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    Esmeralda
    Esmeralda
    Esmeralda
    Ebook58 pages41 minutes

    Esmeralda

    By Frances Hodgson Burnett

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateJun 1, 2004
    Esmeralda
    Author

    Frances Hodgson Burnett

    Frances Hodgson Burnett (1849--1924) was born in Cheetham, England. After her father's death in 1852, the family found itself in dire financial straits and in 1865 immigrated to the United States, settling near Knoxville, Tennessee. Frances began writing to help earn money for the family, publishing stories in magazines from the age of 19. While the novel Little Lord Fauntleroy (1886) made her a well-known writer of children's fiction, her romantic adult novels were also very popular. From 1898 to 1907, Burnett resided at Great Maytham Hall, a country house in Kent, England. It was the sprawling manor's walled garden that provided the inspiration for The Secret Garden, now considered a classic of English children's literature.

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      Book preview

      Esmeralda - Frances Hodgson Burnett

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Esmeralda, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Esmeralda

      Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett

      Release Date: November 4, 2007 [EBook #23328]

      Last Updated: November 30, 2012

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESMERALDA ***

      Produced by David Widger

      ESMERALDA

      By Frances Hodgson Burnett

      Copyright, 1877

      To begin, I am a Frenchman, a teacher of languages, and a poor man,—necessarily a poor man, as the great world would say, or I should not be a teacher of languages, and my wife a copyist of great pictures, selling her copies at small prices. In our own eyes, it is true, we are not so poor—my Clélie and I. Looking back upon our past we congratulate ourselves upon our prosperous condition. There was a time when we were poorer than we are now, and were not together, and were, moreover, in London instead of in Paris. These were indeed calamities: to be poor, to teach, to live apart, not even knowing each other—and in England! In England we spent years; we instructed imbeciles of all grades; we were chilled by east winds, and tortured by influenza; we vainly strove to conciliate the appalling English; we were discouraged and desolate. But this, thank le bon Dieu! is past. We are united; we have our little apartment—upon the fifth floor, it is true, but still not hopelessly far from the Champs Elysées. Clélie paints her little pictures, or copies those of some greater artist, and finds sale for them. She is not a great artist herself, and is charmingly conscious of the fact.

      At fifteen, she says, I regretted that I was not a genius; at five and twenty, I rejoice that I made the discovery so early, and so gave myself time to become grateful for the small gifts bestowed upon me. Why should I eat out my heart with envy? Is it not possible that I might be a less clever woman than I am, and a less lucky one?

      On my part I have my pupils,—French pupils who take lessons in English, German, or Italian; English or American pupils who generally learn French, and, upon the whole, I do not suffer from lack of patrons.

      It is my habit when Clélie is at work upon a copy in one of the great galleries to accompany her to the scene of her labor in the morning and call for her at noon, and, in accordance with this habit, I made my way to the Louvre at midday upon one occasion three years ago.

      I found my wife busy at her easel in the Grande Galerie, and when I approached her and laid my hand upon her shoulder, as was my wont, she looked up with a smile and spoke to me in a cautious undertone.

      I am glad, she said, that you are not ten minutes later. Look at those extraordinary people.

      She still leaned back in her chair and looked up at me, but made, at the same time, one of those indescribable movements of the head which a clever woman can render so significant.

      This slight gesture directed me at once to the extraordinary people to whom she referred.

      Are they not truly wonderful? she asked.

      There were two of them, evidently father and daughter, and they sat side

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