that philosophy really took hold. We had everything from wood-carving clubs to oil-painting clubs, from poetry-writing clubs to musical-composition clubs. And the professor was the sponsor and guardian angel of each and every one. Almost every kid who’d grown up during the past twenty years had studied a musical instrument at one time or another, and so had a lot of the adults. The professor had become a local institution. Everyone loved him, especially the kids.
It was hard to believe that people would throw him over for Sam Beyers’s robot after the contribution he had made. I suppose the robot had the same appeal as the new kitchen or farming gadget that everyone rushes to buy. There’s something intriguing about a robot that can give music lessons.
And the lessons were free, and would be until Beyers got rid of the professor. That was bad enough, but if the robot actually could take one of the professor’s beginners and have him playing Beethoven and Berg and Morglitz after two or three lessons …
If there was a way to help the professor, I couldn’t see it. After moping about for most of the morning, I decided to have another talk with him.
He lived in a small house located on the edge of town and remote enough from the immediate neighbors so that the music lessons wouldn’t bother them. It also had room for him to exercise his talents as a horticulturist. In the summer his yard was knee-deep in flowers.
His daughter Hilda met me at the door. There were wrinkles in her plump face that I hadn’t seen before, and her mouth drooped mournfully. The professor’s life had seemed comfortably secure, and suddenly everything was falling apart.
“He’s out in the garden,” she said. “You sit down and I’ll call him.”
I preferred to pace the floor while I waited. In most homes this would have been the living room, but the professor had made it his studio. It was attractively furnished, with pictures of composers on the walls, and a framed page of that odd-looking medieval music, and photographs of orchestras the professor had played in. It was the only room in the house that was air-conditioned. After his investments in Waterville’s culture, the professor hadn’t much money left for physical comforts.
He was surprised to see me but as eagerly hospitable as ever. Hilda faced him glumly before he could speak. “Mrs. Anderson called,” she said. “Carol—”
“Ah, yes. Carol goes to Beyers and the robot gives her lessons free. Today she has troubles with the little exercises, and tomorrow she plays a Morglitz concerto without mistakes.” He winked at me. “The robot is a wonderful thing, eh, Johnnie? How many does that leave us? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-one,” Hilda said. “You forgot about Susan Zimmer. Or didn’t I tell you?”
“You didn’t. But it’s quite all right. Well, Johnnie? What brings you to see an obsolete musician?”
We sat side by side on the sofa, and Hilda brought us coffee and a small plate of cakes. We sipped coffee and munched cakes, with me trying to think of what to say and the professor waiting politely.
“What do you know about Beyers’s robot?” I asked finally.
“Enough to know what is wrong with it,” he said. “I’ve seen similar robots demonstrated in New York. I know about the experiments that have been made with them. Beyers’s robot may be an improved model, but they all have the same basic defect.”
“How do they work?” I asked. “You see—I’m trying to put my finger on something I could use in the paper. In an editorial, perhaps.”
He smiled. “You keep on trying, don’t you. Never say die, where there’s life there’s hope, the game isn’t over until the last violin student is out.” He got up and helped himself to another cup of coffee. “Beyers says I’m a selfish old fogy standing in the way of progress, but he’s wrong! There’s a place for machines—even in art there’s a place—but the machine can’t ever replace
It was hard to believe that people would throw him over for Sam Beyers’s robot after the contribution he had made. I suppose the robot had the same appeal as the new kitchen or farming gadget that everyone rushes to buy. There’s something intriguing about a robot that can give music lessons.
And the lessons were free, and would be until Beyers got rid of the professor. That was bad enough, but if the robot actually could take one of the professor’s beginners and have him playing Beethoven and Berg and Morglitz after two or three lessons …
If there was a way to help the professor, I couldn’t see it. After moping about for most of the morning, I decided to have another talk with him.
He lived in a small house located on the edge of town and remote enough from the immediate neighbors so that the music lessons wouldn’t bother them. It also had room for him to exercise his talents as a horticulturist. In the summer his yard was knee-deep in flowers.
His daughter Hilda met me at the door. There were wrinkles in her plump face that I hadn’t seen before, and her mouth drooped mournfully. The professor’s life had seemed comfortably secure, and suddenly everything was falling apart.
“He’s out in the garden,” she said. “You sit down and I’ll call him.”
I preferred to pace the floor while I waited. In most homes this would have been the living room, but the professor had made it his studio. It was attractively furnished, with pictures of composers on the walls, and a framed page of that odd-looking medieval music, and photographs of orchestras the professor had played in. It was the only room in the house that was air-conditioned. After his investments in Waterville’s culture, the professor hadn’t much money left for physical comforts.
He was surprised to see me but as eagerly hospitable as ever. Hilda faced him glumly before he could speak. “Mrs. Anderson called,” she said. “Carol—”
“Ah, yes. Carol goes to Beyers and the robot gives her lessons free. Today she has troubles with the little exercises, and tomorrow she plays a Morglitz concerto without mistakes.” He winked at me. “The robot is a wonderful thing, eh, Johnnie? How many does that leave us? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-one,” Hilda said. “You forgot about Susan Zimmer. Or didn’t I tell you?”
“You didn’t. But it’s quite all right. Well, Johnnie? What brings you to see an obsolete musician?”
We sat side by side on the sofa, and Hilda brought us coffee and a small plate of cakes. We sipped coffee and munched cakes, with me trying to think of what to say and the professor waiting politely.
“What do you know about Beyers’s robot?” I asked finally.
“Enough to know what is wrong with it,” he said. “I’ve seen similar robots demonstrated in New York. I know about the experiments that have been made with them. Beyers’s robot may be an improved model, but they all have the same basic defect.”
“How do they work?” I asked. “You see—I’m trying to put my finger on something I could use in the paper. In an editorial, perhaps.”
He smiled. “You keep on trying, don’t you. Never say die, where there’s life there’s hope, the game isn’t over until the last violin student is out.” He got up and helped himself to another cup of coffee. “Beyers says I’m a selfish old fogy standing in the way of progress, but he’s wrong! There’s a place for machines—even in art there’s a place—but the machine can’t ever replace