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In the meantime you are writing to me by every post from Egypt. I took not the smallest notice of any of your communications. I read them, and tore them up. I had quite settled to have no more to do with you. My mind was made up, and I gladly devoted myself to the Art whose progress I had allowed you to interrupt. At the end of three months, your mother, with that unfortunate weakness of will that characterises her, and that in the tragedy of my life has been an element no less fatal than your father’s violence, actually writes to me herself — I have no doubt, of course, at your instigation — tells me that you are extremely anxious to hear from me, and in order that I should have no excuse for not communicating with you, sends me your address in Athens, which, of course, I knew perfectly well. I confess I was absolutely astounded at her letter. I could not understand how, after what she had written to me in December, and what I in answer had written to her, she could in any way try to repair or to renew my unfortunate friendship with you[17a]. I acknowledged her letter[17b], of course, and again urged her to try and get you connected with some Embassy abroad, so as to prevent your returning to England, but I did not write to you, or take any more notice of your telegrams than I did before your mother had written to me. Finally you actually telegraphed to my wife begging her to use her influence with me to get me to write to you. Our friendship had always been a source of distress to her: not merely because she had never liked you personally, but because she saw how your continual companionship altered me, and not for the better: still, just as she had always been most gracious and hospitable to you, so she could not bear the idea of my being in any way unkind — for so it seemed to her — to any of my friends. She thought, knew indeed, that it was a thing alien to my character. At her request I did communicate with you. I remember the wording of my telegram quite well. I said that time healed every wound but that for many months to come I would neither write to you nor see you. You started without delay for Paris, sending me passionate telegrams on the road to beg me to see you once, at any rate. I declined[17c]. You arrived in Paris late on a Saturday night, and found a brief letter from me waiting for you at your hotel stating that I would not see you. Next morning I received in Tite Street a telegram of some ten or eleven pages in length[17d] from you. You stated in it that no matter what you had done to me you could not believe that I would absolutely decline to see you: you reminded me that for the sake of seeing me even for one hour you had travelled six days and nights across Europe without stopping once on the way: you made what I must admit was a most pathetic appeal, and ended with what seemed to me a threat of suicide, and one not thinly veiled. You had yourself often told me how many of your race there had been who had stained their hands in their own blood; your uncle certainly, your grandfather possibly; many others in the mad, bad line from which you come.[17.1] Pity, my old affection for you, regard for your mother to whom your death under such dreadful circumstances would have been a blow almost too great for her to bear, the horror of the idea that so young a life, and one that amidst all its ugly faults had still promise of beauty in it[17e], should come to so revolting an end, mere humanity itself — all these, if excuses be necessary, must serve as my excuse for consenting to accord you one last interview. When I arrived in Paris, your tears, breaking out again and again all through the evening, and falling over your cheeks like rain as we sat, at dinner first at Voisin’s, at supper at Paillard’s afterwards:[17.2] the unfeigned joy you evinced at seeing me, holding my hand whenever you could, as though you were a gentle and penitent child: your contrition, so simple and sincere, at the moment: made me consent to renew our friendship[17f]. Two days after we had returned to London, your father saw you having luncheon with me at the Cafe Royal, joined my table, drank of my wine, and that afternoon, through a letter addressed to you, began his first attack on me.
在这期间你从埃及不断给我写信，每班邮都有你的信。这些书信我全然不当回事，看过就撕了。不再跟你打交道我觉得很泰然。我决心已定，愉快地把自己献给艺术，那曾经让你把它给打断了的艺术。三个月后，你母亲亲自写信来了——很不幸，她个性中那典型的软弱，在我生活的悲剧中所起的致命作用不亚于你父亲的暴虐——我当然不怀疑是你叫她写的，她说你急得不得了要我写信给你，而为了使我不至于有借口不写，还把你在雅典的地址寄过来了。你的地址，我当然知道得再清楚不过了。坦白说看了她的信我目瞪口呆。真不明白，在她写了十二月份那封信后，在我回了她那封信后，到头来她怎么还会想法重修重建我同你的这段不幸的友谊[17a]。我没话讲，认收了她的信[17b]，又再次催她想法把你同海外的哪家大使馆挂钩，使你不会回到英国来。可我没给你写信，同接到你母亲的这封信以前一样，依然把你的电报不当回事。最终你竟打电报给我妻子，求她用她对我的影响使我写信给你。我们的交往从来就是一桩令她苦恼的事——这不光是因为她从来就不喜欢你这个人，还因为她看到了同你来往把我变成了怎样一个人，不是变得更好——可仍然，就像对你一贯的善意款待一样，她不忍心看到我对任何朋友有任何的不周，因为在她看来这是对朋友不周。她认为，她的确明白，我不是这种性格的人。在她的要求下我确实同你联系了。那封电报的词句我记得很清楚。我说时间愈合每一处伤口，但是在未来好几个月内我既不会写信给你也不会见你。你刻不容缓地动身前往巴黎，一路上给我发来激情洋溢的电报，求我无论如何见你一面。我婉言拒绝了[17c]。你在一个星期六晚上很迟才到了巴黎，在下榻的旅馆发现我给你的一封短信，说我不会见你的。第二天上午我在泰特街收到你的一封电报，长十到十一页[17d]。你在电报里说，不管你对我做了什么事，你都不相信我会永不见你。你说了，为了见我，哪怕是一个小时，你六天里昼夜兼程地横跨欧洲；你的电文，我必须承认，写得像一份哀婉凄绝的呼求，而结尾依我看又以自杀相威胁，一个不加掩饰的威胁。你自己常常告诉过我，你的家族中有多少人曾经双手沾满自己的鲜血；你的叔父无疑是一个，你的祖父可能又是一个，在你出身的这个狂乱败坏的家系里还有别的许多人呢。我可怜你，又碍于旧情，也出于对你母亲的尊重——你要是如此可怕地死去那对她的打击就太大了——还有那种恐怖之感，想到一个如此年轻的生命，尽管在在是缺点陋习﹐但还存着美的希望[17e]，就要这么可怕地死于非命，同时还有人性本身——这一切，要是有必要找借口的话，就必定是我答应最后让你再见一面的借口了。当我到巴黎时，那天整个晚上，不管是在瓦松晚餐还是后来在帕拉德夜宵，你都哭得像个泪人儿似的；看到我时那份真心的欢乐、就像一个柔顺悔祸的小孩[17f]那样拉着我的手不放的样子，在当时显得那么单纯率真的悔过之意，这一切使得我答应与你重修旧好[17f]。我们回到伦敦两天后，你父亲看见我同你在皇家咖啡座午餐，便加入进来，喝了我的酒。当天下午通过一封给你的信，开始了他对我的第一轮攻击。
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