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 it summary. « Last page» 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 approximately 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 ivy leaves the window will fall the last leaf, the last minute of life will come for herself.
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 the sick girl, thinks Berman is an old man with bad character. But still she tells him about Jonesy’s fantasy, her fixation on own death and 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
It was raging on the street all night strong wind with rain and snow. 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 entire story 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.”
American William Sidney Porter is known throughout the world as the writer O. Henry. He was left an orphan early. He worked part-time in his uncle's pharmacy, saw a lot of mooing, was even convicted of embezzling money and served time in Columbus Prison in Ohio. During his life, he saw many people and faced different destinies. When he became a writer, it was they who became his heroes - little people, clerks, bandits, swindlers. One of the best, most dramatic short stories by O. Henry is “The Last Leaf.” Its heroines are two young artists Sue and Jonesy, who live in the “wonderful old” Grinch Village. Wet and Cold winter in the north of America brought pneumonia to the residents of the old house. Jonesy became so ill in November that she was one step away from death.
The doctor who came to examine Jonesy said she needed to eat well and take medicine to get better. But Jonesy has no desire to live. She decided that she would die when the last yellowed leaf fell from the decrepit gnarled ivy outside the room window.
In the second part of the story, the old German Berman appears. He is an artist who all his life only dreams of a masterpiece that will someday come out of his brush. This requires inspiration, which life does not provide. Therefore, Berman will never begin work on his masterpiece. The author talks a little about the artist's life and everything he did after hearing about Jonesy's illness.
We learn about Berman's actions after his death. The old German skillfully painted a leaf of ivy simply on a brick wall, and it seemed to the sick Jonesy that the leaf was clinging so tightly to life that it would never fall. Several days passed like this. Jonesy began to recover. In the end, the girl realized that she was a bad girl and that it was a sin to want to die. An ivy leaf, a symbol of life drawn by Berman, helped her overcome her illness.
At the end of the story, Jonesy finds out who helped her survive. Old Berman sketched the piece of paper at the cost of his life. He was wet from the rain, frozen from the cold piercing wind. His old body could not withstand pneumonia - and he died. The old artist gave his life so that Jonesy could live. The loser managed to give the girl more than an ordinary masterpiece - life.
O. Henry's short story is about humanity, compassion, self-sacrifice, about art, which should encourage life, give inspiration, joy and inspiration. These are the lessons of O. Henry, they teach to enjoy sincere human feelings, which can make life in this frantic world happy and meaningful.
The writer O. Henry and his heroes are small people. William Odin Porter is the real name of the writer O. Henry. O. Henry's life is full of adventures, losses, and meetings. His heroes are clerks, bandits, swindlers.
The short story “The Last Leaf” and its characters. The characters in the novel are young artists Sue and Jonesy. Jonesy got pneumonia and doesn't want to live. She decided that she would die when the last leaf fell from the ivy outside the window.
Meet the failed artist Berman. The German Berman only dreams of a masterpiece. He draws an ivy leaf on the wall for Jonesy, despite the rain, snow and wind. Jonesy recovers, but Berman falls ill and dies of pneumonia.
Jonesy's recovery. At the end of the story, Jonesy learns that old Berman helped her survive and what price he paid for it. O. Henry's novella is about humanity, compassion, and self-sacrifice.
The act of the artist Berman (story “The Last Leaf”)
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when the last leaf fell."
O. HENRY THE LAST LEAF
(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 driveways. These passages form strange angles and crooked 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 having received a single cent of the bill!
And so people of art came across a 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'hote of a restaurant on Volmaya Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio emerged.
This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching first one or the other with his icy fingers. Along the Eastern 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 could not be called a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, could hardly be considered a worthy opponent for a burly old fool 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 Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.
One morning, a 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 loses its meaning when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady decided that she would never get better. What is she thinking about?
- She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.
- With paints? Nonsense! Doesn't she have something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?
- Men? - Sue asked, and her voice sounded sharp, like a harmonica. - Is the man really standing... No, doctor, there is nothing like that.
“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 begins to count the carriages in his funeral procession, I'm discounting fifty percent of the healing power of medicines. If you can get her to ask at least once what style of sleeves they will wear this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of one in ten.
After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely wet. Then she bravely entered 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 that Jonesy 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 for the story the figure of an Idaho cowboy in elegant breeches and with a monocle in his eye, Sue heard a quiet whisper, repeated several times. She hurriedly approached the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted in reverse order.
“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 steps 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 vine, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.
- What is it, honey? - asked Sue.
“Six,” Jonesy answered barely audibly. - 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 will 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 has here in New York when you ride a tram or walk past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so that she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for myself.
“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. That means there are only four left. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.
Jonesy, honey,” said Sue, leaning over her, “will you promise me 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 another room? - Jonesy asked coldly.
“I’d like to sit with you,” Sue said. - And besides, I don’t want you to look at these stupid leaves.
Tell me when you finish,” said Jonesy, 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, fly lower and lower, like one of these poor, tired leaves.
“Try to sleep,” said Sue. - 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 his satyr’s head 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 couldn't afford professional models. He drank heavily, but still talked about his future masterpiece. But otherwise he was a feisty old man who scoffed at all sentimentality and looked at himself as a watchdog specially assigned to protect two young artists.
Sue found Berman, smelling strongly of juniper berries, in his darkened downstairs closet. In one corner, an untouched canvas stood on an easel for twenty-five years, 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 the leaves are falling from the damned ivy! First time I hear it. 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 all sorts of morbid fantasies come into her head. 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 chatterbox.
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 not the 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 lowered the curtain all the way to the windowsill 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 digger-hermit on an overturned kettle instead of a rock.
The next morning, Sue woke up from a short nap to find Jonesy staring at the lowered green curtain with his dull, wide eyes.
“Pick it up, I want to look,” Jonesy commanded in a whisper.
Sue obeyed wearily.
And what? After 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 stood bravely on a branch twenty feet above the ground.
This is the last one,” said Jonesy. - 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 Johnsy 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 a 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 curtains to be raised again.
The ivy leaf still remained in place.
Jonesy lay there for a long time, looking at him. Then she called Sue, who was heating up chicken broth for her on a gas burner.
“I was a bad girl, Sudie,” said Jonesy. - This last leaf must have remained on the branch to show me how nasty I was. It is a sin to wish oneself death. Now you can give me some broth, and then milk and port... Although no: bring me a mirror first, 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. It seems he is 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 is out of danger. You won. Now nutrition 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 wet 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 from the wind? Yes, honey, this is Berman’s masterpiece - he wrote it that night when the last leaf fell off.
In the collection of short stories "The Burning Lamp".
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Friends, if you do not have the opportunity to read O. Henry’s short story “The Last Leaf,” watch this video. And in the evening, Sue told her friend that old man Berman had died.
Plot
In a small block in Greenwich Village, two young artists Sue and Jonesy live in one of the three-story houses. Jonesy has contracted pneumonia and is on the verge of death. Outside the window of her room, leaves are falling from the ivy. Johnsy firmly believes that when the last leaf falls from the tree, she will die. Sue tries to persuade her friend to get rid of pessimistic thoughts.
In the same house, on the ground floor, lives a sixty-year-old unsuccessful artist named Berman, who year after year dreams of painting a masterpiece, but does not even attempt to begin to realize his dream. Sue comes to old man Berman with a request to pose for her for his painting and talks about her friend’s illness and her stupid prejudice, which only causes the old artist to mock such stupid fantasies:
At the end of the conversation, the young artist and her newly minted sitter head up the stairs to Sue and Jonesy's studio.
The night was windy and rainy. The next morning the patient demanded to open the curtain to see how many leaves were left on the ivy. After inclement weather, the last leaf was visible against the backdrop of a brick wall. Johnsy was sure that it would soon fall and then she would die.
During the following day and night, the leaf still continued to hang on the branch. To the surprise of the young women, the leaf remained in place the next morning. This convinces Jonesy that she sinned by wishing herself dead and restores her will to live.
In the afternoon the doctor came and said that Johnsy's chances of recovery were equal. Afterwards he said that he had to visit another patient named Berman - the old man was very weak, and the form of the disease was severe. The next day, the doctor declared Jonesy completely recovered. That same evening, Sue told a friend that old man Berman had died in the hospital of 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.<…>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. |
Last page.
On one of the streets big city Two young artist girls, Sue and Jonesy, lived in a three-story brick house.
In November, a serious illness knocked Jonesy off his feet. She lay motionless on the bed, looking through the glass window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.
One morning, a concerned doctor called Sue into the corridor and said that her friend had very little chance of getting better. She can cope with the disease if she wants to live.
After the doctor left, Sue entered Jonesy's room. Thinking that the patient had fallen asleep, the girl sat down by the window and began to draw. Suddenly she heard a quiet whisper and a hurried
went to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted and counted backwards. Sue also looked out the window. What can be counted there?
-What is it, honey? - asked Sue.
-Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. - Jonesy answered barely audibly. - My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Now there are only five of them left.
-What's five, honey?
-Leaves on ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die.
Despite all the persuasion to calm down, eat some broth and go to sleep, Johnsy continued to say that she wanted to see the last leaf fall. She is tired of living, tired of thinking.
Sue told the old man about Jonesy's fantasies and her fears that she, light and fragile as a leaf, would fly away from them. Old man Berman shouted, mocking such stupid fantasies.
The next morning Jonesy demanded to open the curtain. Sue obeyed wearily. And what? After the first heavy torrential 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 with yellow along the jagged edges, it hung bravely on the branch.
“This is the last one,” said Jonesy. - I thought he would fall at night. It will fall today. Then I will die too.
The day passed, and even at dusk they saw a single leaf hanging on to its stem.
At night the north wind rose again, and the rain beat on the window. As soon as it was dawn, Jonesy ordered the curtains to be raised. She lay there for a long time, looking at the leaf. Then she said, turning to her friend:
-I was a bad girl, Sue. 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. Give me some broth and milk.
A day later the doctor said she was out of danger.
-You won, but I have to visit Berman. He also has pneumonia. There is no hope for recovery.
That same evening Sue said to Jonesy:
-Berman died today. He was only sick for two days. On the first day, the doorman found him on the floor of his room. Shoes and clothes were soaked through. The poor old man was unconscious. No one could understand where he went out on such a terrible night. Then they found a lantern that was still burning, a ladder, brushes, a palette with yellow and green paints.
Aren't you surprised, dear, that the leaf doesn't move? This is Berman's masterpiece. He wrote it on the night when the last leaf fell.