| Author(s) | Jenny von Westphalen |
|---|---|
| Written | 30 October 1869 |
My dear Doctor!!!
Thank you very much for your letter and the copy of the portrait of your dear mother. It is a wonderfully good one—better than the original painting. I was very glad to have it.—It gave me much pleasure to hear that you feel better—may time gradually reconcile you to the great loss you have sustained. Think—
'after life's fulfilment, the sleep well—nothing can hurt her further'.
Is there no consolation in that thought?
I have written a note to Mrs Menke. I am much obliged to you for the timely remembrance, though to my credit be it said, that previous to the arrival of your note, I had thought of writing to 'Marichen'—... but somehow or other—well—the way to help, they say, is paved with good intentions. Moor also has written her a few lines. He is much better and has almost managed to get rid of the troublesome cough which so much tormented him at Hanover. He sends you his kind regards, and hopes you will excuse his [not] writing to you, as at the present moment he is very busy reading a book (which has just appeared in the Russian language) and the reading of which gives him no small amount of trouble) on the condition of the Russian peasantry,[1] which it appears is exactly the reverse of what the imaginative Carey represents it to be—anything but enviable. "Happiness doesn't grow in Russia." This book has just appeared in the nick of time, it is very important. Moor absorbed in his second volume[2] makes known the facts contained in it. Meanwhile the French translation of the first volume is steadily progressing.[3] In a month the third chapter[4] will be ready for correction, at least so writes Paul (Lafargue) who visited the translator a few days ago.
'Dans une pauvre maison, dans une chambre plus pauvre encore, où ne se trouvent que deux chaises, une table, un lit et quelques planches pour des livres,'[5] Paul writes us, he found Mr Keller (the translator) busy at his work. He is young, intelligent, enthusiastic. Paul is delighted with him, and particularly admires his 'grand pouvoir travailleur et énergie'[6] —and indeed who could help doing so? For the sake of pursuing his studies (he occupies himself with several sciences, but principally with the social science), this young man lives in a state of comparative misery. His father is a wealthy manufacturer, whose factory he superintended during seven years, but feeling disgusted with his 'métier de gardechjourne'[7] Mr Keller gave up his position. Paul met two more socialists at Mr Keller's house.
'Le parti socialiste,' il nous écrit, 'se constitue à Paris et commence à tenir le haut du pavé, quoiqu'il n'ait pas de journal, il a les réunions publiques et l'agitation personnelle.'[8]
No doubt the socialist party has risen on the ruins of the Simons, Pelletans, Bancel, Gambettas. The French people have discovered that the emptiest vessels make the greatest noise—have watched those big-mouthed ranters turning tail and won't give them credit for their good intentions, their hopes, 'that they who run away, may live to fight another day'.
In London the event of the week has been a Fenian demonstration, got up for the purpose of praying the government for the release of the Irish prisoners.[9] As Tussy has returned from Ireland[10] a stauncher Irishman than ever, she did not rest until she had persuaded Moor, Mama and me to go with her to Hyde Park, the place appointed for the meeting. This Park, the largest one in London, was one mass of men, women and children, even the trees up to their highest branches had their inhabitants. The number of persons present were by the papers estimated at somewhere about 70 thousand, but as these papers are English, this figure is no doubt too low. There were processionists carrying red, green and white banners, with all sorts of devices, such as 'Keep your powder dry!', 'Disobedience to tyrants is a duty to God'. And hoisted higher than the flags were a profusion of red Jacobin caps, the bearers of which sang the Marseillaise—sights and sounds that must have greatly interfered
with the enjoyment of the portwine at the clubs.—On the following day, Monday, all the papers made a furious onslaught on those confounded 'foreigners', and cursed the day they had landed in England to demoralize sober John Bull by means of their bloodred flags, noisy choruses and other enormities....
It is tea-time—and I have promised to roast some chestnuts for Tussy, so thank your good stars or rather the chestnuts that this scrawl doesn't run on for ever.—(I am sure you have been thinking I was never going to stop.) With kindest remembrances from all at home.
Believe me dear 'Doctor'
Very faithfully yours
Jenny Marx
You seem surprised at my bestowing upon you your sonorous title. Believe me I do not grudge it to you. In 'our new society' there will be little need for priests of the body; they will go to the wall along with their brethren physicians of the soul—meanwhile I wish you joy—make the most of your dignities—while they last! I enclose Weerth's photographie.[11]