Many artists lived in the Greenwich Village area of New York. Two young women named Sue and Johnsy shared a studio apartment at the top of a three-story building. Johnsys real name was Joanna.

In November， a cold， unseen stranger came to visit the city. This disease， pneumonia， killed many people. Johnsy lay on her bed， hardly moving. She looked through the small window. She could see the side of the brick house next to her building.

One morning， a doctor examined Johnsy and took her temperature. Then he spoke with Sue in another room.

“She has one chance in—let us say， ten，” he said. “And that chance is for her to want to live. Your friend has made up her mind that she is not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind？”

“She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples in Italy some day，” said Sue.

“Paint？” said the doctor. “Bosh！Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice—a man for example？”

“A man？” said Sue. “Is a man worth—but， no， doctor; there is nothing of the kind.”

“I will do all that science can do，” said the doctor. “But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages at her funeral， I take away fifty percent from the curative power of medicines.”

After the doctor had gone， Sue went into the workroom and cried. Then she went to Johnsys room with her drawing board， whistling ragtime8.

Johnsy lay with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling， thinking she was asleep. She began making a pen and ink drawing for a story in a magazine. Young artists must work their way to “Art” by making pictures for magazine stories. Sue heard a low sound， several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsys eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting—counting backward. “Twelve，” she said， and a little later “eleven”; and then “ten” and “nine”; and then “eight” and “seven”， almost together.

Sue looked out the window. What was there to count？ There was only an empty yard and the blank side of the house seven meters away. An old ivy vine， going bad at the roots， climbed half way up the wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken leaves from the plant until its branches， almost bare， hung on the bricks.

“What is it， dear？” asked Sue.

“Six，” said Johnsy， quietly. “Theyre falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head hurt to count them. But now its easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.”

“Five what， dear？” asked Sue.

“Leaves. On the plant. When the last one falls I must go， too. Ive known that for three days. Didnt the doctor tell you？”

“Oh， I never heard of such a thing，” said Sue. “What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well？ And you used to love that vine. Dont be silly. Why， the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were—lets see exactly what he said—he said the chances were ten to one！Try to eat some soup now. And， let me go back to my drawing， so I can sell it to the magazine and buy food and wine for us.”

“You neednt get any more wine，” said Johnsy， keeping her eyes fixed out the window. “There goes another one. No， I dont want any soup. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then Ill go， too.”

“Johnsy， dear，” said Sue， “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.”

“Tell me as soon as you have finished，” said Johnsy， closing her eyes and lying white and still as a fallen statue. “I want to see the last one fall. Im tired of waiting. Im 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 Mr. Behrman up to be my model for my drawing of an old miner. Dont try to move until I come back.”

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor of the apartment building. Behrman was a failure in art. For years， he had always been planning to paint a work of art， but had never yet begun it. He earned a little money by serving as a model to artists who could not pay for a professional model. He was a fierce， little， old man who protected the two young women in the studio apartment above him.

Sue found Behrman in his room. In one area was a blank canvas that had been waiting twenty-five years for the first line of paint. Sue told him about Johnsy and how she feared that her friend would float away like a leaf.

Old Behrman was angered at such an idea. “Are there people in the world with the foolishness to die because leaves drop off a vine？ Why do you let that silly business come in her brain？”

“She is very sick and weak，” said Sue， “and the disease has left her mind full of strange ideas.”

“This is not any place in which one so good as Miss Johnsy shall lie sick，” yelled Behrman. “Some day I will paint a masterpiece， and we shall all go away.”

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to cover the window. She and Behrman went into the other room. They looked out a window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other without speaking. A cold rain was falling， mixed with snow. Behrman sat and posed as the miner.

The next morning， Sue awoke after an hours sleep. She found Johnsy with wide-open eyes staring at the covered window.

“Pull up the shade; I want to see，” she ordered， quietly.

Sue obeyed.

After the beating rain and fierce wind that blew through the night， there yet stood against the wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. It was still dark green at the center. But its edges were colored with the yellow. It hung bravely from the branch about seven meters 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 today and I shall die at the same time.”

“Dear， dear！” said Sue， leaning her worn face down toward the bed. “Think of me， if you wont think of yourself. What would I do？”

But Johnsy did not answer.

The next morning， when it was light， Johnsy demanded that the window 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 preparing chicken soup.

“Ive been a bad girl，” said Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how bad I was. It is wrong to want to die. You may bring me a little soup now.”

An hour later she said， “Someday I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”

Later in the day， the doctor came， and Sue talked to him in the hallway.

“Even chances，” said the doctor. “With good care， youll win. And now I must see another case I have in your building. Behrman， his name is—some kind of an artist， I believe. Pneumonia， too. He is an old， weak man and his case is severe. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital today to ease his pain.”

The next day， the doctor said to Sue， “Shes out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now—thats all.”

Later that day， Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay， and put one arm around her.

“I have something to tell you， white mouse，” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was sick only two days. They found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were completely wet and icy cold. They could not imagine where he had been on such a terrible night. And then they found a lantern， still lighted. And they found a ladder that had been moved from its place. And art supplies and a painting board with green and yellow colors mixed on it. And look out the window， dear， at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didnt you wonder why it never moved when the wind blew？ Ah， darling， it is Behrmans masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”

許多藝術(shù)家住在紐約的格林威治村地區(qū)。兩名年輕的女子分別叫蘇和瓊西，她們在一棟三層樓的頂樓合租了一間畫室。瓊西的真名是喬安娜。

11月，一位冷酷無情而又看不見的不速之客造訪了這座城市。肺炎這種疾病，殺死了許多人。瓊西躺在床上，幾乎一動不動。她從小窗往外看，能看到她房子旁邊那棟磚房的墻。

一天早上，醫(yī)生給瓊西做了檢查，量了體溫。然后他到另一個房間和蘇談話。

“她可以說只有十分之一的康復機會?！彼f，“這個機會在于她自己想活下去。你的朋友已經(jīng)斷定她自己不會好起來了。她有什么心事嗎？”

“她——她想有朝一日畫出意大利那不勒斯灣?！碧K說。

“畫畫？”醫(yī)生說，“胡扯！她腦子里有什么值得琢磨的事情——比如說一個男人？”

“男人？”蘇說，“男人就值得嗎？但是，沒有，醫(yī)生，沒有這樣的事。”

“我將盡一切科學所能?！贬t(yī)生說，“但是，每當我的病人開始算計自己葬禮上有多少輛馬車時，我就得把藥物的療效減掉百分之五十?！?/p>

醫(yī)生走后，蘇走進工作室哭了起來。然后她拿著畫板去了瓊西的房間，吹著拉格泰姆爵士樂的口哨。

瓊西臉朝窗戶躺著。蘇不再吹口哨了，以為她睡著了。她開始為雜志上的一個故事畫鋼筆畫。年輕的藝術(shù)家為了鋪平通向“藝術(shù)”的道路，不得不為雜志上的故事畫插圖。蘇聽到一個低沉的聲音，重復了好幾次。她快步走到床邊。

瓊西睜大著眼睛，她看著窗外，數(shù)著數(shù)——倒數(shù)著?！笆?，”她數(shù)道，過了一會兒又說“十一”;接著是“十”和“九”;然后幾乎同時數(shù)了“八”和“七”。

蘇向窗外望去，那兒有什么可數(shù)的呢？只有一個空蕩蕩的院子和七米開外房子的空墻。一棵老常春藤，根枯萎了，爬到了墻的一半。秋天的寒風把這顆植物的葉子刮落，幾乎光禿禿的樹枝掛在磚上。

“怎么了，親愛的？”蘇問。

“六片?！杯偽鞯吐暤卣f，“它們現(xiàn)在掉得更快了。三天前差不多有一百片，我數(shù)得頭疼，但現(xiàn)在好數(shù)了。又掉了一片，現(xiàn)在只剩下五片了。”

“五片什么，親愛的？”蘇問。

“葉子，在那棵植物上。當最后一片掉下來的時候，我也得走了。這事兒我三天前就已經(jīng)知道了。醫(yī)生沒告訴你嗎？”

“哦，我從來沒聽說過這種事?！碧K說，“老常春藤的葉子跟你的康復有什么關(guān)系？你以前很喜歡那棵藤的啊。別傻了，對了，今天早上醫(yī)生告訴我，你很快康復的機會是——讓我們看看他到底說了什么——他說機會是十分之一！現(xiàn)在試著喝點湯。我要回去畫畫，這樣我就可以把畫賣給雜志社，給我們買些吃的和酒?！?/p>

“你不用再買酒了?！杯偽髡f，眼睛一直盯著窗外，“又掉了一片。不，我不想喝湯。只剩下四片了。我想在天黑之前看到最后一片掉下來，然后我也要走了?！?/p>

“瓊西，親愛的。”蘇說，“你能答應我閉上你的眼睛，在我畫完之前不要往窗外看嗎？我必須在明天之前把那些畫交出去?！?/p>

“你一畫完就告訴我。”瓊西閉上眼睛，臉色蒼白地躺著，像一尊倒下的雕像，“我想看到最后一片掉下來。我等夠了，我厭倦了思考，我想擺脫一切，像那些可憐的、疲憊的葉子一樣，一路飄下去，飄下去?！?/p>

“你睡會兒吧?！碧K說，“我得叫貝爾曼先生來做我畫老礦工的模特。你不要動，等我回來?！?/p>

老貝爾曼是個畫家，住在公寓樓的一樓。貝爾曼在藝術(shù)方面是個失敗者。多年來，他一直在計劃畫一件藝術(shù)品，但一直沒開始。他為那些找不起專業(yè)模特的藝術(shù)家當模特掙了一點錢。他是一個火氣十足的矮小老頭，保護著他樓上公寓里的兩位年輕女性。

蘇在貝爾曼的房間里找到了他。房間里有個地方放著一塊空白的畫布，等著第一筆落下已經(jīng)等了25年。蘇告訴他瓊西的事，以及她有多么擔心她的朋友會像樹葉一樣飄走。

老貝爾曼對這種想法感到生氣?！笆澜缟暇尤挥腥舜赖揭驗闃淙~從藤蔓上掉下來就要死嗎？你怎么可以讓她胡思亂想？”

“她病得很重，很虛弱?！碧K說，“這個病使她滿腦子奇怪的想法?！?/p>

“像瓊西小姐這樣的好人真不應該在這種地方病倒?！必悹柭暗溃翱傆幸惶煳視嬕环茏?，我們就都會搬走了?！?/p>

他們上樓的時候，瓊西正在睡覺。蘇把窗簾拉下來遮住窗戶。她和貝爾曼走進另一個房間。他們提心吊膽地看著窗外的常春藤。然后他們默默無言，彼此對望著。冷雨夾雜著雪不停地下著。貝爾曼坐著，擺出礦工的樣子。

第二天早上，蘇睡了一個小時就醒了。她發(fā)現(xiàn)瓊西的眼睛睜得大大的，盯著窗簾遮著的窗戶。

“把窗簾拉上來，我想看看。”她低聲命令道。

蘇照辦了。

在一夜的狂風暴雨過后，墻上還掛著一片常春藤葉子。這是藤上最后一片葉子，中間還是深綠色的，但它的邊緣已經(jīng)發(fā)黃。它傲然掛在離地約7米高的藤枝上。

“這是最后一片?！杯偽髡f，“我以為它一定會在夜里掉下來。我聽到了風聲，它今天會掉下來，我也會同時死去?！?/p>

“親愛的，親愛的！”蘇說著，把她那張憔悴的臉湊到床邊，“如果你不為自己著想，想想我。我該怎么辦？”

但瓊西沒有回答。

第二天早上，天亮了，瓊西要求把窗簾拉起。那片常春藤葉子還在那兒。瓊西躺了很長時間，看著它。然后她向正在準備雞湯的蘇喊了一聲。

“我是個壞女孩?！杯偽髡f，“有什么東西讓最后一片葉子留在那里，讓我知道我有多壞。想死是不對的?，F(xiàn)在你可以給我拿點湯來?！?/p>

一小時后，她說：“我希望有一天能去畫那不勒斯灣?！?/p>

那天晚些時候，醫(yī)生來了，蘇在走廊里和他說話。

“有五成的希望。”醫(yī)生說，“小心照顧，你會成功的?，F(xiàn)在我得去看看你樓里的另一個病人。他的名字是貝爾曼——我相信他是個畫家，也得了肺炎。他年老體虛，病情很嚴重。他沒有希望了，但他今天去醫(yī)院減輕痛苦?！?/p>

第二天，醫(yī)生對蘇說：“她已經(jīng)脫離危險了，你成功了?，F(xiàn)在只需要注意營養(yǎng)和護理?！?/p>

那天晚些時候，蘇來到瓊西躺著的床前，用一只胳膊摟著她。

“我有話要告訴你，小家伙。”她說， “貝爾曼先生今天在醫(yī)院死于肺炎。他只病了兩天。第一天早上，他們發(fā)現(xiàn)他在樓下的房間里疼得動彈不得。他的鞋子和衣服都濕透了，冰冷刺骨。他們無法想象在這樣一個糟糕的夜晚他去過哪里。然后他們發(fā)現(xiàn)了一盞提燈，還亮著，一個梯子被挪動過不在原地。還有美術(shù)用品和一塊畫板抹著黃綠混合的顏料?？纯创巴猓H愛的，看看墻上最后一片常春藤葉子。你不奇怪為什么風吹的時候它動也不動嗎？啊，親愛的，這是貝爾曼的杰作——最后一片葉子掉下來的那天晚上，他把它畫在了那兒。”