In the Wilderness by Sigrid Undset Page A

brotherly life, the hours of converse, when a monk has to show humility and gentleness toward his fellows, whether he like them or not, whether he be minded to speak or be silent; to have to go out among strangers or to serve in the guest-house when the prior bade him, even if he would rather be alone. He had seen that this was beyond the power of many monks, who were otherwise good and pious men; they grew sour and cross with strangers, quarrelsome among themselves. But this was a sign that these men were not fitted for the monastic life. “One may carve Christ’s image as fairly in fir as in lime,” Bishop Torfinn had once said to Arnvid, on his expressing a wish that he could be as calm and good-humored as Asbjörn All-fat; “but never have I heard that He turned fir into lime, like enough because it would be a useless miracle. With God’s grace you may become as good a man as Asbjörn, but I trow He will not give you All-fat’s temper, for all that.”
    But now he saw that the life of a monk had other paths than those he knew at home in Norway. There were paths also for those who were not fitted to associate with strange brethren. Warfare with the discipline of the convent behind that of the warrior, like a hair shirt under the coat of mail—in the Holy Land the Templars’ hosts had been cut down many a time to the last man. In the Carthusians’ monasteries each monk lived in a little house by himself; they met only in church. And now he had seen some other monks, the Maturines—their white habit resembled that of the preaching friars, but they bore a red and blue cross on their breasts. They collected alms, wherewith to cross the sea and redeem Christian men from slavery among the Saracens. And when they had no more money, the youngest and strongest of these monks gave themselves in exchange for sick and weary prisoners.
    It had not yet come to any fixed purpose with Olav, but it made him thoughtful. The world had widened to his vision, and he now saw that that other world which stretched its curtain over the earth from one end to the other was without bounds. And now, when he saw himself standing beneath this immense vault, he feltso small and so lonely and so
free
. What mattered it if a franklin from the Oslo fiord never came home again? He might be stabbed any evening on the quays here—they might be plundered and slain by pirates on the Flanders side this autumn, they might be wrecked on the coast of Norway—every man who put to sea on a trading voyage knew that such things might easily happen, and none stayed at home on that account. Strange that he could have thought it so great a matter, as he tramped over his land and splashed about his creek, that he should rule the manor—indifferently well—if he had to murder his own soul to do it.
    That might yet be while
she
was alive. But now—Arne’s daughters and their husbands would take charge of the children and of the estate if he sent home a message this autumn that he would not return.
    London’s church bells rang—time to put out fires. Olav rowed downstream again. He put in at a little wharf just below the western water tower. The old man who took his boat was so thickly covered with beard and dirt that he seemed overgrown with moss. Olav exchanged a few words with him—he had picked up a little English now. Then he made his way through the lanes, where children ran and shouted and refused to obey their mothers who called them in, up to the Dominicans’ church.
    He said the evening prayers and a
De profundis
for his dead, and then found himself a seat on some steps that led to a door in the wall. With his chin in his hands he waited till the monks should come into the choir and sing complin.
    The lofty windows darkened and grew dense; dusk collected under the vaulting and filled the aisles. A single votive candle burned before one of the side altars, but up in the choir the golden lamp alone hovered like a star in the twilight. Outside the