The World as I Found It (77 page)

Dorothy Moore
, returned the master glad-hander. So good to see you. Then artfully, he said, Max here — I take it I may call you
Max
? he asked patronizingly. Well, Max was curious why the children are wearing clothes. And in answer to your question, Max, it is true we used to let them run naked on warm days, or when they were exercising. Shame, you see, is taught like anything else. Unfortunately, as the school grew, we took on older children who had been taught the old way — that the human body was a matter for shame and sniggering. And then there were the newspapers, which of course exaggerate everything. So we tend now to avoid it, and I must say it's rather a pity. Those early days before all the ruckus — those were our Eden here, in a way.

Despite the wistful note at the word “Eden,” Russell was doing a bit of probing with this Biblical reference. He was especially sensitive to Wittgenstein's newfound religiosity, remembering Wittgenstein's air of disapproval at his freethinking ways after the war. Russell also saw the wooden cross around Max's neck, causing him to wonder what manner of man this ox was, though he had an idea. In the meantime, Russell's patronizing explanation had had its effect on Max, whose stubborn ears were back. Max took hard reckoning at this one who thought himself so slick. To him, there was nothing more hateful than to hear a sworn atheist bandy the Bible.

As it turned out, Russell sized up Max rather shrewdly. He could see that Max was not nearly as simple as he let on, just as he could detect, amid the expansive gestures and masking playfulness, the German's clouded hostility.

Wittgenstein saw all this and more. Pointedly, he said,
Max
— let's take off the bags.

Trying to smooth things over, meanwhile, Moore said to Russell, Well, Miss Loubry tells us that congratulations are in order.

Congratulations? asked Russell.

I mean the fact that you're to be a father again.

Oh — Russell nodded hastily. Yes … She is that — pregnant, I mean. Due soon, I'm afraid. I thought I had told you. Actually, Dora's upstairs with a bad headache, unfortunately. Should be down for dinner, though. I see I am very remiss. She did ask me to offer her greetings.

I'm sure you both must be very happy, ventured Dorothy.

Oh, indeed, said Russell evasively. Indeed. But Russell didn't look so happy, and in his anxiety to deflect the conversation, he said without thinking, But here … Let me introduce my own two children …

Russell inwardly cringed as he said it but didn't dare dig the hole deeper by qualifying it. Shepherding forth a round-faced, brown-haired boy with sheer blue eyes, Russell said, This is my son, John …
my fearless explorer
. And this, he said, patting the pudding-bowl bob of a slender girl who presented herself at vulnerable, pretty-please attention, this is my daughter, Kate.

This was done efficiently, if somewhat hastily; the guests scarcely had time to do the requisite handshaking and talking before Russell rather ostentatiously introduced some of the other children who had run outside, as if to make it plain that at Beacon Hill there were no favorites.

Max seemed to have a knack for children. Showing off, he held two happily squealing boys upside-down by their feet. The children were drawn to him as to an inviting tree, and not just children, either. Lily, Dorothy noticed, had come out again and was now sitting on the porch, her expression somewhere between wounded and wistful. And then, rather suddenly, Russell began his standard tour narrative, pointing up to his tower, then to his prize lightning rods, all the while stealing looks at Lily, who was pretending not to be looking at Max.

They saw outside themselves as in circles, as in pictures, each opening into another, a little at a time. By the car with Max, meanwhile, Wittgenstein was feeling very much
out
of the picture. Russell, the school, the children, the long time away — it conjured a lot in him, mainly loss. Untying the ropes on the roof rack, Wittgenstein had watched as Russell introduced his children to the Moores, noticing not Russell's daughter but the boy, the son. And it was not just the boy but the bond that Wittgenstein felt; it was Russell's deep and abiding pride as he squired his splendid son forth to say a few words to Moore, whom he explained like a piece of history. Russell, he knew, would not give
him
such an introduction. He was all too keenly aware of a certain clubbishness in the way Russell introduced his son to Moore, as if Russell were conscious of Moore not merely as a fellow father but, as it were, a
real
father — a father with sons.

Looking at them then, Wittgenstein was filled with envy and grief for the unfairness of it — that for some people life could swiftly change for the better, while for others like himself, it seemed to never change, the general direction of life, with all its manifold defects and deflections, seemingly foreordained in its downward trajectory.

But Max was also weighing on Wittgenstein's mind then. Wittgenstein was furious at him for having embarrassed Moore, and now, in his jealousy at seeing Russell with his son, he was all the more ready to vent his anger on Max. Speaking under his breath in German, Wittgenstein warned him again about Russell. And then, almost against his better judgment, he added:

And quit your games with that girl.

What games? Max demanded.

You know perfectly well what games. Do you think I'm blind?

But Max wouldn't budge. With a shrug, he said, I don't know what you're talking about, Wittgenstein. That girl means nothing to me.

B
UT DIDN'T YOU THINK
it was peculiar? Dorothy was whispering to Moore during the ten minutes they had alone in their spartan room before rejoining the others downstairs. And what about the way Bertie interrupted me and said,
But let me introduce my own children
. Quite as if they were
his
children and not hers! Who does he think he is? Abraham?

Dorothy was on to something. Maundering Moore was changing his socks as she continued:

And what about that woman standing on the porch? You saw her. The queer, athletic-looking one with the dark hair? Don't give me that lost look — you saw her staring at him. Staring at that poor Lily, too. As Bertie was —

Well?
Face red, Moore was leaning over the bed, pulling on his left shoe as he said, I don't see what you expect me to say. That it's
odd
? Well, of course it's odd — I expected as much, so why bother about it? Can't we,
please
, go down and have a glass of sherry? Can't we merely
sit
for a while, without the analysis?

We can, said Dorothy dubiously. Only I feel more comfortable knowing. It's not mere
nosiness
, you know.

Moore put on his other shoe, then stood up as Dorothy, flicking a toothbrush, said decisively, Very well, then. But do admit this much: there
was
something going on between Max and Miss Loubry in the front seat.

Moore closed his eyes. I don't know that. Nor do you. Not for certain. Moore added evasively, I heard no protest from her.

Oh, come
on
, said Dorothy, dropping her head. The poor girl was probably petrified.

Now Moore was getting agitated, thinking she was calling his courage into question.

Then why, if you
knew
— why didn't you tell me? I'd have spoken up. And anyway, where was Wittgenstein, if it was all so obvious? Moore stared straight at her, then said, It's hard to act when you're not sure. And I'm not so blind, either, I'll have you know. I see rather more than you think.

Dorothy nodded emphatically. I know you do. You also
think
more than you think. Or
say
.

So? said Moore, drawing himself up. I suppose I find it necessary. As they say in cooking, reserve some of the liquid.

Well, you might reserve a little less liquid.

So I might, he said in that brusque way he had when he wanted to sever a conversation. Dorothy did not want to press it and followed him outside, where they found the hallway empty, the doors shut.

But who else stays up here, I wonder? whispered Dorothy as they started down the unlit back stairs. Careful, she said, and she clutched his arm, ever aware of his worsening vision in the dark.
Oop
— she held him back — Wait, there's water there. Do you see it? To your left, my sweet, to your
left
. Mind the water …

Moore sorely wanted a drink, but first Russell took them for a short tour of the grounds. Here Russell was much the squire. Wanting especially to dash any image of the school as being primitive or ill-equipped, he took special pride in showing them the laboratory and then, mostly for Wittgenstein's benefit, the workshop with its child-size benches.

Russell could scarcely manage a screwdriver, but he sounded quite savvy as he led Wittgenstein to the back of the shop, saying, And here is our wood lathe.

Taking his cue, Wittgenstein turned the screw and felt the edges of the wood chisels. He nodded his emphatic approval. I had no idea, he said. Most impressive. And the children use these machines?

Well, replied Russell, only the older ones use the lathe. But they use them quite ably, just as they do the chemicals in the laboratory. Oh, some cuts and splinters, but nothing serious — it's the child who has never seen these things who seriously hurts himself. Yes, we think handwork and practical instruction are most important. There's much more to education than academics, don't you agree?

Here again Wittgenstein was in vigorous agreement, saying, I gave some of my boys such instruction. More in the standards of craftsmanship than technique. We did not have such fine tools available, unfortunately.

And not your girls? asked Russell, unable to resist. They received no instruction?

They did not take such an interest, said Wittgenstein with a look of discomfort. Many of the boys were from farms and had some experience with tools. The seeds were sown already.

I see, said Russell, but he did not press it. Feeling he had redeemed his school from the status of a nudist colony, he was a good bit more relaxed. But as they crossed through the dusky beeches that enclosed the tennis lawn, Russell saw his guests eyeing the burned grass and the gutted shed, whereupon he — ever the punster — remarked, Well, every school has its bad apple. At Beacon Hill, we have a Peck.

Russell was explaining his pun and the situation surrounding it as they went back inside.

I'll tell you more about it later if you've an interest, he said as he led them down a long hallway, past a wall the children had painted with a seascape of starfish, sea horses and a Viking ship. But first let me conclude my little tour by showing you the children's dining room.

Then we won't be eating with them? asked Moore, trying to disguise his relief.

Oh, no. We do eat with them often, but not tonight, no. Rather to the annoyance of his guests, Russell continued in that same nervous, somewhat pedantic tone, We always introduce guests to the children. After all, this is the children's house. We do try to spare them from that class sense of two quite separate worlds, one for adults and one for children, with different rights for each. We feel these introductions relieve the children of that forbidding sense of
foreignness
that visiting adults carry with them. I know I always hated it, that seen-and-not-heard syndrome of our parents.

So saying, Russell ushered them into the brightly painted dining room, where the children could be heard amid a clabber of utensils and scraping stools. In its smell, the warm room was redolent of Hall, with an aroma of overcooked meat and vegetables and, mixed with it, the slightly sour custard smell of children, happily sunburned and dirty from a long day playing in the hot sun. Lily was there. Besmocked and helping with the serving, she flushed like a grouse when she saw Max loom in the doorway, inquisitive, predatory. Stealthily, she slipped back into the kitchen, evading not only Max and the headmaster but also Miss Marmer, who was supervising the meal. For thirty minutes, Miss Marmer had been awaiting the headmaster, and it was on her cue that the children jumped up and repeated in a hilarious, faltering singsong:

Wel-COME — come-to — Bea-Con HILL — to-Bea-con Hill — to Hill
…

It was charming how the children giddily clapped and laughed. But
look
, Dorothy whispered to Moore, look for God's sake at that queer boy gnawing on his arm as if it were a great red drumstick!

I would guess, ventured Moore, that that's Bertie's pyromaniac.

Lovely. Then — just so there'd be no confusion later — Dorothy said with a veiled look toward Miss Marmer,
That's
the woman we saw on the porch — the athletic-looking one I mentioned.

But there was no need for Dorothy to point her out. Smiling nervously, Miss Marmer tiptoed over, leaning a little too close to the bewildered guests as she introduced herself with spectral friendliness as
Winnifred Marmer
. Lily, not wanting to be accused of lollygagging, had reemerged from the kitchen with a pitcher of milk — fresh
pasteurized
milk, Russell added — that she seemed to take forever pouring as she fluttered there, staring at Max. Miss Marmer, meanwhile, made a point, either for Russell's benefit or out of simple curiosity, of going up to Max and peering at his great chest while asking in amazement:

And you, sir? Are you an athlete?

Nein
, said Max, giving her a murderous flick off with his eyes.

Russell didn't tarry then. But as they were leaving, Dorothy and Moore saw once more the looks zipping from Russell to Lily to Max to Miss Marmer. And then on Miss Marmer's cue the children jumped up a second time, shrilly singing:

GOOD-night-GOO-night-night — night …

Oh,
that
was him, was it?

It was out of an embarrassed sense of politeness that Dorothy feigned surprise when Russell identified the arm-gnawing boy as his shed burner.