helstudy
The last leaf ( आखिरी पत्ता )
The Last Leaf is a short story by O. Henry published in 1907.
In a little west of washington square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips '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 rout, 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-centuary gables and dutch attic 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 squatty three-story brick sue and johny 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 and bishop sleevs so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
The was in May. In November a cold, Unseen stranger. Whom the doctor's called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy finger. 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 californian zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fiisted, short- breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote: and she lay, scarcely moving. on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small. Dutch windows-panes at the blank side of them next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the halfway with a shaggy, grey 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 one the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look sky. year 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 jews' - 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 sties 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 ripply under the bedclothes, with her face toward window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazinge story. Young artist must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for a magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshoes riding trousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times respeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and 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 ivy vine gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed all-way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the wine untill 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 a most 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 use to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chance for getting well real soon were- let's see exactly what he said - he said the chance were-ten to one why, that almost as good a chance as we have in NewYork 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 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 of the window untill I am done working ?
I must hand those drawing in by tomorrow . I need the light or I wouli. draw the shade down.'
'Couldn't draw in the other room?' asked Johnsy coldly. 'I' d rather be herby you, Sue.-' Besides, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.'
' Tell me as soon as y ou 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 want 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 painter who lived on the ground floor beneaththem. He was past sixty-and had-amichael Angelo's mouse 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-mistres's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpices, but he 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 exess, and still talked of his coming master pices. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed teribly ; it softness in anyone, and he 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 a 'easel' that had been waiting there 25 years to receive the first line of the masterpices. She told him of Johnny'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 I am a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I vill not bose as a model for your fool hermit- dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly puniness to come in der pain of her? Ach, doit poor little Miss Yohnsy.'
'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 - flibberti-gibbet.'
'You are a 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 Saint a masterpices, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes.'
Johny 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 peeredout the window fearfully at the ivy vine.Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Presistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the haermit-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 strarting 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 20 feet above the round.
' 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 of yourself. What would I do?
But Johnsy did not answer. The lorresomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed 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 Johnny. 'Somthing 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 halfway as he left.
'Even chance.' said the doctor. talking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. 'With good nursing you'll win. and now I must see another case I have downstairs A Behrman his name is - some kind of an artist I believe. Pneumonia -, too. He is an old. weak man, and the attach is acute. There is no hope or 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 woollen 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 today in 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, dreadful night. And then they found a lantern still lighted and a ladder that had been dragged from its place and some scatterd brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it and took out the indow, 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.
The last leaf ( आखिरी पत्ता )
The Last Leaf is a short story by O. Henry published in 1907.
In a little west of washington square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips '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 rout, 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-centuary gables and dutch attic 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 squatty three-story brick sue and johny 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 and bishop sleevs so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
The was in May. In November a cold, Unseen stranger. Whom the doctor's called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy finger. 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 californian zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fiisted, short- breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote: and she lay, scarcely moving. on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small. Dutch windows-panes at the blank side of them next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the halfway with a shaggy, grey 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 one the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look sky. year 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 jews' - 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 sties 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 ripply under the bedclothes, with her face toward window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazinge story. Young artist must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for a magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshoes riding trousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times respeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and 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 ivy vine gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed all-way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the wine untill 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 a most 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 use to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chance for getting well real soon were- let's see exactly what he said - he said the chance were-ten to one why, that almost as good a chance as we have in NewYork 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 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 of the window untill I am done working ?
I must hand those drawing in by tomorrow . I need the light or I wouli. draw the shade down.'
'Couldn't draw in the other room?' asked Johnsy coldly. 'I' d rather be herby you, Sue.-' Besides, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.'
' Tell me as soon as y ou 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 want 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 painter who lived on the ground floor beneaththem. He was past sixty-and had-amichael Angelo's mouse 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-mistres's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpices, but he 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 exess, and still talked of his coming master pices. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed teribly ; it softness in anyone, and he 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 a 'easel' that had been waiting there 25 years to receive the first line of the masterpices. She told him of Johnny'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 I am a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I vill not bose as a model for your fool hermit- dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly puniness to come in der pain of her? Ach, doit poor little Miss Yohnsy.'
'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 - flibberti-gibbet.'
'You are a 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 Saint a masterpices, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes.'
Johny 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 peeredout the window fearfully at the ivy vine.Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Presistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the haermit-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 strarting 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 20 feet above the round.
' 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 of yourself. What would I do?
But Johnsy did not answer. The lorresomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed 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 Johnny. 'Somthing 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 halfway as he left.
'Even chance.' said the doctor. talking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. 'With good nursing you'll win. and now I must see another case I have downstairs A Behrman his name is - some kind of an artist I believe. Pneumonia -, too. He is an old. weak man, and the attach is acute. There is no hope or 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 woollen 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 today in 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, dreadful night. And then they found a lantern still lighted and a ladder that had been dragged from its place and some scatterd brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it and took out the indow, 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.
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