Then he went on:—
'Once upon a time there was a man who was beloved in his village because he used to tell tales. Every morning he left the village, and when he returned in the evening all the labourers of the village who had been working all the day would crowd round him and say, "Come, now, tell us a tale. What have you seen to-day?"
'The man said, "I have seen in the forest a Faun playing on a flute and making a band of little wood-nymphs dance."
'"Go on with your story; what did you see?" the men would say.
'"When I reached the sea-shore, I saw three mermaids beside the waves, combing their green hair with golden combs."
'And the villagers loved him because he used to tell them tales.
'One morning he left his village as usual, and when he reached the sea-shore he saw three mermaids at the water's edge combing their green hair with golden combs. And as he passed on his way he saw, near a wood, a Faun playing a flute to a band of wood-nymphs.
'That evening when he returned to his village the people said to him as they did every evening, "Come, tell us a tale: what have you seen?"
'And the man answered, "I have seen nothing."'
Wilde stopped for a moment to allow the effect of the story to sink into me, and then he continued, 'I do not like your lips; they are quite straight, like the lips of a man who has never told a lie. I want you to learn to lie so that your lips may become beautiful and curved like the lips of an antique mask.
'Do you know what makes the work of art, and what makes the work of nature? Do you know what the difference is? For the narcissus is as beautiful as a work of art, so what distinguishes them cannot be merely beauty. Do you know what it is that distinguishes them? A work of art is always unique. Nature, who makes nothing durable, is ever repeating herself, so that nothing she makes may be lost. A single narcissus produces many blooms—that is why each one lives but a day. Every time Nature invents a new form she at once makes a replica. A sea-monster in one sea knows that in another sea there is another monster like itself. When God creates in history a Nero, a Borgia or a Napoleon He puts another one on one side. No one knows it, but that does not matter; the important point is that one may be a success. For God makes man, and man makes the work of art.'
Forestalling what I was on the point of saying, he proceeded, 'Yes, I know ... one day a great restlessness fell upon the earth, as if, at last, Nature was going to create something unique, something quite unique, and Christ is born on earth. Yes, I know, quite well, but listen:—
'When Joseph of Arimathæa came down in the evening from Mount Calvary where Jesus had just died, he saw on a white stone a young man seated weeping. And Joseph went near to him and said, "I understand how great thy grief must be, for certainly that Man was a just Man." But the young man made answer, "Oh, it is not for that that I am weeping. I am weeping because I, too, have wrought miracles. I also have given sight to the blind, I have healed the palsied, and I have raised the dead; I, too, have caused the barren fig-tree to wither away, and I have turned water into wine. And yet they have not crucified me[4]."'
And that Oscar Wilde was convinced of his representative mission was made quite clear to me on more than one occasion.
The Gospel disturbed and troubled the pagan Wilde. He could not forgive it its miracles. The pagan miracle lies in the work of Art; Christianity encroached on it. Every strong departure from realism in art demands a realism which is convinced in life. His most ingenious fables, his most alarming ironies were uttered with a view to confront the two moralities—I mean, pagan naturalism and Christian idealism, and to put the latter out of countenance in every respect. This is another of his stories:—
'When Jesus was minded to return to Nazareth, Nazareth was so changed that He no longer recognised His own city. The Nazareth where He had lived was full of lamentations and tears; this city was filled with outbursts of laughter and song. And Christ entering into the city saw some slaves laden with flowers, hastening towards the marble staircase of a house of white marble. Christ entered into the house, and at the back of a hall of jasper He saw, lying on a purple couch, a man whose disordered locks were mingled with red roses, and whose lips were red with wine. Christ drew near to him, and laying His hand on his shoulder said to him, "Why dost thou lead this life?" The man turned round, recognized Him and said, "I was a leper once; Thou didst heal me. Why should I live another life? "
Christ went out of the house, and behold! in the street He saw a woman whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her walked a man who wore a cloak of two colours, and whose eyes were bright with lust. And Christ went up to the man and laid His hand on his shoulder, and said to him, "Tell Me why art thou following this woman, and why dost thou look at her in such wise?" The man turning round recognized Him and said, "I was blind; Thou didst heal me; what else should I do with my sight?"
'And Christ drew near to the woman and said to her, "This road which thou art following is the pathway of sin; why follow it?" The woman recognized Him, and laughing said, "The way which I follow is a pleasant way, and Thou hast pardoned all my sins."
'Then Christ felt His heart filled with sadness, and He was minded to leave the city. But as He was going out of it He saw sitting by the bank of the moat of the city, a young man who was weeping. He drew near to him, and touching the locks of his hair, said to him, "Friend, why dost thou weep?" The young man raised his eyes, recognized Him and made answer, "I was dead and Thou hast raised me to life. What else should I do with my life?"'
Let me tell this one story more, illustrating one of the strangest pitfalls into which the imagination can mislead a man, and let any one, who is able, understand the strange paradox which Wilde here makes use of:—