The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  And now, a year later, as Moore emerged from Wittgenstein’s outhouse into the preternatural desolation of that Norwegian mountaintop, he asked himself once again why he felt this need to swim out from his wife and new life? What on earth had driven him here? he wondered, inwardly cursing himself for being such a fool.

  For the first time ever in his life, Moore felt homesick — wifesick. This loneliness was a curious feeling. All his life he had prized male company, and he was strangely grieved now to see that he could never return to that life. In his youth, he had always thought he would travel — oh, not widely or adventurously, but freely, whether alone or in the company of other men, cloaked in his thoughts like a weatherproof. This notion was so bound up in his youth that it pained him to find that he was now a confirmed homebody. The question was how he would endure this isolation and wifesickness, not to mention another week of Wittgenstein.

  As for Wittgenstein, he was increasingly oppressed by Moore’s normality.

  Moore was the apotheosis of all that he was not. Moore did not withhold himself from world or woman. Inept as he was in the outdoors, Moore held firmly the bosom of life, snatching pleasure where he found it. Yet despite these frictions, they had their pleasant times. There was still much work to do in the hut, and with Moore’s ham-handed help, Wittgenstein finished the bunks and built a shelter over the woodpile. They went for long walks and called over gorges to their cacaphonous echoes. In the sparkling fjord, they sailed a small sailboat Wittgenstein had bought, Moore sprawled in the stern, his boyish face turned up to the sun.

  But most of all, Moore loved to skinny-dip in gushing mountain streams. At the first sight of a stream or falls, he would be hopping on one foot, yanking off his trousers. Oh, come on, Wittgenstein! he would taunt, slogging into a gorge filled with mist and sunlight. Here Moore was in his element. Here he was again a ripping pleasure boat, whooping as the icy water pounded his flabby white back and dimpled buttocks.

  Wittgenstein couldn’t stand it. Gone was the grinning novitiate who had dived naked from the Sweimfoss. Ashamed and intimidated by Moore’s nakedness, Wittgenstein would retreat down the trail and wait until Moore reappeared, half dressed, with his hair awry.

  In the evenings before the stove, they read and talked. Frequently they argued about philosophy, but this was the least of their conflicts. Slowly, another competition was unfolding. Within a few days, their relationship began to take on a queer domestic quality, Wittgenstein acting the Spartan provider and Moore the dependent complainer, inept with tools, horses, cooking. Moore resented Wittgenstein’s youth and vigor, his contempt for comfort. How could Wittgenstein silently endure this misery? he wondered. Awful food! Lonely nights! No warm Dorothy to crawl up against! Lying in his bunk at night, Moore would wait until his bladder was fit to burst. And then he would charge into the half darkness, there to flail and curse at the mosquitoes that flew like birdshot into his neck while he whizzed and squirted.

  Still, Moore had something over Wittgenstein. Twice he had gone with Wittgenstein to his neighbor Nordstrøm’s to buy eggs and cheese and even fresh meat when it was available. Nordstrøm had a daughter named Sigrid of perhaps eighteen years, willowy and blond but doorknob plain. Wittgenstein had seen her watching him, but he persistently ignored her. Not Moore.

  I saw her eyeing you, he joked as they rode back. You may take a wife yet if you don’t watch out.

  At this Wittgenstein recoiled, snapping, Don’t be silly!

  Moore rolled his eyes, happy to get a rise out of him. Oh, you never know.

  Please — Wincing. Don’t speak foolishness.

  After the many small humiliations he had suffered, Moore liked getting Wittgenstein flustered. He dubbed Sigrid the Milkmaid, and after that, when they saw her in the meadows minding her cows, Moore would chime:

  Well, well … your Milkmaid has come to see you, Wittgenstein.

  Moore meant it as a joke, but Wittgenstein only heard the postmaster’s wife, until one day he snapped: I forbid you to mention her again!

  There was another incident that was to leave a lasting impression on Moore. On no account would Wittgenstein dress in front of him, but one morning, coming through the door, Moore caught him with his trousers down, adjusting a thick black belt that girded his groin and stomach. Glaring, Wittgenstein said in a brittle voice:

  I ruptured myself winter last. I must now wear this belt.

  Oh, said Moore, turning away. So sorry to hear that.

  For Moore, the image lingered, changed to a chastity belt — a hard, self-imposed privation. And then one night, almost in spite of himself, Moore asked:

  Don’t you find it awfully lonely up here?

  Wittgenstein eyed him uneasily. Again, it was the postmaster’s wife, posing a question for which he had no answer. He replied:

  I am sorry you miss your wife. I am sure I cannot imagine such a thing. No. Wittgenstein shook his head. I cannot.

  Oh, it’s terrible! volunteered Moore, grateful to hear a note of commiseration. Before I was married, I couldn’t have imagined missing anybody so much. It’s indescribable.

  But seeing Wittgenstein’s face, Moore realized that he had struck a barrier: there was no point pursuing it; it was a thing beyond Wittgenstein’s visible spectrum. Donning a mosquito headnet and coat, Moore then ventured out into the red darkness, into the mild wind where the mosquitoes were singing. For years, Moore saw, intimacy had been his fear; intimacy with a woman had been his girding belt. But now, standing atop that mountain, Moore saw that his darkest fear was loss of intimacy. Intimacy had given him new spectacles. Through love of a woman, he could see clear across the earth. But now Moore felt the stinging fear that his love might be sick or in need, perhaps dead.

  Stop it! he ordered himself. Fear of loss was understandable, if morbid, but it occurred to him then that fear of happiness was far the stranger. Fear of happiness, in part, was what had possessed him to float out to sea, and it was just as surely what had driven him north. What it was, he saw, was an almost superstitious disbelief in his new life, a fatal feeling that good could not keep begetting good: sooner or later, one’s luck would run out. But this too was curious. After all, why should he, one who so venerated the Good, dread it? Because it might be undeserved? Because it might not last?

  And then Moore thought, What if Dorothy is pregnant? Think of it: beyond these forests, across a sea, an effect of which he was the cause might be taking root in the womb of a woman curled on her side, asleep. In all the proofs of his ponderous Prolegomena, he wondered, why had he never considered this? Amid all that grunting and rooting, in all that sweaty pumping with his face buried in her neck, why had he failed to see all the priapic Good he might be sparking?

  Creeping inside later, Moore found Wittgenstein fast asleep. So odd to watch another person sleeping, to see a man bereft of his waking power and stature — just a vulnerable animal craving rest, with his fingers stuffed in his mouth. Up here this man could sleep. Up here a man could lie dead for weeks, with no one the wiser. For a moment as he stood there, Moore had the feeling of them both living in a vacuum, two dimming candles, the last two souls on earth. Staring down at Wittgenstein, Moore wondered what, with none to remember this man, kept his heart beating and caused his lungs to expand? Looking down then, Moore felt the uncanniness with which one life form eyes another, not knowing what it is or how it makes its way in the world, wherein it has carved its little niche. What would ever become of him? Moore wondered. How did Wittgenstein bear this Arctic loneliness? With a chill, Moore realized then that he did not know this man. He did not know him at all.

  Two days later, when Wittgenstein returned from cutting wood, the atmosphere broke. Moore had been reading Chesterton while he aired the bedding, and it got drenched in a downpour. Then, trying to dry it, he had trimmed the stove wrong and filled the hut with smoke. Wittgenstein lost his temper.

  How can you be such a bloody idiot! Complain, complain, then this!

  Damn you!
yelped Moore. Be quiet! Please be quiet!

  Moore jumped up from the table, throwing down his fists. He felt his head was in a tourniquet. He gulped to say something more, choked; and then to his surprise, he burst into tears, stumbling as he lunged out the door.

  Moore was staring down at the fjord when the humbled Wittgenstein approached a few minutes later. Touching Moore’s shoulder, Wittgenstein said, I am sorry. I know I have been a beast. It is my fault. I am not used to people anymore.

  Moore pinched his eyes, then said, It’s not a matter of fault. I want to leave tomorrow, and not because of this. I miss my wife. All day long I’ve been thinking of her.

  Green Recruits

  IT WAS FORTUNATE that Pinsent arrived in Bergen a day early — otherwise he would have missed Moore in the cottager’s lather to get back home. Instead, Pinsent and Moore spent a long evening together, over which Moore spun the whole sorry saga of his days trapped in the wilds with Wittgenstein.

  When Pinsent set off on the Sweimfoss two days later, Moore’s apprehensions were still with him, but over the next days they steadily diminished as Pinsent found the trip to be more what Wittgenstein promised and less the bilious, buggy ordeal that Moore had described. But then Pinsent was younger and more resilient than Moore, and he wasn’t leaving a wife — he was fleeing a mother.

  Wittgenstein knew all about Pinsent’s difficulties. Several weeks before, Flo had even sent him a plea, writing in a scrolling hand that veered sharply up the page:

  My Dear Mr. Wittgenstein,

  Despite what David says, I am glad he will be visiting you. If I were younger & if David didn’t so mind I would visit you both. I know you wouldn’t mind, would you?

  I am very most grateful for the money you have bestowed on us you are a Prince even if you do have pots of it; — but Sir, I still worry David will not return to university, & it would be a purple shame for such a bright boy to make his way knocking on doors selling Sheffield cutlery. Don’t you agree?

  It would be very good, Sir, if you would kindly tell him this. But PLEASE do not say I wrote you, as he wd. be furious. Even as a boy he was always running away from me, such a red-haired gnat, I said; — & you know how they are.

  Secondly, Mr. Wittgenstein, you ought to be aware that David is frightfully allergic to bees; — & do be most careful walking as I’ve read a rock or snowball in that part of the world can cause a most unfortunate avalanche! The fourth I forget.

  I do not expect such a busy young man as yourself wd. write to me with the long winter only months away. But if so, do; — but if you can’t, don’t. I will certainly understand in either case.

  Gratefully yours, Florence Pinsent

  Pinsent arrived in Høyanger in the second week of July. In his journal, he wrote:

  10.VII.14

  … W. meets me at the dock. Surprised at my moustache; also at my physique, as I admit to lifting dumbbells to prepare myself for the rigours of mountain life. We keep smiling at each other. He is tanned & vigorous looking from physical labour & building his hut.

  His English has deteriorated a bit, as Moore said, but he is not nearly as “wild,” as Moore joked. No acclimatising for me in hotel as he did for M. We go directly on horseback 15 km., arriving near 10 p.m. W. highly pleased; he says I have fared much better than M. So far, so good …

  W.’s hut overlooks the fjord, just as he described it. Mosquitoes bad, but not so bad as M. said. We smear ourselves with this evil local tallow &, donning headnets, venture out into the midnight dawn colours, wch. hang like smoke in the cool air. Slap! Slap! Through even thick wool they pierce, these little bloodsuckers. Here one pays for the sublime.

  Later, sitting inside by the smoking fire, W. has a good laugh at my kit, esp. the Scout manual Mother sent, wch. actually looks somewhat helpful. Knowing that I have just seen M. in Bergen, W. asks if M. is angry. M. was badly hurt — hurt more badly than he even let on, I think — but I say little. W. knows I am holding back & adds ominously, “You will tell me if I am being unreasonable.” I promise to tell him, then take out a cigarette & light it. W. very much annoyed. Grimacing. “Why do you start this? Such a filthy habit — and so unnecessary.” Smiling, I say, “You told me to warn you if you become unreasonable.” “Yes, yes. You are right.” Watching me light & exhale, he sees I will warn him again too.

  11.VII.14

  Today we are still on our best behaviour … Supper of eggs & milk, canned peas & fish. Make bannock bread over the fire as Mother’s surpringly useful Scout manual sets forth. Wittgenstein’s eyes darken when I say I long for something sweet. “Not from you also. All I heard from Moore was food. We are not here to eat.” “And why not?” I ask. “We aren’t in a monastery.”

  W. is silent. For him we are, I think.

  13.VII.14

  When I ask to take W.’s photograph with my new camera, he grows uncomfortable. “No, I am not ready to be photographed. I am still too unapparent, like a larva. Once I become a full human being & man of spirit — then you can photograph me.” He smiles. “As it stands, you may develop your film & find no image whatsoever.”

  A week later, they were fairly settled, though still there were periodic rumblings.

  21.VII.14

  … By now, we are getting fairly used to each other, but W. still has quirks wch. I do not understand. For instance, I ask why he has located the latrine such a distance from the hut. “It is more aesthetic,” he replies. “Perhaps so,” I say, “but you don’t venture out at night into the cold & mosquitoes to relieve yourself!” “Why don’t you use an empty tin?” he suggests. “That would not bother you?” “Why should it?” he asks. “I don’t know,” I say. “I suppose because it’s so unaesthetic!”

  Tolerance, Pinsent! But why must he brush his teeth for five minutes at a time? Also, his prudishness. Will not dress in front of me. Averts his eyes when I dress. Also his preoccupation with cleanliness. Surgical procedures with dishes. After supper, we haul up buckets of water & this doesn’t count all the wood necessary to heat it. “But surely,” I plead, “one bucket will do.” So he sullenly hauls a third & fourth & burns a whole pile of wood to boil our plates, laying them in the grass to dry in the 10 p.m. dawn.

  Despite these small frictions, they got along exceptionally well. Handy, hardy, and self-sufficient, Pinsent liked the small daily pleasures of mountain life, the routine of keeping the rough wooden floor swept, the pots scoured, the knives and axes whetted, the woodpile stocked and the tins lined in the larder he built. In reaction to his mother’s chronic sloppiness, Pinsent was meticulously orderly, a quality Wittgenstein much valued, especially in such close quarters. Freed from many of these chores, Wittgenstein was again working steadily. Yet this, in turn, evoked Pinsent’s own ambivalent feelings of competition — an evanescent sense of drift. To their mutual discomfort, Pinsent even made several desultory comments about being Wittgenstein’s “servant” and “wife.” Then one afternoon Pinsent saw something hanging on the clothesline.

  23.VII.14

  … W. is on the hillside, reading in the sun, when I see it, black & flaccid, like a corset, with layered webs of rubber. I am still looking when I hear Wittgenstein call over harshly, “It’s a rupture belt.” Gratuitously, he adds, “In the spring I ruptured myself — since you are so curious.”

  His voice is daring me — I know he wants to hear nothing more of it, but I say, “Is it wise, all the lifting and heavy work you do? Won’t this make it worse?” “I’ll be concerned with that!” he retorts. He snatches up the belt & goes inside.

  The sight of it curdles me, rather. It’s like something found in childhood all shut up in a drawer & best so. Must be torture to wear it, all hot & pinching. Perhaps that is the appeal — his hair shirt …

  But the rupture belt was girding, as it were, another delicate matter: the question of what they each would do. Fall was approaching and with it the beginning of term. Wittgenstein planned to remain the winter, and it was clear to Pinsent that Wittgenstein
hoped he would remain there with him. From his side, Wittgenstein felt selfish for this wish, worrying about the effect it would have not only on Pinsent but on Flo as well. Loath as he was to admit it, Wittgenstein saw there was much truth to Flo’s fear that David would shortchange himself for his sake.

  Pinsent, meanwhile, had an inkling of something else. Wittgenstein had described the experience of his father’s death. The postmaster’s wife and then Moore had disrupted that easeful, fecund state, but Wittgenstein now said that he was beginning to recapture it. Implied was his secret wish that Pinsent might share this experience, that together they might undergo this spiritual revaluation. Like a pony feeling the accustomed knees of a rider nudging his flanks, Pinsent sensed Wittgenstein’s direction. And as he had done all his life, he stoutly resisted.

  25.VII.14

  W. has intimated this religious “experience” he had, though he is quick to add that it was not religious in the conventional Christian sense; it had, in fact, no Christian trappings whatsoever.