soul . . . or at any rate in his body? . . . If he told people what he suspected, nobody would believe him. Outwardly he was such a sturdy fellow, such a healthy animal. But if only they could take a peep inside him! . . . That wretched worm thing had been at it again, rooting away in his carcase with its beastly legs, its hundreds of legs, never leaving him in peace. Was it just a queer feeling, was it an illusion, like Ernst's hallucination . . . or could it really be a live thing? . . . No, that was too ridiculous: it wasn't really alive. . . . And yet he remembered stories of people who always had headaches, headaches which nothing could cure; and, after their death, a nest of earwigs had been found swarming in their brains. . . . Imagine, if it should be some beastly insect! But no, it wasn't alive, it wasn't alive: he only called it a worm or centipede because that described the beastly sensation. . . . Should he go and see a doctor, some clever specialist at Amsterdam? . . . But what was he to say?
"Doctor, there's something crawling about inside my carcase like a beastly centipede!"
And the doctor would tell him to undress and would look at his carcase, still young and fresh, notwithstanding his earlier rackety life, with the muscles in good condition, the joints flexible, the chest broad, the lungs expanded, and would stare at him and think . . . he would think . . . the
