Takagi, Teiji. “A Visit to David Hilbert” 1932.

October 8, 1932, in Göttingen

Mr. S

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　Shortly before 7:15 p.m., I paced back and forth on the sidewalk in front of Wilhelm Weber Street 29. It was rare to see stars lately, but the autumn wind had grown chilly, and a few scattered linden leaves lay strewn about—a perfect setting.

　There I had a rendezvous with a certain Fraulein. That Fraulein is Prof. Dr. Emmy Noether＊

＊ Blogger's Note
For Emmy Noether, please refer to the following,
Our blog post Five Founders of Modern Mathematics: 本に溺れたい
　3. Emmy Noether, (1882 - 1935) 

Since I'd be at a loss if the conversation stalled when visiting Professor Hilbert alone, she kindly agreed to accompany me.

Wilhelm Weber Street, Number 29. It's been quite a while since I last visited Professor H's residence. That modest, old-fashioned—let's call it a “slatted wooden gate.” And then that modest front garden. Yet over thirty years, the trees have grown thick. Plums or pears—it's too dark to tell—but it must be the season, and surely they're gracing the elderly professor and his wife's table. The entrance hall was still dim, but N-san, who knew the way well, hardly asked for directions. Leaving the maid who answered “I'm here” behind, she promptly led me to the usual guest room. He must have been told by phone. “I knew you were coming. Good of you to visit,” said Professor H, coming out immediately. Professor H, who turned seventy this year, looked well-rested, his familiar boyish face radiant with a smile. Some four or five years ago, he suffered from a severe, incurable illness—the Latin name for it was something I heard but have since forgotten—apparently a liver disorder. When he was nearly in a hopeless state, a new drug was discovered in America, and that saved his life. However, since the medicine alone wasn't entirely reliable, he reportedly eats a quarter pound of raw liver every day. Even so, it's an incurable disease, and if he were to stop this therapy, his life would be measured in weeks. You already knew this, didn't you? But the therapy worked, and he regained enough strength this year to attend the Zurich Congress.

Professor H, I hear, even after retiring two years ago, still gives lectures freely at the university about once a week. Probably on foundational mathematics, as usual. "I thought I'd finish up all the unfinished business this winter semester, but the assistants were unexpectedly critical—well, well, no need to push it. I suppose I'll just have to take it slowly... Formalism is crucial. Everyone must acknowledge that. But there are aspects that can't be resolved by Formalism alone, and that's where the problem lies..." Watching the old professor mutter on and on like a soliloquy, I couldn't help but shed silent tears.

Several years ago, when I wrote a popular explanation of mathematical foundations, Professor H remarked that he would make every cuckoo sing for the memories of a lifetime. This was, of course, meant to express his determination to resolve foundational mathematics. However, due to the metaphor's inappropriateness, there was a risk it might unintentionally give readers an impression bordering on mockery. I had intended to add somewhere the meaning: “Foundational mathematics may or may not be completed; I only wish Professor H a peaceful remainder of his life.” Yet I forgot to do so. I just remembered it now. Even while eating thirty monme of raw liver daily to battle an incurable disease, even as a once-swift steed now occasionally has its legs lifted by young assistants, he simply cannot refrain from writing proofs of the exclusion principle and such. Enjoying his remaining years is out of the question—isn't this a living hell? The terrifying thing is, this too is an incurable case of knowledge-seeking syndrome.

Now, as for Miss. N, she clearly shows signs of confusion. Then again, hearing about it almost daily, it's hardly surprising that meeting him after ten years feels different.

Professor H often changed the subject. Social issues came up too. There are too many people. The Earth is too small. But scientific progress will surely find a way to overcome these difficulties, and so on. He also seemed to say things like, “Well, the Russians can't do anything about it, can they?”

The conversation has gradually become more transcendent. "I am convinced of humanity's infinite progress. After all, five thousand years of human history are but a mere fraction compared to the infinity of time. Yet within that span, have we not achieved this much progress? No, it is far more than that. As science explains, over billions of years, we have progressed from something like a bubble to the humans of today—be it billions or trillions, it is known. In the infinite years to come, we shall progress infinitely..."

When the billion-year-old rock was uncovered, Miss. N gave me a nod. We stood at the point of infinite progress. Having heard such an interesting story, I found myself sitting for a long time. You must be quite tired. Thank you very much. Good night.

Later that evening, when I heard from Mr. C, it seems Professor H's talk about a billion years has recently become quite famous around here. It seems he was asking if you too had heard about the billion years from Professor H. Apparently, the professor has recently been fond of reading Wells' Outline of History. (That particular volume—I hear its German translation is currently being widely circulated.)

If the professor can take breaks from proof theory to read Wells or meditate on human progress over a billion years, that's perfectly fine. It doesn't matter if the young people turn it into gossip and have fun with it. First and foremost, hurrah!

I've heard anecdotes about Professor H from various people.

　It was the evening when guests were to visit the professor's home. As the appointed hour drew near, Mrs. Kate happened to glance at the professor's attire and exclaimed, "Oh, David, you must change your tie. Quickly, quickly!" she said, chasing him upstairs. Soon the guests had all arrived, but no matter how long they waited, the professor didn't come down. When they sent the maid to look, they found him comfortably asleep in bed.
　　　　　　〔According to Mr. A：The analytical extension of untying a tie!〕

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One Monday during class, a student apparently noticed a hole in the professor's trousers. On Tuesday, the hole was still there. After keeping an eye on it, the hole remained unchanged on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, making the professor's trousers famous. So everyone discussed how to discreetly bring it to the professor's attention. One day the following week, after the usual seminar exercise, during a walk, the professor must have brushed against a truck tire or something. Seizing the moment, a student exclaimed, “Careful! Oh dear, your trousers are damaged!” The professor replied, “Let me see, where? Ah, this hole? It seems it was already there last semester.”

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One more. This is also brief, but very much like the professor. One day, a visitor came to the professor's house. It seems it was a somewhat formal visit. After the host and guest had settled down and exchanged pleasantries for two or three minutes about how the weather was bad, the professor suddenly stood up, looked at his wife, and said, “Hey, Keite, since we've kept him waiting quite a while, shall we have dinner now?”
...

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※The above are all quotations from the book below.

Takagi, Teiji. A History of Mathematics in the Early Modern Period. Iwanami Bunko, August 1995. Appendix 1: Account of Visiting Hilbert (pp. 215-220).