最後的常春藤葉
最後的常春藤葉
《最後的常春藤葉》作者，歐·亨利，講述了老畫家貝爾曼為了鼓勵貧病交加的青年畫家頑強地活下去，在風雨之夜掙扎著往牆上畫了一片永不凋零的常春藤葉。他為繪製這傑作付出了生命的代價，但青年畫家卻因此獲得勇氣而活了下來。
《最後的常春藤葉》歌頌了藝術家之間相濡以沫的友誼和蒼涼人生中那種崇高的藝術家品格——捨己救人。
這篇小說，表面上看像一泓靜靜的秋水，水面上卻拂過一絲透骨的寒意。讀著它，就像乘著一葉小舟從秋水上劃過。但是，當我們棄舟上岸，再來顧盼這秋水時，才發現在它的底層，奔涌著一股股洶湧的波濤，這濤聲撞擊著你的心弦，拍打著你的肺腑。貝爾曼，這位在美術園地辛勤耕耘了四十載卻一無所獲的老藝術家，憑著他博大的愛心，用他的生命為代價，完成了一幅不朽的傑作。
在華盛頓廣場西面的一個小區里，街道彷彿發了狂似地，分成了許多叫做“巷子”的小衚衕。這些“巷子”形成許多奇特的角度和曲線。一條街本身往往交叉一兩回。有一次，一個藝術家發現這條街有它可貴之處。如果一個商人去收顏料、紙張和畫布的賬款，在這條街上轉彎抹角、大兜圈子的時候，突然碰上一文錢也沒收到，空手而回的他自己，那才有意思呢！
因此，搞藝術的人不久都到這個古色天香的格林威治村來了。他們逛來逛去，尋找朝北的窗戶，18世紀的三角牆，荷蘭式的閣樓，以及低廉的房租。接著，他們又從六馬路買來了一些錫蠟杯子和一兩隻烘鍋，組成了一個“藝術區”。
文章插圖
“肺炎先生”並不是你們所謂的扶弱濟困的老紳士。一個弱小的女人，已經被加利福尼亞的西風吹得沒有什麼血色了，當然經不起那個有著紅拳頭，氣吁吁的老傢伙的賞識。但他竟然打擊了瓊珊；她躺在那張漆過的鐵床上，一動也不動，望著荷蘭式小窗外對面磚屋的牆壁。
一天早晨，那位忙碌的醫生揚揚他那蓬鬆的灰眉毛，招呼蘇艾到過道上去。
“依我看，她的病只有一成希望。”他說，一面把體溫表裡的水銀甩下去。“那一成希望在於她自己要不要活下去。人們不想活，情願照顧殯儀館的生意，這種精神狀態使醫藥一籌莫展。你的這位小姐滿肚子以為自己不會好了。她有什麼心事嗎？”
“她——她希望有一天能去畫那不勒斯海灣。”蘇艾說。
“畫畫？——別扯淡了！她心裡有沒有值得想兩次的事情——比如說，男人？”
“男人？”蘇艾像吹小口琴似地哼了一聲說，“難道男人值得——別說啦，不，大夫；根本沒有那種事。”
“那麼，一定是身體虛弱的關係。”醫生說，“我一定盡我所知，用科學所能達到的一切方法來治療她。可是每逢我的病人開始盤算有多麼輛馬車送他出殯的時候，我就得把醫藥的治療力量減去百分之五十。要是你能使她對冬季大衣的袖子式樣發生興趣，提出一個問題，我就可以保證，她恢復的機會准能從十分之一提高到五分之一。”
醫生離去之後，蘇艾到工作室里哭了一聲，把一張日本紙餐巾擦得一團糟。然後，她拿起畫板，吹著拉格泰姆音樂調子，昂首闊步地走進瓊珊的房間。
瓊珊躺在被窩裡，臉朝著窗口，一點兒動靜也沒有。蘇艾以為她睡著了，趕緊停止吹口哨。
她架起畫板，開始替雜誌畫一幅短篇小說的鋼筆畫插圖。青年畫家不得不以雜誌小說的插圖來鋪平通向藝術的道路，而這些小說則是青年作家為了鋪平文學道路而創作的。
蘇艾正為小說里的主角，一個愛達荷州的牧人，畫上一條在馬匹展覽會裡穿的漂亮的馬褲和一片單眼鏡，忽然聽到一個微弱的聲音重複了幾遍。她趕緊走到床邊。
瓊珊的眼睛睜得大大的。她望著窗外，在計數——倒數上來。
“十二，”她說，過了一會兒，又說“十一”；接著是“十”、“九”；再接著是幾乎連在一起的“八”和“七”。
蘇艾關切地向窗外望去。有什麼可數的呢？外面見到的只是一個空蕩蕩、陰沉沉的院子，和二十英尺外的一幛磚屋的牆壁。一株極老極老的常春藤，糾結的根已經枯萎，攀在半牆上。秋季的寒風把藤上的葉子差不多全吹落了，只剩下幾根幾乎是光禿禿的藤枝依附在那堵鬆動殘缺的磚牆上。
“怎麼回事，親愛的？”蘇艾問道。
“六。”瓊珊說，聲音低得像是耳語，“它們現在掉得快些了。三天前差不多有一百片。數得我頭昏眼花。現在可容易了。喏，又掉了一片。只剩下五片了。”
“五片什麼，親愛的？告訴你的蘇艾。”
“葉子，常春藤上的葉子。等最後一片掉落下來，我也得去了。三天前我就知道了。難道大夫沒有告訴你嗎？”
“喲，我從沒聽到這樣荒唐的話。”蘇艾裝出滿不在乎的樣子數落地說，“老藤葉同你的病有什麼相干？你一向很喜歡那株常春藤，得啦，你這淘氣的姑娘。別發傻啦。我倒忘了，大夫今天早晨告訴你，你很快康復的機會是——讓我想想，他是怎麼說的——他說你好的希望是十比一！喲，那幾乎跟我們在紐約搭街車或者走過一幛新房子的工地一樣，碰到意外的時候很少。現在喝一點兒湯吧。讓蘇艾繼續畫圖，好賣給編輯先生，換了錢給她的病孩子買點兒紅葡萄酒，也買些豬排填填她自己的饞嘴。”
“你不用再買什麼酒啦。”瓊珊說，仍然凝視著窗外，“又掉了一片。不，我不要喝湯。只剩四片了。我希望在天黑之前看到最後的藤葉飄下來。那時候我也該去了。”
“瓊珊，親愛的，”蘇艾彎著身子對她說，“你能不能答應我，在我畫完之前，別睜開眼睛，別瞧窗外？那些圖畫我明天得交。我需要光線，不然我早就把窗帘拉下來了。”
“你不能到另一間屋子裡去畫嗎？”瓊珊冷冷地問道。
“我要呆在這兒，跟你在一起。”蘇艾說，“而且我不喜歡你老盯著那些莫名其妙的藤葉。”
“你一畫完就告訴我。”瓊珊閉上眼睛說，她臉色慘白，靜靜地躺著，活像一尊倒塌下來的塑像，“因為我要看那最後的藤葉掉下來。我等得不耐煩了。也想得不耐煩了。我想擺脫一切，像一片可憐的、厭倦的藤葉，悠悠地往下飄，往下飄。”
“你爭取睡一會兒。”蘇艾說，“我要去叫貝爾曼上來，替我做那個隱居的老礦工的模特兒。我去不了一分種。在我回來之前，千萬別動。”
老貝爾曼是住在樓下底層的一個畫家。他年紀六十開外，有一把像米開朗琪羅的摩西雕像上的鬍子，從薩蒂爾似的腦袋上順著小鬼般的身體卷垂下來。貝爾曼在藝術界是個失意的人。他耍了四十年的畫筆，還是同藝術女神隔有相當距離，連她的長袍的邊緣都沒有摸到。他老是說就要畫一幅傑作，可是始終沒有動手。除了偶爾塗抹了一些商業畫或廣告畫之外，幾年沒有畫過什麼。他替“藝術區”里那些雇不起職業模特兒的青年藝術家充當模特兒，掙幾個小錢，他喝杜松子酒總是過量，老是嘮嘮叨叨地談著他未來的傑作。此外，他還是個暴躁的小老頭兒，極端瞧不起別人的溫情，卻認為自己是保護樓上兩個青年藝術家的看家惡狗。
蘇艾在樓下那間燈光暗淡的小屋子裡找到了酒氣撲人的貝爾曼。角落裡的畫架上綳著一幅空白的畫布，它在那兒靜候傑作的落筆，已經有了二十五年。她把瓊珊的想法告訴了他，又說她多麼擔心，惟恐那個虛弱得像枯葉一般的瓊 珊抓不住她同世界的微弱聯繫，真會撒手而去。
老貝爾曼的充血的眼睛老是迎風流淚，他對這種白痴般的想法大不以為然，連諷帶刺地咆哮了一陣子。
“什麼話！”他嚷道，“難道世界上竟有這種傻子，因為可惡的藤葉落掉而想死？我活了一輩子也沒有聽到過這種怪事。不，我沒有心思替你當那無聊的隱士模特兒。你怎麼能讓她腦袋裡有這種傻念頭呢？唉，可憐的小瓊珊小姐。”
“她病得很厲害，很虛弱，”蘇艾說，“高燒燒得她疑神疑鬼，滿腦袋都是希奇古怪的念頭。好嗎，貝爾曼先生，既然你不願意替我當模特兒，我也不勉強了。我認得你這個可惡的老——老貧嘴。”
“你真女人氣！”貝爾曼嚷道，“誰說我不願意？走吧。我跟你一起去。我已經說了半天，願意替你替你效勞。天哪！像瓊珊小姐那樣好的人實在不應該在這種地方害病。總有一天，我要畫一幅傑作，那麼我們都可以離開這裡啦。天哪！是啊。”
他們上樓時，瓊珊已經睡著了。蘇艾把窗帘拉到窗檻上，做手勢讓貝爾曼到另一間屋子裡去。他們在那兒擔心地瞥著窗外的常春藤。接著，他們默默無言地對瞅了一會兒。寒雨夾著雪花下個不停。貝爾曼穿著一件藍色的舊襯衫，坐在一翻轉過身的權充岩石的鐵鍋上，扮作隱居的礦工。
第二天早晨，蘇艾睡了一個小時醒來的時候，看到瓊珊睜著無神的眼睛，凝視著放下末的綠窗帘。
“把窗帘拉上去，我要看。”她用微弱的聲音命令著。
蘇艾睏倦地照著做了。
可是，看那！經過了漫漫長夜的風吹雨打，仍舊有一片常春藤的葉子貼在牆上。它是藤上最後的一片了。靠近葉柄的顏色還是深綠的，但那鋸齒形的邊緣已染上了枯敗的黃色，它傲然掛在離地面二十來英尺的一根藤枝上面。
“那是最後的一片葉子。”瓊珊說，“我以為昨夜它一定會掉落的。我聽到颳風的聲音。它今天會脫落的，同時我也要死了。”
“哎呀，哎呀！”蘇艾把她睏倦的臉湊到枕邊說，“如果你不為自己著想，也得替我想想呀。我可怎麼辦呢？”
但是瓊珊沒有回答。一個準備走上神秘遙遠的死亡道路的心靈，是全世界最寂寞、最悲哀的了。當她與塵世和友情之間的聯繫一片片地脫離時，那個玄想似乎更有力地掌握了她。
那一天總算熬了過去。黃昏時，她們看到牆上那片孤零零的藤葉仍舊依附在莖上。隨夜晚同來的北風的怒號，雨點不住地打在窗上，從荷蘭式的低屋檐上傾瀉下來。
天色剛明的時候，狠心的瓊珊又吩咐把窗帘拉上去。
那片常春藤葉仍在牆上。
瓊珊躺著對它看了很久。然後她喊喊蘇艾，蘇艾正在煤卸爐上攪動給瓊珊喝的雞湯。
“我真是一個壞姑娘，蘇艾，”瓊珊說，“冥冥中有什麼使那最後的一片葉子不掉下來，啟示了我過去是多麼邪惡。不想活下去是個罪惡。現在請你拿些湯來，再弄一點摻葡萄酒的牛奶，再——等一下；先拿一面小鏡子給我，用枕頭替我墊墊高，我想坐起來看你煮東西。”
一小時后，她說：
“蘇艾，我希望有朝一日能去那不勒斯海灣寫生。”
下午，醫生來，他離去時，蘇艾找了個借口，跑到過道上。
“好的希望有了五成。”醫生抓住蘇艾瘦小的、顫抖的手說，“只要好好護理，你會勝利。現在我得去樓下看看另一個病人。他姓貝爾曼——據我所知，也是搞藝術的。也是肺炎。他上了年紀，身體虛弱，病勢來得很猛。他可沒有希望了，不過今天還是要把他送進醫院，讓他舒服些。”
第二天，醫生對蘇說：“她已經脫離危險，你成功了。現在，你只需要好好護理，給她足夠的營養就行了。”
那天下午，蘇艾跑到床邊，瓊珊靠在那兒，心滿意足地在織一條毫無用處的深藍色戶巾，蘇艾連枕頭把她一把抱住。
“我有些話要告訴你，小東西。”她說，“貝爾曼在醫院裡去世了。他害肺炎，只病了兩天。頭天早上，看門人在樓下的房間里發現他難過得要命。他的鞋子和衣服都濕透了，冰涼冰涼的。他們想不出，在那種凄風苦雨的的夜裡，他究竟是到什麼地方去了。後來，他們找到了一盞還燃著的燈籠，一把從原來地方挪動過的梯子，還有幾去散落的的畫筆，一塊調色板，上面和了綠色和黃色的顏料，末了——看看窗外，親愛的，看看牆上最後的一片葉子。你不是覺得納悶，它為什麼在風中不飄不動嗎？啊，親愛的，那是貝爾曼的傑作——那晚最後的一片葉子掉落時，他畫在牆上的。”
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'hôte 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, grey 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-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 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 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 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. "Beside, 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 fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want 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 'til 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 with 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 brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."
"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 one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely 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. 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 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 will 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 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 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 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 hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him 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 colours 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."
歐·亨利(O.Henry)
生卒年代：1862.9.11-1910.6.5
美國著名批判現實主義作家，世界三大短篇小說大師之一。
原名威廉·西德尼·波特（William Sydney Porter），是美國最著名的短篇小說家之一，曾被評論界譽為曼哈頓桂冠散文作家和美國現代短篇小說之父。他出身於美國北卡羅來納州格林斯波羅鎮一個醫師家庭。
他的一生富於傳奇性，當過藥房學徒、牧牛人、會計員、土地局辦事員、新聞記者、銀行出納員。當銀行出納員時，因銀行短缺了一筆現金，為避免審訊，離家流亡中美的宏都拉斯。后因回家探視病危的妻子被捕入獄，並在監獄醫務室任藥劑師。他創作第一部作品的起因是為了給女兒買聖誕禮物，但基於犯人的身份不敢使用真名，乃用一部法國藥典的編者的名字作為筆名。1901年提前獲釋后，遷居紐約，專門從事寫作。
歐·亨利善於描寫美國社會尤其是紐約百姓的生活。他的作品構思新穎，語言詼諧，結局常常出人意外；又因描寫了眾多的人物，富於生活情趣，被譽為“美國生活的幽默百科全書”。代表作有小說集《白菜與國王》、《四百萬》、《命運之路》等。其中一些名篇如《愛的犧牲》、《警察與讚美詩》、《帶傢具出租的房間》、《麥琪的禮物》、《最後一片常春藤葉》等使他獲得了世界聲譽。
名句：“這時一種精神上的感慨油然而生，認為人生是由啜泣、抽噎和微笑組成的，而抽噎佔了其中絕大部分。”(《歐·亨利短篇小說選》)
課文結構分析
《最後的常春藤葉》是美國作家歐·亨利的一篇著名短篇小說。在這篇小說中，作家講述了老藝術家貝爾曼用生命繪製畢生傑作，點燃別人即將熄滅的生命火花的故事，歌頌了藝術家之間相濡以沫的友誼，特別是老藝術家貝爾曼捨己救人的品德。
小說按情節的開端、發展、高潮、結局可分為四個部分。
第1至11節為開端。故事發生在華盛頓的格林尼治村，一個社會下層藝術家聚居的小區。主人公蘇艾和瓊珊是一對志同道合的年輕畫家，她們租用同一間畫室並在一起生活、工作，隨著秋天的到來，一位不速之客———肺炎，開始在“藝術區”遊盪。瓊珊不幸被感染，生命垂危。
第12至36節為發展。哀莫大於心死。儘管好友蘇艾鼓勵瓊珊要有信心戰勝病魔，但是瓊珊都不理睬，只是痴痴地望著窗外凋零的藤葉。此刻的她，已放棄了主觀上求生的努力，而把生命寄予給隨風飄零的樹葉，深信當最後一片葉子掉下時，她也該離開人世了。
第37至50節為高潮。不落的藤葉使瓊珊重又燃起了生的慾望。
第51至55節為結局。瓊珊脫離危險，貝爾曼病逝。揭示葉子不落的謎底。
語篇脈絡梳理
時間
人物與情節
十一月
瓊珊病倒
一天早晨
瓊珊病重
這天夜裡
貝爾曼畫常春藤葉
第二天早晨
瓊珊病危，貝爾曼生病
第三天天色剛明的時候
瓊珊病情轉好，貝爾曼被送到醫院
第四天
瓊珊脫離危險，貝爾曼在醫院去世
語篇品讀
【重點語段品讀】
華盛頓廣場西南的一個小區，街道彷彿發了狂似的，分成了許多叫做“巷子”的小衚衕。
『品味』 街道分成許多小衚衕，作者說“街道彷彿發了狂似的”，風趣的風格，開篇就顯現出來了。
『體會』 這是環境描寫。歐·亨利有一種幽默的方式值得回味。難以想象，在年代上，他距離我們一百年不止，在幽默感的豐富上，他超越了我們一百倍。有一群人，他們拿著歐·亨利的小說，一遍一遍地看，咬著小指頭痴痴地笑，有時笑出眼淚來，他的幽默絕不是快餐式的幽默，分明是一種在想象力上的探索，又是一種對生活哲理的捕捉。
到了十一月，一個冷酷無情、肉眼看不見、醫生管他叫做“肺炎”的不速之客，在藝術區里躡手躡腳，用他的冰冷的手指這兒碰碰那兒摸摸。
『品味』 採用幽默、風趣、俏皮、比擬的語言，渲染悲劇的喜劇色彩，讓讀者在俏皮的描寫中醒悟內在莊嚴的思想感情，在生動活潑中給人啟迪。
『體會』 交代了時間線索：十一月。作者用幽默、風趣的語言，十分形象地寫出了肺炎流行的過程和危害。
『品味』 正面描寫貝爾曼：性格暴躁，酗酒成性，愛講大話（傑作），牢騷滿腹——— 一個窮困潦倒，消沉失意，好高騖遠，鬱郁不得志的失意老畫家。
『體會』 介紹貝爾曼，刻畫貝爾曼的肖像，也充滿俏皮和風趣；就在俏皮之中，一個落寞、潦倒、極有個性又極善良的老頭兒形象，活靈活現地站在我們面前。
老貝爾曼的充血的眼睛老是迎風流淚。他對這種白痴般的想法大不以為然，諷刺地咆哮了一陣子。
『品味』通過語言描寫，說明貝爾曼善良，有同情心，關心他人。
『體會』初見貝爾曼主要是通過外貌描寫告訴我們他是一個鬱郁不得志的老畫家。這裡由他的“不以為然”和“咆哮”讓我們在人物暴躁的性格和嗜酒成性中，看到了他的善良和同情心。
啊，親愛的，那是貝爾曼的傑作———那晚最後的一片葉子掉落時，他畫在牆上的。
『品味』側面描寫了最後一片葉子是貝爾曼冒雨畫上去的，因此得了肺炎，兩天就去世了。從而人格得到升華：崇高的愛心，自我犧牲精神得到展現。結尾揭示葉子是假的，在前文有幾處伏筆暗藏：（1）其它的葉子都落了，只有這片葉子經歷兩天的狂風暴雨傲然挺立。（2）“你不是覺得納悶，它為什麼在風中不飄不動嗎？”（3）“仍舊有一片常春藤的葉子貼在牆上”的“貼”字。
『體會』一片常春藤葉子。它原本就不是一片葉子，也算不上一幅畫，可它卻超越了葉子和畫的含義：它像一位神醫，治癒了瓊珊的肺炎，給了她生活下去的勇氣和希望；它又像一面鏡子，映照出貝爾曼老人的善良心靈，反射出偉大的捨己為人的精神光芒。比期待了二十五年的傑作更有價值。
疑難問題探析
1、本文的中文譯名有三個———《最後一片葉子》《最後一片藤葉》《最後的常春藤葉》，請結合自身理解談一談哪一個更好，簡要說出你的理由。
提示：題目具有開放性，言之成理即可。分析最後一個：“常春”使人產生明麗光輝的聯想，給人一種溫馨的感覺，暗示性、蘊含力更強，能更充分地表現文章的主旨。
2、最後一片葉子與瓊珊有怎樣的關係？為什麼最後的藤葉能挽救瓊珊的生命？
最後一片葉子關係到瓊珊的生死。葉子是希望的象徵，如若葉子落了，她也就給自己找到了放棄抗爭的理由；當然，只要葉子不落，她就有所期待，有所抗爭，在最後一片常春藤葉的鼓舞下，重新振作起來，直到康復。
3、貝爾曼畫常青藤本應是小說的重要情節，作者卻沒有實寫，這樣處理有什麼好處？
作品沒有實寫這一情節，使得小說產生出人意外的效果（歐·亨利式結尾），也給讀者留下了想象的空間。我們可以想象，那個風雨交加的夜晚，老人是怎樣冒雨踉踉蹌蹌爬到離地面二十來英尺的地方，顫抖著調拌黃色和綠色，在牆上施展他從未施展的藝術才能，同時也毫無保留地獻出了生命。
我的感悟
如果說貝爾曼是那堵鬆動殘缺的磚牆，那麼瓊珊就像那依附在上面的藤枝；如果說貝爾曼是那株極老極老的常春藤，那麼瓊珊就是那藤上的一片葉子。小說《最後的常春藤葉》讓人從哀傷中奮起，從悲秋中見到陽春，從黑夜中見到光明，從靈魂中體會到悲愴美。
4、貝爾曼是小說的主人公，作品集中寫他的只有兩處，試分析這個他是怎樣的人？
初見貝爾曼時，作者通過外貌描寫告訴我們：貝爾曼是一個性格暴躁、酗酒成性、牢騷滿腹、鬱郁不得志的老畫家；又通過語言描寫，當他得知瓊珊的病情和“白痴般的想法”后，“諷刺地咆哮了一陣子”，寫出他的善良和同情心。再見貝爾曼時，貝爾曼已經身體虛弱，病了兩天就去世了。貝爾曼是因為冒雨畫最後一片葉子，得了肺炎而去世的。他的崇高愛心、自我犧牲精神由此得到了展現。我們看到了貝爾曼平凡的甚至有點討厭的外表下有一顆火熱的愛心，雖然窮困潦倒，卻無私關懷、幫助他人，甚至不惜付出生命的代價。作者藉此歌頌了窮苦朋友相濡以沫的珍貴友情和普通人的心靈美。
讀寫鏈接
a、蘇艾與瓊珊從5月相識直到瓊珊得病的11月間相處融洽，發揮聯想與想象，寫一篇約200字的短文
b、假設瓊珊在彌留之際讓你帶她給她的好友蘇艾寫一封感謝蘇艾的信，請發揮想象寫一封300字左右的信。
C、蘇艾與瓊珊參加了老貝爾曼的葬禮並寫了一篇悼詞，請想象它的內容，200字左右。
語篇整體賞析
整篇小說，作者對於體現主題的主人公貝爾曼的描寫並不多，大都採用了側面烘托。甚至連最感人的貝爾曼畫葉子的鏡頭都沒寫。但我們仍可以強烈感受到貝爾曼老人火一樣的熱情和捨己為人的精神。而且小說給了我們足夠的想象空間，我們可以想象到，那個風雨交加的夜晚，可憐的老人是怎樣冒雨踉踉蹌蹌爬到離他二十英尺的地方，顫抖著調拌著黃色和綠色，在牆上施展他從未施展的藝術才能，同時也毫不保留地獻出了生命……
當然，瓊珊的康復僅有貝爾曼為之犧牲的最後一片葉子是不夠的，還需要瓊珊自己的力量來戰勝病魔。在瓊珊患肺炎病危的時刻，醫生為什麼既不判她“死刑”，又不肯定她可以治癒，而說一切看她自己呢？就是因為在生與死、抗爭與屈服之間，只有自己樹立信心，作出努力，才能得勝。瓊珊的病果然康復了。每個人都會遇到困難和挫折，關鍵是看你自己有沒有信心，能不能去面對，用自己的力量去克服它。瓊珊也曾陷入失望的低谷，但她在貝爾曼用生命換來的最後一片藤葉的鼓舞下，她重新振作起來，直到康復。她是一位戰勝了困難的勇敢者、勝利者！
綜觀全文，可以看出這篇小說極具思想性，它既沒有驚天動地扣人心弦的情節，也沒有更多的華麗的辭藻。但它以崇高的思想作為整篇小說的支柱，含義深邃。或許這也是歐·亨利的成功之處吧！
