III

"It was in the winter of 1847 that I saw him again, in London. For
months all the workingmen's societies had been agitated over the
question of forming an international association with a regular
programme, which Karl had been invited to draw up. A congress was to
be held in London for the purpose of considering Karl's programme and
I was sent by the Cologne comrades as a delegate. All the members
'chipped in' to pay my expenses, and I was very happy to go--happy
because I should see him again.

[Illustration: FREDERICK ENGELS.]

"So I was present at the rooms of the Arbeiterbildungsverein, in Great
Windmill Street, when Karl read the declaration of principles and
programme he had prepared. That was the _Communist Manifesto_, you
know."

"What! were you really present when that immortal declaration of the
independence of our class was read, Hans?"

"Aye, lad, I was present during all the ten days the congress lasted.
Never, never shall I forget how our Karl read that declaration. Like a
man inspired he was. I, who have heard Bernstein and Niemann and many
another great actor declaim the lines of famous classics, never heard
such wonderful declamation as his. We all sat spellbound and still as
death while he read. Tears of joy trickled down my cheeks, and not
mine alone. When he finished reading there was the wildest cheering. I
lost control of myself and kissed him on both cheeks, again and again.
He liked not that, for he was always ashamed to have a fuss made over
him.

"But Karl--he always insisted that I should call him 'Karl,' as in
boyhood days--had shown us that day his inner self; bared the secret
of his heart, you might say. The workers of all countries must
unite--only just that, unite! And that night, after the long session
of the congress, when he took me away with Engels and a few other
friends--I remember that Karl Pfander was one--he could speak of
little else: the workers must be united somehow, and whoever proposed
further divisions instead of unity must be treated as a traitor.

"Some there were who had not his patience. Few men have, my lad, for
his was the patience of a god. They wanted 'action,' 'action,'
'action,' and some of them pretended that Karl was just a plain
coward, afraid of action. There was one little delegate, a Frenchman,
who tried to get me to vote against the 'coward Marx'--me that had
known Karl since we were little shavers together, and that knew him to
be fearle