Here again was seen the wisdom of her maturer years; but Karl could not be equally reasonable.  He showered her with letters, which still she would not answer.  He wrote to his father in words of fire.  At last, driven to despair, he said that he was going to write to the Baron von Westphalen, reveal the secret, and ask for the baron’s fatherly consent.

It seemed a reckless thing to do, and yet it turned out to be the wisest.  The baron knew that such an engagement meant a social sacrifice, and that, apart from the matter of rank, young Marx was without any fortune to give the girl the luxuries to which she had been accustomed.  Other and more eligible suitors were always within view.  But here Jenny herself spoke out more strongly than she had ever done to Karl.  She was willing to accept him with what he was able to give her.  She cared nothing for any other man, and she begged her father to make both of them completely happy.

Thus it seemed that all was well, yet for some reason or other Jenny would not write to Karl, and once more he was almost driven to distraction.  He wrote bitter letters to his father, who tried to comfort him.  The baron himself sent messages of friendly advice, but what young man in his teens was ever reasonable?  So violent was Karl that at last his father wrote to him: 

I am disgusted with your letters.  Their unreasonable tone is loathsome to me.  I should never had expected it of you.  Haven’t you been lucky from your cradle up?

Finally Karl received one letter from his betrothed—­a letter that transfused him with ecstatic joy for about a day, and then sent him back to his old unrest.  This, however, may be taken as a part of Marx’s curious nature, which was never satisfied, but was always reaching after something which could not be had.

He fell to writing poetry, of which he sent three volumes to Jenny—­which must have been rather trying to her, since the verse was very poor.  He studied the higher mathematics, English and Italian, some Latin, and a miscellaneous collection of works on history and literature.  But poetry almost turned his mind.  In later years he wrote: 

Everything was centered on poetry, as if I were bewitched by some uncanny power.

Luckily, he was wise enough, after a time, to recognize how halting were his poems when compared with those of the great masters; and so he resumed his restless, desultory work.  He still sent his father letters that were like wild cries.  They evoked, in reply, a very natural burst of anger: 

Complete disorder, silly wandering through all branches of science, silly brooding at the burning oil-lamp!  In your wildness you see with four eyes—­a horrible setback and disregard for everything decent.  And in the pursuit of this senseless and purposeless learning you think to raise the fruits which are to unite you with your beloved one!  What harvest do you expect to gather from them which will enable you to fulfil your duty toward her?