'"If I loved him," replied the River, "it is because when he hung over my waters I saw the reflection of my waters in his eyes."'
Then Wilde, drawing himself up, added with a strange outburst of laughter, 'That is called The Disciple.'
We had reached his door, and left him. He asked me to meet him again. During the course of that year and the next I saw him frequently and everywhere.
In the presence of others, as I have mentioned, Wilde would put on an air of showing off in order to astonish, or amuse, or even exasperate people. He never listened to, and scarcely took any notice of an idea from the moment it was no longer purely his own. When he was no longer the only one to shine, he would shut himself up, and emerge again only when one found oneself alone with him once more. But as soon as we were alone again he would begin, 'Well, what have you been doing since yesterday?' Now, as at that time my life was passing uneventfully enough, the telling of what I had been doing was of no interest. So, to humour him, I began recounting some trifling incidents, and noticed while I was speaking that Wilde's face was growing gloomy.
'You really did that?' he said.
'Yes,' I answered.
'And you are speaking the truth?'
'Absolutely.'
'Then why repeat it? You must see that it is not of the slightest importance. You must understand that there are two worlds—the one exists and is never talked about; it is called the real world because there is no need to talk about it in order to see it. The other is the world of Art; one must talk about that, because otherwise it would not exist.'