It is now some years since this little story was set afloat on the sea
of books. It is not a man-of-war, nor even a high-sided merchantman;
only a small, peaceful sailing-vessel. Yet it has had rather an
adventurous voyage. Twice it has fallen into the hands of pirates. The
tides have carried it to far countries. It has been passed through the
translator's port of entry into German, French, Armenian, Turkish, and
perhaps some other foreign regions. Once I caught sight of it flying
the outlandish flag of a brand-new phonetic language along the coasts
of France; and once it was claimed by a dealer in antiquities as a
long-lost legend of the Orient. Best of all, it has slipped quietly
into many a far-away harbor that I have never seen, and found a kindly
welcome, and brought back messages of good cheer from unknown friends.
Now it has turned home to be new-rigged and fitted for further
voyaging. Before it is sent out again I have been asked to tell where
the story came from and what it means.
I do not know where it came from--out of the air, perhaps. One thing is
certain, it is not written in any other book, nor is it to be found
among the ancient lore of the East. And yet I have never felt as if it
were my own. It was a gift. It was sent to me; and it seemed as if I
knew the Giver, though His name was not spoken.
The year had been full of sickness and sorrow. Every day brought
trouble. Every night was tormented with pain. They are very long--those
nights when one lies awake, and hears the laboring heart pumping
wearily at its task, and watches for the morning, not knowing whether
it will ever dawn. They are not nights of fear; for the thought of
death grows strangely familiar when you have lived with it for a year.
Besides, after a time you come to feel like a soldier who has been long
standing still under fire; any change would be a relief. But they are
lonely nights; they are very heavy nights. And their heaviest burden is
this:
You must face the thought that your work in the world may be almost
ended, but you know that it is not nearly finished.
You have not solved the problems that perplexed you. You have not
reached the goal that you aimed at. You have not accomplished the great
task that you set for yourself. You are still on the way; and perhaps
your journey must end now,--nowhere,--in the dark.
Well, it was in one of these long, lonely nights that this story came
to me. I had studied and loved the curious tales of the Three Wise Men
of the East as they are told in the "Golden Legend" of Jacobus de
Voragine and other mediaeval books. But of the Fourth Wise Man I had
never heard until that night. Then I saw him distinctly, moving through
the shadows in a little circle of light. His countenance was as clear
as the memory of my father's face as I saw it for the last time a few
months before. The narrative of his journeyings and trials and
disappointments ran without a break. Even certain sentences came to me
complete and unforgettable, clear-cut like a cameo. All that I had to
do was to follow Artaban, step by step, as the tale went on, from the
beginning to the end of his pilgrimage.
Perhaps this may explain some things in the story. I have been asked
many times why I made the Fourth Wise Man tell a lie, in the cottage at
Bethlehem, to save the little child's life.