self, scourge, you see how much easier I feel at once.
Ye gods, how I scourged myself . . . the sUfferings I went through over that dreadful book! I finished reading it,—and suddenly all was still. Into my spirit there mounted a kind of frosty calm, the surging grew numb and as if the book had prompted me with a single ghastly idea, which seemed to me axiomatic, I felt that I must murder a human being. And I knew that I must kill them with an axe like Raskolnikov, and I found the axe in Mrs. Randa's kitchen and it was sharp, having been recently whetted by Mr. Randa. And I felt, further, that my victim must be some old woman or other, and her features would resemble those of the old usuress in the novel. . . I found her. One afternoon I was going across the Staroměstské Náměstí. In a covered way by St. Tein's Church there was a shop where plates, pots, and dishes were sold. I caught sight of the proprietress, an ugly old woman. A human louse, thus Fate wills it. . . I walked round a few times, watching the shop. Nobody went in there, the old woman was sitting in her recess, with her knees drawn up,—clearly she was warming her feet at the glowing coals. I seemed to be dreaming. I was satisfied, I went home, sat down and considered the matter in cold blood. It now occurred to me that I must know whether there was a bell on the door of the
