Einstein has told me many a story of his travels, and these reports were characterized by an absence of definite purpose. The conception of something worth seeing in the tourists' sense does not exist for him, and he does not set out in eager pursuit of those things that are marked with two asterisks in Baedeker. The intense romanticism of Swiss scenery, that lay within such easy reach for him, has never enticed him into its magic circle, and he has nothing to do with the abysmal terrors of glaciers and the world of snow-peaks. His enthusiasm for landscape beauty conforms with the behaviour of the barometer: the greater the altitude, the lower the mercury. In simple contact with Nature he prefers the lesser mountains, the seashore, and extensive plains, whereas brilliant panoramic contours like those of the Vierwaldstetter See do not rouse him into ecstasy. It is unnecessary to remark that he does not arrange his living on the standard of the Grand Palace Hotels en route. It is nearer the truth to picture him as a vagrant who tramps along without a sense of time and without a goal, in the fairy atmosphere of a joyous wanderer who has unconsciously adopted the old rule of Philander: Walk with a steady step: make your burden small: start early in the morn, and leave home all care! Am I to record the list of pleasures and hobbies that are foreign to him? The list would be very long, and I should arrive at my goal more quickly by setting his sporting tendencies equal to zero. I once suspected him of being given to aquatic sport, as I learned that he had taken part in several yachting excursions. But I was mistaken. He sails in the same way as he walks on his tours, without a set purpose, dreaming, and uninterested in what is regarded by members of sailing clubs as a "feat." In the negative list of his games we see even chess, that usually exerts a strong attraction on natures with a mathematical tendency. The particular types of combination offered by this game have never tempted him, and the world of chess has remained _terra incognita_ for him. He is just as little interested in every kind of collection, even that of books. I have seldom or never met a savant who attaches so little value to the personal possession of numerous and valuable books. This statement may be extended as far as saying that he experiences no pleasure at all in possession as such: he says so himself, and his whole manner of life proves it. There seems to me to be an element of resignation in his amiable hedonism, a kind of monkish asceticism. He never rids himself of the feeling that he is only paying a visit in this world.