The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  Wittgenstein could be insufferably arrogant about this. So self-righteous as he remonstrated, I can’t help you avoid difficulty — or effort.

  Having braved the Principia, Russell wasn’t about to suffer this. He shot back, Tell me this when you produce a work. And by work I mean something more than two pages!

  At this, Wittgenstein burst from his rooms. Russell, fearing the worst, caught him and apologized. Please — it’s really not your fault. Nor mine. It’s just nerves, don’t you see — nothing but nerves.

  It’s not alone that! Arms akimbo, squeezing himself, Wittgenstein looked as if he were in a straitjacket. Don’t you see? The difference is fundamental. Fundamental!

  I’m tired, sighed Russell. Can’t you see I’m tired? I’ve read these proofs again and again. My head swims when I see them.

  Russell managed to calm him down, and for days afterward they tread on cat feet, blistering at the need for this scaly, false politeness. Adversaries had to be easier than this. And hardest of all they had to be not just colleagues but friends, loving and civil. To regain their equilibrium, they would involve themselves in neutral activities. But even when Wittgenstein suggested a seemingly innocent outing, such as helping him select bedroom furniture, these conflicts emerged in another guise.

  Wittgenstein was hardly one to flaunt his wealth, but where furniture or aesthetics was concerned, Russell saw that money was no object. Rather, the problem was finding pieces that satisfied Wittgenstein’s severe criteria of harmonious balance, purity of line and absence of ornament, not to mention his equally impossible standards of workmanship. They went to one shop, then another. One chest of drawers had legs too long, another had ugly pulls. Another he found sheathed in almost seamless veneer — a scandal, he said, to have one thing masquerade as another.

  Good God, groaned Russell. How organic must a form be? Do you expect oaks to grow in the shapes of chairs and bureaus?

  See here, said Russell with a conspiratorial eye to the salesman, an older, balding man of uncommon patience. Russell gestured at a dresser, a magnificent piece. Constructed of red cherry, well lacquered, it was a veritable Stradivarius, with slender, tapering legs and drawers that slid silently on hard rubber castors. But immediately Wittgenstein found a flaw. Attached to the back of the dresser was a piece carved in an elegant fan design. This time, however, the salesman was ready:

  But see here, sir. It’s a quite functional design, ter keep yer things from falling down behind the wall.

  Utterly unnecessary, scolded Wittgenstein, moving away. I can pick a penny from the floor.

  Well, look here, said the salesman. If you do not like the piece, you can simply remove it like so. Three small screws is all. No one will know, sir.

  Please — Wittgenstein was already walking away. I’m sorry. I will not have it.

  But sir, pressed the salesman. Three little screws and you’ll have what you want. I’ll even knock off a quid for the piece you don’t want.

  Hear him, pleaded Russell.

  Wittgenstein looked at Russell in amazement. Do you suppose you can just — pull it off? Forever it is fixed. Good day, good day. And off he went, dismissing them both.

  Now listen, said Russell, following him out the belled door. All morning we’ve looked and you’ve found nothing. Nor will you —

  Then I will have nothing. I will go to London.

  Go to London! Russell stopped in the narrow lane. Three screws.

  Three too many! Wittgenstein resumed walking. God does not grant us limitless chances.

  What on earth do you mean, God? Standing in the King’s Parade with outstretched arms, Russell said, You said you don’t even believe in God! But when it’s expedient, then you drag God into it.

  God is there, said Wittgenstein, pointing up at the sky. Here, he said, snapping his fingers at the ground. Here is no God. Still we have God’s expectations. And God expects perfection — the first time.

  Well, I wish you well!

  It is not good wishes — nor God.

  Good! Russell fumed, striking off. Then let God make your furniture!

  Wittgenstein could be harsh and imperious, but this took its toll on him. Back in Russell’s rooms, once they had hastily reconciled, Russell told Wittgenstein, apropos of this furniture, that he must not wait for perfection before publishing. Russell expected a fight, but instead Wittgenstein turned away for shame, his voice wheezing as he blurted, I know. I know I will have nothing! But the problems we face, they are not nothing — even if I am nothing.

  Russell stood there frozen. Wittgenstein was swaying like a tree. And then Wittgenstein whirled around, his voice pleading.

  You must not on any account abandon me! Even if I do come to nothing. As I must! You must not!

  But of course not, Russell insisted. Never …

  Not knowing what to do, Russell did what he had never done: he placed his hand on Wittgenstein’s arm and gave him a paternal pat. It was fearful to see Wittgenstein’s mood swerve from imperious certainty to abject fear and helplessness. But what most struck Russell was this fleeting sense he had of tenderly consoling Ottoline or some woman. But even more unsettling was Russell’s sense that, at bottom, he was only consoling himself. It was himself Russell saw before him, the incarnation of his own suspended judgment.

  Other Orbits

  OTTOLINE, meanwhile, was growing increasingly concerned for both Russell and Wittgenstein. Not incidentally, she was also thinking of herself: these storms that rocked Russell spilled over on her, too.

  Not that Ottoline found such pressures entirely unwelcome. Despite her incessant complaints about her social responsibilities, she obviously relished the task of balancing so many geniuses, near-geniuses and neurotics. Julian at least had a governess. For these others, Ottoline often felt that she was the governess.

  Considering her schedule, Ottoline was amazed that she managed to give Russell the time she did. Why, just to answer his letters took two and three hours a day, and this wasn’t even counting what he expected her to read. At the moment, Ottoline felt like a music hall juggler, the kind who sets plates spinning on bamboo rods, then dashes madly back and forth trying to keep them all from crashing down. Chief and worst lately, there was Lamb, triumphantly working for two days, then grandly pouting for a week in preparation for a show in May, where he knew he would be denied the public outcry his genius so richly deserved. So here would be Mummy O, dropping by his studio (the same she had found and furnished for him) with little gifts and sops of hasty sex when Lambykins was feeling needy. He was a pill. Oh, O, I’m so this, he’d purr on the telephone. Oh, O, I can’t … Oh, O, I need … And there she’d be, sending her own maid on odd days with brooms and cooked food from her kitchen. Or dispatching friends to his studio that they might cheer him on, marveling at his desultory, half-finished canvases, each a Sistine Chapel, to hear him.

  There were in Ottoline’s gallery a half dozen other young men, all in various unfinished, promising, declining or disheveled states. These were more casual, Platonic friendships, but inevitably these ill-defined attachments also harbored vague sexual tensions that required from Ottoline an endless round of letters, pick-me-ups, strategic remembrances and not a few small deceptions.

  And last, there was Lytton — a special category. Despite his own incessant demands, Lytton was a great confidant; and best of all, he came without the usual snares and unease resulting from S-E-X. In the process of beginning Eminent Victorians now, Lytton was in need of pleasant, painterly places. And Ottoline’s London residence, Bedford Hall — this, Lytton said, was his Watteau and Gainsborough! Bedford Hall ranked high on Lytton’s list as he made his robin rounds, staying here a week and there a month until his welcome wore thin, or he got bored.

  Aside from Lytton’s brilliance and charm as a guest, gossip was his stock in trade, and, like a pack rat, he always carried off a whiff of scandal for every thorned nosegay he left. Ottoline had learned her lesson, burned once already when her innocent rem
arks about Wittgenstein got back to Russell, via Moore. Bertie scandalized! Bertie betrayed! Ottoline did think Bertie’s indignant letter was a bit much. What was the harm if Moore knew about Wittgenstein? she wrote back. It was a matter of confidence, he replied: his comments were not for public consumption. And besides, he said, Wittgenstein was better off in a smaller circle. Smaller circle? replied Ottoline sarcastically. You’re only a circle of two!

  Flimsy as Russell’s reasons were, Ottoline had still been embarrassed. But now, it was late January and Lytton was over. And the weather was so interminably dreary, like old porridge, mucking cold and gray. And, per favore, they were both trying to be gay that afternoon, she and Lytton, the better to banish these winter weeds! Sí, they were being Italian today, which suddenly made everything seem sunny, so warm and carefree. They could get so silly together — such fun a man and woman could have when sex was not lurking. After a morning spritzer of brandy with soda, Lytton, whose moods were like layers of water, warm over cold, declared he would have made a fetching woman. To prove his point, he wriggled into his hostess’s high heels, rolled his trousers past the knee, then pranced before the wall-length mirror.

  I am naughty Francesca. Whoopsidaisini! he cried, almost toppling over. I have most wicked legs, no?

  Oh, sí, enthused m’lady, who had sprawled back on the bed, shrieking. Molto hairy.

  Such fun they had, trading secrets and mimicking everyone. After they had pilloried half of London, Ottoline told her hushed guest that she had something else to tell him — if he could keep his cursed mouth shut. Lyttonni — for that was his nom de biche today — Lyttonni was, but of course, the very soul of discretion. Crossing himself, he said he was a veritable priest in Her Ladyship’s confessional.

  Oh, assolutamente! From me, Bella, not one solo mio!

  I’m seriosa! warned Ottoline. You get me in trouble again, and I’ll never tell you another secretini, capire?

  Oh, sincero, signora! said Lyttonni with caressing hands. Sincero.

  He wore her down with his entreaties. And of course she wanted and intended to tell him — and why not? It was not really gossip, not in the sense of being malicious. And she had Lyttonni’s word. So, she unburdened herself. It was this Wittgenstein, she said. He was so tragic and tormented. A suicidal genius. And poor Bertini, she moaned. Wittgenstein was driving him to distraction with his criticisms and insistent demands as they strove to solve questions that, to hear her tell it, sounded almost Newtonian in their implications.

  Lyttonni was so understanding, so full of pungent ideas. And so it was decided: for Bertie’s own good, this Wittgenstein really must be given other outlets. Air was needed. He must broaden his horizons. Lyttonni, for one, wanted to meet him — very. So, no doubt, would Keynes. But in the meantime, Lyttonni had an idea that was, on second thought, splendido! Ottoline would tell Bertie that Wittgenstein ought to meet Moore and perhaps even take his course. Moore, reasoned Lytton, would be the perfect counterbalance to Russell, and all concerned would benefit — Russell, Wittgenstein and the signora.

  It was a brilliant stroke. And such a load off her mind. But Lyttonni, he was a wee curious? This Wittgenstein, he asked with a wry wink, he is handsome? … Does he … I mean, signora, is he …?

  Stop! chided O, the tease. I don’t know.

  Bella! pleaded Lyttonni.

  I don’t know, she insisted. Stop —

  Oh, Ottoanaschini, soccorra me!

  Looking away, she waggled her fingers like a marionetteer. Comme ci, comme ça.

  Trulyoso?

  I don’t know! I mean, Bertie won’t quite say. And not a word! You never heard a word from me! Not one!

  Oh! Lyttonni brushed his lips. Of this there need be no mention. Of this there was no question.

  * * *

  Much as it galled him at bottom, Russell did see the sense of Ottoline’s suggestion that he introduce Wittgenstein to Moore. Broader exposure probably would be good for Wittgenstein now. Certainly, Russell did not want to feel selfish, nor to invite charges of being exclusive with a strong prospect. And it was safe now, he thought; the bond between them was too strong for Moore to threaten it. Besides, he doubted that Moore had much to offer Wittgenstein, Moore being more at his depth in metaphysics, ethics and psychology. Moreover, Russell was fairly sure — gleefully so — that Moore’s elaborate, sometimes plodding style of lecturing would quickly frustrate Wittgenstein.

  Still, in almost inverse proportion to his confidence here, Russell felt a superstitious urge to test Wittgenstein’s loyalty. Russell was sporting about it, though. Talking to Wittgenstein about Moore, Russell gave his colleague every chance, making a good many left-handed compliments and pointing out how Moore’s tortoise tactics had fooled many a quicker adversary, including himself. Russell even gave Wittgenstein a copy of Principia Ethica, saying what a stir the book had caused ten years before. And when, two days later, Wittgenstein returned the book, saying that it gave him headaches — saying that Moore, in his circuitous, Latinate style, said over and over in pages what could have been said in a single paragraph — why, poor, shocked Russell was warmed to the heart.

  As for Moore’s class, Russell told Wittgenstein not to expect to be immediately stunned, and lo, Wittgenstein was not stunned. Still, he withheld judgment, remembering Russell’s promise that Moore, like a magician, would soon whip away the black cloth, revealing Truth in all its pearly effulgence.

  But, for God’s sake, when? By the third class Wittgenstein was still waiting as Moore held forth with the sweat streaming down his brow. Why was Moore so infernally cautious? Wittgenstein wondered. Why, when Moore had considered every conceivable facet of a question, why did he immediately return to it the next class, unable to proceed until he had banished every possible confusion? Wittgenstein remembered Russell telling him that Moore’s effect was cumulative, but this was more on the order of geological ages!

  That was essentially what Moore did in those opening periods: he catalogued the world, leading the entities two by two into that ark in which he sought to memorialize all we know, think we know, and don’t or can’t possibly know.

  If only Wittgenstein had watched Moore tunneling his way through a plate heaped with food — then he might have understood how Moore’s mind grazed through this bounty that is the world. Moore had his philosophical gospel. It was the Gospel of Common Sense, of cutting the nonsense and plunging forthwith into the baptismal font of what we know, and know truly, despite all protests to the contrary.

  To begin with, testified Moore, it seems clear that there are in the universe an enormous number of material objects of one kind or another. We know, for instance, that besides our own bodies, the bodies of millions of other men inhabit the earth. We know also that there are billions of animals and plants. There are an even greater number of inanimate objects — mountains and all the stones upon them, grains of sand, different kinds of minerals and soil, and all the drops of water in the swelling rivers and the sea. We recognize that there are also a multitude of objects manufactured by men, and we now accept the idea that the sun and moon, and those bright grains that are the visible stars, are themselves great masses of matter, most of them many times larger than our earth. And besides these material objects, Moore continued, we know that there are other phenomena. We know, for instance, that men possess minds, and that in this world, we encounter not just our own minds but other minds — minds not our own and often indeed almost nothing like our own …

  It was such a long catalogue Moore enumerated; it was such an ungodly, prognathous mess of experience he was heaping up. Still, it was just and necessary, said Moore, that we cautiously examine these things. Through civil looking and thinking, he seemed to suggest, we could heft and smell these mental melons and cabbages — we truly could behold their phenomenological essences and so perhaps discern our own. But just as difficult and important as making judgments, he added, is the art of withholding judgment — of not precipitously surrendering to the ego�
�s gluttonous caviling to be right, so it could eat and spew more. For surely it was folly to plow through the world simply to be through it.

  In his ruminating rootedness, Moore had a positive genius for withholding judgment, for that relentless, often exasperating analysis necessary to prepare these victuals for proper beholding. Still, in his own good time Moore could make his point, could even startle with his point. Like Russell, Moore was still fighting those old skirmishes against the Hegelian idealists, those rebels against the Gospel of Common Sense. And so, harrumphed Moore, isn’t it curious that skeptics routinely believe what is most fabulous and discount what is most obvious and indeed under their very noses? And let us also ask ourselves how it is possible that material philosophers have held that material objects do not exist. For, after all, argued Moore, if this view is true, then it follows that no philosopher has ever held it, since philosophers are themselves material objects —

  Sir—

  Up went the hand. Looking up, Moore acknowledged the arrogant-looking chap in the fifth row, the one with his mortarboard cocked like a wedge and a bit askew. Moore knew all too well who it was, having waited over a week for the inevitable objection.

  Sir, said Wittgenstein, with yet a glimmer of admiration. Your point is certainly interesting. But tell me, please, what material difference it makes? Whether I am material or immaterial — why should this affect the truth of what I say? If something is true, then it is true. We do not judge its truth by asking by what medium does it come to us. Do I say I will not consider your argument because you use spoken words only? I might say I believe only in the written word.

  Moore did not bridle or evade. On the contrary, he was quite struck by this objection and said straightaway, Your point is well taken. Moore’s eyes went up into his head, then he continued. I had not considered that objection, but it is certainly a serious objection and perhaps reduces my statement from an argument that holds water to a more or less interesting point that only sprinkles a little water. Having said that, I hope you will at least concede that it is somewhat odd that we would entertain on material pages the thoughts of men who denied the material existence of, well, pages.