| Author(s) | Friedrich Engels |
|---|---|
| Written | 1 December 1890 |
ENGELS TO LAURA LAFARGUE
AT LE PERREUX
London, 1 December 1890
My dear Laura,
Enfin![1] I have got that 70th birthday behind me. On Thursday Bebel, Liebknecht, and Singer arrived. On Friday letters and telegrams en masse, the latter from Berlin (3), Vienna (3), Paris (Roumanian students and Frankel), Berne (Russische Sozialdemokraten), Leipzig Stadt und Land,[2] Bochum (Klassenbewusste Bergleute[3] [4] —miners), Stuttgart (Sozialdemokraten, Württemberg's), Fürth, Höchst (Paulis), London (Arbeiterverein),[5] [6] Hamburg. The fraction[7] sent me a splendid album with their 35 portraits, Dietz a book of photos of some excellent Munich pictures, the Solingers a knife with inscription, etc., etc. Enfin j'étais écrasé![8] Well, in the evening we had the whole lot here, embellished by and bye by little Oswald and four delegates from the Arbeiterverein (one of whom speechless drunk) and we kept it up till half past three in the morning and drank, besides claret, 16 bottles of champaign—the morning we had had 12 dozen oysters. So you see I did my best to show that I was still alive and kicking.
But it's a good job. One can celebrate one's 70th birthday only once. It will take me a devil of a time to reply to all those letters—even those I must reply to personally. That is the prose following upon the poetry of life, and to break my fall I begin by writing the only one I can write with true pleasure—this one to you.
Louise Kautsky came on the Tuesday after you left and has since then made me extremely comfortable. As to the future, we have not yet talked about it. I want her to see how things will settle down before asking her to come to a definite resolution. We are getting on very well with Pumps; my lecture and a few hints, repeated later on, that her position in my house depends very much upon her own behaviour, seem to have had some effect. We'll hope it may last.
Bebel looks rather delicate and a deal older than when I last saw him. Singer too is getting gray, and of course Liebknecht too, though he looks fat and content de lui-même;[9] he complains awfully about the few capacities among the younger generation, and the impossibility consequently of getting good men for his paper,[10] but otherwise he is very well satisfied with things in general and the Berliners in particular. To-morrow the Reichstag opens, and we had the greatest trouble to keep Singer and Bebel here to meet Burns, Cunninghame-Graham, Thorne and others at Tussy's. And now we have kept them here, a damnable fog is setting in (2 p. m.) which even prevents me from writing and may, if not dispersed in time, nullify the whole intended international conference.[11]
Interrupted by fog—forbidden to write by the gaslight—donc,[12] conclusion.
Ever yours,
F. Engels
Dites à Même que mon nase se porte parfaitement à l'extérieur mais qu'à l'intérieur il y a un rhume de cerveau.[13]