The World as I Found It (65 page)

Even so, it took more than trips to America to float the school. By night, the headmaster was the ever more popular journalist and author, tossing off myriad articles and books to stave off his creditors. Yet this, too, had its satisfactions. Russell liked seeing his name and ideas in print, and he was proud to be able to hold his own in the practical, pecuniary world that made the higher world possible. Russell wrote like he lived — quickly and easily, often brilliantly, in long, lean, lucid sentences. No subject was too daunting and none too trivial. If the Hearst papers or
Vanity Fair
wanted an article on the morality of kissing or the social implications of bobbed hair, they would quickly have it. Russell rarely revised and he never looked back, taking workmanlike pleasure in his better efforts and quickly putting out of mind his poorer ones. Having finished a book entitled
Marriage and Morals
two years before, he was now at work on its sequel,
The Conquest of Happiness
, along with an article — or rather a foregone thesis — that
Parents' Magazine
had assigned him entitled “Are Parents Bad for Children?”

As for the rest, Russell had little direct connection with philosophy or academia now, and he was taken aback by Moore's letter asking if he would be willing to examine Wittgenstein. Russell had worked hard to get Wittgenstein's
Tractatus
published, and he had been sorely irked when Wittgenstein sent him a letter rejecting his introduction, saying with an evasiveness otherwise foreign to him that Russell's ideas about the book did not survive in translation and “left only superficiality and misunderstanding.”

Russell, though disappointed, was certainly not surprised when Wittgenstein suddenly announced that he was going off to teach school in lower Austria. Despite the tensions between them, Russell and Wittgenstein still corresponded at that time. In one letter, Wittgenstein spoke of his decision as “my good deed” and said he intended to haul the peasants “out of the muck.” Russell still could vividly remember Wittgenstein's first enthusiastic letters from Trattenbach, which he described as a “sound old roof” and “a peaceful nest of a place.” Wittgenstein said the children were especially charming, thoroughly simple and unaffected. They loved to hear him whistle and would sit open-mouthed with their chins resting in their hands while he read them tales from the brothers Grimm. Less charming were their backward parents. From the start, they were suspicious of the new teacher, but Wittgenstein nonetheless felt they were appreciative — good, hearty peasant folk, in the main.

Russell wasn't surprised as this rosy picture gradually changed for the worse. In 1920 and 1921, with Dora Black as his companion, Russell was living in China as a guest of the Chinese Lecture Association. Defiantly unmarried and openly sharing their quarters, Russell and Dora made headlines, carrying scandal to British consulates from Tokyo to Peking, who anxiously wired London for instructions as to whether the libertine couple should be officially received. The Chinese were far more broad-minded than the English, not caring a bit about Russell's personal life. Revolutionary students and moderates alike welcomed the great thinker with a reverence and enthusiasm that he found almost embarrassing, importuning him, as a sort of latter-day Lao-tzu, to kindly, if he would, please, sir, enlighten them in the halcyon ways of social revolution and lead their backward country into the twentieth century. With Dora, Russell toured Peking and the surrounding provinces, speaking to students, officials and sundry delegations on topics ranging from mathematics to education, and from syndicalism to the Boxer indemnity. Russell liked the Chinese, and he was greatly encouraged by what he saw in China — especially compared to what he had seen in revolutionary Russia, where he had expected to find the embodiment of his political dreams and had instead seen poverty, gross inequality and mass persecution on a staggering scale.

As for Wittgenstein, his eyes seemed to have been opened as well, his letters from Trattenbach turning sour, then bitter. In a matter of months, his snug little nest had become “a disgusting swamp of humanity.” In the aftermath of the war and the wild inflation, the money-grubbing Trattenbachers had sunk to the “very bottom,” Wittgenstein said. Past the bottom: the reformer now claimed they were the most wicked and debased people on earth. Indeed, their only saving grace was the children, but with such drunkards and ignoramuses for parents, he feared the children would also perish.

Russell was then in a good period of life — too good to be spoiled by these doom-ridden reports from the barrens. Oppressed by Wittgenstein's unhappiness and irked by his naiveté, he wrote back, “If you think the Trattenbachers are wicked, then you ought to go to Russia as I did last year. Then you will have a better appreciation of the relative scale of wickedness and inhumanity. The people of Trattenbach are no better or worse than people anywhere else in the world.”

How glad Russell was not to be around Wittgenstein in those years! His fame was steadily growing, and he was terrifically busy with various writings. Russell was even involved in politics again, having unsuccessfully stood for Parliament as a socialist candidate in the 1922 and 1923 elections. Wittgenstein and his narrow concerns seemed quite foreign to him, and their relationship dribbled down to almost nothing — a card or two, usually around Christmas, but blessedly remote. Then around 1926 or so, Russell got a rather mysterious card from Wittgenstein saying that he had left Trattenbach some time ago. He gave no reason. He said that for his sister Gretl he was designing and building a spare modern house, pruned of the usual clutter and, he hoped, the usual pretenses. Beyond that, though, Wittgenstein said, he didn't have the slightest idea what he would do with his life.

That was the last Russell heard from Wittgenstein until he received Moore's letter. Wittgenstein after a doctorate! What a howler! And wasn't it vindicating for Russell to have Trinity come crawling to him — and better yet making Moore the messenger boy! Still, despite all the old doubts and anxieties that the
Viva
would inevitably dredge up, Russell felt almost morally bound to examine Wittgenstein. Moore was another matter. Russell had little idea what Moore was doing, though he figured, snidely, that Moore probably wasn't doing much. True, Moore had published
Philosophical Studies
, a collection of his articles, in 1922; and he had been elevated to full professor in 1925. It was also true, as Russell thought with some distaste, that Moore was now editor of the prestigious philosophical journal
Mind
. Still, as Russell sometimes felt compelled to tell himself, Moore's output was minuscule compared to his own. But here Russell's feelings were basically preemptive: as he well knew, Moore and his other old colleagues didn't think that he was doing much either, opinionizing from the popular pulpit and squandering himself on children.

Russell was painfully aware of the irony that he should be writing
The Conquest of Happiness
at a time when he was feeling exceedingly thwarted and unhappy. That, he thought, was one of the disorienting things about writing, to be describing or analyzing emotions that one was not then experiencing. Russell certainly thought he had been happy far more than he had been unhappy, yet he had experienced little of what might be called joy. In his ruminations about the book, and in his general unhappiness, Russell had been trying to remember not just the times of happiness in his life, which had been many, but times of joy. Real, not figurative, joy. Not passion or triumph, or even boundless love, but pure splashing, beaming, unqualified joy. And Russell could think of but one instance: fatherhood. Indeed, fatherhood seemed the one bright spot in his life now that his second marriage was foundering.

Miss Marmer, one of the teachers at Beacon Hill, was not a joy or even an especially bright spot in his life, but she did offer harbor of a kind. Miss Marmer was very understanding about these things. Best of all, Miss Marmer was also discreet and undemanding, with no apparent expectation of anything more lasting. Of late, Russell had been seeing more of Miss Marmer, what with Dora shutting him out of their room. Not that Russell wanted
in
, especially; it was more a matter of principle, or rather a battle of wills, with Russell wanting
in
expressly because Dora had shut him
out
. To be still more precise, Russell wanted
out
the man who then was living inside his wife's room, the man who was consoling her and, as he sometimes thought, plotting with her against him. Higgins was an American, and he was no stranger to Beacon Hill, having lived there all the previous September while the headmaster had been away in America. Higgins had seen after things in Russell's absence. As a matter of fact, Higgins had fathered the child that Dora was soon to deliver.

Sometimes, while walking with his son John on the nearby chalk bluffs, in the sharp sea wind, Russell would say, Strong men seek the mountains; wise men of virtue seek the sea. And John, a bright and inquisitive boy, with a snarl of dark hair, would ask, Which do you seek, Daddy? And Russell, beaming down at his beautiful bark of a boy would reply, I seek both of course, saying this with all the self-sufficiency of fatherhood, as if he were the same man at all times. But at night, cut off from Dora and feeling neither strong nor wise nor fatherly, Russell would find himself seeking something else. Miss Marmer had become a regular harbor then, as a matter of fact.

S
UCH WAS THE SITUATION
that morning as Moore and Dorothy were hurrying down the platform to meet Wittgenstein. Or rather, this was the situation until the Moores saw a large, rough-looking man barge excitedly over to Wittgenstein. The man's face was heated, his back was broad, and he was gesticulating emphatically. Dressed in canvas shorts and sandals and an open white shirt with rolled sleeves, he was smiling and spreading his big arms, nudging Wittgenstein with a gaping tale he seemed to be gathering out of his chest, his voice resounding over the station din like the cadenced woofs of a bow saw.

For a moment then, Moore thought — or wanly hoped — that this human spectacle was someone Wittgenstein had run into at the station. But, no: Wittgenstein seemed to know this man, whose story he was following with deep, if uneasy, attention, all the while tapping his slender cane.

But who's that, Bill? whispered Dorothy, sidling up to him. You never said he was bringing a friend.

Well, if he is, muttered Moore indignantly, it's certainly news to me.

With that, there was the flurried press of greetings and introductions. Wittgenstein was saying hello to Dorothy, whom he had met only once briefly, before the war, and Moore was paying the porter, who was staring at the vagabond pack and roll at the big man's feet. Pointing to a corrugated cylinder with leather straps that hung from the pack, the porter said to him, That there — that's a Heinie gas mask case, id'nit? From the war.

Beaming with a broad punch of a face, the big man said, Sure. That is so, brother.

The porter went white at the sound of the man's heavy German accent and said quickly, Didn't mean nothing by it, mate — by Heinie, I mean.

The other man shrugged affably. In it I keep only food now.

The porter looked puzzled. The German wasn't much past thirty — young to have been in the war. He said, You was in it, were you?

The German nodded. Arras. Verdun. Then the Somme, and wounded bad. Then here in the prison camp two years.

Sorry 'bout that, mate, said the porter, with a troubled look. A bad time, that was. A better time for you in England this trip, eh? He turned to Moore respectfully. Begging your pardon, sir, mum. For my interrupting, I mean. I was just very surprised, is all.

The German threw up an easy hand. God keep you.

Said the gaping porter, easing off, You, too, mate.

With a look of discomfort, Wittgenstein resumed his introductions. This is my close friend Max Einer. Max and I met in Austria after the war. He arrived unexpectedly last night, and I wonder if you would mind if he came with us. I thought Russell would have room. Max is not fussy about where he sleeps, and he will make himself useful. There are always jobs to be done at a school.

Sure, agreed Max. Anywhere I sleep, he said, pointing to the pack.

Well, said Moore in a laboring voice. It's certainly fine
with me
if Mr. Einer comes, but of course I can't speak for Mr. Russell.

Oh, said Max offhandedly. This Russell and I, we will be fine, Moore. Always, Ludwig tells me about you, Moore, and also this Russell. Always I told him I will meet you. So this is
gut
. And this nice lady, he said, gesturing to Dorothy. This is your wife, Moore?

Moore, unnerved by his astonishing forwardness, said protectively, This is Mrs. Moore, yes.

Dorothy
Moore, she added, offering an uncertain hand.

Oh,
Dorthe
! said Max knowingly, with a loutish grin. Boyishly then, as if he had known her for years, Max gave her plump arm a squeeze, then looked around happily now that all was settled. And after that Max called her
Dorthe
, just as he called Moore Moore.

And Max did make himself useful. With Max there was no need for a porter. And with the likes of Max barging down the crowded aisle with two armloads of luggage, they had absolutely no trouble finding good seats.

And he was charming, if not bewildering, in his way. It was not from uncouthness that Max so quickly assumed familiarity with everyone, it was rather a matter of intense belief. By Max's book, no man had hegemony over another. Max detested convention, pretense and falseness of any kind. He ate with whatever spoon was nearest and spoke his mind, no matter who was present or what it cost him. In court once, after a brawl in which Max had beaten three men unconscious, the magistrate sentenced him to three days more in jail for refusing to address him as Your Honor. The magistrate lectured and threatened, but Max was recalcitrant: he took those three days in jail, then six days more for his continued stubbornness. Max would have been jailed a thousand times had not the local priest interceded. This was in Trattenbach, toward the end. Having long acted as Wittgenstein's apologist and defender, Max never flagged in what he saw as his duty to his best friend on earth. Once released, Max found those three and gave them another pounding for other ugly tales they had spread. But he didn't stop there. Down by the tavern, bloody and enraged, he battered down a door and beat two other men senseless, then with loud oaths dragged them into the street, daring anyone to utter another word against him or his friend. In his way, Max considered himself a man of the Gospels, a friar of sorts.