| Author(s) | Jenny von Westphalen |
|---|---|
| Written | 20 January 1877 |
JENNY MARX TO FRIEDRICH ADOLPH SORGE
IN HOBOKEN
[London, 20 or 21 January 1877]
41 Maitland Park Road, Haverstock Hill
My dear Friend,
It's a long, long time since you had news of me or so much as a reminder of my existence; I did not even break my silence when fate struck you yet another terrible blow and you might, with perfect justification, have expected a few words of commiseration from your friends.[1] Let me assure you that it was not lack of sympathy that caused me to remain silent. If I failed to write, it was because the tragic news literally bereft me of speech, nor did I wish to impinge on your great sorrow with all the commonplaces of sympathy and condolence. I know only too well how difficult it is and how long it takes to regain one's own balance after losses of this sort; it is then that life comes to our aid, with its little joys and big worries, with all its little, day-to-day drudgeries and petty vexations, and the greater sorrow is deadened by lesser, hourly ills and, without our noticing it, the violence of the pain abates; not that the wound has ever healed, and this is specially so of the mother's heart, but little by little there awakens in one's breast a fresh sensibility, a fresh sensitivity even, to new sorrows and new joys, and thus one goes on and on living, with a sore if ever hopeful heart, until at last it ceases to beat and gives way to eternal peace.
On the whole (though always and everywhere there are clouds) things have gone quite well with us. This year my husband and Tussy (our youngest) were again compelled to visit Karlsbad which had done them so much good on a previous occasion. This time, too, my husband found the treatment most beneficial. But alas, immediately on his return to this damp, foggy country of ours he caught so bad a cold that he has not hitherto been able to rid himself of the really frightful sneezing and coughing which have become almost chronic. Even a minor operation to shorten what is known as the uvula in his throat—it had become relaxed and elongated and was causing a constant excess of phlegm—does not so far seem to have done very much good. Tussy fell seriously ill in Karlsbad and came home pale and emaciated. She is better again now and busy doing various translations from German or French into English. As a member of the Shakespeare Society, she translated a pamphlet by Professor Delius of Bonn on the epic element in Shakespeare,[2] to the complete satisfaction of all concerned, and Professor Delius wrote her the most flattering letter in which he congratulated himself and the Society on the acquisition of such a 'FELLOW WORKER'. This SUCCESS will give her the entree to literary circles and magazines where she might be able to find paid work and thus be released from her teaching, which is onerous and takes an undue toll of her health. Lissagaray, to whom she is engaged, has brought out his book on the Commune[3] in Brussels. It has turned out really well, seems to be selling well, and is presently being translated into German[4] and English.[5]
As for my husband, he is at this moment DEEPLY IN THE EASTERN QUESTION AND HIGHLY ELATED by the firm, honest bearing of the sons of Mohammed vis-à-vis all the Christian HUMBUGS and hypocritical ATROCITY MONGERS.[6] (AS may be gathered from today's telegrams, the Russians—the civilisers according to Gladstone, Bright and all the FREEMEN AND STILLMEN AND MERRYMF.N—would seem to be pulling out in real earnest.)
Preoccupied though he is with this great political question, he is no less interested in the victory of the socialists in Germany[7] ; not that they will be sending so very many more 'men' into parliament, but the number of votes they got everywhere, even in the bureaucratic bigwigs' districts of Berlin, is truly overwhelming and seems to have infuriated the climbers and speculators [Gründer] and slave-drivers. Longuet fell ill this spring of a nervous fever from which he is recovering only very gradually and which has left him still very much on edge and irritable. He is as excitable, vociferous and argumentative as ever, but in his favour be it said that he has given his lessons at King's College regularly and to the satisfaction of his superiors.[8] On 10th May Jenny gave birth to another little boy[9] who at first looked very weak, small and ailing. Now he has one little tooth and eats so well that he has become a fine, fat, sturdy lad who is the pride of the whole family. When he drives up in his CARRIAGE AND FOUR, i.e. in the parental PERAMBULATOR, everyone rushes out joyously to meet him in the hope of being the first to pick him up, OLD GRANNY at their head. Jenny continues to suffer from asthma and a persistent cough, but that doesn't prevent her from carrying out her onerous duties at school and at home, nor does it diminish her embonpoint or the fresh bloom of her rosy cheeks. Lafargue and Laura also live quite close by. Unfortunately their business, printing by the procédé Gillot,[10] hasn't been doing very well.[11] Always and everywhere, the competition of big capital stands in their way. In an attempt to overcome it, Lafargue has thrown himself into the breach and works like a NIGGER. Laura has likewise given proof of wondrous energy, courage and extreme application in all spheres, whether at home or elsewhere. Indeed, one might apostrophise Lafargue with 'cobbler stick to your last'. It is a shame he should have deserted old Father Aesculapius.[12] But all the same, prospects of success would seem to have improved somewhat of late. Larger orders are coming in and Lafargue, who always sees everything through rose-tinted spectacles, is now hoping for a big 'JOB'. Laura has completely recovered her health and looks fresh and blooming and so youthful that she's addressed as 'Miss' by everyone who doesn't know her to be a married woman of nine years' standing.
Our friend Engels is as flourishing as ever. He is always healthy, vigorous, cheerful and in good spirits, and he thoroughly relishes his beer (especially when it's the Viennese variety). I cannot tell you much about our other acquaintances because we see only very few of them now, particularly the French—no Le Moussus, no Serrailliers, above all no Blanquists. WE HAD ENOUGH OF THEM. Wroblewski keeps in touch with the Turkish minister so that he can go to Turkey as soon as war breaks out. He'd have been far better advised to have gone there long since, for poverty and wounds have made his life a very hard one. Should there not be a war he will go under completely here, particularly after the terrible state of excitation he's been in. It will be a pity if he doesn't find something suitable to do. He has a really excellent brain and is a sterling fellow. Of the English working men à la Mottershead, Eccarius, Hales, Jung, etc., I would rather say nothing. They are all of them arch-blackguards, corrupt and corruptible, and chasing BY HOOK AND BY CROOK after the HONEST SHILLING. A truly abject lot![13]
But enough for today. My husband has been awaiting—so far in vain—the promised Tribune[14] articles got together by Weydemeyer. You would greatly oblige him if you would look into the matter and send them to him.[15] He needs them urgently.
And now there's only a small corner left in which to say goodbye and to convey the most cordial wishes, both for your own prosperity and for that of your family, from my husband, my children and, above all, from your old friend
Jenny Marx
[Postscript, written at the head of the first page of the letter] Lessner is doing fairly well with his LODGING HOUSE; a baby every year—breeding like a rabbit.