The Wildes had three children, two sons and a daughter. The first son was born in 1852, a year after the marriage, and was christened after his father William Charles Kingsbury Wills. The second son was born two years later, in 1854 and the names given to him seem to reveal the Nationalist sympathies and pride of his mother. He was christened Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde; but he appears to have suffered from the pompous1 string only in extreme youth. At school he concealed2 the “Fingal,” as a young man he found it advisable to omit the “O’Flahertie.”
In childhood and early boyhood Oscar was not considered as quick or engaging or handsome as his brother, Willie. Both boys had the benefit of the best schooling3 of the time. They were sent as boarders to the Portora School at Enniskillen, one of the four Royal schools of Ireland. Oscar went to Portora in 1864 at the age of nine, a couple of years after his brother. He remained at the school for seven years and left it on winning an Exhibition for Trinity College, Dublin, when he was just seventeen.
The facts hitherto collected and published about Oscar as a schoolboy are sadly meagre and insignificant5. Fortunately for my readers I have received from Sir Edward Sullivan, who was a contemporary of Oscar both at school and college, an exceedingly vivid and interesting pen-picture of the lad, one of those astounding6 masterpieces of portraiture7 only to be produced by the plastic sympathies of boyhood and the intimate intercourse8 of years lived in common. It is love alone which in later life can achieve such a miracle of representment. I am very glad to be allowed to publish this realistic miniature, in the very words of the author.
“I first met Oscar Wilde in the early part of 1868 at Portora Royal School. He was thirteen or fourteen years of age. His long straight fair hair was a striking feature of his appearance. He was then, as he remained for some years after, extremely boyish in nature, very mobile, almost restless when out of the schoolroom. Yet he took no part in the school games at any time. Now and then he would be seen in one of the school boats on Loch Erne: yet he was a poor hand at an oar4.
“Even as a schoolboy he was an excellent talker: his descriptive power being far above the average, and his humorous exaggerations of school occurrences always highly amusing.
“A favourite place for the boys to sit and gossip in the late afternoon in winter time was round a stove which stood in ‘The Stone Hall.’ Here Oscar was at his best; although his brother Willie was perhaps in those days even better than he was at telling a story.
“Oscar would frequently vary the entertainment by giving us extremely quaint9 illustrations of holy people in stained-glass attitudes: his power of twisting his limbs into weird10 contortions11 being very great. (I am told that Sir William Wilde, his father, possessed12 the same power.) It must not be thought, however, that there was any suggestion of irreverence13 in the exhibition.
“At one of these gatherings14, about the year 1870, I remember a discussion taking place about an ecclesiastical prosecution15 that made a considerable stir at the time. Oscar was present, and full of the mysterious nature of the Court of Arches; he told us there was nothing he would like better in after life than to be the hero of such a cause celèbre and to go down to posterity16 as the defendant17 in such a case as ‘Regina versus18 Wilde!’
“At school he was almost always called ‘Oscar’— but he had a nick-name, ‘Grey-crow,’ which the boys would call him when they wished to annoy him, and which he resented greatly. It was derived19 in some mysterious way from the name of an island in the Upper Loch Erne, within easy reach of the school by boat.
“It was some little time before he left Portora that the boys got to know of his full name, Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde. Just at the close of his school career he won the ‘Carpenter’ Greek Testament20 Prize — and on presentation day was called up to the dais by Dr. Steele, by all his names — much to Oscar’s annoyance21; for a great deal of schoolboy chaff22 followed.
“He was always generous, kindly23, good-tempered. I remember he and myself were on one occasion mounted as opposing jockeys on the backs of two bigger boys in what we called a ‘tournament,’ held in one of the class-rooms. Oscar and his horse were thrown, and the result was a broken arm for Wilde. Knowing that it was an accident, he did not let it make any difference in our friendship.
“He had, I think, no very special chums while at school. I was perhaps as friendly with him all through as anybody, though his junior in class by a year. . . .
“Willie Wilde was never very familiar with him, treating him always, in those days, as a younger brother. . . .
“When in the head class together, we with two other boys were in the town of Enniskillen one afternoon, and formed part of an audience who were listening to a street orator24. One of us, for the fun of the thing, got near the speaker and with a stick knocked his hat off and then ran for home followed by the other three. Several of the listeners, resenting the impertinence, gave chase, and Oscar in his hurry collided with an aged25 cripple and threw him down — a fact which was duly reported to the boys when we got safely back. Oscar was afterwards heard telling how he found his way barred by an angry giant with whom he fought through many rounds and whom he eventually left for dead in the road after accomplishing prodigies26 of valour on his redoubtable27 opponent. Romantic imagination was strong in him even in those schoolboy days; but there was always something in his telling of such a tale to suggest that he felt his hearers were not really being taken in; it was merely the romancing indulged in so humorously by the two principal male characters in ‘The Importance of Being Earnest.’ . . .
“He never took any interest in mathematics either at school or college. He laughed at science and never had a good word for a mathematical or science master, but there was nothing spiteful or malignant30 in anything he said against them; or indeed against anybody.
“The romances that impressed him most when at school were Disraeli’s novels. He spoke31 slightingly of Dickens as a novelist. . . .
“The classics absorbed almost his whole attention in his later school days, and the flowing beauty of his oral translations in class, whether of Thucydides, Plato or Virgil, was a thing not easily to be forgotten.”
This photograph, so to speak, of Oscar as a schoolboy is astonishingly clear and lifelike; but I have another portrait of him from another contemporary, who has since made for himself a high name as a scholar at Trinity, which, while confirming the general traits sketched32 by Sir Edward Sullivan, takes somewhat more notice of certain mental qualities which came later to the fruiting.
This observer who does not wish his name given, writes:
“Oscar had a pungent33 wit, and nearly all the nicknames in the school were given by him. He was very good on the literary side of scholarship, with a special leaning to poetry. . . .
“We noticed that he always liked to have editions of the classics that were of stately size with large print. . . . He was more careful in his dress than any other boy.
“He was a wide reader and read very fast indeed; how much he assimilated I never could make out. He was poor at music.
“We thought him a fair scholar but nothing extraordinary. However, he startled everyone the last year at school in the classical medal examination, by walking easily away from us all in the viva voce of the Greek play (‘The Agamemnon’).”
I may now try and accentuate34 a trait or two of these photographs, so to speak, and then realise the whole portrait by adding an account given to me by Oscar himself. The joy in humorous romancing and the sweetness of temper recorded by Sir Edward Sullivan were marked traits in Oscar’s character all through his life. His care in dressing35 too, and his delight in stately editions; his love of literature “with a special leaning to poetry” were all qualities which distinguished36 him to the end.
“Until the last year of my school life at Portora,” he said to me once, “I had nothing like the reputation of my brother Willie. I read too many English novels, too much poetry, dreamed away too much time to master the school tasks.
“Knowledge came to me through pleasure, as it always comes, I imagine. . . .
“I was nearly sixteen when the wonder and beauty of the old Greek life began to dawn upon me. Suddenly I seemed to see the white figures throwing purple shadows on the sun-baked pal29?stra; ‘bands of nude37 youths and maidens’— you remember Gautier’s words —‘moving across a background of deep blue as on the frieze38 of the Parthenon.’ I began to read Greek eagerly for love of it all, and the more I read the more I was enthralled39:
Oh what golden hours were for us
As we sat together there,
While the white vests of the chorus
Seemed to wave up a light air;
While the cothurns trod majestic40
Down the deep iambic lines
And the rolling anap?stics
Curled like vapour over shrines41.
“The head master was always holding my brother Willie up to me as an example; but even he admitted that in my last year at Portora I had made astounding progress. I laid the foundation there of whatever classical scholarship I possess.”
It occurred to me once to ask Oscar in later years whether the boarding school life of a great, public school was not responsible for a good deal of sensual viciousness.
“Englishmen all say so,” he replied, “but it did not enter into my experience. I was very childish, Frank; a mere28 boy till I was over sixteen. Of course I was sensual and curious, as boys are, and had the usual boy imaginings; but I did not indulge in them excessively.
“At Portora nine out of ten boys only thought of football or cricket or rowing. Nearly every one went in for athletics42 — running and jumping and so forth43; no one appeared to care for sex. We were healthy young barbarians44 and that was all.”
“Did you go in for games?” I asked.
“No,” Oscar replied smiling, “I never liked to kick or be kicked.”
“Surely you went about with some younger boy, did you not, to whom you told your dreams and hopes, and whom you grew to care for?”
The question led to an intimate personal confession45, which may take its place here.
“It is strange you should have mentioned it,” he said. “There was one boy, and,” he added slowly, “one peculiar46 incident. It occurred in my last year at Portora. The boy was a couple of years younger than I— we were great friends; we used to take long walks together and I talked to him interminably. I told him what I should have done had I been Alexander, or how I’d have played king in Athens, had I been Alcibiades. As early as I can remember I used to identify myself with every distinguished character I read about, but when I was fifteen or sixteen I noticed with some wonder that I could think of myself as Alcibiades or Sophocles more easily than as Alexander or C?sar. The life of books had begun to interest me more than real life. . . .
“My friend had a wonderful gift for listening. I was so occupied with talking and telling about myself that I knew very little about him, curiously47 little when I come to think of it. But the last incident of my school life makes me think he was a sort of mute poet, and had much more in him than I imagined. It was just before I first heard that I had won an Exhibition and was to go to Trinity. Dr. Steele had called me into his study to tell me the great news; he was very glad, he said, and insisted that it was all due to my last year’s hard work. The ‘hard’ work had been very interesting to me, or I would not have done much of it. The doctor wound up, I remember, by assuring me that if I went on studying as I had been studying during the last year I might yet do as well as my brother Willie, and be as great an honour to the school and everybody connected with it as he had been.
“This made me smile, for though I liked Willie, and knew he was a fairly good scholar, I never for a moment regarded him as my equal in any intellectual field. He knew all about football and cricket and studied the school-books assiduously, whereas I read everything that pleased me, and in my own opinion always went about ‘crowned.’” Here he laughed charmingly with amused deprecation of the conceit48.
“It was only about the quality of the crown, Frank, that I was in any doubt. If I had been offered the Triple Tiara, it would have appeared to me only the meet reward of my extraordinary merit. . . .
“When I came out from the doctor’s I hurried to my friend to tell him all the wonderful news. To my surprise he was cold and said, a little bitterly, I thought:
“‘You seem glad to go?’
“‘Glad to go,’ I cried; ‘I should think I was; fancy going to Trinity College, Dublin, from this place; why, I shall meet men and not boys. Of course I am glad, wild with delight; the first step to Oxford49 and fame.’
“‘I mean,’ my chum went on, still in the same cold way, ‘you seem glad to leave me.’
“His tone startled me.
“‘You silly fellow,’ I exclaimed, ‘of course not; I’m always glad to be with you: but perhaps you will be coming up to Trinity too; won’t you?’
“‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, ‘but I shall come to Dublin frequently.’
“‘Then we shall meet,’ I remarked; ‘you must come and see me in my rooms. My father will give me a room to myself in our house, and you know Merrion Square is the best part of Dublin. You must come and see me.’
“He looked up at me with yearning50, sad, regretful eyes. But the future was beckoning51 to me, and I could not help talking about it, for the golden key of wonderland was in my hand, and I was wild with desires and hopes.
“My friend was very silent, I remember, and only interrupted me to ask:
“‘When do you go, Oscar?’
“‘Early,’ I replied thoughtlessly, or rather full of my own thoughts, ‘early tomorrow morning, I believe; the usual train.’
“In the morning just as I was starting for the station, having said ‘goodbye’ to everyone, he came up to me very pale and strangely quiet.
“‘I’m coming with you to the station, Oscar,’ he said; ‘the Doctor gave me permission, when I told him what friends we had been.’
“‘I’m glad,’ I cried, my conscience pricking52 me that I had not thought of asking for his company. ‘I’m very glad. My last hours at school will always be associated with you.’
“He just glanced up at me, and the glance surprised me; it was like a dog looks at one. But my own hopes soon took possession of me again, and I can only remember being vaguely53 surprised by the appeal in his regard.
“When I was settled in my seat in the train, he did not say ‘goodbye’ and go, and leave me to my dreams; but brought me papers and things and hung about.
“The guard came and said:
“‘Now, sir, if you are going.’
“I liked the ‘Sir.’ To my surprise my friend jumped into the carriage and said:
“‘All right, guard, I’m not going, but I shall slip out as soon as you whistle.’
“The guard touched his cap and went. I said something, I don’t know what; I was a little embarrassed.
“‘You will write to me, Oscar, won’t you, and tell me about everything?’
“‘Oh, yes,’ I replied, ‘as soon as I get settled down, you know. There will be such a lot to do at first, and I am wild to see everything. I wonder how the professors will treat me. I do hope they will not be fools or prigs; what a pity it is that all professors are not poets. . . . ’ And so I went on merrily, when suddenly the whistle sounded and a moment afterwards the train began to move.
“‘You must go now,’ I said to him.
“‘Yes,’ he replied, in a queer muffled54 voice, while standing55 with his hand on the door of the carriage. Suddenly he turned to me and cried:
“‘Oh, Oscar,’ and before I knew what he was doing he had caught my face in his hot hands, and kissed me on the lips. The next moment he had slipped out of the door and was gone. . . .
“I sat there all shaken. Suddenly I became aware of cold, sticky drops trickling56 down my face — his tears. They affected57 me strangely. As I wiped them off I said to myself in amaze:
“‘This is love: this is what he meant — love.’ . . .
“I was trembling all over. For a long while I sat, unable to think, all shaken with wonder and remorse58.”
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1
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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versus
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| prep.以…为对手，对；与…相比之下 | |
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19
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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28
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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30
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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31
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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athletics
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| n.运动，体育，田径运动 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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50
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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54
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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