Norwegian novelist Sigrid Undset’s Nobel Prize-winning <em>The Master of Hestviken </em>could be the greatest work of Catholic literature you’ve never read. I can only insist you do read it, while utterly confident you won’t have any regrets.
Undset was a superbly catechised laywoman and a Third Order Dominican. Written following her (controversial) conversion to Catholicism in 1924, in <em>The Master of Hestviken</em> the author carefully interposes fragments of her quite genuine profound wisdom of the spiritual life, and the effects of sin and grace and the mysterious, throughout her saga. This makes her storytelling indelibly unique.
For the reader concerned with making a departure from devotional materials to read this volume, they needn’t worry. You will find it hard not to come away a wiser and more Catholic soul than when you began.
In <em>The</em> <em>Master of Hesviken</em>, Undset draws the reader quickly into the strange and immersive world of fjords, mountains, pine forests, monasteries, sacraments, marital problems, battle-axes, parenthood, atonement, fish offal, and blood feuds of 13th century Norway.
It is in this milieu that we are introduced to a young Olav Audunsson, an orphaned petty noble, whom we follow from the point he is taken in by the Steinfinnsson family, through his impetuous youth, and his trials as a husband and father, to the grave in this 900-page tetralogy.
It is a tale of life, while throughout that life it remains a story about the deeply Catholic struggle of one man against his own conscience. After a murder, and the adultery consented to by his weak-willed and sickly wife, duty-bound Olav finds himself at an impasse.
Does he reveal the truth – but in so doing expose his pitiable and vulnerable wife to public disgrace and potentially expose a crime which may leave children without inheritance or shelter? Or does he live a lie and attempt to go it alone – unconfessed and without the aid of God and the sacraments – protecting and providing for his family by the power of his own well-endowed natural strength, diligence and resourcefulness?
Olav makes the ill-advised choice of the latter path and bears the entirely realistic natural and spiritual consequences of his course. Yet while many things can be said of his poor choices, nobody can claim Olav only walked the wide and easy road. His time at Calvary with his Lord began early.
The ominously titled first book of the tetralogy, <em>The Axe</em>, gives us one of the most memorable and immersive openings in all literature, telling the story of Olav’s adoption into an initially somewhat reluctant but cheery and well-meaning family which quickly becomes altogether internally cold, morose, embittered, dysfunctional and distant, and only shortly after his arrival thanks to an incident causing public humiliation.
Growing up tenuously placed as a foster-son of a dynasty which is not his own, his personality takes shape as he learns to be private, helpful, unimposing, obedient – and to only speak when spoken to.
Soon we are led on to a dreamlike illicit teenage escapade into a nearby town with Ingunn, Olav’s foster sister, through heavenly Nordic scenery under perfectly clear skies and golden budding meadows of Summer, after which the two quickly fall in love. A long series of events tragic and human follow and Olav finds himself on the run.
The prose is excellent – one cannot praise enough the 1934 translation made by Arthur G Chater. The entire time, the story is narrated to us in language and style antiquated enough to make it feel we are being told it whilst gathered round a fire.
The second and third books are considerably and deliberately less adventurous. Undset, deeply cognisant of the patterns of the spiritual life, counterbalances consolation and desolation, and she does so, even more masterfully, alongside long periods of dryness and moments of encounter and the unexplained.
In the fourth book everything seems to be going wrong and a weary, hardened, now greatly stubborn Olav seems impossible to change. However, in the conclusion no other work has tuned a more beautiful and intelligent ending than this, the seeds of which were planted long before.
Olav’s world is enchanted and yet quite unromantic. This is no idealised medieval idyll. It is meticulously researched. The log cabins with their blazing hearths and smoke vents which barely withstand the frozen Nordic winters, the housecarls, the salted meat and fish, the feast days and festivals of the Church, the Nordic saga poetry and dances: all of this immerses us into a realm entirely alien and yet somehow intensely familiar.
We are landed in a pre-industrial age, but the rhythm of life on the estates of Frettastein and Hestviken in Eastern Norway is simple and sensical. Only here, though, the summers are more splendid and shorter. The winters are bleaker and unforgiving – skis are used to get from one town to another.
It is a world nonetheless not too dissimilar to the setting from which a million and one fairytales have begun and perhaps of which we have coded somewhere hidden deep within our consciousness some sort of innate ancestral memory. Perhaps instead the scenes tap into some ethereal platonic form. Olav’s, nevertheless, is no fairytale.
Vengeance. Ghosts. Curses. Romance. Childhood innocence. Manliness. Angels. Priesthood. Virginity. Jealously. War. Neglect. Shame. Self-control. Magnanimity. There is little in Olav’s odyssey that is not addressed – and addressed profoundly at that. Yet the work is not overambitious. It is the believable chronicle of one man’s quite conventional life. It is simultaneously about one’s relationship with God, with the Church, and with neighbour.
The Norway in question is awash with a contradictory mix of genuine Catholic conviction and yet-Christianised barbarism. There are characters of varying piety from the quietly saint-like, meek and self-effacing Arnvid (something of an older brother to Olav), to the dissolute nature and non-existent piety of Kolbein (a less-than-benevolent uncle). In the background, a political conflict over the role and prominence of the Church in Norwegian society is taking place: there are plenty who see the (relatively) new Faith as a nuisance which obfuscates their plans for conquest and gain.
There are also disagreements about the new “preaching friars” and clerical celibacy, which filters out the more worldly-minded by asking for an initial sacrifice on the part of those who would pray <em>introibo ad altare Dei</em> ("I will go in to the altar of God"). A nice attention to detail which draws us further into the historical world.
There are plenty of memorable and well-written characters. Ingunn, Olav’s long-time romantic interest, is in many ways a foil to him. While Olav is reserved, thoughtful, diligent, deep and strong; she is unintentionally inconsiderate, ditsy, fragile and flighty.
The various priests and monks Olav meets along the way and accepts help and patronage from – including the elderly Bishop Thorfinn of Hamar (a canonised Saint in our timelines) who takes pity on Olav at an important time when his future looked bleak and dreams dashed – leave a deep impression on our protagonist.
Olav is mesmerised by the Latin, the prayers, the Blessed Sacrament and the chant, all of which feature prominently throughout the work. A robust and manly sort of fellow, he recognises virtue and respects the piety of those around him who possess it. He listens to and seeks their wisdom but is left frustrated, believing he can only follow them so far. He oscillates between a deep desire to be reconciled to his Creator, to be absolved and live righteously and indignation, while also convincing himself he doesn’t need such things, scorning his prayers and resigning himself to a – self-perceived – reprobate and lost state.
The Catholic reader is left agitating and urging Olav to surrender and resign to divine providence with a <em>fiat voluntas tua</em>, embracing those words in the Latin <em>Our Father</em> for "Let thy will be done".
But it is the precarious relationship Olav has with his son Eirik, and not that with his far more agreeable and beautiful daughter Cecilia, that emerges as the most pivotal to the meaning of the story, involving expertly-tuned twists, turns, resolutions and tragedies. Can Olav bring himself to love this difficult child? Can they ever forgive one another? Or will they be each other’s downfall?
Olav’s weary middle-aged and unfruitful escape to London exposes us to a starkly different civilisation from remote Norway. His group moor their ship on the tempestuous medieval Thames (far more subject to the tide). Olav encounters the old London Bridge and a dynamic religious-cultural environment surrounding him that includes the presence of the Knights Hospitaller and Templars alongside ostentatious festival processions, bustle and music.
There is a deliberate period of desolation, repetitiveness, and dreariness around book two – but stick with it. Life has these periods, and so must Olav’s. But as with the passion of Our Lord, the lows must come in order that the victory be greater.
Norway appears to have a funny quirk. Sigrid Undset was not the last Catholic convert and Nobel laureate in literature that the great land of mountains and trolls and fjords would produce. This year, almost a century after her deeply Catholic works (notably including her other, more famous, trilogy featuring a female protagonist – <em>Kristin Lavransdatter</em>) attained the international recognition they rightly deserved (and have since lost), John Fosse has repeated that same feat.
But it is not Fosse I am here to discuss. As fantastic as his writing may be, and I am sure it is, he has a great shadow to step out from. I would venture as far to say so do all writers of fiction, if only they were aware of it. Undset’s brilliance may be recondite, but it oughtn’t be.
Hers is the most profound and moving work I’ve ever had the fortune of experiencing. I’m inclined to say it betters the likes of Wilde, Dostoevsky, Tolkien and Waugh. Finishing this epic, I’m sure you will agree that Undset at least matches, if not surpasses, the greats. I hope we meet her in heaven.
<a href="https://catholicherald.co.uk/he-was-a-catholic-before-he-knew-it-himself-jon-fosse-2023-nobel-prize-in-literature-winner/"><mark style="background-color:rgba(0, 0, 0, 0)" class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color"><strong><em>RELATED: ‘He was a Catholic before he knew it himself’: Jon Fosse, 2023 Nobel Prize in Literature win</em></strong>ner</mark></a>
<em>Photo collage: (left) Sigrid Undset in her youth (credit: Creative Commons / Wikipedia) / (right) Urnes Stave Church in Norway (credit: Micha L. Rieser).</em>
<em>This article was republished with permission after first </em><a href="https://lms.org.uk/sites/default/files/resource_documents/gregmag/summer2024web.pdf"><em><mark style="background-color:rgba(0, 0, 0, 0)" class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">appearing</mark></em></a><em> in the </em>Gregorius Magnus<em> magazine of </em><a href="http://www.fiuv.org/"><mark style="background-color:rgba(0, 0, 0, 0)" class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color"><em>Foederatio Internationalis Una Voce</em></mark></a><em>, in its Summer 2024 issue.</em>
<em>The </em>Master of Hestviken<em> tetralogy by Sigrid Undset was published 1925– 27, and comprises </em>The Axe<em>, </em>The Snake Pit<em>, </em>In the Wilderness<em>, and </em>The Son Avenger<em>, all translated by Arthur G. Chater. The University of Minnesota Press published a new translation with different titles in 2020; the older translations are available second-hand</em>.
