by Bruce Duffy
Yes, Wittgenstein conceded. I suppose it is odd. But —
There was laughter then as, from the back of the hall, someone said, Professor Moore? Did I just hear a voice? Did someone in this room just put a question to you?
He did, agreed Moore with a smile. Do you not see my interrogator?
I heard only a voice, a voice was all, said the student amid the general titter. I — I confess I do not see him.
Nor do I see you! muttered Wittgenstein, whirling around on the clown. I see nothing worth hearing.
Zounds! exclaimed the clown. It’s that ghostly voice again.
Facing back around, Wittgenstein could still see an afterimage of his tormentor, rubicund and handsome, with a supercilious smirk. But even more infuriating to Wittgenstein was the red-haired runt sitting beside the clown, delightedly snorting into his clenched hand.
Very well, harrumphed Moore. Let us continue now.
And with that, Moore resumed his catalogue, but for the rest of the period Wittgenstein sat there, burning, burning …
Pinsent
IF RUSSELL had figured on Wittgenstein’s meeting Moore, and perhaps even Strachey and Keynes, he hadn’t counted on other rivals. But then one unseasonably warm day in late February, Wittgenstein was energetically walking along the Backs when he saw the red-haired runt from Moore’s class — the one who’d laughed at that clown who professed not to see him.
The clown was not the first to have taken on Wittgenstein’s mounting notoriety, but he was the only undergraduate to have effectively silenced him. Even now, before class, the clown would fumble blindly past Wittgenstein’s chair, his mouth gaping in mock terror as he intoned in mongrel echoes of Shakespeare, Is this a doubter I see before me, head turned toward my face? Is this indeed my seat? Am I — I? Oh, fie, fie, Fleance!
Wittgenstein made a few desultory comebacks, but none that met with any success: the clown was much too clever to stray from his own comic ground. And the red-haired runt — Red Hair, Wittgenstein called him — took such delight in Wittgenstein’s frustration; he seemed to have it in for him. Several times Red Hair had rushed to Moore’s defense, displaying more terrier courage than savvy as he countered Wittgenstein’s arguments. For someone so young, Red Hair had not argued badly. Grudgingly, Wittgenstein could see there was brilliance in him. Worse, Moore seemed to have taken Red Hair under his wing. Several times, Wittgenstein had seen them walking across the Common, impetuous Red Hair holding forth while Moore shambled along, sucking his pipe.
Wittgenstein had considered asking Moore just who this Red Hair was, but he held back, not wanting to admit having noticed him. Wittgenstein felt the same reluctance today. Red Hair was standing below him on the grassy banks of the Cam near King’s College. Red Hair was staring at the upper branches of a tree, looking — at what? A bird? A bird. A brown, sharp-beaked bird with a spotted white breast.
Why even approach on such a flimsy pretext? Wittgenstein asked himself. He so dreaded the spring, that feeling of the world straining once more to break forth, wheezing under the boggish damps and drizzle like an air-starved hurdy-gurdy. On his chest, Wittgenstein felt that weight like a croup, a weight such as trees must feel, struggling to evince new leaves. He was in a bad way. Another quarrel with Russell. More “nerves” and misunderstanding, the two of them like a pair of crossed eyes, with neither focus nor perspective.
Why this need to talk to this stranger? Why even try when Red Hair seemed so callow and obnoxious? Drawing closer, Wittgenstein saw from the state of his clothes that Red Hair was rather poor. His dull brown shoes were cracked with old polish, and his short, square trousers bore the sheen of too many pressings. But what Wittgenstein most noticed was the bunchy blue blazer that Red Hair was wearing. It was a boys’ school blazer: Wittgenstein could still see the outlines of a school crest on the breast pocket. Think of his shame, thought Wittgenstein, to have to wear this boys’ school relic among his well-heeled peers. With his ruddy, chubby cheeks, all Red Hair needed to complete the picture was a striped cap and Eton collar.
Red Hair started as Wittgenstein approached. His very vulnerability emboldened Wittgenstein, who said in an unconsciously martial tone, The bird — Tell me, please, what kind is this?
Pinsent, came Red Hair with a queer, twitchy look.
A pinsent? asked Wittgenstein quizzically. This is what you call this bird?
Beg your pardon? replied Red Hair, scowling. And then, cocking his head, he made a sudden turn so that Wittgenstein flinched involuntarily, thinking, for a moment, that Red Hair meant to strike him. In a huff now, Red Hair demanded, What! What d’ye say?
In the pressure of the moment, this colloquialism delivered in such a furious rush rattled Wittgenstein, who nervously parroted, What? What?
Spreading his fingers impatiently, Red Hair emphatically enunciated, I asked, What is it you said?
And I asked you what is this bird, and you said it was a pinsent? Correct?
I’m Pinsent, said the boy, rolling his eyes. That’s a mistle thrush. Just in early for the spring, you know. A harbinger.
But — Wittgenstein was twisted up again — a thrush, it is a harbinger?
No, a thrrr-ush is a thrrr-ush. Rolling the R’s, the intonation harsh and British. Red Hair continued, A harbinger is one thing that signals the approach of another. The thrrrush that presages the approach of spring.
Stung, Wittgenstein said almost sorrowfully, It is for me a new word. Wittgenstein closed his eyes as if he were fixing these words like photographic exposures into his memory. But when he opened them, he saw the boy still eyeing him, owlish, guarded. And then Wittgenstein had that awkward feeling of embarrassed silence, of privacy having been breached. He would have fled then had not Pinsent asked peevishly, Do you really believe the things you say in Moore’s class?
Wittgenstein found the question so incredible that he leaned forward, his eyes widening. Believe them? Whatever do you mean?
I dunno … You seem so … arbitrary. Arbitrary for the sake of being arbitrary.
Do I? retorted Wittgenstein, glaring. Well, you seem to me rude, to laugh at me. And no understanding. So very rude. You and your friend — that fool.
He’s not my friend. Red Hair gave a sassy squint. And he’s no fool, either.
He is so amusing, do you think? What does he offer, is it? Rudeness. Rubbish and stupidity only. Jokes are not arguments.
Pinsent smiled foolishly. No, but they’re funny.
Are they? Well, you will have to tell me, please, your own ideas. They are, I am sure, very original, to make such jokes.
As is your bullying. Red Hair held his ground. You do excel at that.
Normally, Wittgenstein would have broken away in disgust, but he wasn’t about to let himself be beaten, not by this one. And despite Red Hair’s defiance, Wittgenstein sensed he was winning. The boy was not so confident. Wittgenstein could see the wavering eyes, the hesitancy — the boy could be cracked, and Wittgenstein dearly wanted to crack him. They were on his ground now; Wittgenstein would teach this youngster a lesson. And it worked, his glacial stare. Pinsent did waver. Only a momentary failure of nerve, but exploitable.
Somewhat chastised, Pinsent offered, We laugh because you’re so awfully serious — so cocksure of yourself. Especially compared to Moore. It’s not just Moore’s arguments, you know. It’s Moore’s spirit you don’t understand.
I understand Moore. Nodding huffily. As much as necessary.
There you go! Pinsent turned his scattery red hair against the wind. What an egregiously arrogant thing to say!
With what scowling relish did Pinsent chew and spit out the word “egregiously.” Regretting this show of ill temper, Wittgenstein was more conciliatory as he asked, You are a friend of Moore’s?
Pinsent eyed him uneasily. I suppose I am.
Then I am sorry. Wittgenstein reverted to formality. I was wrong to speak this way.
Oh, please — you needn’t be polite.
It is not to b
e polite merely. Wittgenstein’s jaw tightened. I do respect Moore. Not that I agree with him much.
No, offered Pinsent after a moment. You do not.
They were stuck then, each unsure how to continue but neither stepping away, until Wittgenstein finally ventured, A first-year man, you are?
Second, said Pinsent, looking a little hurt. Then with a glance he added, I was put forward a form. In school, I mean.
Oh. Wittgenstein nodded, then asked suddenly, Will you walk on?
We can, replied Pinsent, dubious. He looked rather surprised.
Wittgenstein had started walking slowly, when Pinsent looked up, clouds reflected in his thickish glasses as he asked, Might you walk to this side of me? To my right, I mean. I don’t hear well in my left ear. In fact, I can hardly hear in it at all. That’s why I mistook your original question — about the bird.
Oh — Startled, Wittgenstein turned like someone leading an unsteady foal as Pinsent, with a peculiar clopping gait, picked up behind him, pricking up his one good ear.
The Wall
WITHIN A WEEK, they were almost inseparable.
Between classes or going to supper, they could be seen together, Wittgenstein walking in clipped strides, speaking and gesticulating, and Pinsent racing after him with that clumsy clop step, his head turned as from a blow as he raised his stubby arm in objection.
“‘His Master’s Voice,’” Russell wrote Ottoline, describing the two. “Wittgenstein’s new friend reminds me of the white dog pictured on the Victrolas in the way he inclines his head to the stream of words issuing from Wittgenstein. I haven’t the faintest who the lad is & haven’t asked. Suppose I must wait until I’m introduced.”
Felt a bit left out, Russell did. Nor did Wittgenstein help matters with his awkward secrecy. Russell tried to be understanding about it, telling Ottoline and himself that it was only healthy for a young man to have friends his own age. But still it nagged him, as did Moore’s own growing interest in Wittgenstein.
I can well understand your high opinion of him, Moore told Russell one night at supper. At my lectures, Wittgenstein always looks puzzled. Nobody else looks so puzzled as he does. In my third class he lodged a very serious objection, and then two more the next. Then in his laconic way Moore added, It’s evident he’s much cleverer than I.
I wouldn’t say that, protested Russell. It struck Moore as distinctly odd, Russell’s scandalized air: Russell acted as if Moore had said this of him.
Oh, no. Moore waved him off. It is true. Wittgenstein is cleverer. More profound as well, I expect. I don’t mind about it.
Moore didn’t mean to elicit protests to the contrary; he was merely stating a fact. Russell didn’t take it as such. To him, Moore was only flaunting his legendary lack of vanity. And couldn’t Moore bill and coo now, thought Russell, with his wedding but a month away. Oh, Russell got the point, all right. Moore was saying, Unlike you, Russell, I have another life now. Unlike you, I am not saddled with ambition. Unlike you, I can marry and have children.
These little incidents, the chaff of days, piled up, and Russell continued to brood. One day, for instance, Moore remarked on his surprise that Wittgenstein was musical.
I had no idea, said Moore. Wittgenstein, I think, was rather surprised to learn that I sing. We talked a good while about that, and I said I would have to get my music sometime. I thought Miss Ely — Dorothy, I mean — em, perhaps she might play for us. Moore smiled. Wittgenstein said he can whistle anything — even piano and violin parts. Have you ever heard him whistle?
Whistle? The vestigial scold and prig appeared from behind the arras, saying with evident disdain, No, never.
Russell thought he sounded impeccably neutral, if with a slight edge, but to Moore, who was now hearing things himself, the translation was, We’ve better things to do than whistle. Again, Moore sensed in Russell that unmistakable air of ownership. Always that need to remind him that Wittgenstein was his student, his future. As if Moore had designs on him! As far as Moore was concerned, Russell could have Wittgenstein! Disturbing as this possessive air was, Moore was just as alarmed by Russell’s seeming blindness to Wittgenstein’s darker currents. But Moore’s chief concern now was Wittgenstein’s mounting influence on Pinsent.
Russell bridled when Moore raised his fears one wet day as they passed on the Common. Like dust, the blowing mist clung to their black gowns. Stooped under the black eave of his umbrella, his hair dripping, Moore resembled a bust of Cicero. It was hardly a place to talk, but Moore asked Russell rather suddenly if he didn’t think Wittgenstein was — well, unhappy. Moore was exceedingly cautious in how he couched it, but Russell still took it personally. For Russell, there was no distance now. Moore was implying that Russell was acting selfishly and irresponsibly, saddling Wittgenstein with his own frustrations and disappointments. The problem, Russell heard Moore saying, was not Wittgenstein but him.
Please, emphasized Moore, who could see this was going over badly. Don’t take this wrongly. But do you think Wittgenstein is entirely stable?
Oh, no. He’s quite mad!
Hoping to combat absurdity with absurdity, Russell then said testily, Come, now. Do you think it’s all that grim? Hovering there with a queasy look, Moore wasn’t at all attuned to Russell’s lacerating attempt at satire. Well, of course I’m joking! Russell added with a flaring grin. What I mean is, you must know Wittgenstein on his terms. As opposed to my terms. Or your own.
Knowing he had overreacted, Russell ventured another laugh, to show his easy unconcern. But the patronizing tone that capped off this laugh only antagonized Moore, who waded in, saying, Well, all the same, I’ve wondered. Also, a student of mine, David Pinsent, mentioned some things.
What things?
Again, Moore felt that irritating proprietal tone. With a look of discomfort, he hedged. I misspoke just now — I was told in confidence. Nothing awful, you understand, but still matters of concern.
This student, asked Russell, inclining his head under his umbrella, he’s red haired? A short fellow?
That’s him. You’ve met?
No, but I’ve seen them together. Your student, is he?
No, he’s not my student, said Moore, giving a dig in return. I’m his adviser. Pinsent’s also reading philosophy. He took a first in mathematics in his Little Go last year — quite gifted. Moore’s eyes moved up and down. I rather thought you knew him.
Well, I don’t —
Well, said Moore, drawing up his shoulders. This can be kept between us, I think. My concern is that Pinsent is young — three or four years younger than Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein’s already made a sufficiently strong impression on him, if you know what I mean. I’d hate to see Pinsent — shall we say, knocked off course. That’s roughly my concern —
Feeling that he had made his point, Moore abruptly stopped. Unfortunately, he had said too much and not enough. All he’d done was raise Russell’s hackles.
No, Russell wasn’t giving in to this meddling. With all the focused attention of a boy pulling the wings off a fly, Russell slowly nodded, watching a bead of rain inch down Moore’s brow before he gave a frosty Good afternoon.
It did not sit well at all with Russell that Pinsent was one of Moore’s lads — one of his “fleas,” as he called them. And this still left begging the fact that Russell was seeing Wittgenstein less at a time when Russell increasingly needed him, and not just professionally.
Russell tried to put it all in proportion. The problem was not them, he thought, it was the nature of the work, advancing one moment, collapsing the next. The work had the nature of a wall — he and Wittgenstein both spoke of it so, saying after a good night’s work, There’s another piece of the wall we’ve pulled down.
Russell had long held this image of a wall sundering him from the truth, an intolerable wall that he must pull down. Characteristically, he imagined that he and Wittgenstein must share the same wall, but this was wishful thinking: their walls were not the same, nor could they be. Moreover,
their respective walls were always changing in form, shifting in the way of a dream. The problem was plural, one of evolving dimensions: the wall was not one but many, or perhaps many walls that made up one Great Wall. Before a wall one was too close to say.
At least Russell felt he had allies and forebears. Unlike Wittgenstein, he saw himself as part of a tradition, one of a line of thinkers who had stared at various walls, wondering what remained to be done — or more likely demolished.
By persistence or brute force a wall might be assaulted, but it would not be breached by imagining it was not really so high or formidable. Still, even Wittgenstein would wonder at times if a given wall even existed — that is, if a problem was truly a philosophical problem, and not instead one of the wards of psychology or science. Russell, by contrast, was more wily. Philosophy, he would say with a wink, was traditionally a case of weighing theft — the theft of assumptions and givens — over honest toil. Wittgenstein despised this attitude. He said the problems must be squarely confronted, not sent a Trojan horse. And here Wittgenstein would see himself as both the betrayed and the betrayer, knowing, as Russell did not, that their walls were really quite different. Shameful arrogance, but true, Wittgenstein would think. Russell did not have his ear to this wall, and if he did, he could not hear it surging with the outer sea.
For Wittgenstein the biggest obstacle was a more all-pervasive problem. For lack of a better term, he thought of it as the riddle of life — his life, life in general, it was pretty much the same. The problem, in any case, was not just one of finding an answer but of first posing the correct question, or questions. And part of the problem, he saw, was the very logic of language, that Great Mirror, which could describe the world but not itself, blinded by its own reflected radiance. One root problem, it seemed, was the mystery of logical form. In even the most basic tautology this form was present. The self-evidence of tautology was of course trivial. But the principle of tautology — the logical ability to say that this is this — was a fundamental logical truth that no one could deny. Cat is mightily cat. George is England’s king. Either it is raining or it is not raining.