The World as I Found It (44 page)

Why?
Moore asked himself as he crouched over that fulsome lime pit, grunting and slapping. Why was he
here
and not with his young wife? Why not at the Hurley-Burley, where he and Dorothy had passed an idyllic August at the seaside the previous summer?

It was not long after their wedding that Dorothy had insisted on taking him there for a needed rest. This came after Moore had begun to founder on
Prolegomena to Any Future Certainty
, a paper he had been months struggling with. Ironically, it was Wittgenstein who had suggested the topic that day in Moore's office when he refused to say there was not a rhinoceros in the room. Moore's paper sought to respond to such skepticism, but how? The further Moore progressed, the more stale and unconvincing he found his arguments. For a month Dorothy watched his mounting frustration, until at supper one night Moore threw up his hands and declared:

I know it
thus
!
Behold my two hands
! Ergo I
know
there are at least
two
things in the world!

I see, said Dorothy quietly. I'll show you a third. You're exhausted, and I'm exhausted by you. I insist we take a holiday.

Moore didn't protest very hard. Indeed, he was thoroughly relieved three days later when they registered at the Hurley-Burley, a tall, white-shingled hotel near Harwich, on a cliff overlooking the North Sea.

There was a crowd of regulars who convened there every summer, older and middle-aged couples, with many children. Dorothy was among the youngest wives, and when she revealed to Mrs. Noyes that they were only recently married, they were then known as the “young couple” — mascots to remind the older people of when their love was green.

There's rather more burley than hurley here
, mused old Mr. Colbeck while sitting beside Moore at grogtime, which began promptly at four on the promontory overlooking the sun-greased sea. By the second day, Moore had heard that dictum repeated a dozen times by the various Burleybacks, or Puffins — the return guests for whom the sameness of those placid Augusts was clearly the best that life could hold.

It was an easy, unmeditated life, a thoroughly common life among ordinary people. Yet Moore had to admit that the life here promised much more good, and certainly a good deal less harm, than many more rigorously applied systems. After supper in the dining room, there were the usual round of skits, impromptu musicales and parlor games. Moore played charades and, with Dorothy at the piano, sang the definitive, three-hankie rendition of
Foggy, Foggy Dew
. Wearing a mop wig and a seaweed beard, he even posed as Poseidon at the Henleys' fortieth wedding anniversary party.

Moore guessed it was partly due to being married and partly due to age that he suddenly found these humble rites so sacred and consoling. Sitting with the men, he could avidly discuss pigeon breeding, garden pests or dog training. There were an endless variety of things to talk about, and once it was learned that Moore was a philosopher, he became the resident authority on virtually every topic. At night, there was always a large gathering out on the promontory. Mr. Glencannon, who only a year ago had lost his lovely wife, Agnes, would play
Mother O' Mine
and
Comin' thro' the Rye
on his mournful bagpipes (sounding like a frightful geese gaggle, as old Mrs. Dovecote never failed to remark). Wearing heavy Shetland sweaters and bundled under blankets in the varnished slat chairs, they would sit for three and four hours at a stretch, talking, drinking toddies, playing euchre. The awnings rippled and the waves pounded the black rocks, sending up a mist that kept people wiping their glasses. Puffing his pipe and holding hands with Dorothy, Moore would stare out to sea, hardly saying a word, while the others disagreed over which constellation was which, or gamely debated whether dogs have souls or God a sex — questions, ultimately, that were respectfully remanded to the able Professor Moore for his considered views.

Mornings, Moore would be up even before the old men to read the paper and savor the sun as it burned off the fog. At the breakfast bell he would be off, heading down the line of steaming chafing dishes, heaping his plate with rashers of bacon and shirred eggs, toast and stewed prunes. God, but he could pack it away there. He could feel the fragrant heat fanning up from the fiery gardens. He could smell the rank sea air that flapped the stiff white linen as he worked away at that holy mountain of food, conscious of the rising pressures of his body stoked with two normal-size breakfasts and four cups of hot coffee.

Seven days a week this was Moore's Sunday morning service. And the body — was it not a luxury liner built for pleasure as well as thinking?
Dorotheeee?
he would wheedle as he crept into the room.
Dorotheeeeee
. Oh, he'd catch her in bed. And didn't he love the whiteness of her breasts below her sunburned neck! Working down the whiteness of her thighs to the red flesh of her ample calves, Bill Moore was in a rut. Sniffing and snorting. Jackstamping in the joy seat of that squeaking iron bed. Long clam-sucking thrusts and a clenching kiss. Then came the whistling, the little rinse in the wash basin before changing into his scratchy black bathing costume. Grinning at her in the mirror.

Yes, a black pleasure ship he was, built for stateliness, not for speed. Offering his arm to Dorothy, Moore would cross the shaky planks that led down the cliffs to the beach. With his pipe clenched in his teeth and his skimmer slanted against the glare, he would step off onto the fine white sand so agreeably hot underfoot. A few older couples sitting fully dressed in beach chairs holding parasols; and then the younger women in flouncy wading gowns and their husbands in banded black. Children running with their pails. Mrs. Marsdon's sturdy black Labrador, Hero, bounding into the foam. Greetings came like alms.

Ah, the young people. Mrs. Moore, do come sit here beside me.

Good Mr. Moore! And how are you, sir, this lovely morning?

Oh, very well, thank you!

Taking leave then of the Burleybacks and bumsitters, parting from his wife, Moore would calmly slog out into the cold, black water. And after him the children would shout, Mr. Moore, your hat! You're wearing your hat, sir!

Lazily waving his hand. The hat's old. It floats. The waves will wash it ashore.

Doing a slow crawl beyond the waves, Moore would spurt and roll over. A sperm whale, he was. From the shore, his black belly resembled a distant island. Timid swimmers found his presence reassuring; he made the sea look so restful and inviting, the golden straw of his skimmer glowing like a halo over the glassy roll.

Moore felt distant and serene as he fluttered along, peering over his belly at the hotel on the little bluff and the folk lying on the sand. From here it seemed he could draw these disparate elements of his life into perspective; it was a way of taking a long look back at his life and wife, staring half in disbelief at that fragile green thing waiting for him on the shore. So odd, he would think, this need to see from afar what could best be seen up close. It was a matter of one's emotional focal length: one was either near- or farsighted, or perhaps not clear at any distance. With his arms waggling at his sides, Moore would daily test the limits of his acuity, drifting out until he felt a kind of pain, like a boy seeing how long he could remain submerged. Sweeping out, he would wait until at last he saw her waving at him, angry that he always ventured out so far, without a care. Then he would bellow back and slog in, feeling secretly grateful that she had called him back. Floating out, he could reforge that bond, venturing forth that he might return, lobbing over the swells to strain the ragged edge of sight.

And now, a year later, as Moore emerged from Wittgenstein's outhouse into the preternatural desolation of that Norwegian mountaintop, he asked himself once again why he felt this need to swim out from his wife and new life? What on earth had driven him here? he wondered, inwardly cursing himself for being such a fool.

For the first time ever in his life, Moore felt homesick — wifesick. This loneliness was a curious feeling. All his life he had prized male company, and he was strangely grieved now to see that he could never return to that life. In his youth, he had always thought he would travel — oh, not widely or adventurously, but freely, whether alone or in the company of other men, cloaked in his thoughts like a weatherproof. This notion was so bound up in his youth that it pained him to find that he was now a confirmed homebody. The question was how he would endure this isolation and wifesickness, not to mention another week of Wittgenstein.

As for Wittgenstein, he was increasingly oppressed by Moore's normality.

Moore was the apotheosis of all that he was not. Moore did not withhold himself from world or woman. Inept as he was in the outdoors, Moore held firmly the bosom of life, snatching pleasure where he found it. Yet despite these frictions, they had their pleasant times. There was still much work to do in the hut, and with Moore's ham-handed help, Wittgenstein finished the bunks and built a shelter over the woodpile. They went for long walks and called over gorges to their cacaphonous echoes. In the sparkling fjord, they sailed a small sailboat Wittgenstein had bought, Moore sprawled in the stern, his boyish face turned up to the sun.

But most of all, Moore loved to skinny-dip in gushing mountain streams. At the first sight of a stream or falls, he would be hopping on one foot, yanking off his trousers. Oh, come
on
, Wittgenstein! he would taunt, slogging into a gorge filled with mist and sunlight. Here Moore was in his element. Here he was again a ripping pleasure boat, whooping as the icy water pounded his flabby white back and dimpled buttocks.

Wittgenstein couldn't stand it. Gone was the grinning novitiate who had dived naked from the
Sweimfoss
. Ashamed and intimidated by Moore's nakedness, Wittgenstein would retreat down the trail and wait until Moore reappeared, half dressed, with his hair awry.

In the evenings before the stove, they read and talked. Frequently they argued about philosophy, but this was the least of their conflicts. Slowly, another competition was unfolding. Within a few days, their relationship began to take on a queer domestic quality, Wittgenstein acting the Spartan provider and Moore the dependent complainer, inept with tools, horses, cooking. Moore resented Wittgenstein's youth and vigor, his contempt for comfort. How could Wittgenstein silently endure this misery? he wondered. Awful food! Lonely nights! No warm Dorothy to crawl up against! Lying in his bunk at night, Moore would wait until his bladder was fit to burst. And then he would charge into the half darkness, there to flail and curse at the mosquitoes that flew like birdshot into his neck while he whizzed and squirted.

Still, Moore had something over Wittgenstein. Twice he had gone with Wittgenstein to his neighbor Nordstrøm's to buy eggs and cheese and even fresh meat when it was available. Nordstrøm had a daughter named Sigrid of perhaps eighteen years, willowy and blond but doorknob plain. Wittgenstein had seen her watching him, but he persistently ignored her. Not Moore.

I saw her eyeing you, he joked as they rode back. You may take a wife yet if you don't watch out.

At this Wittgenstein recoiled, snapping, Don't be silly!

Moore rolled his eyes, happy to get a rise out of him. Oh, you never know.

Please — Wincing. Don't speak foolishness.

After the many small humiliations he had suffered, Moore liked getting Wittgenstein flustered. He dubbed Sigrid the Milkmaid, and after that, when they saw her in the meadows minding her cows, Moore would chime:

Well, well
… your Milkmaid has come to see you, Wittgenstein.

Moore meant it as a joke, but Wittgenstein only heard the postmaster's wife, until one day he snapped: I forbid you to mention her again!

There was another incident that was to leave a lasting impression on Moore. On no account would Wittgenstein dress in front of him, but one morning, coming through the door, Moore caught him with his trousers down, adjusting a thick black belt that girded his groin and stomach. Glaring, Wittgenstein said in a brittle voice:

I ruptured myself winter last. I must now wear this belt.

Oh, said Moore, turning away. So sorry to hear that.

For Moore, the image lingered, changed to a chastity belt — a hard, self-imposed privation. And then one night, almost in spite of himself, Moore asked:

Don't you find it awfully lonely up here?

Wittgenstein eyed him uneasily. Again, it was the postmaster's wife, posing a question for which he had no answer. He replied:

I am sorry you miss your wife. I am sure I cannot imagine such a thing. No. Wittgenstein shook his head. I cannot.

Oh, it's
terrible
! volunteered Moore, grateful to hear a note of commiseration. Before I was married, I couldn't have imagined missing anybody so much. It's indescribable.

But seeing Wittgenstein's face, Moore realized that he had struck a barrier: there was no point pursuing it; it was a thing beyond Wittgenstein's visible spectrum. Donning a mosquito headnet and coat, Moore then ventured out into the red darkness, into the mild wind where the mosquitoes were singing. For years, Moore saw, intimacy had been his fear; intimacy with a woman had been his girding belt. But now, standing atop that mountain, Moore saw that his darkest fear was loss of intimacy. Intimacy had given him new spectacles. Through love of a woman, he could see clear across the earth. But now Moore felt the stinging fear that his love might be sick or in need, perhaps dead.

Stop it!
he ordered himself. Fear of loss was understandable, if morbid, but it occurred to him then that fear of happiness was far the stranger. Fear of happiness, in part, was what had possessed him to float out to sea, and it was just as surely what had driven him north. What it was, he saw, was an almost superstitious disbelief in his new life, a fatal feeling that good could not keep begetting good: sooner or later, one's luck would run out. But this too was curious. After all, why should he, one who so venerated the Good, dread it? Because it might be undeserved? Because it might not last?