英语美文欣赏:Virtuoso (独奏家)

　　“Sir?”

　　The Maestro continued to play, not looking up from the keys.

　　“Yes, Rollo?”

　　“Sir, I was wondering if you would explain this apparatus to me.”

　　The Maestro stopped playing, his thin body stiffly relaxed on the bench. His long supple fingers floated off the keyboard.

　　“Apparatus?” He turned and smiled at the robot. “Do you mean the piano, Rollo?”

　　“This machine that produces varying sounds. I would like some information about it, its operation and purpose. It is not included in my reference data.”

　　The Maestro lit a cigarette. He preferred to do it himself. One of his first orders to Rollo when the robot was delivered two days before had been to disregarded his built-in instructions on the subject.

　　“I’d hardly call a piano a machine, Rollo,” he smiled, “although technically you are correct. It is actually, I suppose, a machine designed to produce sounds of graduated pitch and tone, singly or in groups.”

　　“I assimilated that much by observation,” Rollo replied in a brassy baritone which no longer sent tiny tremors up the Maestro’s spine. “Wires of different thickness and tautness struck by felt-covered hammers activated by manually operated levers arranged in a horizontal panel.”

　　“A very cold-blooded description of one of man’s nobler works,” the Maestro remarked dryly. “You make Mozart and Chopin mere laboratory technicians.”

　　“Mozart? Chopin?” The duralloy sphere that was Rollo’s head shone stark and featureless, its immediate surface unbroken but for twin vision lenses. “The terms are not included in my memory banks.”

　　“No, not yours, Rollo,” the Maestro said softly. “Mozart and Chopin are not for vacuum tubes and fuses and copper wire. They are for flesh and blood and human tears.”

　　“I do not understand,” Rollo droned.

　　“Well,” the Maestro said, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils, “they are two of the humans who compose, or design successions of notes--varying sounds, that is, produced by the piano or by other instruments, machines that produce other types of sounds of fixed pitch and tone.

　　“Sometimes these instruments, as we call them, are played, or operated, individually: sometimes in groups--orchestras, as we refer to them--and the sounds blend together, they harmonize. That is, they have an orderly, mathematical relationship to each other which results in...”

　　The Maestro threw up his hands.

　　“I never imagined,” he chuckled, “that I would some day struggle so mightily, and so futilely, to explain music to a robot!”

　　“Music?”

　　“Yes, Rollo. The sounds produced by this machine and others of the same category are called music.”

　　“What is the purpose of music, sir?”

　　“Purpose?”

　　The Maestro crushed the cigarette in an ash tray. He turned to the keyboard of the concert grand and flexed his fingers briefly.

　　“Listen, Rollo.”

　　The wraithlike fingers glided and wove the opening bars of “Clair de Lune,” slender and delicate as spider silk. Rollo stood rigid, the fluorescent light over the music rack casting a bluish jeweled sheen over his towering bulk, shimmering in the amber vision lenses.

　　The Maestro drew his hands back from the keys and the subtle thread of melody melted reluctantly into silence.

　　“Claude Debussy”, the Maestro said. “One of our mechanics of an era long past. He designed that succession of tones many years ago. What do you think of it?”

　　Rollo did not answer at once.

　　“The sounds were well formed,” he replied finally. “They did not jar my auditory senses as some do.”

　　The Maestro laughed. “Rollo, you may not realize it, but you’re a wonderful critic.”

　　“This music, then,” Rollo droned. “Its purpose is to give pleasure to humans?”

　　“Exactly,” the Maestro said. “Sounds well formed, that do not jar the auditory senses as some do. Marvelous! It should be carved in marble over the entrance of New Carnegie Hall.”

　　“I do not understand. Why should my definition--?”

　　The Maestro waved a hand. “No matter, Rollo. No matter.”

　　“Sir?”

　　“Yes, Rollo?”

　　“Those sheets of paper you sometimes place before you on the piano. They are the plans of the composer indicating which sounds are to be produced by the piano and in what order?”

　　“Just so. We call each sound a note; combinations of notes we call chords.”

　　“Each dot, then, indicates a sound to be made?”

　　“Perfectly correct, my man of metal.”

　　Rollo stared straight ahead. The Maestro felt a peculiar sense of wheels turning within that impregnable sphere.

　　“Sir, I have scanned my memory banks and find no specific or implied instructions against it. I should like to be taught how to produce these notes on the piano. I request that you feed the correlation between those dots and the levers of the panel into my memory banks.”

　　The Maestro peered at him, amazed. A slow grin traveled across his face.

　　“Done!” he exclaimed. “It’s been many years since pupils helped gray these ancient locks, but I have the feeling that you, Rollo, will prove a most fascinating student. To instill the Muse into metal and machinery... I accept the challenge gladly!”

　　He rose, touched the cool latent power of Rollo’s arm.

　　“Sit down here, my Rolleindex Personal Robot, Model M-e. We shall start Beethoven spinning in his grave--or make musical history.”

　　More than an hour later the Maestro yawned and looked at his watch.

　　“It’s late,” he spoke into the end of the yawn. “These old eyes are not tireless like yours, my friend.” He touched Rollo’s shoulder. “You have the complete fundamentals of musical notation in your memory banks, Rollo. That’s a good night’s lesson, particularly when I recall how long it took me to acquire the same amount of information. Tomorrow we’ll attempt to put those awesome fingers of yours to work.”

　　He stretched. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Will you lock up and put out the lights?”

　　“May I attempt to create some sounds with the keyboard tonight? I will do so very softly so as not to disturb you.”

　　“Tonight? Aren’t you--?” Then the Maestro smiled. “You must pardon me, Rollo. It’s still a bit difficult for me to realize that sleep has no meaning for you.”

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