The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  Normally, Russell was effective in the counselor’s role, but this time he was in a sorry state. Lytton, always able to see the worst, thought Russell was in a shambles — old as Methuselah, with his haggard grimace and hair singed white. Such a crashing bore Bertie was, with his dire predictions. Why, the old boy was practically panting as he ran on with mounting frustration.

  You simply don’t know Wittgenstein as I do. I’m convinced he’ll find the Society an utter waste of time. And really, he added impoliticly, you both must admit the Society is not what it once was.

  I wouldn’t say that, interjected Keynes, who for five minutes had listened in silence to this diatribe. Keynes felt the edge of this just as keenly as Strachey did, and he was not one to be toyed with. Keynes’s tapping foot was like the switching tail of a cogitating cat as he continued. To every angel I’m sure the next generation seems debased — less this or that. But I can assure you the Brethren are quite impressive. Especially this latest crop.

  Very well, then, said Russell, straining to be conciliatory. I stand corrected. But I still tell you — Wittgenstein may go along for a meeting or two, but then he will leave. Of that I’m certain.

  And what if he does? asked Lytton impatiently. If you don’t mind my asking, Bertie, of what consequence is it to you?

  Me? Why, it’s nothing to me. Russell felt himself inwardly wince at this transparent denial. It’s Wittgenstein I’m concerned about. There’s quite enough turmoil in him.

  Keynes’s foot set once more to tapping, and Strachey, taking his cue, asked still more pointedly, Just turmoil in Wittgenstein, is it?

  Russell was moved to anger, but looking into Strachey’s raw, bearded face he thought better of it, seeing to his humiliation that he was defenseless. He had no good answer; even for himself, he had no good answer, let alone one that these two partisans would have accepted. Retreating toward the door, Russell could only repeat his warnings.

  As a statistician, Keynes had a first-rate logical mind — frequently he and Russell conferred on matters of mutual interest. Hanging by the door then, Russell was hoping that Keynes, with his courtier’s demeanor, might come to his rescue — might artfully change the subject, perhaps even invite him to tea. Instead, the unstintingly correct Keynes ushered him out with that mild solicitousness reserved for dotards and cripples, saying, Well, good day, old man, good day …

  And as the door swung closed, Russell had a distinct sense of social slippage, feeling — quite correctly, it turned out — that he would soon be the butt of half of Cambridge, with Ottoline pulling the strings like Pallas Athene.

  But Russell didn’t stop there. Starved for information, he boldly went up to Pinsent one day and introduced himself. Pinsent wrote:

  4.V.13

  At last I meet Russell. Russell, rather, meets me — waylays me. “You’re D.P., aren’t you? — Wittgenstein’s friend?”

  Feel cool to him. R. says how much he has wanted to meet me. W. has told him so much. “Has he?” I ask. “Oh, indeed,” R. assures me. I look at him, wondering what W. has said, but R. is not forthcoming. For someone who has heard so much, he is certainly full of questions. Suddenly he asks, “Well, what do you think about this business with the Apostles? Do you think W. will join? But” — he shrugs — “M. recommended him, after all. I suppose it might be a good thing.”

  Did R. know what he was saying? He certainly did; the fox was craftily watching to see my reaction. I must have looked upset. Feel even M. has duped me. Here M. purports to think so highly of my talent, yet he recommends W. & not me!

  Pinsent tried to conceal his anger from Moore, but Moore felt the chill. At the same time, Moore saw Pinsent’s work was suffering. A few days later, Pinsent wrote:

  9.V.13

  M. takes me aside today. From the start I know it’s about his concerns that I’m neglecting my studies as a result of W.

  M. is more donnish than usual & I am resisting — resisting as I have done with every well-intentioned parson or prefect who ever sat me down. I want to ask, “Why even speak to me? If mine is such a weighty talent, why didn’t you recommend me?”

  M. is so careful in his enquiry. Remarks that I’ve been preoccupied. Implies that I’ve given up too much of myself for W.’s sake. Nothing new here. I’ve merely thrown Mother over for a new patient.

  Not long after this, Pinsent felt pressure from yet another quarter.

  13.V.13

  Reply from Mother to my last letter. Concerned about my hints at dropping mathematics for classics, possible problems with stipends. More expenses & no money, yet here W. has invited me to Vienna this summer. Feel guilty at the thought of eating lavishly there, while Mother hardly eats at all.

  W. tells me I’m too harsh on her. Am I? Am tempted to show him her letters but feel he’d probably find them charming, as w/ his beloved cowboys. Mother is happy. She says we shall not need the grocer, having put in a new garden to replace the overgrown ruin that she planted last summer, w/ its mushy tomatoes. Another litter of cats to overrun the place & the roof still leaking. Says she paid 3 pounds to have it fixed, but the man got drunk & put his foot through the thatch & did not return. Now torrents pour down, but Mother says we have the most glorious swifts in the attic. She predicts that the tufts on the dandelions auger a halcyon summer; & such clouds, & such faces on them! And when, she asks, shall I bring home this Mr. Wittgenstein?

  W. says he would very much like to go. He will pay all expenses, of course. And then we shall leave, & naturally I shall feel not a whit guilty about Mother eating mushy tomatoes among the swifts & clouds & cats, w/ the rain dribbling down in pots …

  And so the trip was arranged: in the third weekend of May, they would visit Pinsent’s mother, who lived in the country outside Birmingham. In the meantime, other forces were in motion. Two days before they were to leave, Wittgenstein finally went before the Apostles and gave his speech on “The Nature of Logic.” Abstract, exalted, fierce, Wittgenstein kept the Brethren enthralled for ten minutes before he summarily sat down. His election the next day was virtually unanimous.

  As it turned out, Russell was quite correct in his warnings about Wittgenstein and the Society. Moore was visibly displeased when Wittgenstein came to him that day to explain his hesitation about joining, his fears that it was not right for him and that he would eventually disappoint the brothers — roughly what Russell had been saying all along. But there was also what Wittgenstein did not say about a certain undercurrent he felt in these ostensibly Olympian discussions. For Wittgenstein, these men were too much at ease, expending too much energy exploring vaguely frivolous topics. He couldn’t stand the solemn pauses, the delicious reaching and je ne sais quoi punctuated with tweaking innuendoes. That was what he smelled: complacency. Were he to let them, they would have adored him, and this also was his fear, that he might succumb to this decorous ease. To remain honest, he felt he must be even harder, more fierce and impervious: he was the potential criminal who must make himself a judge.

  Still, the atmosphere was dangerously attractive, strumming the strings of a side of him that he had to fight, if not expunge. There was the poet Békássy, a British-educated Hungarian aristocrat more English than the English, dandified and severe, with slick dark hair and malodorous opinions he let out like fragrance from a perfume flask. In Békássy was a fulsome whiff of home, the sirocco of Hungarian politics and the Prater, of the booted equestrian who sojourned into the meadows at sunset, having brought his strap and left his horse elsewhere. As for the others, Wittgenstein liked Keynes quite well — Keynes struck him as a clear thinker. But Strachey! To hear him address one of his pets in an urgent whisper as Pussums, dear — this gave the candidate the hives. But as he was repelled, so was he faintly drawn.

  Of course, Wittgenstein did not say this to Moore, who found his evident agitation difficult to comprehend, if not a bit suspect. Yes, Moore was vexed with him, vexed at these vague complaints expressed as scruples, not to mention the implicit insult that
what was good enough for Moore was somehow not good enough for Wittgenstein. Moore wondered what he ought to do. Like Pilate, he had largely tried to remove himself from the proceedings. He had purposely stayed away from the previous night’s meeting — a strategic move to sidestep Russell’s probable criticism that he was meddling. But now, having tried to do the decent thing, Moore felt duped. Russell would have the last laugh: Moore could well imagine Russell’s delight — if not his hand in this — but that was another matter. Moore’s immediate concern was that if Wittgenstein waited too long to accept this honor, he would be burning his bridges. The Brethren would certainly be insulted. They’d never take Wittgenstein back if he thought better of his decision.

  Wittgenstein’s talk with Moore went poorly, and he did not expect his visit to Russell to go much better. But more than just the Apostles was weighing on Wittgenstein then: there was also Russell’s theory of types.

  In his work developing a proper logical symbolism, Wittgenstein had recently become convinced that Russell’s theory was not so much wrong as unnecessary. Wittgenstein had not consciously ferreted this out. Rather, the realization seemed to have found him, like a collision.

  Wittgenstein still felt sick about it. He knew it was his duty to tell Russell, but he was dreading it. Still, he felt it could wait. Certainly, he had no intention of broaching the subject that day as he went to tell Russell about his election. This proved an unnecessary courtesy, Moore having sent Russell a curt note about the election that morning. Russell could well imagine Moore’s triumph, not to mention that of the gossips like Strachey, who would paint him a grasping opportunist bent on hoarding — or even stealing — the fruits of another’s genius. Prompted by Lytton, even Ottoline had entered the fray, asking Russell, much to his mortification, why he had to embarrass himself, and her, with his meddling.

  The moment Wittgenstein set foot inside Russell’s rooms, he sensed his mentor’s smoldering resentment, and it rankled him. At the same time, Wittgenstein felt that his predicament was far from Russell’s fault. Rather, it stemmed from the ratiocinations of a higher logic, of which his logic and life were somehow the unhappy result. And again with his election to the Society — with that sudden, ineluctable sense of elevation and the threat of pleasure — Wittgenstein felt a compensatory desire to veer away from that pole and end his life. But even this desire was not enough. To carry it out, Wittgenstein felt, in a blind way, that he must do something deserving of death, and that afternoon at Russell’s he found it just as surely as if he’d planned his every move.

  By then, the Apostles had been shunted aside, and they were suddenly talking (if indeed they had ever stopped talking) about logic, of its sublime blankness. The old logic, said Wittgenstein (meaning, Russell’s logic) did not grasp this fundamental truth. The old logic assumed a hierarchy of propositions, building up from axioms, when in fact all the propositions of logic stand on the same level and say the same thing — namely, nothing. This, Wittgenstein told Russell, was his great mistake. For the old logic, logic was fundamentally a cog machine: it supplied certain primitive propositions, it supplied the rules of deduction governing their use, and it then said that what results is a logical proposition — one that had been pushed through the sausage grinder and thus made logical.

  In his urgency then, Wittgenstein was hardly building an airtight argument. He was not piercing or succinct. On the contrary, he was thoroughly scattered and staccato. But this only made the force of his invective more fearsome and bewildering. And then, just as if he had planned it, Wittgenstein was attacking the theory of types, Russell’s response to the Cretan who called all Cretans liars. Wittgenstein was the confounding Cretan. The essence of Russell’s theory, Wittgenstein was saying, was that a proposition could not make a statement about itself. But this, he declared, was only a chimera imposed by Russell’s mathematics, for which it was necessary that numbers be classes of classes. In mathematics, this might be expedient, Wittgenstein said, but in logic it held no sway and was in fact useless. Our work in the field of logic might help us better display logic, he said, but it could not supply or create logic: how could we presume to supply what is already there? In logic we do not express whatever we wish with the aid of signs; rather, the nature of the absolutely necessary signs speaks for itself. In his theory, then, Russell was only imposing a form on what was already logical and perfect. Clearly, Wittgenstein said, the laws of logic could not in turn be subject to the laws of logic — it was here, he insisted, that Russell’s theory broke down. It tried to talk about the types it had imposed when one could only talk about the particular symbols. After all, Wittgenstein said, to declare the meanings of signs when establishing rules for them — well, this was certainly wrong. In a correct symbolism there would be no need to invent a system of types to avoid contradictions; the correct sense would be evident in the signs themselves — evident in advance, so to speak.

  Wittgenstein, by then, was not in control of his voice or his hands; his eyes were gritty slits. There was no question in Russell’s mind that Wittgenstein was right: to Russell, Wittgenstein was infallible — sibylline. Without defense or will, Russell sat listlessly in a chair near the lamp. Funny how his hands looked to him under the light, like gloves, so useless and old. Slowly, the blood was draining from his upturned fingers; his breath came in starts. Not that night, or even the next week, would Russell even begin to assess the extent of the damage, much less the further damage that would result, forcing a slow but inexorable change in his life. The wound, Russell assured himself, was not mortal. Russell told himself that his work was like a ship sectioned into watertight compartments, with other doors — sound theories — that could contain the flood when a bulkhead had ruptured. His ship was not sinking, he assured himself. This setback was only temporary. Ottoline had been speaking of an Italian holiday that summer. Yes, they would journey south to Italy, that’s where. Ah, he could see them in Venice, so sensual and golden, then on to Naples, the warm Mediterranean. Standing on some sun-drenched terrace with Ottoline, tanned and relaxed, he would be a man transformed. Utterly dashing and charming in his linen suit, he would wend his way through one long party, feeling the admiration of all the ladies as he said, E una notte serena. Signorina, permetta che mi presenti. Signor Russell…Il piacere, il piacere…

  But while the hemorrhaging Russell retreated into dreams, Wittgenstein could not stay, not after this. In his own eyes, he was no better than Judas, and Russell was too distracted to stop him from leaving. But then as the door closed, it occurred to Russell that Wittgenstein might really kill himself, and he thought, Good, then gave a shudder, as if he had bitten his tongue. Pinsent was asleep when Russell knocked an hour later.

  … Russell appears at I A.M. in a state. He says W. is “upset” & he is looking for him. Am tempted to ask why W. is upset but I do not, & R. does not volunteer. I ask R. if he has checked W.’s room and he says yes. “You just knocked?” I ask, thinking W. might be inside, hanged. R. knows my fear & adds uncomfortably, “I checked inside. After knocking, of course.”

  Hands trembling as I dress. All very delicate & queasy; I have the gory feeling of going through some deceased relative’s personal effects. We don’t want to sound the alarm — don’t want to embarrass W. if it is nothing. We are only “looking,” & from time to time R., faced with my silence, makes ridiculous excuses: “If only he could rest … If only he took better care of himself.”

  For two hours we look, then give it up, promising to notify each other if he turns up. R. says officiously, “I really must speak to him tomorrow.” Evidently, R. wants me to agree that this will make everything much better. But all I can bring myself to say is good night. R. is a sad, ruined figure at 3 A.M.; in him there is love, I think, but I cannot warm to him. Still, cannot entirely blame him. If so strong a man as R. is not immune to W., how can I be? At this point, it’s doubtful that W. can even endure himself, & I think of him hanging from a pipe, like one with a price on his head.

&nb
sp; Flo

  WITTGENSTEIN DID TURN UP the next day — no better, no worse, so far as Pinsent could tell. Keeping his promise to Russell, Pinsent said nothing about that night, and Wittgenstein said nothing either.

  Even the following morning as they boarded the westbound train for Birmingham, Wittgenstein said nothing about Russell or the Apostles. Pinsent wrote:

  I do not count it a good sign that he does not confide in me & sense I am not to ask. Instead, we talk about Mother & what we shall do at home, while I worry if she will have anything prepared. Looking out the window of the train, W. remarks, as if he has just now noticed, “We are on a holiday.”

  In all, it was a pleasant journey, warm May weather. Yet there was still the same discomfort with money, which remained a barrier between them. Wittgenstein paid for the tickets — second class, quite unostentatious — sliding quiet notes across the cage, then pocketing his change with lowered eyes and a furtive hike of the trousers, as though he were turning from a urinal. Lunch was another hurdle. In the swaying dining car, huddled behind his wobbling water goblet, Pinsent froze as Wittgenstein invited him to order. In that millrace of the spirit, seeking ever purer air, Wittgenstein was increasingly ascetic in his tastes. He preferred the simple and bland — a near vegetarian — but this did not prevent him from suggesting that Pinsent should try the mixed grill or perhaps the York ham and Winchester pudding. Peering up, his red hair fanning across his face, Pinsent asked ascerbically, Why? So you can watch?

  Pinsent kept him honest and of this earth — or tried. And actually, Wittgenstein was in somewhat better spirits as they ate their lunch, both staring out at the rolling hills of the midlands. It gave Wittgenstein pleasure to indulge his friend, heir to the life he could not permit himself. Pinsent had his mixed grill with a bowl of mock turtle soup. Knowing how Pinsent loved sweets, Wittgenstein, on the sly, told the steward to bring his friend a raspberry trifle. Pinsent was man alive. He would not refuse these earthly gifts; it was the draconian Wittgenstein who ate humble pie, as quick to deny these innocent pleasures as he was to reject the Apostles, where the food was surely too ambrosial. Wittgenstein would remain friendly with the piercing Keynes, but he could not stomach these other young men, so vain of their brilliance, certain of their place and free with their opinions, and much else.