| Author(s) | Karl Marx |
|---|---|
| Written | 27 February 1852 |
MARX TO ENGELS
IN MANCHESTER
[London,] 27 February 1852 28 Dean Street, Soho
Dear Engels,
I see that last time I forgot Reinhardt's letter.[1] The article has gone off to Dana,[2] who has not yet replied to my request that he advise me of a business house here in London. Despite her promise, I have still heard nothing from my mater.[3] Nor has there as yet been any reply to my letters to acquaintances in Germany. A week ago I reached the pleasant point where I am unable to go out for want of the coats I have in pawn, and can no longer eat meat for want of credit. Piffling it all may be, but I'm afraid that one day it might blow up into a scandal. The only good news comes from my ministerial sister-in-law,[4] namely the news that my wife's indestructible uncle[5] is ill. If the cur dies now I shall be out of this pickle.
I shall not be writing at length today, being busy with the dictation of an article for Weydemeyer[6] and the dispatch and correction of the other contributions for him.
I see from the Augsburg paper (through the humble offices of Seiler) that Mr Stirner has produced a 'history of the counter-revolution'.[7] He tries to prove that the revolution collapsed because it was 'sacrosanct' whereas the counter-revolution prevailed because of its 'egoistical' stance.
On 25 February the French held a February banquet, or rather a dry MEETING accompanied by tea and sandwiches. I and wife were invited. The rest of the public had to pay 1 franc to go in. Since I neither could nor wished to attend, I sent my wife there with a FRENCHMAN. Ledru, Pyat, Thoré, Martin Bernard, etc., in short the whole Rollinist clique by whom the affair had been mooted, failed to appear because they considered the entrée,[8] for the benefit of the refugees, to be beneath their dignity. L. Blanc had also cried off. Only the lowest dregs of the emigration were there, most of whom style themselves Blanquists. But the little pseudo-Corsican[9] was waiting in some near-by parlour; after being assured by his spies of the absence of Ledru and Co., he appeared and, in view of the total lack of talent and authority, his natty, steel-blue tail-coat was received with RAPTUROUS APPLAUSE. His speech, after which he immediately departed, sent his enemies into transports. Enchanted them. Vanquished them. And what did THAT LITTLE MAN say, that Johnny Russell of socialism? That here abroad, people were wondering at the strange events in France, that he believed more firmly than ever in the star de la patrie.[10] And why? Je veux, said he, vous expliquer le mouvement historique,[11] etc. Namely, that in the lives of all great soldiers, e.g. of Frederic le Grand, of Napoléon le grand, there are des grandes victoires et des grands revers. Eh bien! La France est une nation militaire.[12] She has her élans and her catastrophes. Quod erat demonstrandum. What she wanted she has always achieved, feudalism banished in 1789, the monarchy in 1830. Whom did she wish to overthrow in 1848? The bourgeoisie, do you suppose? Certainly not. La misère, la hideuse misère.[13] There follows a flood of socialist tears over la misère. La misère, ce n'est pas quelque chose de fixe, quelque chose de saisissable,[14] —nevertheless, the French nation will overcome la misère in the new revolution and then la mère ne détruira plus de ses propres mains le fruit de ses entrailles, la petite fille de sept ans ne se 'groupera' plus sous la machine[15] and more inanities of the same kind. Such was his prodigality that his speech contained three whole jokes. He called Bonaparte 1. un aventurier, 2. un bâtard and 3. le singe de son oncle.[16] This last novelty threw those present into a veritable St. Vitus' dance. Qu'en dis-tu?[17] It's enough to make one despair of the crapauds[18] Seen as a whole, their story is epigrammatic, a genuine dramatic work of art, but the fellows themselves! Mon dieu! Mr Blanc's sally reminds me of a joke I was told by Massol. By midnight Bonaparte is invariably befuddled, in the company of the mâles and femelettes[19] he collects around him for his orgies. Then he begins to curse and swear. 'Mais c'est un militaire!',[20] says one of his lady acquaintances in exoneration. Addio.
Your
K. Marx