Can Such Things Be [19]
and without a word went on out of the room, though I observed his exit no more than I had observed his entrance. 'Of course, I need not tell you that this was what you will call a hallucination and I call an appari- tion. That room had only two doors, of which one was locked; the other led into a bedroom, from which there was no exit. My feeling on realizing this is not an important part of the incident. 'Doubtless this seems to you a very commonplace "ghost story"--one constructed on the regular lines laid down by the old masters of the art. If that were so I should not have related it, even if it were true. The man was not dead; I met him to-day in Union Street. He passed me in a crowd.' Hawver had finished his story and both men were silent. Dr. Frayley absently drummed on the table with his fingers. 'Did he say anything to-day?' he asked--'any- thing from which you inferred that he was not dead?' Hawver stared and did not reply. 'Perhaps,' continued Frayley,' he made a sign, a gesture--lifted a finger, as in warning. It's a trick he had--a habit when saying something serious-- announcing the result of a diagnosis, for example.' 'Yes, he did--just as his apparition had done. But, good God! did you ever know him?' Hawver was apparently growing nervous. 'I knew him. I have read his book, as will every physician some day. It is one of the most striking and important of the century's contributions to medi- cal science. Yes, I knew him; I attended him in an illness three years ago. He died.' Hawver sprang from his chair, manifestly dis- turbed. He strode forward and back across the room; then approached his friend, and in a voice not altogether steady, said: 'Doctor, have you any- thing 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 some- thing 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 string, 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 va- riously defined. Here is one definition from a popu- lar 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.' 'If you do not wish to answer my question,' said, rather testily, 'why not say so?--all that you say is mere evasion. You know well enough that when I say "machine" I do not mean a man, but something that man has made and con- trols.' 'When it does not control him,' he said, rising abruptly and looking out of a window, whence noth- ing was visible in the blackness of a stormy night. A moment later he turned about and with a smile said: 'I beg your pardon; I had no thought of eva- sion. I considered the dictionary man's unconscious testimony suggestive and worth something in the discussion. I can give your question a direct answer easily enough: I do believe that a machine thinks about the work that it is doing.' That was direct enough, certainly. It was not al- together pleasing, for it tended to confirm a sad suspicion that Moxon's devotion to study and work in his machine-shop had not been good for him. I knew, for one thing, that he suffered from insomnia, and that is no light affliction. Had it affected his mind? His reply to my question
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 va- riously defined. Here is one definition from a popu- lar 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.' 'If you do not wish to answer my question,' said, rather testily, 'why not say so?--all that you say is mere evasion. You know well enough that when I say "machine" I do not mean a man, but something that man has made and con- trols.' 'When it does not control him,' he said, rising abruptly and looking out of a window, whence noth- ing was visible in the blackness of a stormy night. A moment later he turned about and with a smile said: 'I beg your pardon; I had no thought of eva- sion. I considered the dictionary man's unconscious testimony suggestive and worth something in the discussion. I can give your question a direct answer easily enough: I do believe that a machine thinks about the work that it is doing.' That was direct enough, certainly. It was not al- together pleasing, for it tended to confirm a sad suspicion that Moxon's devotion to study and work in his machine-shop had not been good for him. I knew, for one thing, that he suffered from insomnia, and that is no light affliction. Had it affected his mind? His reply to my question