I do not know whether Einstein considers that his life-work can be completed within the span of this visit. At any rate he makes no attempt to extract more out of the day by following a rigid programme of work than the day voluntarily offers. He does not compel himself to cover a definitely circumscribed piece of ground with chronological exactitude. There are brain-workers, especially artists, who actually never shake off the fetters of the twenty-four hours day of work inasmuch as they spin on the threads of daily effort into the nightly fabric of dreams. Einstein can make a pause, interrupt his work, or divert himself into side-channels at leisure and according to the demands of the hour, but dreams offer him no inspiration and do not waylay him with problems. On the other hand, however, he is waylaid so much the more during the day by things and persons that make an assault on him. This starts as soon as the first post arrives, to see through which requires a special bureau. In addition to the communications of a professional or official nature there appear innumerable letters from everywhere and anywhere asking him to grant a little of his time. Whatever each individual writer has thought about the principle of relativity, all his thoughts and doubts, additions, and, above all, that which he has not been able to understand, all this is to be answered by Einstein. Has he, the child of fame, even a quarter of an hour for himself? There they wait in the hall, the painter, the photographer, the sculptor, and the interviewer; with whatever powers of persuasion and argumentative subtlety his attentive wife may seek to defend his hours of rest, some of these visitors will yet succeed in gaining the upper hand, and will produce something in oil-colours, in plaster of Paris, in black and white, in water-colours, or in print. Fame, too, demands her sacrifices, and if we talk of a hunt after fame, then Einstein is certainly not the hunter, but the hunted. He sighs under the burden of his correspondence, not only as the recipient, but also with the sender, whose letter has to remain unanswered. Yet he is never roused to anger by the intruder on his time. If this were not so, the aphorism of Cyrus that patience is the panacea of all ills would not hold for him, and how would I myself otherwise have dared to claim so many hours of him? A sense of guilt falls on me!