He strode
forward and back across the room; then approached his friend, and in
a voice not altogether steady, said: "Doctor, have you anything to
say to me--as a physician?"
"No, Hawver; you are the healthiest man I ever knew. As a friend I
advise you to go to your room. You play the violin like an angel.
Play it; play something light and lively. Get this cursed bad
business off your mind."
The next day Hawver was found dead in his room, the violin at his
neck, the bow upon the strings, his music open before him at Chopin's
funeral march.
MOXON'S MASTER
"Are you serious?--do you really believe that a machine thinks?"
I got no immediate reply; Moxon was apparently intent upon the coals
in the grate, touching them deftly here and there with the fire-poker
till they signified a sense of his attention by a brighter glow. For
several weeks I had been observing in him a growing habit of delay in
answering even the most trivial of commonplace questions. His air,
however, was that of preoccupation rather than deliberation: one
might have said that he had "something on his mind."
Presently he said:
"What is a 'machine'? The word has been variously defined. Here is
one definition from a popular dictionary: 'Any instrument or
organization by which power is applied and made effective, or a
desired effect produced.' Well, then, is not a man a machine? And
you will admit that he thinks--or thinks he thinks.
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