36
Hate blinds people. You were not aware of that. Love can read the writing on the remotest star[36a], but Hate so blinded you that you could see no further than the narrow, walled-in, and already lust-withered garden of your common desires. Your terrible lack of imagination, the one really fatal defect of your character, was entirely the result of the Hate that lived in you. Subtly, silently, and in secret, Hate gnawed at your nature, as the lichen bites at the root of some sallow plant, till you grew to see nothing but the most meagre interests and the most petty aims. That faculty in you which Love would have fostered, Hate poisoned and paralysed. When your father first began to attack me it was as your private friend, and in a private letter to you. As soon as I had read the letter, with its obscene threats and coarse violences, I saw at once that a terrible danger was looming on the horizon of my troubled days: I told you I would not be the catspaw between you both in your ancient hatred of each other: that I in London was naturally much bigger game for him than a Secretary for Foreign affairs at Homburg[36b]:[36.1] that it would be unfair to me to place me even for a moment in such a position: and that I had something better to do with my life than to have scenes with a man drunken, déclassé, and half-witted as he was. You could not be made to see this. Hate blinded you. You insisted that the quarrel had really nothing to do with me : that you would not allow your father to dictate to you in your private friendships: that it would be most unfair of me to interfere. You had already, before you saw me on the subject, sent your father a foolish and vulgar telegram, as your answer. That of course committed you to a foolish and vulgar course of action to follow. The fatal errors of life are not due to man’s being unreasonable: an unreasonable moment may be one’s finest moment. They are due to man’s being logical. There is a wide difference. That telegram conditioned the whole of your subsequent relations with your father, and consequently the whole of my life. And the grotesque thing about it is that it was a telegram of which the commonest street-boy would have been ashamed. From pert telegrams to priggish lawyers’ letters was a natural progress and the result of your lawyer’s letters to your father was, of course, to urge him on still further. You left him no option but to go on. You forced it on him as a point of honour, or of dishonour rather, that your appeal should have the more effect. So the next time he attacks me, no longer in a private letter and as your private friend, but in public and as a public man. I have to expel him from my house. He goes from restaurant to restaurant looking for me, in order to insult me before the whole world, and in such a manner that if I retaliated I would be ruined, and if I did not retaliate I would be ruined also. Then surely was the time when you should have come forward, and said that you would not expose me to such hideous attacks, such infamous persecution, on your account, but would, readily and at once, resign any claim you had to my friendship?[36c] You feel that now, I suppose. But it never even occurred to you then. Hate blinded you. All you could think of (besides of course writing to him insulting letters and telegrams) was to buy a ridiculous pistol that goes off in the Berkeley, under circumstances that create a worse scandal than ever came to your ears. Indeed the idea of your being the object of a terrible quarrel between your father and a man of my position seemed to delight you. It, I suppose very naturally, pleased your vanity, and flattered your self-importance. That your father might have had your body, which did not interest me, and left me your soul, which did not interest him, would have been to you a distressing solution of the question. You scented the chance of a public scandal and flew to it. The prospect of a battle in which you would be safe delighted you. I never remember you in higher spirits than you were for the rest of that season. Your only disappointment seemed to be that nothing actually happened, and that no further meeting or fracas had taken place between us. You consoled yourself by sending him telegrams of such a character that at last the wretched man wrote to you and said that he had given orders to his servants that no telegram was to be brought to him under any pretence whatsoever. That did not daunt you. You saw the immense opportunities afforded by the open postcard, and availed yourself of them to the full. You hounded him on in the chase still more. I do not suppose he would ever really have given it up. Family instincts were strong in him. His hatred of you was just as persistent as your hatred of him, and I was the stalking-horse for both of you, and a mode of attack as well as a mode of shelter[36d]. His very passion for notoriety was not merely individual but racial[36e]. Still, if his interest had flagged for a moment your letters and postcards would soon have quickened it to its ancient flame. They did so. And he naturally went on further still. Having assailed me as a private gentleman and in private, as a public man and in public, he ultimately determines to make his final and great attack on me as an artist, and in the place where my Art is being represented. He secures by fraud a seat for the first night of one of my plays, and contrives a plot to interrupt the performance, to make a foul speech about me to the audience, to insult my actors, to throw offensive or indecent missiles at me when I am called before the curtain at the close, utterly in some hideous way to ruin me through my work. By the merest chance, in the brief and accidental sincerity of a more than usually intoxicated mood[36f], he boasts of his intention before others. Information is given to the police, and he is kept out of the theatre. You had your chance then. Then was your opportunity. Don’t you realise now that you should have seen it, and come forward and said that you would not have my Art, at any rate, ruined for your sake? You knew what my Art was to me, the great primal note by which I had revealed, first myself to myself, and then myself to the world; the real passion of my life; the love to which all other loves were as marsh water to red wine, or the glow-worm of the marsh to the magic mirror of the moon. Don’t you understand now that your lack of imagination was the one really fatal defect of your character? What you had to do was quite simple, and quite clear before you, but Hate had blinded you, and you could see nothing. I could not apologise to you father for his having insulted me and persecuted me in the most loathsome manner for nearly nine months. I could not get rid of you out of my life. I had tried it again and again. I had gone so far as actually leaving England and going abroad in the hope of escaping from you. It had all been of no use. You were the only person who could have done anything. The key of the situation rested entirely with yourself. It was the one great opportunity you had of making some slight return to me for all the love and affection and kindness and generosity and care I had shown you. Had you appreciated me even at a tenth of my value as an artist you would have done so. But Hate blinded you. The faculty “by which, and by which alone, we can understand others in their real as in their ideal relations” was dead in you. You thought simply of how to get your father into prison. To see him “in the dock,” as you used to say: that was your one idea. The phrase became one of the many scies of your daily conversation. One heard it at every meal. Well, you had your desire gratified. Hate granted you every single thing you wished for [36g]. It was an indulgent Master to you. It is so, indeed, to all who serve it [36h]. For two days you sat on a high seat with the Sheriffs, and feasted your eyes with the spectacle of your father standing in the dock of the Central Criminal Court. And on the third day I took his place. What had occurred? In your hideous game of hate together, you had both thrown dice for my soul, and you happened to have lost. That was all[36i].
恨使人视而不见。 这你并未认识到。爱读得出最遥远的星辰上写的是什么[36a]；恨却蒙蔽了你的双眼，使目光所及，不过是你那个窄狭的、被高墙所围堵、因放纵而枯萎的伧俗欲念的小园子。你想象力缺乏得可怕，这是你性格上唯一真正致命的缺点，而这又是你心中的仇恨造成的。不知不觉地、悄悄地、暗暗地，仇恨啃咬着你的人性，就像苔藓咬住植物的根使之萎黄，到后来眼里装的便只有最琐屑的利益和最卑下的目的。你那本来可以通过爱来扶植的才智，已经被仇恨毒化而萎蔫了。当你父亲第一次中伤我时，是在给你的一封私信中，是把我当作你的一个私人朋友的。一读到那信，看到那下流的威胁和粗鲁的暴虐，我马上就明白，在我并不平安的日子里，潜伏着一个可怕的危险。我告诉过你，你们父子反目成仇由来已久，我可不想成为你们厮杀中的卒子。我还说，我人在伦敦，对他来说逮住了耍起自然要比在霍姆堡的外交大臣过瘾得多[36b]；把我卷进去，哪怕是一会儿，对我都是不公平的；而且我不值得把生命花去同这么一个终日醉酒、潦倒落魄、半疯不癫的人吵架，丢人现眼。可就是无法让你明白。仇恨蒙住了你眼睛。你一口咬定争吵真的与我无关，说你不会让你父亲左右你的私人交往，说我如果出面干涉就太不公平了。在你来见我商量这事之前，就已经给你父亲发了一封粗俗愚蠢的电报作为回复。踏出这一步，当然就令你非得沿着这粗俗愚蠢的道路走下去不可了。生活中致命的错误，其原因不在于人的不可理喻。一个不可理喻的时刻可以是一个人的最佳时刻。错误的原因乃是人的讲求逻辑。二者之间，相去甚远。那封电报制约了其后你与你父亲的整个关系，结果也制约了我的整个生活。而此事的蹊跷之处是那样一封电报就连街边的毛头小子看了也会觉得脸红。从唐突的电报到趾高气扬的律师信，这是个自然的演进过程。给你父亲的那些律师信，结果当然是刺激他变本加厉。你逼得他有进无退，没有选择。你迫使他把这事看成是名誉、或者更可以说是耻辱所系的关键，以求更大的效应。这样他下一次攻击我时便不是在私人信中，也不当我是你的私人朋友，而是在公共场合，当我是一个公共人士了。我只好把他从我家赶出去。他一家挨一家餐馆地找我，想要在大庭广众下污辱我，其行径之恶劣，我如果反击便会身败名裂，不反击照样会身败名裂。在这时，肯定是到了你本人应该出面的关头了，说不会让我为了你而面对如此恶毒的中伤、如此无耻的迫害，你愿意当即放弃同我的任何交往。不是吗？[36c]你现在觉得该这样做了吧，我想。可当时你心中这念头连闪都没闪过。仇恨蒙住了你眼睛。你心中所能想的（当然，除了给你父亲写信拍电报侮辱他）只是买一把荒唐的手枪，结果在伯克莱放了一枪，造成的丑闻，比你的耳朵所能听到的还要难听。的确，想到自己成了你父亲和一个处在我这种地位的人之间大吵大闹的中心，似乎让你很高兴。这念头，我非常自然地认为，是满足了你的虚荣心，使你更自觉了不起。你的身体，这我不感兴趣，可以留给你父亲，你的灵魂，这他不感兴趣，可以留给我。问题要是这样解决，会叫你很不高兴的。你嗅到了当众闹个大丑闻的机会，就赶紧抓住不放。想到要打一场了，而你却会安然无恙，你挺高兴的。就我记得，在那个季节你后来从没那么兴高采烈过。唯一让你失望的似乎是到底没闹出什么事来，我们两人也没再打过照面吵过架。你便以给他拍电报来打发，那样的电文到头来弄得这可怜的家伙只好给你写信，说是已经命令仆人不管什么电报，怎样伪装，一律不得送到他眼前。这难不倒你。你看到这是明信片大派用场的时候了，便大张旗鼓地写起来，对他更是穷追不舍。我不认为他真的会善罢甘休。他身上的家族本能真是太强烈了。你们相互间的仇恨，一样的不可消弭；而我则成了你们的冤大头，既是矛，又是盾[36d]。他渴望招风惹事扬名，这恰恰不只是个性使然，而是出自家族的禀性[36e]。话说回来，他的兴趣要是有哪个时候低落下去，你的信和明信片很快又会煽起他心中那经年累月的邪火。是这样的。而他自然也就更越走越远了。作为私交在私底下中伤了我，作为公众人士在大庭广众攻击了我，他最终决心来个决定性的重拳出击，在我的艺术作品上演之处，把我作为艺术家来进行攻击。在我的一个戏剧的首演之夜，他弄假骗到一个座位，阴谋打断演出，当着观众的面恶语中伤我，污辱我的演员，要在谢幕前人们唤我到台前时无礼下流地用东西扔我，完全是要居心叵测地借我的作品使我名声扫地。纯粹是出于偶然，他难得地酒后吐真言[36f]，在人前吹嘘了几句他的意图。消息传给了警察，他被拒于戏院之外。那时你的机会来了。那就是你的机会。难道你现在还不明白吗，你本该看到这个机会，走出来说，你无论如何不会让我的艺术因为你的缘故而毁于一旦？你知道我的艺术对我意味着什么，它是宏大的首要的意旨，使我得以向自己，而后向世界，展现我自己﹔它是我生命的真实的激情﹔它是爱。拿别的爱同这种爱相比，就像拿泥水比醇酒，拿沼泽地里的萤火虫比长空里的皓月。难道你现在还不明白吗，缺乏想象力就是你性格上真正致命的缺点？你本该做的事并不难，也很清楚地摆在面前，但是仇恨蒙蔽了你的眼睛，使你什么也看不到。你父亲在几近九个月的时间里用最龌龊卑劣的手段污辱迫害我，我不能为此向他道歉。我无法把你从我的生活中甩掉。我再三努力，不惜离开英国到海外，希望能躲开你。可一点也没用。你是唯一一个什么事都做得出来的人。
要解决这局面全在于你了。 你要想报答我的话，那就是大好机会，来稍稍回报一下我对你所有的爱、友情、善意、慷慨和关心。要是你对我作为艺术家的价值能欣赏十分之一，就会这么做了。但是仇恨蒙蔽了你的眼睛。那个 “只要这样、只有这样，我们才能以现实也以理想的关系看待理解他人”的才智，在你心中已经死了。你念念不忘的只是怎样把你父亲关进监狱。用你的话说，要 “看他站在被告席上”，你一心想的就这个。这成了天天挂在嘴边的一句话，每次吃饭都听你说。好啦，你的愿望实现了。不管你要什么，仇恨都一一给了你[36g]，它是个对你疼爱有加的主人。确实的，谁伺候它，它就对谁疼爱有加[36h]。两天里，你同法警一起高坐堂上，一饱眼福地看着你父亲站在中央刑事法庭的被告席上。第三天他的位子由我接替。这是怎么回事？在你们险恶的仇恨之赌中，两人都下注要我的灵魂，可你刚好输了。如此而已[36i]。
36
36.2