The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  You’re angry with me, he said.

  I’m not, she insisted, squirming from his grasp. But I have been thinking that it would be best —

  Don’t say it — It would not be best.

  She clenched her hands in exasperation. You don’t even know what I’m about to say! I don’t want to completely end our relationship, if that’s your fear. But I do think it ought to be platonic.

  He felt suddenly hot and claustrophobic. You do not. Come, sit down here. You’re just angry with me.

  Turning away, she said, Please, just leave me a moment.

  Ottoline lit a cigarette and began walking restlessly around the room, straightening things that didn’t need straightening and eluding his expectant eyes until at last she said:

  I do, I think we should cease any further sexual involvement. You need a wife, and I need my peace. Believe me, I was thinking of this before you left — long before you mentioned this girl. Come now, darling, face facts. I can hardly compete with a woman twenty years my junior. Why on earth would I even want to? Surely you find her physically more desirable. How could you not?

  He sat down, his head splitting as he squeaked, I do not find her more desirable.

  Oh, please, scoffed Ottoline.

  Sensing his comparative inexperience in this new situation, she felt a gathering sense of power and ruthlessness, as she did when she had him pinned in the reflex lens of her camera. Oh, but she wanted to tear off the mask and tell him about Lamb, to say that she knew far better than he the pleasures of a young body.

  Come now, she jabbed. Why not admit it? You don’t really want me as a lover now. Oh, maybe you think you do.

  And I tell you, he said on the verge of tears, that’s not true.

  He was trapped, no more able to admit to her than he could to himself that he didn’t want her. To say that was like sentencing himself to a future of privation and loneliness. Embracing her, he crumpled down beside her on the sofa, groping for the small breasts that didn’t rebound and fill his hands when squeezed, amazed at the lumps and swags on her thighs that weren’t on D.D.’s. Ottoline was all atwitch. Elbows poking, feet squirming, she clapped her thighs on his digging hands, her hair filling his mouth like dry feathers as her face slid away. He was like a blind man; he had to remove her clothes just to find her, but all he found was a brittle, middle-aged body like his own. Grazing over her, searching for a spot to start, he probed her like an ache, but she wouldn’t be roused. In the end he had his way, but she, suffering all the while, proved her point about the hopelessness of it. Dogged as a tortoise mounting a rock, he gave one last spasm, then lapsed back into the gelid sea of his mind, not even moving as Ottoline rose in silence, her joints cracking as she crept off to wash herself.

  Still, she didn’t let him get away with it. After a long silence, as they were dressing, she asked, And you actually think she’s a good writer?

  He was tying his tie, but with this he lost his place, eyeing her miserably as he dropped the loops. Oh, she has talent — some, though not much. She has none of your regalness — she’s thoroughly American. We frequently quarreled. I know we never fought like that.

  Ottoline raised her eyes and he reddened, embarrassed to have referred to them in the past tense. Just to be sure, Ottoline said, So you don’t love her?

  Grateful she asked, he replied emphatically, Absolutely not.

  Skeptical but now faintly conciliatory, Ottoline said, Well, you certainly thought you did. Would you care to see your letters?

  He knew he would have to swallow this, the ritual abasement. He gave her some digs, but then he played his trump, saying, Darling, I do want to break with her, I swear it. The problem is, I’m afraid she may be coming to England to visit me.

  You invited her here?

  Only once. Very casually. I certainly never expected her to jump at the idea the way she did. We were with her family. I couldn’t very well cause a scene.

  Ottoline was agog. Couldn’t cause a scene? Think of the scene when the poor girl finds she’s crossed the Atlantic for nothing!

  I didn’t purposely mislead her, if that’s what you think. I rather doubt she’ll come, in any case, he added weakly. I sent her a letter yesterday — a very kind letter, in fact — explaining my feelings and saying it would be best to break it off. Russell affected a heartless look. And if she misses my letter and comes — well, I’ll simply tell her how things stand with us.

  Ottoline parted her hands of this. You’ll not drag me into this! Don’t you dare! I’ll not risk scandal because of your stupidity.

  But then curiosity got the better of Ottoline, who snidely demanded, Now, tell me. Just what does this little writer of yours look like, anyway?

  But D.D. was forgotten over the next days as it grew increasingly likely that England would be drawn into a general European war. Feeling in Parliament about England’s entry into war was volatile and divided, and Ottoline persuaded Philip to give a speech urging neutrality, even going so far as to suggest that he might speak to Russell, who, she said, had done considerable thinking on the subject. Philip, not one to let personal matters interfere with the national weal, readily agreed. He even told her to invite Russell to dinner to discuss the matter.

  With the war, then, began the gradual unfreezing of relations between Russell, Ottoline and Philip. In fact, there arose between them an odd alliance, as if even Philip sensed that Russell was no longer a true rival for Ottoline’s affections.

  Yet how sublimely odd it was for Russell, after all these years of being persona non grata at Bedford Square, to hear his name announced in his mistress’s home, then to sit across from the guilty wife and his former nemesis, armed only with an arch look, a glass of sherry and a napkin on his knee. In this competition to see who could be the most natural and charming, Russell regaled them for nearly an hour with tales lampooning America. Not to be outdone, his amused host, meanwhile, interjected some able quips and anecdotes of his own, all the while comparing, as Russell did, the amplitude of Ottoline’s self-conscious laughter.

  After dinner, they got down to business, with Russell holding forth about the four different kinds of wars: wars of colonization, principle, self-defense and prestige. Of the four, Russell felt that the first two, colonization and principle, were often justified. As for the third, self-defense, it was only rarely justified, and then only against an opponent of inferior civilization. But wars of the fourth type — wars of prestige like this one — these, he said, could never be justified, being based on national vanity and offering only the rewards of hubris.

  Having made these distinctions, Russell told Philip, who was no more a pacifist than he himself was, that he would have to take great care in crafting his speech. To preserve his credibility, he would have to make it clear that he was not opposed to all wars but only to trumped-up wars of prestige like this one.

  Watching her politic husband take counsel from her lover, Ottoline was appalled at her own folly, feeling that in her amorous conquests, she had likewise been waging a war of prestige — or rather staving off a feared loss of prestige through failing desirability. Why had she ever embarked on this dangerous course? she wondered. Russell, she saw, was neither as handsome as Philip nor even remotely as kind. So why hadn’t Philip been enough for her? And why, when she had a husband who adored her and when — she had to admit it — she was losing her appeal, why did she still feel this urge to squander herself, holding herself up as a kind of Helen, a trophy for the men?

  Philip’s speech in the House of Commons aroused much hostility but it also helped rally pockets of beleaguered support — enthusiasm that instantly evaporated the next day, August 4, when war was declared and many violently opposed to war turned violently in favor of it.

  Ottoline was still in bed when Philip, up all night in various Parliamentary sessions, telephoned, no sooner telling her the news than he burst into tears. She immediately called Russell, who had remained in London, asking him to meet her in Russell Square,
across from the British Museum.

  Russell had been waiting for fifteen minutes when he saw her coming down the path, egretlike in a watery silk dress that snapped about her spindly, purple-stockinged ankles. A brooding black hat shadowed her eyes, which were swollen from crying. To him, her powdered cheeks suggested the fuzzy wings of a moth; her lips seemed ill aligned, flat, the teeth more equine. He didn’t even seem especially aware that he was looking, but Ottoline knew very well what it was. She saw, as he did, that she was now crossing a kind of invisible equator, and that her looks were losing their youthful consistency, causing her to look rather attractive one day, haggard the next. Today was the unappealing, temperamental Ottoline, the Ottoline who expected more, got less and so grew fussy while he grew steadily more remote.

  Ottoline gave him her usual pecking public kiss, but turned away when he attempted to hold her a moment, saying, I know, darling, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to walk.

  This galled him — the nerve of her, fending him off unprovoked, especially when he felt almost no desire for her. Picking along the path, dubiously dabbing the red gravel with her toe, Ottoline was in a funk, half oblivious to him as she said:

  Isn’t it unearthly? I feel as if we’re still awaiting the results of some horrible election. Philip was so dashed when he called. He says they’re mad, every one of them. Here they are, up all night debating and drafting resolutions, as if they could actually do anything in the face of this war lunacy. And the amazing thing is no one cares. No one will even listen now. All they want is blood.

  Stopping then, Ottoline rummaged through her bag for a mint. Cracking it like a nut between her teeth, she furiously crunched it up, drawing out her lips as she continued:

  I’m taking Julian away for a few days. I don’t care where — the seaside or someplace. Anywhere where she won’t see these ghoulish mobs celebrating. I can’t stand it — the idea of being bottled up in England for God knows how long with these … these horror fanatics!

  She looked at him, so self-contained and distant, smug. What I mean, she added, with an exasperated sigh, is that it’s bound to bring down the — I don’t know — values. And then there’s no beauty left but just ugliness, and us standing up like targets for the mob …

  Then, seeing that he didn’t know what she was saying, she said irritably, My point … Yet as she struggled, her confidence fell another notch, and she said more grimly, What I mean … You see, my very point is …

  But then seeing him studying her like a bug, and seeing, to her mortification, that she had lost her point, she collapsed with a groan on the next bench, weeping into her gloved hands.

  He sat down and patted her hand, but it was no good. All she felt was his eely kindness, so patronizing and automatic. And his mind was elsewhere; he couldn’t very well hide it. The day, a Tuesday, felt more like a Sunday, it was so quiet. As yet there were no mobs, no ringing bells or parades. The delirious catharsis of relief and national unity that had greeted the declarations of war in Vienna, St. Petersburg, Berlin and Paris would come over the next days. Nevertheless, the war was rolling. For days now on the Continent, the war’s momentum had been steadily gathering, each nation following mobilization schedules that had been drawn up years in advance. Across Europe, endless trains filled with men, field pieces, provisions and pack animals were rolling toward their deployment destinations. With impeccable timing, German divisions were rushing through neutral Belgium on their way to flatten France, while Austria, with all her incompetent bluster, was in the midst of a logistical nightmare, her packed trains hopelessly snarled and delayed in an attempt to make good her threats to punish the Serbs, while rushing to check the feared Russian advance from the east. Exhorted by her ally France to strike quickly, Russia, meanwhile, was struggling to rouse her huge and disorganized forces. While the infantry tried to pull itself together, mounted Cossacks and cavalry reconnaissance units were starting to the front. To avoid the nightmare of the 1904 mobilization, there was also a temporary prohibition on the sale of vodka. Soon enough, though, the vodka would be flowing, and the czar’s forces would be trampling fields huge for harvest, dressed in sweltering woolen uniforms designed for parades and expecting, as most nations did, a short, healthy blood-letting that would be over before the leaves fell.

  Consoling Ottoline that day, Russell felt more rage than sorrow at what to him seemed a universal outpouring of savagery, imbecility and race hatred. Few generals were as prepared for their war as Russell was for his. His abortive, end-of-the-world Forstice had just been a prelude to this; if anything, Russell would come to find it oddly prophetic. Sitting beside Ottoline, he felt more resolute and incisive than he had in more than a year. Like a deus ex machina, the war had come to lift him out of the doldrums left in the wake of Wittgenstein’s criticisms. And in a perverse way, it was a philosopher’s dream. Civilization was about to murder itself, and when it did, Russell felt he would throw off the last moorings and create a better system, one not only more rational but also more just and humane.

  * * *

  For all his certainty about his own course, Russell had no such epiphany about Ottoline that first day of the war. Their love just petered away, hastened by world events — and by D.D., who threw her arms around Russell’s neck one night when he opened the door.

  Four months had passed. Russell was working against the war and living in London, having moved the week before from Mrs. Dood’s to a little flat in the South End.

  Oh, dearest darling, said D.D., holding him out to look at him. Thank God you’re all right! I’ve been looking for you for weeks! Why didn’t you tell me you were moving? You’re not in trouble, are you?

  Of course not, he said, drawing back. Nothing’s the matter.

  D.D. was frantic. Well, then, why didn’t you leave word where I could find you? Her eyes watered over. I’ve been so furious — so betrayed! I went to Cambridge — I even went to your landlady, that Dood woman. She said you’d disappeared.

  She told you that? He smacked his hands together with mock fury. The liar! The witch hates me. I specifically told her to give you my address.

  On the verge of a hysterical outburst, D.D. faced him hungrily, trying against all logic to believe him. Her eyes were dilated, and her face was contorted in a way he had never seen.

  She wasn’t just mean, D.D. hissed. She was downright evil about it. She screamed at me, then threatened to call a constable. But I fixed her! Boy oh boy, did I fix that bitch but good by the time I left! Fixed that yappy dog of hers, too.

  Well, well, he offered anxiously, trying to calm her down. The important thing is, you’ve found me. Sit down. When did you arrive, then? Saturday? But you did receive my letters — I sent three. No? But of course you know about the overseas mails being disrupted, the submarines and so forth.

  D.D. wasn’t buying this. Fixing him with the same unfocused glare that must have curdled Mrs. Dood, she screamed:

  LIAR! You rotten, mealy-mouthed liar! I didn’t get anything.

  Nothing?

  Vainly he kept up his patter, trapped, trapped. An energetic cabman was porting up her bags. D.D., meanwhile, was pacing, sniffing for a rival and staring at the floral walls of this hovel that clearly had been let with no thought of them.

  Cursed luck. Russell didn’t even have a spare quid to pay the cabman. Eyeing him with shame, D.D. pushed some notes into the man’s hand, then slammed the door, bawling, This place is a goddamned dump!

  He was all caution and solicitude at first, washing out a cracked cup and lighting the sputtering gas ring to make tea. At first she turned up her nose, but then with a scowl she gulped the tea down. He saw that her hands were trembling, the nails deeply chewed. He thought there was something odd about her looks, too, then realized it was her hair: a still more severe slice of bangs, self-inflicted, nunnery style. And then suddenly D.D. brightened, flashing a minxing look above the upturned cup that made his bowels churn. Hoping to avert an even more excruciating scene, h
e was about to make his speech, but she spoke first.

  Darling, she said, quite as if nothing had happened. We really can’t stay here, you know. Mom and Dad will be arriving next month. Not that we have to get married right away, of course, but we can’t very well have them find us here.

  For some seconds he stared at her, unable to decide whether this was guile or simple lunacy. Then, as gently as he could he said, Doris — D.D., I’m afraid there’s been a frightful misunderstanding. It’s true I invited you to visit, but I never even remotely suggested that we should get married. Why, as yet I’m not even legally divorced.

  The cup whizzed past his ear. Histrionics and tears. Fearing suicide or a lawsuit, he agreed to let her stay the night, then made the fatal mistake of coupling with her, not just once but several times. His second mistake, caused by remorse for the first, was to agree to read her latest short story, Requiem for Father Flye.

  Gripping her knees, D.D. watched with relish as he read her story, another of the Penelope Cycle, as she now called it. This tale found the young ingenue in a convent, where she is despoiled by a philandering Jesuit, that hypocrite theologian and scholar of the Virgin Birth, Father Flye. But Penelope gets her revenge. After locking the unsuspecting priest in his confessional, she kneels and, in a disguised voice, recounts their sins before naming their penance — “Death! Death! Death!” — hacking open her wrists, then slashing through the screen while Father Flye howls and beats on the door. Russell didn’t even pretend to finish it. Rising up, he said accusingly:

  How dare you threaten me! Are you such a hypocrite? Who seduced whom here?

  D.D. reared back as if she’d been slapped. Then she started crying, deep sucking breaths followed by loud moans of rage that nearly drove him from the room. Even when she stopped, she was nearly speechless, gasping to bring up the words: