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Last page

In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!

And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a “colony.”

Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.

This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.

Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.

One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.

“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?

“She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.”

- With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?

“Well, then she’s just weakened,” the doctor decided. “I will do everything I can do as a representative of science.” But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.

After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.

She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.

While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.

“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.

Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.

"Last page"

In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street.

Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!

And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a "colony."

Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house.

Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.

This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.

Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.

One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.

“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?

She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.

With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?

Well, then she just weakened, the doctor decided. - I will do everything I can do as a representative of science. But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.

After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked.

Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets.

Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.

She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.

While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times.

She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.

“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “

“eight” and “seven” - almost simultaneously.

Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.

What is it, honey? - asked Sue.

“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. - Now they fly around much faster. Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.

What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.

Listyev On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?

This is the first time I've heard such nonsense! - Sue retorted with magnificent contempt. - What can the leaves on the old ivy have to do with the fact that you will get better? And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than what each of us here in New York experiences when riding a tram or walking past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.

“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” answered Jonesy, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.

Jonesy, honey,” said Sue, leaning over her, “will you promise not to open your eyes and not look out the window until I finish working?” I have to hand in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would pull down the curtain.

Can't you draw in the other room? - Jonesy asked coldly.

“I’d like to sit with you,” Sue said. “Besides, I don’t want you to look at those stupid leaves.”

Tell me when you finish,” said Johnsy, closing her eyes, pale and motionless, like a fallen statue, “because I want to see the last leaf fall.” I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to free myself from everything that holds me - to fly, to fly lower and lower, like one of these poor, tired leaves.

“Try to sleep,” Sue said. - I need to call Berman, I want to paint him as a hermit gold miner. I'll be there for a minute at most. Look, don't move until I come.

Old Man Berman was an artist who lived on the ground floor under their studio.

He was already over sixty, and his beard, all in curls, like Michelangelo’s Moses, descended from the head of a satyr onto the body of a dwarf. In art, Berman was a failure. He was always going to write a masterpiece, but he didn’t even start it. For several years now he had not written anything except signs, advertisements and the like for the sake of a piece of bread. He earned some money by posing for young artists who could not afford professional models. He drank heavily, but still talked about his future masterpiece. Otherwise, he was a feisty old man who scoffed at all sentimentality and looked at himself as a watchdog specially assigned to guard two young artists.

Sue found Berman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his darkened downstairs closet. In one corner, for twenty-five years, an untouched canvas stood on an easel, ready to receive the first touches of a masterpiece. Sue told the old man about Jonesy's fantasy and about her fears that she, light and fragile as a leaf, would fly away from them when her fragile connection with the world weakened. Old man Berman, whose red lips were very noticeably watering, shouted, mocking such idiotic fantasies.

What! - he shouted. - Is such stupidity possible - to die because leaves fall from the damned ivy! The first time I've heard. No, I don’t want to pose for your idiot hermit. How do you let her fill her head with such nonsense? Oh, poor little Miss Jonesy!

She is very sick and weak,” said Sue, “and from the fever she comes up with all sorts of morbid fantasies. Very good, Mr. Berman - if you don't want to pose for me, then don't. But I still think that you are a nasty old man... a nasty old talker.

This is a real woman! - Berman shouted. - Who said that I don’t want to pose? Let's go. I'm coming with you. For half an hour I say that I want to pose. My God! This is no place for a good girl like Miss Jonesy to be sick.

Someday I will write a masterpiece and we will all leave here. Yes Yes!

Jonesy was dozing when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the curtain down to the window sill and motioned for Berman to go into the other room. There they went to the window and looked with fear at the old ivy. Then they looked at each other without saying a word. It was cold, persistent rain mixed with snow. Berman, wearing an old blue shirt, sat down in the pose of a gold miner-hermit on an overturned teapot instead of a rock.

The next morning, Sue woke up from a short sleep to find Jonesy staring at the lowered green curtain with his dull, wide eyes.

“Lift it up, I want to look,” Jonesy commanded in a whisper.

Sue obeyed wearily.

And what? After the pouring rain and sharp gusts of wind that did not subside all night, one ivy leaf was still visible on the brick wall - the last one! Still dark green at the stem, but touched along the jagged edges with the yellow of decay and decay, it hung bravely on a branch twenty feet above the ground.

This is the last one,” Jonesy said. - I thought that he would certainly fall at night. I heard the wind. He falls today, then I will die too.

God be with you! - said Sue, leaning her tired head towards the pillow. -

At least think about me if you don’t want to think about yourself! What will happen to me?

But Jonesy didn't answer. The soul, preparing to set off on a mysterious, distant journey, becomes alien to everything in the world. A painful fantasy took possession of Jonesy more and more, as one after another all the threads that connected her with life and people were torn.

The day passed, and even at dusk they saw a single ivy leaf hanging on its stem against the backdrop of the brick wall. And then, with the onset of darkness, the north wind rose again, and the rain continuously knocked on the windows, rolling down from the low Dutch roof.

As soon as it was dawn, the merciless Jonesy ordered the curtain to be raised again.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay there for a long time, looking at him. Then she called Sue, who was heating chicken broth for her on a gas burner.

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," Jonesy said. - This last leaf must have been left on the branch to show me how disgusting I was. It is a sin to wish oneself death. Now you can give me some broth, and then milk and port... Although no: first bring me a mirror, and then cover me with pillows, and I will sit and watch you cook.

An hour later she said:

Sudie, I hope to paint the Bay of Naples someday.

In the afternoon the doctor came, and Sue, under some pretext, followed him into the hallway.

The chances are equal,” said the doctor, shaking Sue’s thin, trembling hand.

With good care you will win. And now I have to visit another patient downstairs. His last name is Berman. He seems to be an artist. Also pneumonia. He is already an old man and very weak, and the form of the disease is severe.

There is no hope, but today he will be sent to the hospital, where he will be calmer.

The next day the doctor said to Sue:

She's out of danger. You won. Now food and care - and nothing else is needed.

That same evening, Sue walked up to the bed where Jonesy was lying, happily knitting a bright blue, completely useless scarf, and hugged her with one arm - along with the pillow.

“I need to tell you something, white mouse,” she began. - Mr. Berman died today in the hospital from pneumonia. He was only sick for two days. On the morning of the first day, the doorman found the poor old man on the floor of his room. He was unconscious. His shoes and all his clothes were soaked through and were cold as ice. No one could understand where he went out on such a terrible night. Then they found a lantern that was still burning, a ladder that had been moved from its place, several abandoned brushes and a palette with yellow and green paints.

Look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf. Weren't you surprised that he doesn't tremble or move in the wind? Yes, honey, this is Berman's masterpiece - he wrote it the night the last leaf fell.

See also O. Henry - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

The Last Troubadour
Sam Golloway saddled his horse with an implacable expression. After three months...

Transformation of Martin Barney
Regarding the soothing cereal so prized by Sir Walter, consider...

We invite you to read O. Henry's story “The Last Leaf” in Russian (abbreviated). This option is not suitable for those who are studying Russian, English or for those who want to familiarize themselves with the content of the work. As you know, O. Henry has a unique style. It is replete with neologisms, sophisms, puns and other stylistic devices. To read O. Henry's stories in the original, preparation is needed.

O.Henry. Last page. Part 1 (based on the story “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry)

In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets are called thoroughfares. They form strange angles and crooked lines. And artists loved to settle in this quarter, because the windows there mostly faced north, and the rent was cheap.

Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met in a café on Eighth Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves were quite the same. As a result, a common studio arose. This was in May.

In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the block, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. But if in other parts of the city he walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, here, in the labyrinth of narrow alleys, he trudged foot by foot. Mr. Pneumonia could not be called a gallant gentleman. A thin, anemic girl could hardly be considered a worthy opponent for the burly young man with red fists and shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the small frame of the window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.

“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” said the doctor, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. All of our medicine becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?

“She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples,” said Sue.

- With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?

“Well, then she’s just weakened,” the doctor decided. “I will do everything I can do as a representative of science.” But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock fifty percent off the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.

After the doctor left, Sue ran out into the workshop and cried for a long time. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep. She set up the board and began drawing for the magazine story.

While sketching out a cowboy figure for a story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards

“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously. Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.

“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. “Now they fly around much faster.” Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.

- What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.

- Listyev. On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now.

- This is the first time I’ve heard such nonsense! - Sue retorted with contempt. “What could the leaves on the old ivy have to do with your getting better?” And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.

“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” answered Jonesy, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.

In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!

And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a “colony.”

Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.

This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot by foot.

Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.

One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.

“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?

She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.

With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?

Well, then she just weakened, the doctor decided. - I will do everything I can do as a representative of science. But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock fifty percent off the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.

After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.

She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.

While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.

“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.

Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.

What is it, honey? - asked Sue.

“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. - Now they fly around much faster. Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.

What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.

Listyev. On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?

This is the first time I've heard such nonsense! - Sue retorted with magnificent contempt. - What can the leaves on the old ivy have to do with the fact that you will get better? And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than what each of us here in New York experiences when riding a tram or walking past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.

“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” answered Jonesy, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.

Jonesy, honey,” said Sue, leaning over her, “will you promise not to open your eyes and not look out the window until I finish working?” I have to hand in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would pull down the curtain.

Can't you draw in the other room? - Jonesy asked coldly.

“I’d like to sit with you,” Sue said. “Besides, I don’t want you to look at those stupid leaves.”

Tell me when you finish,” said Johnsy, closing her eyes, pale and motionless, like a fallen statue, “because I want to see the last leaf fall.” I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to free myself from everything that holds me - to fly, to fly lower and lower, like one of these poor, tired leaves.

“Try to sleep,” Sue said. - I need to call Berman, I want to paint him as a hermit gold miner. I'll be there for a minute at most. Look, don't move until I come.

Sue found Berman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his darkened downstairs closet. In one corner, for twenty-five years, an untouched canvas stood on an easel, ready to receive the first touches of a masterpiece. Sue told the old man about Jonesy's fantasy and about her fears that she, light and fragile as a leaf, would fly away from them when her fragile connection with the world weakened. Old man Berman, whose red eyes were very noticeably watery, shouted, mocking such idiotic fantasies.

What! - he shouted. - Is such stupidity possible - to die because leaves fall from the damned ivy! The first time I've heard. No, I don’t want to pose for your idiot hermit. How do you let her fill her head with such nonsense? Oh, poor little Miss Jonesy!

She is very sick and weak,” said Sue, “and from the fever she comes up with all sorts of morbid fantasies. Very good, Mr. Berman - if you don't want to pose for me, then don't. But I still think that you are a nasty old man... a nasty old talker.

This is a real woman! - Berman shouted. - Who said that I don’t want to pose? Let's go. I'm coming with you. For half an hour I say that I want to pose. My God! This is no place for a good girl like Miss Jonesy to be sick. Someday I will write a masterpiece and we will all leave here. Yes Yes!

Jonesy was dozing when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the curtain down to the window sill and motioned for Berman to go into the other room. There they went to the window and looked with fear at the old ivy. Then they looked at each other without saying a word. It was cold, persistent rain mixed with snow. Berman, wearing an old blue shirt, sat down in the pose of a gold miner-hermit on an overturned teapot instead of a rock.

The next morning, Sue woke up from a short sleep to find Jonesy staring at the lowered green curtain with his dull, wide eyes.

“Lift it up, I want to look,” Jonesy commanded in a whisper.

Sue obeyed wearily.

And what? After the pouring rain and sharp gusts of wind that did not subside all night, one ivy leaf was still visible on the brick wall - the last one! Still dark green at the stem, but touched along the jagged edges with the yellow of decay and decay, it hung bravely on a branch twenty feet above the ground.

This is the last one,” Jonesy said. - I thought that he would certainly fall at night. I heard the wind. He falls today, then I will die too.

God be with you! - said Sue, leaning her tired head towards the pillow. - At least think about me if you don’t want to think about yourself! What will happen to me?

But Jonesy didn't answer. The soul, preparing to set off on a mysterious, distant journey, becomes alien to everything in the world. A painful fantasy took possession of Jonesy more and more, as one after another all the threads that connected her with life and people were torn.

The day passed, and even at dusk they saw a single ivy leaf hanging on its stem against the backdrop of the brick wall. And then, with the onset of darkness, the north wind rose again, and the rain continuously knocked on the windows, rolling down from the low Dutch roof.

As soon as it was dawn, the merciless Jonesy ordered the curtain to be raised again.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay there for a long time, looking at him. Then she called Sue, who was heating chicken broth for her on a gas burner.

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," Jonesy said. - This last leaf must have been left on the branch to show me how disgusting I was. It is a sin to wish oneself death. Now you can give me some broth, and then milk and port... Although no: first bring me a mirror, and then cover me with pillows, and I will sit and watch you cook.

An hour later she said:

Sudie, I hope to paint the Bay of Naples someday.

In the afternoon the doctor came, and Sue, under some pretext, followed him into the hallway.

The chances are equal,” said the doctor, shaking Sue’s thin, trembling hand. - With good care you will win. And now I have to visit another patient downstairs. His last name is Berman. He seems to be an artist. Also pneumonia. He is already an old man and very weak, and the form of the disease is severe. There is no hope, but today he will be sent to the hospital, where he will be calmer.

The next day the doctor said to Sue:

She's out of danger. You won. Now food and care - and nothing else is needed.

That same evening, Sue walked up to the bed where Jonesy was lying, happily knitting a bright blue, completely useless scarf, and hugged her with one arm - along with the pillow.

“I need to tell you something, white mouse,” she began. - Mr. Berman died today in the hospital from pneumonia. He was only sick for two days. On the morning of the first day, the doorman found the poor old man on the floor of his room. He was unconscious. His shoes and all his clothes were soaked through and were cold as ice. No one could understand where he went out on such a terrible night. Then they found a lantern that was still burning, a ladder that had been moved from its place, several abandoned brushes and a palette with yellow and green paints. Look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf. Weren't you surprised that he doesn't tremble or move in the wind? Yes, honey, this is Berman's masterpiece - he wrote it the night the last leaf fell.

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(from the collection "The Burning Lamp" 1907)

In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!

And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a "colony."

Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.

This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.

Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.

One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.

“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?

She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.

With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?

Well, then she just weakened, the doctor decided. - I will do everything I can do as a representative of science. But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.

After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.

She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.

While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.

“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.

Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.

What is it, honey? - asked Sue.

“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. - Now they fly around much faster. Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.

What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.

Listyev On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?

This is the first time I've heard such nonsense! - Sue retorted with magnificent contempt. - What can the leaves on the old ivy have to do with the fact that you will get better? And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than what each of us here in New York experiences when riding a tram or walking past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.

“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” answered Jonesy, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.

Jonesy, honey,” said Sue, leaning over her, “will you promise not to open your eyes and not look out the window until I finish working?” I have to hand in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would pull down the curtain.

Can't you draw in the other room? - Jonesy asked coldly.

“I’d like to sit with you,” Sue said. “Besides, I don’t want you to look at those stupid leaves.”