A particular poignancy attends the reading of very long novels, especially those which, for all their undeniable charms, you’re unlikely to read again. Weeks, even months of your internal life are given over to some new cast of characters, who vaporize when the book is closed.
A few such novels may escape this tinge of melancholy. I felt little of it while reading for the first time Don Quixote or David Copperfield or Vanity Fair or In Search of Lost Time, since I never doubted I’d one day return to them. But it’s the fate of most long books never to be revisited. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get around to rereading John Hersey’s The Call, though it’s the only novel I’ve ever read that convincingly situated me in China, or Shimazaki To-son’s Before the Dawn, even if it deposited me deep in rural Japan during the Meiji restoration, or Austin Tappan Wright’s Islandia, although parting from its imaginary Thoreauvian country was a little like leaving the land of the lotos-eaters.
Doubtless many of those readers who adored Kristin Lavransdatter in its original translation never got around to rereading it, and the story faded into a distant glimmering. If the trilogy’s plot embodies an ultimate stripping away of worldly concerns, as Kristin moves slowly but steadily from bodily to spiritual priorities, in readers’ memories a counterpart sort of paring may take place. Again, for most readers, the book’s political machinations—King Haakon and all the rest—probably fled the memory in rapid order, as did any strong feelings about Undset as a prose stylist. What lingered was a feeling of having been transported; what lingered was enchantment. Each time a woman approached me to say, “I once read that book,” she was responding to a literary gratitude so durable it insisted on being expressed to a stranger.
What was another world has now found its way into another world: Nunnally’s new translation, with its cleaner motivations and phrasing, its nuanced balancing of the blunt and the taciturn. Throughout all the tribulations of her life, Kristin winds up being not merely a survivor but an explorer: her hardy soul is on a pilgrimage. It’s heartening to think of a new generation of readers following Kristin’s explorations, and in the process amassing memories so rich they might induce a stranger to approach a stranger and say, “I once read that book.”
A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION
THIS TRANSLATION from the Norwegian is based on the first edition of Sigrid Undset’s epic trilogy, Kransen, Husfrue, and Korset, which appeared in 1920, 1921, and 1922, respectively. All of the novels were originally published in Oslo by H. Aschehoug & Company, which continues to publish Undset’s works in Norway today.
The three volumes of Kristin Lavransdatter were translated into English in the 1920s, but the translators chose to impose an artificially archaic style on the text, which completely misrepresented Undset’s beautifully clear prose. They filled her novels with stilted dialogue （using words such as ’tis, ’twas, I trow, thee, thou, hath, and doth）， and they insisted on a convoluted syntax.
Nowadays the role of the translator is different. Accuracy and faithfulness to the original tone and style are both expected and required. In Norwegian Undset writes in a straightforward, almost plain style, yet she can be quite lyrical, especially in her descriptions of nature. The beauty of the mountainous Norwegian landscape is lovingly revealed in Undset’s lucid prose. In her research for Kristin Lavransdatter, she immersed herself in the customs and traditions of medieval Norway. She was meticulous about using the proper terms for clothing, housewares, and architectural features, but she did not force archaic speech patterns on her characters. To readers of the twenty-first century, the dialogue may sound slightly formal, but it is never incomprehensible.
Misunderstandings and omissions also marred the English translation from the 1920s. One crucial passage in The Wreath was even censored, perhaps thought to be too sexually explicit for readers at the time. Most serious of all, certain sections of The Wife, scattered throughout the novel and totaling approximately eighteen pages, were deleted. Many are key passages, such as Kristin’s lengthy dialogue with Saint Olav in Christ Church, Gunnulf’s meditation on the mixture of jealousy and love he has always felt toward Erlend, and Ragnfrid’s anguished memory of her betrothal to Lavrans. I have restored all of these passages, which offer the reader essential insight into the underlying spiritual and psychological turmoil of the story. The Penguin Classics edition is thus the first unabridged English translation of Undset’s trilogy. Part of this translation has been published with the support of a grant from NORLA （Norwegian Literature Abroad）。