最后一片叶
The Last Leaf
欧·亨利 / O. Henry
欧·亨利(1862—1910),20世纪初美国著名短篇小说家,美国现代短篇小说创始人,批判现实主义作家,被誉为“美国的莫泊桑”。他一生极富传奇色彩,当过药房学徒、牧羊人、办事员、新闻记者、银行出纳员。1898年2月,他因贪污银行公款罪被判处五年徒刑,后提前获释。他的作品贴近百姓生活,结局往往出人意料,以“含泪微笑”的风格被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。代表作有《麦琪的礼物》《警察与赞美诗》《最后一片叶》等。
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 dhote 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 she smote; and she lay, scarcelymoving, 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 ablut 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 percent 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. 华盛顿广场西面的一个小区里,街道错综复杂,形成了崎岖狭长的小胡同,被称为“巷子”。这些“巷子”构成了奇怪的角和曲线。一条街道甚至会同自己交叉一两次。一位艺术家曾经发现了这条大街的可贵之处:一个人如果去收颜料、纸张和画布的账款,就会在这条大街上七转八拐后突然发现自己又绕回了原处,但依旧两手空空,未收回一文钱!
所以,搞艺术的人很快就都聚集到了这个古老而离奇的格林尼治村。他们四处游荡,搜寻朝北的窗子、18世纪的山墙、荷兰的阁楼和低价的房租。然后,他们从第六街区“进口”几只锡铅合金的杯子和一两个烘锅,这就成了他们的“据点”。
有一处低矮的三层砖瓦顶楼,那儿就是休和琼珊的画室,琼珊是乔安娜的昵称。她们一个来自缅因州,一个来自加利福尼亚。她们是在第八大街的“德尔莫尼科”的餐馆里吃饭时相遇的,发现彼此在艺术、饮食和衣着品味、趣味上都是如此相投,于是就共同创建了那家画室。
那是五月份的事了。到了十一月,一个冷酷、无形的“生人”突然闯进了这个区域,它冰冷的魔爪肆意横行——医生称之为“肺炎”。这个无情的蹂躏者在广场东面趾高气扬地肆虐,残害了很多人的生命。然而,在这个狭窄拥塞、青苔蔓生、迷宫一般的“巷子”里,它却放慢了脚步。
“肺炎先生”可不是你们所谓的那种具有骑士风范的老绅士。一个被加利福尼亚的西风吹得不见血色的柔弱女子哪是这个摩拳擦掌、气势汹汹的老混蛋的对手。可它还是没有放过琼珊。琼珊一动不动地躺在那张刷过油漆的铁床架上,透过荷兰式的窗格,凝望着对面砖屋空白的墙壁。
一天早晨,那长着乱蓬蓬灰色眉毛的大夫神色匆匆地把休叫到走廊上。
“听我说,她的病只有——十分之一希望,”他一边说一边甩着体温表,让水银柱滑下来,“而这一线希望取决于她的求生欲望。人要是放弃了生存的念头,存心想去殡仪馆排队,那任何医药都无能为力。您这位朋友认定自己是好不了了——她有什么心事吗?”
“她——她希望有朝一日能去画那不勒斯海湾。”休说。
“画画?——胡扯!有没有值得让她一再花心思去想的事——比方说一个男人?”
“男人?”休像犹太的竖琴一样从鼻子里哼了一声,“男人难道值得——可是,哎,算了,大夫,根本没那回事。”
“哦,那么,这正是她虚弱的原因。”医生说,“我会竭尽全力,用科学所能达到的一切办法来为她治疗。可要是我的病人开始数她出殡队伍中的车辆时,那我医药的疗效就要减少百分之五十。如果你能使她对今年冬季大衣宽大袖子的新款式有兴趣并提个问题,我就可以向你作五分之一的保证,而非十分之一。”
大夫走后,休走进工作室,哭了,眼泪把一张日式餐巾纸弄得一团湿。然后,她带上画板,吹着轻松欢快的口哨,装作精神抖擞的样子跨进了琼珊的房间。
琼珊躺在被罩下面,脸对着窗子,一动不动。休以为她睡着了,赶紧停止了口哨。
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