Free All Hallows' Eve by Charles Williams

his face twitched slightly, “Lady Wallingford? What has she to do with it?”
    â€œShe was rather annoyed with it,” said Jonathan. “In fact, she talked, as no doubt she told you, about insects and imbeciles.”
    The Clerk, still looking at him, said, “They aren’t insects; they are something less. But insects is the nearest you can get. And as for imbecile, haven’t you read Sapientia adepti stultitia mundi? That is why your work is so wonderful.”
    â€œOh!” said Jonathan.
    â€œThat,” the Clerk went on, turning his head again, “is what I am to these creatures, and Lady Wallingford (as you call her) is one of them. She thinks herself someone, but presently she’ll find out. It’s quite good for them to be hypnotized; they’re much happier. But you—you are different; you are a genius. You must paint me often. Now you have shown me as I am to them and to myself, you must paint me often as I am in myself.”
    The chill sense of death was receding from Jonathan’s heart. He began to feel that life was still possible, even life with Betty. He also wondered what his own painting of the face was like. He had first thought it was an ordinary portrait; then he had been uneasy about the bewilderment that seemed to show in it. Richard had agreed. Lady Wallingford had spoken of imbecility. Now Simon seemed to see something else beyond that, something that was hidden in that and yet contradicted it. He might perhaps tell Lady Wallingford; he might make everything clear for him and Betty. In a second of silence Jonathan had married Betty, set up a house, painted Father Simon a stupendous portrait of himself without the beetles, painted several other shattering successes at the Peace Conferences and after, made a lot of money, become a father and an immortal at once, and was back again in the studio with the immediate necessity of explaining to Simon how all this was to be brought about. Better not go into further details of the painting; better get on with the main job.
    He began, “Then you’ll speak to——” but the other was already speaking. He was saying, “You must come with me, Mr. Drayton. I must have one or two people with me who are something more than these other creatures. The Doctrine is good for them; one gets nowhere by fighting it. All your books have it—the Koran, the New Testament, the Law. Hitler fought it; where is Hitler? There is nothing better, for those who need it. But you are an exception. You belong to yourself—and to me. Great art is apostolic. You must not lessen yourself. You are to be a master. I can do something to help you, but then you must have courage to paint the right things.”
    Jonathan listened to this with a certain warmth. He was a little shaken by great art being apostolic, but there was no doubt a sense in which it was true, though Sir Joshua’s “common observation and plain understanding” pleased him better. He did think he was a remarkable painter and he did not care how often he was told so. But he did not lose sight of his main point. As soon as Simon paused, he said, “Then you’ll speak to Lady Wallingford?”
    Simon’s voice had seemed to be closer and clearer. It receded again and grew huskier as he said, “What do you so want with Lady Wallingford?”
    â€œI want to marry her daughter,” Jonathan said.
    The Clerk dropped his eyes to the ground. He said, after a moment, “I am not sure that you’re wise. But it shall be as you like. I will talk to her—yes, in a few days, if you still wish. You shall have the girl if you want her. Show me something else.”
    â€œI haven’t much here,” Jonathan said. “The war paintings——”
    â€œOh the war!” the Clerk said. “The war, like Hitler, was a foolery. I am the one who is to come, not Hitler! Not the war; something