December 19, 1947
You asked me why I chose this* as representative of my writings:
"Because the book is less known than my historical novels, and
because it means much to me, and I think it is a piece of simple,
forward writing which cannot be interpreted otherwise than I did
MAMMA came and told them one day that she had taken a house at Hvitsten for the rest of the summer vacation. Frida, her friend, had made them a present of the money for a stay in the country.
At the moment Ingvild was more shocked and ashamed than anything else. Accepting money from strangers was to her a thing unheard-of. Her mother must have seen it, for she said curtly: "Your father needs a change of air." So Ingvild shook off her feeling of repugnance as well as she could. Naturally she would like awfully to go into the country. Though she was concerned about her garden--how would it get on with no one to water it--?
Once more she enjoyed a time which was outside all other time. Looking back on it she thought of forest paths over which the smooth-worn roots of firs stretched their claws, and the pits between the roots were thick with old pine-needles. She remembered crevices running diagonally through rounded light-red rocks, in which grew scanty sun-scorched grass and flowers with silvery grey-green leaves reminding one of the sea. The paths ended in a scrap of shelly beach, and there they undressed and ran naked over the bare rocks, which burnt the soles of their feet. It was horrid to get entangled in the sea-weed which lay heaving, however calm the fjord might be--____________________