her to dance. I asked the proprietor of the Lowen Inn about her, and he told me a strange story. The girl had been abandoned as a baby; it was his wife who had found the child. A woman who was traveling through had left the baby there when the coach made its midday stop at the inn.”
Segantini cleared his throat, and Robustelli pushed a glass of water across the table to him. He had heard that Segantini had been abandoned by his father as a boy and had, so it was said, never seen him again. The story of the girl had obviously moved the painter and brought back old, unhappy memories. Achille Robustelli cleared his throat in empathy, but still said nothing.
“The mother also left an envelope of money with the child, which they gave to the farmer who took the child in. After that, the child was treated the way they treat Verdingkinder , contract children; she was put into service. Even when they are very young, these children are treated as workers who have to toil as if they were adult servants or farmhands.”
Segantini took a sip of water; his voice revealed sympathy as well as some anger. “The proprietor of the inn just shrugged his shoulders. The girl, he said, doesn’t talk, which isn’t unusual since nobody listens to these creatures anyway. Worse, he said that such children—usually orphans, illegitimate children, or the offspring of impoverished families—are often forbidden to talk at all. Because frequently their quarters and care are worse than that of the farm animals, and the farmers don’t want them complaining to anyone.”
Segantini had gotten up meanwhile and was agitatedly pacing back and forth in Robustelli’s office.
Robustelli said, “Yes, the young woman works here. Andrina Biancotti asked me if we could use her at the hotel. And since she doesn’t speak, which is a certain disadvantage, I sent her to work in the laundry. There she uses her hands, not her mouth.”
“Well, I would like to look after her,” Segantini explained. “I know from the innkeeper in Mulegns that she can speak, and if she can speak, then perhaps she could do some better sort of work.”
Robustelli, beginning to feel a bit tense, started turning the ring on his little finger. And even though this suggested some act of magic, he was fully aware that he could not perform any magic and might even have to disappoint Segantini.
“What do you think should be done about the girl, Segantini?” he asked cautiously.
Segantini answered him with sudden fierceness, “I’ve become what I am because, after many years of tribulation, somebody finally believed in me and encouraged me. And here, in the case of this girl, I think I can help. Indeed, I feel that I have to help! You can lend me a hand. Give the girl a job in a place where I can see her. I want to get her to speak. And after that we’ll see.”
Robustelli suppressed a sigh.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” he said. “But I can’t promise you anything. First, let’s answer this photographer or journalist. I’ll explain the situation to him.”
Robustelli got up, a bit exhausted at the thought of all these tasks Segantini had put on his shoulders.
Segantini fixed him with a penetrating, hypnotizing look. “I believe in destiny, Robustelli, and that nothing happens without a higher power. Thank you. I knew that I could turn to you in confidence.”
Robustelli pondered the things they had discussed. Segantini was a famous man, and it was inadvisable to refuse his request outright. On the other hand, he didn’t even rightly remember who the young woman Segantini had been talking about really was. The hotel had 150 employees, and although he had at some time or other hired them all, he couldn’t remember the face that belonged to each name. But he did remember quite well that the lovely Andrina Biancotti had once asked him to hire a dumb but otherwise healthy girl to work in the hotel laundry because she had heard that they needed additional help
Segantini cleared his throat, and Robustelli pushed a glass of water across the table to him. He had heard that Segantini had been abandoned by his father as a boy and had, so it was said, never seen him again. The story of the girl had obviously moved the painter and brought back old, unhappy memories. Achille Robustelli cleared his throat in empathy, but still said nothing.
“The mother also left an envelope of money with the child, which they gave to the farmer who took the child in. After that, the child was treated the way they treat Verdingkinder , contract children; she was put into service. Even when they are very young, these children are treated as workers who have to toil as if they were adult servants or farmhands.”
Segantini took a sip of water; his voice revealed sympathy as well as some anger. “The proprietor of the inn just shrugged his shoulders. The girl, he said, doesn’t talk, which isn’t unusual since nobody listens to these creatures anyway. Worse, he said that such children—usually orphans, illegitimate children, or the offspring of impoverished families—are often forbidden to talk at all. Because frequently their quarters and care are worse than that of the farm animals, and the farmers don’t want them complaining to anyone.”
Segantini had gotten up meanwhile and was agitatedly pacing back and forth in Robustelli’s office.
Robustelli said, “Yes, the young woman works here. Andrina Biancotti asked me if we could use her at the hotel. And since she doesn’t speak, which is a certain disadvantage, I sent her to work in the laundry. There she uses her hands, not her mouth.”
“Well, I would like to look after her,” Segantini explained. “I know from the innkeeper in Mulegns that she can speak, and if she can speak, then perhaps she could do some better sort of work.”
Robustelli, beginning to feel a bit tense, started turning the ring on his little finger. And even though this suggested some act of magic, he was fully aware that he could not perform any magic and might even have to disappoint Segantini.
“What do you think should be done about the girl, Segantini?” he asked cautiously.
Segantini answered him with sudden fierceness, “I’ve become what I am because, after many years of tribulation, somebody finally believed in me and encouraged me. And here, in the case of this girl, I think I can help. Indeed, I feel that I have to help! You can lend me a hand. Give the girl a job in a place where I can see her. I want to get her to speak. And after that we’ll see.”
Robustelli suppressed a sigh.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” he said. “But I can’t promise you anything. First, let’s answer this photographer or journalist. I’ll explain the situation to him.”
Robustelli got up, a bit exhausted at the thought of all these tasks Segantini had put on his shoulders.
Segantini fixed him with a penetrating, hypnotizing look. “I believe in destiny, Robustelli, and that nothing happens without a higher power. Thank you. I knew that I could turn to you in confidence.”
Robustelli pondered the things they had discussed. Segantini was a famous man, and it was inadvisable to refuse his request outright. On the other hand, he didn’t even rightly remember who the young woman Segantini had been talking about really was. The hotel had 150 employees, and although he had at some time or other hired them all, he couldn’t remember the face that belonged to each name. But he did remember quite well that the lovely Andrina Biancotti had once asked him to hire a dumb but otherwise healthy girl to work in the hotel laundry because she had heard that they needed additional help
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