最後一片葉子 @ 世界文選

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最後一片葉子 歐亨利原著江銘輝譯舞夢網

華盛頓廣場西邊有一小區域街道破舊並且彼此錯亂交叉，形成許多細窄短小的巷弄，被戲弄為「街坊」。這些街坊巷弄形成奇怪的轉角和彎曲的道路。每條街自已本身都會交叉了一次或兩次。有一位畫家有一次發現可能是這條街道最有趣的事。它是：假如有一個收費員，他帶著一張帳單來這裡收畫料、圖紙和畫布的帳款，當他進入這條街道橫過馬路時，突然發現自己又回到原地，一毛錢的帳款也沒有收到。
因此，對於這個古老、奇怪的格林威治村，畫家朋友們寧可來回尋覓，尋找北邊有窗戶、十八世紀三角牆，荷蘭式閣樓而且租金又便宜的房子，然後他們從第六街買來幾個白鑞咖啡杯和一、二只火鍋，如此形成畫家部落。
蘇伊和嬌西的畫室在一幢低矮三樓磚房的頂樓。「嬌西」是「嬌安娜」的暱稱，她們其中一個來自緬因州，另一個來自加州。她們是在第八街的「德拉墨尼可餐廳」吃客飯時認識的。她們發現兩人在藝術、菊苣沙拉和燈籠袖的愛好十分相同，因此她們合租了一個畫室。
這是五月的事，到了寒冷的十一月，從來未謀面的陌生客（即醫生所稱的肺炎）蔓延在畫家部落。他用冰冷的手指，這裡、那裡到處碰觸人們。在東區這個蹂躪者明目張膽大幅的肆虐，侵襲無數的受難者。但當它來的這個如迷宮狹窄巷道、長滿苔蘚的街坊時，卻放慢腳步。
肺炎先生並不是你們所稱呼對婦女彬彬有禮的老紳士，一個已經被加州西風吹得毫無血色的弱小女人，幾乎經不起那舞著紅拳，氣急敗壞老頑固的直接挑鬥。但他竟然襲擊了嬌西；她躺在那張漆過的鐵床上，幾乎動彈不得，從荷蘭式小窗格望著隔壁磚屋的空白牆壁。
一天早上，一個忙碌有灰色粗濃眉毛的醫生招呼蘇伊到走廊。「依我看，她的病只有一成希望。」，說著，一面把體溫計裡的水銀甩下去。「那一線機會在於她想不想活下去。人們不想活，在殯儀館這邊排隊，使所有醫藥都成多餘的。你的這位小姐已認定她的病不會康復。她有什麼心事嗎？」
「她--她希望有一天能去畫那不勒斯海灣。」蘇伊說。「繪畫？--胡說！她心裡有沒有值得一再思念的事情--比如說，男人？」
「男人？」蘇伊像吹小口琴似地哼了一聲說，「男人值得嗎--喔！不，醫生；沒有那回事。」
「嗯，此外，她身體很虛弱。」醫生說。「我將經過我的努力用一切科學方法過濾後，治療她。可是每逢我的病人開始盤算他出殯的丈葬儀有多少輛馬車時，我就得把治病的藥量減去百分之五十。要是你能使她提出一個冬季大衣袖子新式樣的問題，我就可以保證，她恢復的機會准能從十分之一提高到五分之一。」
醫生走後，蘇伊走進工作室，把一條日本小毛巾哭成一團。然後，她拿起畫板，吹著輕鬆的爵士樂，昂首闊步地走進嬌西的房間。嬌西躺在被窩裡，臉朝著窗口，一點兒動靜也沒有。蘇伊以為她睡著了，趕緊停止吹口哨。她擺好畫板，開始替雜誌的小說畫一幅鋼筆畫的插圖。青年畫家必定以雜誌小說的插圖為其美術鋪路，同樣的青年作家也以寫雜誌小說為其文學鋪路。蘇伊正為小說裡的主角，一個愛達荷州的牛仔，畫上一條在馬術表演穿的漂亮馬褲和一只單片眼鏡時，忽然聽到一個低沈的聲音重複了數遍。她趕緊走到床邊。嬌西的眼睛睜得大大的，望著窗外，在計數--倒數計數著。「十二，」她說，過了一會兒，又說「十一」；接著是「十」和「九」；再接著是幾乎連在一起的「八」和「七」。
蘇伊急切地向窗外望去。有什麼可數的呢？外面見到的只是一個空蕩蕩、陰沉沉的院子，和二十英尺外的一幛磚屋的空壁。一株多瘤而根部腐朽的老長春藤，攀爬在半牆上。秋季寒風的氣息把藤上的葉子打落下來，幾乎光禿禿的，只剩下藤枝依附在那破碎的磚牆上。「怎麼回事，親愛的？」蘇伊問道。「六，」嬌西說，聲音低得像是耳語，「現在它們掉得快些了。三天前差不多有一百片。數得我頭都痛啦。現在可容易了。又掉了一片，如今只剩下五片了。」 “五片什麼，親愛的？告訴你的蘇伊。＂
「葉子，常春藤上的葉子。等最後一片掉落下來，我也得去了。三天前我就知道了，難道大夫沒有告訴你嗎？」

圖：嬌西說：「等最後一片掉落下來，我也得走了。」

「喲，我從沒聽到這樣荒唐的事，」蘇伊假裝非常不以為然，辯解說。「老藤葉跟你病的康復有什麼相干？你也一向很喜歡那株常春藤，你這淘氣的姑娘。別發傻啦。哎呀，醫生今天早晨告訴我，你有機會很快就會康復--讓我想想，他是怎麼說的--他說你痊癒的希望有十分之一！喲，那幾乎是一個好機會，跟我們在走紐約搭上街車或者在路走著遇到一幛新蓋房子一樣的機會。現在喝一點湯吧，讓蘇伊回去繼續畫圖，好賣給編輯先生，給她的病孩子買點兒紅葡萄酒，和猪排給她自己解饞。」「你不用再買什麼酒啦。」嬌西說，繼續凝視著窗外，「又掉了一片。不，我不要喝湯，只剩四片了。我希望在天黑之前看到最後的藤葉飄下來，那時候我也該去了。」「親愛的，嬌西，」蘇伊彎著身子對她說，「你能不能答應我，將眼睛閉上，一直到我畫完之前，都別瞧窗外？那些圖畫我明天得交。我需要光線，否則我就把窗簾拉下來了。」「你可不可以到另一間屋子裡去畫嗎？」嬌西冷冷地說。「我寧可在你的身旁，」蘇伊說，「而且我不喜歡你老盯著那些無聊的藤葉。」
「你一畫完就告訴我。」嬌西閉上眼睛說，她臉色慘白，靜靜地躺著，活像一尊倒下的塑像，「因為我要看那最後的藤葉掉下來。我等得不耐煩了。也想得不耐煩了。我想擺脫一切，像一片可憐的、厭倦的藤葉，悠悠地往下飄，往下飄。」
「嘗試睡覺罷，」蘇伊說，“我要去叫貝爾曼上來，當作我那個隱居老礦工的模特兒。我去不了一分種。在我回來之前，千萬別動。＂老貝爾曼是住在樓下底層的一個畫家。他年紀超過六十，有一把像米開朗基羅摩西雕像上的鬍子，像從希臘神話半神半獸酒鬼的頭上特別捲曲垂下。貝爾曼是藝術界的失意人。他揮舞了四十年的畫筆，連繆思女神衣裙的邊緣都沒有碰到。他老是說就要畫一幅傑作，可是始終沒有動手。除了偶爾塗抹了一些商業畫或廣告畫之外，幾年沒有畫過什麼。他替此地藝術區那些雇不起職業模特兒的青年藝術家充當模特兒，賺幾個小錢。他喝杜松子酒總是過量，還常談到他未來的傑作。此外，他還是個暴躁的小老頭，極端瞧不起溫馴的人，卻認為自己是保護樓上畫室兩位青年藝術家的看門狗。蘇伊在樓下那間燈光黯淡的小屋子裡找到了滿身杜松子酒氣的貝爾曼。角落裡的畫架上商張著一幅空白的畫布，它在那兒靜候傑作的落筆，已經有了二十五年。她告訴他有關嬌西的幻想，又說她如何害怕嬌西會這樣，的確，她那個虛弱得像暗淡、脆弱般的樹葉，當她想念世界的意志逐漸薄弱時，就隨風飄逝了。老貝爾曼紅著眼睛眼淚直流，他對這種愚蠢的想法大不以為然，大聲咆哮住辱罵。
「什麼!」他大叫，「世界上竟然有這種傻子，因為那可惡的長春藤葉落掉而想死？我活了一輩子也沒有聽到過這種怪事。不，我絕不扮演不出世面、頑固且愚蠢的模特兒。你怎麼能讓她腦袋裡有這種傻念頭呢？唉，可憐的小嬌西小姐。」 “她病得很厲害，很虛弱，＂蘇伊說，“發燒使她神智不清，滿腦子奇怪的幻想。好，貝爾曼先生，既然你不願意作我的當模特兒，我也不勉強你了。我想你是可怕老-又老又多嘴的人。＂「你只是一個女人罷了！」貝爾曼嚷道，「誰說我不願意作模特兒？走吧。我跟你一起去。半個小時之前我就準備好了，願意替你替你效勞。天哪！像嬌西小姐那樣好的人實在不應該臥病。總有一天，我要畫一幅傑作，那麼我們都可以離開這裡啦。天哪！是啊。」當他們上樓時，嬌西已經睡著了。蘇伊把窗簾拉到窗臺上，做手勢讓貝爾曼到另一間屋子裡去。他們擔心在那兒可瞥見窗外的常春藤。接著，他們默默無言地互相注視一會兒。寒雨夾帶著雪花不停下著。貝爾曼穿著一件藍色的舊襯衫，扮演
一位不出世面的礦工以水壺當作岩石，將水壺翻轉坐在上面。第二天早晨，蘇伊睡了一個小時醒來的時候，看到嬌西睜著無神的眼睛，凝視著放下的綠窗簾。「把窗簾拉上去，我要看。」她用微弱的聲音命令著。
蘇艾雖然不願意但也照做了。可是，看哪1經過了漫長夜晚的風吹雨打，仍舊有一片常春藤的葉子貼在磚牆上。它是藤上最後的一片了。靠近葉柄的顏色還是深綠的，但那鋸齒狀葉片的邊緣已染上黃色開始腐敗了，它傲然掛在離地面二十來英尺的一根藤枝上面。「那是最後的一片了，」嬌西說，「我以為昨夜它一定會掉落的。我聽到颳風的聲音。它今天會脫落的，屆時我也要死了。」「親愛的，親愛的！」蘇伊把她疲倦的臉湊到枕邊說，「如果你不為自己著想，也得替我想想呀，我可怎麼辦呢？」但是嬌西沒有回答。一個準備走上神秘遙遠旅程的魂靈，是全世界最寂寞的了。當她與塵世和友情之間的聯繫一片片地被剝離時，她的幻想似乎更為強烈。那一天總算熬了過去。甚至黃昏時，她們看到牆上那片孤零零的藤葉仍舊依附在莖上。隨著夜晚來臨北風再度怒號，雨點不斷地打在窗上，從荷蘭式的低屋簷上滴落下來。天色剛明的時候，狠心的嬌西又吩咐把窗簾拉上去。
那片常春藤葉仍在那兒。嬌西躺著對它看了很久。然後她喊蘇伊，蘇伊正在瓦斯爐上攪動給瓊珊喝的雞湯。「我真是一個壞姑娘，蘇伊，」嬌西說，「冥冥中有什麼使那最後的一片葉子不掉下來，啟示了我過去是多麼邪惡。不想活下去是個罪惡。現在請你拿些湯來，再弄一點摻波特酒的牛奶，再--等一下；先拿一面小鏡子給我，用枕頭替我墊墊高，我想坐起來看你煮東西。」一小時後，她說：
“蘇伊，我希望有朝一日能去那不勒斯海灣寫生。＂下午，醫生來，當他離去時，蘇伊找了個藉口，跑到過道上。「康復的希望有了五成。」醫生握住蘇伊瘦小的、顫抖的手說，「只要好好護理，你會勝利。現在我得去樓下看看另一個病人。他叫貝爾曼--據我所知，也是一為畫家。也得肺炎。他上了年紀，身體虛弱，病勢來得很猛。他可沒有希望了，不過今天還是要把他送進醫院，讓他舒服些。」
第二天，醫生對蘇伊說；「她脫離險境了，妳們贏了，現在只要營養加上照顧就夠啦。」
那天下午，蘇伊跑到床邊，嬌西靠在那兒，心滿意足地在織一條毫無用處的深藍色羊毛披肩，蘇伊連枕頭一手把她全部抱住。「我有些話要告訴你，小可愛。」她說，「貝爾曼先生今天在醫院得肺炎去世了。他只病了兩天，第一天的早上，看門人發現他痛苦無助的躺在他樓下的房間。他的鞋子和衣服都濕透了，冰涼冰涼的。他們想不出，在那種可怕的夜裡，他到底去什麼地方。後來，他們找到了一盞還燃著的燈籠，一隻拖回原地的梯子，還有幾隻散落的的畫筆，一個調色板，上面混著綠色和黃色的顏料，並且—親愛的，我們從窗戶看到的牆上最後一片葉子。你不是覺得懷疑，為什麼它被風吹時，竟然不飄也不動？啊，親愛的，那是貝爾曼的傑作--那天晚上，當最後一片葉子掉落時，他畫將它畫上去的。」

The Last Leaf by 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! 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, gray 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." "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 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. "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." "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 till 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 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."
Literature Network » O Henry » The Last Leaf