Popular lectures on scientific subjects

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

An Address delivered on the occasion of his Jubilee, 1891.

In the course of the past year, and most recently on the occasion of the celebration of my seventieth birthday, and the subsequent festivities, I have been overloaded with honours, with marks of respect and of goodwill in a way which could never have been expected. My own sovereign, his Majesty the German Emperor, has raised me to the highest rank in the Civil Service; the Kings of Sweden and of Italy, my former sovereign, the Grand Duke of Baden, and the President of the French Republic, have conferred Grand Crosses on me; many academies, not only of science, but also of the fine arts, faculties, and learned societies spread over the whole world, from Tomsk to Melbourne, have sent me diplomas, and richly illuminated addresses, expressing in elevated language their recognition of my scientific endeavours, and their thanks for those endeavours, in terms which I cannot read without a feeling of shame. My native town, Potsdam, has conferred its freedom on me. To all this must be added countless individuals, scientific and personal friends, pupils, and others personally unknown to me, who have sent their congratulations in telegrams and in letters.

But this is not all. You desire to make my name the banner, as it were, of a magnificent institution which, founded by lovers of science of all nations, is to encourage and promote scientific inquiry in all countries. Science and art are, indeed, at the present time the only remaining bond of peace between civilised nations. Their ever-increasing development is a common aim of all; is effected by the common work of all, and for the common good of all. A great and a sacred work! The founders even wish to devote their gift to the promotion of those branches of science which all my life I have pursued, and thus bring me, with my shortcomings, before future generations almost as an exemplar of scientific investigation. This is the proudest honour which you could confer upon me, in so much as you thereby show that I possess your unqualified favourable opinion. But it would border on presumption were I to accept it without a quiet expectation on my part that the judges of future centuries will not be influenced by considerations of personal favour.

My personal appearance even, you have had represented in marble by a master of the first rank, so that I shall appear to the present and to future generations in a more ideal form; and another master of the etching needle has ensured that faithful portraits of me shall be distributed among my contemporaries.

I cannot fail to remember that all you have done is an expression of the sincerest and warmest goodwill on your part, and that I am most deeply indebted to you for it.

I must, however, be excused if the first effect of these abundant honours is rather surprising and confusing to me than intelligible. My own consciousness does not justify me in putting a measure of the value of what I have tried to do, which would leave such a balance in my favour as you have drawn. I know how simply everything I have done has been brought about; how scientific methods worked out by my predecessors have naturally led to certain results, and how frequently a fortunate circumstance or a lucky accident has helped me. But the chief difference is this—that which I have seen slowly growing from small beginnings through months and years of toilsome and tentative work, all that suddenly starts before you like Pallas fully equipped from the head of Jupiter. A feeling of surprise has entered into your estimate, but not into mine. At times, and perhaps even frequently, my own estimate may possibly have been unduly lowered by the fatigue of the work, and by vexation about all kinds of futile steps which I had taken. My colleagues, as well as the public at large, estimate a scientific or artistic work according to the utility, the instruction, or the pleasure which it has afforded. An author is usually disposed to base his estimate on the labour it has cost him, and it is but seldom that both kinds of judgment agree. It can, on the other hand, be seen from incidental expressions of some of the most celebrated men, especially of artists, that they lay but small weight on productions which seem to us inimitable, compared with others which have been difficult, and yet which appear to readers and observers as much less successful. I need only mention Goethe, who once stated to Eckermann that he did not estimate his poetical works so highly as what he had done in the theory of colours.

The same may have happened to me, though in a more modest degree, if I may accept your assurances and those of the authors of the addresses which have reached me. Permit me, therefore, to give you a short account of the manner in which I have been led to the special direction of my work.

In my first seven years I was a delicate boy, for long confined to my room, and often even to bed; but, nevertheless, I had a strong inclination towards occupation and mental activity. My parents busied themselves a good deal with me; picture books and games, especially with wooden blocks, filled up the rest of the time. Reading came pretty early, which, of course, greatly increased the range of my occupations. But a defect of my mental organisation showed itself almost as early, in that I had a bad memory for disconnected things. The first indication of this I consider to be the difficulty I had in distinguishing between left and right; afterwards, when at school I began with languages, I had greater difficulties than others in learning words, irregular grammatical forms, and peculiar terms of expression. History as then taught to us I could scarcely master. To learn prose by heart was martyrdom. This defect has, of course, only increased, and is a vexation of my mature age.

But when I possessed small mnemotechnical methods, or merely such as are afforded by the metre and rhyme of poetry, learning by heart, and the retention of what I had learnt, went on better. I easily remembered poems by great authors, but by no means so easily the somewhat artificial verses of authors of the second rank. I think that is probably due to the natural flow of thought in good poems, and I am inclined to think that in this connection is to be found an essential basis of æsthetic beauty. In the higher classes of the Gymnasium I could repeat some books of the Odyssey, a considerable number of the odes of Horace, and large stores of German poetry. In other directions I was just in the position of our older ancestors, who were not able to write, and hence expressed their laws and their history in verse, so as to learn them by heart.

That which a man does easily he usually does willingly; hence I was first of all a great admirer and lover of poetry. This inclination was encouraged by my father, who, while he had a strict sense of duty, was also of an enthusiastic disposition, impassioned for poetry, and particularly for the classic period of German Literature. He taught German in the upper classes of the Gymnasium, and read Homer with us. Under his guidance we did, alternately, themes in German prose and metrical exercises—poems as we called them. But even if most of us remained indifferent poets, we learned better in this way, than in any other I know of, how to express what we had to say in the most varied manner.

But the most perfect mnemotechnical help is a knowledge of the laws of phenomena. This I first got to know in geometry. From the time of my childish playing with wooden blocks, the relations of special proportions to each other were well known to me from actual perception. What sort of figures were produced when bodies of regular shape were laid against each other I knew well without much consideration. When I began the scientific study of geometry, all the facts which I had to learn were perfectly well known and familiar to me, much to the astonishment of my teachers. So far as I recollect, that came out incidentally in the elementary school attached to the Potsdam Training College, which I attended up to my eighth year. Strict scientific methods, on the contrary, were new to me, and with their help I saw the difficulties disappear which had hindered me in other regions.

One thing was wanting in geometry; it dealt exclusively with abstract forms of space, and I delighted in complete reality. As I became bigger and stronger I went about with my father and my schoolfellows a great deal in the neighbourhood of my native town, Potsdam, and I acquired a great love of Nature. This is perhaps the reason why the first fragments of physics which I learned in the Gymnasium engrossed me much more closely than purely geometrical and algebraical studies. Here there was a copious and multifarious region, with the mighty fulness of Nature, to be brought under the dominion of a mentally apprehended law. And, in fact, that which first fascinated me was the intellectual mastery over Nature, which at first confronts us as so unfamiliar, by the logical force of law. But this, of course, soon led to the recognition that knowledge of natural processes was the magical key which places ascendency over Nature in the hands of its possessor. In this order of ideas I felt myself at home.

I plunged then with great zeal and pleasure into the study of all the books on physics I found in my father’s library. They were very old-fashioned; phlogiston still held sway, and galvanism had not grown beyond the voltaic pile. A young friend and myself tried, with our small means, all sorts of experiments about which we had read. The action of acids on our mothers’ stores of linen we investigated thoroughly; we had otherwise but little success. Most successful was, perhaps, the construction of optical instruments by means of spectacle glasses, which were to be had in Potsdam, and a small botanical lens belonging to my father. The limitation of our means had at that time the value that I was compelled always to vary in all possible ways my plans for experiments, until I got them in a form in which I could carry them out. I must confess that many a time when the class was reading Cicero or Virgil, both of which I found very tedious, I was calculating under the desk the path of rays in a telescope, and I discovered, even at that time, some optical theorems, not ordinarily met with in text-books, but which I afterwards found useful in the construction of the ophthalmoscope.

Thus it happened that I entered upon that special line of study to which I have subsequently adhered, and which, in the conditions I have mentioned, grew into an absorbing impulse, amounting even to a passion. This impulse to dominate the actual world by acquiring an understanding of it, or what, I think, is only another expression for the same thing, to discover the causal connection of phenomena, has guided me through my whole life, and the strength of this impulse is possibly the reason why I found no satisfaction in apparent solutions of problems so long as I felt there were still obscure points in them.

And now I was to go to the university. Physics was at that time looked upon as an art by which a living could not be made. My parents were compelled to be very economical, and my father explained to me that he knew of no other way of helping me to the study of Physics, than by taking up the study of medicine into the bargain. I was by no means averse from the study of living Nature, and assented to this without much difficulty. Moreover, the only influential person in our family had been a medical man, the late Surgeon-General Mursinna; and this relationship was a recommendation in my favour among other applicants for admission to our Army Medical School, the Friedrich Wilhelms Institut, which very materially helped the poorer students in passing through their medical course.

In this study I came at once under the influence of a profound teacher—Johannes Müller; he who at the same time introduced E. Du Bois-Reymond, E. Brücke, C. Ludwig, and Virchow to the study of anatomy and physiology. As respects the critical questions about the nature of life, Müller still struggled between the older—essentially the metaphysical—view and the naturalistic one, which was then being developed; but the conviction that nothing could replace the knowledge of facts forced itself upon him with increasing certainty, and it may be that his influence over his students was the greater because he still so struggled.

Young people are ready at once to attack the deepest problems, and thus I attacked the perplexing question of the nature of the vital force. Most physiologists had at that time adopted G. E. Stahl’s way out of the difficulty, that while it is the physical and chemical forces of the organs and substances of the living body which act on it, there is an indwelling vital soul or vital force which could bind and loose the activity of these forces; that after death the free action of these forces produces decomposition, while during life their action is continually being controlled by the soul of life. I had a misgiving that there was something against nature in this explanation; but it took me a good deal of trouble to state my misgiving in the form of a definite question. I found ultimately, in the latter years of my career as a student, that Stahl’s theory ascribed to every living body the nature of a perpetuum mobile. I was tolerably well acquainted with the controversies on this latter subject. In my school days I had heard it discussed by my father and our mathematical teachers, and while still a pupil of the Friedrich Wilhelms Institut I had helped in the library, and in my spare moments had looked through the works of Daniell, Bernouilli, D’Alembert, and other mathematicians of the last century. I thus came upon the question, ‘What relations must exist between the various kinds of natural forces for a perpetual motion to be possible?’ and the further one, ‘Do those relations actually exist?’ In my essay, ‘On the Conservation of Force,’ my aim was merely to give a critical investigation and arrangement of the facts for the benefit of physiologists.

I should have been quite prepared if the experts had ultimately said, ‘We know all that. What is this young doctor thinking about, in considering himself called upon to explain it all to us so fully?’ But, to my astonishment, the physical authorities with whom I came in contact took up the matter quite differently. They were inclined to deny the correctness of the law, and in the eager contest in which they were engaged against Hegel’s Natural Philosophy were disposed to declare my essay to be a fantastical speculation. Jacobi, the mathematician, who recognised the connection of my line of thought with that of the mathematicians of the last century, was the only one who took an interest in my attempt, and protected me from being misconceived. On the other hand, I met with enthusiastic applause and practical help from my younger friends, and especially from E. Du Bois Reymond. These, then, soon brought over to my side the members of the recently formed Physical Society of Berlin. About Joule’s researches on the same subject I knew at that time but little, and nothing at all of those of Robert Mayer.

Connected with this were a few smaller experimental researches on putrefaction and fermentation, in which I was able to furnish a proof, in opposition to Liebig’s contention, that both were by no means purely chemical decompositions, spontaneously occurring, or brought about by the aid of the atmospheric oxygen; that alcoholic fermentation more especially was bound up with the presence of yeast spores which are only formed by reproduction. There was, further, my work on metabolism in muscular action, which afterwards was connected with that on the development of heat in muscular action; these being processes which were to be expected from the law of the conservation of force.

These researches were sufficient to direct upon me the attention of Johannes Müller as well as of the Prussian Ministry of Instruction, and to lead to my being called to Berlin as Brücke’s successor, and immediately thereupon to the University of Königsberg. The Army medical authorities, with thank-worthy liberality, very readily agreed to relieve me from the obligation to further military service, and thus made it possible for me to take up a scientific position.

In Königsberg I had to lecture on general pathology and physiology. A university professor undergoes a very valuable training in being compelled to lecture every year, on the whole range of his science, in such a manner that he convinces and satisfies the intelligent among his hearers—the leading men of the next generation. This necessity yielded me, first of all, two valuable results.

For in preparing my course of lectures, I hit directly on the possibility of the ophthalmoscope, and then on the plan of measuring the rate of propagation of excitation in the nerves.

The ophthalmoscope is, perhaps, the most popular of my scientific performances, but I have already related to the oculists how luck really played a comparatively more important part than my own merit. I had to explain to my hearers Brücke’s theory of ocular illumination. In this, Brücke was actually within a hair’s breadth of the invention of the ophthalmoscope. He had merely neglected to put the question, To what optical image do the rays belong, which come from the illuminated eye? For the purpose he then had in view it was not necessary to propound this question. If he had put it, he was quite the man to answer it as quickly as I could, and the plan of the ophthalmoscope would have been given. I turned the problem about in various ways, to see how I could best explain it to my hearers, and I thereby hit upon the question I have mentioned. I knew well, from my medical studies, the difficulties which oculists had about the conditions then comprised under the name of Amaurosis, and I at once set about constructing the instrument by means of spectacle glasses and the glass used for microscope purposes. The instrument was at first difficult to use, and without an assured theoretical conviction that it must work, I might, perhaps, not have persevered. But in about a week I had the great joy of being the first who saw clearly before him a living human retina.

The construction of the ophthalmoscope had a very decisive influence on my position in the eyes of the world. From this time forward I met with the most willing recognition and readiness to meet my wishes on the part of the authorities and of my colleagues, so that for the future I was able to pursue far more freely the secret impulses of my desire for knowledge. I must, however, say that I ascribed my success in great measure to the circumstance that, possessing some geometrical capacity, and equipped with a knowledge of physics, I had, by good fortune, been thrown among medical men, where I found in physiology a virgin soil of great fertility; while, on the other hand, I was led by the consideration of the vital processes to questions and points of view which are usually foreign to pure mathematicians and physicists. Up to that time I had only been able to compare my mathematical abilities with those of my fellow-pupils and of my medical colleagues; that I was for the most part superior to them in this respect did not, perhaps, say very much. Moreover, mathematics was always regarded in the school as a branch of secondary rank. In Latin composition, on the contrary, which then decided the palm of victory, more than half my fellow-pupils were ahead of me.

In my own consciousness, my researches were simple logical applications of the experimental and mathematical methods developed in science, which by slight modifications could be easily adapted to the particular object in view. My colleagues and friends, who, like myself, had devoted themselves to the physical aspect of physiology, furnished results no less surprising.

But in the course of time matters could not remain in that stage. Problems which might be solved by known methods I had gradually to hand over, to the pupils in my laboratory, and for my own part turn to more difficult researches, where success was uncertain, where general methods left the investigator in the lurch, or where the method itself had to be worked out.

In those regions also which come nearer the boundaries of our knowledge I have succeeded in many things experimental and mechanical—I do not know if I may add philosophical. In respect of the former, like any one who has attacked many experimental problems, I had become a person of experience, who was acquainted with many plans and devices, and I had changed my youthful habit of considering things geometrically into a kind of mechanical mode of view. I felt, intuitively as it were, how strains and stresses were distributed in any mechanical arrangement, a faculty also met with in experienced mechanicians and machine constructors. But I had the advantage over them of being able to make complicated and specially important relations perspicuous, by means of theoretical analysis.

I have also been in a position to solve several mathematical physical problems, and some, indeed, on which the great mathematicians, since the time of Euler, had in vain occupied themselves; for example, questions as to vortex motion and the discontinuity of motion in liquids, the question as to the motion of sound at the open ends of organ pipes, &c. &c. But the pride which I might have felt about the final result in these cases was considerably lowered by my consciousness that I had only succeeded in solving such problems after many devious ways, by the gradually increasing generalisation of favourable examples, and by a series of fortunate guesses. I had to compare myself with an Alpine climber, who, not knowing the way, ascends slowly and with toil, and is often compelled to retrace his steps because his progress is stopped; sometimes by reasoning, and sometimes by accident, he hits upon traces of a fresh path, which again leads him a little further; and finally, when he has reached the goal, he finds to his annoyance a royal road on which he might have ridden up if he had been clever enough to find the right starting-point at the outset. In my memoirs I have, of course, not given the reader an account of my wanderings, but I have described the beaten path on which he can now reach the summit without trouble.

There are many people of narrow views, who greatly admire themselves, if once in a way, they have had a happy idea, or believe they have had one. An investigator, or an artist, who is continually having a great number of happy ideas, is undoubtedly a privileged being, and is recognised as a benefactor of humanity. But who can count or measure such mental flashes? Who can follow the hidden tracts by which conceptions are connected?

• That which man had never known,
• Or had not thought out,
• Through the labyrinth of mind
• Wanders in the night.

I must say that those regions, in which we have not to rely on lucky accidents and ideas, have always been most agreeable to me, as fields of work.

But, as I have often been in the unpleasant position of having to wait for lucky ideas, I have had some experience as to when and where they came to me, which will perhaps be useful to others. They often steal into the line of thought without their importance being at first understood; then afterwards some accidental circumstance shows how and under what conditions they have originated; they are present, otherwise, without our knowing whence they came. In other cases they occur suddenly, without exertion, like an inspiration. As far as my experience goes, they never came at the desk or to a tired brain. I have always so turned my problem about in all directions that I could see in my mind its turns and complications, and run through them freely without writing them down. But to reach that stage was not usually possible without long preliminary work. Then, after the fatigue from this had passed away, an hour of perfect bodily repose and quiet comfort was necessary before the good ideas came. They often came actually in the morning on waking, as expressed in Goethe’s words which I have quoted, and as Gauss also has remarked.⁠[31] But, as I have stated in Heidelberg, they were usually apt to come when comfortably ascending woody hills in sunny weather. The smallest quantity of alcoholic drink seemed to frighten them away.

Such moments of fruitful thought were indeed very delightful, but not so the reverse, when the redeeming ideas did not come. For weeks or months I was gnawing at such a question until in my mind I was

• Like to a beast upon a barren heath
• Dragged in a circle by an evil spirit,
• While all around are pleasant pastures green.

And, lastly, it was often a sharp attack of headache which released me from this strain, and set me free for other interests.

I have entered upon still another region to which I was led by investigation on perception and observation of the senses, namely, the theory of cognition. Just as a physicist has to examine the telescope and galvanometer with which he is working; has to get a clear conception of what he can attain with them, and how they may deceive him; so, too, it seemed to me necessary to investigate likewise the capabilities of our power of thought. Here, also, we were concerned only with a series of questions of fact about which definite answers could and must be given. We have distinct impressions of the senses, in consequence of which we know how to act. The success of the action usually agrees with that which was to have been anticipated, but sometimes also not, in what are called subjective impressions. These are all objective facts, the laws regulating which it will be possible to find. My principal result was that the impressions of the senses are only signs for the constitution of the external world, the interpretation of which must be learned by experience. The interest for questions of the theory of cognition, had been implanted in me in my youth, when I had often heard my father, who had retained a strong impression from Fichter’s idealism, dispute with his colleagues who believed in Kant or Hegel. Hitherto I have had but little reason to be proud about those investigations. For each one in my favour, I have had about ten opponents; and I have in particular aroused all the metaphysicians, even the materialistic ones, and all people of hidden metaphysical tendencies. But the addresses of the last few days have revealed a host of friends whom as yet I did not know; so that in this respect also I am indebted to this festivity for pleasure and for fresh hope. Philosophy, it is true, has been for nearly three thousand years the battle-ground for the most violent differences of opinion, and it is not to be expected that these can be settled in the course of a single life.

I have wished to explain to you how the history of my scientific endeavours and successes, so far as they go, appears when looked at from my own point of view, and you will perhaps understand that I am surprised at the universal profusion of praise which you have poured out upon me. My successes have had primarily this value for my own estimate of myself, that they furnished a standard of what I might further attempt; but they have not, I hope, led me to self-admiration. I have often enough seen how injurious an exaggerated sense of self-importance may be for a scholar, and hence I have always taken great care not to fall a prey to this enemy. I well knew that a rigid self-criticism of my own work and my own capabilities was the protection and palladium against this fate. But it is only needful to keep the eyes open for what others can do, and what one cannot do oneself, to find there is no great danger; and, as regards my own work, I do not think I have ever corrected the last proof of a memoir without finding in the course of twenty-four hours a few points which I could have done better or more carefully.

As regards the thanks which you consider you owe me, I should be unjust if I said that the good of humanity appeared to me, from the outset, as the conscious object of my labours. It was, in fact, the special form of my desire for knowledge which impelled me and determined me, to employ in scientific research all the time which was not required by my official duties and by the care for my family. These two restrictions did not, indeed, require any essential deviation from the aims I was striving for. My office required me to make myself capable of delivering lectures in the University; my family, that I should establish and maintain my reputation as an investigator. The State, which provided my maintenance, scientific appliances, and a great share of my free time, had, in my opinion, acquired thereby the right that I should communicate faithfully and completely to my fellow-citizens, and in a suitable form, that which I had discovered by its help.

The writing out of scientific investigations is usually a troublesome affair; at any rate it has been so to me. Many parts of my memoirs I have rewritten five or six times, and have changed the order about until I was fairly satisfied. But the author has a great advantage in such a careful wording of his work. It compels him to make the severest criticism of each sentence and each conclusion, more thoroughly even than the lectures at the University which I have mentioned. I have never considered an investigation finished until it was formulated in writing, completely and without any logical deficiencies.

Those among my friends who were most conversant with the matter represented to my mind, my conscience as it were. I asked myself whether they would approve of it. They hovered before me as the embodiment of the scientific spirit of an ideal humanity, and furnished me with a standard.

In the first half of my life, when I had still to work for my external position, I will not say that, along with a desire for knowledge and a feeling of duty as servant of the State, higher ethical motives were not also at work; it was, however, in any case difficult to be certain of the reality of their existence so long as selfish motives were still existent. This is, perhaps, the case with all investigators. But afterwards, when an assured position has been attained, when those who have no inner impulse towards science may quite cease their labours, a higher conception of their relation to humanity does influence those who continue to work. They gradually learn from their own experience how the thoughts which they have uttered, whether through literature or through oral instruction, continue to act on their fellow-men, and possess, as it were, an independent life; how these thoughts, further worked out by their pupils, acquire a deeper significance and a more definite form, and, reacting on their originators, furnish them with fresh instruction. The ideas of an individual, which he himself has conceived, are of course more closely connected with his mental field of view than extraneous ones, and he feels more encouragement and satisfaction when he sees the latter more abundantly developed than the former. A kind of parental affection for such a mental child ultimately springs up, which leads him to care and to struggle for the furtherance of his mental offspring as he does for his real children.

But, at the same time, the whole intellectual world of civilised humanity presents itself to him as a continuous and spontaneously developing whole, the duration of which seems infinite as compared with that of a single individual. With his small contributions to the building up of science, he sees that he is in the service of something everlastingly sacred, with which he is connected by close bands of affection. His work thereby appears to him more sanctified. Anyone can, perhaps, apprehend this theoretically, but actual personal experience is doubtless necessary to develop this idea into a strong feeling.

The world, which is not apt to believe in ideal motives, calls this feeling love of fame. But there is a decisive criterion by which both kinds of sentiment can be discriminated. Ask the question if it is the same thing to you whether the results of investigation which you have obtained are recognised as belonging to you or not when there are no considerations of external advantage bound up with the answer to this question. The reply to it is easiest in the case of chiefs of laboratories. The teacher must usually furnish the fundamental idea of the research as well as a number of proposals for overcoming experimental difficulties, in which more or less ingenuity comes into play. All this passes as the work of the student, and ultimately appears in his name when the research is finished. Who can afterwards decide what one or the other has done? And how many teachers are there not who in this respect are devoid of any jealousy?

Thus, gentlemen, I have been in the happy position that, in freely following my own inclination, I have been led to researches for which you praise me, as having been useful and instructive. I am extremely fortunate that I am praised and honoured by my contemporaries, in so high a degree, for a course of work which is to me the most interesting I could pursue. But my contemporaries have afforded me great and essential help. Apart from the care for my own existence and that of my family, of which they have relieved me, and apart from the external means with which they have provided me, I have found in them a standard of the intellectual capacity of man; and by their sympathy for my work they have evoked in me a vivid conception of the universal mental life of humanity which has enabled me to see the value of my own researches in a higher light. In these circumstances, I can only regard as a free gift the thanks which you desire to accord to me, given unconditionally and without counting on any return.

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