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.

I did not make him tell a lie.

What Artaban said to the soldiers he said for himself, because he could
not help it.

Is a lie ever justifiable? Perhaps not. But may it not sometimes seem
inevitable?

And if it were a sin, might not a man confess it, and be pardoned for
it more easily than for the greater sin of spiritual selfishness, or
indifference, or the betrayal of innocent blood? That is what I saw
Artaban do. That is what I heard him say. All through his life he was
trying to do the best that he could. It was not perfect. But there are
some kinds of failure that are better than success.

Though the story of the Fourth Wise Man came to me suddenly and without
labor, there was a great deal of study and toil to be done before it
could be written down. An idea arrives without effort; a form can only
be wrought out by patient labor. If your story is worth telling, you