that condition. Roun
that condition.
Rounding a corner, I found myself on a particularly odious street. Not only were the cobblestones in severe disrepair, not only were the gutters strewn with garbage and less mentionable items, not only were the ramshackle buildings which loomed over the street the very epitome of tenements, but—
There—not twenty feet before me—a woman was being attacked by a mob of cutthroats!
I was taken completely off guard. Until I rounded the corner, I had heard not a hint of clamor. The struggle under way was being waged in complete silence, save the occasional hiss and grunt.
For a moment, I was paralyzed, like a statue, rooted to the spot. From horror, you would think. But no, it wasn’t that. I am an artist, with an artist’s eye, and it was the impossible drama of the scene which transfixed me—like a tableau from ancient legend.
The struggle bore little if any resemblance to the image which might normally come to mind when one hears of “a woman assaulted by a mob of cutthroats.” Think rather of “a lioness assaulted by a pack of hyenas.”
The woman was a striking figure. This, in three ways. First, she was—not beautiful; not, at least, in the normal sense of the term—but so fierce in her countenance as to burn every feature into my mind. More so, indeed, even in the first instant I saw her than any woman I had ever seen before,
Rounding a corner, I found myself on a particularly odious street. Not only were the cobblestones in severe disrepair, not only were the gutters strewn with garbage and less mentionable items, not only were the ramshackle buildings which loomed over the street the very epitome of tenements, but—
There—not twenty feet before me—a woman was being attacked by a mob of cutthroats!
I was taken completely off guard. Until I rounded the corner, I had heard not a hint of clamor. The struggle under way was being waged in complete silence, save the occasional hiss and grunt.
For a moment, I was paralyzed, like a statue, rooted to the spot. From horror, you would think. But no, it wasn’t that. I am an artist, with an artist’s eye, and it was the impossible drama of the scene which transfixed me—like a tableau from ancient legend.
The struggle bore little if any resemblance to the image which might normally come to mind when one hears of “a woman assaulted by a mob of cutthroats.” Think rather of “a lioness assaulted by a pack of hyenas.”
The woman was a striking figure. This, in three ways. First, she was—not beautiful; not, at least, in the normal sense of the term—but so fierce in her countenance as to burn every feature into my mind. More so, indeed, even in the first instant I saw her than any woman I had ever seen before,