The World as I Found It (20 page)

Tomorrow? she asked.

Well, he thought afterward, she must be at least
somewhat
interested to suggest the next day, out for a walk in the Backs. But then Moore's mind sued for the counterargument, that she was just curious or simply felt sorry for him, an aging bachelor down on his luck.

He was terribly nervous that day as they crossed King's Bridge, pausing to gaze at the dark hummocks the arches cast over the river, beneath their own shining reflections. It was a fine June afternoon, not long after a shower, and the willows, pale and flossy with rainlight, were stretched down, dripping faint circles into the tea-dark water. Miss Ely tended to be quiet when she was nervous, but Moore, he was a talker. Couldn't shut up. He sounded as if this were a refresher course in philosophy rather than your basic courting business. And when Moore found out that she was but twenty, his mouth popped open.

Oh! Moore stuffed his guilty hands in his pockets. I didn't know.

Didn't know what? asked Miss Ely.

That you were so young. Moore was in the soup then. Quickly backtracking, he hedged. Or rather, not because you are so young — I do not want to say that — but rather, well, because —

But here he stopped again, not wanting to scotch his chances by suggesting he was too old for her. And despite her years, Miss Ely in this instance was far more knowing and worldly than he. Frankly, she said, I am surprised you would even concern yourself with age, Mr. Moore. If, as you suggest in your
Principia
, affection is basically a mental state, then what does it matter the relative ages of the two minds concerned?

Oh! Well, that is
true
, said Moore, stuffing his hands more deeply in his pockets.

But still he lollygagged. He took her home that day, and almost accidentally mumbled something about their doing it again — em, going for a walk or something. Fortunately for them both, Miss Ely recognized his extremity and suggested — rather boldly, it seemed to him — that they go to the fair the next week.

But their second outing was even harder for him. Walking with her through the reeking straw, looking at the prize cattle and horses, Moore wondered what he ought to do. He liked her awfully much, but he was such a duffer. Why, he couldn't even win a penny dish, while she won three. They ate ices, and then they came to a black tent painted with yellow zodiacal signs, where Miss Ely had her palm read. She was smiling when she emerged. What did she say? he asked, suddenly anxious, as if these divinations might concern him. Just never you mind, she said, rather saucily. It wouldn't come true if I told you, now would it, Mr. Moore?

He didn't know why that chastened him. He was in the most awful muddle. And didn't she have the most comely buttocks, switching under her long skirt as he caught up to her after losing his hat. Should he kiss her? Would that be too forward — or was it not forward enough? God, he didn't know. He didn't know what the older set did, let alone this younger set. The impossible truth was, he'd never kissed a girl before — not in earnest, anyhow.

Bubbles in his stomach. The moment of truth at her door. Grasped her hand was all, only her hand! You
ass
! Stupid, silly ass! Storming down the lane, kicking himself.

Moore next saw Miss Ely a week after the fair, this time for a picnic on the Cam. This was the day of truth, he told himself, and he manfully took charge of the situation, babbling on about his days as a cox as he scooped muddy rainwater from the bottom of the punt.

There now, he coached as he helped her in. Step to the center. Easy now …

Miss Ely was as competent as he in handling a boat, but she was wise enough to let him play cox that day. And he caught the most awful guilty eyeful when she boarded — a flash of black stocking and petticoat as she was scissoring her sturdy legs around, getting herself situated. Miss Ely must have been rather nervous herself, because as he pushed off, he noticed little spots of sweat, like raindrops, bleeding through the back of her white blouse. Having manfully rolled up his sleeves, he was poling from the back, his straw skimmer cocked like a cymbal, and curls of his still golden hair darkly dripping sweat over his brow. I feel like a gondolier, he said, and for effect began faintly singing
Ave Maria
. Such a beautiful voice, Miss Ely said. You'll have to sing for me sometime. I play the piano.

He felt so happy then, so hopeful. Like a lily, the sun lay on the water, and as Miss Ely peered down into the greeny-brown depths, he saw the reflections dancing on her throat, then on her face as she turned, shading her eyes, and smiled at him. And a nice swell of bosom, too — umm, rather fuller than he thought, actually. Why did he think even then that he loved her? He hardly knew her. And what was he to do now? First he was out of songs. Then out of jokes, desperately looking for a place to put in and do it finally — kiss her. Yes, and then what?
And what if she refused?

Stowing the pole, he sat and began paddling, his heart pounding as he ominously thought,
At this next willow
…

With one good swirling stroke, he aimed the punt for the branches. He felt the leaves brush his face as he stealthily removed his skimmer. In the air, globes of midges fluttered. In the water, he saw water striders swarming. It's like a tent! she cried, and then she was all sun dappled, the light falling like tiddlywinks through her hair as, crouching, he lumbered forward, ostensibly to secure the rocking boat. Go
on
, prodded some animus within him, and he felt an electric shock as she turned toward him, eyeing him so openly. What was she
doing
, he wondered, to stare at him so frankly and innocently? Go
on
, urged the voice, and he rested his sweaty palm atop hers on the gunwale, then squeezed it. She did not draw away, and the boat rocked then as he kissed her — awkwardly at first, then more passionately, until at last he was on his knees to get better purchase, squeezing her tighter with each sally. Then she was all over with light, and afterward, as he sat back on the rocking seat, he saw he had wet the knees of his trousers. Look at me, he said, leaning forward for a second helping, then another, until she said, Mr. Moore, I think we ought to go ashore now. I'm afraid you'll capsize us.

It was only later in their courtship that Miss Ely told Moore that she had taken Russell's course concurrently with his. Moore tried to seem pleased that she would avail herself to the ideas of a respected colleague, but Miss Ely saw through him. And she rather liked his jealousy, saying, I know it was awful of me. First I would ask Mr. Russell a question in his class and record his answer, and then I would ask you the same question and write your answer beside it.

What?
asked Moore, his face like a teakettle. You did
what
?

I meant no harm by it, said Miss Ely, turning a shade provocative. Mr. Russell's answers were more succinct. But I felt yours were more thorough and — I don't know — more true.

Well! he blustered. Certainly I wasn't asking you to
judge
.

But Mr. Moore, she soothed. I didn't know you then. And you came off exceedingly well in the comparison.

But I wasn't
asking
to be compared! he thundered. Comparisons advance nothing. Russell and I understand and respect one another. That's what's important.

Never in his life had Moore been so jealous — until Miss Ely, there had been no reason. Yet here he was, as in a shilling romance, with fantasies of Russell trying to steal Miss Ely away and him, the Wronged Suitor, shouting,
Scoundrel! Have you concealed from the lady in question the fact that you are married!

Moore even harbored fears that Russell might steal Miss Ely away just to spite him. In his anxiety, Moore turned fatalistic. If he was going to lose her to Russell, he thought, it might as well happen sooner rather than later. With this weighing on him, he even pointedly told Russell about Miss Ely. But far from being jealous, Russell, just then feeling the first flush of love for Ottoline, seemed delighted for him.

It did no good. Still Moore suffered. Even near forty, the author of
Principia Ethica
couldn't bypass that feeling of first love. Guarded, self-absorbed and easily embarrassed, Moore was as sensitive as a youth, and as moony.

All that summer Moore saw her. Eight months he'd now spent with her, walking and reading and singing lieder to her, sweat pouring down his face as she accompanied him on the piano. Moore supposed she liked him all right, yet he found it almost impossible to imagine that she would ever have him as a husband. This was not entirely Moore's fault, however. Dorothy said she never expected to marry — she never wanted to depend on anybody. Still, she knew, as Moore did, that her education would soon be completed, at which point she planned to get a job. She said she liked the idea of earning her own living.

Moore didn't know what to believe. Still less did Moore know what he wanted, let alone how to ask for her hand. For three months he had been thinking of asking, but still he slunk along, asking himself if he really loved her, and if he was good enough for her — more delaying tactics. Two months before, all set to ask, he had stalled. A week before, desperate, he had set out once more for her boarding house — stalled again. Yet now, at probably the worst time and at virtually the last possible minute, Moore had gone farther than he ever thought possible. Not only was he standing on the stoop of her boarding house, he was actually knocking on the door. Had he not been so terrified, he would have known from the landlady's smile that she knew his purpose. Upstairs packing, Dorothy scoffed when Mrs. Boylan ran in saying that Mr. Moore had come to propose.

He's merely come to say good-bye, said Dorothy nervously. I told him I don't want to marry.

In ordinary circumstances, Moore might have spent two hours coming to the point. But when Dorothy entered the parlor, he stood, then went white, saying, I've come late, I know. But — I want you to marry me. Drawing himself up, he said, I've examined my feelings — I've examined them, I
think
, from every possible angle, and I can
assure
you of — that I do love you …

She looked frightened, suddenly standing there so naked. Before he could say another word, he felt her go quite automatic, as she said miserably, But I told you … I want to make my own way. Then, in response to his stricken look, she interjected, Not because I don't care for you. I
do
care for you, it's just —

He sat down abruptly. The chair was so low, and his knees so high — he looked like a boy. Nervously scrubbing his hands, he said loudly, Well, what are you saying?

Well, nothing about
you
, Mr. Moore.

He didn't know why her use of “Mr.” suddenly annoyed him then. Please, he said sharply. Don't you think we could at least dispense with this Mister and Miss business, seeing how I've asked you to be my wife?

We might, I suppose … She bit her lip. Only I don't like the name George.

Gaping at her, he said, But that
is
my Christian name, you know.

I realize that, she said, looking around the corner to make sure they were entirely alone. But I don't like it. I never fancied I'd know a George.

Harrumphed Moore with rising irritation, George or no, I
have
asked you to marry me! And my name
is
George.

Please
do lower your voice, she said with a panicky look. I just don't fancy George. You don't even
look
like a George.

Well, he labored, call me
G.E.
, then. Call me
Moore
, I don't care — The question is,
Will you have me or not?

Her eyes went blank; it was as if she had dropped something on the floor — his name, her career — anything to avoid the real issue as she protested, I just didn't expect this. Especially when I was leaving. I suppose I thought I would always be off by myself. Making my own way, you know.

I've been at it twenty years longer than you, said Moore glumly. I don't advise it. And why won't you have me? I mean, do you love me? There's a start.

She nodded.

Well?
he boomed.

Will you
kindly
lower your voice. Yes, she hissed. Yes, I love you, and then her eyes bit together and she squeaked out that difficult
darling
.

Well, he said, that's a damned sight better than George!

Bill, she resumed distractedly. She had hit on it. We could call you
Bill
—

Bill?

Right. What about Bill? I rather like Bill.

He looked at her. Then you'll have me?

Yes
— And she sort of hiccupped, her voice breathy now that it was dawning on her. Yes, of course I'll have you.

Well, then it's Bill, he said, thinking that it was so absurdly appropriate, a new name for his new life in the way Saul became Paul, and George, Bill.

I
N THE FACE
of his father's silence, punctuated by squibs from Gretl, Wittgenstein was rather pleased with the resolve, obstinance, spite or whatever it was making him stick by his decision to remain in England over the vacations. But in the first week of December, just when he thought his break was a fait accompli, he received an appeal from an unexpected and influential quarter: his mother.

As if to underscore her own distress over the matter, Frau Wittgenstein so far had not mentioned his intentions in her letters. But then at the end of a typically newsy letter, she put her foot down, saying:

His mother, who typically abstained from feuds such as this one over his choice of career, had an almost diplomatic gift for couching displeasure in a few subdued words. But because she so seldom raised her voice or offered her opinion, her rare pronouncements carried considerable weight. Describing his career as “unresolved” was an instance of her knack for strategic understatement, and it was more wounding than she probably realized or intended. Wittgenstein's attachment to her was filial and deep, but it was anything but simple, one practical problem being that he rarely could think of much to say to her. It was not from any apparent malice that he had so little to say, it was just her helplessness, the way she existed in that house like the Virgin Mary, loving, sentient, suffering, even interceding when necessary, but mainly looking down ever more helplessly from her pedestal while fate took its course.