During his studies of insect life Tord had a special favourite. That was the praying cricket, Nature’s most exquisite wonder. With her, his brooding spirit celebrated its gloomy mass. One dark, sultry August evening he fell a victim to her charm in old Henri Fabre, the Homer of insects. Round the lamp there was a restless buzzing of Daddy-Longlegs and grey night-moths that seemed to be made of dust. He watched them, with a mixed feeling of voluptuousness and sickness, blind themselves and burn themselves on the hot lamp funnel. And then he read about the praying cricket, and how with crossed front legs and lifted head she seems to assume a pious attitude of prayer beneath the nun’s veil of folded wings. But as soon as a victim approaches she unveils herself. Then she resembles a vampire, a flying dragon. Then the scissors of her crossed legs open, she seizes a victim, much bigger than she herself, and devours it as quickly as lightning. Of course, she also seizes the opportunity of devouring the male after mating. But—this is the exquisite point—it has also been noticed how, during the very act of copulation, she turns backwards and begins to devour the male’s head. Yes, she positively devours him whilst the hind part of his body continues to fulfil the function of sex, till her greed has reached the most vital organs....

When Tord had come so far, he rose vehemently and rushed in to Dagmar. His face was pale and wet with perspiration and a mingled expression of disgust and triumph. And without any preliminaries he flung the love story of the praying cricket in the face of his wife:

“Do you hear, woman, she eats the male’s head? But he goes on all the same, just goes on! Say, then, if love is not stronger than death!”

Dagmar did not answer. She did not bother to understand what he was saying. She did not care a straw for his praying cricket. But she was frightened at his tone. Yes, from that moment she felt a kind of terror of Tord Selamb and of life out at Järnö.

VI
THE GREAT DINNER

Leaning against the polished black marble counter in a magnificent new bank was standing a thin slightly grey gentleman with a rigid haughty face. He was rather pale, and in spite of the summer heat was dressed in a closely buttoned-up dark frock-coat. He was Stellan Selamb, ex-Captain of the Göta Guards, now landed proprietor. He had suffered since his long shooting expedition in Africa from the after effects of a malarial fever which made him sensitive to chill.

Stellan wore mourning crepe round his arm. His father-in-law had moved down to the aristocracy in the sepulchral vault at Trefvinge half a year ago, not without having first immortalized his memory by a donation to the House of Nobles and in this way gaining posthumous admittance.

Stellan had arranged to meet Laura at the bank. He felt quite comfortable in banks nowadays, since he no longer had any bills to meet on their due date. He had waited more than a quarter of an hour without showing any special signs of impatience. He enjoyed the quiet hum, the hushed murmur of voices, as in a temple. And indeed the big vaulted hall supported on its massive polished stone pillars was like a temple above his shining silk hat. Behind the counter the bank clerks solemnly officiated at the high altar of capital, to the accompaniment of rustling bank-notes, ringing coins and the rattling of the calculating machines that reminded you of eternally revolving prayer wheels.

It was a temple raised to the real State religion. Above its high copper doors there ought to have stood in thin gold letters the one great word: “Possess!”