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.  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, should come to so revolting an end, mere humanity itself—­all these, if excuses be necessary, must serve as an 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, 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.  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....  It may be strange, but I had once again, I will not say the chance, but the duty, of separating from you forced on me.  I need hardly remind you that I refer to your conduct to me at Brighton from October 10th to 13th, 1894.  Three years is a long time for you to go back.  But we who live in prison, and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow, have to measure time by throbs of pain, and the record of bitter moments.  We have nothing else to think of.  Suffering, curious as it may sound to you, is the means by which we exist, because it is the only means by which we become conscious of existing; and the remembrance of suffering in the past is necessary to us as the warrant, the evidence, of our continued identity.  Between myself and the memory of joy lies a gulf no less deep than that between myself and joy in its actuality.  Had our life together been as the world fancied it to be, one simply of pleasure, profligacies and laughter, I would not be able to recall a single passage in it.  It is because it was full of moments and days tragic, bitter, sinister in their warnings, dull or dreadful in their monotonous scenes and unseemly violences, that I can see or hear each separate incident in its detail, can indeed see or hear little else.  So much in this place do men live by pain that my friendship with you, in the way through which I am forced to remember it, appears to me always as a prelude consonant with those varying modes of anguish which each day I have to realise, nay more, to necessitate them even; as though my life, whatever it had seemed to myself and others, had all the while been a real symphony of sorrow, passing through its rhythmically linked movements to its certain resolution, with that inevitableness that in Art characterises the treatment of every great theme....  I spoke of your conduct to me on three successive days three years ago, did I not?