Einstein, the searcher

by Alexander Moszkowski

"Herr Einstein," so wrote the great Poincaré, "is one of the most original minds that I have ever met. In spite of his youth he already occupies a very honourable position among the foremost savants of his time. What we marvel at in him, above all, is the ease with which he adjusts himself to new conceptions and draws all possible deductions from them. He does not cling tightly to classical principles, but sees all conceivable possibilities when he is confronted with a physical problem. In his mind this becomes transformed into an anticipation of new phenomena that may some day be verified in actual experience.... The future will give more and more proofs of the merits of Herr Einstein, and the University that succeeds in attaching him to itself may be certain that it will derive honour from its connexion with the young master."

We may be tempted to look back and ask whether the criteria that Wilhelm Ostwald once set up as a test of great men are verified in Einstein's case. He has certainly not broken the first and most general rule, the principle of "early maturity." This showed itself clearly when his impulse towards mathematical knowledge and discovery asserted itself, and when he penetrated far into the future with his optical problems. The history of science and of art may offer more striking examples in this connexion, but at any rate in Einstein's case the indications are sufficient to serve as a confirmation of the rule. On the other hand, the second test of Ostwald seems to be valid only conditionally when applied to Einstein. For Ostwald takes up arms against a "gradual intensification" of ability, and proclaims it as an almost universal rule that the exceptional achievement is the privilege of quite young persons: "what he achieves later is seldom as impressive as his first brilliant achievement." Thus, in Einstein's case, the exception is evident. For if we fix on only two chief discoveries, passing over many others, there is no doubt that the second (the theory of gravitation) surpasses the first (special relativity) in both range and significance. Indeed, we cannot escape from the idea of a "gradual intensification," for the second discovery could come about only as a result of the first. Moreover, it is not yet night, and there is nothing to refute the assumption that there will be a further progression.

Furthermore, Ostwald takes into consideration the tempo of the intellectual pulse of inspiration to divide the main types of great men into a classical and a romantic category: this classification cannot, however, be applied to Einstein. He is decidedly classical, in so far as his work seems calculated to serve later generations as a classical foundation for all mechanical investigations of the macrocosm of the heavens and the microcosm of atoms. On the other hand, his versatility, the mobility and resource of his highly imaginative mind, stamp him as a romantic spirit. His delight in teaching would also assign him to this category, for in the case of many classical spirits there is a decided aversion to imparting instruction. So that, although we might well be able to speak of a synthesis of these two forms, it seems better to estimate Einstein, not in the light of a ready scheme, but rather as a type of which he is the unique representative.

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Just as the external contour of his life is on the whole regular and unbroken, so also his inner life is attuned to simplicity. Nowhere, it might almost be said, do we observe a break, a spasmodic turn, or a sudden intensification. Although he has grasped and suggested so many problems, he himself presents no psychological riddle, and we meet with no singularities in analysing his personality. It has already been remarked several times that Art plays a part in his life. What I learned from him himself about his affection for music coincides exactly with what observation clearly discloses. The expression of his countenance when he is listening to music is a sufficient indication of the resonances induced in him. He is confessedly a classicist, and a sincere devotee of the revelations of Bach, Haydn, and Mozart. What fascinates and enraptures him above all is that which is directed inwards, which is contemplative and erected on a religious basis. The simple masterful flow in musical development and invention is all-important for him. The architectonic structure that we marvel at in Bach, the Gothic tendency towards heavenly heights, perhaps calls up in him sensations that emanate from his hidden wealth of constructive mathematical ideas. It seems to me that this possibility is not unworthy of remark. It suggests a reason for the fact that he gives himself up only unwillingly to the nervous strain of drama directed at emotional upheaval. He does not gladly overstep the boundary that separates the simple from the psychologically subtle, and whenever his desire to understand art requires him to venture beyond it, his appreciation is not accompanied by genuine pleasure. His subjectivity does not fix this boundary in accordance with the ordinary rules of concert æsthetics, which are actually not rules at all, but only changeable valuations and crystallizations of the feelings of certain groups of people. He gives himself up quietly and freely to what is presented, but makes no special effort to assimilate experiences to which his being does not spontaneously react. There would be no meaning in seeking to mark off the limits of his receptivity in accordance with this, and to tell him that it is too limited, and that it should be enlarged, and that he should not regard as an opinionated exaggeration what appears to others to be a deep and mighty revelation, or seems to be possessed of divine sweetness. He would be able to point out that even in the case of masters of the musical art a change of faith was not a rare occurrence, and that they learned anew, or rejected what they once idolized, and very often found no permanent haven in their own faith. Whoever, like Einstein, gives himself up to the simply contemplative, and feels no impulse towards sensationalism, is spared the task of learning afresh, and finds still one world left for him even if many other worlds are inaccessible. To mention only the main features, then, neither Beethoven as a composer of symphonies, nor Richard Wagner, denote the pinnacles of music for him; he could live without the Ninth Symphony, but not without Beethoven's ensemble music. The number of composers and compositions which are not a necessity of life for him is very considerable. It includes the majority of romanticists, the erotically inclined school of Chopin and Schumann, which revels in sensation, and, as already mentioned, the neo-German dramatic composers. He has much objective admiration for them, yet he does not conceal the fact that he also feels lively opposition in the gamut of his sensations. He regards the properly modern productions as interesting phenomena, and has various degrees of disapproval for them, extending to complete aversion. It costs him an effort to hear an opera of Wagner, and when he has done so, he returns home bearing with him the leitmotiv of Meister Eckhard: "The lust of creatures is intermingled with bitterness." In general he seems to take up approximately the point of view of Rossini. Wagner gives him wonderful moments, followed, however, by periods of acute emotional distress. I need hardly add that I myself, who confess to being an ultra-Wagnerite, never strove in my conversations with Einstein to make my opinion prevail against his. For I am deeply convinced that in this matter there is no question of right and wrong, and that every musical valuation represents no more than an accidental judgment dependent on one's own nature, entirely egocentric and thus objectively of no account.

Einstein also occupies himself in an active sense with music, and has developed into a very fair violinist, without claiming higher degrees of achievement. Among other things I once heard him play the violin part of a Brahms Sonata, and his performance approached concert standard. He draws a beautiful tone, infuses expression into his rendering, and knows how to overcome the technical difficulties. Among the supreme artists of his instrument who have exerted a personal influence on him, Joachim assumes the first place. Einstein still speaks with great enthusiasm of Joachim's performance of Beethoven's Tenth Sonata and of Bach's Chaconne. He himself plays the latter piece, for which the purity and accuracy of his double and multiple stopping fits him. Whoever chooses the right moment—this good fortune has not yet befallen me—may overhear Einstein at his pianistic studies. As he confessed to me, improvisation on the piano is a necessity of his life. Every journey that takes him away from the instrument for some time excites a home-sickness for his piano, and when he returns he longingly caresses the keys to ease himself of the burden of the tone experiences that have mounted up in him, giving them utterance in improvisations.

The regular run of concerts in which displays of bravura play an important part finds little favour with him; above all, he is not a worshipper of the orchestral conductor, whom he regards only as an interpreter and not as a virtuoso on the orchestral instrument. He expressed this idea in unmistakable words: "The conductor should keep himself in the background." I believe that his dearest wish would be to breathe in the tones without a personal or material medium, merely out of the air or out of space. Furthermore, I believe that there is an unfathomable connexion between his musical instinct and his nature as a research scientist. For the ear, as we know from Mach, is the true organ that enables us to experience space, and thus things may occur within the ear of the investigator of space that may have a different significance from that of music which is representable in tones. I strongly doubt whether traces of compositional form occur in Einstein's tone-monologues, but perhaps they contain examples of an art for which the æsthetics of a distant future may find a name.

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With regard to higher literature, and indeed all writings not connected with science, Einstein has little to say. He himself rarely directs conversation on to this topic, and still less rarely does he give vent to an enthusiastic outburst that betrays warm interest. He restricts himself to making short, aphoristic comments, and now and then allows his listener to gather that he can easily imagine an existence without literature. The number of accepted novels, tales, and poetic works which he has not read is legion, and all the pretentiously artistic, historical, and critical writings that are added to them have attracted only a very momentary interest from him.

I have never seen him attracted in any way by the promising aspect of some new book intended for diversion. If such a one happens to get into his hands, he merely places it among the others. At times I was constrained to think of Caliph Omar's words: "If the book contains what is already in the Koran, it is unnecessary; if it contains something else, it is harmful." It is harmful at least in the sense that it robs us of time that may be better spent in another way. I am purposely exaggerating here to make it quite clear that Einstein finds full satisfaction in a narrow circle of literature, and that he experiences no loss if numerous new works pass by and escape his notice.