Esmeralda

Hodgson Burnett Frances

Description

Cultures clash to disastrous effect in this tale from Frances Hodgson Burnett, acclaimed author of titles such as Little Lord Fauntleroy and The Secret Garden. An American family living in Paris strives to make a splash among the upper crust of their adopted country. The story is told from the perspective of a tutor hired to instruct their lovely young daughter, Esmeralda, who is fascinated by his dealings with this new breed of social climbers.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776534258
• Langue: English

Extrait

ESMERALDA
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FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
 
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Esmeralda First published in 1877 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-425-8 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-426-5 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Esmeralda
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To begin, I am a Frenchman, a teacher of languages, and a poorman,—necessarily a poor man, as the great world would say, or I shouldnot 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 arenot so poor—my Clélie and I. Looking back upon our past we congratulateourselves upon our prosperous condition. There was a time when we werepoorer than we are now, and were not together, and were, moreover, inLondon instead of in Paris. These were indeed calamities: to be poor,to teach, to live apart, not even knowing each other—and in England! InEngland we spent years; we instructed imbeciles of all grades; we werechilled by east winds, and tortured by influenza; we vainly strove toconciliate the appalling English; we were discouraged and desolate. Butthis, thank le bon Dieu! is past. We are united; we have our littleapartment—upon the fifth floor, it is true, but still not hopelesslyfar from the Champs Elysées. Clélie paints her little pictures, orcopies those of some greater artist, and finds sale for them. She is nota great artist herself, and is charmingly conscious of the fact.
"At fifteen," she says, "I regretted that I was not a genius; at fiveand twenty, I rejoice that I made the discovery so early, and so gavemyself time to become grateful for the small gifts bestowed upon me. Whyshould I eat out my heart with envy? Is it not possible that I might bea 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 learnFrench, 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 greatgalleries to accompany her to the scene of her labor in the morning andcall for her at noon, and, in accordance with this habit, I made my wayto the Louvre at midday upon one occasion three years ago.
I found my wife busy at her easel in the Grande Galerie , and when Iapproached her and laid my hand upon her shoulder, as was my wont, shelooked 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 atthose extraordinary people."
She still leaned back in her chair and looked up at me, but made, atthe same time, one of those indescribable movements of the head which aclever woman can render so significant.
This slight gesture directed me at once to the extraordinary people towhom she referred.
"Are they not truly wonderful?" she asked.
There were two of them, evidently father and daughter, and they sat sideby side upon a seat placed in an archway, and regarded hopelessly one ofthe finest works in the gallery. The father was a person undersizedand elderly. His face was tanned and seamed, as if with years of roughoutdoor labor; the effect produced upon him by his clothes was plainlyone of actual suffering, both physical and mental. His stiff handsrefused to meet the efforts of his gloves to fit them; his body shrankfrom his garments; if he had not been pathetic, he would have beenridiculous. But he was pathetic. It was evident he was not so attired ofhis own free will; that only a patient nature, inured by long customto discomfort, sustained him; that he was in the gallery underprotest; that he did not understand the paintings, and that theyperplexed—overwhelmed him.
The daughter it is almost impossible to describe, and yet I must attemptto describe her. She had a slender and pretty figure; there were slightmarks of the sun on her face also, and, as in her father's case,the richness of her dress was set at defiance by a strong element ofincongruousness. She had black hair and gray eyes, and she sat withfolded hands staring at the picture before her in dumb uninterestedness.
Clélie had taken up her brush again, and was touching up her work hereand there.
"They have been here two hours," she said. "They are waiting for someone. At first they tried to look about them as others did. They wanderedfrom seat to seat, and sat down, and looked as you see them doing now.What do you think of them? To what nation should you ascribe them?"
"They are not French," I answered. "And they are not English."
"If she were English," said Clélie, "the girl would be more conscious ofherself, and of what we might possibly be saying. She is only consciousthat she is out of place and miserable. She does not care for us at all.I have never seen Americans like them before, but I am convinced thatthey are Americans."
She laid aside her working materials and proceeded to draw on hergloves.
"We will go and look at that 'Tentation de St. Antoine' of Teniers," shesaid, "and we may hear them speak. I confess I am devoured by an anxietyto hear them speak."
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