Authors: Sigrid Undset
He too had had children—Alexander and Rufus were their names. He had once heard what became of these sons of Simon, saints and crowned martyrs.
Olav still lay awake when he heard the distant singing from the church. As he listened to the strains of matins, drowned now and then by gusts of wind, he fell asleep.
Morning was far advanced when he awoke. There was singing again—they were blessing the palms, he knew, and then would come the procession round the church. Olav still lay abed—once more he was assailed by bitter regret, that he had left home in the clothes he stood in. When at last he came down in his coarse old everyday clothes and heavy boots, the service was already far advanced; the words rang out from the choir:
“Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum Matthœum.”
5
From where he stood he could not see the priests who were singing. And today was the long lesson, so he could not follow it from memory, but only knew some fragments. Wrapped in his old brown cloak he stood far back by the door, and as the clear and powerful male voice intoned the gospel, rising and falling and rising again, he was carried along past words and names he recognized—
Pascha—tradetur ut crucifigatur—Caiaphas—
beacons that told him where they were now. Jesus and the disciples were in Bethany, in
domo Simonis leprosi
, and sat at meat; now Mary of Magdala came in at the door, bearing a box of ointment, that she might pour out the most precious thing she could find before God. And the voice of Judas snarled at the woman with miserly scorn.
Then another voice, fuller and richer, answered with the
Master’s own words as He took Mary under His protection and praised her loving-kindness.
Olav waited for the words he knew, the words that were branded upon his heart with red-hot irons—would they not come soon? They were not so far away. Ah, now they were coming—now He was sending the disciples into the city to make ready the supper. Now—
His heart beat against his chest as though it would burst as the great, rich voice pealed from the choir:
“Amen dico vobis, quia unus vestrum me traditurus est—”
The voice of the Evangelist followed with a short strophe, and then the whole chorus of disciples broke in, harsh and agitated:
“Numquid ego sum, Domine?”
Olav felt the sweat break out over his whole body as the voice of Christ rang out. And then they came, the words that were burned into his heart:
“Væ autem homini illi, per quem Filius hominis tradetur: Bonum erat ei si natus non fuisset homo ille.”
The evangelist sang:
“Respondens autem Judas qui tradidit eum, dixit”—and
the loud voice of Judas followed:
“Numquid ego sum, Rabbi?”
The voice of Christ replied:
“Tu dixisti.”
Olav had bowed his head upon his breast and thrown the flap of his cloak over his shoulder, hiding half his face. The coarse homespun smelt of stable and boat and fish. Among the crowd in festival attire he alone was unprepared.
Words that he knew flowed on in the chant. Now they were going to the Mount of Olives—but Olav seemed to be watching from afar: as Judas stood somewhere in the city spying after them. Now he was thrust out, now all his companions knew what had only been known to God and himself when he came in and sat at supper with the others.
The visions floated farther and farther into the darkness. Among the trees God Himself falls upon His face:
Tristis est anima mea usque ad mortem—
But the disciples are asleep and take no heed. From a gate in the city wall come the watchmen with torches and flashing spears, while Judas goes before and shows the way. Saint Peter leaps up out of his sleep; in the boldness of youth he snatches his sword from the sheath to fling himself between his Master and His enemies—lays about him like
a fool, strikes off a servant’s ear—and when he sees that they are overpowered and hears the calm answer of the Lord, to him incomprehensible, he throws down his sword and runs away; they all run, all the disciples who but a while ago promised so stoutly. Christ is left standing alone, holds out His hands unresisting, lets them bind Him—passing comprehension. But who has seen that part of the cross which was in the ground, who knows the root of the cross—?
Round about Olav men and women stole a chance of sitting or kneeling awhile—there was no end to it, this hateful arraignment by men of their Maker, the voice of the people in shrill chorus:
“Crucifigatur!”
And again:
“Crucifigatur!”
The long road out of the city up to the hill of Calvary, the horror of the crucifixion—and the reviling, which did not cease even there.
After the last loud cry from the cross, when He gave up the ghost, the singing stopped abruptly and the congregation sank on its knees, as though struck down by this dead silence.
Strangely quiet it sounded when the Evangelist’s voice began again, assuming now the customary Sunday tone, and sang the narrative of the grave and of the Pharisees’ timid consultation with Pilate.
The mass followed upon the gospel as though out of a gate-manifesting again the vast and awful mysteries of man’s deceit and God’s mercy. It was Holy Week advancing upon mankind, Maundy Thursday and Good Friday; Saint Mark and Saint Luke and Saint John would each in turn bear witness. And Easter Day on the far side of this week of evil seemed infinitely distant.
When Olav came to the guest-house, he found it so crowded with folk that he hesitated to go in. Two lay brothers hurried forward with steaming dishes, followed by two more with cans of ale: it was past midday and the good folk of the inn were pale and pinched about the nose and hungry as wolves.
One of the lay brothers was the same young man who had conducted him to the guest’s cell the evening before. As soon as he saw Olav he took him in hand, made room, and pushed him into the place of honour—the franklin was a friend of the Prior of Hamar. He tried to force food and drink on Olav, but Olav could get nothing down.
As soon as decency allowed, he rose from the table, went up
to his cell, and lay on his bed. He fell asleep at once and slept till the young lay brother woke him: “Now Father Finn has time—”
When Olav came down into the parlour, where Finn Arnvidsson sat waiting, there were several others in the room: two young monks, so much alike that Olav guessed them to be twins, sat there with a woman, their mother, and some young maids. The whole band of kinsfolk had the same fiery-red hair and freckled complexion, upturned noses, and pale-blue eyes; their talk was of news from home—Olav heard it with half an ear while he listened to what Father Finn told him of his father’s last years.
Olav sat with eyes cast down; his hands clutched and clutched at his dagger, he pulled it half out of its sheath and thrust it back again. Then he cut short the other in the middle of his calm and quiet narration:
“Ay, Finn—your father knew something of that which I am now to tell you. He counselled me, before he died, to do that for which I am now come.” Without thinking, Olav rose to his feet and stood erect, and as he raised his voice the company on the opposite bench ceased their talk and listened to him:
“I once slew a man in my youth and I have never confessed it. Arnvid, your father, knew of it, but at that time, I would not do what he begged of me—confess my blood-guiltiness and purge my sin by penance. But this that lately happened in my home—my son-in-law has been killed in his sleep and we know not who did it—this drove me hither to seek the Bishop. I knew not that
you
were in Oslo.”
Finn Arnvidsson had also risen. They stood looking each other in the face. Then Father Finn slipped away to the other company, who stood staring, and whispered a few words to the two young monks. A moment later all the red-haired folk were out of the room, and Olav stood alone with Arnvid’s son.
The monk laid his hands on his shoulders.
“God be praised,” he said warmly.
“Did your father speak to you of this?” asked Olav, looking up into the other’s face. Finn was a much taller man.
“No. But now I understand much better one thing and another with which he charged me—that I should say a Miserere daily for all men who are burdened with an unshriven sin, for instance—and other things besides. God be praised that you have
now resolved to do this.—But you should not have spoken of it in the hearing of those strange women.”
“I am not sure that I had said it to you if we two had been alone. But now I have broken down all bridges behind me.” Olav smiled faintly.
The monk stared at him a moment. Then he nodded in silence.
“Now that the lord Helge is at the point of death,” said Olav, “and none can tell me who acts in his stead—whether official or penitentiary or what he may be called—”
“I myself will find that out tomorrow, Olav.”
“But now I will go. I would rather be alone now—”
“Yes indeed. I understand.”
They took each other firmly by the hand. Olav went up, lay down on his bed, and fell asleep at once. He slept till the young lay brother came up with his supper. Olav ate and lay down again. God, my God, how good it is to have thrown down all bridges behind one!
When he came down into the cloisters next morning, on his way to church, Finn Arnvidsson came toward him.
“Olav—know you not that so long as you have not confessed this sin in lawful manner, you must not enter the church? I remind you of this, for, you know, you will only have more to answer for if you set at naught the interdict—”
Olav stopped, overwhelmed. Assuredly he knew it—he was banned just as wholly as if excommunication had been pronounced on him in church. But so long had he defied the ban, stealing in where he had no right to be and committing sacrilege, that at last he had forgotten.—He answered nothing, turned back and walked down the cloister.
Father Finn followed him, took him by the arm. “You must remember, Olav—ay, you know Latin, I think?”
“A little I know—”
“You must remember these words of Saint Ambrose:
‘Novit omnia Deus, sed exspectat vocem tuam, non ut puniat sed ut ignoscat.
God knows all things, but He waits to hear your voice, not to chastise, but to forgive.’ ”
Olav nodded.
On coming to his cell he threw himself on his knees at the little desk with the crucifix.
Assuredly he had known it—but he had forgotten. This was the first thing he would have to bear—that he must stay outside the church door. He saw that it was there he had sought nourishment during all these years—as the outlawed Danish lords had lived by making descents on their own land.
He took the crucifix from the desk and kissed the image of the King.
“Lord—I am not worthy that Thou shouldst take pity on my repentance and show me grace!”
He had made his confession mentally so many times, the whole chain of his life’s sins—from the time when his pride was young and childishly thin-skinned; he had faced the men on whom his boy’s heart was set with white lies and petty deceit that they might think him a man. In the beginning it had meant no more than that he was afraid they might smile if they found that he was only a young, hot-headed, obstinate and weak-spirited lad, while he wished to be taken for one who was resourceful, prudent, and strong. But he had carried this playing with truth to such length that he became a secret slayer, perjured and sacrilegious; link by link he had wrought his fetters, stone by stone he had built his own dungeon. Till it had come to this: that every time his thoughtless daring sprang up, the fetters held it back, and every time his heart would fly out to meet all who called it forth, it beat its wings against the stone walls and fell back.
Repent—now he saw that life would not be granted him long enough to see fully all of which he had to repent. If he had chosen loyalty to his Chieftain and been able to bear such burdens as he need never have repented taking on his shoulders—He could not repent having opened his door to everyone who craved shelter by his hearth, and never could he sufficiently repent that he had so acted toward himself that it was to a man full of leprosy that he let them in.
Nothing could be undone. Cecilia sat out at Hestviken with the body of the husband she had slain; the three fair-haired, mouse-eared boys stood about her, the fourth child lay under her heart, and she, their mother, had killed their father.
How could he have been deaf to his own heart, which told him: trust not a man who was false to his friend as a boy? So long had he strayed in shadows that he could not believe his own eyes—Jörund was not a fit husband for his only child. And afterwards
he had done nothing—although he felt now that he must have known something might happen. This husband whom his daughter defended in word and deed, true as the sword is true to its master—he would be sure to try her patience once too often, and then Cecilia would turn against him. He remembered what she was like as a child: a dogged little spitfire, with her sharp bright eyes under a shock of flaxen hair. How could
he
believe Cecilia would change her nature, even if she were tamed and tutored by life? One can tame both bear and hawk; it does not make domestic animals of them.
Now it was too late, and he could only pray God to help him. Pride and presumption it would be if he now prayed God to use him as His instrument. For him it only remained to sever himself from the company of men—a lonely pilgrimage of penance. And to be thankful it was granted him to do it.
To take Cecilia with him was not in
his
power. Rather follow Jörund than go with him, she had said. So be it; perhaps she would think otherwise when she heard what he had done.
This was the first bitter cup he had to drain—to see that his conversion came too late in the evening for him to hope that God would send him back into the fray as His man. His work in the world was ended, and he could not undo it. He had rejected the glorious task of Simon of Cyrene; now he could only humble himself sorrowfully before the cross.
Olav took the crucifix in his hand again, stood looking at it. Somewhere, beyond the long week of pain and conflict, bided the Easter morn, and beyond death and purgatory it would be given even to him to see the glorious victory of the Cross. But here on earth it would never be his to see the radiance of a standard under which he might fight with the powers that were given him at his birth.