Oscar Wilde Read Free Page A

those who thought they knew him knew only the jester in him.
    When the meal was over, we left. As my two friends were walking together, Wilde took me aside:
    â€œYou listen with your eyes,” he said to me rather abruptly. “That’s why I’m going to tell you this story: When Narcissus died, the flowers of the field asked the river for some drops of water to weep for him. ‘Oh!’ answered the river, ‘if all my drops of water were tears, I should not have enough to weep for Narcissus myself. I loved him!’ ‘Oh!’ replied the flowers of the field, ‘how could you not have loved Narcissus? He was beautiful.’ ‘Was he beautiful?’ said the river. ‘And who could know better than you? Each day, leaning over your bank, he beheld his beauty in your water …’ ”
    Wilde paused for a moment …
    â€œâ€˜If I loved him,’ replied the river, “it was because, when he leaned over my water, I saw the reflection of my waters in his eyes.’”
    Then Wilde, swelling up with a strange burst of laughter, added, “That’s called The Disciple. ”
    We had arrived at his door and left him. He invited me to see him again. That year and the following year I saw him often and everywhere.
    Before others, as I have said, Wilde wore a showy mask, designed to astonish, amuse, or, at times, exasperate. He never listened, and paid scant heed to ideas as soon as they were no longer his own. As soon as he ceased to shine all by himself, he effaced himself. After that, he was himself again only when one was once more alone with him.
    But no sooner alone he would begin:
    â€œWhat have you done since yesterday?”
    And as my life at that time flowed along rather smoothly, the account that I might give of it offered no interest. I would docilely repeat trivial facts, noting, as I spoke, that Wilde’s brow would darken.
    â€œIs that really what you’ve done?”
    â€œYes,” I would answer.
    â€œAnd what you say is true!”
    â€œYes, quite true.”
    â€œBut then why repeat it? You do see that it’s not at all interesting. Understand that there are twoworlds: the one that is without one’s speaking about it; it’s called the real world because there’s no need to talk about it in order to see it. And the other is the world of art; that’s the one which has to be talked about because it would not exist otherwise.”
    â€œThere was once a man who was beloved in his village because he would tell stories. Every morning he left the village and in the evening when he returned, all the village workmen, after having drudged all day long, would gather about him and say, ‘Come! Tell us! What did you see today?’ He would tell: ‘I saw a faun in the forest playing a flute, to whose music a troop of woodland creatures were dancing around.’ ‘Tell us more; what did you see?’ said the men. ‘When I came to the seashore, I saw three mermaids, at the edge of the waves, combing their green hair with a golden comb.’ And the men loved him because he told them stories.
    â€œOne morning, as every morning, he left his village—but when he came to the seashore, lo! he beheld three mermaids combing their green hair with a golden comb. And as he continued his walk, he saw, as he came near the woods, a faun playing the flute to a troop of woodland creatures. That evening, when he came back to his village and was asked, as on other evenings, ‘Come! Tell us! What did you see?’ he answered, ‘I saw nothing.’”
    Wilde paused for some moments, let the effect ofthe tale work its way in me, and then resumed, “I don’t like your lips; they’re straight, like those of someone who has never lied. I want to teach you to lie, so that your lips may become beautiful and twisted like those of an antique mask.
    â€œDo you know what makes the work of art and what