| Author(s) | Friedrich Engels |
|---|---|
| Written | 25 February 1888 |
ENGELS TO LAURA LAFARGUE
AT LE PERREUX
London, 25 February 1888
My dear Laura,
I have just half an hour before post-time to give you a sign of life after sending off the last proofs of the Manifesto.[1] I hope you have better weather than we here: nothing but East winds, frost, snow showers, varying with a few hours' thaw. Very uncomfortable with the English system of fire-places, but then this winter cannot last for ever.
I have not sent the Pall Mall Gazette of late because there is literally nothing in it. It is strictly a London local paper, and consequently deadly dull when nothing is stirring in London.
Bebel and Singer had a glorious victory in the Reichstag, not only at the first but also at the third reading of the bill.[2] It was exactly like O'Brien's victory over Balfour[3] (who is a Scottish Puttkamer all over). Most of our people were at the meeting last Monday to welcome Cunninghame-Graham and Burns[4] ; O'Brien spoke there again, and very well. Cunninghame-Graham who already before, at Glasgow, had publicly stated that he stood on the basis of Karl Marx 'absolutely and entirely', here again proclaimed the nationalisation of all means of production. So we are represented in the British Parliament too. Hyndman, who had not been asked to speak, had got some of his fellows to call for him, took possession of the platform, but only to attack violently and personally some Radical M.P.s present—invited guests—who by the way had been told before by others, quite sufficiently, about their shortcomings.[5] This attack of Hyndman's however was so uncalled for and out of place that he was hooted down.
You will have heard that Reuss has sued Morris for libel for calling him a spy in the Commonweal. Evidently the work of the Bismarckian embassy. Morris was very funky at first, not having any evidence ready at hand, but I think we have since secured enough to make it a defeat for Puttkamer and Co. if they should persevere, which I doubt. I don't think Reuss will venture going into the witness box, perjury is only allowed to regular British police constables.
Nim wishes me to ask you again to give Longuet a hint that he better begin repaying a little of that money. She seems very sore on that point.
Shall we have war? If so, it will be the most foolish thing on the part of the Czar[6] and the French chauvins[7] that they can be guilty of. I have lately studied the military chances. What Bismarck says, that Germany can send out 2½-3 million of drilled and well-officered men, is rather below than above the truth. Russia will never have as many as a million actually on the seat of war, and France can send out 1½-1½ million of drilled and well-officered men; beyond that, officers and sergeants will be either absent or unfit. Thus Germany alone will be quite capable of resisting, for a time at least, an attack on both sides at once. The great advantage of Germany is in the greater number of drilled men, and especially of sergeants and officers. As to quality, the French will be fully equal to the Germans, as far as the line is concerned; beyond that, the German Landwehr is far better than the French territorials. The Russians I consider worse than they used to be, they have adopted a system of universal liability to service[8] for which they are not civilised enough and certainly are very short of good officers. And corruption is there as rife as ever—and probably will also play a certain part on the French side, if we are to judge from the Wilsoniades[9] and other scandals.
Jollymeier is very melancholy that you have not written him a line yet with that gold pen. Have you no mercy with him? He will be here again in about 4 weeks for Easter, which this year falls on Bismarck's birthday, alias All fools' day.[10] Very proper too, after people have been foolish enough for 1,800 years to celebrate such a fantastical festival!
Methinks I hear a certain bell calling me to the consumption of—I dare say veal cutlets. Farewell for today, and may the breeches of Paul, with their excessive length, lose also their perfume of sour size—a perfume too well known, alas, to an old Manchesterian!
Yours ever,
F. Engels