Einstein's War

by Matthew Stanley

  The students were intensely excited to be learning the theory that seemed to be changing the world. As one student described it: “The thrill of seeing physical science on the march in a new direction, the sense of something stirring, of new adventure, held us tensely expectant even though we might but half comprehend it.” We actually have a firsthand account of Eddington’s teaching in that class:

  A slight man of average height, in academic gown, reserved almost to the point of shyness, he rarely looks at his class. His keen eyes look at or through the side wall as he half turns from the blackboard and seems to think aloud the significance of the tensors which he has just written on the board. The mathematical theory of relativity is developed ab initio before our eyes and the symbols are made to live and take on meaning.

  This is in sharp contrast with descriptions of Eddington’s public lectures, which were “enriched with literary quality and with his inimitable humour” and where the audience was said to be “breathless.” Alice and the denizens of Wonderland appeared often, as did Gulliver, Humpty Dumpty, and the Jabberwock. He also found room for more highbrow references from Shakespeare, Milton, and Chaucer. He rewrote parts of the Rubáiyát to describe the Principe expedition:

  Oh leave the Wise our measures to collate

  One thing at least is certain, LIGHT has WEIGHT,

  One thing is certain, and the rest debate—

  Light-rays, when near the Sun, DO NOT GO STRAIGHT.

  He would address just about any group that asked, even undergraduate clubs (one of which introduced him as a professor of astrology). Many more people attended these lectures than his formal classes, and he earned a reputation as “an expounder to the multitude of the poetry of modern science.”

  Eddington’s public lectures helped spark the broader conversation, which quickly took off in its own directions. A common theme was the sense that relativity had certain political connotations—people took the “revolution in science” headlines quite literally. In 1919, so soon after the Communists came to power in Russia, “revolution” evoked the specter of political overthrow. People explicitly worried about “scientific Bolshevism,” and that relativity was paving the way for a great disruption. Literature professor Katy Price points out in her book about this particular cultural moment that even with the war over, this was still a time of serious uncertainty in Britain: rationing was ongoing, there were railway strikes, returning soldiers had a difficult time finding jobs. Einstein’s overthrow of Newton seemed to be just one more part of the chaos.

  The New York Times asked Charles Poor, professor of celestial mechanics at Columbia University, about this. He made the connections quite clearly:

  For some years past, the entire world has been in a state of unrest, mental as well as physical. It may well be that the physical aspects of the unrest, the war, the strikes, the Bolshevist uprisings, are in reality the visible objects of some underlying deep mental disturbance, worldwide in character. . . . This same spirit of unrest has invaded science.

  “Einstein” became a shorthand for any kind of broken order or unsettled hierarchy. This was often played for laughs—students not doing their homework, employers refusing to give raises. Punch presented “Einsteinized,” a piece in which a commuter, his mind “alive with science,” becomes unable to navigate a train station due to an overdose of abstract theory. One editorial warned that “the rays of logic emanating from the Mayor’s office are bent as badly as Einstein’s rays.”

  Another political aspect was the sense that relativity was antidemocratic. Its complicated mathematics meant it could only be understood by a small group; therefore, it was elitist. A “little knot of experts” had overthrown common sense. This was particularly a problem in the United States, where newspapers complained about having to trust a theory that laymen could not understand. It seemed anti-American. Perhaps the next bit of wisdom to be overthrown would be the multiplication table?

  These worries often combined with continuing concerns about the mysterious, incomprehensible aspects of the theory. Merely the name “relativity” evoked philosophical uncertainty. Einstein was described as “a destroyer of time and space.” Talk of a fourth dimension made many people think of the occult. This became an indelible part of the way people thought and talked about both relativity and Einstein himself. Many years later he was at a film premiere with Charlie Chaplin. As the crowds cheered, Chaplin reportedly said, “They cheer me because they all understand me, and they cheer you because no one understands you.”

  The final political flavor of relativity was the one that Eddington was most concerned with: Einstein as a vindication of internationalism and liberal politics. One British scientist wrote to a German friend, hoping to invite Einstein for a visit:

  Virtually nothing but Einstein is being talked about here, and if he were to come over now, I think he would be celebrated like a victorious general. The fact that a German’s theory was confirmed by observations by the English has, as is daily becoming more evident, brought the chance of collaboration between these scientific nations far closer. Thereby Einstein has done an inestimable service to mankind, leaving quite aside the high scientific value of his ingenious theory.

  The metaphor of Einstein as victorious general was, while vivid, perhaps somewhat poorly chosen in the wake of the war. Another correspondent with Einstein, trying to describe the “unusual interest” in relativity, explained that in the newspapers, “You are presented as Polish & as Swiss, etc., but especially as one who did not sign the ill-fated letter [the Manifesto of 93]. . . . Prof. Eddington was very particularly occupied with your theory and is a kindly man without the modern prejudice that sadly is very strongly developed in some others.”

  Einstein himself contributed directly to this. Three weeks after the expedition results were announced he wrote a short piece for the Times—his first writing for the English-speaking world.

  After the lamentable breach in the former international relations existing among men of science . . . it was in accordance with the high and proud tradition of English science that English scientific men should have given their time and labour . . . to test a theory that had been completed and published in the country of their enemies in the midst of war.

  The public seized on this essay like a declaration from an oracle. Everyone wanted to hear more from this genius. This created a cottage industry for anyone willing and able to translate Einstein’s work into English. In a bizarre twist, the best-qualified people for this were Anglophone scientists who had been interned in Germany and Austria during the war. Henry Brose, an Australian physicist, had been held in a camp near Berlin. While there, he learned about general relativity and actually started some translation before he was freed. He went back to Oxford after the war, where his translations were put on the road to publication by no less than H. H. Turner.

  Robert W. Lawson from the University of Sheffield had been interned in Vienna, where, amazingly, he was allowed to continue doing physics experiments. He wrote directly to Einstein asking for original material he could translate, particularly some aimed at scientists. He wanted to “work toward healing the deep wounds inflicted on the hearts of mankind by this war as quickly as possible and . . . [this would] bring us one big step closer to a welcome collaboration among scientists of different nationalities.” His letter closed: “May I in closing congratulate you regarding the recent verification of your prediction related to the ‘gravitational deflection’ of light? People here have been talking of nothing else for the past few weeks.” A British publisher even contacted Willem de Sitter asking for a translation. He declined and recommended Ebenezer Cunningham instead.

  The language barrier was a real obstacle, even for correspondence between Eddington and Einstein themselves. Eddington’s letters were in English (he apologized for being “unable to write except in my own language”), Einstein’s in German (he, too, apologize
d, saying that “goodwill alone” was insufficient to overcome his linguistic inability). Even after their shared victory, communication was still difficult.

  Einstein’s fame immediately eclipsed Eddington’s, though their names continued to be connected. One physicist rewrote Lewis Carroll’s “The Walrus and the Carpenter” into “The Einstein and the Eddington” in honor of their collaboration:

  The time has come, said Eddington,

  To talk of many things;

  Of cubes and clocks and meter-sticks,

  And why a pendulum swings,

  And how far space is out of plumb,

  And whether time has wings. . . .

  You hold that time is badly warped,

  That even light is bent;

  I think I get the idea there,

  If this is what you meant:

  The mail the postman brings today,

  Tomorrow will be sent. . . .

  The shortest line, Einstein replied,

  Is not the one that’s straight;

  It curves around upon itself,

  Much like a figure eight,

  And if you go too rapidly

  You will arrive too late.

  * * *

  THE PUBLIC CONVERSATION in Europe went somewhat differently. Much of the reaction in Britain and America came from the suddenness of Einstein’s appearance—this essentially unknown figure from an enemy country mysteriously enters their scene by dethroning Isaac Newton. Everyone wanted to know who he was, where he had come from, and how he had done it.

  In Germany he wasn’t unknown. He was a well-regarded professor and member of the Prussian Academy (though that was a far cry from being famous). There had been a trickle of newspaper coverage about relativity and the expeditions based on the little information Einstein had. So instead of the sudden avalanche of coverage in British publications, German newspapers took a couple weeks after the announcement of the results to gradually increase their reporting. The driving factor was less the obvious significance of the science and more the realization of the reaction overseas.

  It was not until December 14 that the Einstein phenomenon truly broke out across Germany. That was when the Berliner Illustrirte Zeitung published a front-page article on Einstein with a dramatic portrait of him looking profound. It was as celebratory as anything that had appeared in Britain, calling him “A New Giant of World History: Albert Einstein, whose research signifies a complete overturning of our view of nature comparable to the insights of Copernicus, Kepler, and Newton.” Inside: “A new epoch in human history has now arisen and it is indissolubly bound with the name of Albert Einstein.” For hundreds of thousands of people, this was the first time they had heard his name or seen his face.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE DUTCH NEWSPAPERS were full of translations of the British articles. Ehrenfest narrated it this way: “‘Einstein versus Newton! Natural Philosophy Revolutionized,’ etc.,—and the startled newspaper ducks flutter up in a hefty bout of quacking. . . . Even Galinka [his daughter] has been swept up by this flurry and quickly laid an artistic egg.” He enclosed Galinka’s drawing with commentary: in Africa an astronomer is looking at the stars and sun because Einstein has calculated in his house (he is shown throwing the calculations out the window). All the world is excited (even the squirrels), as shown by people running to his house. Einstein responded with delight: “Galinka’s little picture is inimitably prettier than all that cackling by the startled flock of newspaper geese.”

  Berliner Illustrirte Zeitung, December 14, 1919

  COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR

  Good wishes and congratulations flooded in. A fellow member of the Prussian Academy, Carl Stumpf, was effusive: “With all our hearts, we share the elation which must fill you and are proud of the fact that, after the military-political collapse, German science has been able to score such a victory.” Einstein was grateful, though not particularly happy at having his work described as a victory for German science. He was pleased, though, to have a huge government grant appear from nowhere to support research in general relativity. The German government was amazed at the sudden international goodwill Einstein was generating and wanted to support it in any way they could. Einstein used his new leverage with the authorities to get a job for Freundlich and to ask permission for an extra room in their building to house his ailing mother. He wrote to Besso about his surprise to find that his name was “in high favor since the English solar eclipse expeditions.”

  Across Europe, physicists were being hounded for lectures and popular articles about relativity. Both Lorentz and Ehrenfest agreed to produce some. The latter worried himself sick about doing a good job, perhaps with reason—Einstein was quite unhappy with an article Freundlich wrote. Max Born agreed to give a series of lectures on relativity for the stunning sum of 6,000 marks, which was enough to refit all the laboratories at his institute. Arnold Sommerfeld’s lectures on it attracted more than a thousand listeners. He commented years later about the “general, somewhat sensational and epidemical interest in the theory of relativity.”

  * * *

  AN EPIDEMIC WAS a good metaphor for the spread of relativity fever. It was contagious and grew rapidly. Einstein unexpectedly found himself at the center of nonstop media attention that he would come to call the relativity circus. One of the first signs of what was to come was when a rather confused reporter from the New York Times appeared at his apartment wanting to interview the great man. The correspondent knew little about science, only that Einstein was extraordinary in some way. Einstein tried to explain his theory, though the young man apparently thought the “freely falling person” thought experiment involved someone actually toppling off a roof.

  Many, many representatives of the press followed in his footsteps. Einstein began complaining about the “riffraff” that had started hounding him. He was baffled by the attention. He didn’t think relativity was particularly revolutionary. He was no Copernicus. Relativity, he thought, need not disrupt anyone’s beliefs. It “harmonizes with every possible outlook of philosophy and does not interfere with being an idealist or materialist, pragmatist or whatever else one likes.” Why would anyone be so concerned?

  He knew that it was, at least in part, Eddington’s fault: “Due to the newspaper clamor about the solar eclipse, people are pestering me very much. Everyone wants an article, a talk, a photograph, etc.; this business reminds one of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’” It is unclear how Einstein himself fit into this metaphor—was he the emperor, being celebrated for no good reason? Or was he the unafraid child, the only one willing to point out the absurdity of the situation?

  Everywhere he went, the reporters lay in wait. “I’m giving a children’s lecture on relativity = appearance of the newspaper lions.” It got worse and worse until he complained to Max Born that the publicity was “so bad that I can hardly breathe.” Answering the mail was Sisyphean. When he had been traveling for a couple days, Elsa sent him a note warning of the “laundry-basket” of mail that had already arrived.

  Early in his fame Einstein sat for an etched portrait by the artist Hermann Struck. Copies flew off the shelves and everyone wanted it autographed by the genius himself. Elsa griped, “Half the world is now buying the Struck picture and is sending it to you so that you can immortalize yourself on it.” The volume only increased with time. Years later, when asked about his dog Chico, Einstein replied, “The dog is very smart. He feels sorry for me because I receive so much mail; that’s why he tries to bite the mailman.”

  Einstein’s trademark reaction to this sort of frustration was humor. Early on in the circus, he wrote:

  By an application of the theory of relativity to the taste of readers, today in Germany I am called a German man of science, and in England I am represented as a Swiss Jew. If I come to be represented as a bête noire, the descriptions will be
reversed and I shall become a Swiss Jew for the Germans and a German man of science for the English.

  The press attention seemed to border on worship. “Since the light deflection result became public, such a cult has been made out of me that I feel like a pagan idol. But this, too, God willing, will pass.”

  He was very, very wrong. His fame has outlived him. Science writer Thomas Levenson has pointed out that Einstein was one of the first modern celebrities. He became famous at just the right time to be a global figure, present on any newspaper around the world. He was also willing to participate, to craft a public persona that the media loved (in contrast, Marie Curie pushed back against her fame). The downside was that the papers recorded his every syllable. He learned this the hard way after the backlash to his off-the-cuff observation in New York that American women led their men around like poodles on a leash.

  Eventually accepting his fame, Einstein was affable with reporters and gave answers to whatever inane questions they offered. When asked, he gave his opinion on literature, Prohibition, or just about any subject whether he knew anything about it or not. Along with witty quips, he had a talent for oracular utterances that perfectly balanced obscurity with a promise of insight. Being photogenic helped too—the unkempt hair, the soulful eyes with a glint of humor, the bad posture all made for a great picture. One paper described him as looking “like an artist—a musician. He was. But underneath his shaggy locks was a scientific mind whose deductions have staggered the ablest intellects of Europe.” He didn’t mind facilitating a good photo—he learned to toss his hat in the air so photographers would have something interesting to shoot.