Tay Bridge 1878

“Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical”

The elongated click of the railway sleepers ran a rhythm in Karl Marx’s head as the Edinburgh train heading towards Dundee, slowly approached the Tay Bridge.

Ah, the Tay Bridge. Should he be celebrating the marvelous monument to human endeavour or should he rather be cursing the capitalistic machinations of the bourgeois engineers and their financiers that had built a craven image to their mammon with the sweat of hundreds of exploited workers? It was hard being Karl Marx.

“Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical”

Why those words? Why had the theme of this mechanical odyssey changed? Just a short while ago the train had been speeding down hill and the track has sung his praises.

“Marx is great. Marx is great. Marx is great.
“Marx is great. Marx is great. Marx is great.
“Marx is great. Marx is great. Marx is great.”

But a short while ago the massive locomotive had begun climbing upwards while slowing down. (Author’s note: Did you like that?) The words which had once had a sense of joyous urgency now expressed disdain.

“Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical
“Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical
“Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical”

He harked back to the dinner earlier that evening in the dining car. His oh-so-plain daughter had sat opposite him. Marx had remarked how masculine she looked in her shapeless dress. With her broad shoulders and her prim face she carried a hint of a mustache on that flat lip of hers. Marx groaned inwardly at the thought that this creature was the fruit of his loins.

“My dear, could you not try to appear a little bit more feminine. You look decidedly androgynous in that costume. And, I dare say a hint of rouge would not go amiss while the application of a barber’s razor to your upper lip would render you almost girl-like.”

“Ha, androgynous. How dare you? You hypocritical old fool. For years I have been your slave, pandering to your every need. You preach freedom for the masses, but you enslave your own daughter. What opportunity, nay what reason might I have I had to even wish to appear anything other than androgynous?

“My dear, please, lower your voice. We are respectable people even amongst these capitalist swine.”

“Calm down. Why should I? Many times Friedrich professed his love for me and I for him, but you forbade him from ever speaking to me. What purpose was there to my life after that? You always said that life was a journey, but my journey’s end was reached years ago when you sent Herr Engels packing. Do you recall how you sang ‘The Happy Wanderer’ as he stepped out into Highgate High Street, that road that will one day be known as the B519, with his knapsack on his back. How humiliating for him and for me. ‘Faldaree, faldaraa’ echoes through my head whenever I think of my darling Freddie.”

“Meine Liebe, you know that I only acted in your best interests. Herr Engels was a not a man of substance. He was not truly philosophical. He was, as they say in the East, a paper tiger. ”

“Not philosophical! Is that all you think about. You and your damned philosophies. How many lives will your philosophy save? How many people will rejoice under the banner of your ruthless so called ‘Marxism’? How many societies will adopt your heartless manifesto? What about the only true philosophy, the philosophy of love? Can you not understand the nature of humanity? Good night Papa. I hope that you will sleep well and that you will face the waiting press tomorrow with your dignity in tact. Do not worry about me. I, your dutiful, androgynous daughter will be there to do your bidding and to see that you are treated with the respect you so obviously deserve”

She swept out of the dining car towards her compartment. Marx, remained where he was, thoughtfully puffing at his cigar. He regretted the strained relationship that existed between himself and his daughter. Perhaps he was too hard on her. Perhaps he was wrong to have discouraged the relationship that had begun to blossom between her and Friedrich Engels. He would talk to her tomorrow. He entered his own compartment and made his toilet before climbing into his bed.

Tomorrow was a busy day. There would be people waiting for him. Speeches would have to be made. He did not want to maintain a sour relationship with his daughter.

Now, much later as he lay in bed reflecting on what happened, he was certain that his determination to make peace with his daughter was the right course of action.

As he was dozing off again, the train began to speed up.

“Androgynous is great. Androgynous is great. Androgynous is great.
“Marx is philosophical. Marx is philosophical. Marx is philosophical.
“Marx is great. Marx is great. Marx is great.”

A smile began to appear on his lips. “I am great. She is wrong. She must do as I say. Without me she is nothing. Without me the world is doomed. Only my ideas can save the world and bring lasting happiness and equality to all. Love is a bourgeois emotion. The society that I have planned will have higher ideals. My daughter will just have to learn to live the life that I have ordained for her.

“Marx is great. Marx is great. Marx is great.
“Marx is great. Marx is great. Marx is great.
“Marx is great. Marx is great. Marx is great.”

A violent storm was raging as the train began to cross Sir Thomas Bouch’s Tay bridge. Marx was jerked out of his slumber as he felt the buttresses begin to sway. More and more violently they shifted the left and right and then suddenly he felt rather than heard a violent crack as the supports shattered and the carriage tilted and tumbled off the track into the dark swirling water below.

With a start, Marx awoke.

“What is it Papa?”
“Where am I? Is this death?”
“No Papa. You were dreaming. It is I, your daughter.”

Marx looked up into the sweet, beautiful face of his beloved daughter. She mopped his brow with a cool damp cloth.

“The train. The train.” gasped Marx. “It fell, into the water”.
“But Papa, we did not take the train. You have been so ill. I have been nursing you my darling Papa. Rest now. We will take the train when you are better.”

3 thoughts on “Tay Bridge 1878”

Sipu says:

March 1, 2012 at 3:55 pm

This was actually written last night in time for the competition, but I foolishly posted as a comment rather than a separate post. It all sprang from a comment Arra made about bad poetry which lead me to the poem of Mr Mcgonagal http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/gems/the-tay-bridge-disaster. It was only written to add nominal competition to the works of our esteemed authors Pseu and Arra.
Sipu says:

March 1, 2012 at 4:07 pm

Just a minor edit in the first real para, which I could not add to last night’s comment.
Janus says:

March 1, 2012 at 5:26 pm

I believe you, Sipu. I do.