| Author(s) | Karl Marx |
|---|---|
| Written | 11 November 1882 |
MARX TO ENGELS
IN LONDON
[Ventnor,] 11 November 1882
DEAR FRED,
I return the Prolétaire.[1] Difficult to say who is the greater — Lafargue, who pours out his oracular inspiration upon the bosoms of Malon and Brousse, or these two heroes, heavenly twins who not only tell deliberate lies, but deceive themselves into thinking that the outside world has nothing better to do than to 'intrigue' against them and, indeed, that everyone has the same cranial structure as the magnanimous twain.
Lafargue has the blemish customarily found in the negro tribe — no sense of shame, by which I mean shame about making a fool of oneself.
But it is time, if the journal[2] is not to be wilfully ruined and if they do not intend (which I can't believe) to let it go under as a result of proceedings taken by the government — it is time, I say, for Lafargue to put a stop to his childish bragging about the grisly deeds of his revolution of the future. But on this occasion he has been properly hoist with his own petard. Naturally alarmed because some denunciatory sheet or other, in defiance of police regulations, has reprinted hair-raising anarchist excerpts from the suppressed Étendard, thus making the latter seem 'more progressive' than Paul Lafargue, the licensed oracle of socialisme scientifique—alarmed at such revolutionary competition, Lafargue quotes himself (and he has, of late, acquired a pretty habit, not only of unloosing his oracles on the world, but of 'perpetuating' them by self-quotation) as proof that the Etendard, i. e. that anarchism, has merely aped the wisdom of Lafargue and Co., though merely with the intention of realising it prematurely, before the time is ripe. That's what sometimes happens to oracles; what they believe to be their own inspiration is, on the contrary and more often than not, merely a recollection that has remained stuck in their minds. And what Lafargue has written and 'quoted' from himself is, in fact, no more than the recollection of a Bakunian precept. Lafargue is, indeed, the last remaining disciple of Bakunin seriously to believe in him. He should reread the pamphlet he and you wrote about the 'Alliance',[3] and then he would realise whence he has derived this, his most recent ammunition. Indeed, much time has had to pass before he HAD UNDERSTOOD Bakunin AND, INTO THE BARGAIN, HAS MISUNDERSTOOD HIM.
Longuet as the last Proudhonist and Lafargue as the last Bakuninist! Que le diable les emporte![4]
It's a fine day today, and I must go out of doors (it's only half past ten in the morning).
In my last letter, I told you I intended to get rid of my cough without the help of MEDICAL MEN. But Dr Williamson gave me to understand d'une manière autoritaire[5] that I must for all that be so good as to swallow my medicine. In fact, the brew has done me good; its main ingredient is quinine disulphuricum; the others — morphia, chloroform, etc., have invariably formed part of the brews I have previously had to swallow.
What's the position in regard to Hartmann's pangs qua inventor? Salut.
Moor
You'll have seen from the PARLIAMENTARY DEBATES in yesterday's Standard[6] that the 'worthy' Rivers Wilson has obliged to the extent of sorrowfully offering up on the altar of country his project, the TRUSTEESHIP he assumed in company with the magnanimous Lowe alias Sherbrooke.[7] A bitter pill for Rivers Wilson.