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MARIONtask

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The Project Gutenberg’├╝n Marion, yazar Winnifred Eaton


EBook’u





Bu eKitap herhangi bir ├╝cret ├Âdemeden herkesin kullan─▒m─▒ i├žindir.


neredeyse hi├žbir k─▒s─▒tlama yok. Kopyalayabilir, verebilirsiniz ya da


Proje Gutenberg Lisans─▒ kapsam─▒nda yeniden kullan─▒m


bu e-Kitap da veya ├ževrimi├ži olarak www.gutenberg.org/license






Ba┼čl─▒k: Marion


The Story of an Artist's Model





yazar: Winnifred Eaton





ressam: Henry Hutt





yay─▒n tarihi: eyl├╝l 17, 2018 [EBook #57920]





orjinal dil: English





Character set encoding: UTF-8





*** PROJECT GUTENBERG EK─░TAP’I “MARION” ’un BA┼×LANGICI ***






Mary Glenn Krause, Chuck Greif, amsibert ve


the Online Distributed Proofreading Team taraf─▒ndan haz─▒rland─▒.


http://www.pgdp.net (bu dosya resimlerle c├Âmert├že haz─▒rland─▒


The Internet Archive/American


Libraries taraf─▒ndan m├╝mk├╝n hale getirildi.











MARION





[├žizim: Onun yan─▒nda diz ├ž├Âkt├╝m ve beni affetmesi i├žin ona yalvard─▒m.]







MARION,


BİR SANATÇININ MODELİNİN HİKAYESİ





taraf─▒ndan yap─▒ld─▒:


Kendisi (han─▒mefendi) ve “ME” adl─▒ eserin yazar─▒.


Çizimler /Çizer:


HENRY HUTT





[g├Ârsel]





NEW YORK


W. J. WATT & COMPANY


PUBLISHERS (yay─▒nevi)





COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY


W. J. WATT & COMPANY (telif hakk─▒)





PRESS OF (.. yay─▒n─▒)


BRAUNWORTH & CO.


PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS


BROOKLYN, N. Y.







MARION





BİR SANATÇININ MODELİNİN HİKAYESİ







I (B─░R)





“In dat familee (o ailede) dere are eleven cheeldren,(11 ├žocuk var) and more--they come! See dat (ve daha fazlas─▒!geliyorlar g├Âr─čyormusun?)


leetle one? (k├╝├ž├╝k olan m─▒?)She is tr├Ęs jolie! (o sadece ├╝├ž ya┼č─▒nda Jolie!) Oui, tr├Ęs jolie, n’est-ce pas? ( ciddiyet ve dil yap─▒s─▒n─▒n d─▒┼č─▒nda yer alan anti formal dil ve biraz frans─▒zca t├╝revleri yaz─▒l─▒yor buraya kadar.)


De father (baba)


ingiltere’den on y─▒l kadar ├Ânce geldi. He was joost young man (sadece gen├ž bir adamd─▒ o), mebbe ( belki)


twenty-seven or twenty-eight year ol’, (yirmi yedi veya yirmi sekiz ya┼člar─▒ndayd─▒)


and he have one leetle foreign


wife (ve yabanc─▒ k├╝├ž├╝k bir han─▒m─▒ var)and six leetle cheeldren. (ve alt─▒ k├╝├ž├╝k ├žocu─ču)They were all so cold. They were not use


to dis climate of Canada. (hepsi ├žok ├╝┼č├╝m├╝┼čt├╝/so─čuktu ve kanada’n─▒n bu iklimine al─▒┼čk─▒n de─čillerdi)Kar─▒m ve ben, we keep de leetle ’otel at


Hochelaga, (Hochelaga’daki oteli elde tuttuk) and my wife she take all dose leetle ones and she warm dem (ve e┼čim , o b├╝t├╝n k├╝├ž├╝kleri al─▒r ve ─▒s─▒t─▒rd─▒)


before the beeg hall stove, and she make for dem the good French


pea-soup.”(b├╝y├╝k salonun sobas─▒ yan─▒ba┼čnda ve onlar i├žin g├╝zel frans─▒z pea-soup yapard─▒)*peasoup :bezelye ├žorbas─▒*





Annem beni k├Â┼čedeki d├╝kkana baz─▒ ┼čeyler almam i├žin yollam─▒┼čt─▒. (g─▒da sat─▒lan d├╝kkan). Monsieur (m├Âsyo/bay/bey)


Thebeau, d├╝kkan sahibi,bakkalc─▒ bir yabanc─▒ ile konu┼čuyordu. utand─▒m ve


ailemiz hakk─▒nda bu ┼čekilde konu┼čulmas─▒ndan dolay─▒ kendimi ├žok a┼ča─č─▒l─▒k hissetmi┼čtim.


neden illa biz hep parmakla g├Âsterilmek zorundayd─▒k? hem de bu ┼čekilde ve ┼č├╝pheci ve delice garip hissetmek zorundayd─▒k?


Korkun├ž, ailemizin b├╝y├╝kl├╝─č├╝ ve annemim milliyeti neden herkese bu k├Â┼če bakkal taraf─▒ndan bildirilmeliydi?


I glared haughtily at Monsieur (M├Âsyo’ye kibirli/ ma─črurca bir ┼čekilde bakt─▒m)


Thebeau,ama o geveze olmaya devam etti., regardless of my discomfiture.(bundan rahats─▒z olmam─▒ ald─▒rmaks─▒z─▒n.)





“De eldest--a boy, monsieur--he was joost nine year old, and my wife she


call him, ‘Le petit p├Ęre.’ His mother she send him out to walk wiz all


hees leetle sisters, and she say to him: ‘Charles, you are one beeg boy,


almost one man, and you must take care you leetle sisters; so, when de


wind she blow too hard, you will walk you on de side of dat wind, and


put yourself between it and your sisters.’ ‘Yes, mama,’ il dit. And we,


my wife and I, we look out de window, and me? I am laugh, and my wife,


she cry--she have lost her only bebby, monsieur--to see dat leetle boy


walk him in front of his leetle sisters, open hees coat, comme ├ža,


monsieur, and spread it wiz hees hands, to make one shield to keep de


wind from his sisters.”





The man to whom Monsieur Thebeau had been speaking, had turned around,


and was regarding me curiously. I felt abashed and angry under his


compelling glance. Then he smiled, and nodding his head, he said:





“You are right. She _is_ pretty--quite remarkably pretty!”





I forgot everything else. With my little light head and heart awhirl, I


picked up my packages and ran out of the store. It was the first time I


had been called pretty, and I was just twelve years old. I felt


exhilarated and utterly charmed.





When I reached home, I deposited the groceries on a table in the kitchen


and ran up to my room. Standing on a chair, I was able to see my face in


the oval mirror that topped a very high and scratched old chiffonier. I


gazed long and eagerly at the face I had often heard Monsieur Thebeau


say was “tr├Ęs jolie,” which French words I now learned must mean:


“Pretty--quite remarkably pretty!” as had said that Englishman in the


store.





Was I really pretty then? Surely the face reflected there was too fat


and too red. My! my cheeks were as red as apples. I pushed back the


offending fat with my two hands, and I opened my eyes wide and blinked


them at myself in the glass. Oh! if only my hair were gold! I twisted


and turned about, and then I made grimaces at my own face.





Suddenly I was thrilled with a great idea--one that for the moment


routed my previous ambition to some day be an artist, as was my father.


I would be an actress! If I were pretty, and both that Frenchman and


Englishman had said so, why should I not be famous?





I slipped into mama’s room, found a long skirt, and put it on me; also


a feather which I stuck in my hair. Then, fearing detection, I ran out


on tiptoe to the barn. There, marching up and down, I recited poems. I


was pausing, to bow elaborately to the admiring audience, which, in my


imagination, was cheering me with wild applause, when I heard mama’s


voice calling to me shrilly:





“Marion! Marion! Where in the world is that girl?”





“Coming, mama.”





I divested myself hastily of skirt and feather, and left the barn on a


run for the house. Here mama thrust our latest baby upon me, with


instructions to keep him quiet while she got dinner. I took that baby in


my arms, but I was still in that charmed world of dreams, and in my hand


I clasped a French novel, which I had filched from my brother Charles’


room. Charles at this time was twenty years of age, and engaged to be


married to a girl we did not like.





I tried to read, but that baby would not keep still a minute. He


wriggled about in my lap and reached a grimy hand after my book.


Irritated and impatient, I shook him, jumped him up and down, and then,


as he still persisted, I pinched him upon the leg. He simply yelled.


Mama’s voice screamed at me above the baby’s:





“If you can’t take better care of that baby, and keep him quiet, you


shall not be allowed to paint with your father this afternoon, but


shall sit right here and sew,” a punishment that made me put down the


book, and amuse the baby by letting him pull my hair, which seemed to


make him supremely happy, to judge from his chuckles and shouts of


delight.





After dinner, which we had at noon, I received the cherished permission,


and ran along to papa’s room. Dear papa, whose gentle, sensitive hands


are now at rest! I can see him sitting at his easel, with his blue eyes


fixed absently upon the canvas before him. Papa, with the heart and soul


of a great artist, “painting, painting,” as he would say, with a grim


smile, “pot-boilers to feed my hungry children.”





I pulled out my paints and table, and began to work. From time to time I


spoke to papa.





“Say, papa, what do I use for these pink roses?”





“Try rose madder, white and emerald green--a little naples yellow,”


answered papa patiently.





“Papa, what shall I use for the leaves?”





“Oh, try making your greens with blues and yellows.”





From time to time I bothered him. By and by, I tired of the work, and


getting up with a clatter, I went over and watched him. He was painting


cool green waves dashing over jagged rocks, from a little sketch he had


taken down at Lachine last summer.





“Tell me, papa,” I said after a moment, “if I keep on learning, do you

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