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 wit
h a bill for paints,paper and canvas should,in traversing this route,suddenly meet himself coming ba
ck,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 e
ighteenth-century gables and dutch attics and low rents.then they imported some pewter mugs and a ch
afing 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 j
oanna.one was from maine;the other from california.they had met at the table d'h?te of an eighth str
eet"delmonico's,"and found their tastes in art,chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that th
e joint studio resulted.
that was in may.in november a cold,unseen stranger,whom the doctors called pneumonia,stalked about t
he 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 slo
wly 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 blo
od thinned by california zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted,short-breathed old duffer.b
ut johnsy he smote;and she lay,scarcely moving,on her painted iron bedstead,looking through the smal
l 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,grey eyebrow.
"she has one chance in-let us say,ten,"he said,as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermome
ter."and that chance is for her to want to live.this way people have of lining-u 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 t
hrough my efforts,can accomplish.but whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funera
l 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 fo
r 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 bre
ath 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.wh
y,the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were-let's see exactl
y 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 si
ck 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 anothe
r.no,i don't want any broth.that leaves just four.i want to see the last one fall before it gets dar
k.then i'll go,too."
"johnsy,dear,"said sue,bending over her,"will you promise me to keep your eyes closed,and not look o
ut 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 lea
ves."
"tell me as soon as you have finished,"said johnsy,closing her eyes,and lying white and still as fal
len statue,"because i want to see the last one fall.i'm tired of waiting.i'm tired of thinking.i wan
t to turn loose my hold on everything,and go sailing down,down,just like one of those poor,tired lea
ves."
"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'til i come back."
old behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them.he was past sixty and had a mic
hael angelo's moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp.behrma
n 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 profess
ional.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 mas
tiff-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 firs
t line of the masterpiece.she told him of johnsy's fancy,and how she feared she would,indeed,light a
nd 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 i
maginings.
"vass!"he cried."is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off fr
om a confounded vine?i haf not heard of such a thing.no,i will not bose as a model for your fool her
mit-dunderhead.vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her?ach,dot poor leetle mi
ss yohnsy."
"she is very ill and weak,"said sue,"and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fanc
ies.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 a
n hour i haf peen trying to say dot i am ready to bose.gott!dis is not any blace in which one so goo
t as miss yohnsy shall lie sick.some day i vill baint a masterpiece,and ve shall all go away.gott!ye
s."
johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs.sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill,and motione
d behrman into the other room.in there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine.then the
y 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 ro
ck.
when sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found johnsy with dull,wide-open eyes stari
ng 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,t
here yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf.it was the last one on the vine.still dark gr
een near its stem,with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay,it hung br
avely 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.i
t 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 you
rself.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 ti
es 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 ste
m against the wall.and then,with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed,while the r
ain 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 bro
th over the gas stove.
"i've been a bad girl,sudie,"said johnsy."something has made that last leaf stay there to show me ho
w 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 wil
l 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 belie
ve.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 us
eless 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 hosp
ital.he was ill only two days.the janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downsta
irs helpless with pain.his shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold.they couldn't imagine wh
ere he had been on such a dreadful night.and then they found a lantern,still lighted,and a ladder th
at had been dragged from its place,and some scattered brushes,and a palette with green and yellow co
lours mixed on it,and-look out the window,dear,at the last ivy leaf on the wall.didn't you wonder wh
y 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."