The Boston Post - Monday, August 12, 1895
This report was originally published in English. Machine translations may be available in other languages.
PRISONER WILDE.
Woeful Change in His Appear-
ance.
NO MORE THE JAUNTY OSCAR.
Erstwhile Lion of
English Society Now
Has a Stupid, Heavy Look - Seen by
a French Correspondent at Wormwood
Prison.
LONDON, Aug. 11. - Only twice have I been able to catch a glimpse of Oscar Wilde in the crowded cour troom of Old Bailey, writes a correspondent of the Echo de la Semaine. Each time I was shocked by the changed appearance of this apostle of the new cult.
This morning I saw Oscar Wilde in the yard of the Wormwood prison where he has been condemned to spend five years of his existence. The rules of the institution forbid the interviewing of prisoners, so I had no opportunity to speak to him. For the third time sensational rumors regarding the falling health of Wilde had been circulated, which caused the government to appoint two doctors to study by sight (i.e., only by sight) the condition of the prisoner. A few press representatives, one of whom was designated by the relatives of Oscar Wilde, were permitted to accompany the physicians, provided that no one would betray his presence by sign or sound.
We were invisible to the prisoner; he could not possibly have surmised our presence. The warden grouped us in an apartment adjoining his office, of which the window gave an excellent view of the large courtyard. Wire trellis covered the window, so the we could see without being seen. Every Sunday at 10 o'clock, after divine service, we are told, Wilde is conducted here for exercise and contemplation. A large oaken door closes the yard opposite our window.
It is 10 o'clock. At the first stroke of the bell the heavy oaken door is opened and a large, dimly lighted hall opens to our view. The warden’s clerk tells us that Wilde is now on his way from the chapel to the courtyard, where he encounters no one, but is nevertheless under constant and vigilant espionage. As soon as he arrives in the courtyard the doors seem to close automatically, and a solitary, silent guard is stationed near the door to watch the promenader.
It is 10 o'clock. At the first stroke of the bell the heavy oaken door is opened and a large dimly lighted hall opens to our view. The warden’s clerk tells me that Wilde is now on his way from the chapel to the courtyard, where he encounters no one, but is nevertheless under constant and vigilant espionage. As soon as he arrives in the courtyard the doors seem to close automatically, and a solitary silent guard is stationed near the door to watch the promenader.
It is 10 o’clock. At the first stroke of the bell the heavy oaken door is opened, and a large, dimly lighted hall opens to our view. The Warden’s clerk tells me that Wilde is now on his way from the chapel to the courtyard, where he encounters no one, but is nevertheless under constant and vigilant espionage. As soon as he arrives in the courtyard the doors seem to close automatically, and a solitary silent guard is stationed near the door to watch the promenader.
We have a good view of him already as he slowly descends the heavy staircase near the oaken door. He walks in his stocking feet, holds his sabots in his left hand and glides his right over the balustrade. On the threshold of the oaken door he steps into his wooden shoes and descends to the courtyard. A sharp whistle and the door is closed. This is Wilde.
We have a good view of him already as he slowly descends the heavy staircase near the oaken door. He walks in his stocking feet, holds his sabots in his left hand, and glides his right over the balustrade. On the threshold of the oaken door he steps into his wooden shoes and descends to the courtyard. A sharp whistle and the door is closed. This is Wilde.
We have a good view of him already as he slowly descends the heavy staircase near the oaken door. He walks in his stocking feet, holds his sabots in his left hand, and glides his right over the balustrade. On the threshold of the open door he steps into his wooden shoes, and descends to the courtyard. A sharp whistle and the door is closed. This is Wilde.
In his first movements he draws himself to his full length, stretches his arms, then removes his cap. I can hardly recognize the erstwhile genteel personage. He has not grown thin. To me he appeared even larger and more broad shouldered than in his better days, and I believe that he has gained in avoirdupois. Yet the change is awful. That unnatural yellow paleness, the hideously shaven face, the shorn locks, made all the difference. What a contrast - this expressionless, stupid, bloated physiognomy, with its prison tonsure and discolored flesh, to the buoyant countenance flushed with success and happiness which I beheld five years before in Stratford.
In his first movements he draws himself to his full length, stretches his arms, then removes his cap. I can hardly recognize the erstwhile genteel personage. He has not grown thin. To me he appeared even larger and more broad-shouldered than in his better days, and I believe that he has gained in avoirdupois. Yet the change is awful. That unnatural yellow paleness, the hideously shaven face, the shorn locks, made all the difference. What a contrast—this expressionless, stupid, bloated physiognomy, with its prison tonsure and discolored flesh, to the buoyant countenance, flushed with success and happiness, which I beheld five years before in Stratford!
In his first movements he draws himself to his full length, stretches his arms, then removes his cap. I can hardly recognize the erstwhile genteel personage. He has not grown thin. To me he appeared even larger and more broad-shouldered than in his better days, and I believe that he has gained in averdupois. Yet the change is awful. That unnatural yellow paleness, the hideously shaven face, the shorn locks, made all the difference. What a stupid contrast - this expressionless, stupid, bloated physiognomy, with its prison tonsure and discolored flesh, to the buoyant countenance, flushed with success and happiness which I beheld five years before in Stratford!
The prisoner now begins his exercise, first with a brisk trot with the object of using his time - one hour per week - to the best advantage; then slower, and, finally, it is changed to a languid step. There is a small shade near the wall, and under it a stone bench. Wilde sits down. His movements are like those of a man who thinks himself alone, unobserved.
Finally he seems thoroughly fatigued, his head falls back against the wall and he falls asleep. At first we doubt it, and think he is only resting, but his regular respirations soon undeceive us.
Poor devil! Has he not suffered enough! We think so in France, and surely England’s morals are nothing to brag of that it should continue to throw stones at this fallen apostle. Released or in prison, society has forever discarded him, and in his own body and soul he carries to his dying hour the rewards of his misdeeds.