The Snake Pit

  But in broad daylight he knit his brows when he recalled his thoughts of the night. One has so many queer fancies when one cannot sleep. And she had been happy and well in the summer-fair as never before. She was utterly disheartened now—but then she had never been any great one at bearing trouble, poor girl. After the child was born she would surely be both happy and well.

  For an instant it crossed his mind: “Can it be that she is thinking of the child she bore last year?” She had never mentioned it, and so he had not been willing to do so either. He knew no more than that it had been alive when they left the Upplands the summer before.

  2 Torre and Gjö were the names of two of the old Scandinavian months, the former beginning with the next new moon after the “Yule moon.” Gjö would usually include the latter part of February and most of March.

  4

  INGUNN was thinking of Eirik now—night and day. This too had grown pale and unreal to her in the first happy days—that she had had a little son who slept in her arm, sucked her breast, and lay against her, small and soft and warm, and she breathed the sourish milky scent of him as she flooded him with her tears in the blind, dark nights. And she had parted from him, as though tearing herself in two, before she faced the final horror and the outer darkness.

  But all these horrors lay sunk beneath the horizon of her fevered nights of darkness and tumult, when she was tossed high and drawn down into the abyss by waves of dizzy swooning. When she came back into the light of day, Olav was there and took her to him. When she was made happy, it was as though the hapless being of her memory were not herself. Weeks passed without her thinking once of the child; as though she wondered, vaguely and almost indifferently: “Is he still alive?” And she would not have been greatly moved, she thought, if she had heard that he was dead. But then it might chance that an uneasy thought stirred within her: “How is he, is Eirik well—or is he ill-treated among strangers?” And from among the pale and distant memories of last year’s misery, one shot out and came to life—the little, persistent scream that nothing could quiet but her breast. The truth smote her with a cruel stab: she was mother to a whimpering babe that had been flung out among strangers far away and perhaps at that moment was screaming himself hoarse and tired for his mother—But she thrust these thoughts from her with all her might. The foster-mother had a kind look, so perhaps she was more charitable than the mother who had brought the child into the world. No—she thrust the thought aside, away with it! And the memory of Eirik faded out again. And here she was at Hestviken, as Olav’s wife, in all good fortune—and she felt her youth and beauty flourish anew. She bent her head, radiant with bashful joy, if her husband did but look at her.

  But as the new child grew within her—from being a secret, wasting exhaustion which turned her giddy and sick with fear of the shadows it might conjure up to stand between Olav and her, it had become a burden that weighed on her and obstructed her whenever she would move. And meanwhile the most important thing about her now in the eyes of all was that she should bring new life into the old stock. Olav Ingolfsson talked of nothing else. Had she been queen of Norway and had the people’s hopes of peace and prosperity for generations been centred on the expected child, the old man could not have regarded the coming event as more momentous. But the neighbours too, when they met the young mistress, let her know that they counted this glad tidings. Olav Audunsson, since he was seven years old, had been the only one on whom rested the hope of carrying on the Hestvik race, and ever since that time he had wandered far from the spot where his home was. After twenty years of roaming he had come back to the lands of his ancestors. When children began to grow up about him and his wife, something that had long been out of joint would be put right again.

  Her own household also took their share in what awaited their mistress. They had liked Ingunn from the first, because she was so charming to look at, kind and well-intentioned, and they had pitied her a little for being so utterly unfitted for all the work of her house. And now they pitied her, seeing her sorry state. She turned pale as a corpse if she did but enter the cook-house when they were cooking seal-meat or sea-birds—she was not used to this oily smell in the food where she came from, she murmured. The maids laughed and pushed her out—“We will get through it without you, mistress!” She could not stand up to serve out the meat without the sweat bursting out on her face—the old dairy-woman gently pressed her into a seat on the bench and stuffed cushions behind her back—“Let me be carver today, Ingunn—you can scarce stand on your feet, poor child!” She laughed, seeing that the mistress was shaking with weariness. And they were fearful how it would go with her. She did not look as if she could bear much more. And it was over three months to her time, from what she herself said.

  Olav was the only one who never showed sign of joy at the expected child; he never uttered a word about it—and his household marked that well. But Ingunn thought in her heart that, when once the boy came into the world, he would be no less wonderful in his father’s eyes than in those of all the others. And the bitterness, at which she herself was terrified, welled up anew.

  Not a spark of affection did she feel for the child she bore, but a yearning for Eirik and a grudge against this new babe, whom every good thing awaited and all were ready to caress when he came. And it seemed to her as though it were the fault of this child that Eirik was cast out into the darkness. When she felt that folk looked kindly upon her, took pains to clear her path and make things easy for her, the thought struck her: “When Eirik was to be born I had to hide myself in corners; the eyes of all stoned me with scorn and anger and sorrow and shame; Eirik was hated by all before he was born—I hated him myself.” As she sat at her sewing she recalled how she had staggered from wall to wall when the first pangs came upon her: Tora made up a bundle of swaddling-cloths, the worst and oldest she had left over from her own babes. And she, the mother, had thought they were good enough and more, for this one. The maid sitting with her looked in astonishment at her mistress—Ingunn tore impatiently at the fine woollen swathing she was sewing, and threw it from her.

  Now he was a year old, a little more. Ingunn sat out of doors the first summer evenings, watching the little child, Björn’s and Gudrid’s youngest, as he stumped about, fell and picked himself up, stumped on and tumbled again in the soft green grass of the yard. She did not hear a word of all Gudrid’s chatter. My Eirik—barefoot, poorly clad like this one here, with his poor foster-parents.

  Old Olav died a week before the Selje-men’s Mass,3 and Olav Audunsson made a goodly funeral feast for him. Among the ladies who came out to Hestviken to help Ingunn with the preparations was Signe Arnesdatter, who was newly married and mistress of Skikkjustad. Her younger sister Una was with her, and when the guests were leaving, Olav persuaded Arne and the priest to let Una stay behind, so that Ingunn might be spared all toil and trouble at the end of her time.

  Olav was somewhat vexed, for he could not help seeing that Ingunn did not like the girl. And yet Una was deft and willing to help, cheerful, and good to look at—small and delicately built, nimble and quick as a wagtail, fair-haired and bright-eyed. Olav himself had grown fond of his second cousins. He was slow to make acquaintances, with his reserved and taciturn nature, but there were not many folk he disliked. He took them as they were, with their faults and their virtues, was glad to meet them as acquaintances, but not unwilling to make friends with those he liked, if only he were given time to thaw.

  Olav Ingolfsson had got together a quantity of good timber, and in the previous autumn Olav Audunsson had already done a good deal to repair the most pressing damage in the houses of the manor. This summer he pulled down the byre and rebuilt it, for the old one was in such a state that the cows stood in a slough of mire in autumn, and in winter the snow drifted in so that the beasts could hardly have suffered more from cold if they had been out in the open.

  One Saturday evening the household was assembled in the courtyard. It was fine, warm summer weather and the air was s
weet with the scent of the first haycocks. And the fragrance of lime blossom was wafted down from the cliff behind the outhouses. The byre was set up again and the first beams of the roof were in place; the heavy roof-tree lay with one end on the ground and the other leaning against the gable as the men had left it when work ceased for the week.

  Now the two young house-carls took a start and ran up the sloping beam, to see how high up they could go. Presently the other men joined in, even the master himself. The game went merrily, with laughter and shouts whenever one of the men had to jump off. Ingunn and Una were sitting against the wall of the house, when Olav called to the young maid:

  “Come hither, Una—we will see how sure of foot you are!”

  The girl excused herself with a laugh, but all the men crowded round her—she had laughed at them when they had to jump off halfway up the beam—no doubt she would be able to run right to the top, she would. At last they came and dragged her forcibly from the bench.

  Laughing, she pushed the men aside, took a run and sprang a little way up, but then she had to jump down. Again she took a run and reached much higher this time—stood swaying for an instant, lithe and slender, waving her outstretched arms, while her little feet in the thin summer shoes, without soles or heels, clutched the beam like the claws of a little bird. But then she had to jump to one side, like a tomtit that cannot get a hold on a log wall. Olav stood below and caught her. Now the young maid had entered into the sport and ran up time after time, while Olav ran backwards below and received her laughing in his arms every time she had to jump down. Neither of them had an idea of any thing, till Ingunn stood beside them, panting and white as snow beneath her freckles.

  “Stop it now!” she whispered, catching at her breath.

  “There is no danger, I tell you.” Olav comforted her with a laugh. “Do you not see that I catch her—”

  “I do see it.” Olav looked at his wife in astonishment; she was on the point of tears, he could hear. Then she burst out, in mingled sobs and scornful laughter, with a toss of the head toward the girl: “Look at her—she is not so foolish but she has the wit to be ashamed.”

  Olav turned round to Una—she was red in the face and looked troubled. And slowly a flush rose in the man’s cheeks. “Now I never heard—are you out of your senses, Ingunn?”

  “I tell you,” cried his wife, with bitterness in her voice, “she there, ’tis not for nothing she comes of Foulbeard’s brood—and I trow there is more likeness between him and you than—”

  “Hold your mouth,” said Olav, revolted. “’Tis you should have the wit to be ashamed—are you to say such things to me!”

  He checked himself, seeing her wince as though he had struck her in the face. She seemed to collapse with wretchedness, and her husband took her by the arm.

  “Come in with me now,” he said, not unfriendly, and led her across the yard. She leaned against him with her eyes closed, so heavy that she could scarcely move her feet; he had almost to carry her. And within himself he was furious—“She makes herself out far more wretched than she is.”

  But when he had brought her to a seat on the bench and saw how miserable and unhappy she looked, he came up and stroked her check.

  “Ingunn—have you clean lost your wits—can it displease you that I jest with my own kinswoman?”

  She said nothing, and he went on:

  “It looks ill and worse than ill—you must be able to see that yourself. Una has been here with us four weeks, has taken all the work she could from your shoulders—and you reward her thus! What do you suppose she thinks of this?”

  “I care not,” said Ingunn.

  “But I care,” answered Olav sharply. “’Tis unwise of us too,” he went on more gently, “to behave so that we challenge folk to speak ill of us. Surely you must see that yourself.”

  Olav went out and found Una in the cook-house; she was cleaning fish for supper. He went up and stood beside her—the man was so unhappy he did not know what he was to say.

  Then she smiled and said: “Think no more of this, kinsman—she cannot help being unreasonable and ill-tempered now, poor woman. The worst is,” she added, making the cat jump for a little fish, “that I cannot be of much use here, Olav, for I saw from the first day that she likes not my being here. So I believe it will be wiser if I go to Signe tomorrow.”

  Olav answered warmly: “To me it seems a great shame that she—that you should leave us in this wise. And what will you say to Signe and to Sira Benedikt about your not staying here?”

  “You may be sure they have more wit than to make any matter of this.”

  “’Twill grieve Ingunn most of all,” the man exclaimed dolefully, “when she comes to herself again—that she has offended our guest and kinswoman so abominably.”

  “Oh no, for then she will scarce remember it. Let not this vex you, Olav—” she dried her hands, laid them on his arms, and looked up at him with her bright, pale-grey eyes, which were so like his own.

  “You are kind, Una,” he said in a faltering voice, and he bent over her and kissed her on the lips.

  He had always greeted the sisters with a kiss when they met or parted. But he realized with a faint, sweet tremor that this was not the kiss that belongs to courtesy between near kinsfolk who count themselves something more than cottagers. He let his lips dwell upon the fresh, cool, maidenly mouth, unwilling to let go, and he held her slender form to him and felt a subtle, fleeting pleasure in it.

  “You are kind,” he whispered again, and kissed her once more before reluctantly releasing her and going out.

  “There can be no sin in it,” he thought with a mocking smile. But he could not forget Una’s fresh kiss. It had been—ay, it had been as it should be. But that was a small thing to trouble about. He had been angry with Ingunn—had never believed she could behave so odiously and ridiculously. But no doubt Una was right, there was little count to be taken of what she said or did at this time, poor creature.

  But when he had accompanied Una to Skikkjustad next day after mass—it was the feast of the Translation of Saint Olav4—and was riding homeward alone, his anger boiled up anew. Had she come to such a pass that she now suspected him of the worst, simply because she herself had sinned? No, now he remembered that she had shown his kinswomen ill will before, in the autumn, when there was naught amiss with her. She was jealous—even at Frettastein she had been quick to find faults and blemishes in other women—the few they met. And that was unseemly.

  Olav was indignant with his wife. And then the fact that she should mention Torgils Foulbeard. All his childhood’s vague aversion to the madman had turned to open hate and horror since he had heard the whole story of Torgils Olavsson. He had been a ravisher whom God struck down at the last, a disgrace to his kin. And he lived in folk’s minds, while none remembered the other Olavssons who had lived and died in honour. Surely he might just as well be said to take after them—Olav was always ill at ease when he heard it hinted that he was so like Foulbeard. But he was annoyed with himself for feeling as it were a cold blast of ghostly terror at the back of his neck when such things were said.

  His worst enemy could not accuse him of being mad after women. In all the years he had lived in outlawry he could scarcely recall having looked at a woman. When his uncle Barnim suggested that he ought to take the pretty miller’s daughter and keep her as his leman, while he was at Hövdinggaard, he had sharply refused. Fair she was, and willing too, as he could see—but he had held himself to be a married man in a way, and he would keep his troth, even if his uncle teased him for it and laughingly reminded him of Ketillög.—This was a poor vendible girl he had fallen in with one night when he was in the town in company with other young men from the manor and they were all dead-drunk. In the morning, when he was sober again, he fell to talking with the girl, and after that he had conceived a sort of kindness for her—she was unlike others of her kind, sensible and quiet in her ways, preferring a man who did not care to play the fool and raise a riot in t
he inn. And then he had continued to look in on her when he was in the town on his uncle’s business. Often he simply came in and sat with her, ate the food he had brought, and sent her for ale: he took pleasure in her quiet way of waiting upon him. But his friendship for her had been no heavy sin—and no one in his right mind would assert that he had been unfaithful to Ingunn with her. He had often thought of her, however, in the first years that succeeded—hoped she had got into no trouble for helping him to get away to the Earl that time. He wished he could have known for certain that she had been able to hide from the others in the inn the money he gave her at parting, and whether she had carried out the plan she often spoke of: that she would turn her back on that inn and seek service with the nuns of St. Clara’s convent. In truth she was far too good to be where she was.

  It was the sense of this secret guilt that made him insecure—he felt defenceless against the Evil One, like a man who must go on fighting though crippled by a secret wound. His wife’s prolonged ill health and her unreasonableness—and her being herself the cause that he was never allowed entirely to forget what must be forgotten—all this made him uneasy, wavering in his mind. And he felt a little thrill of pleasure as he remembered how good it had been to hold Una in his arms.

  It angered him as he thought of Ingunn—it was her senseless behaviour to the kind, fair child that had been the cause of this.

  But he would have to take it patiently—she had so little to comfort her now, Ingunn.

  But the same evening Ingunn fell sick; it came so suddenly that before the ladies who were to help her could reach the place, it was over. None but Ingunn’s own serving-women were with her when the child came—and they were all terrified and bewildered, they told Olav afterwards, with tears in their eyes. They thought the boy was alive when they lifted him up from the floor, but a moment later he was dead.