Jezebels Daughter | Page 9

cried Fritz. "We must be friends from this
moment. Give me your hand." We shook hands. He lit his cigar, looked
at me very attentively, looked away again, and puffed out his first
mouthful of smoke with a heavy sigh.
"I wonder whether we are united by a third bond?" he said thoughtfully.
"Are you a stiff Englishman? Tell me, friend David, may I speak to you
with the freedom of a supremely wretched man?"
"As freely as you like," I answered. He still hesitated.
"I want to be encouraged," he said. "Be familiar with me. Call me
Fritz."
I called him "Fritz." He drew his chair close to mine, and laid his hand
affectionately on my shoulder. I began to think I had perhaps

encouraged him a little too readily.
"Are you in love, David?" He put the question just as coolly as if he
had asked me what o'clock it was.
I was young enough to blush. Fritz accepted the blush as a sufficient
answer. "Every moment I pass in your society," he cried with
enthusiasm, "I like you better--find you more eminently sympathetic.
You are in love. One word more--are there any obstacles in your way?"
There were obstacles in my way. She was too old for me, and too poor
for me--and it all came to nothing in due course of time. I admitted the
obstacles; abstaining, with an Englishman's shyness, from entering into
details. My reply was enough, and more than enough, for Fritz. "Good
Heavens!" he exclaimed; "our destinies exactly resemble each other!
We are both supremely wretched men. David, I can restrain myself no
longer; I must positively embrace you!"
I resisted to the best of my ability--but he was the stronger man of the
two. His long arms almost strangled me; his bristly mustache scratched
my cheek. In my first involuntary impulse of disgust, I clenched my fist.
Young Mr. Keller never suspected (my English brethren alone will
understand) how very near my fist and his head were to becoming
personally and violently acquainted. Different nations--different
customs. I can smile as I write about it now.
Fritz took his seat again. "My heart is at ease; I can pour myself out
freely, he said. "Never, my friend, was there such an interesting
love-story as mine. She is the sweetest girl living. Dark, slim, gracious,
delightful, desirable, just eighteen. The image, I should suppose, of
what her widowed mother was at her age. Her name is Minna.
Daughter and only child of Madame Fontaine. Madame Fontaine is a
truly grand creature, a Roman matron. She is the victim of envy and
scandal. Would you believe it? There are wretches in Wurzburg (her
husband the doctor was professor of chemistry at the University)--there
are wretches, I say, who call my Minna's mother "Jezebel," and my
Minna herself 'Jezebel's Daughter!' I have fought three duels with my
fellow-students to avenge that one insult. Alas, David, there is another

person who is influenced by those odious calumnies!--a person sacred
to me--the honored author of my being. Is it not dreadful? My good
father turns tyrant in this one thing; declares I shall never marry
'Jezebel's Daughter;' exiles me, by his paternal commands, to this
foreign country; and perches me on a high stool to copy letters. Ha! he
little knows my heart. I am my Minna's and my Minna is mine. In body
and soul, in time and in eternity, we are one. Do you see my tears? Do
my tears speak for me? The heart's relief is in crying freely. There is a
German song to that effect. When I recover myself, I will sing it to you.
Music is a great comforter; music is the friend of love. There is another
German song to that effect." He suddenly dried his eyes, and got on his
feet; some new idea had apparently occurred to him. "It is dreadfully
dull here," he said; "I am not used to evenings at home. Have you any
music in London? Help me to forget Minna for an hour or two. Take
me to the music."
Having, by this time, heard quite enough of his raptures, I was eager on
my side for a change of any kind. I helped him to forget Minna at a
Vauxhall Concert. He thought our English orchestra wanting in subtlety
and spirit. On the other hand, he did full justice, afterwards, to our
English bottled beer. When we left the Gardens he sang me that
German song, 'My heart's relief is crying freely,' with a fervor of
sentiment which must have awakened every light sleeper in the
neighborhood.
Retiring to my bedchamber, I found an open letter on my toilet-table. It
was addressed to my aunt by the lawyer; and it announced that he had
decided