Rutherford

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I myself enjoyed the one tiny scientific triumph of my life there. At the time Kapitsa barely tolerated me, since I did spectroscopy, a subject he thought fit only for bank clerks: in fact I had never discovered why he let me join. One night I offered to give a paper outside my own subject, on nuclear spin, in which I had been getting interested: I didn't know much about it, but I reckoned that most of the Cavendish knew less. The offer was unenthusiastically accepted. I duly gave the paper. Kapitsa looked at me with his large blue eyes, with a somewhat unflattering astonishment, as at a person of low intelligence who had contrived inadvertently to say something interesting. He turned to Chadwick, and said incredulously, “Jimmy, I believe there is something in this.”

It was a personal loss to Rutherford when Kapitsa, on one of his holiday trips to Russia, was told by the Soviet bosses, politely but unyieldingly, that he must stay: he was too valuable, they wanted his services full-time. After a while Kapitsa made the best of it. He had always been a patriotic Russian: though both he and his wife came from the upper middle-class, if there was such a class in old Russia (his father was a general in the Tsarist engineering corps), he took a friendly attitude to the revolution. All that remained steady, though I don't think he would mind my saying that his enthusiasm for Stalin was not unqualified. Still, Kapitsa threw all his gifts into his new work in the cause of Soviet science. It was only then that we, who had known him in Cambridge, ~~reaUzed~~ how strong a character he was: how brave he was: and fundamentally what a good man. His friendship with Cockcroft and others meant that the link between Soviet and English science was never quite broken, even in the worst days. Only great scientists like Lev Landau can say in full what he has done for science in his own country. If he hadn't existed, the world would have been worse: that is an epitaph that most of us would like and don't deserve.

It was a personal loss to Rutherford when Kapitsa, on one of his holiday trips to Russia, was told by the Soviet bosses, politely but unyieldingly, that he must stay: he was too valuable, they wanted his services full-time. After a while Kapitsa made the best of it. He had always been a patriotic Russian: though both he and his wife came from the upper middle-class, if there was such a class in old Russia (his father was a general in the Tsarist engineering corps), he took a friendly attitude to the revolution. All that remained steady, though I don't think he would mind my saying that his enthusiasm for Stalin was not unqualified. Still, Kapitsa threw all his gifts into his new work in the cause of Soviet science. It was only then that we, who had known him in Cambridge, realized how strong a character he was: how brave he was: and fundamentally what a good man. His friendship with Cockcroft and others meant that the link between Soviet and English science was never quite broken, even in the worst days. Only great scientists like Lev Landau can say in full what he has done for science in his own country. If he hadn't existed, the world would have been worse: that is an epitaph that most of us would like and don't deserve.

Between Leningrad and Cambridge, Kapitsa oscillated. Between Copenhagen and Cambridge there was a stream of ~~travellers~~, all the nuclear physicists of the world. Copenhagen had become the second scientific ~~me- tropolis~~ on account of the personal influence of one man, Niels Bohr, who was complementary to Rutherford as a person — patient, reflective, any thought hedged with Proustian qualifications — just as the theoretical quantum physics of which he was the master was complementary to Rutherford's experimental physics. He had been a pupil of Rutherford's, and they loved and esteemed each other like father and son. (Rutherford was a paterfamilias born, and the death of his only daughter seems to have been the greatest sorrow of his personal life. In his relations with Bohr and Kapitsa and others, there was a strong vein of paternal emotion diverted from the son he never had.) But, strong as Rutherford's liking for Bohr was, it was not strong enough to put up with Bohr's idea of a suitable length for a lecture. In the Cavendish lecture room, Bohr went past the hour; Rutherford began to stir. Bohr went past the hour and a half; Rutherford began plucking at his sleeve and muttering in a stage whisper about “another five minutes.” Blandly, patiently, determined not to leave a qualification unsaid, as indefatigable as Henry James in his last period, Bohr went past the two hours; Rutherford was beginning to trumpet about “bringing the lecture to a close.” Soon they were both on their feet at once.

Between Leningrad and Cambridge, Kapitsa oscillated. Between Copenhagen and Cambridge there was a stream of travelers, all the nuclear physicists of the world. Copenhagen had become the second scientific metropolis on account of the personal influence of one man, Niels Bohr, who was complementary to Rutherford as a person — patient, reflective, any thought hedged with Proustian qualifications — just as the theoretical quantum physics of which he was the master was complementary to Rutherford's experimental physics. He had been a pupil of Rutherford's, and they loved and esteemed each other like father and son. (Rutherford was a paterfamilias born, and the death of his only daughter seems to have been the greatest sorrow of his personal life. In his relations with Bohr and Kapitsa and others, there was a strong vein of paternal emotion diverted from the son he never had.) But, strong as Rutherford's liking for Bohr was, it was not strong enough to put up with Bohr's idea of a suitable length for a lecture. In the Cavendish lecture room, Bohr went past the hour; Rutherford began to stir. Bohr went past the hour and a half; Rutherford began plucking at his sleeve and muttering in a stage whisper about “another five minutes.” Blandly, patiently, determined not to leave a qualification unsaid, as indefatigable as Henry James in his last period, Bohr went past the two hours; Rutherford was beginning to trumpet about “bringing the lecture to a close.” Soon they were both on their feet at once.

Rutherford died suddenly when he was age sixty-six, still in full vigor. He died not only suddenly, but of something like a medical accident: he had a strangulated hernia. There was no discernible reason why he should not have lived into old age.

Rutherford: Difference between revisions

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 I myself enjoyed the one tiny scientific triumph of my life there. At the time Kapitsa barely tolerated me, since I did spectroscopy, a subject he thought fit only for bank clerks: in fact I had never discovered why he let me join. One night I offered to give a paper outside my own subject, on nuclear spin, in which I had been getting interested: I didn't know much about it, but I reckoned that most of the Cavendish knew less. The offer was unenthusiastically accepted. I duly gave the paper. Kapitsa looked at me with his large blue eyes, with a somewhat unflattering astonishment, as at a person of low intelligence who had contrived inadvertently to say something interesting. He turned to Chadwick, and said incredulously, &ldquo;Jimmy, I believe there is something in this.&rdquo;
-It was a personal loss to Rutherford when Kapitsa, on one of his holiday trips to Russia, was told by the Soviet bosses, politely but unyieldingly, that he must stay: he was too valuable, they wanted his services full-time. After a while Kapitsa made the best of it. He had always been a patriotic Russian: though both he and his wife came from the upper middle-class, if there was such a class in old Russia (his father was a general in the Tsarist engineering corps), he took a friendly attitude to the revolution. All that remained steady, though I don't think he would mind my saying that his enthusiasm for Stalin was not unqualified. Still, Kapitsa threw all his gifts into his new work in the cause of Soviet science. It was only then that we, who had known him in Cambridge, reaUzed how strong a character he was: how brave he was: and fundamentally what a good man. His friendship with Cockcroft and others meant that the link between Soviet and English science was never quite broken, even in the worst days. Only great scientists like Lev Landau can say in full what he has done for science in his own country. If he hadn't existed, the world would have been worse: that is an epitaph that most of us would like and don't deserve.
+It was a personal loss to Rutherford when Kapitsa, on one of his holiday trips to Russia, was told by the Soviet bosses, politely but unyieldingly, that he must stay: he was too valuable, they wanted his services full-time. After a while Kapitsa made the best of it. He had always been a patriotic Russian: though both he and his wife came from the upper middle-class, if there was such a class in old Russia (his father was a general in the Tsarist engineering corps), he took a friendly attitude to the revolution. All that remained steady, though I don't think he would mind my saying that his enthusiasm for Stalin was not unqualified. Still, Kapitsa threw all his gifts into his new work in the cause of Soviet science. It was only then that we, who had known him in Cambridge, realized how strong a character he was: how brave he was: and fundamentally what a good man. His friendship with Cockcroft and others meant that the link between Soviet and English science was never quite broken, even in the worst days. Only great scientists like Lev Landau can say in full what he has done for science in his own country. If he hadn't existed, the world would have been worse: that is an epitaph that most of us would like and don't deserve.
-Between Leningrad and Cambridge, Kapitsa oscillated. Between Copenhagen and Cambridge there was a stream of travellers, all the nuclear physicists of the world. Copenhagen had become the second scientific me- tropolis on account of the personal influence of one man, Niels Bohr, who was complementary to Rutherford as a person — patient, reflective, any thought hedged with Proustian qualifications — just as the theoretical quantum physics of which he was the master was complementary to Rutherford's experimental physics. He had been a pupil of Rutherford's, and they loved and esteemed each other like father and son. (Rutherford was a paterfamilias born, and the death of his only daughter seems to have been the greatest sorrow of his personal life. In his relations with Bohr and Kapitsa and others, there was a strong vein of paternal emotion diverted from the son he never had.) But, strong as Rutherford's liking for Bohr was, it was not strong enough to put up with Bohr's idea of a suitable length for a lecture. In the Cavendish lecture room, Bohr went past the hour; Rutherford began to stir. Bohr went past the hour and a half; Rutherford began plucking at his sleeve and muttering in a stage whisper about &ldquo;another five minutes.&rdquo; Blandly, patiently, determined not to leave a qualification unsaid, as indefatigable as Henry James in his last period, Bohr went past the two hours; Rutherford was beginning to trumpet about &ldquo;bringing the lecture to a close.&rdquo; Soon they were both on their feet at once.
+Between Leningrad and Cambridge, Kapitsa oscillated. Between Copenhagen and Cambridge there was a stream of travelers, all the nuclear physicists of the world. Copenhagen had become the second scientific metropolis on account of the personal influence of one man, Niels Bohr, who was complementary to Rutherford as a person — patient, reflective, any thought hedged with Proustian qualifications — just as the theoretical quantum physics of which he was the master was complementary to Rutherford's experimental physics. He had been a pupil of Rutherford's, and they loved and esteemed each other like father and son. (Rutherford was a paterfamilias born, and the death of his only daughter seems to have been the greatest sorrow of his personal life. In his relations with Bohr and Kapitsa and others, there was a strong vein of paternal emotion diverted from the son he never had.) But, strong as Rutherford's liking for Bohr was, it was not strong enough to put up with Bohr's idea of a suitable length for a lecture. In the Cavendish lecture room, Bohr went past the hour; Rutherford began to stir. Bohr went past the hour and a half; Rutherford began plucking at his sleeve and muttering in a stage whisper about &ldquo;another five minutes.&rdquo; Blandly, patiently, determined not to leave a qualification unsaid, as indefatigable as Henry James in his last period, Bohr went past the two hours; Rutherford was beginning to trumpet about &ldquo;bringing the lecture to a close.&rdquo; Soon they were both on their feet at once.
 Rutherford died suddenly when he was age sixty-six, still in full vigor. He died not only suddenly, but of something like a medical accident: he had a strangulated hernia. There was no discernible reason why he should not have lived into old age.