DOI article:
Milman, Lena: Marcel: an hotel-child
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0145
Marcel: An Hotel-Child
By Lena Milman
I
I had arrived in Venice, after a long journey, and, with a
confused impression of lapping water, of shimmering mosaic,
and one, far more distinct, of discontent with the room allotted
me, had gone early to bed. My window looked upon a court with a
well in the middle, and, as I had feared, the drawing of water aroused
me betimes, so that it was but seven o’clock when, exasperated by
the rattle of the chain which seemed suddenly to have grown
louder than ever, I got up and went to the window. The clatter
was accounted for by the inadequate strength that drew the
handle to and fro. Surrounded by a group of Venetian women,
each with twin copper pails slung over her shoulder, a little boy,
evidently a forestier, was pulling with might and main, his foot
set against the side of the well, his lips tightly pressed together.
One of the onlookers good-naturedly laid her brown hand over
his little fair one as though to help him, but : “ No, no,” he
cried, “ I can do it quite well myself,” and, although the words
were strange to the listeners, the redoubled vigour of his attitude,
and the little frown, just visible under the brim of his hat, showed
him impatient of aid. It was a pretty scene, and I watched until
The Yellow Book—Vol. XII. i all
By Lena Milman
I
I had arrived in Venice, after a long journey, and, with a
confused impression of lapping water, of shimmering mosaic,
and one, far more distinct, of discontent with the room allotted
me, had gone early to bed. My window looked upon a court with a
well in the middle, and, as I had feared, the drawing of water aroused
me betimes, so that it was but seven o’clock when, exasperated by
the rattle of the chain which seemed suddenly to have grown
louder than ever, I got up and went to the window. The clatter
was accounted for by the inadequate strength that drew the
handle to and fro. Surrounded by a group of Venetian women,
each with twin copper pails slung over her shoulder, a little boy,
evidently a forestier, was pulling with might and main, his foot
set against the side of the well, his lips tightly pressed together.
One of the onlookers good-naturedly laid her brown hand over
his little fair one as though to help him, but : “ No, no,” he
cried, “ I can do it quite well myself,” and, although the words
were strange to the listeners, the redoubled vigour of his attitude,
and the little frown, just visible under the brim of his hat, showed
him impatient of aid. It was a pretty scene, and I watched until
The Yellow Book—Vol. XII. i all