[adapted]

by
O. Henry

In a small area west of Washington Square, the streets were confusing. They twisted and turned into tiny sections called “places.” Some streets were so strange that one even crossed itself! An artist once joked that a bill collector could get so lost in these streets that he might meet himself coming back—without collecting any money at all!

This quirky neighborhood was Greenwich Village, and soon, many artists moved there. They searched for large windows, old buildings, and cheap rent. They brought pewter mugs, cooking pots, and created a small artistic community.

At the top of a small, three-story brick building, Sue and Johnsy shared a studio apartment. “Johnsy” was short for Joanna. One of them was from Maine, and the other was from California. They had met at a small restaurant and soon became good friends. They both loved art, enjoyed chicory salad, and wore fashionable bishop sleeves. Their friendship led them to live and work together.

That was in May. By November, a deadly visitor came to the neighborhood. The doctors called it Pneumonia. This cold, invisible sickness moved through the artist colony, touching people with its icy fingers. On the east side of the city, pneumonia struck quickly, making many people sick. But in Greenwich Village, it moved slowly, creeping through the narrow streets, choosing its victims one by one.

Pneumonia was not a kind illness. It did not care who it attacked. A small, fragile woman like Johnsy, whose blood had been thinned by the warm breezes of California, was no match for the strong and merciless disease. But Pneumonia struck her anyway. Johnsy lay still and weak in her painted iron bed, barely moving. She stared out of her small Dutch window, looking at the blank brick wall of the building next door.

One morning, the busy doctor called Sue into the hallway. He had bushy gray eyebrows, and his face looked serious.

“She has one chance in—let’s say, ten,” he said, shaking the mercury in his thermometer. “And that one chance depends on whether she wants to live. When people decide to give up, even the best medicine in the world won’t help. Your friend doesn’t believe she will get better. Is there something on her mind?”

Sue hesitated. “She… she always wanted to paint the Bay of Naples someday,” she said.

The doctor snorted. “Painting? That’s nonsense! Is there something really important she’s thinking about—like a man?”

Sue’s voice sharpened like the twang of a musical instrument. “A man?” she repeated. “Do you really think a man is that important? No, doctor. There’s nothing like that.”

“Well, then, it’s just weakness,” said the doctor. “I will do everything science can offer to help her. But when a patient starts thinking about her own funeral, I know that medicine loses half its power. If you can get her to ask about the new winter fashion in coat sleeves, then I’ll change her chances of survival from one in ten to one in five.”

After the doctor left, Sue went to her workroom and cried into a Japanese napkin until it was completely ruined. Then, she wiped her tears, picked up her drawing board, and marched into Johnsy’s room while whistling a lively tune.

Johnsy lay still under the blankets, barely moving, with her face turned toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking that Johnsy had fallen asleep.

She sat down, set up her drawing board, and began working on a pen-and-ink illustration for a magazine story. Young artists, she thought, had to draw for magazines before they could become real artists, just like young writers had to write for magazines before they could become great authors.

As Sue sketched a cowboy from Idaho, adding fancy riding pants and a monocle, she suddenly heard a soft sound—a whisper, repeated several times. She quickly went to Johnsy’s bedside. Johnsy’s eyes were wide open. She was looking out the window and counting—but counting backward.

“Twelve,” she said. Then after a moment, “Eleven.” Then “Ten” and “Nine.” Then, almost together, “Eight” and “Seven.”

Sue looked out the window with concern. What was Johnsy counting? There was nothing outside except a small, lifeless yard and the blank brick wall of the building twenty feet away. An old, twisted ivy vine grew halfway up the brick wall. It was withered and dying, with bare, twisted branches clinging to the crumbling bricks. Most of its leaves had already fallen in the cold autumn air.

“What is it, dear?” Sue asked gently.

Johnsy whispered, “Six.” “They’re falling faster now,” she added softly. “Three days ago, there were almost a hundred. It made my head hurt to count them. But now it’s easy.” She watched closely. “There goes another one. There are only five left now.”

“Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie.”

“Leaves. On the ivy vine.”

Johnsy’s voice was soft but certain.

“When the last one falls, I must go, too. I’ve known that for three days. Didn’t the doctor tell you?”

Sue let out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, I have never heard such nonsense!” she said, full of disbelief. “What do old ivy leaves have to do with you getting better? And you used to love that vine so much! You silly girl. Don’t talk like that.” She forced a smile. “Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances of getting better are—let me remember exactly—ten to one! That’s almost the same chance we take every day in New York when we ride the streetcars or walk past a new building!” She gently adjusted the pillow. “Now, try to drink some broth, and let your Sudie go back to her drawing. If I sell this picture, I can buy some nice port wine for my sick child—and some pork chops for my hungry self!”

Johnsy did not turn from the window. “You don’t need to buy any more wine,” she said. Her eyes stayed fixed outside. “There goes another leaf.” She watched it fall. “Now there are only four left.” Johnsy’s voice was tired. “I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I’ll go, too.”

Sue bent over her gently. “Johnsy, dear, will you promise me something?” she asked softly. “Keep your eyes closed. Don’t look out the window until I finish my work. I have to turn in my drawings tomorrow. I need the light, or I would close the shade for you.”

Johnsy’s voice turned cold. “Can’t you draw in the other room?” she asked.

“I’d rather stay here with you,” said Sue. “And I don’t want you staring at those silly ivy leaves.”

Johnsy closed her eyes. “Tell me as soon as you’re done,” she whispered. She lay white and still, like a fallen statue. “I want to see the last leaf fall. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of thinking. I just want to let go—just like those poor, tired leaves that fall and float down, down…”

Sue gently touched her hand. “Try to sleep,” she said. “I have to call Behrman to be my model for the old hermit miner. I’ll only be gone a minute. Don’t move until I come back.”

Old Behrman lived in the apartment below them. He was over sixty years old, with a wild, curly beard that made him look like a mix between Michelangelo’s statue of Moses and a mischievous little devil. Behrman had never been successful in art. For forty years, he had painted, but never got close to creating a true masterpiece. He always talked about painting one, but he never started. In recent years, he had painted almost nothing—only small pieces for businesses or advertisements. He made a little money by posing as a model for young artists who couldn’t afford professional models.

He also drank too much gin but never stopped talking about the masterpiece he would one day create. Despite his gruff nature, Behrman cared deeply for the two young women upstairs. He laughed at weakness, but he saw himself as their protector, always ready to defend them.

Sue found Behrman downstairs in his dimly lit room, which smelled strongly of gin. In one corner of the room, an empty canvas sat on an old easel. It had been waiting for twenty-five years—but Behrman had never painted a single line of his masterpiece. Sue told him about Johnsy’s strange belief. She explained how she was so weak, that—just like a falling leaf—she might let go of life once the last ivy leaf dropped.

Behrman’s red, teary eyes burned with anger and frustration.

“What!” he shouted. “Are there really people who would die just because leaves fall from a silly vine? I have never heard such nonsense! No, I will not pose as a model for your foolish old hermit. Why do you let these crazy ideas fill her head? Poor little Miss Johnsy.”

Sue sighed. “She is very sick and weak,” she said. “The fever has made her mind full of strange thoughts. But fine, Mr. Behrman, if you don’t want to help, you don’t have to! I think you’re just a stubborn old—old fool!”

Behrman threw up his hands. “You are just like a woman!” he yelled. “Who said I wouldn’t pose? I’ve been trying to say for half an hour that I will! Let’s go! This is no place for someone as sweet as Miss Johnsy to be so sick. One day, I will paint my masterpiece, and we will all leave this place. Yes—one day!”

When they went upstairs, Johnsy was asleep. Sue quietly pulled the window shade down and motioned for Behrman to follow her into the other room. There, they both looked out the window—staring nervously at the ivy vine.

Sue and Behrman looked at each other in silence. Outside, the cold rain kept falling, mixed with snow. Behrman, wearing his old blue shirt, sat down on an upturned kettle, posing as the hermit-miner for Sue’s drawing.

The next morning, Sue woke up after only an hour of sleep. She saw Johnsy awake, staring at the window shade with dull, tired eyes.

“Pull it up. I want to see,” Johnsy whispered.

Sue sighed but did as she asked.

But what was this? After the stormy night, the heavy rain, and the strong winds, there was still one last ivy leaf clinging to the brick wall. It was the very last leaf on the vine. Its stem was still dark green, but its edges had turned yellow, touched by age and decay. Yet, it held on, bravely, twenty feet above the ground. Johnsy stared at it in disbelief.

“That’s the last one,” she whispered. “I thought it would fall during the night. I heard the wind. But it’s still there. It will fall today. And when it does, I will go too.”

Sue leaned close to her, her face tired and worried. “Oh, Johnsy, dear,” she said. “If you won’t think of yourself, then think of me. What would I do without you?”

But Johnsy did not answer. The loneliest thing in the world is a soul preparing to leave on its mysterious journey. She felt more and more that she did not belong here anymore. One by one, the things connecting her to life seemed to fade away.

The day passed. Even as the light faded into twilight, they could still see the last ivy leaf, clinging stubbornly to the wall outside. Then, night came again. The cold north wind howled once more, and the rain kept beating against the windows, dripping heavily from the roof above.

In the morning, as soon as it was light enough, Johnsy—still feeling hopeless—gave another order. “Raise the shade,” she said. Sue obeyed.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy stared at it for a long time. Then she called out to Sue, who was cooking chicken broth on the gas stove.

“Sudie, I’ve been a bad girl,” Johnsy said softly. “That last leaf stayed there to show me how wrong I was. It is a sin to want to die.” Her voice grew stronger. “You can bring me some broth now. And some milk—with a little port in it.” She paused and then added, “No—first, bring me a hand mirror. Then pack some pillows around me, so I can sit up and watch you cook.”

An hour later, Johnsy spoke.

“Sudie, someday I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”

That afternoon, the doctor came. As he was leaving, Sue followed him into the hallway.

The doctor took Sue’s thin, shaking hand and said, “She has an even chance now. With good care, she will recover.”