| Author(s) | Friedrich Engels |
|---|---|
| Written | 12 November 1887 |
ENGELS TO LAURA LAFARGUE[1]
IN PARIS
London, 12 November 1887
My dear Laura,
Nous voilà en plein 1847![2] The parallel is indeed striking; for Teste read: Wilson, for Emile de Girardin read: A. E. Portalis; and if Grévy is not an exact counterpart of Louis Philippe, he is a very well got-up combination of both Louis Philippe and Guizot, uniting the money-greed of the first with the false dignity of the other.[3] I have devoured this morning the papers Paul was good enough to send me, and thought myself forty years younger. Only that the république bourgeoise beats the bourgeois monarchy in out-and-out in cheek. Girardin's study was never broken into nor was his head smashed, and the wholesale suppression of documents seized by police and parquet[4] has no counterpart in 1847. But all these tricks will be useless, the ball is set a-rolling and roll on it will. What we see now is only the 'exposition' of the drama which seems likely to be as creditable to the innate dramatic genius of French history as any of its predecessors.
The most important feature is that this commencement de la fin de la république bourgeoise[5] does not come alone. In Russia, too, the end seems near. The ever-repeated promises of an energetic and successful policy with regard to Bulgaria, followed by ever-renewed checks and moral defeats, seem to have again united the various elements of opposition—it looks as if there might soon be a crisis. Then there is Unser Fritz[6] with a now undeniable cancer in his throat—if anything happens to him, the successor to Old William will be a dummer schnoddriger Junge,[7] of the Gardelieutenant type, at present an adorer of Bismarck but sure soon to fall out with him because he will want to command; a fellow who will soon drive things to extremes and upset the present alliance between feudal nobility and bourgeoisie by sacrificing the latter entirely to the former and who even in army matters is almost sure to fall out with the old experienced generals. And then a crisis is certain. Thus, the critical point is coming nearer everywhere, and I only hope that everywhere people will find as much work cut out for them at home as to prevent them from rushing into war.
La belle Limouzin alias Scharnet is indeed a beauty of a peculiar kind to fascinate French officers. But then, she aimed at nothing less than generals, and generals are people of a certain age when tastes begin to be uncertain with some people. It is certainly a very queer new edition of the Victoires et conquêtes de l'armée française[8] —the conquest of a hunchbacked, lame, repulsive old hag from Karlsruhe! Anyhow she looks energetic and has roused Thibaudin to a rare enthusiasm.
The stories you tell me about the men of the agglomération[9] are characteristic too.[10] The transformation of Paris into a Luxusstadt[11] under the Second Empire could not help telling on the working-class too. But any serious movement will shake off a good deal of that. The effect upon the intellect of the masses, I am afraid, will be more lasting.
Tomorrow we shall have here a bit of a tussle too. After a deal of hesitation and vacillation the police have at last forbidden all meetings on Trafalgar Square; the Radical Clubs have answered by calling a great meeting thither for to-morrow afternoon.[12] Tussy and Edward are of course bound to go. I do not anticipate a serious collision. But it is just possible that Matthews and his colleagues of the Tory government for once show fight; especially as the daily Liberal press have taken the side of the police, and as there is no general election in sight just now, as was the case at the time of the Dod St affair.[13] If so, there may be a scrimmage and a few arrests. So you better look out for tomorrow evening's papers.
I must shut up now, it's past five and no time to lose if you are to have this letter to-morrow morning. So good-bye. Nim keeps cutting her fingers now with one kitchen tool and then with another. Percy has been to Dresden and Berlin for his buttonhole machines and consumed untold quantities of lager. Pumps and children are well.
Ever yours affectionately
F. Engels