Last page
Last pageO.Henry
One of the most famous humorists in world literature, O. Henry created a unique panorama of American life at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, in grotesque situations he conveyed the contrasts and paradoxes of his era, which opened up space for people with business acumen, whom the game of chance sometimes elevates to the pinnacle of success , then it throws you down to the very bottom of life.
“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 collector from a store with a bill for paints, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home, without receiving a single cent of the bill!..”
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, in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rents, people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village. 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 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 colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. This murderer walked boldly through the East Side, 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’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 ask even once 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.
It is impossible not to admire the work of O. Henry. This American writer, like no one else, knew how to reveal human vices and extol virtues with one stroke of the pen. There is no allegory in his works; life appears as it really is. But even the tragic events are described by the master of words with his characteristic subtle irony and good humor. We bring to your attention one of the most touching author's short stories, or rather its brief content. “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry is a life-affirming story written in 1907, just three years before the writer’s death.
A young nymph struck down by a serious illness
Two aspiring artists, whose names are Sue and Jonesy, rent an inexpensive apartment in a poor area of Manhattan. The sun rarely shines on their third floor, as the windows face north. Behind the glass you can only see a blank brick wall entwined with old ivy. This is roughly what the first lines of O. Henry’s story “The Last Leaf” sound like, a summary of which we are trying to produce as close to the text as possible.
The girls moved into this apartment in May, organizing a small painting studio here. At the time of the events described, it is November and one of the artists is seriously ill - she was diagnosed with pneumonia. The visiting doctor fears for Jonesy's life, as she has lost heart and prepared to die. A thought was firmly lodged in her pretty head: as soon as the last leaf falls from the ivy outside the window, the last minute of life will come for her.
Sue tries to distract her friend, to instill at least a small spark of hope, but she doesn’t succeed. The situation is complicated by the fact that the autumn wind mercilessly tears off the leaves from the old ivy, which means that the girl does not have long to live.
Despite the laconicism of this work, the author describes in detail the manifestations of Sue's touching care for her sick friend, the appearance and characters of the characters. But we are forced to omit many important nuances, since we set out to convey only a brief summary. “The Last Leaf”... O. Henry gave his story, at first glance, an inexpressive title. It is revealed as the story progresses.
Evil old man Berman
The artist Berman lives in the same house on the floor below. For the last twenty-five years, an aging man has been dreaming of creating his own painting masterpiece, but there is still not enough time to start work. He draws cheap posters and drinks heavily.
Sue, a friend of a sick girl, considers Berman an old man with a bad character. But still she tells him about Jonesy’s fantasy, her fixation on her own death and the falling ivy leaves outside the window. But how can a failed artist help?
Probably, at this point the writer could put a long ellipsis and end the story. And we would have to sigh sympathetically, reflecting on the fate of the young girl, whose life was fleeting, in book language, “had a brief content.” “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry is a plot with an unexpected ending, as, indeed, are most of the author’s other works. Therefore, it is too early to draw an end.
A small feat in the name of life
A strong wind with rain and snow raged outside all night. But when Jonesy asked her friend to open the curtains in the morning, the girls saw that a yellow-green leaf was still attached to the woody ivy stem. Both on the second and third days the picture did not change - the stubborn leaf did not want to fly away.
Jonesy also perked up, believing that it was too early for her to die. The doctor who visited his patient said that the disease had receded and the girl’s health was improving. Fanfare should sound here - a miracle has happened! Nature took the side of man, not wanting to take away the hope of salvation from the weak girl.
A little later, the reader will understand that miracles happen at the will of those who are able to perform them. It is not difficult to verify this by reading the story in full or at least its brief content. “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry is a story with a happy ending, but with a slight touch of sadness and light sadness.
A few days later, the girls learn that their neighbor Berman died in the hospital from pneumonia. He caught a bad cold on the very night when the last leaf was supposed to fall from the ivy. The artist painted a yellow-green spot with a stem and like living veins on a brick wall.
Instilling hope in the dying Jonesy's heart, Berman sacrificed his life. This is how O. Henry's story “The Last Leaf” ends. An analysis of the work could take more than one page, but we will try to express its main idea in just one line: “And in everyday life there is always a place for feat.”
"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,” Jonesy answered, 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'll write a masterpiece and we'll 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 did not 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...
The Greenwich Village quarter became a haven for people of art, who were attracted to it by its ancient roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent.
Sue and Jonesy's (Joanna) studio was at the top of a three-story brick building. The girls, who met in May at a restaurant on Eighth Street, discovered that they had a lot in common and decided to work together. In November, a stranger named Pneumonia came to the neighborhood. He knocked tiny, anemic Joanna off her feet.
One morning, the girl’s attending physician called Sue into the hallway and said that the patient was too weak. According to the doctor, if Jonesy does not find something worth living for in the near future, then her chances of recovery will not be even one in ten. After crying alone, Sue went into the room where Joanna was lying and began to draw. Suddenly she heard a quiet whisper: her friend was counting backwards the leaves flying off the ivy clinging to the brick wall of a neighboring house. Three days ago there were almost a hundred; now there are five left. Jonesy believes that when the last leaf falls, she will die. Sue asks her to eat some broth and let her finish the drawing so she can buy wine and pork cutlets. Jonesy doesn't want wine. She dreams of seeing the last leaf fall.
Sue asks her friend to close her eyes to give her the opportunity to finish the work, and goes to fetch Berman (an old artist who lives on the floor below), from whom she wants to paint a gold miner-hermit. She shares Jonesy's stupid fantasies with the drunken loser. Berman loses his temper.
The next morning, Jonesy asks to lift the curtain. Sue looks in surprise at the last leaf left on the ivy after a rainy, windy night. The patient waits all day for him to fall. At night it rains again and the north wind blows. At dawn, the girls discover an ivy leaf still in the same place. Jonesy repents of wishing for death. She asks Sue to give her broth and milk with port. The doctor who came in the afternoon says that the chances of recovery have become equal. With good care, Jonesy should recover. He also informs Sue about Berman’s pneumonia. There is no hope for him. The old artist is sent to the hospital. The next day, Jonesy is out of danger. Berman dies. Sue tells her friend that the last sheet was drawn by an old artist.
- “The Last Leaf”, artistic analysis of the story by O. Henry
- “The Gifts of the Magi”, artistic analysis of the story by O. Henry
- “The Gifts of the Magi”, a summary of the story by O. Henry
- O. Henry, short biography
- “While the Car Waits,” analysis of the story by O. Henry
- “Pharaoh and the Chorale”, analysis of the story by O. Henry
“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'll write a masterpiece and we'll 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 last ivy leaf was still visible on the brick wall! 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 did not 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.