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Updated: June 22, 2025
"What is your name?" he asked, through an interpreter. "Inga Olsdatter Pladsen." "Age?" "Twenty-eight a week after Michaelmas." "Single or married?" "Married." "Where is your husband?" "In Norway." "Are you divorced from him?" "Divorced I! Why, no! Who ever heard of such a thing?" Inga grew quite indignant at the thought of her being divorced.
What shall I do with myself when I leave here? First, of course, I will come home; afterwards, I suppose, I will have to seek something to do, but it must not be far away. Farewell, now, dear parents! Give greetings to all who inquire for me, and tell them that I have everything pleasant here but that now I long to be at home again. Your affectionate son, OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN.
He did not say what she had expected, therefore she was silent; but at that moment she saw the light from a pipe right in front of her. It was her grandfather, who had just turned the corner and was coming that way. He stood still. "Is it here you are, Marit?" "Yes." "With whom are you talking?" "With Oyvind." "Whom did you say?" "Oyvind Pladsen." "Oh! the son of the houseman at Pladsen.
Now I will go to bed and think of you, and I will do so until I fall asleep. Your friend, OYVIND PLADSEN. One Saturday, in midsummer, Thore Pladsen rowed across the lake to meet his son, who was expected to arrive that afternoon from the agricultural school, where he had finished his course. The mother had hired women several days beforehand, and everything was scoured and clean.
"Here I will talk with you," said the school-master, and seated himself by his side. Down at Pladsen, Oyvind had just returned home from a somewhat long journey, the post-boy was still at the door, as the horse was resting. Although Oyvind now had a good income as agriculturist of the district, he still lived in his little room down at Pladsen, and helped his parents every spare moment.
They walked on in silence again until they saw Pladsen; a light shone from the house, the cliff hanging over it was black now in the winter evening; the lake below was covered with smooth, glittering ice, but there was no snow on the forest skirting the silent bay; the moon sailed overhead, mirroring the forest trees in the ice. "It is beautiful here at Pladsen," said the school-master.
Pladsen was cultivated from one end to the other, but it was so small that Oyvind called it "mother's toy-farm," for it was she, in particular, who saw to the farming. He had changed his clothes, his father had come in from the mill, white with meal, and had also dressed. They just stood talking about taking a short walk before supper, when the mother came in quite pale.
DEAR SCHOOL-MASTER, With this I ask if you will deliver the inclosed letter and not speak of it to any one. And if you will not, then you must burn it. You must send me a few words as soon as possible, giving me all particulars. Regarding myself, I have to say that I shall be through here in a year. Most respectfully, OYVIND PLADSEN.
TO OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN: The school-master has given me another letter from you, and I have just read it, but I do not understand it in the least, and that, I dare say, is because I am not learned. You want to know how it is with me in every respect; and I am healthy and well, and there is nothing at all the matter with me. I eat heartily, especially when I get milk porridge.
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