LAST SHEET
(from the collection "The Burning Lamp" 1907)
In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!
And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a "colony."
Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.
This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.
Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.
One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.
“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?
She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.
With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?
Well, then she just weakened, the doctor decided. - I will do everything I can do as a representative of science. But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.
After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.
She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.
While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.
“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.
Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, has braided itself halfway brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.
What is it, honey? - asked Sue.
“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. - Now they fly around much faster. Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.
What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.
Listyev On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?
This is the first time I've heard such nonsense! - Sue retorted with magnificent contempt. - What can the leaves on the old ivy have to do with the fact that you will get better? And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than what each of us here in New York experiences when riding a tram or walking past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.
“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” Jonesy answered, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.
Jonesy, honey,” said Sue, leaning over her, “will you promise not to open your eyes and not look out the window until I finish working?” I have to hand in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would pull down the curtain.
Can't you draw in the other room? - Jonesy asked coldly.
“I’d like to sit with you,” Sue said. “Besides, I don’t want you to look at those stupid leaves.”
LAST SHEET
(from the collection "The Burning Lamp" 1907)
In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!
And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a "colony."
Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.
This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.
Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.
One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.
“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?
She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.
With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?
Well, then she just weakened, the doctor decided. - I will do everything I can do as a representative of science. But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.
After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.
She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.
While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.
“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.
Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.
What is it, honey? - asked Sue.
“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. - Now they fly around much faster. Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.
What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.
Listyev On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?
This is the first time I've heard such nonsense! - Sue retorted with magnificent contempt. - What can the leaves on the old ivy have to do with the fact that you will get better? And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than what each of us here in New York experiences when riding a tram or walking past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.
“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” Jonesy answered, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.
Jonesy, honey,” said Sue, leaning over her, “will you promise not to open your eyes and not look out the window until I finish working?” I have to hand in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would pull down the curtain.
Can't you draw in the other room? - Jonesy asked coldly.
“I’d like to sit with you,” Sue said. “Besides, I don’t want you to look at those stupid leaves.”
Last sheet
In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!
And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a “colony.”
Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.
This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.
Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.
One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.
“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?
“She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.”
- With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?
“Well, then she’s just weakened,” the doctor decided. “I will do everything I can do as a representative of science.” But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.
After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.
She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.
While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.
“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.
Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.
-What is it, honey? – asked Sue.
“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. “Now they fly around much faster.” Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.
- What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.
- Listyev. On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?
– This is the first time I’ve heard such nonsense! – Sue retorted with magnificent contempt. “What could the leaves on the old ivy have to do with your getting better?” And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than what each of us here in New York experiences when riding a tram or walking past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.
“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” answered Jonesy, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.
“Johnsy, honey,” said Sue, leaning over her, “will you promise me not to open your eyes and not look out the window until I finish working?” I have to hand in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would pull down the curtain.
-Can't you draw in the other room? – Jonesy asked coldly.
“I’d like to sit with you,” Sue said. “Besides, I don’t want you to look at those stupid leaves.”
“Tell me when you’ve finished,” Johnsy said, closing her eyes, pale and motionless, like a fallen statue, “because I want to see the last leaf fall.” I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to free myself from everything that holds me - to fly, to fly lower and lower, like one of these poor, tired leaves.
“Try to sleep,” Sue said. “I need to call Berman, I want to paint him as a hermit gold miner.” I'll be there for a minute at most. Look, don't move until I come.
Old Man Berman was an artist who lived on the ground floor under their studio. He was already over sixty, and his beard, all in curls, like Michelangelo’s Moses, descended from the head of a satyr onto the body of a dwarf. In art, Berman was a failure. He was always going to write a masterpiece, but he didn’t even start it. For several years now he had not written anything except signs, advertisements and the like for the sake of a piece of bread. He earned some money by posing for young artists who could not afford professional models. He drank heavily, but still talked about his future masterpiece. Otherwise, he was a feisty old man who scoffed at all sentimentality and looked at himself as a watchdog specially assigned to guard two young artists.
Sue found Berman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his darkened downstairs closet. In one corner, for twenty-five years, an untouched canvas stood on an easel, ready to receive the first touches of a masterpiece. Sue told the old man about Johnsy's fantasy and about her fears that she, light and fragile as a leaf, would fly away from them when her fragile connection with the world weakened. Old man Berman, whose red lips were very noticeably watering, shouted, mocking such idiotic fantasies.
- What! - he shouted. - Is such stupidity possible - to die because leaves fall from the damned ivy! First time I hear it. No, I don’t want to pose for your idiot hermit. How do you let her fill her head with such nonsense? Oh, poor little Miss Jonesy!
“She is very sick and weak,” said Sue, “and from the fever all sorts of morbid fantasies come into her head. Very good, Mr. Berman - if you don’t want to pose for me, then don’t. But I still think that you are a nasty old man... a nasty old talker.
- This is a real woman! - Berman shouted. – Who said that I don’t want to pose? Let's go. I'm coming with you. For half an hour I say that I want to pose. My God! This is no place for a good girl like Miss Jonesy to be sick. Someday I'll write a masterpiece and we'll all leave here. Yes, yes!
Jonesy was dozing when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the curtain down to the window sill and motioned for Berman to go into the other room. There they went to the window and looked with fear at the old ivy. Then they looked at each other without saying a word. It was cold, persistent rain mixed with snow. Berman, wearing an old blue shirt, sat down in the pose of a gold miner-hermit on an overturned teapot instead of a rock.
Last sheet
In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!
And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a “colony.”
Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.
This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.
Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.
One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.
“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?
“She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.”
- With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?
“Well, then she’s just weakened,” the doctor decided. “I will do everything I can do as a representative of science.” But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.
After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.
She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.
While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.
“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.
Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.
In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets became confused and broke into short strips called thoroughfares. These passages form strange angles and curved lines. One street there even crosses itself twice. A certain artist managed to discover a very valuable property of this street. Suppose a store picker with a bill for paint, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent of the bill!
And so people of art came across the peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of north-facing windows, 18th-century roofs, Dutch attics and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and founded a “colony.”
Sue and Jonesy's studio was located at the top of a three-story brick house. Jonesy is a diminutive of Joanna. One came from Maine, the other from California. They met at the table d'hôte of a restaurant on Volma Street and found that their views on art, endive salad and fashionable sleeves completely coincided. As a result, a common studio arose.
This was in May. In November, an inhospitable stranger, whom doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly around the colony, touching one thing or another with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer walked boldly, killing dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered alleys, he trudged foot after naked.
Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for the burly old dunce with the red fists and the shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow frame of the Dutch window at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.
One morning, the preoccupied doctor with one movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows called Sue into the corridor.
“She has one chance... well, let’s say, against ten,” he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And only if she herself wants to live. Our entire pharmacopoeia becomes meaningless when people begin to act in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady has decided that she will never get better. What is she thinking about?
“She... she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples.”
- With paints? Nonsense! Is there something on her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, a man?
“Well, then she’s just weakened,” the doctor decided. “I will do everything I can do as a representative of science.” But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I knock off fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to even once ask what style of sleeves will be worn this winter, I guarantee you that she will have a one in five chance instead of a one in ten.
After the doctor left, Sue ran into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until it was completely soaked. Then she bravely walked into Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the blankets. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Johnsy had fallen asleep.
She set up the board and began an ink drawing of the magazine story. For young artists, the path to Art is paved with illustrations for magazine stories, with which young authors pave their way to Literature.
While sketching the figure of an Idaho cowboy in smart breeches and a monocle for the story, Sue heard a quiet whisper repeated several times. She hurriedly walked to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.
“Twelve,” she said, and a little later: “eleven,” and then: “ten” and “nine,” and then: “eight” and “seven,” almost simultaneously.
Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? All that was visible was an empty, dull courtyard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk, rotten at the roots, wove half of the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.
-What is it, honey? – asked Sue.
“Six,” Jonesy answered, barely audible. “Now they fly around much faster.” Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning to count. And now it's easy. Another one has flown. Now there are only five left.
- What's five, honey? Tell your Sudie.
- Listyev. On the ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?
– This is the first time I’ve heard such nonsense! – Sue retorted with magnificent contempt. “What could the leaves on the old ivy have to do with your getting better?” And you still loved this ivy so much, ugly girl! Don't be stupid. But even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover...excuse me, how did he say that?..that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than what each of us here in New York experiences when riding a tram or walking past a new house. Try to eat a little broth and let your Sudie finish the drawing so she can sell it to the editor and buy wine for her sick girl and pork cutlets for herself.
“You don’t need to buy any more wine,” answered Jonesy, looking intently out the window. - Another one has flown. No, I don't want any broth. So that leaves only four. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.
