I packed her off. I closed the door in the hoarding behind her. Then I
walked straight across the yard to Benlian's.
He was lying on a couch, not doing anything.
"I know I ought to have come sooner, Benlian," I said, "but I had
somebody with me."
"Yes," he said, looking hard at me; and I got a bit red.
"She's awfully nice," I stammered; "but you never bother with girls, and
you don't drink or smoke--"
"No," he said.
"Well," I continued, "you ought to have a little relaxation; you're
knocking yourself up." And, indeed, he looked awfully ill.
But he shook his head.
"A man's only a definite amount of force in him, Pudgie," he said, "and
if he spends it in one way he goes short in another. Mine goes--there."
He glanced at the statue. "I rarely sleep now," he added.
"Then you ought to see a doctor," I said, a bit alarmed. (I'd felt sure
he was ill.)
"No, no, Pudgie. My force is all going there--all but the minimum that
can't be helped, you know.... You've heard artists talk about 'putting
their soul into their work,' Pudgie?"
"Don't rub it in about my rotten miniatures, Benlian," I asked him.
"You've heard them say that; but they're charlatans, professional
artists, all, Pudgie. They haven't got any souls bigger than a sixpence
to put into it.... You know, Pudgie, that Force and Matter are the same
thing--that it's decided nowadays that you can't define matter otherwise
than as 'a point of Force'?"
"Yes," I found myself saying eagerly, as if I'd heard it dozens of times
before.
"So that if they could put their souls into it, it would be just as easy
for them to put their _bodies_ into it?..."
I had drawn very close to him, and again--it was not fancy--I felt as if
somebody, not me, was using my mouth. A flash of comprehension seemed to
come into my brain.
"_Not that, Benlian_?" I cried breathlessly.
He nodded three or four times, and whispered. I really don't know why we
both whispered.
"_Really that, Benlian_?" I whispered again.
"Shall I show you?... I tried my hardest not to, you know,..." he still
whispered.
"Yes, show me!" I replied in a suppressed voice.
"Don't breathe a sound then! I keep them up there...."
He put his finger to his lips as if we had been two conspirators; then he
tiptoed across the studio and went up to his bedroom in the gallery.
Presently he tiptoed down again, with some rolled-up papers in his hand.
They were photographs, and we stooped together over a little table. His
hand shook with excitement.
"You remember this?" he whispered, showing me a rough print.
It was one of the prints from the fogged plates that I'd taken after that
first night.
"Come closer to me if you feel frightened, Pudgie," he said. "You said
they were old plates, Pudgie. No no; the plates were all right; it's _I_
who am wrong!"
"Of course," I said. It seemed so natural.
"This one," he said, taking up one that was numbered "1," "is a plain
photograph, in the flesh, before it started; _you_ know! Now look at
this, and this--"
He spread them before me, all in order.
"2" was a little fogged, as if a novice had taken it; on "3" a sort of
cloudy veil partly obliterated the face; "4" was still further smudged
and lost; and "5" was a figure with gloved hands held up, as a man holds
his hands up when he is covered by a gun. The face of this one was
completely blotted out.
And it didn't seem in the least horrible to me, for I kept on murmuring,
"Of course, of course."
Then Benlian rubbed his hands and smiled at me. "I'm making good
progress, am I not?" he said.
"Splendid!" I breathed.
"Better than you know, too," he chuckled, "for you're not properly under
yet. But you will be, Pudgie, you will be--"
"Yes, yes!... Will it be long, Benlian?"
"No," he replied, "not if I can keep from eating and sleeping and
thinking of other things than the statue--and if you don't disturb me by
having girls about the place, Pudgie."
"I'm awfully sorry," I said contritely.
"All right, all right; ssh!... This, you know, Pudgie, is my own studio;
I bought it; I bought it purposely to make my statue, my god. I'm passing
nicely into it; and when I'm quite passed--_quite_ passed, Pudgie--you
can have the key and come in when you like."
"Oh, thanks awfully," I murmured gratefully.
He nudged me.
"What would they think of it, Pudgie--those of the exhibitions and
academies, who say 'their souls are in their work'? What would the
cacklers think of it, Pudgie?"
"Aren't they fools!" I chuckled.
"And I shall have _one_ worshipper, shan't I, Pudgie?"
"Rather!" I replied. "Isn't it splendid!... Oh, need I go back just yet?"
"Yes, you must go now; but I'll send for you again very soon.... You know
I tried to do without you, Pudge; I tried for thirteen days, and it
nearly killed me! That's past. I shan't try again. Now off you trot, my
Pudgie--"