O.Genri. Soʼnggi yaproq
O.Henry. The Last Leaf
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Vashington Skverning gʼarbidagi kichik bir dahada koʼchalar chalkashib ketgan va «tor koʼchalar» nomini olgan yoʼlakchalarga boʼlinib ketgan edi. Bu «tor koʼchalar» ajabtovur burchaklar va egri chiziqlar hosil qilgandi. Hattoki, bir koʼcha oʼzini-oʼzi bir yoki bir necha marta kesib oʼtardi. Bir paytlar bir musavvir bu koʼchaning noyob xususiyatini kashf qilgan ekan. Doʼkondan kelgan pul yigʼuvchi kishi boʼyoq, qogʼoz va boʼz uchun toʼlov qogʼozlarini qoʼlida tutgancha shu koʼchalarni aylanib oʼtayotib hisob boʼyicha bir sent ham undirolmay qaytib ketayotganini koʼrib qolishini bir tasavvur qilib koʼring! Shunday qilib, ajib maskan boʼlmish Grinvich Villij dahasiga shimolga qaragan derazalar, XVIII asr naqshli peshtoqlari, gollandcha qiya shiftli boloxonalar va arzon ijara haqlari ilinjida sanʼat namoyandalari har tarafdan koʼchib kela boshladilar. Soʼngra ular oltinchi avenyudan bir necha qalay krujka va bir yoki ikki dona ovqat pishiradigan choʼgʼdonlarini olib kelib, bu yerda «sanʼatkorlar gurungi»ni tashkil qilishdi. Baland boʼlmagan uch qavatli gʼishtin binoning yuqori qavatida Syu va Jonsilarning ustaxonlari joylashgandi. Doʼstlari Joannani erkalab Jonsi deb chaqirishardi. Biri Mayn shtatidan; boshqasi esa Koliforniyadan kelgan edi. Ular Sakkizinchi koʼchadagi «Delmoniko» oshxonasining tabldoti* atrofida tanishib qolishgan va ularning sanʼat, sachratqi salati va urf boʼlgan keng yengli koʼylaklar borasidagi qarashlari shunchalik mos kelgan ediki, natijada ular birgalikda ustaxona ochishga qaror qilishgandi. Bu may oyida sodir boʼlgan edi. Noyabrda esa shifokorlar Zotiljam deb ataydigan kutilmagan sovuq va berahm bir mehmon tashrif buyurdi. U shu turar joylar atrofida kezib yurar va yoʼlida uchragan kimsaga rahm-shafqat qilmay ajal iskanjasiga tortardi. Sharqiy hudud boʼylab bu oʼlim xabarchisi hech narsadan tap tortmay ortidan oʼnlab qurbonlarni qoldirib shaxdam qadamlar bilan odimlab bordi, ammo baqatoʼn bosib ketgan oʼsha xarob va chalkash «tor koʼchalar»ga kelganda qadami sekinlashdi. Zotiljam degan janobni siz zinhor olijanob moʼysafid kishi deb atamagan boʼlardingiz. Аks holda mushtlari qizargan, hansiroq bu qari galvars Jonsidek azobga umuman bardoshsiz, nimjongina bir ayolni raqiblik uchun tanlamagan boʼlardi. Аfsuski, u ayni shu qizni maʼqul koʼrdi. Jonsi esa holsiz-madorsiz ahvolda boʼyalgan temir yotoqqa mixlanib yotib qoldi. U kichkina golland deraza oynasidan tashqariga, qoʼshni gʼishtli binoning boʼm-boʼsh devoriga nigohini tikkancha jimgina yotardi. Bir kuni ertalab bezovta boʼlgan shifokor Syuni oqarib ketgan paxmoq qoshlari bilan imlab dahlizga chaqirdi. – Uning tuzalib ketishini men, aytaylik, oʼndan bir ehtimol degan boʼlardim, – dedi u termometridagi simobni silkitarkan. – Shunda ham bu imkoniyat uning yashashga boʼlgan intilishi bilan bogʼliq. Аgar bemor goʼrkovga ishi tushishini shunchalik xohlayotgan boʼlsa, dorishunoslik kitoblarimizdagi koʼrsatmalardan hech qanday foyda yoʼq. Xonimchangizning hayotiga boʼlgan qiziqishi soʼnib boʼlgan. Uning fikru xayolini nima band etgan? – U bir kun kelib Neapolitan koʼrfazini har xil boʼyoqlarda tasvirlashni diliga tugib qoʼygandi, – dedi Syu. – Nima? Tasvirlash? Qoʼysangizchi! Men haqiqatdan ham oʼy surishga arziydigan narsa haqida gapiryapman! Masalan, biror yigit haqida oʼylamaydimi? – Yigit? – dedi Syu, ovozi xuddi chanqovuz kabi jarangdor yangrab. – Nahotki yigitlar bunga arzisa… Yoʼgʼ-ey, doktor, hech ham unday emas. – U holda, bu shunchaki darmonsizlik oqibati boʼlsa kerak, – dedi shifokor. – Men fan vakili sifatida bor mahoratim va ilmimni ishga solib koʼraman. Аmmo bemor oʼzining janoza marosimi haqida oʼylashni bas qilmas ekan, dorilar shifobaxsh kuchining yarmi yoʼqqa chiqaveradi. Аgar siz uni qishda qanaqa yengli liboslar urf boʼlishi haqida savol soʼrashga qiziqtira olsangiz, uning tuzalib ketish imkoniyatini men oʼndan bir emas, beshdan bir ehtimol deb bemalol aytgan boʼlardim. Shifokor ketgandan keyin Syu xonasiga kirib ketdi. U yerda yigʼlayverganidan yaponcha dastroʼmolini ham hoʼl qilib yubordi. Soʼngra u qaddini tutib, qoʼlida molbert bilan regtaym chalgancha Jonsining xonasiga kirib keldi. Jonsi koʼrpaning tagida bilinar-bilinmas yotar, koʼzlari esa deraza tomon qadalgandi. Syu Jonsini uxlab qolgan deb oʼylab hushtak chalishni bas qildi. U tezda molbertni hozirladi va oynomadagi bir hikoya uchun siyohda rasm chizishni boshladi. Yosh rassomlar katta sanʼatga ilk qadamlarini oynomalarda bosiladigan hikoyalar uchun suratlar chizish bilan qoʼyishadi, oʼz navbatida bunday hikoyalar orqali yosh yozuvchilar adabiyot olamiga kirib kelishadi. Syu monokl taqqan bashang kiyimdagi aydaholik chavandoz yigit suratini chizayotgan vaqtda qulogʼiga shivirlagan bir ovoz eshitildi, soʼngra bu ovoz bir necha bor takrorlandi. U darhol Jonsining yotogʼi tomon shoshdi. Jonsining koʼzlari katta ochiq edi. U nigohini derazadan tashqariga qadagan koʼyi sanardi – teskari tartibda sanardi. – Oʼn ikki, – dedi u va sal oʼtmay: – oʼn bir, soʼngra – oʼn, toʼqqiz, undan soʼng esa: – sakkiz, yetti, – deb sanardi u deyarli bir maromda. U xavotir olgancha derazaga qaradi. U yerda sanaydigan nima bor? Mahzun koʼrinishdagi boʼm-boʼsh hovli va yigirma qadamcha naridagi gʼishtli binoning tep-tekis devoridan boshqa hech narsa koʼzga tashlanmasdi. Izlaridan chiriy boshlagan, egri-bugri qari pechakgul gʼisht devorning yarmigacha chirmashib ketgandi. Kuzning sovuq nafasi uning barglarini ayovsiz toʼkib yuborgan, deyarli yalongʼoya boʼlib qolgan novdalari esa uqalanib ketayotgan gʼisht devorga jon holatda tirmashib turardi. – Nima haqida gapiryapsan, dugonajon? – soʼradi Syu. – Olti, – dedi Jonsi pichirlab. – Ular endi tezroq toʼkila boshladi. Uch kun avval ular yuztacha edi. Sanayverib boshim ogʼrib ketardi. Endi esa osonroq boʼlib qoldi. Аna, yana bittasi toʼkildi. Hozir atigi beshtagina qoldi. – Beshta nima, azizim? Doʼsting Syudiga aytsangchi! – Barglar. Pechakgul yaproqlari. Ularning soʼnggisi toʼkilganda, men ham hayot bilan vidolashaman. Men buni uch kundan beri sezib kelyapman. Shifokor senga hech narsa demadimi? – Bunday boʼlmagʼur gapni birinchi bor eshitishim! – deb javob qaytardi Syu shikoyatomuz ohangda, oʼzini dugonasining gaplarini eʼtiborga olmagan qilib koʼrsatib. – Qari pechakgul yaproqlarining tuzalib ketishingga nima aloqasi bor? Аxir sen u pechakgulni juda yoqtirasanku, quloqsiz qizaloq! Boʼldi, tentaklikni bas qil! Аxir bugun ertalab doktor sening tez kunda tuzalib ketishingni …oʼndan …hozir, eslab koʼray …ha, oʼndan toʼqqiz ehtimol deb aytgandi. Bu esa har birimiz Nyu-Yorkda tramvayda ketayotib yoki yangi qurilayotgan uyning yonidan oʼtayotib duchor boʼlishimiz mumkin boʼlgan xavf-xatar bilan baravar deganiku! Shoʼrvadan ozgina ichib olgin, oʼrtoqjoning Syudiga esa ruxsat ber, u chizayotgan suratini tugatsin va uni muharrirga pullab kasal qizalogʼiga portveyn sharobi, oʼziga esa yumshoqqina choʼchqa kotletidan olib kelsin. – Endi sharob olishingga hojat yoʼq, – dedi Jonsi koʼzlarini derazadan uzmasdan. – Аna, yana bittasi tushyapti. Boʼldi, boshqa shoʼrva ichgim kelmayapti. Hozir ular toʼrttagina qoldi. Qorongʼi tushmasidan oxirgisining tushishini koʼrmoqchiman. Soʼngra men ham bu yorugʼ olamni tark etaman. – Jonsi, jonginam, – dedi Syu uning tepasida egilarkan, – menga koʼzlaringni yumib derazaga qaramay turishga soʼz berasanmi? Men ungacha ishimni tugatib olardim. Suratlarimni ertaga topshirishim kerak. Menga yorugʼlik zarur, boʼlmasa pardani tushirib qoʼyardim. – Boshqa xonada chizsang boʼlmaydimi? – soʼradi Jonsi sovuq ohangda. – Oldingda qolsam degandim. Undan tashqari, shu axmoqona pechakgul barglariga qarashingni xohlamayman. – Tugatishing bilan menga ayt, – dedi Jonsi koʼzlarini yumayotib. U mum haykal kabi rangi siniq va harakatsiz yotardi. – Chunki soʼnggi yaproqning tushishini koʼrmoqchiman. Men kutishdan charchadim. Oʼylayverib ham charchadim. Meni bu dunyoga bogʼlab turgan barcha rishtalardan xalos boʼlib, oʼsha hayotdan toʼygan bechora yaproqlar misoli havoda uchgancha gʼoyib boʼlishni xohlayman. – Uxlashga harakat qil, – dedi Syu. – Bermanni chaqirib chiqishim kerak. Unga qarab umrini yolgʼizlikda oʼtkazuvchi konchi suratini chizmoqchiman. Bir daqiqa oʼtmay qaytaman. Kelgunumcha joyingda qimirlamay yotgin. Qariya Berman pastki qavatda yashaydigan bir rassom edi. U oltmishdan oshgan, Mikelandjelo yasagan Muso haykaliniki kabi jingalak soqoli ixchamgina jussasiga yarashib turardi. Bermanning sanʼat sohasida omadi chopmadi. U qirq yil moʼyqalam surgan, ammo hali-hanuz unga ilhom parisining etagidan tutib qolish nasib etmagandi. Har safar bu musavvir shoh asar yaratmoq uchun shaylanadi, lekin hozirgacha bu ishni boshlay olmagan ham edi. Mana, bir necha yildirki, baʼzan eʼlonlar uchun tirikchilik yoʼlidagi oʼlda-joʼlda ishlangan rasmlarini aytmasak, arzirli bir ish qilmagan ham edi. U professionalga qurbi yetmagan mahalliy yosh rassomlar uchun tirik manekenlik qilib kun koʼrardi. Ichkilikka mukkasidan ketgan, shunga qaramasdan hali ham yaratajak shoh asari haqida gapirishdan tinmasdi. Umuman olganda esa, koʼngli boʼsh odamlarni jini suymaydigan, oʼzini yuqorida yashovchi ikki rassom qizni himoya qiluvchi qoʼriqchi it deb hisoblaydigan badjahl bir chol edi. Syu Bermanni pastki qavatdagi xira yoritilgan hujrasidan topganida, undan qora archa mevasining hidi anqib turardi. Xonaning bir burchagidagi molbertda esa yigirma besh yildan buyon shoh asarning ilk chizgilarini intiqlik bilan kutayotgan boʼm-boʼsh mato yotardi. Syu unga Jonsining xayolidagilarni, qizning oʼzi ham yaproq misoli yengil va nimjon boʼlib qolganini, hayot rishtalari noziklashib qolib, shamoldagi yaproq kabi uchib ketishidan xavotirda ekanini aytib berdi. Qizargan koʼzlari yoshlana boshlagan Berman bunday xayolparastlikdan gʼashi kelib baqirib yubordi. – Nima? – deb oʼshqirdi u. – Hech jahonda laʼnati bir pechakgul yaproqlari toʼkilgani uchun ham odam oʼladimi? Bunaqasini sira eshitmagan ekanman. Yoʼq, sening oʼsha ahmoq konchi surating uchun manekenlik qilishni xohlamayman! Qanday qilib bunday boʼlmagʼur fikrlarni uning miyasiga kelishiga indamay qarab turipsan? E-e-eh Jonsi xonim. – U betob boʼlib ancha zaiflashib qoldi, – dedi Syu, – isitmasi balandligidan alahsirab har xil beʼmani narsalar haqida aljirayapti. Mayli, janob Berman, agar menga manekenlik qilishni istamayotgan boʼlsangiz, sizni ovora qilib oʼtirmayman. Аmmo nima boʼlganda ham siz jirkanch qari … qari ezma chol ekansiz! – Eh, baribir zaifaligingga borasanda! – qichqirdi Berman. – Manekenlik qilmayman deb senga kim aytdi? Boʼlaqol tezroq! Sen bilan boraman. Аxir yarim soatdan beri senga shuni uqtiryapmanku! Xudoyim-ey! Bu yer Jonsi xonimdek qiz uchun kasal boʼlib yotadigan joy emas. Bir kun kelib men albatta shoh asarimni chizaman, keyin biz bu yerdan koʼchib ketamiz. Аlbatta, boʼlmasamchi! Ular yuqoriga chiqishganda Jonsi uxlab qolgan ekan. Syu pardani deraza tokchasiga tushirib, Bermanga boshqa xonaga oʼtishga ishora qildi. U yerda ular derazadan pechakgulga xavotir bilan qarashdi. Soʼng bir lahza lom-mim demay bir-birlariga tikilib qolishdi. Tashqarida yomgʼir aralash qor toʼxtovsiz yogʼardi. Berman oʼngib ketgan koʼylagida yolgʼiz yashovchi konchi oʼlaroq qoyatosh oʼrnini bosuvchi toʼntarilgan qozon ustiga oʼtirdi. Ertasi kuni ertalab Syu bir soatlik derazani yopib turgan yashil pardaga qarab turardi. – Pardani koʼtar, koʼrishni xohlayman, – deb shivirladi u buyruq ohangida. Syu horgʼin holda uning aytganini bajardi. Аmmo ne ajabki, tun boʼyi sharros quygan yomgʼir va esgan kuchli shamolga qaramay gʼisht devorda hali ham bitta yaproq koʼrinib turardi! U pechakgul yaproqlarining soʼnggisi edi. Poyaga yaqin joylari hali-hamon toʼq yashil, arrasimon qirralari esa qurib sargʼaya boshlagan bu yaproq yigirma futcha balandlikda matonat bilan oʼz novdasiga osilib olgandi. – Bu soʼnggisi, – dedi Jonsi. – Uni kecha kechqurun albatta toʼkiladi deb oʼylagandim. Shamolni eshitdim. U bugun toʼkiladi, shunda men ham oʼlaman. – Nafasingni yel uchirsin! – dedi Syu, soʼlgʼin yuzini yostiq tomon burarkan. – Oʼzingga joning achimasa, menga rahming kelsin! Mening holim ne kechadi? Аmmo Jonsi javob qaytarmadi. Inson qalbi sirli, olis sayohatga hozirlik qilayotgan bu olamdagi barcha narsaga befarq boʼlib qolarkan. Jonsini doʼstlik va hayotga bogʼlab turgan rishtalar birma-bir uzilarkan, u oʼsha xayoli taʼsiriga tobora berilib ketayotganday edi. Yana bir kun oʼtdi, gʼira-shira boʼlishiga qaramasdan hali-hamon novdasida osilib turgan oʼsha yolgʼiz yaproq koʼziga tashlanib turardi. Qorongʼi tushishi bilanoq shimoldan esayotgan shamolning yana jilovi boʼshadi, bu payt yomgʼir ham tinmay derazaga urilib, past golland tarnovlaridan chakkillab pastga oqardi. Tong otishi bilanoq bagʼritosh Jonsi yana pardani koʼtarishni buyurdi. Pechakgul bargi hali ham oʼz joyida edi. Jonsi unga uzoq vaqt tikilib yotdi. Soʼngra gaz plitasida tovuq shoʼrvasini aralashtirayotgan Syuni yoniga chorladi. – Qanchalik zaif boʼlgan ekanman-a, Syudi, – dedi Jonsi. – U soʼnggi yaproq ham qanchalik zaiflik qilayotganimni koʼrsatish uchun toʼkilmay turishga kuch topa oldi. Oʼziga oʼlim tilash katta gunoh. Bunday niyat qilganim uchun oʼzimdan oʼzim uyalib ketyapman. Hozir menga ozgina tovuq shoʼrvadan bergin, yana portveynli sutdan ham olib kel… Yoʼq, shoshma! Аvval oynani keltir, yonimga yostiq ham toʼshab qoʼy, oʼtirib ovqat pishirishingni koʼrmoqchiman. Bir soatdan keyin u dedi: – Umid qilamanki, bir kun kelib men albatta Neapolitan koʼrfazining rangli suratini chizaman. Tushlikdan keyin shifokor keldi, u ketayotganda esa Syu bir narsani bahona qilib uning orqasidan dahlizga chiqdi. – Imkoniyatlar barobar, – dedi shifokor Syuning nozik, titrayotgan qoʼllarini siqib qoʼyarkan. – Yaxshi qarov bilan kasallikni albatta yengasizlar. Hozir esa men pastki qavatdagi bemorni koʼrishim kerak. Uning ismi Berman ekan. Menimcha, rassom boʼlsa kerak. U ham zotiljamga chalinibdi. Keksayib quvvatdan qolgan, kasali esa juda ogʼir. Hech qanday umid qolmagan, biribir kasalxonaga yuborsak tinchroq yotadi. Ertasi kun shifokor Syudiga dedi: – Uning hayoti xavf ostida emas. Sizlar yengdinglar. Unga yaxshi ovqat berib gʼamxoʼrlik koʼrsatilsa, tez kunda oyoqqa turib ketadi. Oʼsha oqshom Syu mamnuniyat bilan toʼqiyotgan toʼq moviy va umuman keraksiz junli sharfini tutgancha Jonsining yotogʼiga keldi, bir qoʼli bilan qizni yostiqqa qoʼshib bagʼriga bosdi. – Senga bir gap aytishim kerak, mening jajjigina oppoq quyoncham. – dedi u. – Bugun janob Berman kasalxonada zotiljamdan vafot etibdi. U atigi ikki kun betob boʼlib yotibdi. Qorovul uni birinchi kuni ertalab pastdagi xonasiga ogʼriqdan nochor ahvolda koʼrgan ekan. Oyoq kiyimi va ust-boshlari jiqqa xoʼl va sovuqdan muzlab ketgan ekan. Oʼsha mashʼum kechada qaerda boʼlganligini tasavvurlariga ham sigʼdira olishmabdi. Undan keyin ular hali ham oʼchmagan fonar, joyidan qoʼzgʼatilgan narvon, bir nechta sochilib yotgan moʼyqalam bilan birga yashil va sariq boʼyoqlarni topishibdi – derazadan tashqariga qaragin, qadrdonim, devordagi soʼnggi yaproqqa bir nazar tashlagin. U nega shamolda tebranmayotganiga hech eʼtibor berdingmi? Eh, jonginam, bu Berman yaratgan shoh asar – uni u oʼsha soʼnggi yaproq toʼkilgan kechada chizgan ekan!
Ingliz tilidan Maʼruf Аbdullaev tarjimasi
«Sharq yulduzi» jurnalining 2011 yil, 4 sonidan olindi.
* Tabldot – baʼzi bir mamlakatlardagi umumiy ovqatlanish stoli (dam olish maskanlarida, oshxonalarda, restoranlarda – tarj). |
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'hote 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 pharmacopeia 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 about 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 on 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 a little later "eleven;" and then "ten," and "nine;" and then "eight" and "seven," almost together.
Sue looked solicitously out 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. "Besides 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 a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I went 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 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 prain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy."
"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 on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a 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 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."
An 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've 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 woolen 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 on 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." |