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MARX IN ALGIERS / James Camp Marx could not resist child beggars, particularly ragged little girls, whose hair he would stroke and for whom he would empty his pockets of small change. Saul K. Padover, Karl Marx Survival. Nature was going against him, Bringing unusually unpredictable weather. Who would have expected so much rain? Up north one could count on Fog in London, rain in Manchester, But for the sky in Algiers to turn gray Day after day, week into weeks Was surely a strange peripety. He would have to write Friederich— One more loan against his annuity. Even with Jenny dead and Jennychen in Argenteuil there wouldn't be enough— There would never be enough. Friederich Understood the purpose of money, How to get it; what it was for. This new enemy that infested his head, Leaking his mind out in droplets, Was no longer anywhere in Europe, Not in Cologne or Vienna, Not in Paris or infamous Berlin, But in himself and the killing rain. The boils he had stood for years Were sprouting all over his body, Growing like the eruptions of The body politic he so longed for. He had grumbled, raged at Man's Stupidities, but had kept faith; Had held the light up to Cataracted eyes, a whole world That needed expensive operations. Even a carbuncle on his root, That means of production, Had not shaken his determination. Not Jenny or the children, his need 60 · The Missouri Review Or the needs of others, had ever turned His head from the amazing truth. Now, as he walked the streets of Algiers Waiting for dry weather, enduring all The blistering operations that drained More than water from his body and Did only a little for the growing sickness, He saw in culture the persistent malaise, Adult pride and almost impossible poverty— Pimping children near the hotel— Ritualized, averted faces, extended arms, Open palms, the fossilized doleful phrase, The ancient agony, all told in A familiar gesture older than Lydia. For a moment he dreamt himself Back to London, walking among the Begging children, crumbs to sparrows. Charity! How he hated charity. His thoughts turned to Quixote; In his letters he now linked arms with The knight that troubled his dreams. It would come, of course; it had to. Revolution, like death, was inevitable. Charity would become true caritas. One day there would be no more charity, No more children begging from adults Who couldn't see ahead to where the waters Would crash deeper than Carlyle's "Niagara." But not here among these rotting children. Here, here on the Mustapha Supérieur It was merely raining—Jennychen had written: "The world seems . . . standing on its head." It was raining—who could believe it?— Raining in North Africa where He had expected the searing, curing sun— Where ordinary people prayed for rain, He wanted heavenly rays like reason To come down, come pouring down— Anything but miracles could happen: The inevitable could come quickly or slowly. But for now—as usual—against himself, He held his hands out to the children— Then turned his pockets inside out. James Camp THE MISSOURI REVIEW · 61 ...

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