| Author(s) | Karl Marx |
|---|---|
| Written | 20 March 1882 |
MARX TO PAUL LAFARGUE
IN PARIS
[Algiers,] Monday, 20 March [1882]
My dear Paul,
Your kind letter of 16 March was delivered to me today (20th) so that it seems to have taken far less time to get here than is usual for letters from London.
First of all, my gallant Gascon, what does Mustapha supérieur[1] refer to? Mustapha is a proper name like John. If you leave Algiers by the rue d'Isly, you see a long street in front of you. On one side of it, in the foothills, rise Mauretanian villas surrounded by gardens (one of these villas is the Hôtel Victoria); on the other side — along the road — houses are spread out in descending terraces. All of this together is called Mustapha supérieur: Mustapha inférieur[2] begins at the incline of Mustapha supérieur and stretches down to the sea. Both Mustaphas form a single commune (Mustapha) whose mayor (this gentleman bears neither an Arab nor a French name but a German one) communicates with the inhabitants from time to time by means of official notices — a very soft regime, as you see. New houses are constantly being constructed in Mustapha supérieur, old ones are being demolished, etc., but although the workers engaged in this activity are healthy people and local residents they go down with fever after the first three days. Part of their wages, therefore, consists of a daily dose of quinine supplied by the employers. The same practice can be observed in various places in South America.
My dear augur. You are so well informed that you write: 'You must be consuming all the French newspapers that are sold in Algiers'; in actual fact I don't even read the few newspapers which the other hotel residents in the Victoria receive from Paris; my political reading is entirely limited to the telegraphic announcements in the Petit Colon (a small Algerian paper similar to the Parisian Petit-Journal, the Petite République Française, etc.). That's all.
Jenny wrote that she was sending Longuet's articles which you mention too, but I still haven't received them. The only newspaper that I receive from London is L'Egalité, although you can't call it a newspaper.
What a strange fellow you are, St Paul! Where did you get the idea or who told you that I should 'rub my skin with iodine'? You will interrupt me and say that this is a mere trifle, but it does reveal your method of the 'material fact'. Ex ungue leonem![3] In reality, instead of 'rubbing my skin with iodine' I have to have my back painted with cantharidic collodion to draw out the fluid. The first time I saw my left side (chest and back) treated in this manner, it reminded me of a kitchen garden in miniature planted with melons. Since 16 March when I wrote to Engels there has not been a single dry place either on my back or my chest (the latter is also being treated) on which the operation could be repeated; this cannot happen now before the 22nd.
You say: 'A letter of invitation is enclosed which will make you laugh.' Es regular.[4] But how do you expect me to laugh when the 'enclosed' letter is still in your hands? When the opportunity arises, I shall remind Mr Fermé of his former comrade—the Proudhonist Lafargue. At present, while Doctor[5] forbids me to go out, I am using the time to refuse frequent visits and prolonged conversations.
The rains continue as before. The climate is so capricious; the weather changes from one hour to the next, going through every phase or suddenly leaping from one extreme to the other. However, there are signs of gradual improvement, but we shall have to wait. And just to think that from the moment of my departure for Marseilles and right up to the present there has been the finest weather in both Nice and Menton! But there was this insistent idea — for which I was not responsible — of the African sun and the wonder-working air out here!
Last Saturday we buried one of the residents of the Victoria, by the name of Armand Magnadère, in Mustapha supérieur; he was quite a young man sent here by Parisian doctors. He worked in a Paris bank; his employers continued to pay his salary in Algiers. To please his mother they arranged by telegraph to have his body exhumed and sent to Paris — all at their expense. Such generosity is seldom met with even among people charged with 'other people's money'.
My sleep is gradually returning; someone who has not suffered from insomnia cannot appreciate that blissful state when the terror of sleepless nights begins to give way.
Greetings to my dear Cacadou[6] and to all the others.
Yours,
K. Marx