by Bruce Duffy
Please don’t feel obliged to write but kindly do so if you like. Mr Keynes said he will find me.
Affectionately,
Florence Pinsent
Keynes enclosed his own letter:
Dear Wittgenstein:
I’m deeply saddened to bring you bad news about Pinsent and enclose his mother’s letter with distinct uneasiness. Her doctor urged me to read it before posting it, and I hope you’ll understand that I did so with the utmost reluctance. As you may suspect, she is not “moving” at all; the news was naturally a great blow to her, and her family found it necessary to place her in Blackbriar’s sanitarium outside Birmingham after she threatened suicide and would not care for herself. Rest assured she is being well cared for. Relatives, I’m told, are assuming all expenses.
The particulars she relates about David’s death are more or less accurate. He died at Ypres the 18th of November of the cause she mentions and received several commendations. His name has been added to the growing roll of honor at Trinity.
I am well and hope you are, also. Bertie is planning to give lectures on how to reorder the world, which certainly could make it no worse. Moore is happily awaiting fatherhood, though I hear he is depressed about Cambridge, which is dreary these days with you and all its brightest lights gone. I know they both would want to join me in offering their condolences and best wishes to you at this very sad time.
Warmest regards,
Maynard
Pinsent’s death was not the only blow Wittgenstein had had of late. First there had been the news of his brother Paul, who had lost his right arm while defending the Carso plateau against repeated, and futile, Italian attacks. Then there was his brother Kurt, a lieutenant, who had died five months before, during a Russian counterattack near Rovno. At first Wittgenstein was told only the date and place where Kurt died. Some days later, though, he was told off the record what had happened: the unexpected Russian attack had been a rout and Kurt’s men deserted him, at which point Kurt shot himself in the head.
Wittgenstein’s ambivalence about Kurt did not soften his reaction. In a family in which suicide and madness ran side by side, this death seemed less a loss than a judgment, as if Kurt were a mere harbinger, to use Pinsent’s word, of his own fate. Wittgenstein left for Vienna a few weeks later, but he never told his family the true circumstances of Kurt’s death. What was the point? With two sons as suicides already, the truth would have killed his mother — the news nearly killed her as it was. Besides, he thought, who was to say a Russian had not shot him? And what if Kurt had not shot himself? The Russians probably would have killed him anyway.
All that winter the pain had been gnawing its way to the surface, but now with Pinsent gone, it was almost uncontrollable. Wittgenstein was sure he was going to die. It wasn’t just soldier’s fatalism; he was quite certain, even resigned to it. Yet he was just as determined not to be a suicide, which was doubly hard when death could be had so easily, for just a moment’s inattention. To die honorably, he had to want to live, and yet he was dead. Spring, with its coming offensives, only brought death that much closer. And then, just when Wittgenstein had thought he had sunk to the very bottom, he learned about Pinsent.
The irony was that he was at the height of his intellectual powers and he knew it, which should have been liberating but was instead a sorrow, when he saw how little had been achieved for all his efforts. His work stretched from the foundations of logic to the nature of the world, but in his own life that knowledge did him no good at all. He felt like the cormorant, that oily black waterbird the Chinese use for fishing. With an iron ring around its neck, the cormorant can’t swallow the fish it catches. But far from discouraging the greedy bird, the iron ring only makes it dive that much deeper, straining against its choker to snatch the biggest fish it can find.
This image of the predatory cormorant seemed to apply to everything in Wittgenstein’s life, even his Christianity. Now a disciple of Tolstoy, he carried the New Testament in one pocket of his tunic and Tolstoy’s Gospels in the other. He wanted to live a life of simple charity and Christian faith, a faith prior to any church. Yet while he found himself faced with all the burdens of Christian faith, he garnered none of the peace that is supposed to come with it. Ethics consumed him: it was what was most important in life, and the key to his philosophy, but it was also fundamentally silent. Ethics could not be taught or expressed; it could only be shown through an exemplary life. And the whole point of his life and work was moral — otherwise what was the point of living? He knew, without being able to logically justify it, that the good life was the happy life. So, as an ethical matter, he had resolved to be happy in order to be good, but he succeeded only in being miserable and therefore false — straining to grasp the essence of life when, like the cormorant, he couldn’t swallow it anyway.
And the ring wouldn’t release him. Here he was, a good soldier, a decorated soldier, with a reputation for being cool headed under fire and for looking after his men. But even bravery was false when he hardly cared if he lived. At times Wittgenstein envied the cowards, wondering if they weren’t the sane ones who truly cherished life. Yet those who cherished life, who were now so desperate they would do anything, even shoot themselves in the foot, to save their own skins — these men for whom he felt so responsible were the ones who, in a pinch, would probably not feel the least bit responsible for him. Lately, Wittgenstein feared he might even suffer Kurt’s fate of being deserted in battle, leaving him with a loaded pistol and a choice to make.
Breakfast arrived. Wittgenstein put his notebook away, and was going down to supervise when Ernst came to him and said, We’ve got a bad problem. Antal’s bleeding through his ears.
A crowd of men were standing around Antal’s cutaway when Ernst and Wittgenstein got there. Here, move out of the way, said Ernst, pushing through. The big Hungarian’s eyes were glazed over. A faint trickle of blood oozed out his ears and his pants were wet about the crotch. He didn’t even have the strength to brush the flies from his face. What’s the matter? asked Wittgenstein, leaning over him. Antal started weeping. I can’t hardly move. I don’t feel nothing.
His face was hot with sweat, and his body seemed oddly contorted. Turning to the other men, Wittgenstein asked, Who discovered this? Moder did, someone chimed up. He heard him getting sick last night. Then someone asked suspiciously, What’s wrong with him? And someone else replied, Typhoid, stupid. He’s got typhoid.
He doesn’t have typhoid, said Wittgenstein irritably. Now clear out. All of you.
But even as they were pulling back, more men, some from farther down the line, were crowding up to see, craning over one another’s shoulders as Antal lay there in a heap, sobbing. Wittgenstein was about to order them off again, when another man said, If it’s not typhoid, then what’s he got?
Wittgenstein was losing his temper. I’m not discussing it! Do you hear me? Now, for the last time, clear out!
Rumors were flying by the time Wittgenstein’s superior, Lieutenant Stize, arrived, dogged as always by his orderly, Krull. The son of a wealthy chocolate maker now rumored to be a black marketeer, Stize was about thirty, balding and slender, with a narrow collie’s face, a thin mustache and protuberant lips, which frequently became bibulous with tots of wine and brandy. Few senior officers, much less front-line officers, were better supplied or turned out than Stize, in his tailored, fur-collared greatcoat, kid gloves and binoculars. Rubber boots were virtually impossible to obtain, but Stize had a pair; and with lice everywhere, Stize had none, thanks to Krull, who would spend hours picking his clothes free of nits before fumigating them with ether. Short, bald and bowlegged, Krull was about fifty and had been with the lieutenant’s family from the time Stize had been a boy. Other officers had tried to bribe Krull for his secret source of starched shirts, fresh eggs and fruit, brandy and caviar. Krull told them to keep their money, having already made a bundle on the black market selling the surfeit of chocolate and other dainties from Stize’s cache, which
not even that truffle swine Grundhardt had been able to sniff out.
Krull was a cool one. At the whistle of the first shell, while his master was cravenly diving for cover, Krull would be meandering along, watching the sky with all the crafty grace of a man who somehow knows he’ll come through without a scratch. Stize had no such certainty and spent every possible moment in the safety of the officers’ dugout, a deeply mined room thirty-five feet underground that was decorated like a Viennese café, with a gramophone, wooden floors, booths and fake curtained windows painted with Alpine scenes by an officer who had studied under Kokoschka. Stize would have made a brilliant supply officer and, with Krull’s help, kept their mess well provisioned with jam and real coffee and even fresh meat. When Prince Primkin admired his patent precision Solingen steel cigar clipper, Stize quickly had one engraved with the prince’s initials and, with the most high-flown and abasing rhetoric, presented it to him at his birthday party. Truly, Stize’s sole purpose in the war, so far as Wittgenstein could see, was to strengthen his shaky social connections. Stize was especially anxious to ingratiate himself with the prince, a lanky unhorsed cavalryman and wag in his mid-thirties, with a red drinker’s face and a sad little belly. The prince loved to cavort with the young officers, but Stize, as a Jew, was not part of that set. Indeed, their main interest in Stize seemed to be his extraordinary ability to procure the unprocurable. That and his willingness, in these days of rampant inflation, to lend sums of money at no interest — that is, when it advanced his social interests.
Stize dearly wanted a staff position, but because he had no connections his petitions went nowhere. If only he could have been a general’s aide! Stize was something of a military history buff and could regale staff officers touring the front with tales of Napoleon’s troubles in Russia or passionate discourses on the effectiveness of the square against cavalry, complete with faulty allusions to Homeric battles. Of course, these digressions had absolutely nothing to do with trench warfare, but that was precisely why they held such deep appeal for his superiors, with their inbred love of the arcane, byzantine and impractical. The fact was that Stize was one of those remarkable talkers who is knowledgeable about, and good at, virtually everything except what he is responsible for. Stize was positively inspired when advising others on how they might better do their jobs. He was likewise brilliant at inventing unwieldy procedures and unmanageable schedules, and was forever off on some trumped-up business, seeming to truly believe that the success of their sector of the front depended on his tact and diplomacy. He was always full of new ideas. In the washroom of some rear area, he would run into Duke X, a confused eminence with a three-hyphen title, who would hardly have buckled himself back together before the indefatigable lieutenant would be sharing his brainstorm about booting horses to guard against hoof disease and muffle their sound. For the next two days in the officers’ mess, Stize would talk up his meeting and his idea, blithely unaware that by then Duke X had forgotten their conversation and his name, remembering only the name of Napoleon’s horse or some other tidbit that Stize had left with him. So horses went bootless and Stize’s petitions went bootless as well. Around subordinates, Stize was vague, evasive and imprecise, concealing his uneasiness with pompousness and sloughing off problems.
Now, looking at the sick man, working at the pliant kid of his gloves, Stize pettishly said, Well, do you know what’s wrong with him?
Leaning forward, Wittgenstein whispered the rumor. Taking a discreet step back, Stize asked, And is it true?
Wittgenstein shook his head. I don’t know, sir. But it is turning into a nasty rumor. That’s why these men are standing around.
Stize glared at him like an inept waiter who had served him from the wrong side. Well, tell them to get out. He was unusually decisive. Krull, he said, turning to his man. Have a stretcher sent back. Then he turned to Ernst. Corporal, why are all these men idling about? Clear the area.
Ernst tried to move the men, but they just shuffled back a few paces, then continued milling. Stize, meanwhile, pretended not to notice this insubordination. In Stize’s mind, the men had obeyed: they had moved, even if they hadn’t moved much. In fact, in view of things, he seemed to think the little maneuver was highly satisfactory. Yes, Stize acted as if he had moved mountains as he stood there, cloaked in arrogant authority while discipline crumbled around him. Turning to Wittgenstein, Stize raised his eyes, as if to ask, Are we through? But Wittgenstein wasn’t through.
Sir, he asked. May I have a word with you? Leading him around the traverse, Wittgenstein told him about the previous night’s incident and his prime suspect, Grundhardt.
He’s a big problem, sir, said Wittgenstein. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t partly responsible for this typhoid scare.
Stize had heard this before. Here you go, he said, blaming this Grundhardt for everything. I agree the man’s a bad apple, but unfortunately we need every apple we can get right now, bad or otherwise. You have no evidence.
I’ve tried to get evidence, sir. Nobody will report him.
Stize eyed him wearily. Well, then you’re stuck with a bad apple, aren’t you?
True, sir, said Wittgenstein, trying to contain his anger. But might the bad apple spoil the whole barrel?
The whole barrel? Delighted now to do some truly serious posturing, Stize shook his head with a condescending smile. Sergeant, in this square mile where we stand, there are countless bad apples. And that’s not even counting the Russian bad apples. In any case, Sergeant, with so many bad apples around us, and with so many soured apples, besides — the lieutenant took a dramatic breath — well, how are you sure that your bad apple is the rotten one? Then, smiling in anticipation of his wit, Stize said dismissively, Make applesauce, Sergeant, make applesauce. Now, I must go. I’ve a staff meeting in fifteen minutes.
Sir, said Wittgenstein, trying to make one last point. Since you’ll be at that meeting, I’d like to remind you of the increased activity our patrols are noticing in the Russian lines. Also, of the fact that they seem to be digging forward reserve trenches. They’ll be making rapid progress now with the flooding over.
Stize waved him off. We’re watching the situation closely, Sergeant. Intelligence says the Russians have nowhere near the shells they need to mount an effective offensive. Their reserves are down, as is morale, and aerial reconnaissance shows negligible movement in their rear areas. No immediate cause for alarm, I assure you. Stize swatted his gloves against his hand and looked around. Ah, here’s the stretcher. Good. Very good. I’ll notify the medical officer of the rumors — suppose they may want to boil the water or something. You’ll be apprised of the diagnosis once it’s available.
The men were still milling around as Stize returned Wittgenstein’s salute, then left with Krull to make one more pitch for booting horses. And watching them with a grin was Grundhardt, tossing his privates in his pockets like so much spare change.
A few minutes later, once the Hungarian had been carried off and the men had been dispersed on work details, Wittgenstein spoke to Grundhardt. They were alone in an empty dugout dimly lit by a smoking kerosene lamp. The cold earth smelled of mildew and gave off fumes from their urine, an ammonia smell that burned his eyes.
Wittgenstein brought the lamp closer to Grundhardt and said, I don’t suppose you know who started this typhoid rumor?
Zealously, Grundhardt replied, It’s no rumor. Everybody knows it. There’s an epidemic. The Russians gave it to us, the Jews gave it to the Russians, and God gave it to the Jews. I’ve seen typhus — I know. Like little flies I’ve seen the children brought from their houses. In the gutters and in swarms by the roads, I’ve seen —
Shut up! Wittgenstein felt he had to beat him back. Had Grundhardt said that grass was green, Wittgenstein would have denied it. It’s not typhus, he said. And if I hear you spreading any more of this nonsense, I’m going to have you charged with sabotage. Do you know you can be shot for sabotage?
Grundhardt stared at him fiercely. R
ationally, Wittgenstein could see through his sham — there was something puffed up and ludicrous about him — but even so he felt the hair bristle on the back of his neck. Hunkered like a wolf, with low gray eyes, Grundhardt smelled his fear and exploited it. Floundering now, Wittgenstein said, This is your last warning, Grundhardt.
But Grundhardt just eyed him contemptuously and said, Why should I waste my breath? You’ll see — Antal won’t be the last.
Later, Ernst laid his hand on Wittgenstein’s shoulder and said with a squeeze, Did you get the little rat straightened out?
It was an innocent squeeze, just the corporal’s way of establishing contact. How many times had Wittgenstein been walking in the darkness only to feel Ernst clap him on the arm? The gesture meant much more to Wittgenstein than it did to Ernst — that’s why it made Wittgenstein so nervous. Besides, Ernst was his friend, and the feelings Wittgenstein sometimes had for him were, to Wittgenstein’s way of thinking, not suitable for friends, much less for the army.
In that sense Wittgenstein’s friendship with Pinsent had been easy: Pinsent wasn’t his type. But the confident, rough-looking Ernst was. For the most part, Wittgenstein had done well at burying his desires, but then a bulging calf, a bare back or a pair of white buttocks in the stinging antiseptic steam of a delousing shower, would spoil everything. Why? Wittgenstein wondered. It was just hair, muscle, skin. Why did he find these details so overwhelming?
In Tolstoy’s Gospels, the temptations were so homey and simple by comparison. A peasant working in a field would look up and see a devil with little goat’s horns peeping down from a stunted tree, urging him to take a drink or a pinch of snuff. But the peasant’s sin was small potatoes and his devil a mere pipsqueak compared to the devil of lust. And undergirding it all was despair — these periodic urges for sex were always an index of his despair.
