15patta last leaf o henry hindi n eng

8/12/2019 15patta Last Leaf o Henry Hindi n Eng

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What a sacrifice? It is the giving up ofsomething of great value to oneself for a noble

purpose - like the Buddhas sacrifice ofeverything dear to him in his search aftertruth. This was a noble act of sacrifice.

But are the poor capable of it? A beggar forexample? What can he sacrifice?

Except perhaps... Read this following classicstory of the supreme sacrifice by a wretched,

drunken artist.

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O. Henry

Bharat Gyan Vigyan SamithiBasement of Y.W.A. Hostel No. II, G-BlockSaket , New Delhi - 110017

Phone : 011 - 26569943Fax : 91 - 011 - 26569773

email: [email protected]

The Last Leaf


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32

In a little district west of Washington Square the streetshave 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 oncediscovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose acollector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, intraversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back,without a cent having been paid on account!


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54

So, to the quaint old Greenwich Village the art peoplesoon came prowling, hunting for north windows and

seighteenth century gables and Dutch attics and low rents.They imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or twofrom Sixth Avenue, and became a colony.

At the top of a squatty, three-storey brick house Sueand Johnsy had their studio. Johnsy was familiar forJoanna. One was from Maine, the other from California.They had met at the table dhote of an Eighth Street

Delmonicos and found their tastes in art, chicory saladand bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger,whom the doctors called Pneumonis, stalked about thecolony, touching one here one there with his icy finger. Overthe East Side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims

by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of thenarrow and moss-grown places.

Mr. Pneumonis was not what you would call a chivalricold gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned

by Californian ziphyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; andshe lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead,

looking through the small Dutch windowpanes at the blankside of the next brick house.

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76

One morning the busy doctor visited Sue into thehalfway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow.

"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as heshook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. "Andthat chance is for her to want to live. This way people have

of lining up on the side of the undertaker makes the entirepharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up hermind that shes not going to go well. Has she anything onher 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?" Sue said with a jews harp twang in her voice.

"Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of thekind."

"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I willdo all that science can do. But whenever my patient beginsto count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract50% from the curative power of medicines. If you will gether to ask one question about the new winter style in cloaksleeves 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 workroomand cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered

into Johnsys room with her drawing board, whistling apopular tune of US Black origin.

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She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawingto illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave theirway to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories thatyoung authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horse-show riding

trousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idahocowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. Shewent quickly to the bedside.

Johnsys eyes were open wide. She was looking out ofthe window and counting backward.

"Twelve", she said, and a little late, "eleven", and the"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, andthe blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old,old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbedhalfway up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn hadstricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branchesclung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

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"What is it, dear?" asked Sue."Six", said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "Theyre falling

faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. Itmade my head ache to count them. But now its easy. Theregoes another one. There are only five left now."

"Five of what, dear? Tell your Sudie.""Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must

go too. Ive known that for three days. Didnt the doctortell you?"

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue,

with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to dowith your getting well? And you used to love that vine so,naughty girl. Dont be a goosey. Why, the doctor told methis morning that your chance for getting well really soonwere - lets see exactly what he said - he said the chanceswere ten to one! Why, thats almost as good a chance as we

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have in New York when we ride on the street-cars or walkpast a new building. Try to take some broth now, and letSudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell it to the editor

man, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chopsfor her greedy self.""You neednt get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping

her eyes fixed out of the window."There goes another. No, I dont want any broth. That

leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it getsdark. Then Ill go too."

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will youpromise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out ofthe window until I am done working? I must hand in thosedrawings by tomorrow. I need the light or I would draw theshade down."

"Couldnt you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsycoldly.

"Id rather be here by you," said Sue. "Besides, I dontwant you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

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"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. Im tired of thinking.

I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailingdown, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves.""Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to by

my model for the old hermit miner. Ill not be gone a minute.Dont try to move till I come back."

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the groundfloor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael

Angelos Moses beard curling down from the head of asatyr - god of wood, half man and half animal. He had a

body of an imp. Forty years he had yielded the brush withoutgetting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistresss robe- his art. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece,

but had never yet begun it. For several years he had paintednothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerceor advertising.

He earned a little by serving as a model to those youngartists in the colony who could not pay the price of a

professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of hiscoming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little oldman, who scoffed terribly at softness in anyone, and who

regarded himself as especial mastiff in waiting to protect thetwo young artists in the studio above.

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Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniperberries in his dimly-lighted den below. In one corner was ablank canvas on the easel that had been waiting there fortwenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece.She told him of Johnsys fancy, and how she feared shewould, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float awaywhen her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming,

shouted his contempt and derision for such idioticimaginings."Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mitt der

foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from aconfounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I villnot bose as a model for your foot hermit-dunderhead. Vy doyou allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain of her?

Ach, dot poor little Miss Yohnsy."


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"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever hasleft her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well,Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you neednt.But I think you are a horrid old - okd flibbertigibbit - a

frivolous, gossip loving person.""You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who

said I vill not bose. Go on, I come mit you. For half and hourI haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis isnot an blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall liesick. Some day I will baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all goavay. Gott! yes."

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulledthe shade down to the window sill and motioned Behrmaninto the other room. In there they peered out of the windowfearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other fora moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain wasfalling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt,

took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for arock.When Sue woke from an hours sleep the next morning

she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at thedrawn green shade.

"Pull it up! I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.Wearily Sue obeyed.

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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 Sues thin

shaking hand in his. "With good nursing youll win. Andnow 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 today to bemade more comfortable."The next day the doctor said to Sue, "Shes out of danger.

Youve won. Nutrition and care now - thats all."And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy

was contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woolenshoulder 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 hospital. He wasill only two days. The janitor found him in the morning ofthe first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. Hisshoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. Theycouldnt imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night.And yet they found a lantern, still alighted, and a ladder thathad been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes,and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and- look out of the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on thewall. Didnt you wonder why it never fluttered or movedwhen the wind blew? Ah, darling, its Behrmans masterpiece

- he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

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15patta last leaf o henry hindi n eng

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