Measuring the World by Daniel Kehlmann Read Free Book Online Page A

was strict and ascetic, and only sometimes did his face betray how much he was enjoying it. His favorite thing was to set them exercises which they had to work at for long periods and still were almost impossible to solve without mistakes, so that at the end there would be an excuse to bring out his stick. It was the poorest area in Brunswick, none of the children here would go on to high school, and no one would ever do anything other than manual labor. He knew that Büttner couldn't stand him. No matter how silent he stayed, and how much he tried to answer slowly like all the others, he could feel Büttner's mistrust, and he knew the teacher was only waiting for a reason to beat him a little harder than the rest.
    And then he gave him the reason.
    Büttner had told them to add up all the numbers from one to one hundred. It would take hours and was impossible to do, even with the best will in the world, without making a mistake in the addition which would be a cause for punishment. Go, Büttner called, no lolling around, get going, now! Later Gauss would no longer be able to say whether he had been tired that day or simply thoughtless. Whatever the case, he had not been in control of himself and three minutes later was standing with his slate which had one line written on it, in front of the teacher's desk.
    So, said Büttner, reaching for his stick. His glance fell on the answer, and his hand froze. He asked what that was supposed to be.
    Five thousand and fifty.
    What?
    Gauss lost his voice, he cleared his throat, and sweated. He only wished he was still in his seat counting like the others who were sitting there with their heads down, pretending not to listen. Adding every number from one to a hundred, that was how you did it. A hundred plus one equals a hundred and one. Ninety-nine plus two equals a hundred and one. Always a hundred and one. Ninety-eight plus three equals a hundred and one. You could do that fifty times. So, fifty times a hundred and one.
    Büttner was silent.
    Five thousand and fifty Gauss said again, hoping that for once Büttner would understand. Fifty times a hundred and one equals five thousand and fifty He rubbed his nose. He was close to tears.
    God damn me, said Büttner. Then he said nothing for a long time. The muscles in his face were working; he sucked in his cheeks and stuck out his chin, he rubbed his forehead and tapped his nose. Then he sent Gauss back to his place. He was to sit down, be quiet, and stay behind after school was over.
    Gauss drew breath.
    One word, said Büttner, and it'll be the stick.
    So after the last lesson Gauss appeared in front of the teacher's desk, his head bowed. Büttner demanded his word of honor, swear by the all-seeing God, that he had worked it out by himself. Gauss gave it to him, but when he tried to explain that there was nothing to it, that all you had to do was look at a problem without prejudice or a set way of thinking, and the answer would come of itself, Büttner interrupted him and handed him a thick book. Higher arithmetic: one of his hobbyhorses. Gauss was to take it home and go through it. Carefully. One creased page, one stain, one finger mark, and he'd get the stick, so help him God.
    Next day he gave the book back.
    Büttner asked what that was supposed to mean. Yes it was difficult, but you didn't give up so quickly!
    Gauss shook his head and wanted to explain, but couldn't. His nose was running. He had to sniff.
    So what was going on?
    He'd finished it, he stuttered. It had been interesting, he wanted to say thank you. He stared at Büttner, praying this would be enough.
    Nobody was allowed to lie to him, said Büttner. This was the hardest mathematical textbook in German. Nobody could study it in a day, and most particularly not an eight-year-old with a running nose.
    Gauss didn't know what he was supposed to say.
    Büttner reached uncertainly for the book. He should get ready, because now he was going to ask him questions!
    Half an hour