punctuated by shattering admissions, as when Kristin's mother stuns her husband by announcing, "I'm talking about the fact that I wasn't a maiden when I became your wife," or when she declares, "I've always known, Kristin, that you've never been very fond of me." reflects many of the signature traits of the sagas: a matter-of-fact abruptness when unexpected catastrophe supervenes; a tendency to view characters externally, with only occasional ventures into the inner workings of their minds; a wry stoicism in the face of life's merciless cruelty (Undset notes about Kristin's mother, who lost her three sons in infancy: "People thought she took the deaths of her children unreasonably hard"); a fondness for characters p.r.o.ne to lengthy brooding silences finally punctuated by shattering admissions, as when Kristin's mother stuns her husband by announcing, "I'm talking about the fact that I wasn't a maiden when I became your wife," or when she declares, "I've always known, Kristin, that you've never been very fond of me."

A particular poignancy attends the reading of very long novels, especially those which, for all their undeniable charms, you're unlikely to read again. Weeks, even months of your internal life are given over to some new cast of characters, who vaporize when the book is closed.

A few such novels may escape this tinge of melancholy. I felt little of it while reading for the first time Don Quixote Don Quixote or or David Copperfield David Copperfield or or Vanity Fair Vanity Fair or or In Search of Lost Time In Search of Lost Time, since I never doubted I'd one day return to them. But it's the fate of most long books never to be revisited. I don't suppose I'll ever get around to rereading John Hersey's The Call The Call, though it's the only novel I've ever read that convincingly situated me in China, or s.h.i.+mazaki To-son's Before the Dawn Before the Dawn, even if it deposited me deep in rural j.a.pan during the Meiji restoration, or Austin Tappan Wright's Islandia Islandia, although parting from its imaginary Th.o.r.eauvian country was a little like leaving the land of the lotos-eaters.

Doubtless many of those readers who adored Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter in its original translation never got around to rereading it, and the story faded into a distant glimmering. If the trilogy's plot embodies an ultimate stripping away of worldly concerns, as Kristin moves slowly but steadily from bodily to spiritual priorities, in readers' memories a counterpart sort of paring may take place. Again, for most readers, the book's political machinations-King Haakon and all the rest-probably fled the memory in rapid order, as did any strong feelings about Undset as a prose stylist. What lingered was a feeling of having been transported; what lingered was enchantment. Each time a woman approached me to say, "I once read that book," she was responding to a literary grat.i.tude so durable it insisted on being expressed to a stranger. in its original translation never got around to rereading it, and the story faded into a distant glimmering. If the trilogy's plot embodies an ultimate stripping away of worldly concerns, as Kristin moves slowly but steadily from bodily to spiritual priorities, in readers' memories a counterpart sort of paring may take place. Again, for most readers, the book's political machinations-King Haakon and all the rest-probably fled the memory in rapid order, as did any strong feelings about Undset as a prose stylist. What lingered was a feeling of having been transported; what lingered was enchantment. Each time a woman approached me to say, "I once read that book," she was responding to a literary grat.i.tude so durable it insisted on being expressed to a stranger.

What was another world another world has now found its way into another world: Nunnally's new translation, with its cleaner motivations and phrasing, its nuanced balancing of the blunt and the taciturn. Throughout all the tribulations of her life, Kristin winds up being not merely a survivor but an explorer: her hardy soul is on a pilgrimage. It's heartening to think of a new generation of readers following Kristin's explorations, and in the process ama.s.sing memories so rich they might induce a stranger to approach a stranger and say, "I once read that book." has now found its way into another world: Nunnally's new translation, with its cleaner motivations and phrasing, its nuanced balancing of the blunt and the taciturn. Throughout all the tribulations of her life, Kristin winds up being not merely a survivor but an explorer: her hardy soul is on a pilgrimage. It's heartening to think of a new generation of readers following Kristin's explorations, and in the process ama.s.sing memories so rich they might induce a stranger to approach a stranger and say, "I once read that book."

A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION.

THIS TRANSLATION from the Norwegian is based on the first edition of Sigrid Undset's epic trilogy, Kransen Kransen, Husfrue Husfrue, and Korset Korset, which appeared in 1920, 1921, and 1922, respectively. All of the novels were originally published in Os...o...b.. H. Aschehoug & Company, which continues to publish Undset's works in Norway today.

The three volumes of Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter were translated into English in the 1920s, but the translators chose to impose an artificially archaic style on the text, which completely misrepresented Undset's beautifully clear prose. They filled her novels with stilted dialogue (using words such as were translated into English in the 1920s, but the translators chose to impose an artificially archaic style on the text, which completely misrepresented Undset's beautifully clear prose. They filled her novels with stilted dialogue (using words such as 'tis, 'twas, I trow, thee, thou, hath, 'tis, 'twas, I trow, thee, thou, hath, and and doth doth), and they insisted on a convoluted syntax.

Nowadays the role of the translator is different. Accuracy and faithfulness to the original tone and style are both expected and required. In Norwegian Undset writes in a straightforward, almost plain style, yet she can be quite lyrical, especially in her descriptions of nature. The beauty of the mountainous Norwegian landscape is lovingly revealed in Undset's lucid prose. In her research for Kristin Lavransdatter, Kristin Lavransdatter, she immersed herself in the customs and traditions of medieval Norway. She was meticulous about using the proper terms for clothing, housewares, and architectural features, but she did not force archaic speech patterns on her characters. To readers of the twenty-first century, the dialogue may sound slightly formal, but it is never incomprehensible. she immersed herself in the customs and traditions of medieval Norway. She was meticulous about using the proper terms for clothing, housewares, and architectural features, but she did not force archaic speech patterns on her characters. To readers of the twenty-first century, the dialogue may sound slightly formal, but it is never incomprehensible.

Misunderstandings and omissions also marred the English translation from the 1920s. One crucial pa.s.sage in The Wreath The Wreath was even censored, perhaps thought to be too s.e.xually explicit for readers at the time. Most serious of all, certain sections of was even censored, perhaps thought to be too s.e.xually explicit for readers at the time. Most serious of all, certain sections of The Wife The Wife, scattered throughout the novel and totaling approximately eighteen pages, were deleted. Many are key pa.s.sages, such as Kristin's lengthy dialogue with Saint Olav in Christ Church, Gunnulf's meditation on the mixture of jealousy and love he has always felt toward Erlend, and Ragnfrid's anguished memory of her betrothal to Lavrans. I have restored all of these pa.s.sages, which offer the reader essential insight into the underlying spiritual and psychological turmoil of the story. The Penguin Cla.s.sics edition is thus the first unabridged English translation of Undset's trilogy. Part of this translation has been published with the support of a grant from NORLA (Norwegian Literature Abroad).

Throughout the text I have retained the original spelling of Norwegian names. The occasional use of the letter o o instead of instead of in proper names is intentional-the former is used in Swedish names, the latter in Norwegian. The original Norwegian text contains thousands of dashes, which tend to impede rather than enhance the reading. In most cases I have chosen to replace the dashes with commas or semicolons, or, occasionally, to create separate sentences. I have also decided to keep the Norwegian masculine t.i.tle "Herr" and the feminine t.i.tle "Fru" rather than to translate them into the somewhat misleading English t.i.tles of "Sir" and "Lady." Only those men who are clearly identified in the story as knights are given "Sir" as their t.i.tle. Readers should note that Norwegian surnames were derived from the father's given name, followed by either "-datter" or "-sn," depending on the gender of the child. For example, Kristin's mother is named Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter, while her mother's brother is named Trond Ivarsn. They are also referred to as Gjeslings, since they are descendants of the Gjesling lineage. in proper names is intentional-the former is used in Swedish names, the latter in Norwegian. The original Norwegian text contains thousands of dashes, which tend to impede rather than enhance the reading. In most cases I have chosen to replace the dashes with commas or semicolons, or, occasionally, to create separate sentences. I have also decided to keep the Norwegian masculine t.i.tle "Herr" and the feminine t.i.tle "Fru" rather than to translate them into the somewhat misleading English t.i.tles of "Sir" and "Lady." Only those men who are clearly identified in the story as knights are given "Sir" as their t.i.tle. Readers should note that Norwegian surnames were derived from the father's given name, followed by either "-datter" or "-sn," depending on the gender of the child. For example, Kristin's mother is named Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter, while her mother's brother is named Trond Ivarsn. They are also referred to as Gjeslings, since they are descendants of the Gjesling lineage.

It is a testament to the power of Sigrid Undset's story that, in spite of a severely flawed early translation, Kristin Lavransdatter Kristin Lavransdatter has been so beloved by generations of readers. I hope that with this new translation many more readers will now discover Undset's magnificent story of a headstrong young woman who defies her family and faith to follow the pa.s.sions of her heart. has been so beloved by generations of readers. I hope that with this new translation many more readers will now discover Undset's magnificent story of a headstrong young woman who defies her family and faith to follow the pa.s.sions of her heart.

I: THE WREATH.

PART I.

JORUNDGAARD.

CHAPTER 1.

WHEN THE EARTHLY GOODS of Ivar Gjesling the Younger of Sundbu were divided up in the year 1306, his property at Sil was given to his daughter Ragnfrid and her husband Lavrans Bjrgulf sn. Before that time they had lived at Skog, Lavrans's manor in Follo near Oslo, but now they moved to Jrundgaard, high on the open slope at Sil.

Lavrans belonged to a lineage that here in Norway was known as the sons of Lagmand. It originated in Sweden with a certain Laurentius ostgotelagman, who abducted the Earl of Bjelbo's sister, the maiden Bengta, from Vreta cloister and fled to Norway with her. Herr Laurentius served King Haakon the Old, and was much favored by him; the king bestowed on him the manor Skog. But after he had been in this country for eight years, he died of a lingering disease, and his widow, a daughter of the house of the Folkungs whom the people of Norway called a king's daughter, returned home to be reconciled with her kinsmen. She later married a rich man in another country. She and Herr Laurentius had had no children, and so Laurentius's brother Ketil inherited Skog. He was the grandfather of Lavrans Bjrgulfsn.

Lavrans was married at a young age; he was only twenty-eight at the time he arrived at Sil, and three years younger than his wife. As a youth he had been one of the king's retainers and had benefited from a good upbringing; but after his marriage he lived quietly on his own estate, for Ragnfrid was rather moody and melancholy and did not thrive among people in the south. After she had had the misfortune to lose three small sons in the cradle, she became quite reclusive. Lavrans moved to Gudbrandsdal largely so that his wife might be closer to her kinsmen and friends. They had one child still living when they arrived there, a little maiden named Kristin.

But after they had settled in at Jrundgaard, they lived for the most part just as quietly and kept much to themselves; Ragnfrid did not seem overly fond of her kinsmen, since she only saw them as often as she had to for the sake of propriety. This was partially due to the fact that Lavrans and Ragnfrid were particularly pious and G.o.d-fearing people, who faithfully went to church and were glad to house G.o.d's servants and people traveling on church business or pilgrims journeying up the valley to Nidaros.1 And they showed the greatest respect to their parish priest, who was their closest neighbor and lived at Romundgaard. But the other people in the valley felt that G.o.d's kingdom had cost them dearly enough in t.i.thes, goods, and money already, so they thought it unnecessary to attend to fasts and prayers so strictly or to take in priests and monks unless there was a need for them. And they showed the greatest respect to their parish priest, who was their closest neighbor and lived at Romundgaard. But the other people in the valley felt that G.o.d's kingdom had cost them dearly enough in t.i.thes, goods, and money already, so they thought it unnecessary to attend to fasts and prayers so strictly or to take in priests and monks unless there was a need for them.

Otherwise the people of Jrundgaard were greatly respected and also well liked, especially Lavrans, because he was known as a strong and courageous man, but a peaceful soul, honest and calm, humble in conduct but courtly in bearing, a remarkably capable farmer, and a great hunter. He hunted wolves and bears with particular ferocity, and all types of vermin. In only a few years he had acquired a good deal of land, but he was a kind and helpful master to his tenants.

Ragnfrid was seen so seldom that people soon stopped talking about her altogether. When she first returned home to Gudbrandsdal, many were surprised, since they remembered her from the time when she lived at Sundbu. She had never been beautiful, but in those days she seemed gracious and happy; now she had lost her looks so utterly that one might think she was ten years older than her husband instead of three. People thought she took the deaths of her children unreasonably hard, because in other ways she was far better off than most women-she had great wealth and position and she got on well with her husband, as far as anyone could tell. Lavrans did not take up with other women, he always asked for her advice in all matters, and he never said an unkind word to her, whether he was sober or drunk. And she was not so old that she couldn't have many more children, if G.o.d would grant her that.

They had some difficulty finding young people to serve at Jrundgaard because the mistress was of such a mournful spirit and because they observed all of the fasts so strictly. But the servants lived well on the manor, and angry or chastising words were seldom heard. Both Lavrans and Ragnfrid took the lead in all work. The master also had a lively spirit in his own way, and he might join in a dance or start up singing when the young people frolicked on the church green on sleepless vigil nights.2 But it was mostly older people who took employment at Jrundgaard; they found it to their liking and stayed for a long time. But it was mostly older people who took employment at Jrundgaard; they found it to their liking and stayed for a long time.

One day when the child Kristin was seven years old, she was going to accompany her father up to their mountain pastures.

It was a beautiful morning in early summer. Kristin was standing in the loft where they slept in the summertime. She saw the sun s.h.i.+ning outside, and she heard her father and his men talking down in the courtyard.3 She was so excited that she couldn't stand still while her mother dressed her; she jumped and leaped after she was helped into every garment. She had never before been up to the mountains, only across the gorge to Vaage, when she was allowed to go along to visit her mother's kinsmen at Sundbu, and into the nearby woods with her mother and the servants when they went out to pick berries, which Ragnfrid put in her weak ale. She also made a sour mash out of cowberries and cranberries, which she ate on bread instead of b.u.t.ter during Lent. She was so excited that she couldn't stand still while her mother dressed her; she jumped and leaped after she was helped into every garment. She had never before been up to the mountains, only across the gorge to Vaage, when she was allowed to go along to visit her mother's kinsmen at Sundbu, and into the nearby woods with her mother and the servants when they went out to pick berries, which Ragnfrid put in her weak ale. She also made a sour mash out of cowberries and cranberries, which she ate on bread instead of b.u.t.ter during Lent.

Ragnfrid coiled up Kristin's long golden hair and fastened it under her old blue cap. Then she kissed her daughter on the cheek, and Kristin ran down to her father. Lavrans was already sitting in the saddle; he lifted her up behind him, where he had folded his cape like a pillow on the horse's loin. There Kristin was allowed to sit astride and hold on to his belt. Then they called farewell to her mother, but she had come running down from the gallery with Kristin's hooded cloak; she handed it to Lavrans and told him to take good care of the child.

The sun was s.h.i.+ning but it had rained hard during the night so the streams were splas.h.i.+ng and singing everywhere on the hillsides, and wisps of fog drifted below the mountain slopes. But above the crests, white fair-weather clouds climbed into the blue sky, and Lavrans and his men said it was going to be a hot day later on. Lavrans had four men with him, and they were all well armed because at that time there were all kinds of strange people in the mountains-although it seemed unlikely they would encounter any such people because there were so many in their group, and they were only going a short way into the mountains. Kristin liked all of the servants. Three of them were somewhat older men, but the fourth, Arne Gyrdsn of Finsbrekken, was a half-grown boy and Kristin's best friend. He rode right behind Lavrans because he was supposed to tell her about everything they saw along the way as they pa.s.sed.

They rode between the buildings of Romundgaard and exchanged greetings with Eirik the priest. He was standing outside scolding his daughter4-she ran the house for him-about a skein of newly dyed yarn that she had left hanging outdoors the day before; now it had been ruined by the rain.

On the hill across from the parsonage stood the church; it was not large but graceful, beautiful, well kept, and freshly tarred. Near the cross outside the cemetery gate, Lavrans and his men removed their hats and bowed their heads. Then Kristin's father turned around in his saddle, and he and Kristin waved to her mother. They could see her out on the green in front of the farm buildings back home; she waved to them with a corner of her linen veil.

Kristin was used to playing almost every day up here on the church hill and in the cemetery; but today she was going to travel so far that the child thought the familiar sight of her home and village5 looked completely new and strange. The cl.u.s.ters of buildings at Jrundgaard, in both the inner and outer courtyards, seemed to have grown smaller and grayer down there on the lowlands. The glittering river wound its way past into the distance, and the valley spread out before her, with wide green pastures and marshes at the bottom and farms with fields and meadows up along the hillsides beneath the precipitous gray mountains. looked completely new and strange. The cl.u.s.ters of buildings at Jrundgaard, in both the inner and outer courtyards, seemed to have grown smaller and grayer down there on the lowlands. The glittering river wound its way past into the distance, and the valley spread out before her, with wide green pastures and marshes at the bottom and farms with fields and meadows up along the hillsides beneath the precipitous gray mountains.

Kristin knew that Loptsgaard lay far below the place where the mountains joined and closed off the valley. That was where Sigurd and Jon lived, two old men with white beards; they always teased her and played with her whenever they came to Jrundgaard. She liked Jon because he carved the prettiest animals out of wood for her, and he had once given her a gold ring. But the last time he visited them, on Whitsunday, he had brought her a knight that was so beautifully carved and so exquisitely painted that Kristin thought she had never received a more marvelous gift. She insisted on taking the knight to bed with her every single night, but in the morning when she woke up he would be standing on the step in front of the bed where she slept with her parents. Her father told her that the knight got up at the first crow of the c.o.c.k, but Kristin knew that her mother took him away after she fell asleep. She had heard her mother say that he would be so hard and uncomfortable if they rolled on top of him during the night.

Kristin was afraid of Sigurd of Loptsgaard, and she didn't like it when he took her on his knee, because he was in the habit of saying that when she grew up, he would sleep in her arms. He had outlived two wives and said he would no doubt outlive the third as well; so Kristin could be the fourth. But when she started to cry, Lavrans would laugh and say that he didn't think Margit was about to give up the ghost anytime soon, but if things did go badly and Sigurd came courting, he would be refused-Kristin needn't worry about that.

A large boulder lay near the road, about the distance of an arrow shot north of the church, and around it there was a dense grove of birch and aspen. That's where they played church, and Tomas, the youngest grandson of Eirik the priest, would stand up and say ma.s.s like his grandfather, sprinkling holy water and performing baptisms when there was rainwater in the hollows of the rock. But one day the previous fall, things had gone awry. First Tomas had married Kristin and Arne-Arne was still so young that he sometimes stayed behind with the children and played with them when he could. Then Arne caught a piglet that was wandering about and they carried it off to be baptized. Tomas anointed it with mud, dipped it into a hole filled with water and, mimicking his grandfather, said the ma.s.s in Latin and scolded them for their scanty offerings. That made the children laugh because they had heard the grown-ups talking about Eirik's excessive greed. And the more they laughed, the more inventive Tomas became. Then he said that this child had been conceived during Lent, and they would have to atone before the priest and the church for their sin. The older boys laughed so hard that they howled, but Kristin was so filled with shame that she was almost in tears as she stood there with the piglet in her arms. And while this was going on, they were unlucky enough that Eirik himself came riding past, on his way home after visiting a sick paris.h.i.+oner. When he saw what the children were up to, he leaped from his horse and handed the holy vessel abruptly to Bentein, his oldest grandson, who was with him. Bentein almost dropped the silver dove containing the Holy Host on the ground. The priest rushed in among the children and thrashed as many as he could grab. Kristin dropped the piglet, and it ran down the road squealing as it dragged the christening gown behind, making the priest's horses rear up in terror. The priest also slapped Kristin, who fell, and then he kicked her so hard that her hip hurt for days afterward. When Lavrans heard of this, he felt that Eirik had been too harsh toward Kristin, since she was so young. He said that he would speak to the priest about it, but Ragnfrid begged him not to do so, because the child had received no more than she deserved by taking part in such a blasphemous game. So Lavrans said nothing more about the matter, but he gave Arne the worst beating he had ever received.

That's why, as they rode past the boulder, Arne plucked at Kristin's sleeve. He didn't dare say anything because of Lavrans, so he grimaced, smiled, and slapped his backside. But Kristin bowed her head in shame.

The road headed into dense forest. They rode in the shadow of Hammer Ridge; the valley grew narrow and dark, and the roar of the Laag River was stronger and rougher. When they caught a glimpse of the river, it was flowing icy-green with white froth between steep walls of stone. The mountain was black with forest on both sides of the valley; it was dark and close and rank in the gorge, and the cold wind came in gusts. They rode over the foot-bridge across Rost Creek, and soon they saw the bridge over the river down in the valley. In a pool just below the bridge there lived a river sprite.6 Arne wanted to tell Kristin about it, but Lavrans sternly forbade the boy to speak of such things out there in the forest. And when they reached the bridge, he jumped down from his horse and led it across by the bridle as he held his other arm around the child's waist. Arne wanted to tell Kristin about it, but Lavrans sternly forbade the boy to speak of such things out there in the forest. And when they reached the bridge, he jumped down from his horse and led it across by the bridle as he held his other arm around the child's waist.

On the other side of the river a bridle path led straight up into the heights, so the men got down from their horses and walked, but Lavrans lifted Kristin forward into his saddle so she could hold on to the saddlebow, and then she was allowed to ride Guldsvein alone.

More gray crests and distant blue peaks striped with snow rose up beyond the mountainsides as they climbed higher, and now Kristin could glimpse through the trees the village north of the gorge. Arne pointed and told her the names of the farms that they could see.

High up on the gra.s.sy slope they came to a small hut. They stopped near the split-rail fence. Lavrans shouted and his voice echoed again and again among the cliffs. Two men came running down from the small patch of pasture. They were the sons of the house. They were skillful tar-burners,7 and Lavrans wanted to hire them to do some tar distilling for him. Their mother followed with a large basin of cold cellar milk, for it was a hot day, as the men had expected it would be. and Lavrans wanted to hire them to do some tar distilling for him. Their mother followed with a large basin of cold cellar milk, for it was a hot day, as the men had expected it would be.

"I see you have your daughter with you," she said after she had greeted them. "I thought I'd have a look at her. You must take off her cap. They say she has such fair hair."

Lavrans did as the woman asked, and Kristin's hair fell over her shoulders all the way to the saddle. It was thick and golden, like ripe wheat.

Isrid, the woman, touched her hair and said, "Now I see that the rumors did not exaggerate about your little maiden. She's a lily, and she looks like the child of a knight. Gentle eyes she has as well-she takes after you and not the Gjeslings. May G.o.d grant you joy from her, Lavrans Bjrgulfsn! And look how you ride Guldsvein, sitting as straight as a king's courtier," she teased, holding the basin as Kristin drank.

The child blushed with pleasure, for she knew that her father was considered the most handsome of men far and wide, and he looked like a knight as he stood there among his servants, even though he was dressed more like a peasant, as was his custom at home. He was wearing a short tunic, quite wide, made of green-dyed homespun and open at the neck so his s.h.i.+rt was visible. He had on hose and shoes of undyed leather, and on his head he wore an old-fas.h.i.+oned wide-brimmed woolen hat. His only jewelry was a polished silver buckle on his belt and a little filigree brooch at the neck of his s.h.i.+rt. Part of a gold chain was also visible around his neck. Lavrans always wore this chain, and from it hung a gold cross, set with large rock crystals. The cross could be opened, and inside was a sc.r.a.p of shroud and hair from the Holy Fru Elin of Skvde, for the sons of Lagmand traced their lineage from one of the daughters of that blessed woman. Whenever Lavrans was in the forest or at work, he would put the cross inside his s.h.i.+rt against his bare chest, so as not to lose it.

And yet in his rough homespun clothing he looked more high born than many a knight or king's retainer dressed in banquet attire. He was a handsome figure, tall, broad-shouldered, and narrow-hipped. His head was small and set attractively on his neck, and he had pleasing, somewhat narrow facial features-suitably full cheeks, a nicely rounded chin, and a well-shaped mouth. His coloring was fair, with a fresh complexion, gray eyes, and thick, straight, silky-gold hair.

He stood there talking to Isrid about her affairs, and he also asked about Tordis, Isrid's kinswoman who was looking after Jrundgaard's mountain pastures that summer. Tordis had recently given birth, and Isrid was waiting for the chance to find safe pa.s.sage through the forest so she could carry Tordis's little boy down from the mountains to have him baptized. Lavrans said that she could come along with them; he was going to return the next evening, and it would be safer and more rea.s.suring for her to have so many men to accompany her and the heathen child.

Isrid thanked him. "If the truth be told, this is exactly what I've been waiting for. We all know, we poor folks who live up here in the hills, that you will do us a favor if you can whenever you come this way." She ran off to gather up her bundle and a cloak.

The fact of the matter was that Lavrans enjoyed being among these humble people who lived in clearings and on leaseholdings high up at the edge of the village. With them he was always happy and full of banter. He talked to them about the movements of the forest animals, about the reindeer on the high plateaus, and about all the uncanny goings-on that occur in such places. He a.s.sisted them in word and deed and offered a helping hand; he saw to their sick cattle, helped them at the forge and with their carpentry work. On occasion he even applied his own powerful strength when they had to break up the worst rocks or roots. That's why these people always joyfully welcomed Lavrans Bjrgulfsn and Guldsvein, the huge red stallion he rode. The horse was a beautiful animal with a glossy coat, white mane and tail, and s.h.i.+ning eyes-known in the villages for his strength and fierceness. But toward Lavrans he was as gentle as a lamb. And Lavrans often said that he was as fond of the horse as of a younger brother.

The first thing Lavrans wanted to attend to was the beacon at Heimhaugen. During those difficult times of unrest a hundred years earlier or more, the landowners along the valleys had erected beacons in certain places on the mountainsides, much like the wood stacked in warning bonfires at the ports for wars.h.i.+ps along the coast. But these beacons in the valleys were not under military authority; the farmer guilds kept them in good repair, and the members took turns taking care of them.

When they came to the first mountain pasture, Lavrans released all the horses except the pack horse into the fenced meadow, and then they set off on a steep pathway upward. Before long there was a great distance between trees. Huge pines stood dead and white, like bones, next to marshy patches of land-and now Kristin saw bare gray mountain domes appearing in the sky all around. They climbed over long stretches of scree, and in places a creek ran across the path so that her father had to carry her. The wind was brisk and fresh up there, and the heath was black with berries, but Lavrans said that they had no time to stop and pick them. Arne leaped here and there, plucking off berries for her, and telling her which pastures they could see below in the forest-for there was forest over all of Hvringsvang at that time.

Now they were just below the last bare, rounded crest, and they could see the enormous heap of wood towering against the sky and the caretaker's hut in the shelter of a sheer cliff.

As they came over the ridge, the wind rushed toward them and whipped through their clothes-it seemed to Kristin that something alive which dwelled up there had come forward to greet them. The wind gusted and blew as she and Arne walked across the expanse of moss. The children sat down on the very end of a ledge, and Kristin stared with big eyes-never had she imagined that the world was so huge or so vast.

There were forest-clad mountain slopes below her in all directions; her valley was no more than a hollow between the enormous mountains, and the neighboring valleys were even smaller hollows; there were many of them, and yet there were fewer valleys than there were mountains. On all sides gray domes, golden-flamed with lichen, loomed above the carpet of forest; and far off in the distance, toward the horizon, stood blue peaks with white glints of snow, seeming to merge with the grayish-blue and dazzling white summer clouds. But to the northeast, close by-just beyond the pasture woods-stood a cl.u.s.ter of magnificent stone-blue mountains with streaks of new snow on their slopes. Kristin guessed that they belonged to the Raanekamp, the Boar Range, which she had heard about, for they truly did look like a group of mighty boars walking away with their backs turned to the village. And yet Arne said that it was half a day's ride to reach them.

Kristin had thought that if she came up over the crest of her home mountains, she would be able to look down on another village like their own, with farms and houses, and she had such a strange feeling when she saw what a great distance there was between places where people lived. She saw the little yellow and green flecks on the floor of the valley and the tiny glades with dots of houses in the mountain forests; she started to count them, but by the time she had reached three dozen, she could no longer keep track. And yet the marks of settlement were like nothing in that wilderness.

She knew that wolves and bears reigned in the forest, and under every rock lived trolls and goblins and elves, and she was suddenly afraid, for no one knew how many there were, but there were certainly many more of them than of Christian people. Then she called loudly for her father, but he didn't hear her because of the wind-he and his men were rolling great boulders down the rock face to use as supports for the timbers of the beacon.

But Isrid came over to the children and showed Kristin where the mountain Vaage Vestfjeld lay. And Arne pointed out Graafjeld, where the people of the villages captured reindeer in trenches and where the king's hawk hunters8 lived in stone huts. That was the sort of work that Arne wanted to do himself someday-but he also wanted to learn to train birds for the hunt-and he lifted his arms overhead, as if he were flinging a hawk into the air. lived in stone huts. That was the sort of work that Arne wanted to do himself someday-but he also wanted to learn to train birds for the hunt-and he lifted his arms overhead, as if he were flinging a hawk into the air.

Isrid shook her head.

"It's a loathsome life, Arne Gyrdsn. It would be a great sorrow for your mother if you became a hawk hunter, my boy. No man can make a living doing that unless he keeps company with the worst kind of people, and with those who are even worse."

Lavrans had come over to them and caught the last remark.

"Yes," he said, "there's probably more than one household out there that pays neither taxes nor t.i.thes."