...
Show More
This, the final book in the tetralogy, is the best of all. None of them is stand-alone, so The Master of Hestviken must be considered a single work. It is an amazing and rich accomplishment from Sigrid Undset, with scores of characters and seven generations of the Olav Ribbung clan. I liked it only slightly less than Kristin Lavransdatter, which I consider Undset's masterpiece.
As others have commented, the main themes of the work are free will, sin, and redemption. From The Snake Pit:
From The Son Avenger:
As others have commented, the main themes of the work are free will, sin, and redemption. From The Snake Pit:
So many a time had he allowed himself to be driven out of his road, upon false tracks that he had no desire to follow. Long ago he had acknowledged the truth of Bishop Torfinn's words: the man who is bent upon doing his own will shall surely see the day when he finds he has done that which he never willed. But he perceived that this kind of will was but a random shot, an arrow sent as a venture.--He still had his own inmost will, however, and it was as a sword. When he was called to Christianity, he had been given this free will, as the chieftain gives his man a sword when he makes him a knight. If he had shot away all his other weapons, marred them by ill use--this right to choose whether he would follow God or forsake Him remained a trusty blade, and his Lord would never strike it out of his hand. Though his faith and honour as a Christian were now stained like the misused sword of a traitor knight, God had not taken it from him; he might bear it still in the company of our Lord's enemies, or restore it kneeling to that Lord, who yet was ready to raise him to His bosom, greet him with the kiss of peace, and give him back his sword, cleansed and blessed.
From The Son Avenger:
The flaming terror that had caught his spirit had now burned itself out; he was tired and drab within. He was now on the way to do the thing from which his whole life had been a flight, and this time he knew he would do it; he knew this as surely as he had known all the other times that he would flee from it as soon as he saw a way out. But his soul was grey and cold as a corpse.
He had heard a thousand times that God's mercy is without bounds, and in secret he had relied on this: what he fled from was always there, waiting for him when he took courage to turn, since it was all that was outside time and change: God's arms spread out on the cross, ready to enfold him, grace streaming from the five wounds, the drooping head that looked down over all creation, watching and waiting, surrounded by Mary and all the saints with prayers that rose like incense from an unquenchable censer. His servants were ever ready with power to unlock his fetters; the Bread of Life was ever upon the altar. God was without bounds.
But he himself was not, he saw that now. It was too late, after all. The bounds that were in himself had set and hardened into stone--like the stones folk had shown him here and there about the country which had once been living beasts and men.