I hope that some day Mr. Partridge will write a plea for elementary art classes in our prisons. For in every prison there are gifted men and boys whose special talents might be so trained and [Pg 158]developed as to change the channel of their lives. What chances our prisons have with these wards4 of the state, to discover and develop the individual powers that might make their owners self-respecting and self-supporting men!
We are doing this in our institutions for the feeble-minded and with interesting results, but in our prisons the genius of a Michael Angelo might be stifled—the musical gift of a Chopin doomed5 to eternal silence.
Mr. Partridge's belief in the latent possibilities in our common children went to my heart, because I had known Anton Zabrinski; and yet I can never think of Anton Zabrinski as a common child.
The story of his life is brief; but his few years enclosed the circle of childhood, youth, aspiration6, hope, horror, tragedy, pain, and death; and all the beautiful possibilities of his outward life were blighted7.
Anton's home was in the west side of Chicago, in that region where successive unpronounceable names above doors and across windows assure one that Poland is not lost but scattered8.
In back rooms in the third story of the house lived the Zabrinski family, the father and mother[Pg 159] with Anton and his sister two years younger. The mother was terribly crippled from an accident in childhood, and was practically a prisoner in her home. Anton, her only son, was the idol9 of her heart.
When scarcely more than a child Anton began work tailoring. He learned rapidly, and when sixteen years old was so skilful10 a worker that he earned twelve dollars a week. This energy and skill, accuracy of perception and sureness of touch, gave evidence of a fine organization. His was an elastic11, joyous12 nature, but his growth was stunted13, his whole physique frail14; sensitive and shy, he shrank with nervous timidity from contact with the stronger, rougher, coarser-fibred boys of the neighborhood. Naturally this served only to make Anton a more tempting15 target for their jokes.
Two of these boys in particular played upon his fears until they became an actual terror in his existence; though the boys doubtless never imagined the torture they were inflicting17, nor dreamed that he really believed they intended to injure him. It happened one evening that Anton was going home alone from an entertainment, when these two boys suddenly jumped out from some[Pg 160] hiding-place and seized him, probably intending only to frighten him. Frighten him they did, out of all bounds and reason. In his frantic18 efforts to get away from them Anton opened his pocket-knife and struck out blindly. But in this act of self-defence he mortally wounded one of the boys.
Anton Zabrinski did not go back to his mother that night; this gentle, industrious19 boy, doing the work and earning the wages of a man, had become, in the eye of the law, a murderer. I have written "in the eye of the law"; a more accurate statement would be "in the eye of the court," for under fair construction of the law this could only have been a case of manslaughter; but——
I once asked one of Chicago's most eminent20 judges why in clear cases of manslaughter so many times men were charged with murder and tried for murder. The judge replied: "Because it is customary in bringing an indictment21 to make the largest possible net in which to catch the criminal."
Anton Zabrinski had struck out with his knife in the mere22 animal instinct of self-defence. The real moving force of evil in the tragedy was the love of cruel sport actuating the larger boys—a passion leading to innumerable crimes. Were the[Pg 161] moral origin of many of our crimes laid bare we should clearly see that the final act of violence was but a result—the rebound23 of an evil force set in motion from an opposite direction. It sometimes happens that it is the slayer24 who is the victim of the slain25. But to the dead, who have passed beyond the need of our mercy, we are always merciful.
Had an able lawyer defended Anton he never would have been convicted on the charge of murder; but the family was poor, and, having had no experience with the courts, ignorantly expected fairness and justice. Anton was advised to plead guilty to the charge of murder, and was given to understand that if he did so the sentence would be light. Throwing himself upon "the mercy of the court," the boy pleaded "guilty." He was informed that "the mercy of the court" would inflict16 the sentence of imprisonment26 for life. It chanced that in the court-room another judge was present whose sense of justice, as well as of mercy, was outraged27 by this severity. Moved with compassion28 for the undefended victim he protested against the impending29 sentence and induced the presiding judge to reduce it to thirty years. Thirty years! A lifetime indeed to the[Pg 162] imagination of a boy of seventeen. The crippled mother, with her heart torn asunder30, was left in the little back room where she lived, while Anton was taken to Joliet penitentiary31.
It did not seem so dreadful when first it came in sight—that great gray-stone building, with its broad, hospitable33 entrance through the warden34 house; but when the grated doors closed behind him with relentless35 metallic36 clang, in that sound Anton realized the death-knell of freedom and happiness. And later when, for the first night, the boy found himself alone in a silent, "solitary37"[8] cell, then came the agonizing38 homesickness of a loving young heart torn from every natural tie. Actually but two hours distant was home, the little back room transfigured to a heaven through love and the yearning39 cry of his heart; but the actual two hours had become thirty years of prison in the future. The prison life itself was but a dumb, unshapen dread32 in his imagination. And the unmeaning mystery and cruelty and horror of his fate! Why, his whole life covered but seventeen years, of which memory could recall not[Pg 163] more than twelve; he knew they were years of innocence40, and then years of faithful work and honest aims until that one night of horror, when frightened out of his senses he struck wildly for dear life. And then he had become that awful thing, a murderer, and yet without one thought of murder in his heart. If God knew or cared, how could he have let it all happen? And now he must repent41 or he never could be forgiven. And yet how could he repent, when he had meant to do no wrong; when his own quivering agony was surging through heart and mind and soul; when he was overwhelmed with the black irrevocableness of it all, and the sense of the dark, untrodden future? One night like that, it holds the sufferings of an ordinary lifetime.
We who have reached our meridian42 know that life means trial and disappointment, but to youth the bubble glows with prismatic color; and to Anton it had all been blotted43 into blackness through one moment of deadly fear.
When young convicts are received at Joliet penitentiary it is customary for the warden to give them some chance for life and for development physically44 and mentally. They are usually given light work, either as runners for the shops[Pg 164] or helpers in the kitchens or dining-rooms, where they have exercise, fresh air, and some variety in employment. Anton came to the prison when there was a temporary change of wardens45, and it happened when he was taken from the "solitary" cell where he passed the first night that he was put to work in the marble-shop, a hard place for a full-grown man. He was given also a companion in his cell when working-hours were over.
As he became fully46 adjusted to prison life he learned a curious thing: on the outside crime had been the exception, a criminal was looked upon as one apart from the community; but in this strange, unnatural47 prison world it was crime which formed the common basis of equality, the tie of brotherhood48.
And again, the tragedy of his own fate, which had seemed to him to fill the universe, lost its horrible immensity in his imagination as he came to realize that every man wearing that convict suit bore in his heart the wound or the scar of tragedy or of wrong inflicted49 or experienced. He had believed that nothing could be so terrible as to be separated from home and loved ones; but learned to wonder if it were not more terrible never to have known loved ones or home.
[Pg 165]
When his cell-mate estimated the "good time" allowance on a sentence of thirty years, Anton found that by good behavior he could reduce this sentence to seventeen years. That really meant something to live for. He thought he should be almost an old man if he lived to be thirty-three—something like poor old Peter Zowar who had been in prison twenty-five years; but no prisoner had ever lived there thirty years; and this reduction to seventeen years meant to Anton the difference between life and death. Even the seventeen years' distance from home began to be bridged when his sister Nina came to see him, bringing him the oranges and bananas indelibly associated with the streets of Chicago, or cakes made by his own mother's hands and baked in the oven at home.
Life in prison became more endurable, too, when he learned that individual skill in every department of work was recognized, and that sincerity50 and faithfulness counted for something even in a community of criminals. Praise was rare, communication in words was limited to the necessities of work; but in some indefinable way character was recognized and a friendly attitude made itself felt and warmed the heart; and the nature so sensitive to harshness was quick to perceive and to respond to kindness.
[Pg 166]
It is hard to be in prison when a boy, but the older convicts regard these boys with compassion, touched by something in them akin51 to their own lost youth, or perhaps to children of their own. Little Anton looked no older and was no larger than the average boy of fourteen; and to the older men he seemed a child.
Human nature is human nature, and youth is youth in spite of bolts and bars. The springtime of life was repressed in Anton, but it was working silently within him, and silently there was unfolding a power not given to all of us. His work in the marble-shop was readily learned, for the apprenticeship52 at tailoring had trained his eye and hand, and steadfast53 application had become habitual54. As his ability was recognized ornamental55 work on marble was assigned him. At first he followed the patterns as did the ordinary workmen; these designs suggested to him others; then he obtained permission to work out the beautiful lines that seemed always waiting to form themselves under his hand, and the patterns were finally set aside altogether. The art impulse within him was astir and finding expression, and as time passed he was frankly56 recognized as the best workman in the shop.
[Pg 167]
He was homesick still, always homesick, but fresh interest had come into his existence, for unawares the spirit of beauty had come to be the companion of his working-hours. He did not recognize her. He had never heard of art impulses. But he found solid human pleasure and took simple boyish pride in the individuality and excellence57 of his work.
The first year and the second year of his imprisonment passed: the days dawning, darkening, and melting away, as like to one another as beads58 upon a string, each one counted into the past at night as meaning one day less of imprisonment. But toward the end of the second year the hours began to drag interminably, and Anton's interest in his work flagged. He became restless, the marble dust irritated his lungs, and a cough, at first unnoticed, increased until it constantly annoyed him. Then his rest at night was broken by pain in his side, and at last the doctor ordered him to be removed from the marble-shop. It was a frail body at best, and the confinement59, the unremitting work, the total lack of air and exercise had done their worst; and all resisting physical power was undermined.
No longer able to work, Anton was relegated60 to[Pg 168] the "idle room." Under the wise rule of recent wardens the idle room has happily become a thing of the past, but for years it was a feature of the institution, owing partly to limited hospital accommodations. By the prisoners generally this idle room, called by them the "dreary61 room," was looked upon as the half-way station between the shops and the grave. Most cheerless and melancholy62 was this place where men too far gone in disease to work, men worn out in body and broken in spirit, waited together day after day until their maladies developed sufficiently63 for them to be considered fit subjects for hospital care. Usually no reading-matter was allowed, and free social intercourse64 was of course forbidden, although the inmates65 occasionally indulged in the luxury of comparing diseases. Under the strain of that deadening monotony courage failed, and to many a man indifferent to his own fate the sight of the hopelessness of others was heart-breaking. The influence of the idle room was not quite so depressing when Anton came within its circle, for a light industry had just been introduced there, and some of the inmates were employed.
And at this time Anton was beginning to live in[Pg 169] a day-dream. His cell-mate, a young man serving a twenty years' sentence, was confidently expecting a pardon; pardons became the constant theme of talk between the two when the day was over, and Anton's faith in his own possible release kindled66 and glowed with the brightening prospects67 of his friend. Hope, that strange characteristic of tuberculosis68, flamed the higher as disease progressed; with the hectic69 flush there came into his eyes a more brilliant light, and a stronger power to look beyond the prison to dear liberty and home. Even the shadow of the idle room could not dim the light of his imagination. No longer able to carve his fancies on stone, he wove them into beautiful patterns for life in freedom. The hope of a pardon is in the air in every prison. Anton wrote to his family and talked with his sister about it, and though he made no definite beginning every day his faith grew stronger.
It was at this time that I met Anton. I was visiting at the penitentiary, and during a conversation with a young English convict, a semi-protégé of Mary Anderson, the actress, this young man said to me: "I wish you knew my cell-mate." I replied that I already knew too many men in that prison. "But if you would only see little[Pg 170] Anton I know you would be mashed70 in a minute," the Englishman confidently asserted. As to that probability I was sceptical, but I was impressed by the earnestness of the young man as he sketched71 the outline of Anton's story and urged me to see him. I remember that he made a point of this: "The boy is so happy thinking that he will get a pardon sometime, but he will die here if somebody doesn't help him soon." To gratify the Englishman I consented to see the happy boy who was in danger of dying.
An attractive or interesting face is rare among the inmates of our prisons. The striped convict suit, which our so-called Christian72 civilization so long inflicted upon fellow men, in itself gave an air of degradation,[9] and the repression73 of all animation74 tends to produce an expression of almost uniform dulness. Notwithstanding his cell-mate's enthusiasm I was thrilled with surprise, and something deeper than surprise, when I saw Anton Zabrinski. The beauty of that young Polish prisoner shone like a star above the degrading convict suit. It was the face of a Raphael, with the broad brow and the large, luminous75, far-apart eyes of darkest blue, suggesting in their[Pg 171] depths all the beautiful repressed possibilities—eyes radiant with hope and with childlike innocence and trust. My heart was instantly vibrant76 with sympathy, and we were friends with the first hand-clasp. The artistic temperament77 was as evident in the slender, highly developed hands as in his face.
At a glance I saw that his fate was sealed; but his spirit of hope was irresistible78 and carried me on in its own current for the hour. Anton was like a happy child, frankly and joyfully79 opening his heart to a friend whom he seemed always to have known. That bright hour was unclouded by any dark forebodings in regard to illness or an obdurate80 governor. We talked of pardon and freedom and home and happiness. I did not speak to him of repentance81 or preparation for death. I felt that when the summons came to that guileless spirit it could only be a summons to a fuller life.
During our interview the son of the new warden came in, and I called his attention to Anton. It was charming to see the cordial, friendly fashion in which this young man[10] talked to the prisoner,[Pg 172] asking where he could be found and promising82 to do what he could for him, while Anton felt that at last he was touching83 the hand of Providence84. The new authorities had not been there long enough to know many of the convicts individually, but at dinner that day the warden's son interested his father in Anton by recounting their conversation that morning. The warden's always ready sympathy was touched. "Take the boy out of that idle room," he said, "take him around the yard with you to see the dogs and horses." This may not have been discipline, but it was delightfully85 human—and humanizing.
When I left the prison I was assured that I could depend upon the warden's influence in furthering my purpose of realizing Anton's dream, his faith and hope of pardon. The following Sunday in Chicago I found the Zabrinski family, father, mother, and the young sister, in their third-story back rooms. On the wall hung a framed photograph of Anton as a little child. The mother did not speak very clear English, but she managed to repeat, over and over again: "Anton was so good; always he was such a good boy." The young sister, a tailoress, very trim in her dark-blue Sunday gown, discussed [Pg 173]intelligently ways and means of obtaining her brother's release.
Our plans worked smoothly86, and a few weeks later, when all Chicago was given over to the World's Fair, the desire of Anton's heart came true and he was restored to home and freedom. Or, as the newspapers would have put it: "Our anarchist87 governor let loose another murderer to prey88 upon society." Poor little murderer! In all that great city there was no child more helpless or harmless than he.
The image of little Anton Zabrinski, as of the prison itself, grew faint in my heart for the time, under the spell of the long enchanting89 summer days and magical evenings at the White City.
The interest and the beauty of that fusion90 of all times and all countries was so absorbing and irresistible that I had stayed on and on until one day in July when I braced91 myself for the wrench92 of departure next morning. But the evening mail brought me letters from home and among them one forwarded from Anton, entreating93 me to come and see him. I had not counted on being remembered by Anton except as a milestone94 on his path toward freedom—I might have counted on it, however, after my many [Pg 174]experiences of the gratitude95 of prisoners—but his longing96 to see me was unmistakable; and as I had broken my word so many times about going home that my reputation for unreliability in that direction could not be lowered, I sent a final telegram of delay.—Oh, luxury of having no character to lose!
The next morning I took an early start for the home of the Zabrinskis. In a little back yard—a mere patch of bare ground without the possibility of a blade of grass, with no chance of even looking at the sky unless one lay on one's back, with uniform surroundings of back doors and back stairs—what a contrast to that dream of beauty at Jackson Park!—here it was that I found Anton, listlessly sitting on a bench with a little dog as companion. All hope and animation seemed to have died out within him; even the lights in his deep-blue eyes had given way to shadows; strength and courage had ebbed97 away, and he had yielded at last to weariness and depression. He had left the prison, indeed, but only to face death; he had come back to his home, only to be carried away from it forever. Even his mother's loving care could not stop that racking cough nor free him from pain. And how limited the[Pg 175] longed-for freedom proved! It had reached out from his home only to the hospital dispensary. Weakness and poverty formed impassable barriers beyond which he could not go.
As I realized all this I resolved to give him the most lovely vision in the world to think of and to dream of. "Anton," I said, "how would you like to take a steamer and go on the lake with me to see the World's Fair from the water?"—for him to attempt going on the grounds was not to be thought of.
For a moment he shrank from the effort of getting to the steamer, but after considering it for a while in silence he announced: "When I make up my mind that I will do a thing, I do it; I will go with you." Then we unfolded our plan for adventure to the mother. Rather wild she thought it, but our persuasive98 eloquence99 won the day and she consented, insisting only that we should partake of refreshments100 before starting on our expedition. With the connivance101 of a neighbor on the next floor Mrs. Zabrinski obtained a delicious green-apple pie from a bakery near by and served it for our delectation.
I find that already the noble lines, with their beautiful lights and shadows, in the Court of[Pg 176] Honor of the White City are blending into an indistinct memory; but the picture of Anton Zabrinski as he leaned back in his chair on the steamer, breathing the delicious pure, fresh air, sweeping102 his glance across the boundless103 plain of undulating blue, will be with me forever. Here at last was freedom! And how eagerly the boy's perishing being drank it in!
There was everything going on around us to divert and amuse: crowds of people, of course, and a noisy band of musicians; but it all made no impression upon Anton. We two were practically alone with the infinite sky and the far-stretching water. It was easy then for Anton to tell me of his deeper thoughts, and to speak of the change that he knew was coming soon. Life had been so hard, only fruitless effort and a losing battle, and now he longed only for rest. He had felt the desire to give expression to beautiful form, he had felt the stirring of undeveloped creative power. We spoke104 of the future not as death but as the coming of new life and as the opportunity for the fair unfolding of all the higher possibilities of his nature—as freedom from all fetters105. His faith, simple but serious, rested upon his consciousness of having, in his inmost soul, loved[Pg 177] and sought the good. His outward life was hopelessly wrecked106; but he was going away from that, and it was his soul, his true inner life, that would appear before God. It was all a mystery and he was helpless, but he was not afraid. He had forgiven life.
As we talked together the steamer neared the pier107 at Jackson Park. "And now, Anton, you must go to the other side of the boat and see the beautiful White City," I said. It was like alabaster108 in its clear loveliness that radiant morning, and all alive with the lilting colors of innumerable flags. It was Swedish day, and a most gorgeous procession in national costume thronged109 the dock as our steamer approached, for we had on board some important delegation110. A dozen bands were playing and the grand crash of sound and the brilliant massing of color thrilled me to my fingertips. But Anton only looked at it for a moment with unseeing eyes: it was too limited; it was the stir and sound and crowd of the city. He turned again eagerly to the great sweep of sky and water; "You don't know what this lake and this fresh air are to me," he said quietly, and he looked no more toward the land until we had returned to Van Buren Street.
[Pg 178]
After we left the steamer Anton threw off the spell of the water. He insisted on my taking a glass of soda111 with him from one of the fountains on the dock; it was his turn to be entertainer now. I drank the soda and live to tell the tale. By that time we had caught the bohemian spirit of the World's Fair, Anton was revived and excited by the hour on the water, and as we crossed over to Michigan Avenue the brilliant life of the street attracted and charmed him, and I proposed walking slowly down to the Auditorium112 Hotel. Every step of the way was a delight to Anton, and when we reached the great hotel I waited in the ladies' reception-room while Anton strolled through the entrances and office, looking at the richly blended tones of the marbles and the decoration in white and gold. I knew that it would be one more fresh and lovely memory for him to carry back to the little rooms where the brief remnant of his life was to be spent.
At an adjoining flower-stand we found sweet peas for his mother. I saw him safely on board the car that would take him to his home; then, with a parting wave of his hand and a bright, happy smile of farewell, little Anton Zabrinski passed out of my sight.
[Pg 179]
Through the kindness of a friend I had the very great happiness of sending Anton a pass, "For bearer and one," that gave him, with an escort, the freedom of the World's Fair steamers for the summer—the greatest possible boon113 to the boy, for even when too weak to go to the steamer he could still cherish the expectation of that delight.
Anton's strength failed rapidly. He wrote me one letter saying: "I can die happy now that I am with my mother. I thank you a thousand times over and over for your kind feeling towards me and the kind words in your letters, and the charming rose you sent. I cannot write a long letter on account of my pains through my whole chest. I can't turn during the night from one side to another. Dear Friend, I don't like to tell my misery114 and sorrows to persons, but I can't help telling you."
Another letter soon followed, but not from Anton. It was the sister who wrote:
"Dear Friend:
"With deep sorrow I inform you of my dear brother's death. He died at four o'clock in the morning. He had a great desire to see you [Pg 180]before he died. We should be glad to see you at the funeral if convenient Wednesday morning.
"Pardon this poor letter
"from your loving friend
"Miss Nina Zabrinski."
FOOTNOTES:
[8] These "solitary" cells in which a prisoner passed his first night were in a detached building in which the punishment cells were located. The solitude115 was absolute and terrible.
[9] The striped convict suit was practically abolished at Joliet the following year.
[10] This young man, Edmund M. Allen, is now warden of this same prison, and has so developed the humanizing methods of his father as to bring Joliet penitentiary into the front rank of progressive prison reform.
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1
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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conserve
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| vt.保存，保护，节约，节省，守恒，不灭 | |
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4
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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8
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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15
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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16
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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35
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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36
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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37
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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38
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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39
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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40
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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41
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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42
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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43
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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44
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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45
wardens
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| n.看守人( warden的名词复数 )；管理员；监察员；监察官 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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48
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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49
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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51
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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52
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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53
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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54
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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55
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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57
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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58
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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61
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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65
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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67
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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68
tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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69
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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71
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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72
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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73
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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74
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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75
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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77
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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78
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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80
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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81
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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82
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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83
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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84
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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85
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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86
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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87
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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88
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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90
fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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91
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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92
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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93
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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94
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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95
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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96
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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97
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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98
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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99
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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100
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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101
connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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102
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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103
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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104
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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105
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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107
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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108
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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109
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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111
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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112
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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113
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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114
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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115
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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