The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  No, now that Wittgenstein had been offered an Apostleship, he was quite sure that Pinsent would not want one — assuming, of course, that one was even offered. (Pinsent, it seemed to Wittgenstein, was not the trumped-up, obviously impressive sort of man who got noticed for such things; nor was he titled, handsome or rich.)

  No, in his ill-guided but well-meaning way, Wittgenstein had other plans for Pinsent. Pinsent, it seemed to him, did not want philosophy — Wittgenstein certainly did not want his friend mucking those stalls. He did not question his own motives; he had no sense of being selfish, or patronizing or presumptuous. If nothing else, he could at least bequeath Pinsent a life free of pain, failure and want. And soon enough Wittgenstein would remove from Pinsent’s path the impediment his own life represented. He would not be a Blocker, nor would he be greedy: if he could not eat, procreate or prosper on this earth, then he would shortly cede his place to one who could. And so Wittgenstein was going to meet David’s mother, to see that all was properly provided for.

  As they neared Birmingham, meanwhile, Pinsent was worried how Flo would come off to his friend. Pinsent’s irreverence about his mother pained Wittgenstein, but then Pinsent was hardly fooled by the court portrait that Wittgenstein painted of his own family. Even more exasperating for Pinsent was how Wittgenstein would paint Flo as some poor, wronged creature — and him the cynical, unjust son. Pinsent said he knew the truth. He told Wittgenstein that he could damned well call her Flo or Bats if he chose — it was he, after all, who had pressed a lock of her hair inside the glass of her photograph. And really, Pinsent told Wittgenstein, if life at home was so awfully cozy, where were the photos of his mother and father?

  Pinsent was silent and nervous as their motorcab climbed Dalk’s Hill, where Flo lived in a cottage of rust-colored stone. It was open farm country, not far from a village set among bowed fields and pastures bound by hedgerows. In the distance there was a slice of river, milk white in the sun, and below that a long swell of slope, mild and green, with cows and a squat stand of trees.

  Flo was nowhere to be seen. The gate was gone, and the stones of the walk were slick with brownish-green moss. Last year’s rotting apples lay beneath the same snarled limbs, now newly blossoming, and as they approached the door, scrawny cats bounded like rabbits through the weeds. Mind your step, said Pinsent with embarrassment as they picked over broken crockery and a rusty garden trowel where someone had tried to pot something. Pinsent sighed as the door fell open. She never locks it, he said.

  Inside, under moss-dark beams, was a murky clutter, a mindscape of half-finished puzzles, hands of solitaire, novels splayed on their spines. Still, it was a feminine disarray, not entirely unattractive. Like giant fungi, blackened oranges spiked with cloves hung from the beams, adding a vinous, spicy scent to the general subterranean odor. And then they heard Flo’s conjugating cry:

  Dave, Davy, David!

  Floating under a mist of reddish-gray hair and dressed in an old gown of silk, lace and tulle, tiny Florence Pinsent barreled down the stairs, then hugged and kissed her son before she abruptly turned to shake Wittgenstein’s hand. Oh! she exclaimed when Wittgenstein made an abbreviated bow. David said you had the most lovely manners. And Sweet William! You brought me Sweet William! Before Wittgenstein could even present them to her, she had thrust her blunt nose into the mottled mass of flowers. Oh! Oh! Waving her hands, Flo hardly knew whether to get her eyeglasses or a vase, she was so prickly excited.

  There was no stopping her then. Did you see that rain? Florence Pinsent suddenly wanted to know, gaping up at Wittgenstein as if she had just now seen the Annunciation. Now that was the rain, it was. It passed right over! I prayed it would miss you! I said so and meant it, and it did and didn’t, dear me!

  Flo’s mouth widened as if she had just remembered that her son was indeed here. David, my love, let me look at you! He’s so shy, she said, turning secretively to Wittgenstein, her accomplice in this orgy of affection. And Sweet William you brought me! Not baby’s breath, she cautioned suddenly, though no one had suggested it was. Looking around then, she suddenly remarked, Isn’t that a queer name, baby’s breath? Do you suppose anyone knew what baby’s breath looked like when they named it? I’d call it sneeze plant — oh, it makes me sneeze just to look at it! But you know, she said, wagging her finger, perhaps the person that named it baby’s breath saw a baby’s breath in the winter — when it was steaming, I mean. Clasping her downturned bosom, Florence Pinsent grandly sneezed.

  David, darling, resumed Flo, making a pouty face as hungry cats wove underfoot. The fire must have just gone out!

  Just gone out, Mother? asked the son, looking at the cold coals.

  Then, rolling her eyes, she said mischievously, I don’t know what happened, dear. Now he’s angry at me, you see, she said, taking refuge behind Wittgenstein. But Davy, she continued in a whiny, girlish voice. Just an hour ago I stirred it. Why don’t you relight it and I’ll make tea with your lovely Mr. Wittgenstein.

  She was a consummate actress, adept at creating little cul de sacs and enveloping silences between people. Taking her guest by the arm, she led him toward the unkempt kitchen, saying, I’m so excited that David has finally brought a friend home, Mr. Wittgenstein. David’s so very excited about your work. He says it’s far more important than his. I think therefore I am! Oh, no, David didn’t say that — dear me, did you think so? My, no. Descartes René said so. I once tried to read him but I never got very far. I was never am enough to think I was, so I wasn’t — so here I am! Or was —

  Mrs. Pinsent flounced to the window to tap at a cat by the pane, then pointed out a cloud that she said looked like the king, gross and fat in his Ascot top hat. Had he ever seen the king, ever? No, no, she scolded, not Georgie — she meant the fat, dead one. Edward was his name. She had, once. Seen him, that is.

  Queen Flo then decreed they would have tea and Wittgenstein was sent scrounging beneath the cabinets for the kettle, which they set on the gas ring after yet another search for matches. I have the most wonderful biscuits, she said. Mistress of this tea party, Flo giggled with her mouth full and a wondering crinkling of the eyes. They’re hazelnut somethings, I think — or filbert. I didn’t make them, you know, she said just as proudly as if she had. Shoo! she said, driving a cat from the table. And again she went to the window, amazed to see the dolloped clouds massing over the western hills. And you must promise, she resumed, looking a little cross, you must remind me to show you David’s numerous awards. Have you any? David has. Oh, but he’ll be terribly upset if I boast of him. He’s deaf in one ear, you know. Oh, yes. A man pulled his ear when he was a boy. Then argumentatively, I saw him! His uncle it was …

  So began the pattern in which Flo would breathlessly take her guest aside to tell a seemingly pointless story which had the quality of whistling out of tune. Nevertheless, there was a fractured melody to these stories; the mother, however queer and charming, was more cunning and manipulative than she let on. Dimly, through the cloaking sweetness, Flo feared her guest. As the next day began to unfold, Wittgenstein even began to suspect that she was angry at him for usurping her boy. Wittgenstein could hardly blame her — if anything, he shared her fears, feeling that with time he would only bring Pinsent to grief as he had Russell.

  Wittgenstein’s guilt over Russell was weighing on him heavily now. Shortly before leaving for Birmingham, Wittgenstein had seen his mentor. Embroidering on the subject of his theory of types, talking with all the deliberate cheerfulness of a man in shock, Russell had really been asking Wittgenstein to assure him that his theory was salvageable, that, with time, all would be put to right. Wittgenstein couldn’t do it. All he could offer Russell was silence — and not out of spite or anger. There was simply nothing to say: Russell’s theory was wrong.

  But if Wittgenstein did not grasp Flo’s point initially, he did the second day when she asked, Do you know Mr. Moore? Well, he’s very fond of David, I gather, but he wrote me saying he was concerned about David’s,
um, direction. Well, of course, I didn’t know what to make of it, Mr. Wittgenstein. But then I got another letter from his governor, saying David had been neglectful of his studies. They have such high expectations of him. You see, he has a scholarship, and a very grand one, too.

  So odd how Flo went on, so artlessly, as if she were impartial and unaffected by this. Wittgenstein felt as if he were party to a conversation inside her head, or his. She was an artful paradox, was Flo. She knew, for all her apparent artlessness, how to turn the screw. Do you agree with Mr. Moore? she asked after a long, fitful silence. In Flo’s own interior logic, no reply was necessary or solicited from the visitor. Speaking into him as if into the telephone, Flo added with a hush of dread, I’m sure you have David’s best interest at heart. I know he must help you — he said your work is more important. David’s always helped — it’s his nature to help. And expect none in return, mind you. Do you?

  Mind?

  My, no, help. Help Davy. Then before he could even answer came the reprise. David has certainly helped me. Oh, indeed, he has! That’s David’s way, you know.

  Flo would say, It was the rainiest rain, the foggiest fog, that David was good because he was good — because he was her Davy David Descartes René, her am, so to speak, since all else was, or was no longer. Flo was herself a tautology. I am David’s mother, she would declare, as if her silent guest might otherwise miss the connection.

  It was the silliest thing, how ideas came to Wittgenstein, slowly rising like bubbles to the surface. For months now, Wittgenstein had been on the verge of perhaps his most fundamental insight, but not until Flo had it quite struck him in that direct, offkey way of a revelation, with that accompanying shortness of breath and the air suddenly a pale hue. What struck Wittgenstein with such force then was the notion that although a tautology says nothing, it shows its form and hence the undergirding structure of logic. On the tensile water, the wobbling rings were settling themselves; on the strumming water, above the freestanding depths, hung an apparent transparency of form without content, of form waiting like life to be filled, true or false, good or ill.

  Wasn’t life a tautology, singing of itself to itself? Wasn’t suicide a contradiction, canceling itself with itself? With Flo, there was a certain parallel. Beneath the patter, she was really asking the visitor to desist and return her son, saying these words not so much for what they said as for what they might show or conjure, since words were magic. Over the hills swept the clouds, bruised and dark. Hovering like a bird in the wind, suspended in that silence before the remark, Flo gaped as the next cloud swept down. Dark the ground, dark the sun. Whoa, cried Flo, clutching her mortified son. That cloud looks like a Chinaman.

  And so it was resolved. Out walking the next day, Wittgenstein suddenly thrust a bank draft for ten thousand pounds into Pinsent’s hand, saying, And no talk, please, of debt or gratitude. Nothing you owe me. Not even friendship. Please, and not another word.

  What is this? asked Pinsent. He looked frantic. I don’t want this! No!

  I insist — Wittgenstein put his hand on Pinsent’s shoulder. You did not ask me for this, I know. It is not charity. You need this. I do not.

  Why? Pinsent’s eyes were welling over. Why don’t you need it? Pinsent wanted to answer his own question, but again he held back. Answer me!

  Never having properly understood money, its power to stun, Wittgenstein was shocked by this reaction. It was as if someone had told him that his potent signature was not backed by gold. Awkwardly, Wittgenstein said, I have more money. Too much money. This is not to boast — it is just a fact. Please, David. Take it.

  For the wealthy man, this was something of a revelation. Until then, Wittgenstein never would have dreamed it was as hard to rid oneself of money as to have it. Pinsent wrote:

  23.V.13

  … So I took it — provisionally. First I worry where to get it, & now what to do with it & how to keep it.

  W. seems relieved. If he has bought peace, I think, then oughtn’t I sell it?

  For now, we forget it — try. With money I think I can finally forget money, concentrate instead on beauty & spirit, as he does. Only I shall do so in new trousers, w/, I think, a Panama hat & some beautiful braces. I should like such a hat but then wonder if I dare; if it would be too vain.

  Later, I am feeling gay. Wittgenstein is whistling. In the pasture, W. calls to some cows in German. Cows love German, he explains, even our English cattle. These are spotted, smooth-horned Guernseys, clopping down. We are enveloped. They are all over us, jealous ladies, butting & nudging for scratches behind their ears to relieve them of the incessant flies.

  Later, we eat below a pale field of new grass. Then, toward dusk, something wondrous. Thunder approaching. By the river, the sedge is sweeping up & down like sheets of green silk. It is very high, the grass, & suddenly W. is terribly excited. On the water mayflies are hatching. Like sparks from a burning log, they pour out from the depths — clouds of them, white-white & warbling soundlessly over the water. Sitting on the bank, W. is as under a tent; an insect snow is falling all over him & he is gazing up, overcome. Over the water, the nymphs are a flat white nebula, & then the rain comes beating down, the water sizzling. Exposed out here, we might be struck by lightning, but he, ordinarily so practical, does not care. He doesn’t heed me when I call, & then I see what it is. The flies are falling into the water. By the thousands, they are faltering like a white seltzer. The water is inundated & all are dead.

  Looking at me, W. says, “Isn’t it beautiful? For all to rise & fall for the same beautiful necessity? Wouldn’t it be beautiful for us to rise up in light & fall in unison, serving only nature?”

  I am appalled. I say, “I think it is jolly good for flies, but not for men. To have all the generations fall like that, in unison? How can you possibly call that idea beautiful?”

  Now he is looking at me, not angry, but wistful; it seems I do not understand, tho’ I think I do. He says, “You cannot ever be sad for that, not for necessity.” “Whose necessity?” I ask. “This is only something in your mind! A poet might think it a beautiful thought, but he would not serve it. Was it really so poetic for Shelley to sail out in the storm & drown himself? That was for Shelley; that was not for Poetry.”

  I can’t stand it. Want to tear up the cheque. He knows — he must — that I fear he will kill himself. It taxes & angers me, these hints — he is worse than Mother, how he manipulates me. Who does he serve — who do I? These flies obey another rule. That he has genius I acknowledge, but genius does not have to succumb to itself. I refuse to believe it.

  Wedding and Wending

  THREE WEEKS LATER, not long after the end of term, Moore was sitting with Dorothy at the head table at his wedding reception as all present, including Russell, Pinsent and Strachey, rose to toast the new couple.

  The room was full of mirth and the heat of seventy-five people drinking, waltzing, hobnobbing. In that surfeit of happiness, tongues unfurled. Lytton Strachey, picking up after Moore’s older brother Harry, said a few more words on behalf of the newlyweds. Lytton’s toast was perfect — eloquent, touching, amusing. Until then, Russell had not planned to speak, but in the elation of the moment, he, too, stepped forth with raised glass and cleared his throat.

  What on earth am I doing? he thought as the murmuring died down and all eyes fell on him. What will I say? he wondered, hoping that this sudden impulse was more than just the rumbling of the grape. He and Moore were still on strained terms, but Russell felt that after today they might turn a new page. A few warm words, that was all he wanted to say. After all, he could hardly hope to top a wit like Strachey — or could he?

  He didn’t start badly. There was even a certain piquance as he, an avowed unbeliever, said what a blessing it was to behold an honest man with a good woman on their wedding day. Yes, he continued, warming to his tongue’s toothsome twang. These two, he said, unleashing his arm, would stand as an example to them all of the outer extent of human hopes. But then wi
th this bibulous reaching, he felt the compensating pull of humor — something to balance and subdue the emotion, like cutting wine with seltzer. Yes, for a generation, he rebounded, Moore had symbolized the best. Nevertheless, he added dryly, he did not do badly. Mrs. Moore would make a man — he stumbled — a better man of him.

  Here, here!

  Moore, meanwhile, felt his bride urgently squeeze his hand, a telegraphic squeeze emitting potent signals of irritation verging on outrage. Even Russell was kicking himself. Damn! The way he tripped at the end, this as his eyes hungrily scanned the room for reaction. Oh, God. There was puckish Lytton, busily whispering to Keynes, Leonard Woolf and the attenuated Virginia.

  For his part, Moore would gladly have forgotten this gaffe had not Dorothy, her dark hair crowned with a diadem of white cyclamen trailing white ribbons, then hissed into his ear, What on earth did Bertie mean? He’s so perverse.

  Two hours tied and she was already a wife, thought Moore, who as usual was surprised by how much she saw — and how much he missed.

  But in that swarm of perceptions, this thought, too, was washed away as Moore covered her pale hand with his own, still unable to get over the gold ring on his finger. When Moore looked again, Bertie was talking to Pinsent; and then that image also vanished as his palsied Uncle Peter, a broken widower, came a third time to earnestly clutch their hands, fighting tears as he gasped for breath or words, wishing only to be near so much happiness. And here was Theodore Llewelyn Davies, an Apostle whom Moore had not seen in five — God, ten years at least! And Crump! Crump Davies, his brother! Crumpie, look at you!