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“Gösta,” said Anna, in a would-be laughing tone,
though fear clutched at her throat, “they say that
you have lived through more poems than have ever
been written by those who do nothing else all their
lives; but I advise you to keep to your own style of
poem. Those verses are clearly a night production.”
“You are cutting, Anna.”
“To come and read to us about death and misery!
Are n’t you ashamed?”
But Gösta was not paying further attention to
her, his eyes were fixed on the young Countess.
She sat quite motionless, immovable as a statue. He
thought she was going to faint.
But with much trouble a word passed her lips.
“Go!” she said.
“Who is to go? Is it I?”
“The parson must go,” she ejaculated.
“Elizabeth, do be silent!”
“The drunken parson must leave my house!”
“Anna, Anna,” cried Gösta, “what does she
mean?”
“Go away, Gösta; it is best you should go.”
“Why should I go? What is the meaning of
this?”
“Anna,” said the Countess, “"tell—him tell
him …”
“No, Countess, you must tell him yourself.”
The Countess Elizabeth bit her teeth together
and mastered her feeling.
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