The Invention of Nature

Then, in the late summer of 1790, Humboldt began to study finance and economics at the academy of trade in Hamburg. He hated it for it was all numbers and account books. In his spare time, Humboldt delved into scientific treatises and travel books, he learned Danish and Swedish – anything was better than his business studies. Whenever he could, he walked down to the River Elbe in Hamburg where he watched the large merchant vessels that brought tobacco, rice and indigo from the United States. The ‘sight of the ships in the harbour’, he told a friend, was what held him together – a symbol of his hopes and dreams. He couldn’t wait to be finally the ‘master of his own luck’.

By the time he finished his studies in Hamburg, Humboldt was twenty-one. Once again accommodating his mother’s wishes, he enrolled in June 1791 at the prestigious mining academy in Freiberg, a small town near Dresden. It was a compromise that would prepare him for a career in the Prussian Ministry of Mines – to appease his mother – but at least allowed him to indulge his interest in science and geology. The academy was the first of its kind, teaching the latest geological theories in the context of their practical application for mining. It was also home to a thriving scientific community, having attracted some of the best students and professors from across Europe.

Within eight months Humboldt had completed a study programme that took others three years. Every morning he rose before sunrise and drove to one of the mines around Freiberg. He spent the next five hours deep in the shafts, investigating the construction of the mines, the working methods and the rocks. It helped that he was so lithe and wiry, moving easily through the narrow tunnels and low caves as he drilled and chiselled to take samples back home. He worked so ferociously that he often didn’t notice the cold or damp. By noon he crawled out of the darkness, dusted himself clean and rushed back to the academy for seminars and lectures on minerals and geology. In the evenings, and often until deep into the night, Humboldt sat at his desk, hunched over his books by candlelight, reading and studying. During his free time, he investigated the influence of light (or its lack) on plants and collected thousands of botanical specimens. He measured, noted and classified. He was a child of the Enlightenment.

Only a few weeks after he had arrived in Freiberg, he had to ride to Erfurt, some 100 miles to the west, to attend his brother’s wedding to Caroline. But as so often, Humboldt combined social events or family celebrations with work. Instead of simply joining the festivities in Erfurt, he turned it into a 600-mile geological expedition through the region of Thuringia. Caroline was half amused and half concerned about her frenzied new brother-in-law. She enjoyed his energy but also sometimes made fun of him – as a sister might tease a younger brother. Alexander had his quirks and those should be respected, she told Wilhelm, but she was also worried about his state of mind and loneliness.

In Freiberg, Humboldt’s only real friend was a fellow student, the son of the family from whom he had rented a room. The two young men spent day and night together, studying and talking. ‘I have never loved someone so deeply,’ Humboldt admitted, but also berated himself for forming such an intense bond because he knew that he would have to leave Freiberg after his studies and then feel even more lonely.

The hard work at the academy, though, paid off when Humboldt finished his studies and was made a mining inspector at the astonishingly young age of twenty-two, overtaking many more senior men. Half embarrassed by his stratospheric ascent, he was also vain enough to show off to friends and family in long letters. Most importantly, the position allowed him to travel thousands of miles in order to evaluate soils, shafts and ore – from coal in Brandenburg and iron in Silesia to gold in the Fichtel Mountains and salt mines in Poland.

During these travels, Humboldt met many people but rarely opened his heart. He was content enough, he wrote to friends, but certainly not happy. Late at night, after a full day in the mines or rattling along bad roads in his carriage, he thought of the few friends he had made over the past years. He felt ‘damned, always lonely’. As he ate another meal on his own in a squalid tavern or inn somewhere along his route, he was often too tired to write or talk. Some nights, though, he was so lonely that the need to communicate conquered his fatigue. Then he picked up his pen and composed long letters that looped and jumped, from detailed treatises about his work and scientific observations to emotional outbursts and declarations of love and friendship.