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story is old, and that the man is dead long ago.
But I know it is hardly five years since Ebba Dohna
died, and you say you were a witness to it all. You
are not old. Tell me who the man is.”
Anna Stjärnhök began to laugh.
“You wanted a love story, and you have had
one which has cost you both tears and distress.”
“Do you mean that it is not true?”
“It is nothing but lies and fancy, my dear.”
“You are malicious, Anna.”
“Perhaps—I am not too happy. I can tell you—but
the old ladies have wakened, and the gentlemen
are entering the drawing-room—let us join
them.”
She was arrested on the threshold by Gösta
Berling, who had come in search of the young ladies.
“You must have patience with me,” he said,
laughingly; “I am only going to annoy you for ten
minutes, but you must hear some poetry.”
He told them that he had dreamed that night
more vividly than usual—dreamed that he wrote
poetry. And he the so-called “poet,” though he
had borne the name innocently hitherto—had got
up in the middle of the night and, half asleep,
half awake, had begun to write. And he had found
quite a long poem on his writing-table in the
morning. He never could have believed it of himself.
The ladies must hear it, and he read:
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