Part 19

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. 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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