| Author(s) | Karl Marx |
|---|---|
| Written | 10 May 1861 |
MARX TO ENGELS[1]
IN MANCHESTER
[London,] 10 May 1861
Dear Frederick,
Herewith d'abord[2] a photograph. Lupus and Gumpert shall each have ditto as soon as I have got some more prints. I had the thing done, partly for my cousin in Rotterdam,[3] partly IN EXCHANGE for the photographs I had been given in Germany and Holland. Secondly, a cutting from a Düsseldorf paper about Herr Vogt. Lastly, I enclose a copy of the Free Press[4] which is admittedly somewhat out-of-date, since you and Lupus did not, perhaps, follow the parliamentary debate on the Afghanistan affair very closely. It was the greatest CHECK Pam had experienced since 1848.[5]
What you say about the plan for a newspaper in Berlin corresponds precisely to my own view and I had already, mutatis mutandis,[6] intimated the main points to Lazarus.[7] And—though I had already told him positively in Berlin that I would undertake nothing of the kind without you and Lupus—I had, nevertheless, positively pledged myself to lay the matter before you 'seriously and objectively', and thus salvavi animam meam.[8]
Apropos Lassalle-Lazarus. In his magnum opus on Egypt,[9] Lepsius proved that the exodus of the Jews from Egypt was nothing other than the story Manetho relates of the expulsion from Egypt of 'the leper folk', with an Egyptian priest named Moses at their head. Lazarus the leper is thus the archetype of the Jew and of Lazarus-Lassalle. Save that in our Lazarus's case, leprosy has gone to the brain. Originally, his disease was secondary syphilis that wasn't properly cured. As a result, he developed caries in one of his legs, and something of this still remains, according to his doctor, Frerich[10] (I don't know how that famous professor spells it), in the form of neuralgia or SOMETHING OF THE SORT in one of his legs. To the detriment of his own physique, our Lazarus is now living as luxuriously as his counterpart, the rich man,[11] and it is this, I think, that is mainly preventing his recovery. He has acquired altogether too much refinement and would, for instance, regard going into a pub as an outrage. Curiously enough, he asked me at least four times whom I meant by Jacob Wiesenriesler in Vogt. However, considering his vanity, which has now grown truly 'objective', this was only usus naturae.[12] We are all to be sent his new legal masterpiece (Dharma).[13]
While in Berlin I also went to see Friedrich Koppen. I found him still very much as he always was. Only he's grown stouter, and 'grizzled'. I went out on the spree with him twice and it was a real treat for me. He made me a present of his two volume Buddha,[14] an important work. Amongst other things, he told me how those scoundrels, Zabel et cie, had gained possession of the National-Zeitung. That paper was originally founded in 1848, with a fully paid-up share capital (but with no proper contract, IN A LOOSE WAY). Mügge, Koppen, and others, exerted themselves to that end. Rutenberg became editor-in-chief, with Zabel as his deputy, and, lastly, the Jew Wolff[15] as manager. The paper made rapid headway as a result of its pale-ale-swigging philistine moderation and its service to the parliamentary Left.[16] Rutenberg was elbowed out by his sociis[17] on the pretext, false or real, that he was adopting too conservative a line and was accepting gratifications from Hansemann. Zabel brought in a faiseur[18] who did his writing for him, while Zabel frequented sundry public houses where he conversed with pale-ale-swigging philistines and thus ensured the growth of the paper's popularity. The coup d'état (Manteuffel's)[19] and the various arbitrary anti-press measures, the severity of which did not abate until the end of 1850, provided a welcome excuse not to convene the shareholders. Meanwhile, the paper, which, with the suppression of the revolutionary press and the rise of the Hinckeldey-Stieber régime, found itself for the first time in its true element, acquired stature in the eyes of the philistines. It became a going concern and, in ABOUT 1852, some of the shareholders grew importunate and demanded a statement of accounts, a general meeting, etc. The most refractory were then taken on one side by Jew Wolff and divinity student Zabel. It was divulged to them in confidence that, if the paper were not to be ruined, dead silence must be religiously kept in respect of its finances, since it was, in fact, bankrupt. (In fact, the shares, originally 25 talers, were by then already worth 100.) So, on no account must it be flushed, d'une manière ou d'une autre,[20] out of its shy financial retreat. As a special concession, however, an exception would be made in their (i.e., the most troublesome shareholders') case and the amount they had invested would be returned to them in exchange for their shares. In this way, the most dangerous were indemnified. This farce was repeated on several occasions. The majority of those who were thus bought off, however, received—strictly in proportion to the passive resistance they put up—at the most 40, at the lowest 5%, of the sum they had originally invested.
To this day, a considerable proportion of the liberal milksops have not received a FARTHING, nor are they any more capable of extracting a statement of accounts. They keep silent for fear of the Kreuz-Zeitung.[21] Such is the escroquerie[22] that has enabled Jew Wolff and divinity student Zabel to become leading dignitaries of liberalismus vulgaris, with 'surplus money' at their disposal. A pity I hadn't heard this tale before!
Rutenberg has been handed over by Manteuffel to Schwerin as an expressly guaranteed item of stock-in-trade. With his scissors he is now snipping the Staatszeitung to rights—a paper nobody reads any more. A type of London Gazette. Bruno,[23] who is said to have fared hellish badly, vainly offered his services to the present ministry—i.e., in the form of continued contributions to the semi-official Preussische Zeitung. He is now the principal contributor to Wagener's (Kreuz-Zeitung) Staatslexikon. Besides, he's a FARMER at Rixdorf, or whatever the miserable hole is called.
One day, I witnessed a session of the second chamber from the press gallery. I had similarly witnessed a session of the Prussian Agreers[24] in the summer of 1848. Quantum mutatum ab illis![25] Not that they were Titans either—far from it! A cramped assembly room. Nothing much in the way of visitors' galleries. The fellows sit on benches (as compared with the arm-chairs of the 'Gentlemen'),[26] an odd combination of government office and schoolroom. A Belgian Chamber is imposing by comparison. Simson or Samson, or whatever the president's name is, avenges himself—with all the grotesque and brutal magisteriality of a ministerial huissier[27] —for the kicks dealt him by Manteuffel when dispensing discipline with his ass's jawbones[28] among the philistines cowering below. In any other assembly this unspeakable SPECIES of servile insolence personified would already have had his ears boxed. In Berlin one is repelled, especially at the theatre, by the prevalence of uniforms (apropos, in the very first few days, la Hatzfeldt took me to a box close to that of 'handsome William' and company, in order to insult the royal family. Three hours of ballet. This was the only performance of the evening. Yet another aspect of Berlin), yet one cannot but rejoice when one espies, here and there among the crowd of kow-towing bureaucratic schoolboys, some chap in uniform who at least holds his head erect and sits up straight. Vincke happened to be speaking—indeed, he never lets a session go by without doing so. I had, in fact, flattered the fellow. Had I heard him speak before, the portrait would have turned out very differently.[29] In an indifferent comedy, Die Journalisten, by Freytag which I saw in Berlin, one of the characters is a fat Hamburg philistine and wine MERCHANT named Piepenbrink. Vincke is the spit and image of this Piepenbrink. The most revolting Hamburg-Westphalian patois, a torrent of hastily gabbled words, not a sentence correctly constructed or complete. And this is the Mirabeau of Hasenheide![30] The only figures in this gathering of pygmies who at least look decent are Waldeck, on one side, and Wagener and Don Quixote von Blanckenburg,[31] on the other.
Went to see Siebel in Elberfeld. Had supper with him in Barmen. Pretty, young wife, sings well, admires her Carl—found her not unpleasing. Siebel just the same as ever. Consorts mainly with a liberal journalist (formerly Münster correspondent to the Neue Rheinische Zeitung),[32] poets, musicians, and painters. The best among them, I thought, was Seel. Siebel took me to the 'California' in Barmen, a boring bunch. They drank my health. I got Siebel to tell them I had lost my voice, and he replied on my behalf with a few boring jokes which, however, were in the RIGHT PLACE. Siebel says that his father copies everything he does—writing verse and drinking, so that he's said to be a block off the young chip.
In Cologne I called on Schneider II and Dr Klein. Just the same as ever—if anything, have gone even further. Spent a couple of hours tippling with them. In one pub saw, also incognito, Stuhlgang Königswinter (Wolfgang Müller).[33] Called on Mrs Daniels. Not that ninny and National Association man Bürgers. But more about this later. I've indulged in so much chat that I haven't yet touched on essentials. Some more anon.
Totus tuus[34]
K. M.