The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  Leaps in progress were much like cyclones, it seemed to Russell. He hoped a kind of cyclone might just be touching down at Cambridge, perhaps with him at its center. Russell, the scientist manqué, even dreamed of becoming another Aristotle, founder of a school that would produce a new breed of thinker: the scientist-philosopher.

  For these reasons, Russell was especially intrigued with Wittgenstein. But Frege further incited Russell’s curiosity — and his sense of competition — when he wrote that this Wittgenstein was fearless and unrelenting in discussion, that he had in him not only the bulldog but originality.

  On the strength of this, Russell recommended admission — he even smoothed the admissions process by agreeing, sight unseen, to be the student’s adviser. It was hardly incumbent on Russell to do this. By virtue of mere gratitude and civility — or, failing that, by virtue of sheer grubbing, apple-polishing practicality — a student would have repaid his benefactor with a courtly visit. At least the student would have sent his master an appreciative note.

  But Russell received nothing. In matters of manners and Cambridge punctilio, Russell was less hidebound than most, but still he was disappointed, especially when he found that his German (he had forgotten that Wittgenstein was Austrian) had taken charge of his rooms.

  “Still no sign of my German,” he wrote Ottoline in one of his daily letters. “Frege said he was guilty of impetuosity, but he said nothing about his being ill-mannered. Well, we shall see …”

  Like Wittgenstein, Russell was intensely aware of the excitement around Cambridge with the start of the new year. He found these annual rites pleasant, even nostalgic, but in his uncertainty about Ottoline his feelings had a way of turning on him unexpectedly, with memories of his own youth at Cambridge — memories mixed with the irony of not knowing in a place where he had been elevated precisely in the expectation that he did indeed know something, that he was not still struggling, confused and burdened by doubt.

  How very odd it was at times for Russell to find himself a victualer of knowledge in a place where formerly he had been a consumer. Trinity had not changed so much in twenty years. True, the students were more worldly and less innocent — certainly, they were less religiously inclined and guilt plagued than they had been in his day. But the place itself never changed, not outwardly. With its mix of styles, Trinity College, like the rest of Cambridge, was a piece of architectural legislation cobbled over centuries by various kings, queens, bishops, architects and ages. In one direction, there were spires and Renaissance balustrades, in another, castle keeps notched with archer’s roosts. Inside the walled battlements of Great Court, which enclosed a three-hundred-foot green, there was Neville’s fountain, the very center of Trinity. Built in 1602 in a High Renaissance style, it was a pedestaled cupola of carved stone that, at a distance, looked like ivory, almost translucent in the deepening afternoon light. But Great Court was most beautiful at sunset, when the red stone walls, having soaked up the day’s sun, suddenly released their color, filling the air with the warm, glowing effulgence of old claret.

  At times now, walking along the same paths, almost against his will, Russell would remember Alys as a fresh thing, would remember that time when it seemed he could see the whole of life as an unsegmented green distance. Heraclitus was wrong, he thought. All was not in flux; nothing ever changed. Looking down, he could see his feet, the same feet clad in virtually the same shoes, below what seemed the same flapping trousers that he had worn at age twenty. And not only did his feet look no different but they seemed to fall into the same pools of shadow, as if at each stage of life there were stirrups in which one mechanically inserted each successive step. All one’s life mounting the same predestined path, the same rungs, inhaling the same smells and the same scenes, which hung like smoke, then dispelled in the broader gaze. And always the way the red stone glowed at dusk, and how, when one looked up, the moon appeared like a coin seen through very deep water, and then the way the light nested on the same feathery layers of creepers that bearded the library and underhung the archways, beneath which had passed Bacon, Newton, Thackeray and a host of others who surely had trod these same paths, staring at their feet while mulling these same doubts, hopes and griefs.

  Russell sometimes found it a bit oppressive to be among these confident young believers — to see them all so excited and flushed, so full of themselves, strutting about in their new wools, silk neckties and tweeds. What a thing it was to watch them, newly enfranchised into adult life and duly empowered in their allowances, with money for the washer-woman and tobacconist and for the sundry purveyors of spirits, not to mention the tailor, bookseller and grocer. For some there would even be money for manservants and motorcars, private dinners in their rooms and larks to London to consort with expensive whores — in short, to begin laying in the store of memories and regrets that would dog them, too, when they were forty and passing down some too-redolent path. Walking through Great Court, Russell could feel the whole year unfolding. Here were the freshmen being ragged and run around. Here were the big sportsmen in their flannels and magnificent sweaters. At night, around banging pianos, there would be voices raised in song. In Hall, on audit night, they would merrily taste the new ale, as well as Trinity’s own pale sherry and the Bucellus of Magdalene. Dressed in caps and gowns with Geneva bands under their chins, the proctors would stroll the streets along with their top-hatted proctor’s men, or “Bulldogs,” searching for miscreants who might be out carousing late, riding bicycles without lamps or flinging lumps of sugar at the borough constabulary. A few of the more idle, obstreperous or drunken would be sent home to rusticate, but for the others, the gay progress would swell into the next term and the next. And such a grand time it was. All the clubs would now be starting up, the choristers, dramatists, and littérateurs, the scullers and Trinity’s own Foot Beagles, all groping for evanescent trophies and laurels, all putting out their innocent hopes like flags. Such youthful enthusiasm! Come join us. Do be like us. All the world is a stage. All life is the hearty fellowship of rowing, footballing, cricketeering, debating, singing, scribbling, chess playing and carousing. No, thought Russell, doggedly sniffing for the trail he had lost. All life is, is getting started. Just getting started.

  Still, there was tradition to fall back on.

  As a rule, Russell frowned on tradition, but at Trinity it was a different story. In class, students and dons alike wore the mortarboard and long black scholar’s robes, though only the dons wore the red ribbons that distinguished and exalted them. And Russell did find a certain grandeur to it, strutting along like one newly coronated in his flapping black gown. So, too, was it reassuring to be addressed in the diffident voice of the Cambridge student, the voice of men who, even when they were absolutely positive of something, would say with collegial, English tentativeness, It would seem … or One might reasonably wonder if…

  As someone accustomed to such consideration, Russell was surprised when, entering class on the first day, he saw a young man with a tuft of brown hair lift his gown and reach into a suit jacket of decidedly German tailoring. Avoiding Russell’s gaze, the young man dropped his gown and, with a baleful look, conspicuously sat down in the last row. And still not a word? thought Russell. What cheek! Russell felt it like a taunt, amazed that the German would even have the gall to show himself.

  Russell took a good, long look at the young man as he walked presidingly to the front and began his course on philosophy and the foundations of logic. The German looked younger than he had expected. And, to his discomfort, he was staring. He had a copybook open, but never once did he pick up his pen — this as the other students, with typical first-day zeal, raced to take down Russell’s every word.

  On the first day, it was important for the don to captivate — in short, to stun. Here Russell was in his element. Talking quickly and zestfully, tearing at the subject in gleeful hunks, throwing out seemingly insurmountable questions only to swat them down like flies, Russell did indeed stun, at least to judge by
their wide-eyed looks as they filed out afterward.

  All except his German, that is. The German was still sitting. With his head craned up to the ceiling, he seemed oblivious to the fact that class had ended. What was his problem? Russell wondered. The language? At several points during the lecture, Russell had seen him squinting up at the ceiling, mouthing his words suspiciously, like some foreign food. At yet another point, the German had squeezed his eyes shut, wincing painfully, as if he had heard a screech beyond human frequency. But now Russell decided to put him out of mind. Let the rude German come to me if he has difficulties, he thought. He left.

  The windy green of Great Court was filled with what looked like a flock of fluttering blackbirds as students and dons winged by in their black gowns. Striding along, Russell heard a guttural voice:

  Sir … Sir …

  Turning, he saw it was the German. The young man did not excuse himself but straightaway said, I am Wittgenstein. From the class. And I must say, sir, I think you are wrong, quite. This cannot be so. To my satisfaction you have not proved that we can know anything of the world. Not with such certainty. Spoken proposition, yes. This much I will admit. This much I can accept. But the rest you say with such a confident — no, I cannot…

  To openly confront a don on one’s first day like this — it was so astounding that Russell had to smile. Almost baiting him, Russell replied, Oh, do you?

  The young man shrugged. The German was staring right through him, not angry or afraid. Clearly, he was not even aware of his abrasiveness as he nodded and said, Yes, I am sure. Quite sure.

  Oh, I see, said Russell. Cocksure.

  Gogksure? Squinting. The German didn’t know this word.

  Russell was staring him down now, trying to beat him back. But the German wouldn’t budge. Wanting once and for all to bring matters under control, Russell was brusque: Well, I suppose I should be happy we’ve at last had a chance to speak. I rather had thought you would visit me. The German was still looking right through him, so Russell added punitively, In my rooms. It’s customary to come over. I am your adviser, you know.

  Good! A hint of embarrassment and chagrin. The German nodded hopefully. Yes, I am pleased and honored, sir. Of course, of course. His facial expression altered again. But about my assertion. Your answer does not satisfy me, no.

  Oh, does it not now? asked Russell, taking a step back. Well, we can take that up later, I think. I’m very sorry, but I must be off now.

  Russell turned to resume walking, but the young man followed him, saying, If it is all right, sir, I will walk, thank you. Now, I will say … And again he launched into an explanation of his contention that nothing was knowable but spoken propositions.

  Breaking in, Russell said, Why are we even talking, Mr. Wittgenstein? After all, if you know only what you know or say — why speak at all?

  Your thoughts I can consider.

  Oh! huffed Russell. Well, that’s most kind of you. But it does hurt my feelings that you won’t admit I exist.

  Russell was mistaken if he thought this would throw off the German. When he sped up, the German sped up, too. Looking around, Russell saw the German’s head bent like a whirling grindstone, throwing up a shower of sparks as he bore along, arguing and waving his arms.

  Later that night, once freed from the German’s grip, Russell wrote in a letter to Ottoline:

  Today I met my German. Frege was right about his bullheadedness. He accosted me after class & argued with me until I reached my rooms — and this with an uncomprehending force and belligerence that I have never seen. I must write to Frege. The German’s English is poor & his manners are even poorer.

  Several days later he wrote:

  My German threatens to be an affliction. He came back again after my lecture & argued with me until dinnertime — obstinate & perverse, but I think not stupid.

  Then:

  My German ex-engineer is a fool! He ought to go back to flying kites. He was very argumentative & tiresome today. Also, I think, distraught about something. It is as if there were a lid over him, which, when opened, releases the forces of hell! The other undergraduates clearly think him odd, as indeed he is. I think they fear him — nor do I blame them, the way he wrestles the discussion in class. I really must speak to him; this disruption cannot continue.

  Then two weeks later:

  My lecture went off all right, but then my German ex-engineer, as usual, came back and maintained his thesis that there is nothing in the world except stated propositions. I told him, rather dryly, that it is too large a theme for his paper. He replied, “Too large for whom?”

  Several weeks later, though, there was a slight change in tone:

  Again today, my German was riding his hobbyhorse that nothing empirical is knowable — a contention that traditionally appeals to the angry young. It was very curious. It is one thing to argue such a thing philosophically, but I wondered if he didn’t somehow believe it. I told him he made me feel as if we were two empty blocks of air, conversing. My German smiled a bitter smile, then sd. that I was a block of light & himself a block of darkness, & sd. this, mind you, in a way that made me recoil in recognition, reminding me exactly of my own morbid moments. I remember him smiling faintly & nodding, as if to say, “I know you, Russell, I know you better than you think.” I don’t know, my darling, my German may be right — if one is unhappy, then perhaps one is better off invisible.

  By the following week, there was a distinct change:

  I think I was wrong about my German, who, as he told me pointedly yesterday, is not German but Austrian. We are really on much better terms. At his invitation, I went with him as his guest last night to hear a chamber recital of Mendelssohn music given by the Cambridge University Musical Society. His attention to music is extraordinary. He sat there staring up with the unfocused fixity of a blind man — I rather got the impression that he was sight-reading the score in his head. It seems it is not only my lectures he finds fault with, for after the piece was ended, he sd., “Please wait a moment. I must speak to these men.” Forthwith he went up to the musicians, very much on his high horse as usual, & began with great deliberation to criticize their playing! Poor devils, he was the same with them as he is with me. The leader was at first quite vexed, & then seemed to grasp his point, especially when Wittgenstein whistled a few bars in absolutely perfect pitch & then proceeded to dissect the movement. By the time he finished, they were listening to him. They apparently accepted his authority on the subject & suggested — quite sincerely, I think — that he attend their practice sessions, an offer he readily accepted.

  Now that we are more comfortable together and can talk about matters other than logic, I see he is really very literary, very musical & pleasant mannered (being Austrian), & I think really intelligent. I rather hope I will see more of him.

  This warming trend continued. At the end of November, Russell wrote:

  Another concert with Wittgenstein. Having dutifully attended practice sessions, he liked this concert much better. Finally ventured to ask of his family. Apparently, they also are very musical, & also very wealthy & prominent, as Frege himself implied, & as is evident by Wittgenstein’s own extreme cultivation (at least once one gets to know him). He sd. two of his brothers were musical geniuses. “Were?” I ventured. Pokerfaced, he sd. yes, they were dead, but clearly he did not want to elaborate, & I did not ask, noticing his discomfort. The same was true when I enquired about his father. Wittgenstein sd., in a rather unwarranted argumentative tone, “My father is a very great man. In Vienna he is very well known.” I sd., “I imagine he is happy you are at Cambridge.” At this he shrugged & sd. that, on the contrary, his father was very displeased & thinks logic an utter waste of time. I wish I had left it. Wittgenstein became quiet & lumpish after that. It rather spoilt the evening.

  Big Woman

  THE VACATIONS were drawing near, but Russell was not much looking forward to them. It would be his first Christmas with Ottoline — or rather, without Ottoline, wh
o was as usual squirming with an overbooked calendar, including the requisite charity functions and Christmas parties, not to mention time for Julian and Philip. Her extreme kindness to Russell — the kindness of one who has nothing else to give — only deepened his gloom about his relative importance in her life. In the end, Russell had just one afternoon with her that holiday, and this was spent in the Nabob, a run-down hotel in Maida Vale, where, if they were sure not to be recognized, they were equally sure to be depressed.

  Still, Russell tried to put the best face on it. For days he racked his mind about what to get her for Christmas, worrying about what she could wear as a sign of his love without inviting questions. He had no instincts for these things. Finally, frantically, barely an hour before they were to meet, a jeweler talked him into a brooch of sapphires set in gold filigree. Russell wasn’t sure — it seemed a bit unlike her — and later, in their tatty, half-bob room, his doubts were confirmed. Oh, it’s lovely! she bubbled, but there was a catch in her voice as she held it up to her breast. Much too crusted and clumsy. Here, he said, giving her a hopeful kiss as he fastened the pin. But you don’t like it, do you? I can easily bring it back —