CHAPTER 4
TWO PILLARS OF WISDOM
The man loved mysterious Nature as a lover loves his distant beloved. In his day there did not exist the dull specialization that stares with self-conceit through horn-rimmed glasses and destroys poetry.
—ALBERT EINSTEIN, ON MICHAEL FARADAY
“About Max Planck’s studies on radiation, misgivings of a fundamental nature have arisen in my mind, so that I am reading his article with mixed feelings.” So Einstein wrote to his Dolly from Milan in April of 1901, a scant four months after Planck’s “act of desperation” in Berlin had saved his own reputation but failed to alert the physics community to the storm ahead. In the same letter Einstein ruefully admits, “soon I will have honored all physicists from the North Sea to the southern tip of Italy with my [job inquiry].” Emboldened by his first published article, which had appeared in the prestigious journal Annalen Der Physik, Einstein had sent a slew of postcards requesting an assistant’s position to the well-known physicists and chemists of Europe. None of these missives bore fruit, and as far as we know few of them were even graced with a reply. Although Einstein was convinced that Weber was behind the rejections, Einstein’s indifferent final academic record and his failure to receive the pro forma job offer from the Poly would likely have been enough.
Despite these disappointments he was scraping together a living through part-time jobs and private lessons and forging ahead with his independent thinking about the current state of theoretical physics. For much of this time he would be separated from his fiancée, but writing to her frequently. In his very next letter to Maric he continues discussing Planck: “Maybe his newest theory is more general. I intend to have a go at it.” A little later in the letter he comments, “I have also somewhat changed my idea about the nature of the latent heat in solids, because my views on the nature of radiation have again sunk back into the sea of haziness. Perhaps the future will bring something more sensible.” His last words were prescient; his views on radiation would emerge from haziness to enlarge the Planck radiation theory in a revolutionary manner, while the latent (or specific) heat of solids, a seemingly mundane topic, would provide Planck’s theory with the radical physical interpretation that it currently lacked. But before this could occur, Einstein needed to plumb deeply into thermodynamics, Planck’s specialty, and the newer atomistic discipline of statistical mechanics, which attempted to explain and extend the laws of thermodynamics. His main scientific motivation at the time was not to unravel the puzzles of relative motion. Einstein’s famous insight, that resolving these puzzles would require a major reshaping of our conceptions of time and space, would not occur to him for four more years. Rather, his primary scientific focus from his student days was “to find facts which would attest to the existence of atoms of a definite size.” Proving the existence of atoms and understanding the physical laws governing their behavior was the original quest of the Valiant Swabian.
The atomic world was the frontier of physics at the beginning of the twentieth century. The disciplines of what is now called classical physics had all developed without a need to delve too deeply into the question of the nature of the microscopic constituents of matter. That situation had now changed. If physics was going to progress, it would be essential to understand the fundamental origin of electromagnetic phenomena, of heat flow, of the properties of solids (e.g., electrical conductivity, thermal conduction and insulation, transparency, hardness), and the physical laws leading to chemical reactions. The answers to these questions would only be found by understanding the makeup of the atom and the physical interactions between atoms and molecules.
Modern physics had begun with the work of Sir Isaac Newton in the second half of the seventeenth century. He introduced a new paradigm for the motion of objects (masses) in space: first by the bold assertion that the natural state of motion of a solid body is to move at a constant speed in a straight line (Newton’s First Law), and then by the statement that the state of motion changes in a predictable manner when “forces” are acting on the body (Newton’s Second Law). If one knew the force and mass of the body, the Second Law would determine the instantaneous acceleration of the mass, a, via the relation F/m = a. What it meant to speak of the instantaneous rate of change of any quantity wasn’t (and isn’t) obvious, but Newton cleared this up by means of a mathematical innovation, the invention of calculus. From this point forward, mechanics came to mean the study of the motion of masses under the influence of forces described by elaborations of Newton’s Second Law, which could now be written as a “differential equation” using calculus.
For this law to be useful, scientists would need to have a mathematical representation of the forces in nature, the F on the left-hand side of F = ma. The forces of nature cannot be deduced; they can only be hypothesized (okay, guessed) and tested for whether their consequences make sense and agree with experimental measurements. No amount of mathematical legerdemain can get around that. Newton’s Second Law was an empty tautology unless one had an independent mathematical expression for the forces that mattered in a given situation.
Newton gained eternal fame by divining the big one, the one we all know from infancy: the force of gravity. His universal law of gravitation stated that two masses are attracted to each other along the line between their centers, and the strength of that attraction is proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. Of course this attraction is very weak between normal-size masses like two people, but between the earth and a person or the earth and the sun it is a big deal. From this law of gravitation and his Second Law, Newton was able to calculate all kinds of solid-body motion: the orbits of the planets in the solar system, the relation between the moon and tides, the trajectories of cannonballs. Thus Newton had published the first major section of the “book of Nature,” which was, Galileo famously declared, “written in the language of mathematics.”
Along with the stunning mathematical insights of Newton and their vast practical applications came an ontology, a view of what the fundamental categories of nature were, and how events in the world were related. As Einstein put it in his autobiographical notes, “In the beginning—if such a thing existed—God created Newton’s laws of motion together with the necessary masses and forces. That is all. Anything further is the result of suitable mathematical methods through deduction. What the nineteenth century achieved on this basis … must arouse the admiration of any receptive man … we must not therefore be surprised that … all the physicists of the last century saw in classical mechanics a firm and empirical basis for all … of natural science.”
At the core of the Newtonian view of nature was the concept of rigid determinism, majestically expressed by the Marquis de Laplace:
We may regard the present state of the universe as the effect of its past and the cause of its future. An intellect which at any given moment knew all of the forces that animate nature and the mutual positions of the beings that compose it, if this intellect were vast enough to submit these data to analysis, could condense into a single formula the movements of the greatest bodies of the universe and that of the lightest atom; for such an intellect nothing could be uncertain and the future just like the past would be present before its eyes.
This Marquis Pierre Simon de Laplace was one of the great masters of classical mechanics in the nineteenth century and became known as the “French Newton.” He was willing to literally put his neck on the line for his natural philosophy. When he presented his five-volume study of celestial mechanics to Napoleon, he was greeted with the intimidating question: “Monsieur Laplace, they tell me you have written this large book on the system of the universe and have never even mentioned its Creator.” Laplace, normally quite politic in his dealings with influential men, in this case drew himself up and replied bluntly, “I have no need of that hypothesis.”
While the relation between mass and the force of gravity was the only fundamental law discov
ered by Newton, he and other physicists knew that there must be other forces with associated laws, for example, the pressure exerted by a gas (pressure is force per unit area), which surely must have a microscopic origin. Near the end of the eighteenth century Charles Augustin de Coulomb, using a sensitive instrument known as the torsion balance, definitively measured another type of force, also of invisible origin: the electrical force. Coulomb and others determined that, in addition to mass, there is another important property of matter, electrical charge, and that two charged bodies exert forces on each other in a manner similar to the way gravity works in Newton’s Second Law, that is, proportional to the product of their charges and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. However, there is a major difference between this electrostatic force and gravity; charges come in two types, positive and negative. Opposite charges attract each other, but like charges repel. Matter is usually electrically neutral (that is, made up of an equal number of positive and negative charges) or very nearly neutral, so two chunks of matter don’t usually exert much long-range electrical force on each another. Therefore, despite the fact that the electrical force is much stronger than the gravitational force (when appropriately compared), it doesn’t have the same kind of macroscopic effects as gravity.
Early in the nineteenth century it became clear that the story was even more complicated. Moving charges (i.e., electrical currents) create yet another force, known to the ancients but not understood as related to electricity: magnetism. Primarily through the work of the English experimental physicist Michael Faraday, it became clear that electricity and magnetism were intimately related because, for example, magnetic fields could be used to create electrical currents. Exploiting this principle, discovered in 1831 and now known as Faraday’s law, Faraday was able to build the first electrical generator (he had earlier made the first functioning electric motor). Faraday’s discovery would lead to an expansion of the classical ontology of physics, because it implied that electrical charges and currents gave rise to unseen electric and magnetic fields, which permeated space and were not associated with matter at all but rather represented a potential to exert a force on charged matter. These were the “unseen forces” that moved the compass needle, which had fascinated Einstein as a child. Besides masses, forces, and charges, there were now fields as well.
Faraday had risen from the status of a lowly bookbinder’s apprentice to become Fullerian Professor of Chemistry at the Royal Institution (during his life he rejected a knighthood and twice declined the presidency of the Royal Society). When asked by the four-time prime minister William Gladstone the value of electricity, he is said to have quipped,1 “One day sir, you may tax it.” He had little formal mathematical education and showed by experiment that his ideas were correct but did not formulate them into a rigorous theory.
That task was left to the Scottish physicist/mathematician James Clerk Maxwell. Maxwell was a deeply religious man, related to minor nobility, who showed an Einsteinian fascination with natural phenomena from a young age. As early as age three he would wander around the family estate asking how things worked, or as he put it, “What’s the go o’ that?” He is widely regarded as the third-greatest physicist of all time, after Newton and Einstein, although he is surely much less known to the public. He wrote his first important scientific paper at the age of sixteen and attended Cambridge University, where he excelled and became a Fellow shortly after graduation. One of his contemporaries wrote of him, “He was the one acknowledged genius … it was certain that he would be one of that small but sacred band to whom it would be given to enlarge the bounds of human knowledge.” At the age of twenty-three Maxwell expressed his philosophy of science in terms that prefigure similar sentiments of both Planck and Einstein:
Happy is the man who can recognize in the work of today a connected portion of the work of life, and an embodiment of the work of Eternity. The foundations of his confidence are unchangeable, for he has been made a partaker of Infinity. He strenuously works out his daily enterprises, because the present is given to him for a possession.
Maxwell had a full beard and a certain reserved presence that was hard to warm up to (very unlike Einstein, the mensch); however, he was a loyal friend and an almost saintly husband—in all, a man of character and integrity. Despite his diffidence, he possessed a rapier-like wit, which he would only occasionally display, as in the following. In his forties, having “retired” to his Scottish country estate for health and personal reasons, he was convinced to return to England to head the new Cavendish Laboratory at Cambridge; he did a superb job and became an important administrative figure in British science. In this capacity he was asked to explain to Queen Victoria the importance of creating a very high vacuum. He described the encounter thus:
I was sent for to London to be ready to explain to the Queen why Otto von Guerike devoted himself to the discovery of nothing, and to show her the two hemispheres in which he kept it … and how after 200 years W. Crookes has come much nearer to nothing and has sealed it up in a glass globe for public inspection. Her majesty however let us off very easily and did not make much ado about nothing, as she had much heavy work cut out for her all the rest of the day.
The young Maxwell came to know the much older Faraday personally as well as through his work and realized that his experimental discoveries, which Faraday had framed qualitatively, could be cast into a set of equations that describe all electromagnetic phenomena in four compact formulas, now universally known as Maxwell’s equations. Like Newton’s Second Law these are four differential equations, not describing masses and forces but rather electrical fields, magnetic fields, electrical charges and currents. If Maxwell had used only Faraday’s law and the previously known laws of electrostatics and magnetism, he would have found similar equations but with a disturbing asymmetry between the role of the electric and magnetic fields. Maxwell decided in 1861 that these two fields were different expressions of the same unified force, and had the brilliant insight to add a new term to one of the equations describing the magnetic field, which had the effect of making the full set of equations perfectly symmetric in regions of space where there were no electrical charges or currents (as in vacuum). Thus he essentially added a major clause to the laws of electromagnetism. The new term gave rise to new effects, called “displacement currents,” which were verified experimentally. They also made the equations structurally perfect. Boltzmann, quoting Goethe, said of Maxwell’s equations, “was it God that wrote those lines?”
FIGURE 4.1. James Clerk Maxwell at roughly the age at which he proposed the fundamental laws of classical electromagnetism. Courtesy of the Master and Fellows of Trinity College Cambridge.
Having added his new contribution to the electromagnetic laws, Maxwell made a historic discovery: electric and magnetic fields could propagate through the vacuum in the form of a wave that carried energy and could exert both electric and magnetic forces. In physics the term wave refers to a disturbance in a medium (e.g., water or air) that oscillates in time and typically is extended, at any single instant, over a large region of space. In this case the strength of the disturbance is measured by the strength of the electric field, so that if an electric charge sat at one point in space the electric field would push the charge alternately up and then down, like a rubber ball bobbing on surface waves propagating through water. Moreover, if you moved along with the wave, like a surfer, the field would always push you in one direction, just as the surfboard stays at the leading edge of a water wave (for a while).
Maxwell showed that the distance between crests of the electromagnetic waves could be made arbitrarily large or small; that is, any wavelength was possible. Thus he discovered what we now call the electromagnetic spectrum, extending, for example, from radio waves having a wavelength of a meter, to thermal radiation (as we saw earlier) at ten millionths of a meter, visible light at half a millionth of a meter, and on to x-rays at ten billionths of a meter. This was a spectacular finding; but th
e epiphany, the earthshaking revelation, was the speed of the waves: all of them traveled at the same speed, the speed of light! Suddenly disparate phenomena involving man-made electrical devices, natural electric and magnetic phenomena, color, and vision were unified into one phenomenon, the propagation of electromagnetic waves at 186,000 miles per second.
The beauty and significance of this discovery has awed physicists ever since. One of the greatest modern theoretical physicists, Richard Feynman, wrote of this event: “From the long view of the history of mankind … the most significant event of the nineteenth century will be judged as Maxwell’s discovery of the laws of electrodynamics. The American Civil War will pale into provincial insignificance in comparison with this important scientific event of the same decade.” Maxwell himself, with typical understatement, wrote to a friend in 1865, “I have also a paper afloat, with an electromagnetic theory of light, which, until I am convinced of the contrary, I hold to be great guns.”
Maxwell would go on to make other major contributions to physics, specifically with his statistical theory of gases, which will be of great relevance below, but he was not recognized as a transcendent figure during his lifetime. He died of abdominal cancer in 1879 at the age of forty-eight, still at the peak of his scientific powers. While in hindsight we view Maxwell as poorly rewarded in his time for his genius and service to society (he was never knighted, for example), Maxwell did not see it that way. On his deathbed he told his doctor, “I have been thinking how very gently I have always been dealt with. I have never had a violent shove in my life. The only desire which I can have is, like David, to serve my generation by the will of God and then fall asleep.”
Einstein and the Quantum Page 4
