The Last Leaf by O. Henry:
In a neighborhood west of Washington Square, the streets seem to have gone wild, dividing into a number of small alleyways called "lanes. These "alleys" form many odd angles and curves. The street itself often crosses once or twice.
On one occasion, an artist realized that the street had something valuable to offer. It would be interesting if a merchant, going to collect payment for paints, paper and canvases, were to turn round and round and round in circles on this street, and suddenly bump into himself, who would return empty-handed, having received not a penny!
So it wasn't long before artsy people were coming to this quaint Greenwich Village. They wandered around, looking for north-facing windows, 18th-century triangular walls, Dutch lofts, and low rents. Then they bought some tin-wax cups and a baking pan or two from Sixth Avenue and created an "art district.
Suai and Joanne set up their studio on the top floor of a stumpy three-story brick house. "Joanne" was Joanna's nickname. One of the two was from Maine; the other's hometown was California. They met over dinner at a Del Monico restaurant on Eight Horse Pike, and when they talked to each other, they realized they had similar tastes in art, food and clothing, and they rented the studio together.
That was in May. By November, a ruthless, invisible visitor, whom doctors call "pneumonia," was stalking the art district, touching here and there with his icy fingers. On the east side of the plaza, this bad guy was on the prowl, victimizing dozens of people at a time. But in this intricate, narrow, mossy "alley," his pace slowed.
Mr. Pneumonia is not what you would call a gentleman who helps the weak and the needy. A weak woman, already bloodless from the California westerly winds, certainly couldn't stand up to the common sense of the old guy with the red fist off and the panting breath. But he surprised Joanne by striking her; she lay motionless on the painted iron bed, staring out of the little Dutch window at the wall of the brick house opposite.
One morning the busy doctor raised his bushy gray eyebrows and greeted Soai in the aisle.
"As I see it, there's only a ten percent chance of her getting sick." He said, flinging down the mercury in his thermometer as he did so. "That ten percent hope lies in whether or not she wants to live herself. People don't want to live, preferring to take care of the undertaker's business, and that state of mind makes medicine a hopeless case. This young lady of yours is full of the thought that she won't get well. Does she have something on her mind?"
"She - she hopes to paint the Bay of Naples someday." Suai said.
"Painting? - - Don't be ridiculous! Does she have anything on her mind that's worth thinking about twice -- like, say, men?"
"Men?" Soai said with a grunt like a little harmonica, "Is a man worth -- stop it, no, Doc; there's no such thing."
"Then it must be weakness." The doctor said, "I must do everything I know how to do, and treat her in every way that science can reach. But whenever my patient begins to reckon with how many carriages there are to take him to his funeral, I have to reduce the healing power of medicine by fifty percent.
If you can interest her in the sleeve pattern of her winter coat by proposing one always, I can assure you that the chances of her recovery will be improved from one in ten to one in five, to be sure."
After the doctor left, Soai went into the studio and gave a cry, wiping a Japanese paper napkin into a mess. Then she picked up her drawing pad, whistled a ragtime tune, and strutted into Joanne's room.
Jonathan lay under the covers, her face toward the window, not moving at all. Suai thought she was asleep and hurried to stop whistling.
She set up her drawing board and began to draw a pen-and-ink illustration of a short story for the magazine. Young painters had to pave the way to art with illustrations of magazine novels that young writers created to pave the way to literature.
Suai was in the middle of drawing a nice pair of breeches and a monocle for the protagonist of the novel, an Idaho rancher, to wear at a horse show, when suddenly she heard a faint voice repeat itself several times. She hurried to the bedside.
Jonathan's eyes were wide open. She was looking out the window, counting - counting down to come up.
"Twelve," she said, and then, after a moment, "eleven"; then "ten", "nine "; then "eight" and "seven," almost in a row.
Suai looked out the window with concern. What was there to count? All that was visible outside was an empty, dreary yard and the walls of a hanging brick house twenty feet away. A standard of very, very old ivy, its tangled roots withered, fanned out over the half-wall. The cold fall winds had blown almost all the leaves off the vine, leaving only a few almost bare branches clinging to the loose, crumbling brick wall.
"What's going on, honey?" Suai asked.
"Six." Joanne said, her voice low as a whisper, "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred pieces. It made me dizzy counting them. It's easier now. Here, another piece has fallen off. Only five pieces left."
"Five slices of what, honey? Tell your Suai."
"Leaves, leaves on the ivy. When the last one falls off, I'll have to go too. I knew that three days ago. Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"Yo, I've never heard anything so ridiculous." Suai said in a sarcastic manner, feigning disinterest, "What does the old vine leaf have to do with your illness? You always loved that ivy, come on, you naughty girl. Come now, you naughty girl, don't be silly. I forgot that the doctor told you this morning that your chances of a speedy recovery were - let's see, what did he say?
He said your chances of getting well were ten to one! Yo, that's almost as rare as when we hitchhike on the streetcar or walk through the site of a hanging new house in New York and run into an accident. Now have a little soup. Let Suai keep on drawing so she can sell it to Mr. Editor and get money for some claret for her sick child and some pork chops to fill her own cravings."
"You don't need to buy any more wine." Joanne said, still gazing out the window, "Another slice has fallen off. No, I don't want soup. There are only four slices left. I hope to see the last of the vine leaves float down before dark. It's time for me to go then."
"Joanne, dear," Soai said, bending over her, "will you promise me not to open your eyes or look out the window until I've finished my drawings? Those drawings I have to hand in tomorrow. I need the light or I would have pulled the curtains down a long time ago."
"Can't you go into the other room and draw?" Joanne asked coldly.
"I'm going to stay here, with you." Soai said, "And I don't like you staring at those inexplicable vine leaves all the time."
"Let me know as soon as you're done drawing." Joanne said as she closed her eyes, her face pale and still, living like a fallen statue, "Because I want to see that last vine leaf fall. I'm tired of waiting. And impatient to think.
"You fight for some sleep." Soai said, "I'm going to get Bellman up here to model for me for that reclusive old miner. I can't go for a minute. Don't move until I get back."
Old Bellman was a painter who lived downstairs on the ground floor. He was in his mid-sixties and had a beard like the one on Michelangelo's statue of Moses, which hung in curls from a satyr-like head down a brat-like body. Bellman was a lost cause in the art world. After four decades of juggling brushes, he was still a fair distance from the goddess of art, not even touching the edge of her robe.
He always said he was going to paint a masterpiece, but never did. Except for the occasional commercial or advertising painting, he hadn't painted anything in years. He earned a few bucks modeling for young artists in the "art district" who couldn't afford professional models, and he drank too much gin and talked about his future masterpiece.
In addition, he is a cranky little old man who despises the warmth of others in the extreme, but thinks he is the watchdog of the district protecting the two young artists upstairs.
Suai found the booze-soaked Bellman in the dimly lit shack downstairs. A blank canvas stretched taut on an easel in the corner, where it had been waiting for a masterpiece to fall into place for twenty-five years. She told him what Joanne had been thinking, and how she feared that Joanne, weak as a withered leaf, might not be able to hold on to her tenuous hold on the world, and would indeed pass away.
Old Bellman, whose bloodshot eyes were always tearing up against the wind, was so unimpressed with this idiotic idea that he ranted for a while with sarcasm.
"What words!" He yelled, "Is there even such a fool in the world as to want to die because the damnable vine leaves are falling? I have never heard such a strange thing in all my life. No, I haven't the heart to be that boring hermit model for you. How could you get such silly thoughts into her head? Alas, poor little Miss Joanne."
"She's very sick and weak," said Suai, "and the fever has made her paranoid and filled her head with strange thoughts. Well, Mr. Bellman, since you won't model for me, I won't force you. I recognize you as a hateful old--old poor talker."
"You're so feminine!" Bellman yelled, "Who says I don't want to? Go. I'll go with you. I've been saying for half a day that I'm willing to serve you for you for you. My God! A person as good as Ms. Joanne shouldn't be sick in a place like this. One of these days, I'm going to paint a masterpiece, and then we can all get out of here. Oh, dear! Yes."
Jonathan was asleep when they went upstairs. Suai drew the curtains to the sill and gestured for Belman to go into the other room. There they glanced worriedly out the window at the ivy. Then they stared at each other in silence for a while. A cold rain with snowflakes fell. Berman, wearing an old blue shirt, sat on an iron skillet of abandoned rock that had been turned over, pretending to be a reclusive miner.
The next morning, when Suai woke up after an hour's sleep, she saw Joanne's eyes open and lifeless, gazing at the green curtains at the end of the drop.
"Pull the curtains up, I want to see." She ordered in a weak voice.
Suai sleepily did as she was told.
But lo and behold1 after a long night of wind and rain, there was still a leaf of ivy clinging to the wall. It was the last one on the vine. The color near the petiole was still dark green, but the jagged edges were tinged with a withered yellow, and it hung proudly on top of a vine branch twenty or so feet off the ground.
"That was the last leaf." Joanne said, "I thought for sure it would fall last night. I heard the wind blowing. It will fall off today, and in the meantime I'm going to die."
"Ouch, ouch!" Suai said as she brought her sleepy face to the pillow, "If you don't think of yourself, think of me. What can I do?"
But Joanne didn't answer. A mind ready to take the mysterious and distant path of death is the loneliest and saddest in all the world. That metaphysical thought seemed to grasp her more powerfully as she disengaged piece by piece from her earthly and friendly ties.
The day finally passed. At dusk, they saw the lone vine leaf on the wall still clinging to its stem. With the fury of the north wind that came with the night, the rain beat uncontrollably on the windows and poured down from the low Dutch eaves.
At first light, the cruel Joanne ordered the curtains drawn again.
The ivy leaf remained on the wall.
Jonathan lay looking at it for a long time. Then she called out to Suai, who was stirring the chicken soup for Joanne on the coal tipper.
"I've been such a bad girl, Suai," said Joanne, "and something in the underworld kept that last leaf from falling, revealing how wicked I used to be. It is a sin not to want to live. Now please bring me some soup, and get a little milk mixed with wine, and--wait a minute; first bring me a little mirror, and cushion me with a pillow; I want to sit up and watch you cook."
An hour later she said,
"Suai, I hope to go sketching in the Bay of Naples some day."
In the afternoon, the doctor came in, and as he left, Soai made an excuse and ran down the aisle.
"There's a fifty-fifty hope for good." The doctor grabbed Soai's thin, trembling hand and said, "With good care, you will prevail. Now I have to go downstairs and check on another patient. His last name is Bellman-also in the arts, as far as I know. Pneumonia, too. He's old and weak, and the disease comes on hard. There's no hope for him, but let's get him into the hospital today and make him comfortable."
Suai ran to the bedside that afternoon, where Joanne was leaning over, contentedly knitting a useless dark blue household scarf, and Suai caught her in a hug with even a pillow.
"I have something to tell you, little thing." She said, "Bellman died in the hospital. He had pneumonia and was only sick for two days. The first morning, the janitor found him downstairs in his room spasming to death. His shoes and clothes were wet and cold. They couldn't figure out where he cellar had gone on that bleak, rainy night.
Later, they found a lantern still burning, a handful of shapes that had been moved from their original places, a few scattered paintbrushes, a palette with green and yellow paints on it, and at the end of it all - look out of the window, my dear, and look at the last leaf on the wall. Don't you wonder why it doesn't flutter in the wind?
Ah, my dear, that was Bellman's work--he painted it on the wall that night when the last leaf fell."
Expanded:
Background:
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, American society was in a period of great historical upheaval, with the 1861-1865 United States Civil War between the North and the South, which ultimately overthrew the brutal and backward system of black slavery.In July 1873, Abraham Lincoln articulated the three principles of an ideal government, i.e., government of the people, by the people, and for the people.
The U.S. Congress also enacted the Fourth and Fifth Amendments to the Constitution in 1868 and 1870, respectively, all of which greatly inspired the people, and made the United States seem like an ideal land of equality, fraternity, and liberty for all.
Economically, monopoly capitalism gradually formed, modern industrial society in the rapid development of the telegraph communication network in the United States widely established throughout the country, the telephone, calculators, typewriters, and cash dispensers also began to appear in business transactions. Edison's invention of the incandescent lamp led to more inventions in society. All of these expanded the scale of production to a great extent and greatly contributed to the development of social productivity.
O Henry's novels are easy to understand, which no matter what happens, where it happens, and no matter what the protagonist is what kind of characters, his stories are written in the world, and easy to have a strong American flavor. Generally speaking, the desires and motives that drive people's actions are quite complex, but the thoughts of O. Henry's characters are relatively simple, and the motives are relatively single.
The conflicts seem to center on poverty and wealth. On the one hand, this is probably because the United States is a commoner society, there is no inherently superior aristocracy, since everyone is equal in front of money, the rich and the poor have become the main contradiction in society. On the other hand, this was the "Gilded Age" after the American Civil War, when money-grubbing was prevalent, and corruption was rampant.
It seems that as long as people can earn money is success, and do not ask whether the origin of the money is innocent and legitimate, the degree of possession of money has become the center of people's attention, O. Henry wrote the masses of people are living in such a world dominated by money, their situation motivation, their joy and sorrow, mostly related to the possession of money.
So O. Henry's depiction of the world, whether it is good or evil, there is a certain American simplicity. O. Henry's novels touching downtrodden little people in the hard environment of survival, but still can show sincere love and care for others, make a rare and valuable sacrifice. In order to buy her husband a platinum watch chain as a Christmas gift, her wife sells her hair.
And the husband sold his gold watch to buy his wife a set of hairbrushes for the same purpose. Though each other's gifts lost their value, the emotion they gained from them was priceless. In order to encourage the poor and sick young painter to live on, the old painter struggled on a stormy night to paint a never-fading ivy leaf on the wall.
He paid for his masterpiece with his life, but the young painter gained courage and survived. A rich man has been reduced to starvation, but he insists on fulfilling his annual duty of treating his poor friend to a meal on Thanksgiving. And the poor friend, who has just been fed, plays his part faithfully in order to please the other.
They each made sacrifices to give others a little comfort. All these may not be called great things, but small things that small people do every day, but in these small things they reach goodness and the highest point of their spiritual realm. O. Henry had the same sensitivity to evil, and he saw the tricks of America's fame and fortune very thoroughly.
Those "children of the jungle" are in a state of deceit, rivalry, trickery, the line of the "law of the jungle". Cruelty meets cruelty, a small cheat meets a big cheat, robbers and crooks even though clever, but still can't beat the financiers, Wall Street brokers are never merciful, and more sadly, in this competition for wealth, people's souls are corroded.
The young girl, who was working as a cashier in a restaurant, pretended to be a member of a prestigious family. A busy agent forgets last night's nuptials and proposes to his wife once more. In a world where money is all-powerful and the god of fatherly wealth can create a traffic jam at the most crucial moment so that his only son gets the chance to propose, Eros can only bow to this.
But O. Henry's good and evil are not so separate and distinct, and there is a vast middle ground between them, where there is the possibility of conscience, repentance and a new life.
Author introduction:
O. Henry (O. Henry, September 11, 1862 - June 5, 1910), also translated as O. Henry, formerly known as William Sydney Porter, was an American short story writer and the founder of the modern American short story, whose main works include The Gift of the Magi, The Policeman and the Hymn, The Last Leaf, and Twenty Years After...?
On September 11, 1862, O. Henry was born in Greensboro, North Carolina, U.S.A., and worked as a bank clerk, pharmacist, etc. In February 1896, O. Henry was imprisoned on charges of embezzlement and fled to Honduras, and in 1898 he was imprisoned again, and began to publish his works in the meantime. 1902, O. Henry moved to New York City, and became a professional writer.
On June 5, 1910, O. Henry died of cirrhosis of the liver in New York, USA. O. Henry, along with Chekhov and Maupassant, is one of the world's three short story giants, and was once hailed by critics as Manhattan's Prose Writer Laureate and the father of the modern American short story, and his work is known as "the encyclopedia of American life.
In 1885, O. Henry met a 17-year-old girl named Athol Estes, who was still in high school. O. Henry was a guitarist and luthier at the time. O. Henry courted her for two years. on the night of July 1, 1887, the night Athol Estes finished high school.
She went to a minister's home in Austin to marry him without her parents' knowledge. The pastor did not expect the two young people to come at night to get married, but seeing that they were already adults, he went along with it and witnessed their marriage. So it was on the night of July 1, 1887, that he married Athol Estes.
After the marriage, Athol Estes changed her name to Athol Porter. The girl's mother, who had wanted her to marry a rich man, was so angry when she learned of this that she refused to go to church for months, not to mention ignoring the priest. The marriage lasted only 10 years, however, and in 1897 O. Henry's wife died of an illness.?
In 1907, O. Henry married Sarah Lindsay Coleman, a lover from his early years, and divorced the following year.