Einstein is a mental Hercules, according to those who know his work. He has performed prodigious labors. By all the theories of physiognomy, he should be a granite-visaged Norse god of the Hindenburg type, instead of looking like a poet or musician. On theoretical grounds, he should have an iron will, instead of being pliant, docile, compromising. The explanation seems to be that Einstein, unlike most men of achievement, has never had to coerce or harden himself. His work was an exalted revel and his whole scientific life was a perpetual carnival, to judge from a speech of his at a dinner in Berlin in honor of the physicist, Max Planck. A preceding speaker had talked of the “agonizing toil” and “superhuman will” required of a great scientist. Einstein demurred. “This daily striving,” he said, “is dictated by no principle or program, but arises from immediate personal need. The emotional condition which renders possible such achievements is like that of the religious devotee or the lover.” On another occasion, Einstein described the impulse to grapple with his problems as “a demoniac possession,” needing no stimulation from conscious effort of the will. Einstein’s own theory about himself must be correct; nothing else could account for his irresistible energy in his own regions of thought and his lamblike helplessness in ordinary contacts. To catalogue a few of his lost wars of everyday life:

      For a time he refused to play the violin for charity because of his modest estimate of his own ability, and because he thought it unfair to professionals; under pressure, however, he gave many recitals. He declined a deluxe cabin on a trip to America because of his scruples against luxury, but accepted when informed that he was hurting the feelings of the steamship line. On his trip to India, he refused to travel in a rickshaw because he thought it degrading to use a human being as a draught animal; he reconsidered, however, on the ground that rickshaw boys must live, and patronized them extensively. Hating fuss and feathers, he has been induced to make triumphal progresses on four continents. He has compared mass newspaper interviews to being bitten by wolves and to being hanged, but nevertheless he is frequently gang-interviewed.

      This easy yielding to pressure would lead another man to cheapen himself, but Einstein is saved by his aesthetic sense and his unworldliness. He could not do anything sordid. He doesn’t want anything; there is nothing about the man for temptation to work on. When he received the Nobel Prize in 1921, he gave it to charity. When a magazine offered him an amazing sum for an article, he rejected it contemptuously. “What?” he exclaimed. “Do they think I am a prizefighter?” But he finally wrote the article after arguing the magazine into cutting the price in half. It is said that he declined his present post at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton on the ground that the salary was preposterously munificent, and was persuaded to accept only by the promise of an enormous pay cut. He objected to gifts, but his 1930 trip to this country netted him five violins and other valuable booty. His backbone stiffened, however, when an admirer sought to press on him a Guarnerius valued at $33,000; this he firmly refused, saying that he was not enough of a musician to do justice to the instrument. Probably no man has been more plagued than Einstein by offers of money for testimonials for toothpaste, pimple-eradicators, corn plasters, and cigarettes. He brushed all this aside as “corruption” and would have no compromise. Einstein regards money as something to give away; in 1927, he was aiding one hundred and fifty poor families in Berlin.