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The Last Leaf 最后一片叶子
◎ 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!
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 of an Eighth
Street “Delmonico’s”, and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop7 sleeves so congenial that
stalked about the colony, touching10 one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this
ravager11 strode boldly, smiting12 his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze13 of the
narrow and moss-grown “places”.
with blood thinned by California zephyrs16 was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old
through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
“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.”
“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 percent 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.”
Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate22 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.
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.
yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy26 vine, gnarled
and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken
“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 broth28 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.”
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 tomorrow. 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. “Beside, 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.”
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 Michel- angelo’s Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an
imp5. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded31 the brush without getting near enough
never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of
commerce or advertising32. 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 scoffed33 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.
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
“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 Johnsy.”
fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn’t. But I think you are a
“You are just like a woman!” yelled Behrman. “Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come with
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 good as Miss Johnsy 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 persistent37, cold rain was
falling, mingled38 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
“Pull it up; I want to see.” she ordered, in a whisper.
Wearily Sue obeyed.
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 tinted41 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 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 twilight43 they could see the lone42 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.
“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 today 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, contentedly44 knitting a very blue and
“I have something to tell you, white mouse.” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today
in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor46 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 scattered47 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.”
在华盛顿广场西边的一个小区里，街道横七竖八地伸展开来，又分裂成一小条一小条
的“胡同”。这些“胡同”稀奇古怪地绕来绕去，拐着弯子。一条街有时自己本身就交叉了不止
一次。有一回，一个艺术家发现这条街有一种优越性：如果有个收账的跑到这条街上，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地原路返回，一分钱的账也没有收
回来！
所以，不少画家很快就来到这个古色古香的老格林尼治村来，寻找坐南朝北的窗户、荷
兰式的阁楼，18世纪的尖顶山墙，以及低廉的房租。然后，他们又从第六街买来一些白蜡杯
和一两个火锅，这里便成了“艺术区”。
苏和琼西的工作室安置在一幢三层楼砖房的顶楼上。“琼西”是乔安娜的昵称。她俩一个
来自缅因州，另一个来自加利福尼亚州。她们是在第八街的“台尔蒙尼歌之家”吃份饭时遇上
的，她们发现彼此对艺术、生菜色拉和时装的品位爱好十分一致，便合租了那间工作室。
那是5月的事情。到了11月，一个冷酷的、看不见的、被医生们称为“肺炎”的不速之客，
在艺术区里悄悄地游荡，用它冰冷的手指这里碰一下那里碰一下。在广场东边，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布满青苔的“胡
同”里，它的脚步就慢了下来。
肺炎先生不是你们所说的一个行侠仗义的老绅士。一个被加利福尼亚州的西风刮得渐失
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。但是，琼
西却遭到了打击；她躺在一张油漆过的铁床上，几乎一动也不动，凝望着小小的荷兰式玻璃
窗对面砖房的那一面空墙。
一天上午，那个忙碌的医生扬了扬他那灰色的粗眉，把苏叫到外边的走廊上。
“我看，她的病只有十分之一的希望，”他一面把体温计里的水银柱甩下去，一面说，“这
一份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反复思考的心事——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。”
“好吧。我将用全部的力量去治疗她。可是如果我的病人开始算计会有多少辆马车送她出
殡，我就得把治疗的效果减去百分之五十。如果你能想办法让她对冬季新款的大衣袖子感兴
趣而提出一两个问题，那我就可以把医好她的机会从十分之一提高到五分之一。”
医生走后，苏走进工作室里，把一条日本餐巾哭成一团。然后她手里拿着画板，装作精
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，被子底下的身体几乎纹丝不动。苏以为她睡着了，停止了吹口
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，而年轻的作家们不得不给杂志写小说以开辟通向文学的
道路。
苏正在给故事主人公——一个爱达荷州牧人身上画一条在马匹展览会上穿的时髦马裤和
一片单眼镜时，忽然听到一个重复了好几次的低微的声音。她快步走到床边。
琼西的眼睛睁得很大。她望着窗外，数着数——倒着数的。
“十二”她数道，一会又说“十一”，然后是“十”和“九”，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？只有一个空荡阴暗的院子，二十英尺以外
还有一所砖房的空墙。一棵老极了的常春藤，枯萎的根纠结在一块儿，枝干爬到了半墙高。
秋天的寒风已经把藤上的叶子全都吹掉了，几乎只有光秃的枝条还缠附在这断壁残垣上。
“什么呀，亲爱的？”苏问道。
“六”琼西几乎用耳语低声说道。“它们现在越落越快了。三天前还有差不多一百片。我数
得头都疼了。但现在好数了。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。常春藤上的。等到最后一片叶子掉下来，我也就得走了。这件事我三天前就知道
了。难道医生没有告诉你？”
“哼，我从来没听过这种胡话。”苏十分不以为然地抱怨道。“那些破常春藤叶子和你的病
好不好有什么关系？你以前不是很喜欢这棵树吗？你这个顽皮的姑娘。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——让我一字不变地照他的话说吧——他说
有九成把握！噢，那简直是不错的比例啊就像我们在纽约坐电车或者走过一座新楼房的机会
一样。喝点肉汤吧，让苏娣回去画她的画，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吧。”
“你不用再买酒了。”琼西说着，眼睛继续盯着窗外，“又落了一片。不，我不想喝什么肉
汤。只剩下四片了。我想在天黑之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，”苏弯下身子对她说，“你能不能答应我，闭上眼睛，不要瞧窗外，等我
画完，好吗？明天我必须交出这些插图。我需要光线，否则我就拉下窗帘了。”
“你不能到那间屋子里去画吗？”琼西冷冷地问道。
“我愿意待在你跟前，”苏说，“再说，我也不想让你老盯着那些常春藤叶子。”
“你一画完就赶紧叫我。”琼西说着，便闭上了眼睛。她脸色苍白，一动不动地躺在床
上，就像是座跌倒在地上的雕像。“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、疲倦的叶子那样。”
“快睡吧，”苏说道，“我得叫贝尔曼上楼来，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。”
老贝尔曼是住在楼下一层的一个画家。他年过六十，有一把像米开朗琪罗的摩西雕像那
样的胡子，这胡子长在一个像半人半兽的森林之神的头颅上，又卷曲地垂荡在小鬼似的身躯
上。贝尔曼是个失败的画家。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
说就要创作一幅杰作了，可到现在还没有动笔。几年来，他除了偶尔画点商业广告之类的玩
意儿，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，还时常谈论他要画的那幅杰作。除此以外，他是一个暴躁的小老头
儿，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。
苏在楼下他那间朦胧暗淡的斗室里找到了满嘴酒气的贝尔曼。一幅空白的画布绷在画架
上，摆在角落里，在那儿搁了二十五年等着杰作诞生，可连一根线条还没等着。苏把琼西的
胡思乱想告诉了他，还说她害怕琼西真的柔弱得像一片叶子一样，对这个世界的留恋越来越
微弱，恐怕真会飘走了。
老贝尔曼双眼通红，显然在迎风流泪，他十分轻蔑地嗤笑这种白痴。
“什么！”他喊道，“世界上还真会有人蠢到因为那该死的常春藤叶子落掉就想死？我从来
没有听说过这种怪事。不，我才不给你那隐居的矿工糊涂虫当模特儿呢。你干吗让她胡思乱
想？唉，可怜的琼西小姐。”
“她病得很厉害，很虚弱，”苏说，“发高烧发得她神经错乱，满脑子都是古怪的想法。
好，贝尔曼先生，你不愿意给我当模特儿就算了，我看你是个讨厌的老——老唆鬼。”
“你简直太婆婆妈妈了！”贝尔曼喊道，“谁说我不愿意当模特儿？走，我和你一块去。我
不是讲了半天愿意给你当模特儿吗？老天爷，琼西小姐这么好的姑娘真不应该躺在这种地方
生病。总有一天，我要画一幅杰作，我们就可以都搬出去了。一定的！”
他们上楼以后，琼西正在睡觉。苏把窗帘拉下，一直遮住窗台，示意贝尔曼到隔壁的屋
子去。他们在那里提心吊胆地凝视着窗外那棵常春藤。然后彼此看了一眼，哑然无语。寒冷
的雨夹杂着雪花下个不停。贝尔曼穿着他那蓝色的旧衬衣，坐在一把翻过来充当岩石的铁壶
上，扮作隐居的矿工。
第二天早晨，当苏从一个小时的睡眠中醒来时，看见琼西无神的眼睛睁得大大的，注视
着拉下的绿窗帘。
“把窗帘拉起来，我要看。”她低声命令道。
疲倦的苏照办了。
然而，看呀！经过了漫长一夜的狂风暴雨，砖墙上还挂着一藤叶。它是常春藤上最后一
片叶子了。靠近茎部仍然是深绿色，可是锯齿形的叶子边缘已经枯萎发黄，它傲然挂在一根
离地二十多英尺的藤枝上。
“这是最后一片叶子。”琼西说道，“我以为它昨晚一定会落掉的。我听见风声的。今天，
它一定会落掉，我也会一同死去。”
“亲爱的，”苏把疲惫的脸庞挨近枕头，对她说，“你不肯为自己着想，也得为我想想啊。
我可怎么办呢？”
但琼西没有回答。一个灵魂正在准备走上那神秘的、遥远的死亡之途，这是世界上最凄
凉的情景了。那些把她和友谊及大地联结起来的约束关系逐渐放开后，她这种狂想越来越强
烈了。
白天总算熬过去了，甚至在暮色中她们还能看见那片孤零零的藤叶依附在靠墙的枝上。
后来，随着夜幕降临，又是北风大作，暴雨依旧不停地拍打着窗子，雨水从低矮的荷兰式屋
檐上流泻下来。
天刚蒙蒙亮，琼西就毫不留情地吩咐拉起窗帘来。
那片藤叶仍然在那里。
琼西躺在床上，长久地望着它。然后她招呼正在煤气炉上给她煮鸡汤的苏。
“我是一个坏女孩子，苏娣，”琼西说，“天意让那片最后的藤叶留在那里，以显示我有多
么邪恶。想死是有罪过的。你现在就给我拿点鸡汤来，再拿点掺葡萄酒的牛奶来，再——
不，先给我一面小镜子，再把枕头垫高一点，我要坐起来看你做饭。”
过了一个钟头，她说：
“苏娣，我希望有一天能去画那不勒斯的海湾。”
下午医生来了，他走的时候，苏找了个借口跑到走廊上。
“现在有五成希望。”医生一面说，一面握住苏纤细颤抖的手。
“好好护理你就会成功的。现在我得去看楼下另一个病人。他的名字叫贝尔曼——听说也
是个画家。也是肺炎。他年纪太大，身体又弱，这次病得很重。他是没有希望了，今天要把
他送到医院里，让他更舒服一点。”
第二天，医生对苏说：“她已经脱离危险了。你成功了。现在只剩下营养和护理了。”
这天下午，苏跑到琼西的床前，琼西正躺着，安详地编织着一条毫无用处的深蓝色毛线
披肩。苏用一只胳臂连枕头带人一把抱住了她。
“我有件事要告诉你，小家伙，”她说，“贝尔曼先生今天在医院里患肺炎去世了。他只病
了两天。头一天早晨，管理员发现他在自己那间房里痛得动弹不了。他的鞋子和衣服全都湿
透了，冰凉冰凉的。他们无法想象在那个凄风苦雨的夜晚，他究竟去了哪里。后来他们发现
一盏没有熄灭的灯，一把挪动过地方的梯子，几支扔得满地的画笔，还有一块调色板，上面
涂抹着绿色和黄色的颜料，还有——亲爱的，瞧瞧窗子外面，瞧瞧墙上那最后一片藤叶。难
道你没有想过，为什么风刮得那样厉害，它却从来不摇一摇、动一动吗？唉，亲爱的，这片
叶子才是贝尔曼的杰作——就是在最后一片叶子掉下来的晚上，他把它画在那里的。”
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