The Last Leaf
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themlves into small strips called"places."The"places"make strange angles and curves.One Street cross itlf a time or two.An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street.Suppo a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should,in traversing this route, suddenly meet himlf 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'hôte 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,unen 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 str
百合花描写ode boldly,smiting his victims by scores,but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."
最后一片叶子
在华盛顿广场西边的一个小区里，街道都横七竖八地伸展开去，又分裂成一小条一小条的“胡同”。这些“胡同”稀奇古怪地拐着弯子。一条街有时自己本身就交叉了不止一次。有一回一个画家发现这条街有一种优越性：要是有个收帐的跑到这条街上，来催要颜料、纸张和画布的钱，他就会突然发现自己两手空空，原路返回，一文钱的帐也没有要到！
所以，不久之后不少画家就摸索到这个古色古香的老格林尼治村来，寻求朝北的窗户、18世纪的尖顶山墙、荷兰式的阁楼，以及低廉的房租。然后，他们又从第六街买来一些蜡酒杯和一两只火锅，这里便成了“艺术区”。
苏和琼西的画室设在一所又宽又矮的三层楼砖房的顶楼上。“琼西”是琼娜的爱称。她俩一个来自缅因州，一个是加利福尼亚州人。她们是在第八街的“台尔蒙尼歌之家”吃份饭时碰到的，她们发现彼此对艺术、生菜色拉和时装的爱好非常一致，便合租了那间画室。
石花菜那是5月里的事。到了11月，一个冷酷的、肉眼看不见的、医生们叫做“肺炎”的不速之客，在艺术区里
悄悄地游荡，用他冰冷的手指头这里碰一下那里碰一下。在广场东头，这个破坏者明目张胆地踏着大步，一下子就击倒几十个受害者，可是在迷宫一样、狭窄而铺满青苔的“胡同”里，他的步伐就慢了下来。
喜得千金的祝福语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 hou.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway 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-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?"
"She-she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day."said Sue.
"Paint?-bosh!Has she anything on her mind worth thinking 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."
拉卜楞寺"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 subtract50per 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 promi you a one-in-five chance for her,instead of one in ten."
肺炎先生不是一个你们心目中行侠仗义的老的绅士。一个身子单薄，被加利福尼亚州的西风刮得没有血色的弱女子，本来不应该是这个有着红拳头的、呼吸急促的老家伙打击的对象。然而，琼西却遭到了打击；她躺在一张油漆过的铁床上，一动也不动，凝望着小小的荷兰式玻璃窗外对面砖房的空墙。
一天早晨，那个忙碌的医生扬了扬他那毛茸茸的灰白色眉毛，把苏叫到外边的走廊上。
“我看，她的病只有十分之一的恢复希望，”他一面把体温表里的水银柱甩下去，一面说，“这一分希望就是她想要活下去的念头。有些人好像不愿意活下去，喜欢照顾殡仪馆的生意，简直让整个医药界都无能为力。你的朋友断定自己是不会痊愈的了。她是不是有什么心事呢？”
“她---她希望有一天能够去画那不勒斯的海湾。”苏说。
“画画？---真是瞎扯！她脑子里有没有什么值得她想了又想的事---比如说，一个男人？”
“男人？”苏像吹口琴似的扯着嗓子说，“男人难道值得---不，医生，没有这样的事。”
“能达到的全部力量去治疗她。可要是我的病人开始算计会有多少辆马车送她出丧，我就得把治疗的效果减掉百分之五十。只要你能想法让她对冬季大衣袖子的时新式样感到兴趣而提出一两个问题，那我可以向你保证把医好她的机会从十分之一提高到五分之一。”
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japane 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 horshow riding trours and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy,she heard a low sound,veral times repeated.She went quickly to the bedsi
de.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide.She was looking out the window and counting-counting backward.
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"Twelve,"she said,and little later"eleven";and then"ten,"and"nine";and then"eight"and"ven", almost together.
Sue look solicitously out of the window.What was there to count?There was only a bare,dreary yard to be en,and the blank side of the brick hou 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
医生走后，苏走进工作室里，把一条日本餐巾哭成一团湿。后来她手里拿着画板，装做精神抖擞的样子走进琼西的屋子，嘴里吹着爵士音乐调子。
琼西躺着，脸朝着窗口，被子底下的身体纹丝不动。苏以为她睡着了，赶忙停止吹口哨。
她架好画板，开始给杂志里的故事画一张钢笔插图。年轻的画家为了铺平通向艺术的道路，不得不给杂志里的故事画插图，而这些故事又是年轻的作家为了铺平通向文学的道路而不得不写的。
苏正在给故事主人公，一个爱达荷州牧人的身上，画上一条马匹展览会穿的时髦马裤和一片单眼镜时，忽然听到一个重复了几次的低微的声音。她快步走到床边。
琼西的眼睛睁得很大。她望着窗外，数着……倒过来数。
“12，”她数道，歇了一会又说，“11，”然后是“10，”和“9”，接着几乎同时数着“8”和“7”。
苏关切地看了看窗外。那儿有什么可数的呢？只见一个空荡阴暗的院子，20英尺以外还有一所砖房的空墙。一棵老极了的长春藤，枯萎的根纠结在一块，枝干攀在砖墙的半腰上。秋天的寒风把藤上的叶子差不多全都吹掉了，几乎只有光秃的枝条还缠附在剥落的砖块上。
“什么呀，亲爱的？”苏问道。
“6，”琼西几乎用耳语低声说道，“它们现在
冬日樱桃
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."
熟普洱茶的功效与作用
"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 nonn,"complained Sue,with magnificent scorn."What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well?And you ud to love that vine so,you naughty girl.Don't be a gooy.Why,the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were-let's e 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 ll the editor man with it,and buy port wine for her sick child,and pork chops for her greedy lf."
"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 e the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go,too."
我们的父亲
"Johnsy,dear,"said Sue,bending over her,"will you promi me to keep your eyes clod,and not look out the window until I am done working?I must hand tho drawings in by to-morrow.I need the light,
or I would draw the shade down."越落越快了。三天前还有差不多一百片。我数得头都疼了。但是现在好数了。又掉了一片。只剩下五片了。”
“五片什么呀，亲爱的。告诉你的苏娣吧。”
“叶子。长春藤上的。等到最后一片叶子掉下来，我也就该去了。这件事我三天前就知道了。难道医生没有告诉你？”
“哼，我从来没听过这种傻话，”苏十分不以为然地说，“那些破长春藤叶子和你的病好不好有什么关系？你以前不是很喜欢这棵树吗？你这个淘气孩子。不要说傻话了。瞧，医生今天早晨还告诉我，说你迅速痊愈的机会是，让我一字不改地照他的话说吧---他说有九成把握。噢，那简直和我们在纽约坐电车或者走过一座新楼房的把握一样大。喝点汤吧，让苏娣去画她的画，好把它卖给编辑先生，换了钱来给她的病孩子买点红葡萄酒，再给她自己买点猪排解解馋。”
“你不用买酒了，”琼西的眼睛直盯着窗外说道，“又落了一片。不，我不想喝汤。只剩下四片了。我想在天黑以前等着看那最后一片叶子掉下去。然后我也要去了。”
“琼西，亲爱的，”苏俯着身子对她说，“你答应我闭上眼睛，不要瞧窗外，等我画完，行吗？明天我非得交出这些插图。我需要光线，否则我就拉下窗帘了。”
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?"asked Johnsy,coldly.
"I'd rather be here by you,"said Sue."Beside,I don't want you to keep looking at tho silly ivy leaves."
"Tell me as soon as you have finished,"said Johnsy,closing her eyes,and lying white and still as fallen statue,"becau I want to e the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting.I'm tired of thinking.I want to turn loo my hold on everything,and go sailing down, down,just like one of tho 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'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 Mos 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 veral years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising.He earned a little by rving as a model to tho young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional.He drank gin to excess,and still talked of his co
ming masterpiece.For the rest he was a fierce little old man,who scoffed terribly at softness in any one,and who regarded himlf as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the
“你不能到那间屋子里去画吗？”琼西冷冷地问道。
“我愿意呆在你跟前，”苏说，“再说，我也不想让你老看着那些讨厌的长春藤叶子。”
“你一画完就叫我，”琼西说着，便闭上了眼睛。她脸色苍白，一动不动地躺在床上，就像是座横倒在地上的雕像。“因为我想看那最后一片叶子掉下来，我等得不耐烦了，也想得不耐烦了。我想摆脱一切，飘下去，飘下去，像一片可怜的疲倦了的叶子那样。”
“你睡一会吧，”苏说道，“我得下楼把贝尔门叫上来，给我当那个隐居的老矿工的模特儿。我一会儿就回来的。不要动，等我回来。”
老贝尔门是住在她们这座楼房底层的一个画家。他年过60，有一把像米开朗琪罗的摩西雕像那样的大胡子，这胡子长在一个像半人半兽的森林之神的头颅上，又鬈曲地飘拂在小鬼似的身躯上。贝尔门是个失败的画家。他操了四十年的画笔，还远没有摸着艺术女神的衣裙。他老是说就要画他的那幅杰作了，可是直到现在他还没有动笔。几年来，他除了偶尔画点商业广告之类的玩意儿以外，什么也没有画过。他给艺术区里穷得雇不起职业模特儿的年轻画家们当模特儿，挣一点钱。他喝酒毫无节制，还
时常提起他要画的那幅杰作。除此以外，他是一个火气十足的小老头子，十分瞧不起别人的温情，却认为自己是专门保护楼上画室里那两个年轻女画家的一只看家狗。
