Wilkie Collins

Jezebel’s Daughter

Warsaw 2022

Contents

To Alberto Caccia

Part i

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Between the Parts

I

II

III

Part ii

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Postscript

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

To Alberto Caccia

Let me begin by informing you, that this new novel does not present the proposed sequel to my last work of fiction–“The Fallen Leaves.”

The first part of that story has, through circumstances connected with the various forms of publications adopted thus far, addressed itself to a comparatively limited class of readers in England. When the book is finally reprinted in its cheapest form–then, and then only, it will appeal to the great audience of the English people. I am waiting for that time, to complete my design by writing the second part of “The Fallen Leaves.”

Why?

Your knowledge of English Literature–to which I am indebted for the first faithful and intelligent translation of my novels into the Italian language–has long since informed you, that there are certain important social topics which are held to be forbidden to the English novelist (no matter how seriously and how delicately he may treat them), by a narrow-minded minority of readers, and by the critics who flatter their prejudices. You also know, having done me the honor to read my books, that I respect my art far too sincerely to permit limits to be wantonly assigned to it, which are imposed in no other civilized country on the face of the earth. When my work is undertaken with a pure purpose, I claim the same liberty which is accorded to a writer in a newspaper, or to a clergyman in a pulpit; knowing, by previous experience, that the increase of readers and the lapse of time will assuredly do me justice, if I have only written well enough to deserve it.

In the prejudiced quarters to which I have alluded, one of the characters in “The Fallen Leaves” offended susceptibilities of the sort felt by Tartuffe, when he took out his handkerchief, and requested Dorine to cover her bosom. I not only decline to defend myself, under such circumstances as these–I say plainly, that I have never asserted a truer claim to the best and noblest sympathies of Christian readers than in presenting to them, in my last novel, the character of the innocent victim of infamy, rescued and purified from the contamination of the streets. I remember what the nasty posterity of Tartuffe, in this country, said of “Basil,” of “Armadale,” of “The New Magdalen,” and I know that the wholesome audience of the nation at large has done liberal justice to those books. For this reason, I wait to write the second part of “The Fallen Leaves,” until the first part of the story has found its way to the people.

Turning for a moment to the present novel, you will (I hope) find two interesting studies of humanity in these pages.

In the character called “Jack Straw,” you have the exhibition of an enfeebled intellect, tenderly shown under its lightest and happiest aspect, and used as a means of relief in some of the darkest scenes of terror and suspense occurring in this story. Again, in “Madame Fontaine,” I have endeavored to work out the interesting moral problem, which takes for its groundwork the strongest of all instincts in a woman, the instinct of maternal love, and traces to its solution the restraining and purifying influence of this one virtue over an otherwise cruel, false, and degraded nature.

The events in which these two chief personages play their parts have been combined with all possible care, and have been derived, to the best of my ability, from natural and simple causes. In view of the distrust which certain readers feel, when a novelist builds his fiction on a foundation of fact, it may not be amiss to mention (before I close these lines), that the accessories of the scenes in the Deadhouse of Frankfort have been studied on the spot. The published rules and ground-plans of that curious mortuary establishment have also been laid on my desk, as aids to memory while I was writing the closing passages of the story.

With this, I commend “Jezebel’s Daughter” to my good friend and brother in the art–who will present this last work also to the notice of Italian readers.

W. C.

Gloucester Place, London:

February 9, 1880.

Part i

Mr. David Glenney consults his memory and opens the story

Chapter 1

In the matter of Jezebel’s Daughter, my recollections begin with the deaths of two foreign gentlemen, in two different countries, on the same day of the same year.

They were both men of some importance in their way, and both strangers to each other.

Mr. Ephraim Wagner, merchant (formerly of Frankfort-on-the-Main), died in London on the third day of September, 1828.

Doctor Fontaine–famous in his time for discoveries in experimental chemistry–died at Wurzburg on the third day of September, 1828.

Both the merchant and the doctor left widows. The merchant’s widow (an Englishwoman) was childless. The doctor’s widow (of a South German family) had a daughter to console her.

At that distant time–I am writing these lines in the year 1878, and looking back through half a century–I was a lad employed in Mr. Wagner’s office. Being his wife’s nephew, he most kindly received me as a member of his household. What I am now about to relate I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own ears. My memory is to be depended on. Like other old men, I recollect events which happened at the beginning of my career far more clearly than events which happened only two or three years since.

Good Mr. Wagner had been ailing for many months; but the doctors had no immediate fear of his death. He proved the doctors to be mistaken; and took the liberty of dying at a time when they all declared that there was every reasonable hope of his recovery. When this affliction fell upon his wife, I was absent from the office in London on a business errand to our branch-establishment at Frankfort-on-the-Main, directed by Mr. Wagner’s partners. The day of my return happened to be the day after the funeral. It was also the occasion chosen for the reading of the will. Mr. Wagner, I should add, had been a naturalized British citizen, and his will was drawn by an English lawyer.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth clauses of the will are the only portions of the document which it is necessary to mention in this place.

The fourth clause left the whole of the testator’s property, in lands and in money, absolutely to his widow. In the fifth clause he added a new proof of his implicit confidence in her–he appointed her sole executrix of his will.

The sixth and last clause began in these words:–

“During my long illness, my dear wife has acted as my secretary and representative. She has made herself so thoroughly well acquainted with the system on which I have conducted my business, that she is the fittest person to succeed me. I not only prove the fullness of my trust in her and the sincerity of my gratitude towards her, but I really act in the best interests of the firm of which I am the head, when I hereby appoint my widow as my sole successor in the business, with all the powers and privileges appertaining thereto.”

The lawyer and I both looked at my aunt. She had sunk back in her chair; her face was hidden in her handkerchief. We waited respectfully until she might be sufficiently recovered to communicate her wishes to us. The expression of her husband’s love and respect, contained in the last words of the will, had completely overwhelmed her. It was only after she had been relieved by a burst of tears that she was conscious of our presence, and was composed enough to speak to us.

“I shall be calmer in a few days’ time,” she said. “Come to me at the end of the week. I have something important to say to both of you.”

The lawyer ventured on putting a question. “Does it relate in any way to the will?” he inquired.

She shook her head. “It relates,” she answered, “to my husband’s last wishes.”

She bowed to us, and went away to her own room.

The lawyer looked after her gravely and doubtfully as she disappeared. “My long experience in my profession,” he said, turning to me, “has taught me many useful lessons. Your aunt has just called one of those lessons to my mind.

“May I ask what it is, sir?”

“Certainly.” He took my arm and waited to repeat the lesson until we had left the house; “Always distrust a man’s last wishes on his death-bed–unless they are communicated to his lawyer, and expressed in his will.”

At the time, I thought this rather a narrow view to take. How could I foresee that coming events in the future life of my aunt would prove the lawyer to be right? If she had only been content to leave her husband’s plans and projects where he had left them at his death, and if she had never taken that rash journey to our branch office at Frankfort–but what is the use of speculating on what might or might not have happened? My business in these pages is to describe what did happen. Let me return to my business.

Chapter 2

At the end of the week we found the widow waiting to receive us.

To describe her personally, she was a little lady, with a remarkably pretty figure, a clear pale complexion, a broad low forehead, and large, steady, brightly-intelligent gray eyes. Having married a man very much older than herself, she was still (after many years of wedded life) a notably attractive woman. But she never seemed to be conscious of her personal advantages, or vain of the very remarkable abilities which she did unquestionably possess. Under ordinary circumstances, she was a singularly gentle, unobtrusive creature. But let the occasion call for it, and the reserves of resolution in her showed themselves instantly. In all my experience I have never met with such a firm woman, when she was once roused.

She entered on her business with us, wasting no time in preliminary words. Her face showed plain signs, poor soul, of a wakeful and tearful night. But she claimed no indulgence on that account. When she spoke of her dead husband–excepting a slight unsteadiness in her voice–she controlled herself with a courage which was at once pitiable and admirable to see.

“You both know,” she began, “that Mr. Wagner was a man who thought for himself. He had ideas of his duty to his poor and afflicted fellow-creatures which are in advance of received opinions in the world about us. I love and revere his memory–and (please God) I mean to carry out his ideas.”

The lawyer began to look uneasy. “Do you refer, madam, to Mr. Wagner’s political opinions?” he inquired.

Fifty years ago, my old master’s political opinions were considered to be nothing less than revolutionary. In these days–when his Opinions have been sanctioned by Acts of Parliament, with the general approval of the nation–people would have called him a “Moderate Liberal,” and would have set him down as a discreetly deliberate man in the march of modern progress.

“I have nothing to say about politics,” my aunt answered. “I wish to speak to you, in the first place, of my husband’s opinions on the employment of women.”

Here, again, after a lapse of half a century, my master’s heresies of the year 1828 have become the orthodox principles of the year 1878. Thinking the subject over in his own independent way, he had arrived at the conclusion that there were many employments reserved exclusively for men, which might with perfect propriety be also thrown open to capable and deserving women. To recognize the claims of justice was, with a man of Mr. Wagner’s character, to act on his convictions without a moment’s needless delay. Enlarging his London business at the time, he divided the new employments at his disposal impartially between men and women alike. The scandal produced in the city by this daring innovation is remembered to the present day by old men like me. My master’s audacious experiment prospered nevertheless, in spite of scandal.

“If my husband had lived,” my aunt continued, “it was his intention to follow the example, which he has already set in London, in our house at Frankfort. There also our business is increasing, and we mean to add to the number of our clerks. As soon as I am able to exert myself, I shall go to Frankfort, and give German women the same opportunities which my husband has already given to English women in London. I have his notes on the best manner of carrying out this reform to guide me. And I think of sending you, David,” she added, turning to me, “to our partners in Frankfort, Mr. Keller and Mr. Engelman, with instructions which will keep some of the vacant situations in the office open, until I can follow you.” She paused, and looked at the lawyer. “Do you see any objection to what I propose?” she said.

“I see some risks,” he answered, cautiously.

“What risks?”

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