| Author(s) | Karl Marx |
|---|---|
| Written | 10 January 1883 |
MARX TO ENGELS
IN LONDON
[Ventnor,] 10 January 1883
Dear FRED,
It was very good of you to forward me Lafargue's letter so promptly.[1] It reassured me very much, the more so since, by the same post today, I heard direct from Lafargue, according to whom a turn for the better would seem to be assured. I entirely share your view that Johnny ought under no circumstances to leave just now. There can be no question of that until Jenny has completely recovered. It would be unpardonable to add to the difficulty of the child's position. I shall write to Longuet direct this very day. I should be glad if you could drop Jennychen a few lines to the same effect. After all, it's not as though Johnny is going to be lost pour l'armée territoriale.[2]
It is curious how, nowadays, any sort of nervous excitement immediately grips me by the throat, as red Wolff did his brother, the corn profiteer.[3] Alias, the initial shock of the bad news from Paris a few days ago induced a fit of spasmodic coughing during which I thought I was going to choke. Poor Jennychen must often have suffered from this highly DISTRESSING FEELING during the course of her asthma.
As for 'little Hepner', I suggest we treat him in a 'businesslike' way, telling him that he is at liberty to reprint our preface to the Leipzig edition[4] and also pointing out that the Russians published a new translation last year.[5] If he doesn't consider it worth while to reprint the Manifesto without our writing another special preface, he can take it or leave it, as he thinks fit in the circumstances. 'Holding a pistol to one's head' comes as second nature to 'our people' and, where little Hepner is concerned, it's something we have to accept as a matter of course.
POOR Meissner has sent me a statement of accounts for 1881,[6] saying it had been a poor year; not that this really signifies for, by his own account, he was getting 'short' of copies in 1882; so the fewer he sold in 1881, the more he must have sold in 1882. My prolonged silence must have bamboozled him. At last Mahomet will be going to him, though not, alas, what he would greatly prefer—a bundle of revised sheets.[7] Since my long—and only seldom interrupted—confinement to the house first began, but especially as a result of constant nausea or, to use the more aesthetic South German expression à la Madame Karl Blind, née Cohen,[8] as a result of daily puking (caused by my cough), I have up till now been scarcely capable of pressing on with the revision. But I believe that, given patience and rigorous self-discipline, I shall soon get back onto the rails again.
Moor