Wittgenstein's Nephew by Thomas Bernhard Page B

between Altmünster and Traunkirchen, in a house that belonged to a brother (who spent most of the year in Switzerland) and only partly to Paul, it was so cold, all the year round, that as soon as one entered one felt that before long one would freeze to death. The high walls were damp right up to the ceiling. On them hung four hideous paintings, spotted with mold, from the Klimt period, and beside these was one by Klimt himself, who, like other famous painters of his day, was commissioned to paint the portraits of the arms-producing Wittgensteins, since it was the fashion among the
nouveaux riches
at the turn of the century to have their portraits painted, under the pretext of patronizing the arts. The Wittgensteins, like the rest of their kind, had basically no interest in art, but were keen to patronize it. In a corner of the room stood a Bösendorfer grand, on which, as may be imagined, all the virtuosi of their time had played. The main reason for the freezing conditions was that the huge tiled stove in the ground-floor room had been out of order for decades, so that for decades it had been impossible to heat the house. The stove therefore acted as a refrigerator. Whenever I saw Paul and Edith sitting by it, they were wrapped in fur jackets. In the Salzkammergut the houses have to be heated until June, and then again from mid-August onward. It is a cold and unfriendly region, perversely described as a
summer resort
, and for anyone with a sensitive constitution it is lethal. Everyone there suffers from rheumatic disorders; all the old people are bent and deformed, and one has to be very strong to survive. TheSalzkammergut is marvelous for a few days but annihilating if one stays there for any length of time. Paul loved the Salzkammergut, having spent his childhood there, but it increasingly depressed him. He went there from Vienna in the hope that his health would improve, but it only worsened. He found the Salzkammergut more and more oppressive, both physically and mentally. I went for walks with him near Altmünster, but they did him no good. We were still able to have
ideal
conversations, but after Edith’s death everything suddenly became hopeless, or at least radically changed. It was as though everything had been
destroyed
. It was an effort for him to laugh. Apart from the death of his beloved wife, he had reached the age when everything becomes doubly difficult. In the room where we sat, the air was so damp and stale that I thought I would suffocate, even though outside it was sunny. I realized why he and his wife hardly ever stayed at the house, preferring the little boardinghouse down by the main road, where they did not have to do everything for themselves. After the age of sixty nobody likes doing everything for himself, and Edith was nearly eighty when she died. I recall that he went sailing again on the Traunsee, with my brother and me. It was an absurd thing to do. Though gravely ill, Paul was in his element and as enthusiastic as ever, while I cursed this sailing trip and the high waves on the lake. My brother tried to get Paul to go for another outing on the lake, but it was no use: he was far too weak. Although this trip made him happy while we were
on the lake
, it depressed him as soon as we were back on shore, since he knew it was his last. He kept on saying,
It’s the last time
, and this becamea refrain. If I had friends staying with me he would go for walks with us. He was not keen to do so, but was prepared to join us. I do not care for walks either, and have been a reluctant walker all my life. I have always disliked walking, but I am prepared to go for walks with friends, and this makes them think I am a keen walker, for there is an amazing
theatricality
about the way I walk. I am certainly not a keen walker, nor am I a nature lover or a nature expert. But when I am with friends I walk in such a way as to convince them I am a keen walker, a nature lover, and a nature expert. I know