Men of Mathematics Read online

  The second claim of Archimedes to modernity is also based upon his methods. Anticipating Newton and Leibniz by more than 2000 years he invented the integral calculus and in one of his problems anticipated their invention of the differential calculus. These two calculuses together constitute what is known as the calculus, which has been described as the most powerful instrument ever invented for the mathematical exploration of the physical universe. To take a simple example, suppose we wish to find the area of a circle. Among other ways of doing this we may slice the circle into any number of parallel strips of equal breadth, cut off the curved ends of the strips, so that the discarded bits shall total the least possible, by cuts perpendicular to the strips, and then add up the areas of all the resulting rectangles. This gives an approximation to the area sought. By increasing the number of strips indefinitely and taking the limit of the sum, we get the area of the circle. This (crudely described) process of taking the limit of the sum is called integration; the method of performing such summations is called the integral calculus. It was this calculus which Archimedes used in finding the area of a segment of a parabola and in other problems.

  The problem in which he used the differential calculus was that of constructing a tangent at any given point of his spiral. If the angle which the tangent makes with any given line is known, the tangent can easily be drawn, for there is a simple construction for drawing a straight line through a given point parallel to a given straight line. The problem of finding the angle mentioned (for any curve, not merely for the spiral) is, in geometrical language, the main problem of the differential calculus. Archimedes solved this problem for his spiral. His spiral is the curve traced by a point moving with uniform speed along a straight line which revolves with uniform angular speed about a fixed point on the line. If anyone who has not studied the calculus imagines Archimedes’ problem an easy one he may time himself doing it.

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  The life of Archimedes was as tranquil as a mathematician’s should be if he is to accomplish all that is in him. All the action and tragedy of his life were crowded into its end. In 212 B.C. the second Punic war was roaring full blast. Rome and Carthage were going at one another hammer and tongs, and Syracuse, the city of Archimedes, lay temptingly near the path of the Roman fleet. Why not lay siege to it? They did.

  Puffed up with conceit of himself (“relying on his own great fame,” as Plutarch puts it), and trusting in the splendor of his “preparedness” rather than in brains, the Roman leader, Marcellus, anticipated a speedy conquest. The pride of his confident heart was a primitive piece of artillery on a lofty harp-shaped platform supported by eight galleys lashed together. Beholding all this fame and miscellaneous shipping descending upon them the timider citizens would have handed Marcellus the keys of the city. Not so Hieron. He too was prepared for war, and in a fashion that the practical Marcellus would never have dreamed of.

  It seems that Archimedes, despising applied mathematics himself, had nevertheless yielded in peace time to the importunities of Hieron, and had demonstrated to the tyrant’s satisfaction that mathematics can, on occasion, become devastatingly practical. To convince his friend that mathematics is capable of more than abstract deductions. Archimedes had applied his laws of levers and pulleys to the manipulation of a fully loaded ship, which he himself launched singlehanded. Remembering this feat when the war clouds began to gather ominously near, Hieron begged Archimedes to prepare a suitable welcome for Marcellus. Once more desisting from his researches to oblige his friend, Archimedes constituted himself a reception committee of one to trip the precipitate Romans. When they arrived his ingenious deviltries stood grimly waiting to greet them.

  The harp-shaped turtle affair on the eight quinqueremes lasted no longer than the fame of the conceited Marcellus. A succession of stone shots, each weighing over a quarter of a ton, hurled from the supercatapults of Archimedes, demolished the unwieldy contraption. Crane-like beaks and iron claws reached over the walls for the approaching ships, seized them, spun them round, and sank or shattered them against the jutting cliffs. The land forces, mowed down by the Archimedean artillery, fared no better. Camouflaging his rout in the official bulletins as a withdrawal to a previously prepared position in the rear, Marcellus backed off to confer with his staff. Unable to rally his mutinous troops for an assault on the terrible walls, the famous Roman leader retired.

  At last evincing some slight signs of military common sense, Marcellus issued no further “backs against the wall” orders of the day, abandoned all thoughts of a frontal attack, captured Megara in the rear, and finally sneaked up on Syracuse from behind. This time his luck was with him. The foolish Syracusans were in the middle of a bibulous religious celebration in honor of Artemis. War and religion have always made a bilious sort of cocktail; the celebrating Syracusans were very sick indeed. They woke up to find the massacre in full swing. Archimedes participated in the blood-letting.

  His first intimation that the city had been taken by theft was the shadow of a Roman soldier falling across his diagram in the dust. According to one account the soldier had stepped on the diagram, angering Archimedes to exclaim sharply, “Don’t disturb my circles!” Another states that Archimedes refused to obey the soldier’s order that he accompany him to Marcellus until he had worked out his problem. In any event the soldier flew into a passion, unsheathed his glorious sword, and dispatched the unarmed veteran geometer of seventy five. Thus died Archimedes.

  As Whitehead has observed, “No Roman lost his life because he was absorbed in the contemplation of a mathematical diagram.”

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  I. Let a2 = 2b2, where, without loss of generality, a, b are whole numbers without any common factor greater than 1 (such a factor could be cancelled from the assumed equation). If a is odd, we have an immediate contradiction, since 2b2 is even; if a is even, say 2b, then 4c2 = 2c1, or 2c2 = b2, so b is even, and hence a, b have the common factor 2, again a contradiction.

  II. The inherent viciousness of such an assumption is obvious.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gentleman, Soldier, and Mathematician

  DESCARTES

  [Analytic geometry], far more than any of his metaphysical speculations, immortalized the name of Descartes, and constitutes the greatest single step ever made in the progress of the exact sciences.—JOHN STUART MILL

  “I DESIRE ONLY TRANQUILLITY AND repose.” These are the words of the man who was to deflect mathematics into new channels and change the course of scientific history. Too often in his active life René Descartes was driven to find the tranquillity he sought in military camps and to seek the repose he craved for meditation in solitary retreat from curious and exacting friends. Desiring only tranquillity and repose, he was born on March 31, 1596 at La Haye, near Tours, France, into a Europe given over to war in the throes of religious and political reconstruction.

  His times were not unlike our own. An old order was rapidly passing; the new was not yet established. The predatory barons, kings, and princelings of the Middle Ages had bred a swarm of rulers with the political ethics of highway robbers and, for the most part, the intellects of stable boys. What by common justice should have been thine was mine provided my arm was strong enough to take it away from thee. This may be an unflattering picture of that glorious period of European history known as the late Renaissance, but it accords fairly well with our own changing estimate, born of intimate experience, of what should be what in a civilized society.

  On top of the wars for plunder in Descartes’ day there was superimposed a rich deposit of religious bigotry and intolerance which incubated further wars and made the dispassionate pursuit of science a highly hazardous enterprise. To all this was added a comprehensive ignorance of the elementary rules of common cleanliness. From the point of view of sanitation the rich man’s mansion was likely to be as filthy as the slums where the poor festered in dirt and ignorance, and the recurrent plagues which aided the epidemic wars in keeping the prolific population below the fami
ne limit paid no attention to bank accounts. So much for the good old days.

  On the immaterial, enduring side of the ledger the account is brighter. The age in which Descartes lived was indeed one of the great intellectual periods in the spotted history of civilization. To mention only a few of the outstanding men whose lives partly overlapped that of Descartes, we recall that Fermat and Pascal were his contemporaries in mathematics; Shakespeare died when Descartes was twenty; Descartes outlived Galileo by eight years, and Newton was eight when Descartes died; Descartes was twelve when Milton was born, and Harvey, the discoverer of the circulation of the blood, outlived Descartes by seven years, while Gilbert, who founded the science of electromagnetism, died when Descartes was seven.

  René Descartes came from an old noble family. Although René’s father was not wealthy his circumstances were a little better than easy, and his sons were destined for the careers of gentlemen—noblesse oblige—in the service of France. René was the third and last child of his father’s first wife, Jeanne Brochard, who died a few days after René’s birth. The father appears to have been a man of rare sense who did everything in his power to make up to his children for the loss of their mother. An excellent nurse took the mother’s place, and the father, who married again, kept a constant, watchful, intelligent eye on his “young philosopher” who always wanted to know the cause of everything under the sun and the reason for whatever his nurse told him about heaven. Descartes was not exactly a precocious child, but his frail health forced him to expend what vitality he had in intellectual curiosity.

  Owing to René’s delicate health his father let lessons slide. The boy however went ahead on his own initiative and his father wisely let him do as he liked. When Descartes was eight his father decided that formal education could not be put off longer. After much intelligent inquiry he chose the Jesuit college at La Flèche as the ideal school for his son. The rector. Father Charlet, took an instant liking to the pale, confiding little boy and made a special study of his case. Seeing that he must build up the boy’s body if he was to educate his mind, and noticing that Descartes seemed to require much more rest than normal boys of his age, the rector told him to lie in bed as late as he pleased in the mornings and not to leave his room till he felt like joining his companions in the classroom. Thereafter, all through his life except for one unfortunate episode near its close, Descartes spent his mornings in bed when he wished to think. Looking back in middle age on his schooldays at La Fleche, he averred that those long, quiet mornings of silent meditation were the real source of his philosophy and mathematics.

  His work went well and he became a proficient classicist. In line with the educational tradition of the time much attention was put on Latin, Greek, and rhetoric. But this was only a part of what Descartes got. His teachers were men of the world themselves and it was their job to train the boys under their charge to be “gentlemen”—in the best sense of that degraded word—for their rôle in the world. When he left the school in August, 1612, in his seventeenth year, Descartes had made a life-long friend in Father Charlet and was almost ready to hold his own in society. Charlet was only one of the many friends Descartes made at La Flèche; another, Mersenne (later Father), the famous amateur of science and mathematics, had been his older chum and was to become his scientific agent and protector-in-chief from bores.

  Descartes’ distinctive talent had made itself evident long before he left school. As early as the age of fourteen, lying meditating in bed, he had begun to suspect that the “humanities” he was mastering were comparatively barren of human significance and certainly not the sort of learning to enable human beings to control their environment and direct their own destiny. The authoritative dogmas of philosophy, ethics, and morals offered for his blind acceptance began to take on the aspect of baseless superstitions. Persisting in his childhood habit of accepting nothing on mere authority, Descartes began unostentatiously questioning the alleged demonstrations and the casuistical logic by which the good Jesuits sought to gain the assent of his reasoning faculties. From this he rapidly passed to the fundamental doubt which was to inspire his life-work: how do we know anything? And further, perhaps more importantly, if we cannot say definitely that we know anything, how are we ever to find out those things which we may be capable of knowing?

  On leaving school Descartes thought longer, harder, and more desperately than ever. As a first fruit of his meditations he apprehended the heretical truth that logic of itself—the great method of the schoolmen of the Middle Ages which still hung on tenaciously in humanistic education—is as barren as a mule for any creative human purpose. His second conclusion was closely allied to his first: compared to the demonstrations of mathematics—to which he took like a bird to the air as soon as he found his wings—those of philosophy, ethics, and morals are tawdry shams and frauds. How then, he asked, shall we ever find out anything? By the scientific method, although Descartes did not call it that: by controlled experiment and the application of rigid mathematical reasoning to the results of such experiment.

  It may be asked what he got out of his rational skepticism. One fact, and only one: “I exist.” As he put it, “Cogito ergo sum” (I think, therefore I am).

  By the age of eighteen Descartes was thoroughly disgusted with the aridity of the studies on which he had put so much hard labor. He resolved to see the world and learn something of life as it is lived in flesh and blood and not in paper and printers’ ink. Thanking God that he was well enough off to do as he pleased he proceeded to do it. By an understandable overcorrection of his physically inhibited childhood and youth he now fell upon the pleasures appropriate to normal young men of his age and station and despoiled them with both hands. With several other young blades hungering for life in the raw he quit the depressing sobriety of the paternal estate and settled in Paris. Gambling being one of the accomplishments of a gentleman in that day, Descartes gambled with enthusiasm—and some success. Whatever he undertook he did with his whole soul.

  This phase did not last long. Tiring of his bawdy companions, Descartes gave them the slip and took up his quarters in plain, comfortable lodgings in what is now the suburb of Saint-Germain where, for two years, he buried himself in incessant mathematical investigation. His gay deeds at last found him out, however, and his hare-brained friends descended whooping upon him. The studious young man looked up, recognized his friends, and saw that they were one and all intolerable bores. To get a little peace Descartes decided to go to war.

  Thus began his first spell of soldiering. He went first to Breda, Holland, to learn his trade under the brilliant Prince Maurice of Orange. Being disappointed in his hopes for action under the Prince’s colors, Descartes turned a disgusted back on the peaceful life of the camp, which threatened to become as exacting as the hurly-burly of Paris, and hastened to Germany. At this point of his career he first showed symptoms of an amiable weakness which he never outgrew. Like a small boy trailing a circus from village to village Descartes seized every favorable opportunity to view a gaudy spectacle. One was now about to come off at Frankfurt, where Ferdinand II was to be crowned. Descartes arrived in time to take in the whole rococo show. Considerably cheered up he again sought his profession and enlisted under the Elector of Bavaria, then waging war against Bohemia.

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  The army was lying inactive in its winter quarters near the little village of Neuburg on the banks of the Danube. There Descartes found in plenty what he had been seeking, tranquillity and repose. He was left to himself and he found himself.

  The story of Descartes’ “conversion”—if it may be called that—is extremely curious. On St. Martin’s Eve, November 10, 1619, Descartes experienced three vivid dreams which, he says, changed the whole current of his life. His biographer (Baillet) records the fact that there had been considerable drinking in celebration of the saint’s feast and suggests that Descartes had not fully recovered from the fumes of the wine when he retired. Descartes himself attributes his dreams to quite anot
her source and states emphatically that he had touched no wine for three months before his elevating experience. There is no reason to doubt his word. The dreams are singularly coherent and quite unlike those (according to experts) inspired by a debauch, especially of stomach-filling wine. On the surface they are easily explicable as the subconscious resolution of a conflict between the dreamer’s desire to lead an intellectual life and his realization of the futility of the life he was actually living. No doubt the Freudians have analyzed these dreams, but it seems unlikely that any analysis in the classical Viennese manner could throw further light on the invention of analytic geometry, in which we are chiefly interested here. Nor do the several mystic or religious interpretations seem likely to be of much assistance in this respect.

  In the first dream Descartes was blown by evil winds from the security of his church or college toward a third party which the wind was powerless to shake or budge; in the second he found himself observing a terrific storm with the unsuperstitious eyes of science, and he noted that the storm, once seen for what it was, could do him no harm; in the third he dreamed that he was reciting the poem of Ausonius which begins, “Quod vitae secatabor iter?” (What way of life shall I follow?)