by Bruce Duffy
Once out, Wittgenstein was hardly anxious to rush back home for more. Discharging the driver, he started walking. Two blocks later, with a sense of rising impatience, he jumped a tram, which slowly whirred around the Ring, past the Stadtpark, over the Danube Canal, and then up to the Praterstern, where, above the holiday crowds, he could see the park’s giant Ferris wheel, a familiar sight that now conjured a gurgling deep in his bowels that Dr. Friedhof had dislodged but not seen.
So he was walking, but now it was a different walk, a feral, hungry, faintly feline walk. Down he passed through the dirty, slushy snow, down the wide cobbled avenue of the Praterstern, past the untold people, open mouthed as groupers. Ahead was the great iron Ferris wheel. Moaning like a loom, it gravely rose up, astonishingly swift, the glassed-in cars swinging out, the people pointing and waving in that one whooping instant at the apogee — then sinking down so swiftly that, as he watched, he had the glutted sensation of having swallowed himself.
He continued on. Cinders crackling underfoot. Dried, the sap of the summer. Brittle, the winter twigs. The Sacher restaurant was still open inside, but closed and withered was its vinous trellis garden. This was another place he found forbidden, but in a different way. Here in midsummer, he would see wealthy officers and ladies drinking and eating the rich, dark Sachertorte under shady thatch arbors filled with the strains of lugubrious violins, a sound that to him suggested the odor of melons left too long in the sun. One look and he would turn away, repulsed, expelled.
On he walked through the snow, through the vestiges of the old season. The sour-smelling outdoor Bierstuben were closed, as was the Wurstel Prater, the children’s amusement park, where tarps cloaked the merry-go-round, the Velocipede and the Ghost Train. Then on past the closed Panopticum, its canvas façade painted with ghastly pictures of the wax figures inside. If only he could have fastened on something, some diversion. But there was nothing now. The roving clowns and witches, jugglers and Gypsies, the puppet shows — all were gone. No sharp smells of burned almonds or stringy Turkish taffy. No cracks from the shooting gallery or whoops from the games of strength or skill. Like smoke he hung in the air, ready to be moved by the slightest breeze, when he heard the clop of hooves. Wearing greatcoats and black-billed shako hats, two young officers, bloods both, trotted by on horseback. Wittgenstein watched as they passed two pretty lower-class girls, seamstresses or shopgirls, most likely — good for an adventure. Then came the treatment. Reining their mounts so they clopped a sideways prance and champed at their snaffles as the bloods tipped their hats, hoping to snag an eye.
As at the Sacher Garden, Wittgenstein felt that he was peering into another world — an impossibility. And walking on then, he saw his life as an imprisoning form. From that gray, organizing sky, his life was falling like a stray snow crystal, a piercing sliver of the same crystal logic. But why was he this? he wondered. Why caught in this structure, tied with these invisible sutures? Unlike him, these folk could go home and be themselves; they could live an easy, seemly, unmeditated life in accordance with rules that more or less held, and held always. They did not see these hungry spirits treading the broken snow, panting with smoking breath. No, it was not you, Wurstel Prater, nor you, Ferris wheel. It was not you, Herr Vendor, selling bags of stale crumbs to feed the wintering geese on the chill pond, nor, heaven knows, was it you, innocent children, out today for a walk with your nanny —
No, it was you, scowling Herr Kollege, saber scarred and swaggering with your vituperative cane, away for a few hours from your brothers in the dueling fraternity. It was you, Game of Strength — you, the burly sausage maker or bricklayer. And it was you, too, away for an hour from your wife and family, away from the privation and anxiety of Christmas. Yes, and if you weren’t so slight — if you were darker, rougher, more menacing — it well might be you, young man, swatting your leg, mystically nodding about something that could be had, and had fast, among these shrouding firs …
No, Wittgenstein didn’t have to venture as far as the firs that day. The point was to go just far enough to singe himself without tasting, to smudge his nose against the window of that world. That was the day’s objective, and having satisfied it, Wittgenstein turned back dizzily, leaving them as he found them, padding back and forth like caged lions in the pocked snow.
Menorah
BACK AT THE PALAIS WITTGENSTEIN, meanwhile, the final preparations for Christmas and Fräulein Ketteler were under way. Sitting in a ring, happily gabbing, the ladies of the house staff were weaving paper festoons, while in the main reception room a group of footmen armed with crooked sticks and stepladders under the supervision of the chief butler, Herr Stolz, were hauling up the tree, a twenty-foot fir that this season would be fitted for the first time with a fearfully expensive set of electric lights.
Elfin shoes clopped like woodblocks across the freshly buffed parquet. Slow down! blustered Karl Wittgenstein as, through a black forest of bulbous chair legs, his three-year-old grandson, Stefan, mouth smeared with cake batter, ran up and gave his arriving uncle a sloppy kiss. Wittgenstein returned the kiss, then saw his father eyeing him, alerting him that he was late.
You had business after the doctor? asked his father as the child struggled in his arms.
I went for a walk, said Wittgenstein, winding the boy up over his shoulder.
I see, said his father, plainly making an effort to be evenhanded this festive day. At six? he asked suddenly. Is that when the Kettelers are to arrive? Karl Wittgenstein knew perfectly well when they would be over; this question was solely for his son’s benefit, to reassert his paternal control. But then, for the benefit of Stefan’s father, Rolf Stonborough, now emerging from the drawing room, Karl Wittgenstein added officiously: And, please, don’t let the boy run. He’s much too overheated and excitable today.
Quite true, chimed Rolf with a deft smile. And Stefan’s not the only one.
Karl Wittgenstein was not pleased with this playful dig, but he took it. And it had its desired effect, for he then lumbered off, passing his own imposing equestrian portrait as he went to meddle elsewhere.
The capable Rolf! A well-respected financier, Gretl’s husband was a cheerful, modest, highly cultivated man of forty-two, with full brown hair and deepset blue eyes. Genial and amusing but more reserved than Gretl, Rolf was for her the perfect foil. He adored his wife’s titanic energy — her flights — yet he always stood ready, when the need arose, to pull her gently back to earth. A clubman active in city affairs, Rolf was an occasion an amusing feuilletonist; and like Karl Wittgenstein, he wrote periodic essays on political and economic questions — matters on which the two men seldom agreed. Rolf was also something of a Wandervogel — he loved to walk the mountains and sometimes, much to Gretl’s dismay, shot stag in Hungary, where he and his family had extensive business interests, chiefly in coal, which of course coincided with Karl Wittgenstein’s own interests, though not always happily.
Charming, self-contained Rolf, a man immune to Karl Wittgenstein in ways that seemed miraculous to his mum son. Many times Wittgenstein had thought that Rolf was exactly the sort of son his father would have wanted. Yet even so, the old bull could not easily cede his territory to this affable intruder. And so there was always the prodding and probing, the old man implying that while what Rolf said was perfectly true and even rather shrewd — at least so far as it went — it was still a little, well … off the mark. Not through any intrinsic fault of his, Karl Wittgenstein would affably suggest. After all, Rolf could hardly be held accountable for the fact that he still lacked seasoning and some requisite — but, for him, probably unobtainable — information. Still less could Rolf compensate for lacking that comprehensive and indeed synoptic view that came with more years than he, unfortunately, would ever have, because of course Karl Wittgenstein would always have more years and, moreover, would carry to his grave the wisdom that worked in the days when the world truly worked as it should — that is, before irresponsible bunglers like Rolf got their hooks into thin
gs.
Karl Wittgenstein’s sons might brook this treatment, but Rolf would not. For all his good-natured forbearance, he would press back when Karl Wittgenstein pressed too hard, questioning Rolf’s business judgment or suggesting that he might exert more control over his excitable wife and their equally excitable son. Oh, Rolf would groan fatuously, if only I had consulted you! Again and again, I ask myself — I ask my staff — now what, what would Karl Wittgenstein do?
Wittgenstein found this shocking. But even more stunning was how, after jabbing back, Rolf would go on eating, not wounded or angry and not harboring any apparent resentment against his father-in-law. And Karl Wittgenstein took it! True, he would be hot under the collar, but never was there the kind of fiery eruption that his son expected. Even with this probably inevitable tussling, Wittgenstein could see that the two men clearly did like and admire each other. Like the horsemen he’d just seen in the Prater, they were men of another world who operated and communicated according to rules, assumptions and manners that clearly he did not, and never would, entirely understand. Hard as this was for Wittgenstein to accept, he still could see it, just as he could grudgingly see that Rolf was the perfect rudder for his sister, a woman who would have overwhelmed a lesser man. In this last respect, Karl Wittgenstein wasn’t the only rival Rolf faced. Rolf’s biggest rival in the family was Wittgenstein himself. There was no way for Wittgenstein to rationally approach the matter; there was nothing rational about it at all. He was completely allergic to Rolf. Couldn’t stand him.
Everyone in the family was aware of this, especially Rolf. Still, knowing where these feelings sprang from, Rolf didn’t really hold it against his young rival. But for Gretl this emnity toward her husband brought no end of awkwardness, unhappiness and frustration. Wittgenstein felt bad about this, and in his way he did try to get along with Rolf, especially now that Stefan was approaching an age where he could intuit adult feelings. But it was no good. Even now, standing there, Wittgenstein could feel his palms perspiring as Rolf approached.
Ludwig, said Rolf easily, extending his hand.
Frohe Weihnachten, replied Wittgenstein, trying to show some seasonal friendliness. But this concealed nothing, Wittgenstein thought with chagrin; Rolf could sense his true feelings through his clammy, perspiring palm. Then they were talking, talking easily and inconsequentially, it seemed. Yet Wittgenstein had to stop himself, realizing that he was faintly rising up and down on his toes, as if to measure himself against his brother-in-law, who was actually shorter than he. The manly Rolf did not bounce or squirm. Rolf did not suffer. Rolf, he felt, had perfect emotional aplomb. He would never prowl the Prater or wind up in the ladies’ toilet.
Fortunately for Wittgenstein, this conversation was cut short when Gretl entered the room, followed by her father, who was saying, Fine. If you like it so much, then display it in your home.
It is displayed in my home, she said, holding up a Menorah. Why can’t we have one here?
Putting Rolf on the spot, Karl Wittgenstein then turned to him and said, You’re her husband. Please, tell me. Am I being unreasonable?
Oh, I don’t know, offered Rolf diplomatically. It is your home.
Gretl shot him a dirty look, then turned to her father and continued, I can’t see the harm in it. We used to light it as children.
Cor-rect, Karl Wittgenstein injected. When you were children, it is true we lit a Menorah on several occasions when your grandfather and aunt were here. It was for them — for believers — that we did this. But now there are no believers.
What do you mean? asked Gretl. There’s a half believer in me. Wittgenstein saw her turn to him for support, but he looked away, irked that she should press the matter when their father was in his usual state over the holiday preparations.
All right, Gretl conceded. There are no relatives here. But that’s more a circumstance than a reason. I’m sorry, I suppose I’m still trying to discern your reason.
Oh, of course, Karl Wittgenstein sniffed. Always you want reasons. Very well. It’s unnecessary. There’s your reason.
Oh, please — Gretl’s face tightened with frustration. That’s an evasion, not a reason.
Karl Wittgenstein stood there, plainly wondering whether to pursue this. Finally he said, Gretl, if you wish to join the Allianz or the B’nai B’rith and help Galician refugees, this is your right. If you wish to convert, this is your right also. But that has no place here, not in this house. That affair is over. This is a Christian house, and this is Christmas, not Chanukah.
But why not a Menorah? she asked, and Wittgenstein flashed her a look for pressing it.
Why? he returned, indicating by his bearing that he’d heard quite enough. Why? Because it’s — inconsistent. Karl Wittgenstein nodded, so pleased with this answer that he even repeated it, saying, That’s my point. It’s inconsistent.
Leaning out over her toes as if she had just found herself at the edge of a precipice, Gretl said, Oh. Just, Oh, and then, to everyone’s surprise, she left without another word and put the Menorah away.
The Blocker
THEN IT WAS TIME to dress for Fräulein Ketteler, time to stand as his father’s champion since all others had fled the field. This was barrier enough, but as Wittgenstein mounted the scrolling, red-carpeted stairs, he encountered one more obstacle.
Wittgenstein could remember how Hans, some nine years his elder, used to block his way on the stairs when he was a child of four or five. Oh, excuse me, Hans would say, stepping in his way. Oh, excuse me again, as he stepped the other way. Excuse me and excuse me, until his little brother would burst into tears, flailing and screaming. This was all the Blocker wanted: with the first cry he would be gone, leaving Wittgenstein, the Blocked, wailing on the vertiginous red stairs.
Eventually, of course, the Blocker was caught and punished, but he just found other ways to block, sometimes enlisting his younger brother Rudi as an accomplice. Wittgenstein would be lying in his bed when he would see the door, hooked by an unseen wire, slowly but inexorably slam shut. Stop! Stop! Jumping up, he would hurl himself against the door, frantically pushing and beating as if all the air were slowly being extinguished. Bitte, Hans, he would sob. Please, let me out…
Nothing. Not a sound as he pressed his ear against the cold wood, nothing but the jammed door and the ceiling crowding down. He knew, if he had any sense, he would wait out the Blocker. But this was impossible — never could he hope to outwait the Blocker. Almost immediately, his bladder would be ignominiously bleating and then he would panic, fearing that it wasn’t the Blocker but a ghost, or that the house was on fire! Hans! Beating and begging until fear turned to rage. Heaving himself against the door until it finally burst open, and he pitched headlong over the chair Hans had propped against it.
But what Wittgenstein most remembered was how Hans would “steal” his nose, tearing it off, then displaying it, a beet-red thumb pinched between his middle and index finger. See the nosy? See? Even at age three, the boy half knew it was a thumb and not his nose, but still he begged and grabbed for it, finding it intolerable that with mere words his brother could steal a piece of him.
This was much the same feeling Wittgenstein would have at seven or eight, when for long spells Hans would so thoroughly ignore the boy that he would begin to wonder at his own existence, as if Hans had snuffed his soul. But the Blocker himself was blocked. Looking back on it, Wittgenstein imagined that even Hans must have felt sickened at his compulsion to steal innocence from a child. Hans would be caught periodically, but this, too, seemed part of the game. Wittgenstein could still see his brother, smiling like a malign saint as his father whipped him with his stinging braces, smiling in the sweet knowledge that he had inflicted more pain than he received, as if experience were an exchange bank in which one might somehow profit on the margin. It got very confused. Sometimes the boy would strike back at the Blocker, but the Blocker always struck harder and more deeply. At first, retribution was swift, but then the Blocker learned he could tor
ment his brother even more by withholding punishment. Somewhere … sometime, the Blocker would threaten, his Adam’s apple bouncing with that gargling, girly voice, the manhood that was being withheld from him. Sometime, I’ll get you for this, Liebchen, and I won’t even tell you what I’ll do …
Unable to bear the suspense, the boy would break down, begging for forgiveness or punishment, begging to be given back his purloined nose or soul, which assumed an even more radical form once religion took root. In his catechism, the boy had heard Monsignor Molke describe sin as a nail driven into the soft wood of the soul. Confession could remove the nail but not the mark of the nail. The only thing that could do this was purgatory, which the boy imagined as a simmering pot in which soiled souls were placed to cleanse these suppurating wounds that kept them from heaven. The boy knew his soul was filled with gaping holes, but these were nothing compared with the Blocker’s soul. The Blocker’s soul, the boy told himself, was black with nails — a hairy black corset of nails. Wittgenstein wasn’t entirely sure where, or at what age, he formed this image of Hans in a corset, but there was more to it than this. As he dressed for Fräulein Ketteler, Wittgenstein recalled how, at age eight, he and Paul, along with several other girls and boys from the neighborhood, were given waltzing lessons by an Italian dancing master named Herr Passarelli. Yet here, too, the Blocker called the tune. Finding his younger brother dressing upstairs, the Blocker would pull him close, saying in an overheated voice, I am the dancing master and you must dance with me! Oh, my dear, he would say, swaying as he pushed him, pinioned, around the floor. Oh, but don’t you love to dance … And you love to waltz with … that’s right — with a jerk — that’s right, you love to waltz with boys, is it? With wee little boys? Oh, no, no! It is with big, big boys you love to waltz!
