London, 10 June, 1867.

Dear Friend,

The delay of this letter brings me under the more or less “well-founded suspicion” of being a “bad fellow”. As a mitigating circumstance I can only adduce that I have been “living” in London only for a few days. In the meantime I was in Manchester, with Engels. But you and your dear wife by now no doubt know me well enough to regard epistolary sins on my part as normal. I was nevertheless with you every day. I count the stay in Hanover among the finest and most delightful oases in the desert of life.

H // In Hamburg I had no other adventure, except, despite all precautionary measures, making the acquaintance of Herr Wilhelm Marr. He is, in his personal manner, a Lassalle translated into Christian terms, naturally of much less worth. Herr Niemann also performed during the few days I still spent there. I had, however, been too spoilt by the company in Hanover to want to attend a theatrical performance in less good company. So I missed Herr N. A propos. Meissner is prepared to print your intended medical brochure. You have only to send him the manuscript and to refer to me. The further conditions you must arrange yourself.

The crossing from Hamburg to London was, apart from somewhat rough weather on the first day, on the whole favourable. A few hours b // before London a German young lady, who had already struck me by her military bearing, declared that she intended to travel that same evening from London to Weston-super-Mare, and did not know how she was to manage with her copious luggage. The case was all the worse as on the Sabbath helpful hands are lacking in England. I had the railway station shown to me to which the young lady had to proceed in London. Friends had written it on a card. It was the North Western Station, which I too had to pass. I therefore, like a good knight, offered to set the young lady down at the spot. Accepted. On closer reflection, however, it occurred to me that Weston-super-Mare lies south-west, whereas the station I had to pass and which had been written down for the young lady lay north-west. I consulted the sea captain. Quite right, it turned out that she was to be deposited in a part of London entirely opposite to me. But I was once engaged and had to make bonne mine à mauvais jeu. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon we arrived. I brought la donna errante to her station, where I learn that the train does not leave until 8 o’clock in the evening. So, I was in for it, and had to kill 6 hours with Mademoiselle by walking in Hyde Park, settling down in ice shops, etc. It turned out that her name was Elisabeth von Puttkamer, niece of Bismarck, with whom she had just spent a few weeks in Berlin. She had the whole army list with her, as this family supplies our “valiant army” superabundantly with gentlemen of honour and waistline. She was a lively, educated girl, but aristocratic and black-and-white to the tip of her nose. She was not a little astonished when she learnt that she had fallen into “red” hands. I consoled her, however, that our rendezvous would pass off “without bloodshed”, and saw her off safe and sound to her destination. Think what fodder this would be for Blind or other vulgar economists (?) vulgar democrats, my conspiracy with Bismarck!

I have today dispatched the 14th proof sheet. The majority of them I received at Engels’s, who is extraordinarily satisfied with the thing and, with the exception of sheets 2 and 3, finds them written in a very easily comprehensible manner. His judgement was reassuring to me, since my things in print always displease me greatly, especially at first sight. I am sending your dear wife, to whom I beg you to convey my particular thanks for her friendly and kind reception, the photograph of my second daughter Laura, since the other photographs are out of stock and must first be made anew. Engels is likewise having new prints of his own and Wolff’s photograph taken for you. Your dispatches greatly amused him. Give my best regards to the “little Madame”. Eleanor is at school, otherwise she would write. And now, Adio!

Your Karl Marx