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And the curious thing to me is that you should have tried to imitate your father in his chief characteristics. I cannot understand why he was to you an exemplar, where he should have been a warning, except that whenever there is hatred between two people there is bond or brotherhood of some kind[142a]. I suppose that, by some strange law of the antipathy of similars, you loathed each other, not because in so many points you were so different, but because in some you were so like[142b]. In June 1893 when you left Oxford, without a degree and with debts, petty in themselves, but considerable to a man of your father’s income, your father wrote you a very vulgar, violent and abusive letter. The letter you sent him in reply was in every way worse[142c], and of course far less excusable, and consequently you were extremely proud of it. I remember quite well your saying to me with your most conceited air that you could beat your father “at his own trade.” Quite true. But what a trade! What a competition! You used to laugh and sneer at your father for retiring from your cousin’s house where he was living in order to write filthy letters to him from a neighbouring hotel. You used to do just the same to me. You constantly lunched with me at some public restaurant, sulked or made a scene during luncheon, and then retired to White’s Club and wrote me a letter of the very foulest character. The only difference between you and your father was that after you had dispatched your letter to me by special messenger, you would arrive yourself at my rooms some hours later, not to apologise, but to know if I had ordered dinner at the Savoy, and if not, why not. Sometimes you would actually arrive before the offensive letter had been read. I remember on one occasion you had asked me to invite to luncheon at the Café Royal two of your friends, one of whom I had never seen in my life. I did so, and at you special request ordered beforehand a specially luxurious luncheon to be prepared. The chef, I remember, was sent for, and particular instructions given about the wines[142d]. Instead of coming to luncheon you sent me at the Café an abusive letter, timed so as to reach me after we had been waiting half an hour for you. I read the first line, and saw what it was, and putting the letter in my pocket, explained to your friends that you were suddenly taken ill, and that the rest of the letter referred to your symptoms. In point of fact I did not read the letter till I was dressing for dinner at Tite Street that evening. As I was in the middle of its mire, wondering with infinite sadness how you could write letters that were really like the froth and foam on the lips of an epileptic, my servant came in to tell me that you were in the hall and were very anxious to see me for five minutes. I at once sent down and asked you to come up. You arrived, looking I admit very frightened and pale, to beg my advice and assistance, as you had been told that a man from Lumley, the solicitor, had been enquiring for you at Cadogan Place, and you were afraid that your Oxford trouble or some new danger was threatening you. I consoled you, told you, what proved to be the case, that it was merely a tradesman’s bill probably, and let you stay to dinner, and pass your evening with me. You never mentioned a single word about your hideous letters, nor did I. I treated it as simply an unhappy symptom of an unhappy temperament. The subject was never alluded to. To write to me a loathsome letter at 2.30, and fly to me for help and sympathy at 7.15 the same afternoon, was a perfectly ordinary occurrence in your life. You went quite beyond your father in such habits, as you did in others. When his revolting letters to you were read in open Court he naturally felt ashamed and pretended to weep. Had your letters to him been read by his own Counsel still more horror and repugnance would have been felt by everyone. Nor was it merely in style that you “beat him at his own trade,” but in mode of attack you distanced him completely[142e]. You availed yourself of the public telegram, and the open postcard. I think you might have left such modes of annoyance to people like Alfred Wood[142.1] whose sole source of income it is. Don’t you? What was a profession to him and his class was a pleasure to you, and a very evil one. Nor have you given up you horrible habit of writing offensive letters, after all that has happened to me through them and for them. You still regard it as one of your accomplishments, and you exercise it on my friends, on those who have been kind to me in prison like Robert Sherard and others. That is disgraceful of you. When Robert Sherard heard from me that I did not wish you to publish any article on me in the Mercure de France, with or without letters, you should have been grateful to him for having ascertained my wishes on the point, and for having saved you from, without intending it, inflicting more pain on me than you had done already. You must remember that a patronising and Philistine letter about “fair play” for a “man who is down” is all right for an English newspaper. It carries on the old traditions of English journalism in regard to their attitude towards artists. But in France such a tone would have exposed me to ridicule and you to contempt. I could not have allowed any article till I had known its aim, temper, mode of approach and the like. In art good intentions are not of the smallest value. All bad art is the result of good intentions.
让我奇怪的是，你为什么会去模仿你父亲的主要性格特征。 我不明白他对你本该是一个儆戒，怎么反而成了你的典范，解释除非是大凡两个人有了仇隙，其间必定存在某种难兄难弟的纽带，某种同气相求的呼应[142a]。我猜想，由于某种同类相斥的奇怪法则，你们互相憎恶，这不是因为两人间的许多不同，而是因为在某些方面你们俩何其相似乃尔[142b]。1893年6月，你离开牛津，没拿到学位并拖了一堆债。 这本是小事一桩，无奈在有你父亲那种收入的人眼里可是非同小可。你父亲给你写了一封信，口气非常之狠恶刻毒，不堪入耳。你回他的信则处处有过之而无不及[142c]，当然也就更加不可原谅，结果你因为这封信而极为自豪。记得很清楚你带着那最不可一世的神情对我说过，能在你父亲的“老本行”上击败他。还真不假呢。可那是一个什么样的行当！这又是怎样的一种竞争啊！你曾常常嘲笑你父亲，住在你表兄弟家时，会跑出去到附近的旅馆写些脏话连篇的信寄给他。你恰恰也对我干下同样的事。你三天两头地在餐馆同我吃午餐，不高兴了或者闹了一场，接着就跑到怀特俱乐部，给我写一封满纸尽是恶语脏话的信。你和你父亲不同的只有一点，那就是你特地差人把信送过来后，过几个钟头会亲自跑到我房间来，不是来道歉，而是来看我是否在萨瓦伊定了正餐，如果没有，为什么没有。 有时你来时那无礼的信还没读呢。记得有一次你要我请你的两个朋友，有一个我从未谋面，到皇家咖啡座午餐。我照办，还应你的特别要求，预定了一桌特别豪华的午餐。记得厨师是特地请来的，酒也是专门安排的[142d]。可你非但不出席午餐会，还送一封骂人的信到咖啡座来给我，时间安排得刚刚好在我们等了你半个钟头后信才到。我读了第一行，明白说的是什么，就把信放进衣袋，向你的朋友解释说，你突然病了，信中接下来说的是病的症状。事实上，我是等到那天晚上在泰特街整装要用正餐时，才读那信的。正当我看着那满纸污浊，无限悲哀地寻思你怎么写得出这像癫痫病人口吐的白沫一样的文字时，仆人进来说你在楼下厅里等着，非常着急要见我五分钟。我马上传话叫你上来。你来了，我承认那副模样又惊又怕，脸色苍白，求我出主意帮忙，因为你听说从兰姆雷来了个人，是律师，在卡多根广场一带打听你的消息，你怕是自己牛津旧事重发，或什么新麻烦找上门来了。我安慰你，告诉你，而且事后证明说对了，那很可能不过是哪家商店的账单罢了，并让你留下来吃饭，同我共度那个晚上。对那封令人发指的信你一句话没说。我也不说，只把它当作是一个坏脾气的一个坏症状算了。这话再也没提起过。两点半给我写了封讨厌的信，同日七点一刻飞跑过来求我帮助、要我同情，这是你生活中再平常不过的行径了。在这些习惯上，正如在其它习惯上，你大大超越了你父亲。当他写给你的那些令人厌恶的信在法庭上公开读出时，他自然感到惭愧，装着哭了。要是你给他的那些信被他本人的辩护律师读出来的话，那大家都会感受到更为可憎可怕的恶毒。你不单单就文字风格而言在“他的老本行上把他击败了”，在攻击方式方面，也完全叫他望尘莫及[142e]。你动用了公用电报，还有明信片。我想你或许应该把这类骚扰人的方式留给像阿尔弗莱德?伍德这类人，他们收入的唯一来源就靠这个。不是吗？对于他和他的阶级，这是谋生的职业，而对于你，这是取乐的消遣，一项非常邪恶的消遣。通过那些信、由于那些信，你使我得面临这种种，可你还是没改掉这笔墨骂人的恶习，仍然把它看作你的能耐之一，还用到了我朋友身上，那些在我关押期间对我好的朋友，如罗伯特?舍拉德还有别的人。你这真丢人。当罗伯特?舍拉德听到我说不希望你在《法兰西信使》上发表任何有关我的文章，不管附不附上我写给你的那些信，这时你本来应该感激他才是，因为他确证了我对这件事的意愿，无意间也免得你越陷越深，给我造成更多的痛苦。你必须记住，一封居高临下、平庸不堪的信，吁求对一个“被击倒的人”采取“公平游戏”规则，这对英国报纸还行。它秉承了英国报刊出版界对艺术家态度的老传统。但在法国，这样的语气就会让我遭人取笑，让你被人看不起。任何文章，要是我不知道它的目的、格调、论述方式等等，是不会允许将它发表的。在艺术上，好的动机一点价值也没有。所有不好的艺术都是好的动机造成的。
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