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Page 125
He got up and turned the glass box a little on the mantelpiece.
"This is a very rare image," he said; "one does not find this
image anywhere in India. It came from Tibet. The expression and
the pose of the figure differ from the conventional Buddha. You
might not see that, but to any one familiar with this religion
these differences are marked. This is a monastery image, and you
will see that it is cast, not graven."
He beckoned me to come closer, and I rose and stood beside him.
He went on as with a lecture:
"The reason given by the natives why this image is not found in
Southern Asia is that it cannot be cast anywhere but in the
Tibetan monasteries. A certain ritual at the time of casting is
necessary to produce a perfect figure. This ritual is a secret
of the Khan monasteries. Castings of this form of image made
without the ritual are always defective; so I was told in India."
He moved the glass box a little closer to the edge of the
mantelpiece.
"Naturally," he went on, "I considered this story, to be a mere
piece of religious pretension. It amused me to make some
experiments, and to my surprise the castings were always
defective. I brought the image to England."
He shrugged his shoulders as with a careless gesture.
"In my idle time here I tried it again. And incredibly the
result was always the same; some portion of the figure showed a
flaw. My interest in the thing was permanently aroused. I
continued to experiment."
He laughed in a queer high cackle.
"And presently I found myself desperately astride a hobby. I got
all the Babbitt metal that I could buy up in England and put in
the days and not a few of the nights in trying to cast a perfect
figure of this confounded Buddha. But I have never been able to
do it."
He opened a drawer of the gun-case and brought over to the fire
half a dozen castings of the Buddha in various sizes.
Not one among the number was perfect. Some portion of the figure
was in every case wanting. A hand would be missing, a portion of
a shoulder, a bit of the squat body or there would be a flaw
where the running metal had not filled the mold.
"I'm hanged," he cried, "if the beggars are not right about it.
The thing can't be done! I've tried it in all sorts of
dimensions. You will see some of the big figures in the garden.
I've used a ton of metal and every sort of mold."
Then he flung his hand out toward the bookcase.
"I've studied the art of molding in soft metal. I have all the
books on it, and I've turned the boathouse into a sort of shop.
I've spent a hundred pounds - and I can't do it!"
He paused, his big face relaxed.
"The country thinks I'm mad, working with such outlandish
deviltry. But, curse the thing, I have set out to do it and I am
not going to throw it up."
And suddenly with an unexpected heat he damned the Buddha,
shaking his clenched hand before the box.
"Your pardon, Robin," he cried, the moment after. "But the
thing's ridiculous, you know. The ritual story would be sheer
rubbish. The beggars could not affect a metal casting with a
form of words."
I have tried to set down here precisely what my uncle said. It
was the last talk I ever had with the man in this world, and it
profoundly impressed me. He was in fear, and his jovial manner
was a ghastly pretence. I left him sitting by the fire drinking
neat whisky from a tumbler.
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