London, 23 January 1882 
41 Maitland Park Road, N. W. 

Dear Friend, 

I enclose a few lines for the Russian edition of the Communist 
Manifesto*; as these are to be translated into Russian they have not 
been polished to the degree that would be necessary if they were to be 
published 1n THE GERMAN VERNACULAR. 

I have only been back in London for a few days. For as a result of 
pleurisy and bronchitis, from which I had recovered, I was left with 
chronic bronchial catarrh which my doctor’ hoped to clear up by 
sending me to Ventnor (Isle of Wight), a place that is usually warm, 
even in winter. On this occasion, however, — during the 3 weeks of 
my stay there—-Ventnor was invaded by cold, wet, dull, misty 
weather while at the same time in London the weather turned almost 
summery, only to change again, however, on my return. 

The intention now is to send me somewhere in the south, possibly 
Algiers. It is a difficult choice, because Italy is barred to me (a man 
was arrested in Milan for having a name like mine); I can’t even go 
from here to Gibraltar by steamer, as I have no passport and even the 
English demand a passport there. 

Despite all the urging on the part of doctors and those closest to 
me, I would never have agreed to such a time-wasting operation were 
it not for the fact that this accursed ‘English’ disease impairs one’s in- 
tellect. Moreover a relapse, even if I pulled through, would take up 
still more time. All the same I intend to carry out some further experi- 
ments here first. 

*I send you a number of Modern Thought with an article on myself:; 
I need not tell you that the biographical notice of the author is alto- 
gether wrong. My daughter—your correspondent Eleanor, who 
sends you her love—has in the copy forwarded to you taken upon 
herself to correct the English misquotations from the Capital. But 

* See present edition, Vol. 24.-” Donkin-° See this volume, p. 163. 

however badly Mr Bax—I hear he is quite a young man— may 
translate, he certainly is the first English critic who takes a real inter- 
est in modern socialism. There is a sincerity of speech and a ring of 
true conviction about him which strike you. A certain John Rae— I 
think he is lecturer of Political Economy at some English Universi- 
ty —has, some months ago, published in The Contemporary Review an 
article on the same subject,* very superficial (though he affects to 
quote many of my writings he has evidently never seen), and full of 
that pretence of superiority which the true Briton is inspired with 
thanks to a peculiar gift of stolid blockheadedness. Still he tries hard 
to be so condescending as to suppose, that from conviction, and not 
from interested motives, I-am, for almost 40 years, misleading the 
working class by unsound doctrines! Generally speaking, people here 
commence to yearn for some knowledge of socialism, nihilism, and so 
forth. Ireland and the United States on the one hand; on the other, 
the impending struggle between farmers and landlords, between agri- 
cultural labourers and farmers, between capitalism and landlordism; 
some symptoms of revival among the industrial working class, as f. i. 
at some late partial elections for the House of Commons, where the 
official workingmen’s candidates (especially the renegade of the 
International, miserable Howell 25°), proposed by the acknowledged 
leaders of Trades’ Unions and publicly recommended by Mr Glad- 
stone, ‘the people’s William’-—were disdainfully rejected by the 
workmen; the demonstrative radical clubs forming in London, mostly 
composed of workmen, English and Irish intermingling, dead against 
the ‘great liberal party’, official trades-unionism, and the people’s 
William, etc. etc.—all this induces the British philistine to want just 
now some information on Socialism. Unfortunately, the reviews, ma- 
gazines, journals, etc., exploit this ‘demand’ only to ‘offer’ the public 
the expectorations of venal, ignorant, and sycophantic penny-a-liners 
(suppose even that they are shilling-a-liners). 

There appears a ‘weekly’, called The Radical, full of good aspira- 
tions, bold in language (the boldness is in the sans géne,” not in the vi- 
gour), trying to break through the trammels of the British press, but, 
with all that, of feeble performance. What the paper lacks, are intelli- 
gent editors. Many months ago these people wrote to me, I was then 
at Eastbourne }°° with my dear wife, then at Paris,1°* etc., so that 
they had not yet any interview with me. I consider it in fact useless. 

* Ibid., p. 162.-” nonchalance 

The more I have read of their paper, the more | feel convinced that it 
is incurable. 

My daughter? reminds me that it is high time to finish this letter, 
the last minutes for letter delivery being near.* 

Salut, 
Karl Marx