The young man shrugged. The German was staring right through him, not angry or afraid. Clearly, he was not even aware of his abrasiveness as he nodded and said, Yes, I am sure. Quite sure.
Oh, I see, said Russell. Cocksure.
Gogksure? Squinting. The German didn't know this word.
Russell was staring him down now, trying to beat him back. But the German wouldn't budge. Wanting once and for all to bring matters under control, Russell was brusque: Well, I suppose I should be happy we've at last had a chance to speak. I rather had thought you would visit me. The German was still looking right through him, so Russell added punitively, In my rooms. It's customary to come over. I am your adviser, you know.
Good! A hint of embarrassment and chagrin. The German nodded hopefully. Yes, I am pleased and honored, sir. Of course, of course. His facial expression altered again. But about my assertion. Your answer does not satisfy me, no.
Oh, does it not now? asked Russell, taking a step back. Well, we can take that up later, I think. I'm very sorry, but I must be off now.
Russell turned to resume walking, but the young man followed him, saying, If it is all right, sir, I will walk, thank you. Now, I will say ⦠And again he launched into an explanation of his contention that nothing was knowable but spoken propositions.
Breaking in, Russell said, Why are we even talking, Mr. Wittgenstein? After all, if you
know
only what
you
know or say â why speak at all?
Your
thoughts
I can consider.
Oh! huffed Russell. Well, that's most kind of you. But it does hurt my feelings that you won't admit
I
exist.
Russell was mistaken if he thought this would throw off the German. When he sped up, the German sped up, too. Looking around, Russell saw the German's head bent like a whirling grindstone, throwing up a shower of sparks as he bore along, arguing and waving his arms.
Later that night, once freed from the German's grip, Russell wrote in a letter to Ottoline:
Today I met my German. Frege was right about his bullheadedness. He accosted me after class & argued with me until I reached my rooms â and this with an uncomprehending force and belligerence that I have never seen. I must write to Frege. The German's English is poor & his manners are even poorer.
Several days later he wrote:
My German threatens to be an affliction. He came back again after my lecture & argued with me until dinnertime â obstinate & perverse, but I think not stupid.
Then:
My German ex-engineer is a fool! He ought to go back to flying kites. He was very argumentative & tiresome today. Also, I think, distraught about something. It is as if there were a lid over him, which, when opened, releases the forces of hell! The other undergraduates clearly think him odd, as indeed he is. I think they fear him â nor do I blame them, the way he wrestles the discussion in class. I really must speak to him; this disruption cannot continue.
Then two weeks later:
My lecture went off all right, but then my German ex-engineer, as usual, came back and maintained his thesis that there is nothing in the world except stated propositions. I told him, rather dryly, that it is too large a theme for his paper. He replied, “Too large for whom?”
Several weeks later, though, there was a slight change in tone:
Again today, my German was riding his hobbyhorse that nothing empirical is knowable â a contention that traditionally appeals to the angry young. It was very curious. It is one thing to argue such a thing philosophically, but I wondered if he didn't somehow
believe
it. I told him he made me feel as if we were two empty blocks of air, conversing. My German smiled a bitter smile, then sd. that I was a block of light & himself a block of darkness, & sd. this, mind you, in a way that made me recoil in recognition, reminding me exactly of my own morbid moments. I remember him smiling faintly & nodding, as if to say, “I know you, Russell, I know you better than you think.” I don't know, my darling, my German may be right â if one is unhappy, then perhaps one
is
better off invisible.
By the following week, there was a distinct change:
I think I was wrong about my German, who, as he told me pointedly yesterday, is not German but Austrian. We are really on much better terms. At his invitation, I went with him as his guest last night to hear a chamber recital of Mendelssohn music given by the Cambridge University Musical Society. His attention to music is extraordinary. He sat there staring up with the unfocused fixity of a blind man â I rather got the impression that he was sight-reading the score in his head. It seems it is not only my lectures he finds fault with, for after the piece was ended, he sd., “Please wait a moment. I must speak to these men.” Forthwith he went up to the musicians, very much on his high horse as usual, & began with great deliberation to criticize their playing! Poor devils, he was the same with them as he is with me. The leader was at first quite vexed, & then seemed to grasp his point, especially when Wittgenstein whistled a few bars in absolutely perfect pitch & then proceeded to dissect the movement. By the time he finished, they were listening to him. They apparently accepted his authority on the subject & suggested â quite sincerely, I think â that he attend their practice sessions, an offer he readily accepted.
Now that we are more comfortable together and can talk about matters other than logic, I see he is really very literary, very musical & pleasant mannered (being Austrian), & I think
really
intelligent. I rather hope I will see more of him.
This warming trend continued. At the end of November, Russell wrote:
Another concert with Wittgenstein. Having dutifully attended practice sessions, he liked this concert much better. Finally ventured to ask of his family. Apparently, they also are very musical, & also very wealthy & prominent, as Frege himself implied, & as is evident by Wittgenstein's own extreme cultivation (at least once one gets to know him). He sd. two of his brothers were musical geniuses. “Were?” I ventured. Pokerfaced, he sd. yes, they were dead, but clearly he did not want to elaborate, & I did not ask, noticing his discomfort. The same was true when I enquired about his father. Wittgenstein sd., in a rather unwarranted argumentative tone, “My father is a very great man. In Vienna he is very well known.” I sd., “I imagine he is happy you are at Cambridge.” At this he shrugged & sd. that, on the contrary, his father was very displeased & thinks logic an utter waste of time. I wish I had left it. Wittgenstein became quiet & lumpish after that. It rather spoilt the evening.
T
HE VACATIONS
were drawing near, but Russell was not much looking forward to them. It would be his first Christmas with Ottoline â or rather,
without
Ottoline, who was as usual squirming with an overbooked calendar, including the requisite charity functions and Christmas parties, not to mention time for Julian and Philip. Her extreme kindness to Russell â the kindness of one who has nothing else to give â only deepened his gloom about his relative importance in her life. In the end, Russell had just one afternoon with her that holiday, and this was spent in the Nabob, a run-down hotel in Maida Vale, where, if they were sure not to be recognized, they were equally sure to be depressed.
Still, Russell tried to put the best face on it. For days he racked his mind about what to get her for Christmas, worrying about what she could wear as a sign of his love without inviting questions. He had no instincts for these things. Finally, frantically, barely an hour before they were to meet, a jeweler talked him into a brooch of sapphires set in gold filigree. Russell wasn't sure â it seemed a bit unlike her â and later, in their tatty, half-bob room, his doubts were confirmed. Oh, it's lovely! she bubbled, but there was a catch in her voice as she held it up to her breast. Much too crusted and clumsy. Here, he said, giving her a hopeful kiss as he fastened the pin. But you don't like it, do you? I can easily bring it back â
But of course I like it! she protested, giving him a peck. It's lovely, lovely. And I shall think of you when I wear it. But still he could see it was wrong, tugging like a burr at her bodice. Worse, it was more than he could afford, what with Alys demanding money for the doctor and repairs to the house.
Ottoline sensed his mood but was determined not to succumb to it.
Now
, she said in a spritely voice as she stubbed out her cigarette. Now you must open your gift!
With that, she watched with anticipation as he tore off the wrapping and opened a felt-covered box containing â what? A gold-nibbed pen? She could think of nothing better than
this
?
Why, a pen! he said weakly. Obligingly, he held it in his writing hand.
It's engraved, too, she prompted, turning the pen over in his hand. See there, on the barrel? And he looked, hoping to see their initials coyly entwined, but found only his own scripted name.
He didn't know what struck him then. Seeing these gifts, he started inwardly to pine, thinking of their poor human hopes, pinned to such trivial things. And he was desperately trying to be gay â he had to be gay, he thought, if he didn't want to drive her off. But looking at these offerings, then considering as well their two bodies, the meager bottle of wine and the two filmy glasses the old porter had brought up â seeing all this, he turned away, surprised and ashamed as tears sprang to his eyes.
I did-not-want-this, he gulped, pinching the bridge of his nose. I did
not
â
Huffing, out of breath, he was staring out the window as she came from behind and gave him a squeeze, doing her best to console him. But she had a dinner engagement with Philip and their time was running out.
I hate leaving you like this, she said, coaxing him toward the bed. Please, darling.
But all he heard was,
Look! Here it is â here's what you want
. So ready to offer herself up, he thought cynically. A little Christmas charity between the sheets. No, he thought resolutely, he had principles, he was much too heartbroken for sex. Instead, he told her he wanted only to lie together, to talk and hold each other. He genuinely believed this, but once she had calmed him his penis gorged like a tulip bulb and, lo, he wanted sex, too.
But I
can't
now! she pleaded, her voice turning scratchy. I
wanted
to â you saw that I did â but now we haven't the time. Honestly! I cannot â¦
He had his way finally, but he hurt her. She was not ready, and he was too jabbing and eager. And then she fell apart, too, softly crying as she bent beside the rusty sink, slapping water up into herself. And not just washing herself, he felt, but washing
him out
. And failing again. Mightily failing.
He endeavored to apologize. Straining, he tried to suggest how it might be better next time â as if there would be a next time, he thought, as he looked out the window onto the steep, icy street where even the draft horses were struggling in their harnesses, even the horses.
* * *
Having little to look forward to, Russell was hoping to derive some vicarious pleasure from Wittgenstein's holiday plans when he asked several nights later, So ⦠I expect you'll be going home for Christmas?
Evidently, Wittgenstein did not relish the question. I will be here, he said, with the same reticence and rigidity he had shown when Russell had asked about his family.
Pretending not to notice the look that darkened Wittgenstein's eyes, Russell persisted. Any plans in particular?
I may travel to Scotland. I have not thought about it.
Ah. Russell brightened. Then I take it you will be here part of the time? In that case, we might see each other.
Yes. Wittgenstein nodded as if this had just occurred to him. This would be good. He nodded again.
Probing once more, Russell asked casually, You just decided this? To remain here for the holidays?
No. Wittgenstein held back as before. I have for some time decided.
Oh. Raising his eyes, Russell broadly affected to be content with this answer, but there was mutual discomfort, the conversation slowly sinking like a punctured tire, bringing them to what, by now, was a familiar impasse. Their relationship had reached the point where they could be neither formal nor entirely familiar, where it was not clear if their association was that of student and don, budding colleagues, friends or accomplices. As the don, Russell was uneasy as to the nature of his role and obligations; or rather, he was queasy about the more basic question of who was on top. But obscuring this was the increasingly confusing matter of who was who. Wittgenstein was such an impenetrable thicket of character that Russell couldn't put him in any apparent context. Even Wittgenstein's most ordinary gestures â the way he slapped his forehead, his figures of speech, recurring images he used â struck Russell in a weird and distant way as an uncanny translation of himself: a translation of a translation. Wittgenstein's English further confused matters. At times, when Wittgenstein was struggling to make a point, Russell would insist,
Speak German
. Yet hearing this other voice, so elegant and clear, Russell would stop cold, as if he had glimpsed his own sunstruck image in a shop window: one's appalling
otherwise
.
But the problem was not just Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein was merely the catalyst for something else Russell felt stirring within him. Other selves â discarded ideas â were rising to the surface, showing their silvery undersides like startled leaves in a warm wind mouthing rain. But there was also the fear of seeing unearthed what one had so assiduously smothered, the inchoate confusion of the new in its unprecedented raiment. And so, while watching Wittgenstein perform some ordinary act, Russell would find himself thinking,
Who
are
you
?
If only Russell could have struck some balance, a truce of some kind. He didn't want to pry, but now he felt no more comfortable inquiring than he did keeping silent. And wittingly or unwittingly, Wittgenstein was tantalizing him. For the last month, Wittgenstein had been steadily enticing him with a trail of crumbs. His two older brothers, for instance. Wittgenstein was briskly, oppressively matter-of-fact when he mentioned them, saying that they were dead but offering no other details. Russell wouldn't stoop to pick it up, not then. Yet he resented Wittgenstein's silence, which nagged at him for days until in an anxious moment he said, If I might inquire, Wittgenstein, what happened to your two brothers?