possible that any other artist, of any epoch, could have copied nature

with such faultless accuracy. The figure was that of a man without a

skin; with every vein, artery, muscle, every fiber and tendon and tissue

of the human frame represented in minute detail. It looked natural,

because somehow it looked as if it were in pain. A skinned man would be

likely to look that way unless his attention were occupied with some

other matter. It was a hideous thing, and yet there was a fascination

about it some where. I am very sorry I saw it, because I shall always

see it now. I shall dream of it sometimes. I shall dream that it is

resting its corded arms on the bed's head and looking down on me with its

dead eyes; I shall dream that it is stretched between the sheets with me

and touching me with its exposed muscles and its stringy cold legs.

It is hard to forget repulsive things. I remember yet how I ran off from

school once, when I was a boy, and then, pretty late at night, concluded

to climb into the window of my father's office and sleep on a lounge,

because I had a delicacy about going home and getting thrashed. As I lay

on the lounge and my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I fancied I

could see a long, dusky, shapeless thing stretched upon the floor. A

cold shiver went through me. I turned my face to the wall. That did not

answer. I was afraid that that thing would creep over and seize me in

the dark. I turned back and stared at it for minutes and minutes--they

seemed hours. It appeared to me that the lagging moonlight never, never

would get to it. I turned to the wall and counted twenty, to pass the

feverish time away. I looked--the pale square was nearer. I turned

again and counted fifty--it was almost touching it. With desperate will

196

The Innocents Abroad