28.III.13
Today we are walking & I say, “Why don't we sit down?”
We are on a hill â wide & green, with a red church steeple in the distance over the early green of the trees & the smell of things germinating. I can smell the grass in the sun, an empty-headed gazing. Not W. Not for a single moment can he stop thinking. Apparently, he and Russell have had another row & he looks ill. Seeing him looking at me, I shrink; & then he looks even worse. With his knees drawn up to his chest, he looks as if he's floating on a chunk of ice â adrift. “Are you ill?” I ask. He shakes his head & says with some effort, “Might we move back a bit?” Seeing my quizzical look, he adds, “The space sometimes, it makes me dizzy.” “Space?” I ask. “
Open
space.”
We draw back then, but still W. remains frozen. Sitting there, he keeps trying to make himself smaller, focusing himself under the sun's beams like a specimen beneath a microscope.
3.IV.13
We go out punting on the river, wch. is high with spring, & we see a man with his friend. The man is fishing & he either has the biggest fish in the world (wch. he doesn't) or he is caught on the bottom. Seeing our curiosity, the fisher & his friend wave us away. “We've hooked a huge one â huge! Please! You must give us berth, else we'll lose him!”
Others on shore and in boats are looking at the comical pair â the Simple Simon hooked on the bottom & the ass leaning over the water w/ his little net, patiently waiting to boat this mammoth. For half an hour, the two asses fight this fish, when the line breaks! From the shore come condolences, clapping, jeers. “Too bad!” “Bad luck, mate!” They stand up then, the two simpletons. So proud they are, the worthy fight over, holding out their empty hands. Even W. is laughing.
Watching the pair row home, Wittgenstein looks at me & says, “Friendship is like that. There is no sense to it, no practicality whatsoever. Imagine â that two fools could teach me more about friendship than any book.”
W. he looks at me then, smiling, & I see his point in relation to our own budding friendship. But then I see that likely he'll be the one fishing & I the poor fool holding the net.
7.IV.13
Money. Another disagreement about it.
W. has money â his family has a huge pot of it, apparently, whilst I have little or none & no prospects. Ought to be grateful for his generosity, yet it galls me, that he always pays. Forever bringing me little gifts. In spite of myself, I like this â yet it makes me feel helpless, little Davie, that he always pays & I cannot. Whether W. knows it or not, this money is just one more thing that he can control. I have always hated money & people's hidden strings in giving it â Uncle Howard & that lot. That rotten beholdenness, to see Mother have to suck up to them & account for every rotten farthing.
W. is uncomfortable & guilty w/ his money, as though it were a third party between us about whom I am apparently not to remark. I feel him scrutinize the state of my clothes, wch. must shame him, he is so careful in his dress â tie & suit, shoes always faultlessly shined. Every time we pass a clothier, I feel he would drag me inside. Worse, I wish in a way he would & feel like a sponger. Cursed money.
At supper, without thinking, W. says, “My manservant, Klaus, he used to say â” Then, flushing, he stops himself, saying, “Forgive me. This is stupidity â boasting.” I say, “That is your life. You cannot help being wealthy.” But this comes off badly. He will say nothing more about it & then the cheque comes. Feeling my palms sweat. A guilty gulp as he pays.
12.IV.13
Walking with W. See an exceedingly beautiful woman & remark on her, feeling as always that mixture of awkwardness & impossibility & shyness. W. does look at her, but as someone might assess a statue â very abstract, none of that longing. I want to say, “But do you not suffer from such a woman!” But he does not, I see. He suffers from other things, & once more I feel that sense of inadequacy, because I suffer & he does not. In a way, I would to be independent like him & not suffer. Yet he suffers. Plainly he suffers, but not from female beauty. In him there is an indescribable longing, but not, I think, for sex. In music I can see his sensual side, though that is not the word. Certainly he is infinitely more spiritual than I am, though that is not the word, either â¦
15.IV.13
W. in a funk again. His expression says do not ask, yet plainly he wishes me to ask. I ask if it is R., but he shakes his head. It is a letter from his father, he says.
This
much he wants me to know; anything more he will not discuss. Yet he says I really must meet his father, saying this as if he would introduce me to the Kaiser. God help me if I speak ill of his father; then I have profaned. Or Russell â a god, to hear W. talk.
Outside again, W. hugs the periphery of the trees. Walking at a crawl. Daren't sit. Daren't stop. The sky looms.
17.IV.13
This is odd. W. & I at a recital of the Cambridge Chamber Society. W. is standing before the loo, looking puzzled. Turns to me and asks â though the legend
GENTLEMEN
on the door is quite plain â “This
is
the one for men, is it not?”
25.IV.13
W. & I at the cinema â an American cowboy film,
Bronco Billy and the Cowpunchers
. It's Bronco Billy with his trick horse, Teepee. A typical cowboy film â farcical fisticuffs & grimacing villains clutching their chests as they fall back, shot.
I'm bored, but for W. this American cowboy muck is utterly simple & beautiful, beyond the ken of mere art. It is, he says, “ethically instructive.” With longing, he says: “Imagine if one were always good. If one were good virtually by definition. Would it not be wonderful â to be so good that one had no choice? To be so good that nothing evil or unfortunate could ever befall you?” “But that would be terribly boring!” I insist. “One perpetual Sunday.” “
You!
” he says forbiddingly. “This you would not understand. You are naturally good.” “I'm not so good,” I say. “Less good than you are guilty.”
W. shocked that I would see this. He looks at me almost approvingly. For once, it seems, I am right. But for now, in the cinema, W. is free & good & not guilty, & I watch him yawn back, astounded, as the posse gallops over our heads.
B
UT PINSENT
didn't have Wittgenstein to himself for long. Soon others besides Russell were after Wittgenstein, starting with Lytton Strachey.
28.IV.13
W. to tea today with Lytton Strachey & Maynard Keynes. W. very offhand, as if this were nothing. I met Keynes and Strachey December last, in M.'s office. Both were so formidable. In their eagerness to talk to M., they quite passed over me. Couldn't very well blame them. M. pushed several questions my way, but I was blocked â they were so dashing & sure. Also, Strachey made me nervous, he leaned so close; also his laugh â extravagant, forced, a bit overbearing. Keynes dark & glowering & aloof â arrogant, I hear, & justly so if this be true. M. says he's fully as clever as Russell. (Naturally, M. would eliminate himself from the running.)
Later, W. returns from this tea. Says they wish him to come to a meeting of the Apostles, where he is to talk on a subject of his choosing, wch. he cannot disclose. Frankly, I'm surprised W. would go, tho' he treats this as nothing â a courtesy, nothing more. He deludes himself: it is hardly a courtesy to accept an invitation to meet with the brilliants of Cambridge's mysterious & elect club. But here I see I am jealous, & then am ashamed to be jealous. Still, I am not so shamed as Wittgenstein is of his own ambition. This W. conceals even from himself, like his wealth. Nonetheless, he is wealthy. And ambitious.
When Wittgenstein told Russell about this invitation two days later, he took this same offhand attitude. But like Pinsent, Russell saw through it. It rankled Russell to hear of it two days after the fact, but what bothered him even more was that the Apostles had not consulted him before extending the invitation. After all, thought Russell, what did Strachey and Keynes â or Moore, for that matter â know about Wittgenstein? They saw only the energy and potential; they knew nothing about his volatile nature. Then there was Russell's more general discomfort with the Society, which had become less a culture of Moore and more one of Strachey, who had brought the homoerotic wing of the Society out of its early period of latency into the more aggressive politics of the Higher Sodomy. This, for Strachey, was the intellectual sublimity and indeed supremacy of male love â of Patroclus with his arm around the immortal Achilles â and of the glory of the ancient Greek theater, where men, in a dream of androgyny, rendered womankind superfluous, playing the parts of both men and women. This, then, had hastened Russell's departure. As for Moore, who for years had thought sodomy had died with the ancients, he cast something of a half-blind eye on this. But then of course when
the Divine
Moore was present among the randys, there weren't the droll looks and pats, the brittle jokes and esoterica about tight bums and buggery.
Even as Wittgenstein sat there with his legs twisted around, Russell could feel his tension building. Wittgenstein was asking him, in effect, if it was all right to join the Society â if it was not vain and foolish.
Russell was brusque. Well, go, he said. Go, by all means. At least see if you like it.
Wittgenstein's eyes wandered, then he asked suddenly, You were a member, were you not?
Russell shrugged. Oh, some years ago. It's been four or five years since I turned in my wings â angels, we're called, the older fellows who have taken degrees and gone on. Strachey and Keynes are angels â
fallen
angels, he added with a snort, wondering if Wittgenstein would catch his drift, or if indeed this might be Wittgenstein's drift. Probing, Russell added vaguely, Moore's still active, I believe.
Yes. Wittgenstein looked up suddenly. Moore named me.
Oh? Russell turned to light his pipe, the match flaring as he poked it into the bowl.
Wittgenstein saw Russell's sly look but misread it, wondering if Russell was really the one behind it. Then
you
recommended me to Moore? Wittgenstein asked pointedly.
Indeed, no. Russell grimaced with the pipe fixed between his teeth.
I
had nothing to do with it. Strachey's the one who runs the show now. Moore's a mere figurehead. They said nothing to me.
But now Wittgenstein got a different feeling, a hint of censure that bled into a hue he was at peril to discriminate. Rising again, Wittgenstein asked edgily, Well, what do you think? Ought I to join?
If
I am asked, I mean?
Well â Russell began to speak, then checked himself, saying with dubious conviction, Go.
Wittgenstein turned, circled, turned, sat. His indecision dance.
I mean that, repeated Russell. Go â
But why? Do you care?
Care?
Why, of course not. Again, a moment's hesitation, then a cloud of smoke as Russell added, On the other hand, I don't want anyone to think I told you
not
to go.
But why would anyone think that? Wittgenstein looked as if he were sitting on a cake of ice. Why ever would you advise me against it?
Cautiously offhand, Russell said, Because I'm no longer active. I don't know. They're a suspicious lot in ways.
Suspicious?
In the way of a coterie, suspicious. Nothing very unusual in a group, the cliquishness and little intrigues.
And Moore?
What about Moore?
He takes part in this?
Dear me, I don't know. A dry smile. Moore is Moore.
But then Wittgenstein felt a different edge to this, causing him to ask, Then you've quarreled, you two?
No, we haven't quarreled. An indignant look. Another cloud of smoke. Go â You'll see soon enough what you like.
See what?
Go!
Wittgenstein wasn't the only one who felt Russell's spurs. By the heavy swing doors, on his way to Hall for breakfast the next morning, Russell finally caught up with Moore. Russell strode straight up to him.
I understand Wittgenstein has been invited to the next Apostles meeting.
Moore eyed him up and down. That's correct.
You initiated it?
Come to quarrel with me this morning, have you?
Not to quarrel, to inquire.
Well, your manner is fast making me angry.
I'd like to know why I wasn't informed.
You're no longer active. Why was I obliged to inform you?
As a courtesy if nothing else. I'm a member in good standing.
Former
member. And a former member who, I fear, is a bit off course this morning.
Am I?
asked Russell, leaning closer so this wouldn't be heard. I venture you'd feel the same if it were Pinsent.
Pinsent goes his own way, said Moore measuredly. Thanks to Wittgenstein, he's gone it quite completely, actually.
Russell stood there nodding. And this is my fault, is it? That your game, is it? To use the Apostles to pry Wittgenstein away from Pinsent?
This was so absurd that Moore hardly knew how to respond. Craning forward, he said, I believe that will be quite enough this morning, thank you.
Yes, by all means. Russell dropped his shoulders. By all means.
That was all. Separately, they strode down the corridor into Hall, where the hazy sun was streaming through the stained glass, warming the ancient oak of the trenchers, where breakfast was already under way. And there, at opposite ends of High Table, not a pistol shot away, the two dons chopped and swallowed in silence, their stomachs gurgling with early morning acid.
Getting nowhere with Moore, Russell then did the next worse thing: like Paul Revere, he went to Strachey and Keynes to warn them of the
danger
of electing Wittgenstein.
Normally, Russell was effective in the counselor's role, but this time he was in a sorry state. Lytton, always able to see the worst, thought Russell was in a shambles â old as Methuselah, with his haggard grimace and hair singed white. Such a crashing bore Bertie was, with his dire predictions. Why, the old boy was practically panting as he ran on with mounting frustration.