glancing round the landscape.
âGod what?â asked the Spirit.
âWhat do you mean, âGod whatâ?â asked the Ghost.
âIn our grammar God is a noun.â
âOhâI see. I only meant âBy Gumâ or something of the sort. I meantâ¦well, all this . Itâsâ¦itâsâ¦I should like to paint this.â
âI shouldnât bother about that just at present if I were you.â
âLook here; isnât one going to be allowed to go on painting?â
âLooking comes first.â
âBut Iâve had my look. Iâve seen just what I want to do. God!âI wish Iâd thought of bringing my things with me!â
The Spirit shook his head, scattering light from his hair as he did so. âThat sort of thingâs no good here,â he said.
âWhat do you mean?â said the Ghost.
âWhen you painted on earthâat least in your earlier daysâit was because you caught glimpses of Heaven in the earthly landscape. The success of your painting was that it enabled others to see the glimpses too. But here you are having the thing itself. It is from here that the messages came. There is no good telling us about this country, for we see it already. In fact we see it better than you do.â
âThen thereâs never going to be any point in painting here?â
âI donât say that. When youâve grown into a Person (itâs all right, we all had to do it) thereâll be some things which youâll see better than anyone else. One of the things youâll want to do will be to tell us about them. But not yet. At present your business is to see. Come and see. He is endless. Come and feed.â
There was a little pause. âThat will be delightful,â said the Ghost presently in a rather dull voice.
âCome, then,â said the Spirit, offering it his arm.
âHow soon do you think I could begin painting?â it asked.
The Spirit broke into laughter. âDonât you see youâll never paint at all if thatâs what youâre thinking about?â he said.
âWhat do you mean?â asked the Ghost.
âWhy, if you are interested in the country only for the sake of painting it, youâll never learn to see the country.â
âBut thatâs just how a real artist is interested in the country.â
âNo. Youâre forgetting,â said the Spirit. âThat was not how you began. Light itself was your first love: you loved paint only as a means of telling about light.â
âOh, thatâs ages ago,â said the Ghost. âOne grows out of that. Of course, you havenât seen my later works. One becomes more and more interested in paint for its own sake.â
âOne does, indeed. I also have had to recover from that. It was all a snare. Ink and catgut and paint were necessary down there, but they are also dangerous stimulants. Every poet and musician and artist, but for Grace, is drawn away from love of the thing he tells, to love of the telling till, down in Deep Hell, they cannot be interested in God at all but only in what they say about Him. For it doesnât stop at being interested in paint, you know. They sink lowerâbecome interested in their own personalities and then in nothing but their own reputations.â
âI donât think Iâm much troubled in that way,â said the Ghost stiffly.
âThatâs excellent,â said the Spirit. âNot many of us had quite got over it when we first arrived. But if there is any of that inflammation left it will be cured when you come to the fountain.â
âWhat fountainâs that?â
âIt is up there in the mountains,â said the Spirit. âVery cold and clear, between two green hills. A little like Lethe. When you have drunk of it you forget forever all proprietorship in your own works. You enjoy them justas if they were someone elseâs: without