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最後一片葉子
作者: [美國] 歐.亨利
譯者: 不詳
在華盛頓廣場西邊的一個小區裏，街道都橫七豎八地伸展開去，又分裂成一小條一小條的“胡同”。這些“胡同”稀奇古怪地拐著彎子。一條街有時自己本身就交叉了不止一次。有一回一個畫家發現這條街有一種優越性：要是有個收帳的跑到這條街上，來催要顏料、紙張和畫布的錢，他就會突然發現自己兩手空空，原路返回，一文錢的帳也沒有要到！
所以，不久之後不少畫家就摸索到這個古色古香的老格林尼治村來，尋求朝北的窗戶、18世紀的尖頂山牆、荷蘭式的閣樓，以及低廉的房租。然後，他們又從第六街買來一些蠟酒杯和一兩隻火鍋，這裏便成了“藝術區”。
蘇和瓊西的畫室設在一所又寬又矮的三層樓磚房的頂樓上。“瓊西”是瓊娜的愛稱。她倆一個來自緬因州，一個是加利福尼亞州人。她們是在第八街的“台爾蒙尼歌之家”吃份飯時碰到的，她們發現彼此對藝術、生菜色拉和時裝的愛好非常一致，便合租了那間畫室。
那是5月裏的事。到了11月，一個冷酷的、肉眼看不見的、醫生們叫做“肺炎”的不速之客，在藝術區裏悄悄地遊蕩，用他冰冷的手指頭這裏碰一下那裏碰一下。在廣場東頭，這個破壞者明目張膽地踏著大步，一下子就擊倒幾十個受害者，可是在迷宮一樣、狹窄而鋪滿青苔的“胡同”裏，他的步伐就慢了下來。
肺炎先生不是一個你們心目中行俠仗義的老的紳士。一個身子單薄，被加利福尼亞州的西風刮得沒有血色的弱女子，本來不應該是這個有著紅拳頭的、呼吸急促的老家夥打擊的對象。然而，瓊西卻遭到了打擊；她躺在一張油漆過的鐵床上，一動也不動，凝望著小小的荷蘭式玻璃窗外對麵磚房的空牆。
一天早晨，那個忙碌的醫生揚了揚他那毛茸茸的灰白色眉毛，把蘇叫到外邊的走廊上。
“我看，她的病隻有十分之一的恢複希望，”他一麵把體溫表裏的水銀柱甩下去，一麵說，“這一分希望就是她想要活下去的念頭。有些人好像不願意活下去，喜歡照顧殯儀館的生意，簡直讓整個醫藥界都無能為力。你的朋友斷定自己是不會痊愈的了。她是不是有什麽心事呢？”
“她---她希望有一天能夠去畫那不勒斯的海灣。”蘇說。
“畫畫？--- 真是瞎扯！她腦子裏有沒有什麽值得她想了又想的事 --- 比如說，一個男人？”
“男人？”蘇像吹口琴似的扯著嗓子說，“男人難道值得 --- 不，醫生，沒有這樣的事。”
“能達到的全部力量去治療她。可要是我的病人開始算計會有多少輛馬車送她出喪，我就得把治療的效果減掉百分之五十。隻要你能想法讓她對冬季大衣袖子的時新式樣感到興趣而提出一兩個問題，那我可以向你保證把醫好她的機會從十分之一提高到五分之一。”
醫生走後，蘇走進工作室裏，把一條日本餐巾哭成一團濕。後來她手裏拿著畫板，裝做精神抖擻的樣子走進瓊西的屋子，嘴裏吹著爵士音樂調子。
瓊西躺著，臉朝著窗口，被子底下的身體紋絲不動。蘇以為她睡著了，趕忙停止吹口哨。
她架好畫板，開始給雜誌裏的故事畫一張鋼筆插圖。年輕的畫家為了鋪平通向藝術的道路，不得不給雜誌裏的故事畫插圖，而這些故事又是年輕的作家為了鋪平通向文學的道路而不得不寫的。
蘇正在給故事主人公，一個愛達荷州牧人的身上，畫上一條馬匹展覽會穿的時髦馬褲和一片單眼鏡時，忽然聽到一個重複了幾次的低微的聲音。她快步走到床邊。
瓊西的眼睛睜得很大。她望著窗外，數著……倒過來數。
“12，”她數道，歇了一會又說，“11，”然後是“10，”和“9”，接著幾乎同時數著“8”和“7”。
蘇關切地看了看窗外。那兒有什麽可數的呢？隻見一個空蕩陰暗的院子，20英尺以外還有一所磚房的空牆。一棵老極了的長春藤，枯萎的根糾結在一塊，枝幹攀在磚牆的半腰上。秋天的寒風把藤上的葉子差不多全都吹掉了，幾乎隻有光禿的枝條還纏附在剝落的磚塊上。
“什麽呀，親愛的？”蘇問道。
“6，”瓊西幾乎用耳語低聲說道，“它們現在越落越快了。三天前還有差不多一百片。我數得頭都疼了。但是現在好數了。又掉了一片。隻剩下五片了。”
“五片什麽呀，親愛的。告訴你的蘇娣吧。”
“葉子。長春藤上的。等到最後一片葉子掉下來，我也就該去了。這件事我三天前就知道了。難道醫生沒有告訴你？”
“哼，我從來沒聽過這種傻話，”蘇十分不以為然地說，“那些破長春藤葉子和你的病好不好有什麽關係？你以前不是很喜歡這棵樹嗎？你這個淘氣孩子。不要說傻話了。瞧，醫生今天早晨還告訴我，說你迅速痊愈的機會是，讓我一字不改地照他的話說吧---他說有九成把握。噢，那簡直和我們在紐約坐電車或者走過一座新樓房的把握一樣大。喝點湯吧，讓蘇娣去畫她的畫，好把它賣給編輯先生，換了錢來給她的病孩子買點紅葡萄酒，再給她自己買點豬排解解饞。”
“你不用買酒了，”瓊西的眼睛直盯著窗外說道，“又落了一片。不，我不想喝湯。隻剩下四片了。我想在天黑以前等著看那最後一片葉子掉下去。然後我也要去了。”
“瓊西，親愛的，”蘇俯著身子對她說，“你答應我閉上眼睛，不要瞧窗外，等我畫完，行嗎？明天我非得交出這些插圖。我需要光線，否則我就拉下窗簾了。”
“你不能到那間屋子裏去畫嗎？”瓊西冷冷地問道。
“我願意呆在你跟前，”蘇說，“再說，我也不想讓你老看著那些討厭的長春藤葉子。”
“你一畫完就叫我，”瓊西說著，便閉上了眼睛。她臉色蒼白，一動不動地躺在床上，就像是座橫倒在地上的雕像。“因為我想看那最後一片葉子掉下來，我等得不耐煩了，也想得不耐煩了。我想擺脫一切，飄下去，飄下去，像一片可憐的疲倦了的葉子那樣。”
“你睡一會吧，”蘇說道，“我得下樓把貝爾曼叫上來，給我當那個隱居的老礦工的模特兒。我一會兒就回來的。不要動，等我回來。”
老貝爾曼是住在她們這座樓房底層的一個畫家。他年過60，有一把像米開朗琪羅的摩西雕像那樣的大胡子，這胡子長在一個像半人半獸的森林之神的頭顱上，又鬈曲地飄拂在小鬼似的身軀上。貝爾曼是個失敗的畫家。他操了四十年的畫筆，還遠沒有摸著藝術女神的衣裙。他老是說就要畫他的那幅傑作了，可是直到現在他還沒有動筆。幾年來，他除了偶爾畫點商業廣告之類的玩意兒以外，什麽也沒有畫過。他給藝術區裏窮得雇不起職業模特兒的年輕畫家們當模特兒，掙一點錢。他喝酒毫無節製，還時常提起他要畫的那幅傑作。除此以外，他是一個火氣十足的小老頭子，十分瞧不起別人的溫情，卻認為自己是專門保護樓上畫室裏那兩個年輕女畫家的一隻看家狗。
蘇在樓下他那間光線黯淡的鬥室裏找到了嘴裏酒氣撲鼻的貝爾曼。一幅空白的畫布繃在個畫架上，擺在屋角裏，等待那幅傑作已經25年了，可是連一根線條還沒等著。蘇把瓊西的胡思亂想告訴了他，還說她害怕瓊西自個兒瘦小柔弱得像一片葉子一樣，對這個世界的留戀越來越微弱，恐怕真會離世飄走了。
老貝爾曼兩隻發紅的眼睛顯然在迎風流淚，他十分輕蔑地嗤笑這種傻呆的胡思亂想。
“什麽，”他喊道，“世界上真會有人蠢到因為那些該死的長春藤葉子落掉就想死？我從來沒有聽說過這種怪事。不，我才不給你那隱居的礦工糊塗蟲當模特兒呢。你幹嗎讓她胡思亂想？唉，可憐的瓊西小姐。”
“她病得很厲害很虛弱，”蘇說，“發高燒發得她神經昏亂，滿腦子都是古怪想法。好，貝爾曼先生，你不願意給我當模特兒，就拉倒，我看你是個討厭的老---老羅唆鬼。”
“你簡直太婆婆媽媽了！”貝爾門喊道，“誰說我不願意當模特兒？走，我和你一塊去。我不是講了半天願意給你當模特兒嗎？老天爺，瓊西小姐這麽好的姑娘真不應該躺在這種地方生病。總有一天我要畫一幅傑作，我們就可以都搬出去了。一定的！”
他們上樓以後，瓊西正睡著覺。蘇把窗簾拉下，一直遮住窗台，做手勢叫貝爾曼到隔壁屋子裏去。他們在那裏提心吊膽地瞅著窗外那棵長春藤。後來他們默默無言，彼此對望了一會。寒冷的雨夾雜著雪花不停地下著。貝爾曼穿著他的舊的藍襯衣，坐在一把翻過來充當岩石的鐵壺上，扮作隱居的礦工。
第二天早晨，蘇隻睡了一個小時的覺，醒來了，她看見瓊西無神的眼睛睜得大大地注視拉下的綠窗簾。
“把窗簾拉起來，我要看看。”她低聲地命令道。
蘇疲倦地照辦了。
然而，看呀！經過了漫長一夜的風吹雨打，在磚牆上還掛著一片藤葉。它是長春藤上最後的一片葉子了。靠近莖部仍然是深綠色，可是鋸齒形的葉子邊緣已經枯萎發黃，它傲然掛在一根離地二十多英尺的藤枝上。
“這是最後一片葉子。”瓊西說道，“我以為它昨晚一定會落掉的。我聽見風聲的。今天它一定會落掉，我也會死的。”
“哎呀，哎呀，”蘇把疲乏的臉龐挨近枕頭邊上對她說，“你不肯為自己著想，也得為我想想啊。我可怎麽辦呢？”
可是瓊西不回答。當一個靈魂正在準備走上那神秘的、遙遠的死亡之途時，她是世界上最寂寞的人了。那些把她和友誼及大地聯結起來的關係逐漸消失以後，她那個狂想越來越強烈了。
白天總算過去了，甚至在暮色中她們還能看見那片孤零零的藤葉仍緊緊地依附在靠牆的枝上。後來，夜的到臨帶來了呼嘯的北風，雨點不停地拍打著窗子，雨水從低垂的荷蘭式屋簷上流瀉下來。
天剛蒙蒙亮，瓊西就毫不留情地吩咐拉起窗簾來。
那片藤葉仍然在那裏。
瓊西躺著對它看了許久。然後她招呼正在煤氣爐上給她煮雞湯的蘇。“我是一個壞女孩子，蘇娣，”瓊西說，“天意讓那片最後的藤葉留在那裏，證明我是多麽壞。想死是有罪過的。你現在就給我拿點雞湯來，再拿點摻葡萄酒的牛奶來，再---不，先給我一麵小鏡子，再把枕頭墊墊高，我要坐起來看你做飯。”
過了一個鍾頭，她說道：
“蘇娣，我希望有一天能去畫那不勒斯的海灣。”
下午醫生來了，他走的時候，蘇找了個借口跑到走廊上。
“有五成希望。”醫生一麵說，一麵把蘇細瘦的顫抖的手握在自己的手裏，“好好護理你會成功的。現在我得去看樓下另一個病人。他的名字叫貝爾曼 --- 聽說也是個畫家。也是肺炎。他年紀太大，身體又弱，病勢很重。他是治不好的了；今天要把他送到醫院裏，讓他更舒服一點。”
第二天，醫生對蘇說：“她已經脫離危險，你成功了。現在隻剩下營養和護理了。”
下午蘇跑到瓊西的床前，瓊西正躺著，安詳地編織著一條毫無用處的深藍色毛線披肩。蘇用一隻胳臂連枕頭帶人一把抱住了她。
“我有件事要告訴你，小家夥，”她說，“貝爾曼在醫院裏患肺炎去世了。他隻病了兩天。頭一天早晨，門房發現他在樓下自己那間房裏痛得動彈不了。他的鞋子和衣服全都濕透了，凍涼冰涼的。他們搞不清楚在那個淒風苦雨的夜晚，他究竟到哪裏去了。後來他們發現了一盞沒有熄滅的燈籠，一把挪動過地方的梯子，幾支扔得滿地的畫筆，還有一塊調色板，上麵塗抹著綠色和黃色的顏料，還有---親愛的，瞧瞧窗子外麵，瞧瞧牆上那最後一片藤葉。難道你沒有想過，為什麽風刮得那樣厲害，它卻從來不搖一搖、動一動呢？唉，親愛的，這片葉子才是貝爾曼的傑作 ----- 就是在最後一片葉子掉下來的晚上，他把它畫在那裏的。”
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The Last Leaf
by O. HENRY
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make 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 "colony."
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the _table d'hote_ of an Eighth street "Delmonico's," and 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 "places."
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, gray eyebrow.
"She has one chance in--let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. "And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-up 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?"
"She--she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue.
"Paint?--bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice--a man, for instance?"
"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth--but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."
"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can
accomplish. But whenever 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 on 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.
"Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven;" and then "ten," and "nine;" and then "eight" and "seven," almost together.
Sue looked solicitously out 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.
"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.
"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're 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."
"Five what, dear. Tell your Sudie."
"Leaves. 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?"
"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love 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, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."
"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."
"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep 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."
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.
"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Besides I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."
"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, "because I
want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I went to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."
"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'till 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 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.
"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die 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 prain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy."
"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and 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."
"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? 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.
"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
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 on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the ground.
"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall
die at the same time."
"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think 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 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.
"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring 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."
An hour later she said.
"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With 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: "She's out of danger. You've 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 woolen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.
"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on 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 colors 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."
