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Ah! had you been in prison—I will not say through any fault of mine, for that would be a thought too terrible for me to bear—but through fault of your own, error of your own, faith in some unworthy friend, slip in sensual mire, trust misapplied, or love ill-bestowed, or none, or all of these —do you think that I would have allowed you to eat your heart away in darkness and solitude without trying in some way, however slight, to help you to bear the bitter burden of your disgrace? Do you think that I would not have let you know that[57a] if you suffered, I was suffering too: that if you wept, there were tears in my eyes also: and that[57a] if you lay in the house of bondage and were despised of men, I out of my very griefs had built a house in which to dwell until your coming, a treasury in which all that men had denied to you would be laid up for your healing, one hundredfold in increase? If bitter necessity, or prudence, to me more bitter still, had prevented my being near you, and robbed me of the joy of your presence, though seen through prison-bars and in a shape of shame, I would have written to you in season and out of season in the hope that some mere phrase, some single word, some broken echo even of Love might reach you[57b]. If you had refused to receive my letters, I would have written none the less, so that you should have known that at any rate there were always letters waiting for you. Many have done so to me. Every three months people write to me, or propose to write to me. Their letters and communications are kept. They will be handed to me when I go out of prison. I know that they are there. I know the names of the people who have written them. I know that they are full of sympathy, and affection, and kindness. That is sufficient for me. I need to know no more. Your silence has been horrible. Nor has it been a silence of weeks and months merely, but of years; of years even as they have to count them who, like yourself, live swiftly in happiness, and can hardly catch the gilt feet of the days as they dance by, and are out of breath in the chase after pleasure. It is a silence without excuse; a silence without palliation. I knew you had feet of clay. Who knew it better? When I wrote, among my aphorisms, that it was simply the feet of clay that made the gold of the image precious,[57.1] it was of you I was thinking. But it is no gold image with clay feet that you have made of yourself[57c]. Out of the very dust of the common highway that the hooves of horned things pash into mire you have moulded your perfect semblance for me to look at[57d], so that, whatever my secret desire might have been, it would be impossible for me now to have for you any feeling other than that of contempt and scorn, for myself my feeling other than that of contempt and scorn either. And setting aside all other reasons, your indifference, your worldly wisdom, your callousness, your prudence, whatever you may choose to call it, has been made doubly bitter to me by the peculiar circumstances that either accompanied or followed my fall.
啊！要是换成了你在监狱——我不说是因为我的过失，要是这样那太可怕了，我承受不了的——而是因为你自己的过失，你自己的错误：交错朋友、信错人、爱错人、在人欲的泥淖中失足，或者这些都不是，或者这些都是——在这种情况下，你想我会让你在黑暗与孤寂中凄惨度日，而不想办法，哪怕是多么微不足道的办法，帮助你去承受耻辱的重压吗？你想我会不让你知道吗[57a]，你受苦，我与你同在受苦；你哭泣，我眼中也会充满热泪？你想我会不让你知道吗[57a]，假如你幽困于缧绁之室，为人所不齿，我会用满心的悲哀去构筑一处宝屋，百倍加添地存起世人不让你得到的一切，等着你的归来，伴着你的康复？ 如果出于令人痛苦的需要或谨慎，对于我这是更加的痛苦，我不得与你接近，被剥夺了与你相见的快乐，即使是透过铁窗看看里面囚首垢面的你都不行，我也会一年四季地给你写信，希望哪怕是一些只言片语，甚至不过是爱的不成声的回音，也许会传到你那儿[57b]。即使你拒绝收我的信，我也会照写不误，这样你就会知道，不管怎样总是有信在等着你。不少人都这样写信给我。每过三个月人们都给我写信，或提出要给我写信。他们的信件都存在那里，等我出狱时交给我。我知道信都在那儿。我知道写信人的名字。我知道信中充满了同情，以及关爱，以及善意。这就够了。我不需要知道得更多。你的沉默令人寒心。不止是几星期或几个月，而是几年的杳无只字；几年了，即使是像你这样的人也得算一算，你们快活的时光过得飞快，日子翩翩而过，几乎赶不上它们闪光的舞步，追欢寻乐跑得你们上气不接下气。这沉默没有道理，这沉默无可辩解。我知道你有不为人知的弱点，犹如塑像的泥足。有谁知道得更清楚呢？在我的格言警句中，有一个是这样写的，正是泥足才使金身变得宝贵。我当时想的就是你。但是，你给自己塑造的形象并非泥足金身[57c]。那些两角四蹄的畜牲把大路上的泥尘践踏成泥淖，你正是用这泥淖之泥维妙维肖地塑成自己的人像给我看[57d]，这样一来，不管我曾经对你怀有什么秘密的向往，现在对你，除了鄙夷和蔑视外，不可能有别的感情了，而对自己，也只有鄙夷和蔑视了。别的理由不提也罢，就你的无动于衷、你的伧俗乖巧、你的无情无义、你的小心谨慎，随你高兴怎么说都成，只要一想到我落难当时及以后的种种怪事，这一切就令我倍觉苦涩。
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