The World as I Found It (35 page)

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.

W
ITTGENSTEIN 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:

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.

No, now that Wittgenstein had been offered an Apostleship, he was quite sure that Pinsent would not want one — assuming, of course, that one was even offered. (Pinsent, it seemed to Wittgenstein, was not the trumped-up, obviously impressive sort of man who got noticed for such things; nor was he titled, handsome or rich.)

No, in his ill-guided but well-meaning way, Wittgenstein had other plans for Pinsent. Pinsent, it seemed to him, did not want philosophy — Wittgenstein certainly did not want his friend mucking those stalls. He did not question his own motives; he had no sense of being selfish, or patronizing or presumptuous. If nothing else, he could at least bequeath Pinsent a life free of pain, failure and want. And soon enough Wittgenstein would remove from Pinsent's path the impediment his own life represented.
He
would not be a Blocker, nor would he be greedy: if he could not eat, procreate or prosper on this earth, then he would shortly cede his place to one who could. And so Wittgenstein was going to meet David's mother, to see that all was properly provided for.

As they neared Birmingham, meanwhile, Pinsent was worried how Flo would come off to his friend. Pinsent's irreverence about his mother pained Wittgenstein, but then Pinsent was hardly fooled by the court portrait that Wittgenstein painted of his own family. Even more exasperating for Pinsent was how Wittgenstein would paint Flo as some poor, wronged creature — and him the cynical, unjust son. Pinsent said he knew the truth. He told Wittgenstein that he could damned well call her Flo or Bats if he chose — it was he, after all, who had pressed a lock of her hair inside the glass of her photograph. And really, Pinsent told Wittgenstein, if life at home was so awfully cozy, where were the photos of
his
mother and father?

Pinsent was silent and nervous as their motorcab climbed Dalk's Hill, where Flo lived in a cottage of rust-colored stone. It was open farm country, not far from a village set among bowed fields and pastures bound by hedgerows. In the distance there was a slice of river, milk white in the sun, and below that a long swell of slope, mild and green, with cows and a squat stand of trees.

Flo was nowhere to be seen. The gate was gone, and the stones of the walk were slick with brownish-green moss. Last year's rotting apples lay beneath the same snarled limbs, now newly blossoming, and as they approached the door, scrawny cats bounded like rabbits through the weeds. Mind your step, said Pinsent with embarrassment as they picked over broken crockery and a rusty garden trowel where someone had tried to pot something. Pinsent sighed as the door fell open. She never locks it, he said.

Inside, under moss-dark beams, was a murky clutter, a mindscape of half-finished puzzles, hands of solitaire, novels splayed on their spines. Still, it was a feminine disarray, not entirely unattractive. Like giant fungi, blackened oranges spiked with cloves hung from the beams, adding a vinous, spicy scent to the general subterranean odor. And then they heard Flo's conjugating cry:

Dave, Davy, David!

Floating under a mist of reddish-gray hair and dressed in an old gown of silk, lace and tulle, tiny Florence Pinsent barreled down the stairs, then hugged and kissed her son before she abruptly turned to shake Wittgenstein's hand. Oh! she exclaimed when Wittgenstein made an abbreviated bow. David said you had the most lovely manners. And
Sweet William
! You brought me
Sweet William
! Before Wittgenstein could even present them to her, she had thrust her blunt nose into the mottled mass of flowers. Oh! Oh! Waving her hands, Flo hardly knew whether to get her eyeglasses or a vase, she was so prickly excited.

There was no stopping her then. Did you see that rain? Florence Pinsent suddenly wanted to know, gaping up at Wittgenstein as if she had just now seen the Annunciation. Now that was the rain, it was. It passed right over! I prayed it would miss you! I said so and meant it, and it did and didn't, dear me!

Flo's mouth widened as if she had just remembered that her son was indeed here. David, my love, let me look at you! He's so shy, she said, turning secretively to Wittgenstein, her accomplice in this orgy of affection. And
Sweet William
you brought me! Not
baby's breath
, she cautioned suddenly, though no one had suggested it was. Looking around then, she suddenly remarked, Isn't that a queer name,
baby's breath?
Do you suppose anyone knew what
baby's
breath looked like when they named it? I'd call it
sneeze plant
— oh, it makes me sneeze just to look at it! But you know, she said, wagging her finger, perhaps the person that named it baby's breath saw a baby's breath in the winter — when it was steaming, I mean. Clasping her downturned bosom, Florence Pinsent grandly sneezed.

David, darling, resumed Flo, making a pouty face as hungry cats wove underfoot. The fire must have just gone out!

Just
gone out, Mother? asked the son, looking at the cold coals.

Then, rolling her eyes, she said mischievously, I don't know what happened, dear. Now he's angry at me, you see, she said, taking refuge behind Wittgenstein. But Davy, she continued in a whiny, girlish voice. Just an hour ago I stirred it. Why don't you relight it and I'll make tea with your lovely Mr. Wittgenstein.

She was a consummate actress, adept at creating little cul de sacs and enveloping silences between people. Taking
her
guest by the arm, she led him toward the unkempt kitchen, saying, I'm so excited that David has finally brought a friend home, Mr. Wittgenstein. David's so very excited about your work. He says it's far more important than his.
I think therefore I am!
Oh, no, David didn't say that — dear me, did you think so? My, no. Descartes René said so. I once tried to read him but I never got very far. I was never
am
enough to think I was, so I wasn't — so here I am! Or
was
—

Mrs. Pinsent flounced to the window to tap at a cat by the pane, then pointed out a cloud that she said looked like the king, gross and fat in his Ascot top hat. Had he ever seen the king, ever? No, no, she scolded, not
Georgie
— she meant the fat, dead one. Edward was his name. She had, once. Seen him, that is.

Queen Flo then decreed they would have tea and Wittgenstein was sent scrounging beneath the cabinets for the kettle, which they set on the gas ring after yet another search for matches. I have the most wonderful biscuits, she said. Mistress of this tea party, Flo giggled with her mouth full and a wondering crinkling of the eyes. They're hazelnut somethings, I think — or filbert. I didn't make them, you know, she said just as proudly as if she had.
Shoo!
she said, driving a cat from the table. And again she went to the window, amazed to see the dolloped clouds massing over the western hills. And you must promise, she resumed, looking a little cross, you must remind me to show you David's numerous awards. Have you any? David has. Oh, but he'll be terribly upset if I boast of him. He's deaf in one ear, you know. Oh, yes. A man pulled his ear when he was a boy. Then argumentatively, I
saw
him! His uncle it was …

So began the pattern in which Flo would breathlessly take her guest aside to tell a seemingly pointless story which had the quality of whistling out of tune. Nevertheless, there was a fractured melody to these stories; the mother, however queer and charming, was more cunning and manipulative than she let on. Dimly, through the cloaking sweetness, Flo feared her guest. As the next day began to unfold, Wittgenstein even began to suspect that she was angry at him for usurping her boy. Wittgenstein could hardly blame her — if anything, he shared her fears, feeling that with time he would only bring Pinsent to grief as he had Russell.

Wittgenstein's guilt over Russell was weighing on him heavily now. Shortly before leaving for Birmingham, Wittgenstein had seen his mentor. Embroidering on the subject of his theory of types, talking with all the deliberate cheerfulness of a man in shock, Russell had really been asking Wittgenstein to assure him that his theory was salvageable, that, with time, all would be put to right. Wittgenstein couldn't do it. All he could offer Russell was silence — and not out of spite or anger. There was simply nothing to say: Russell's theory was wrong.

But if Wittgenstein did not grasp Flo's point initially, he did the second day when she asked, Do you know Mr. Moore? Well, he's very fond of David, I gather, but he wrote me saying he was concerned about David's, um,
direction
. Well, of course, I didn't know what to make of it, Mr. Wittgenstein. But then I got another letter from his governor, saying David had been neglectful of his studies. They have such high expectations of him. You see, he has a scholarship, and a very grand one, too.

So odd how Flo went on, so artlessly, as if she were impartial and unaffected by this. Wittgenstein felt as if he were party to a conversation inside her head, or his. She was an artful paradox, was Flo. She knew, for all her apparent artlessness, how to turn the screw. Do you agree with Mr. Moore? she asked after a long, fitful silence. In Flo's own interior logic, no reply was necessary or solicited from the visitor. Speaking into him as if into the telephone, Flo added with a hush of dread, I'm sure you have David's best interest at heart. I know he must help you — he said your work is more important. David's always helped — it's his nature to help. And expect none in return, mind you. Do you?

Mind?

My, no,
help
. Help Davy. Then before he could even answer came the reprise. David has certainly helped me. Oh, indeed, he has! That's David's way, you know.

Flo would say, It was the rainiest rain, the foggiest fog, that David was good because he was good — because he was her Davy David Descartes René, her
am
, so to speak, since all else was, or was no longer. Flo was herself a tautology. I
am
David's mother, she would declare, as if her silent guest might otherwise miss the connection.