最后一片叶子 英文原文

最后一片叶子

英文原文

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy

and broken themselves into small strips called

strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist

once

discovered

a

valuable

possibility

in

this

street.

Suppose

a

collector

with

a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly

meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling,

hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and

low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from

Sixth Avenue, and became a

At

the

top

of

a

squatty,

three-story

brick

Sue

and

Johnsy

had

their

studio.

was

familiar

for

Joanna.

One

was

from

Maine;

the

other

from

California.

They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street

found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that

the joint studio resulted.

That

was

in

May.

In

November

a

cold,

unseen

stranger,

whom

the

doctors

called

Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy

fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims

by

scores,

but

his

feet

trod

slowly

through

the

maze

of

the

narrow

and

moss-grown

Mr.

Pneumonia

was

not

what

you

would

call

a

chivalric

old

gentleman.

A

mite

of

a

little

woman

with

blood

thinned

by

California

zephyrs

was

hardly

fair

game

for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she

lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small

Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy,

grey eyebrow.

mercury in his clinical thermometer.

live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the

entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that

she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?

for instance?

- but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.

science,

so

far

as

it

may

filter

through

my

efforts,

can

accomplish.

But

whenever

1

my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract

50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask

one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you

a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten.

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese

napkin

to

a

pulp.

Then

she

swaggered

into

Johnsy's

room

with

her

drawing

board,

whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face

toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a

magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures

for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a

monocle

of

the

figure

of

the

hero,

an

Idaho

cowboy,

she

heard

a

low

sound,

several

times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting

- counting backward.

she

said,

and

little

later

and

and then

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There

was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house

twenty

feet

away.

An

old,

old

ivy

vine,

gnarled

and

decayed

at

the

roots,

climbed

half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves

from the vine until

its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling

bricks.

said

Johnsy,

in

almost

a

whisper.

falling

faster

now.

Three

days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But

now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.

On

the

ivy

vine.

When

the

last

one

falls

I

must

go,

too.

I've

known

that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?

I

never

heard

of

such

nonsense,

complained

Sue,

with

magnificent

scorn.

that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me

this

morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly

what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good

a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past

a

new

building.

Try

to

take

some

broth

now,

and

let

Sudie

go

back

to

her

drawing,

2

so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child,

and pork chops for her greedy self.

the window.

four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too.

your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must

hand

those

drawings

in

by

to-morrow.

I

need

the

light,

or

I

would

draw

the

shade

down.

looking at those silly ivy leaves.

lying white and still as fallen statue,

fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I

want to turn loose my

hold

on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired

leaves.

old

hermit

miner.

I'll

not

be

gone

a

minute.

Don't

try

to

move

'til

I

come

back.

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He

was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the

head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art.

Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the

hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece,

but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except

now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little

by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay

the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his

coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed

terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial

mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue

found

Behrman

smelling

strongly

of

juniper

berries

in

his

dimly

lighted

den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting

there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She

told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and

fragile

as a

leaf herself, float

away,

when her slight

hold upon the world

grew

weaker.

Old Behrman, with

his

red

eyes

plainly streaming,

shouted his contempt

and

derision for such idiotic imaginings.

3

because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a

thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do

you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle

Miss Yohnsy.

is

very

ill

and

weak,

said

Sue,

the

fever

has

left

her

mind

morbid

and full of strange

fancies. Very

well, Mr. Behrman,

if you do not care to

pose

for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet.

Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready

to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall

lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott!

yes.

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to

the

window-sill,

and

motioned

Behrman

into

the

other

room.

In

there

they

peered

out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for

a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with

snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an

upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with

dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured

through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy

leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with

its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung

bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same

time.

of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul

when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed

to

possess

her

more

strongly

as

one

by

one

the

ties

that

bound

her

to

friendship

and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone

ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of

4

the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against

the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade

be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who

was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You

may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and

- no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and

I will sit up and watch you cook.

And hour later she said:

The

doctor

came

in

the

afternoon,

and

Sue

had

an

excuse

to

go

into

the

hallway

as he left.

good

nursing

you'll

win.

And

now

I

must

see

another

case

I

have

downstairs.

Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He

is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but

he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.

The

next

day

the

doctor

said

to

Sue:

out

of

danger.

You

won.

Nutrition

and care now - that's all.

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly

knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm

around her, pillows and all.

of

pneumonia

to-day

in

the

hospital.

He

was

ill

only

two

days.

The

janitor

found

him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain.

His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine

where

he

had

been

on

such

a

dreadful

night.

And

then

they

found

a

lantern,

still

lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered

brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look

out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why

it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's

masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.

基本简介：

真实姓名：威廉·西德尼·波特

(William Sydney Porter)

笔

名：欧·亨利

()

生卒年代：

1862.9.11-1910.6.5

5

< /p>

美国著名

批判现实主义

作家，世界三大< /p>

短篇小说

大师之一。（欧·亨利、莫泊桑、

契诃夫）

原名威廉·西德尼·波特（

William Sydney P orter

），是美国最著名的短篇小说

家之一，

曾被评论界誉为曼哈顿桂冠散文作家和美国现代短篇小说之父。

他出生于美国

北卡罗来纳州格林斯波罗镇一个医师家庭。

基本信息：他的一生富于传奇性，当过药房学徒、牧牛人、会计员、土地局办事员、新

< br>闻记者、银行出纳员。当银行出纳员时，因银行短缺了一笔现金，为避免审讯，离家流

亡中美的洪都拉斯。后因回家探视病危的妻子被捕入狱，并在监狱医务室任药剂师。他

创作第一部作品的起因是为了给女儿买圣诞礼物，

但基于犯人的身份不敢使用真名，< /p>

乃

用一部法国药典的编者的名字作为笔名。

1901

年提前获释后迁居纽约，专门从事写作。

欧·亨利善于描写美国社会尤其是 纽约百姓的生活。

他的作品构思新颖，

语言诙谐，

结局总使人“感到在情理之中，又在意料之外”；又因描写了众多的人物，富于生活情

趣，

被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。

代表作有小 说集

《白菜与国王》

、

《四百万》

、

《命运之路》等。其中一些名篇如《爱的牺牲》、《警察与赞美诗 》、《

麦琪的礼物

》

（也称作《贤人的 礼物》）、《带家具出租的房间》、《最后一片藤叶》等使他获得了

世界声誉。