The World as I Found It (22 page)

His foot was tapping and his bladder, the other pressure, was slowly filling with the three cups of strong Turkish coffee he had drunk in the Lindser Café, where his brothers and sisters had taken him so he might
relax
, of all things. At supper, his father's careful questions about England, so pattering and pleasant, so emphatically
neutral
, had had all the hallmarks of a prosecutor's putting a witness at ease before the real questioning began. And of course, his father saw in him what they all saw: the tensed shoulders, the constriction of the neck, the unnatural deliberation before each answer. For his sisters and brothers — for his mother sitting pokerfaced at the end of the table — there was no telling what Karl Wittgenstein was leading up to with this lengthy, conversational
proof
. Wittgenstein could not suppress the feeling that his father would suddenly shoot out at him like a jack-in-the-box, shouting, AH-HA! then exposing the cause of his dysfunction.

Of course, it would have been all too easy to say his father was being spiteful or malicious. Plainly, it was the family's own rising concern that was prompting this investigation, insofar as the father knew what he was doing or the worsening effect these questions had on his son. As a student of comparative industry, Karl Wittgenstein had traveled widely in England, especially in Staffordshire and other industrial areas, where he had toured steel plants, looking for improved processes and equipment. He liked English theater, especially Shaw, and knew the British Museum by heart. His English was flawless — far better than his son's. And he probably had a better grasp of the English people, whom, as with people everywhere he traveled, he felt quite free to stop — perfect strangers — and question at length as if they were workers in his own factories. People answered him, too. Yes, Wittgenstein found it most troubling how his father commanded such immediate docility in the human herd.

There was, in short, little Wittgenstein could have told his father about England. But still the old man continued with these circling questions as he worked away at an enormous welcoming meal that featured
Jung-schweinsbraten
, a young roast pork loin covered to its crackling with a thick cream sauce, and that culminated some five courses later with a snowy meringue
Spanische Windtorte
— four pounds of sugared egg whites that he couldn't look at when it appeared, vaguely polar, through the lapping candlelight.

And the food at Trinity? asked Karl Wittgenstein conspicuously, noting his son's lack of appetite.

It is food, replied Wittgenstein, who, perhaps in reaction to his father, had always shown a certain indifference to food, an indifference not unlike his coolness about meeting Berthe Ketteler's daughter the following afternoon.

Wittgenstein continued. I eat simply. Vegetables, mainly. Meat disagrees with my digestion.

A misstep, this; his mother carefully daubed her lips with her napkin, leaving it to his father to ask, There is something wrong with your digestion?

Wittgenstein waited three beats, then replied, Not if I eat as I should.

And the food
here
? asked his father pointedly. It is too rich for your digestion?

A pleasant change, replied the son agreeably, though he felt his smile curdle.

Resumed his father helpfully, A change before you go back to your bland fare, you mean — so you will know the difference. Barbishly, his father then quipped for the benefit of the table, Ever the philosopher — our latter-day Epictetus. Then, seeing his son's withholding look, Karl Wittgenstein asked, You have not read the Stoics?

Wittgenstein froze, as if it were natural to expect that, as a student of philosophy, he must be conversant with every facet of the subject. Gathering his forces, Wittgenstein replied, I understand the basic outlines of the Stoic creed. That is enough.

His father stared at him. They don't teach the Stoics at Cambridge? he asked, as if to say,
The English are so debased?

They teach the Stoics, replied the son patiently.
If
one is reading philosophy in the Tripos or studying the classics. But that is not what I'm about.

Oh? asked his father, saying only oh, but by that meaning,
Pray, then, tell us what you
are
about?

Boldly, Wittgenstein brushed this aside, pointedly asking, You were asking about food at college?

Yes! his father chimed. Rising up on his elbows, Karl Wittgenstein seemed pleased that his feckless son was finally showing some backbone. And perhaps this, Wittgenstein reflected, was his reason behind this inquisition — not necessarily because it was a good reason, but because it was necessary for Wittgenstein to believe that his father actually
had
a reason.

But then, having asked his son how he liked English food, Karl Wittgenstein answered his own question. Well! he said. For myself, I really do think English food is amply deserving of its reputation for dreadfulness. At least in the main. The wealthy, of course, do not really eat English food. They still lick the boots of the French — French cuisine is the rage. Even their menus are in French, though they do persist, especially at breakfast, in serving grilled lamb kidneys, herrings and other solidly English offal.

Out to charm his family now with observations far more picturesque and amusing than any his son could have made, Karl Wittgenstein added with a look of astonishment: But do you know what? The English do not know how to bake! Oh, there you would find nothing like this magnificent
Spanische Windtorte
, and certainly none executed so beautifully (eyeing his youngest son, who had hardly touched his). It's quite true, he said, looking around the table with raised brow. Their baked goods have none of our subtlety, none whatsoever! Like lead. Rather like Jewish baked goods, I'd say.

Karl Wittgenstein drew his hand over his beard as if he would yank it down, smiling as his children set their jaws against him. Such a dinnertime provocateur! With the table his stage, Karl Wittgenstein then launched into a penetrating, high-spirited discussion of national traits as revealed in the art of baking and desserts: the hardtack English, so stoical and unimaginative, with their runny trifle and puritanical plum puddings caked with hard sauce; the larcenous French, all hot air and flummery, as shown by their own pale imitations of Viennese pastry; and the unregenerate Italians, so oily and
lazy
, with those doughy pastries, swimming like sodden meatballs in fruity sugar water.

But, said Karl Wittgenstein, raising one finger. Compare to this, if you will, our own
Torten
, so lively, layered and varied in texture; and yet, he added contrapuntally, yet so reliably and indeed densely honest! Consider the sheer compositional variety of, say, the
Indianer Torte, Josephinentorte, Pralinentorte
, the
Neapolitaner
and
Breslauer
. A veritable library of baking, one might say. Why, it is a culture even conscious of its history, what with the
Nelsontorte
and
Austerlitztorte
. And of course, Karl Wittgenstein suggested with a wave of the hand, he could go on. And on. Yes, even that raconteuse Gretl had a hard time competing with her father at his own table.

Later, at the café before the symphony, though, Gretl was typically scathing about her father's suppertime antics.

And that nonsense about the Stoics! Go on, she urged Wittgenstein, look by his bed. I'm sure he's reading the Stoics — Kant and Hegel, too, and everything else he'll want to throw at you while you're home.

Paul was sitting opposite Gretl, beside Mining. As for Kurt, he was sitting at the end of the table with his legs crossed, pulling at his little waxed mustache while reading — much to Gretl's annoyance — one of the café's spindled newspapers.

Must you read that now? Gretl asked suddenly.

Crumpling the paper together, Kurt said with a devilish smile, But I'm listening! Of course I'm always listening to you. That's what we're all here for, aren't we?

Said Gretl oversweetly, We might listen to you, too, Kurt, if you put down that mask of a newspaper.

Well, said Kurt glibly, laying down the paper and moving his seat toward the table. Here I am.

Still, he offered nothing, and Gretl, seeing no other takers, resumed these digs at their father. But instead of boosting Wittgenstein's spirits, her barbs only made him more uneasy. Nor was he the only one. Covering her mouth politely, Mining was laughing in spite of herself at her renegade sister. For Mining, who was devoted to both Karl Wittgenstein and Gretl, it was a strained and dangerous laughter. As her father's favorite, Mining had always found herself caught in the middle. Between Gretl and Wittgenstein. Between Gretl and Paul. Between her father and everybody else.

Of all Karl Wittgenstein's children, Mining was the most balanced and mild, with the least desire to hurt him. But Mining paid for her father's love. At thirty-nine, she was, and would forever be, unmarried, a fact obvious to all but Mining, who had never extinguished dreams of marriage and children, clutching them ever more doggedly the more unattainable they became. This rankled Karl Wittgenstein, who as usual had it both ways, reproaching her for not marrying even as his daughter subconsciously held back from attachments, knowing how devastated he would be to lose her.

A heavy, maternal woman, Mining had a habit in conversation of shyly dropping her head inconsolably, like a cow deprived of her calf. Wearing a round, drab dress and perforated old lady's shoes, she made Gretl seem all the more vibrant and secular. But for all their differences, the sisters were inseparable, Gretl depending on Mining's calm good sense and Mining sustaining herself on the life of her flamboyant younger sister, who it seemed could have everything in life that she couldn't, including a husband and a son of three on whom Auntie Mining doted.

Gretl was getting carried away with her claim that their father carefully researched his dinnertime disquisitions. And as she had always done, Mining patiently pulled her back, saying,
Gretl … Gretl
, now you're exaggerating. You know you are.

But this only egged Gretl on. What do you mean? she retorted. At night before dinner when we were small, I used to see him in the library. We were all so stupid. He'd pick out a volume of the encyclopedia! One night it was
arthropods
, the next
Borneo
, then
dodo birds. We
were the dodos!

Stop, said Mining, smirking in spite of herself.

It's
true
, said Gretl, whose voice squeaked when she got really excited. Gretl loved raising the dust around her, clapping her hands together, her eyes teary with laughter. In her excitement then, Gretl was like a sputtering balloon. She carried on, saying, I'm sure I could show you the book he read tonight before supper. You know his tricks, Mining. I showed you once — I know I did!

Gretl, said Mining doubtfully. Gretl, this is pure fancy.

Wittgenstein's brother Paul did not take Gretl's remarks so playfully. Priggishly correct, he said flatly, Oh, nonsense. Why must you delude yourself with this?

Paul's angry because he never caught on to him, mocked Gretl. Mugging for the others, she quipped, Poor Paul, he thought Papa was an authority on arthropods, too.

Replied Paul with disgust, Yes, and on artful dissembling.

This did not deter Gretl. Turning to Wittgenstein beside her, she said, Listen to me. Go into the library before dinner tomorrow. Tonight I'm sure it was desserts or baking. They could feel the gears turning as Gretl looked round the table, then exclaimed, Honestly! Don't we have a book on desserts or something? Why, I think we do!

Challenged Paul, Please, show me this book. I very much want to see this book.

But Gretl wasn't about to be pinned down. As usual, she had just spied somebody she knew, desserts forgotten as she said, Please, will you all excuse me a moment? I know we have to leave, but I must say a word to this person. I'll get my coat. I won't be a minute …

A word, muttered Paul. Thanks to Gretl, we can all be late.

Oh,
shush
, said Mining, laying her hand on top of his. Shall we go, then?

It had been Gretl's idea to get the siblings together that evening, and as they left the café she was remembering why such gatherings never worked.

As a group, there had probably never been much symmetry among them, but now what moorings they had once had as a family had torn loose. For the Wittgenstein children, this was partly a function of age and changing interests, but there was more to it than that. Gretl had a genius for human and family politics — this as opposed to the scrapping of purely political politics. Being a profoundly social creature, the perspicacious Gretl was able to see people in configuration and arrangement like hues of color that had definite orders and values, with harmonious blends and also some unexpected combinations. Gretl loved nothing better than to make bold and unexpected pairings of people, and she was not afraid to experiment. But with her family, Gretl found her social gifts sorely thwarted: so little worked. She, Mining and Ludwig got on well; Mining and Paul also got along, as did Paul and Ludwig. Between herself and Paul there was friction, but less if Mining was there as a buffer. As for Kurt, he got along with everyone and no one. The man was a shell. He wasn't really there.

Gretl wasn't the only one who felt this frustration. They all knew something was wrong, and because the deaths of their brothers loomed largest in their memories, they tended to feel that this must be the main problem. The answer must be simple — simple as a child's answer. And so they would find themselves wondering what life would be like had their brothers lived, as if the dead could somehow complete or recompense the living for having died.

But suppose their two dead brothers
had
miraculously returned. Suppose the crippled body of the Family Wittgenstein regenerated these two missing limbs. Yet this was impossible! Such a miracle would have struck the Wittgenstein children as
wrong
, and not merely because the dead do not return to life. Above all, they would have found it grossly unfair, after all those years away, that their brothers should get off scot-free, leaving them to bear on five backs what was meant for seven.