BÀI GIẢNG DẠNG VĂN BẢN (SCRIPT)

Môn học: Văn học Mỹ

Bài 6: The Last Leaf by O’ Henri

Nội dung
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'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, 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, 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 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."

"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 of
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 little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then
"eight" and "seven", almost together.

Sue look solicitously out of 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."

"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 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 '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 Moses 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 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 brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle 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 - 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 one
on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow
of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the 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 a 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."

And 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 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 to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him 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
colours 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."

THE END