by Bruce Duffy
Wittgenstein saw all this and more. Pointedly, he said, Max — let’s take off the bags.
Trying to smooth things over, meanwhile, Moore said to Russell, Well, Miss Loubry tells us that congratulations are in order.
Congratulations? asked Russell.
I mean the fact that you’re to be a father again.
Oh — Russell nodded hastily. Yes … She is that — pregnant, I mean. Due soon, I’m afraid. I thought I had told you. Actually, Dora’s upstairs with a bad headache, unfortunately. Should be down for dinner, though. I see I am very remiss. She did ask me to offer her greetings.
I’m sure you both must be very happy, ventured Dorothy.
Oh, indeed, said Russell evasively. Indeed. But Russell didn’t look so happy, and in his anxiety to deflect the conversation, he said without thinking, But here … Let me introduce my own two children …
Russell inwardly cringed as he said it but didn’t dare dig the hole deeper by qualifying it. Shepherding forth a round-faced, brown-haired boy with sheer blue eyes, Russell said, This is my son, John … my fearless explorer. And this, he said, patting the pudding-bowl bob of a slender girl who presented herself at vulnerable, pretty-please attention, this is my daughter, Kate.
This was done efficiently, if somewhat hastily; the guests scarcely had time to do the requisite handshaking and talking before Russell rather ostentatiously introduced some of the other children who had run outside, as if to make it plain that at Beacon Hill there were no favorites.
Max seemed to have a knack for children. Showing off, he held two happily squealing boys upside-down by their feet. The children were drawn to him as to an inviting tree, and not just children, either. Lily, Dorothy noticed, had come out again and was now sitting on the porch, her expression somewhere between wounded and wistful. And then, rather suddenly, Russell began his standard tour narrative, pointing up to his tower, then to his prize lightning rods, all the while stealing looks at Lily, who was pretending not to be looking at Max.
They saw outside themselves as in circles, as in pictures, each opening into another, a little at a time. By the car with Max, meanwhile, Wittgenstein was feeling very much out of the picture. Russell, the school, the children, the long time away — it conjured a lot in him, mainly loss. Untying the ropes on the roof rack, Wittgenstein had watched as Russell introduced his children to the Moores, noticing not Russell’s daughter but the boy, the son. And it was not just the boy but the bond that Wittgenstein felt; it was Russell’s deep and abiding pride as he squired his splendid son forth to say a few words to Moore, whom he explained like a piece of history. Russell, he knew, would not give him such an introduction. He was all too keenly aware of a certain clubbishness in the way Russell introduced his son to Moore, as if Russell were conscious of Moore not merely as a fellow father but, as it were, a real father — a father with sons.
Looking at them then, Wittgenstein was filled with envy and grief for the unfairness of it — that for some people life could swiftly change for the better, while for others like himself, it seemed to never change, the general direction of life, with all its manifold defects and deflections, seemingly foreordained in its downward trajectory.
But Max was also weighing on Wittgenstein’s mind then. Wittgenstein was furious at him for having embarrassed Moore, and now, in his jealousy at seeing Russell with his son, he was all the more ready to vent his anger on Max. Speaking under his breath in German, Wittgenstein warned him again about Russell. And then, almost against his better judgment, he added:
And quit your games with that girl.
What games? Max demanded.
You know perfectly well what games. Do you think I’m blind?
But Max wouldn’t budge. With a shrug, he said, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wittgenstein. That girl means nothing to me.
Looks That Alight Like Flies
BUT DIDN’T YOU THINK it was peculiar? Dorothy was whispering to Moore during the ten minutes they had alone in their spartan room before rejoining the others downstairs. And what about the way Bertie interrupted me and said, But let me introduce my own children. Quite as if they were his children and not hers! Who does he think he is? Abraham?
Dorothy was on to something. Maundering Moore was changing his socks as she continued:
And what about that woman standing on the porch? You saw her. The queer, athletic-looking one with the dark hair? Don’t give me that lost look — you saw her staring at him. Staring at that poor Lily, too. As Bertie was —
Well? Face red, Moore was leaning over the bed, pulling on his left shoe as he said, I don’t see what you expect me to say. That it’s odd? Well, of course it’s odd — I expected as much, so why bother about it? Can’t we, please, go down and have a glass of sherry? Can’t we merely sit for a while, without the analysis?
We can, said Dorothy dubiously. Only I feel more comfortable knowing. It’s not mere nosiness, you know.
Moore put on his other shoe, then stood up as Dorothy, flicking a toothbrush, said decisively, Very well, then. But do admit this much: there was something going on between Max and Miss Loubry in the front seat.
Moore closed his eyes. I don’t know that. Nor do you. Not for certain. Moore added evasively, I heard no protest from her.
Oh, come on, said Dorothy, dropping her head. The poor girl was probably petrified.
Now Moore was getting agitated, thinking she was calling his courage into question.
Then why, if you knew — why didn’t you tell me? I’d have spoken up. And anyway, where was Wittgenstein, if it was all so obvious? Moore stared straight at her, then said, It’s hard to act when you’re not sure. And I’m not so blind, either, I’ll have you know. I see rather more than you think.
Dorothy nodded emphatically. I know you do. You also think more than you think. Or say.
So? said Moore, drawing himself up. I suppose I find it necessary. As they say in cooking, reserve some of the liquid.
Well, you might reserve a little less liquid.
So I might, he said in that brusque way he had when he wanted to sever a conversation. Dorothy did not want to press it and followed him outside, where they found the hallway empty, the doors shut.
But who else stays up here, I wonder? whispered Dorothy as they started down the unlit back stairs. Careful, she said, and she clutched his arm, ever aware of his worsening vision in the dark. Oop — she held him back — Wait, there’s water there. Do you see it? To your left, my sweet, to your left. Mind the water …
Moore sorely wanted a drink, but first Russell took them for a short tour of the grounds. Here Russell was much the squire. Wanting especially to dash any image of the school as being primitive or ill-equipped, he took special pride in showing them the laboratory and then, mostly for Wittgenstein’s benefit, the workshop with its child-size benches.
Russell could scarcely manage a screwdriver, but he sounded quite savvy as he led Wittgenstein to the back of the shop, saying, And here is our wood lathe.
Taking his cue, Wittgenstein turned the screw and felt the edges of the wood chisels. He nodded his emphatic approval. I had no idea, he said. Most impressive. And the children use these machines?
Well, replied Russell, only the older ones use the lathe. But they use them quite ably, just as they do the chemicals in the laboratory. Oh, some cuts and splinters, but nothing serious — it’s the child who has never seen these things who seriously hurts himself. Yes, we think handwork and practical instruction are most important. There’s much more to education than academics, don’t you agree?
Here again Wittgenstein was in vigorous agreement, saying, I gave some of my boys such instruction. More in the standards of craftsmanship than technique. We did not have such fine tools available, unfortunately.
And not your girls? asked Russell, unable to resist. They received no instruction?
They did not take such an interest, said Wittgenstein with a look of discomfort. Many of the boys were from farms and had
some experience with tools. The seeds were sown already.
I see, said Russell, but he did not press it. Feeling he had redeemed his school from the status of a nudist colony, he was a good bit more relaxed. But as they crossed through the dusky beeches that enclosed the tennis lawn, Russell saw his guests eyeing the burned grass and the gutted shed, whereupon he — ever the punster — remarked, Well, every school has its bad apple. At Beacon Hill, we have a Peck.
Russell was explaining his pun and the situation surrounding it as they went back inside.
I’ll tell you more about it later if you’ve an interest, he said as he led them down a long hallway, past a wall the children had painted with a seascape of starfish, sea horses and a Viking ship. But first let me conclude my little tour by showing you the children’s dining room.
Then we won’t be eating with them? asked Moore, trying to disguise his relief.
Oh, no. We do eat with them often, but not tonight, no. Rather to the annoyance of his guests, Russell continued in that same nervous, somewhat pedantic tone, We always introduce guests to the children. After all, this is the children’s house. We do try to spare them from that class sense of two quite separate worlds, one for adults and one for children, with different rights for each. We feel these introductions relieve the children of that forbidding sense of foreignness that visiting adults carry with them. I know I always hated it, that seen-and-not-heard syndrome of our parents.
So saying, Russell ushered them into the brightly painted dining room, where the children could be heard amid a clabber of utensils and scraping stools. In its smell, the warm room was redolent of Hall, with an aroma of overcooked meat and vegetables and, mixed with it, the slightly sour custard smell of children, happily sunburned and dirty from a long day playing in the hot sun. Lily was there. Besmocked and helping with the serving, she flushed like a grouse when she saw Max loom in the doorway, inquisitive, predatory. Stealthily, she slipped back into the kitchen, evading not only Max and the headmaster but also Miss Marmer, who was supervising the meal. For thirty minutes, Miss Marmer had been awaiting the headmaster, and it was on her cue that the children jumped up and repeated in a hilarious, faltering singsong:
Wel-COME — come-to — Bea-Con HILL — to-Bea-con Hill — to Hill …
It was charming how the children giddily clapped and laughed. But look, Dorothy whispered to Moore, look for God’s sake at that queer boy gnawing on his arm as if it were a great red drumstick!
I would guess, ventured Moore, that that’s Bertie’s pyromaniac.
Lovely. Then — just so there’d be no confusion later — Dorothy said with a veiled look toward Miss Marmer, That’s the woman we saw on the porch — the athletic-looking one I mentioned.
But there was no need for Dorothy to point her out. Smiling nervously, Miss Marmer tiptoed over, leaning a little too close to the bewildered guests as she introduced herself with spectral friendliness as Winnifred Marmer. Lily, not wanting to be accused of lollygagging, had reemerged from the kitchen with a pitcher of milk — fresh pasteurized milk, Russell added — that she seemed to take forever pouring as she fluttered there, staring at Max. Miss Marmer, meanwhile, made a point, either for Russell’s benefit or out of simple curiosity, of going up to Max and peering at his great chest while asking in amazement:
And you, sir? Are you an athlete?
Nein, said Max, giving her a murderous flick off with his eyes.
Russell didn’t tarry then. But as they were leaving, Dorothy and Moore saw once more the looks zipping from Russell to Lily to Max to Miss Marmer. And then on Miss Marmer’s cue the children jumped up a second time, shrilly singing:
GOOD-night-GOO-night-night — night …
Oh, that was him, was it?
It was out of an embarrassed sense of politeness that Dorothy feigned surprise when Russell identified the arm-gnawing boy as his shed burner.
They were drinking sherry, and Russell was telling of his woes with the boy, or rather about the woes of schoolmastering, which led to another short disquisition about the school and its educational methods. These, he said, were essentially eclectic, experimental and evolving, with new approaches being tried as others were discarded as impractical or ineffective. Of paramount political importance to him and Dora, Russell said, was that their school be as “uncoercive” as possible. Sitting back in his chair, Russell was saying:
The key, I think, is to reduce external discipline to a minimum. By setting the child largely free, he can, for the most part, learn on his own, and at his own speed. Not that it’s easy. Trusting the impulses of children is often very difficult and trying, but we’re convinced that this is the only really good way that children learn. You can’t just teach democracy. We feel we must try, as a school, to be one. In fact, our school council is comprised of children and adults, each with only one vote.
And they don’t take advantage of that? asked Moore.
Oh, sometimes they do, of course. The child who has been overdisciplined always does at first. For a week he may go wild, but usually he quickly gets over it, especially once he’s been around the other children. Last year, the school council voted out all rules. We didn’t oppose it. Russell smiled. For a day we had anarchy, but since everyone did what he pleased, the children saw they also had no regular meals, or bedtime stories, or anyone to mend their clothes. Two days later, tired, grubby and sick of jam and bread, they most gratefully voted back all rules. I must say it was an exceedingly valuable lesson. How many adults know what anarchy is really like?
As Russell had expected, though, Wittgenstein and Max looked dubious. Gulping his second sherry, Max said cheerfully, So they are free to burn down your little house.
Shed, you mean, corrected Russell.
Shed, house, sure. Max broke into a grin. They learn about fire!
Well, intoned Russell, with a look of irritation, this, I must say, is the exception. Rabe Peck is his mother’s creation, not ours. Normally, when we have a child given to abnormal sexual fantasies — morbid preoccupations with sex or violence and the like — we encourage him to talk about it to his heart’s content. The normal child usually quickly gets over it, but our shed burner, I’m afraid, is beyond that. We don’t claim to be able to help children with problems of his magnitude. But again the problem is usually the parents. My friend A. S. Neill — the one who runs that allegedly daft Summerhill school the papers are always attacking — well, he has a boy of six who craps his pants six times daily. Neill’s was the only school in England that would take him. Evidently the boy’s mother, a quite wealthy, educated woman, ventured to teach the child by making him eat it.
Strangling the sherry decanter, Max said with a laugh, Give this burner to your friend Neill!
I’d like to! hoofed Russell agreeably. Everyone laughed — everyone but Wittgenstein.
Now Ludwig, continued Max, spilling a bit of sherry on the sideboard, Ludwig, he was a strong teacher in our town. Oh, he made the children learn good, but, whack! you know, when they do the bad things or will not hear. But they learned this way, the children.
We just discussed this on the train, Wittgenstein broke in petulantly. Max makes it sound as if all I did was keep order. In fact, I was part of the reform movement in Austria after the war. On the whole, it was very enlightened — very progressive, our system, especially compared to the drilling of the old state system. I disciplined, yes, but I took great pains always to be consistent. Consistency is what children need most. More than sheer brute discipline.
And a certain amount of compulsion, agreed Russell with a knowing look and a nod to Max. Not to mention sheer instruction. This, I think, is where Dora and I differ with Neill and other liberal educators. As we’ve learned here — and rather painfully, I’m afraid — certain steps do have to be taken to impart a requisite amount of learning. Much as we want to create an atmosphere of freedom, we know that children can’t completely be turned loose and be expected to get it all themselves. To our chagrin, we’ve also
found that steps also have to be taken to keep the bigger ones from terrorizing the smaller ones, which inevitably means you’re stuck with putting them in classes, as if you were breeding chickens. With a hapless smile, Russell added, Like it or not, the school really does become a kind of microcosm of the state, with all the same virtues and deficiencies. One wishes we didn’t need the police and the army, but I’m afraid that, to some extent, this is the case. The mystery, it seems to me, is how to instill order and discipline without stifling the creativity that stems from these same chaotic, generative impulses. Seeing he was nigh on making a speech, Russell looked at Wittgenstein, then switched course. But as I recall, it was not the children but again the parents who were your problem. Russell laughed to himself. I’ll never forget that one letter you sent me — the one you sent me in China? You know the one I’m referring to?
I remember, said Wittgenstein with a rueful expression. When I wrote that the Trattenbachers were rotten?
“Wicked” is the word I remember.
I said wicked? Wittgenstein asked. Well, if I did, I was wrong — they were much too small to be called wicked.
Oh, they was not so bad, scoffed Max, growing more sociable with the warmth of the sherry. Why bad? These people have no money after the war — you English see to that. And they fear of this one, he said with a nod to Wittgenstein. Sure. They fear him because they think he is rich and talks like rich. Then something occurred to him, and he said excitedly, Ludwig! Do you tell them how you fixed the big train engine?
What’s this? asked Russell.
Wittgenstein frowned, then said, A locomotive had broken down. It was the only train linking the village with a mill on which the village heavily depended. Several engineers came to look at it and said it couldn’t be fixed — not in the village. They said it would have to be shipped back in pieces to Wiener Neustadt. For the village this would have been ruinous. Wittgenstein sat there like an engine idling, then hurried the story to conclusion, saying, So, I asked to examine the train. And after an hour, he said with a shrug, I fixed it.
