Letter to Elisabeth Engels, April 20, 1859

ENGELS TO ELISABETH ENGELS

IN ENGELSKIRCHEN

Manchester, 20 April 1859

Dear Mother,

At last a modicum of peace and quiet in which to write to you again. I got both your dear letters and am glad to hear that you are all well and that the Blank children have recovered from the measles. I am very well; my back teeth are gradually breaking up, but not too painfully on the whole, otherwise there's absolutely nothing wrong with me; my appetite and digestion are first-rate and there hasn't been a trace of the old troubles.

So little Delius has finally been unable after all to help coming the Bradfordian over you. I should have thought he would mind his p's and q's a bit more, but since he has evidently begun to stir up these little troubles, I can only tell you that in Bradford talking big is in the very air, and that, in the long run, it's a sheer impossibility for a Bradfordian to tell the truth. Now that the little chap shares lodgings with Wilhelm Kutter, who is the greatest tall story teller under the sun, he seems increasingly to be acquiring the same virtue. If a Bradfordian were to tell me that twice two makes four, I would immediately begin to doubt the accuracy of the multiplication table. I'm warning you of this in advance, so that you're not too hard on the little chap; Bradfordians are all alike, they're fluent liars. The story about the horse originated simply from my having told the owner that, if he would sell the animal for less than £120, he was to let me know—nothing more. It's a long way from there to buying. Were it now to be offered me at £120, I would think twice before giving £100 for it, since it is in fact rather too light for me and for the same money I could get a very fine, strong hunter. Come to that, it's not such a tall story about his bolting into a shop. Any horse that's really mettlesome and has done little or nothing for a whole week will, with an indifferent rider, engage in all manner of strange antics, and whether the pair of them break their necks is entirely a matter of luck. But no horse is going to find it easy to take me into a shop against my will, you may be sure of that.

The other story, the one about Carl Siebel, is still more of a fabrication. Far from leading a dissipated life, he spends nearly every evening at home, hardly ever goes out and has hardly any

acquaintances. I don't believe there are twenty young men of his age in the whole of Manchester who live as soberly as he does. True, in the early days he did once or twice drink a glass too many, and indulged in all kinds of childish pranks but, being in the company of myself and a few acquaintances and seeing that we found nothing to admire in these puerilities, he gave it up. Altogether he's still half a child, terribly immature and incapable of coping with the most everyday problems. But time will take care of that. We Barmen lads all seem to have this in common—that it takes us a long time to emerge from uncouth adolescence; I must have been just as queer a fish when I was 23. His parents, by the way, must have gone about it very oddly if they could do nothing with the lad, for he has an excellent side to him, namely awareness of his own weaknesses, and, far from being self-willed, is on the contrary very amenable to persuasion. What prepossesses me in his favour is that, despite all the fulsome praise that has been lavished on his verses, he knows at the bottom of his heart that these are nothing but immature, unfinished, superficial affairs, and the nice young chap was awfully grateful to me when I explained this to him good-humouredly but no less clearly for that; for after he had presented me with the whole of his immortal works, I told him outright that, while they showed talent, it was wasted talent, and that none of his stuff was of any value as a work of art. The lad must really have been very much of a dilettante in Berlin, and in danger of going to the dogs among the belletristic riff-raff of the literary world there. Whenever I see him, I regularly take him to task on the subject and tell him he should turn his back on versifying for a time and make a thorough study of the classical poets of all nations in order to educate his very confused taste a little, and to learn German, of which he still knows nothing. If he does this, he may yet become a very steady sort of chap. His parents, by the way, ought to have sufficient gumption to place themselves on a rational footing with him—one that he can tolerate—or so arrange matters that he can gradually find the means and the opportunity of setting himself up, here or elsewhere, as an independent business man. The boy knows that he can at any time earn sufficient to live on by his writing, and if his dear papa has neither the intelligence nor the tact to treat him like a grown-up person, he has only himself to blame if the chap finally gets sick of the whole thing and decides to do nothing but write, when he would quite certainly go completely to the dogs. Old Siebel may perhaps imagine that I'm putting all kinds of nonsense into his son's head, but he can rest

assured that I am bringing my whole influence to bear on him to deter him from over-much writing (because the boy isn't yet ripe for it) and to make him realise that there's no more wretched existence than dependence on earnings from literary work, and that the sooner he comes to terms with his prosaic, bourgeois trade, the better (for without it, since he is au fond reluctant to learn, there would be nothing to restrain him and he'd go to the dogs altogether). If he does this and gains a little more experience of life and sheds his awkwardness, I have no doubt he will become a very steady sort of chap and achieve something worthwhile in the literary field too. I like the boy very much since he is exceedingly good-natured, not at all conceited and very frank and straightforward. I normally see him twice a week or so.

I didn't know that E. Blank was in London and hope that he'll come up here one of these days; anyhow, a few months ago he promised he would. War or no war, by the way, let nothing prevent you from coming over here this summer—I'm counting firmly on it. As you know, we're bound for Scotland this summer, and in the meantime you can take another look at your Walter Scott so that you'll know what's what.

But now I must stop as it's 7 o'clock and I still have sundry business letters to write. I had really meant to enclose a note for Father, but it is absolutely impossible and I must have the statements done for him as well. So I'll write to him as soon as I can, in two or three days' time.

Meanwhile give him my love, and also to my brothers and sisters and their families.

With much love from your son,

Friedrich

You needn't, of course, tell Mrs Siebel every word I've said about Carl.

From the bottom of my heart I wish you many happy returns of the day, and hope that I shall be able to do so many, many times again.