Wittgenstein's Nephew (8 page)

and
protection—in order to lead a so-called intellectual existence and thereby save himself. One might say that he made an early getaway, as his uncle Ludwig had done years before, abandoning everything that had, after all, made them both possible, and transforming himself, like his uncle Ludwig before him, into what the family regarded as a
shameless character
. Ludwig transformed himself into a shameless philosopher,
Paul into a shameless madman. Moreover, it is far from certain that a philosopher can qualify as such only by writing down and publishing his philosophy, as Ludwig did: he remains a philosopher even if he does not publish his philosophizings, even if he writes nothing and publishes nothing. Publishing merely clarifies and causes a stir through what it clarifies, which cannot be clarified or cause a stir unless it is published. Ludwig published his philosophy, Paul did not: Ludwig was the born publisher (of his philosophy), Paul the born nonpublisher (of his philosophy). Yet in their own ways both were great, original, revolutionary thinkers, whose thinking was always exciting and of whom their age can be proud—and not only their own age. It is naturally a pity that Paul left us no written, printed, or published evidence of his philosophy, such as we have from his uncle Ludwig, both in our hands and in our heads. But it is nonsense to compare Ludwig and Paul. I never talked to Paul about Ludwig, let alone about his philosophy. Only occasionally, and somewhat to my surprise, Paul would say,
Of course you know my uncle Ludwig
. That was all. We never once talked about the
Tractatus
. On one occasion, however, Paul said that his uncle Ludwig was
the maddest member of the family. After all, to be a multimillionaire and a village schoolteacher is a bit perverse, don't you think?
I still know nothing of the real relations between Paul and his uncle Ludwig, nor did I ever inquire about them. I do not even know whether they ever saw each other. All I know is that Paul flew to the defense of his uncle Ludwig whenever the family attacked and made fun of him. I gathered that Wittgenstein the philosopher was a source
of embarrassment to them as long as he lived. Ludwig Wittgenstein, like Paul Wittgenstein, was always the fool who had greatness conferred on him by foreigners—and foreigners always have a flair for oddity. They would shake their heads and find it droll that
the world had been taken in by the fool of the family
, that
the useless one had suddenly acquired fame in England and become the great intellectual
. The Wittgensteins, in their arrogance, quite simply rejected their philosopher and accorded him not the slightest respect, and they are still punishing him with their contempt, seeing in him, as they saw in Paul, nothing but a traitor. They
discarded
him as they discarded Paul. Having been ashamed of Paul as long as he lived, they are ashamed of Ludwig to this day. This is the truth, and not even Ludwig's considerable fame has been able to stifle the family's habitual contempt for its philosopher, in a country where Ludwig Wittgenstein ultimately counts for nothing and is scarcely known even today. Not even Sigmund Freud has been properly recognized or acknowledged by the Viennese; this is a fact, and the reason for it is that the Viennese are far too perfidious. And Wittgenstein has fared no differently. When Paul referred to
my uncle Ludwig
it was in a tone of the greatest respect, but he never chose to elaborate, preferring to content himself with the mere mention of his uncle. I was never clear about his relations with this uncle who achieved greatness in England. My relations with Paul, which began in our friend Irina's apartment in the Blumenstockgasse, were naturally difficult. It was the kind of friendship that has to be daily renewed and re-won, and in the course of time this proved exceedingly strenuous. Our friendship constantly
shifted between high points and low points, relying for its continuance on repeated
proofs of friendship
. I recall, for instance, the important part that Paul played on the occasion when I was awarded the Grillparzer Prize—how he alone, apart from my companion, saw through the contrived absurdity of the award ceremony and hit upon the proper designation for such a grotesque:
a piece of genuine Austrian perfidy
. I recall that I bought a new suit for the occasion, believing that I could not appear at the Academy of Sciences unless I wore a suit. Accompanied by my companion, I went to an outfitters in the Kohlmarkt and chose one that seemed appropriate. Having tried it on, I decided to go on wearing it. It was gray-black, and I believed that in this gray-black suit I would be better able to play my part than in my old suit. On the morning of the ceremony I still regarded the conferment of the prize as a great occasion. It was the hundredth anniversary of Grillparzer's death, and to be singled out for the award of the Grillparzer Prize on the hundredth anniversary of the poet's death seemed to me a signal distinction. I'm now being honored by the Austrians, I thought, by my fellow countrymen, who up to now have done nothing but kick me, and, what's more, by the award of the Grillparzer Prize. I really thought I had reached some peak of achievement. It is possible that my hands were trembling that morning, and that I was somewhat lightheaded. That the Austrians, having previously scorned or ignored me, should be giving me their highest award struck me as a kind of overdue compensation. It was not without a certain pride that I emerged from the clothing store into the Kohlmarkt, wearing my new suit, and
walked over to the Academy of Sciences. Never in my life have I walked along the Kohlmarkt and the Graben and past the Gutenberg monument with such a sense of elation. Yet although I felt
elated
, I cannot say that I felt comfortable in my new suit. It is always a mistake to buy clothes under supervision—in company, so to speak—and I had made the mistake
yet again
: the new suit was too tight. All the same, I probably look quite good in my new suit, I thought as I arrived in front of the Academy of Sciences with my companion and Paul. If one disregards the money that goes with them, there is nothing in the world more intolerable than award ceremonies. I had already discovered this in Germany. They do nothing to enhance one's standing, as I had believed before I received my first prize, but actually lower it, in the most embarrassing fashion. Only the thought of the money enabled me to endure these ceremonies; this was my sole motive for visiting various ancient city halls and tasteless assembly rooms—until the age of forty. I submitted to the indignity of these award ceremonies—until the age of forty. I let them piss on me in all these city halls and assembly rooms, for to award someone a prize is no different from pissing on him. And to receive a prize is no different from allowing oneself to be pissed on, because one is being paid for it. I have always felt that being awarded a prize was not an honor but the greatest indignity imaginable. For a prize is always awarded by incompetents who want to piss on the recipient. And they have a
perfect right
to do so, because he is base and despicable enough to receive it. Only in extremities, when one's life and existence are threatened—and only until the age of forty—is one justified
in receiving any prize or distinction, with or without an accompanying sum of money. When I received my prizes I did not have the excuse that I was suffering extreme hardship or that my life and existence were threatened; hence by receiving them I made myself not only low and contemptible but positively vile, in the truest sense of the word. On the way to receive the Grillparzer Prize, however, I believed that this time it was different. The prize carried no emolument. The Academy of Sciences meant something, I told myself, and its prize meant something. And as the three of us arrived in front of the Academy I believed that this prize was exceptional, since it was called the Grillparzer Prize and was being conferred by the Academy of Sciences. And as I walked across to the Academy of Sciences I actually thought it likely that I would be received
outside
the building, as seemed appropriate, and
with the appropriate respect
. But there was no one there to receive me. I waited in the entrance hall for a good quarter of an hour with my friends, but no one recognized me, let alone received me, even though my friends and I spent the whole time looking around. No one took the slightest notice of us as hordes of people streamed in and took their seats in the crowded assembly room. In the end I decided that we should simply follow the crowd. I decided to take my place in the middle of the room, where there were still a few empty seats, and went and sat there with my friends. By the time we had taken our seats the room was full, and even the minister had taken her place in the first row in front of the dais. The Vienna Philharmonic was nervously tuning up, and the president of the Academy of Sciences, a man by the
name of Hunger, was running excitedly to and fro on the dais, while only I and my friends knew what was holding up the ceremony. Several members of the Academy were running back and forth on the dais, looking for the central figure in the proceedings. Even the minister turned and looked around the room in all directions. Suddenly one of the gentlemen on the dais caught sight of me sitting in the middle of the room and, whispering something in the president's ear, left the dais and began to make his way toward me. It was not easy for him to pass along the row of seats, which were all occupied, to where I was sitting. Everyone in the row had to stand up. They did so only reluctantly, and I saw the malignant glances that were directed at me. It occurred to me that it had been a monstrous idea of mine to sit in the middle of the room, causing the utmost difficulty to the gentleman who was trying to reach me (and who of course was a member of the Academy). Obviously nobody here has recognized you, I thought at once, except for this gentleman. By the time he reached my place all eyes were fixed on me—and what reproachful, penetrating looks they gave me! An academy that gives me a prize and doesn't know me from Adam, and then sends me reproachful, penetrating looks because I haven't made myself known, deserves to be treated with even greater contempt, I thought. Finally the gentleman pointed out to me that my proper place was not where I was sitting but in the front row beside the minister, so would I please go to the front row and sit next to her. I did not obey, because the request was made in a rather disagreeable and arrogant tone, and with such a sickening assurance of victory that, to preserve my self-respect,
I
had
to refuse to accompany him toward the dais.
Herr Hunger himself
should come, I said; it was for
the president of the Academy himself
, not just anybody, to invite me to approach the dais. It would have given me the greatest pleasure to get up and leave the Academy of Sciences with my friends, without receiving the prize. But I stayed where I was. I was locked in my own cage. There was no way out. I had made a cage for myself out of the Academy of Sciences. Finally the president of the Academy came down and accompanied me toward the dais. No sooner had I sat down next to the minister than my friend Paul, unable to contain himself any longer, burst into a peal of laughter that shook the whole room and continued until the Philharmonic began to play. A few speeches were made about Grillparzer and a few words said about me. Altogether the talking went on for an hour; as is customary on such occasions, there was far too much talking, and naturally it was all nonsense. The minister slept through the speeches, snoring audibly, and woke up only when the Philharmonic struck up again. When the ceremony was over, as many people as possible crowded round the minister and President Hunger. No one took any further notice of me. Before my friends and I left the assembly room, I heard the minister cry out:
Where's the budding poet?
By this time I had had enough and left the Academy of Sciences as fast as I could. No money
and
being pissed on—that was intolerable. I ran out into the street, more or less dragging my friends after me, and I can still hear Paul saying to me as we left:
You've let yourself be abused! These people have pissed on you!
It's true, I thought, they really have pissed on you. They've pissed
on you again, as always. But you allowed yourself to be pissed on, I thought, and, what's more, in the Viennese Academy of Sciences. Before going to the Sacher with my friends to digest this whole perverse prize-giving procedure over a boiled fillet of beef, I went back to the outfitter's in the Kohlmarkt where I had bought my new suit before the ceremony. I told them that it was too tight and I wanted a new one. I said this with such insolent emphasis that the staff did not demur, but at once set about finding me a new suit. I took one or two off the rack and tried them on, finally choosing the most comfortable. I paid a small additional sum and kept the suit on. When I was back in the street, it struck me that before long somebody else would be running around in Vienna in the suit I had worn for the conferment of the Grillparzer Prize at the Academy of Sciences. The thought amused me. I had equally clear evidence of Paul's strength of character on another occasion, when I received the State Prize for Literature (long before the Grillparzer Prize). This ended in what the newspapers called a
scandal
. The encomium delivered by the minister in the audience chamber of the ministry was utter nonsense, because he merely read out from a sheet of paper what had been written down for him by one of his officials charged with literary affairs. He said, for instance, that I had written a novel about the
south seas
, which of course I had not. And although I have been an Austrian all my life, the minister stated that I was Dutch. He also stated that I
specialized in adventure novels
, though this was news to me. More than once during his encomium he said that I was a foreigner,
a visitor to Austria
. By this stage I was no longer annoyed
by the idiocies he read out. I knew that this imbecile from Styria could not be blamed, because before becoming a minister he had been secretary to the Chamber of Agriculture in Graz, with special responsibility for stock breeding. Stupidity was written all over his face, as it is over the faces of all ministers without exception. It was distasteful, but not annoying, and I was able to endure his speech without difficulty. It then fell to me to say a few words, by way of thanks for the prize, as it were. Just before the ceremony, in great haste and with the greatest reluctance, I had jotted down a few sentences, amounting to a small philosophical digression, the upshot of which was that man was a wretched creature and death a certainty. After I had delivered my speech, which lasted altogether no more than three minutes, the minister, who had understood nothing of what I had said, indignantly jumped up from his seat and shook his fist in my face. Snorting with rage, he called me a