最后一片叶子------英文原文.doc

最后一片叶子 英文原文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 dhôte of an Eighth Street Delmonicos, 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 shes 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 jews-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 Johnsys 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. Johnsys 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. Theyre falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now its 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. Ive known that for three days. Didnt 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. Dont be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - lets see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, thats 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 neednt get any more wine, said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out 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 gets dark. Then Ill 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. Couldnt you draw in the other room? asked Johnsy, coldly. Id rather be here by you, said Sue. Beside, I dont 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. Im tired of waiting. Im 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. Ill not be gone a minute. Dont 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 Angelos 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 Mistresss 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 Johnsys 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 neednt. 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 hours 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 wont 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. Ive 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 Sues thin, shaking hand in his. With good nursing youll 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: Shes out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - thats 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 couldnt 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. Didnt you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, its Behrmans masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell. 基本简介：真实姓名：威廉西德尼波特(William Sydney Porter) 笔名：欧亨利(O.Henry) 生卒年代：1862.9.11-1910.6.5 美国著名批判现实主义作家，世界三大短篇小说大师之一。（欧亨利、莫泊桑、契诃夫） 原名威廉西德尼波特（William Sydney Porter），是美国最著名的短篇小说家之一，曾被评论界誉为曼哈顿桂冠散文作家和美国现代短篇小说之父。他出生于美国北卡罗来纳州格林斯波罗镇一个医师家庭。 基本信息：他的一生富于传奇性，当过药房学徒、牧牛人、会计员、土地局办事员、新闻记者、银行出纳员。当银行出纳员时，因银行短缺了一笔现金，为避免审讯，离家流亡中美的洪都拉斯。后因回家探视病危的妻子被捕入狱，并在监狱医务室任药剂师。他创作第一部作品的起因是为了给女儿买圣诞礼物，但基于犯人的身份不敢使用真名，乃用一部法国药典的编者的名字作为笔名。1901年提前获释后迁居纽约，专门从事写作。 欧亨利善于描写美国社会尤其是纽约百姓的生活。他的作品构思新颖，语言诙谐，结局总使人“感到在情理之中，又在意料之外”；又因描写了众多的人物，富于生活情趣，被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。代表作有小说集白菜与国王、四百万、命运之路等。其中一些名篇如爱的牺牲、警察与赞美诗、麦琪的礼物（也称作贤人的礼物）、带家具出租的房间、最后一片藤叶等使他获得了世界声誉。 名 句：“这是一种精神上的感慨油然而生，认为人生是由啜泣、抽噎和微笑组成的，而抽噎占了其中绝大部分。”(欧亨利短篇小说选) 作者简介：1862年9月11日，美国最著名的短篇小说家之欧亨利（O.Henry）出生于美国北卡罗来纳州有个名叫格林斯波罗的小镇。曾被评论界誉为曼哈顿桂冠散文作家和美国现代短篇小说之父。1862年他出身于美国北卡罗来纳州格林斯波罗镇一个医师家庭。父亲是医生。他原名威廉西德尼波特(William Sydney Porter)。他所受教育不多，15岁便开始在药房当学徒，20岁时由于健康原因去德克萨斯州的一个牧场当了两年牧牛人，积累了对西部生活的亲身经验。1884年以后做过会计员、土地局办事员、新闻记者。此后，他在德克萨斯做过不同的工作，包括在奥斯汀银行当出纳员。他还办过一份名为滚石的幽默周刊，并在休斯敦一家日报上发表幽默小说和趣闻逸事。1887年，亨利结婚并生了一个女儿。 正当他的生活颇为安定之时，却发生了一件改变他命运的事情。1896年，奥斯汀银行指控他在任职期间盗用资金。他为了躲避受审，逃往洪都拉斯。1897年，后因回家探视病危的妻子被捕入狱，判处5年徒刑。在狱中曾担任药剂师，他创作第一部作品的起因是为了给女儿买圣诞礼物，但基于犯人的身份不敢使用真名，乃用一部法国药典的编者的名字作为笔名，在麦克吕尔杂志发表。1901年，因“行为良好”提前获释，来到纽约专事写作。 正当他的创作力最旺盛的时候，健康状况却开始恶化，于1910年病逝。 名作欧亨利在大概十年的时间内创作了短篇小说共有300多篇，收入白菜与国王(1904)其唯一一部长篇，作者通过四五条并行的线索，试图描绘出一幅广阔的画面，在写法上有它的别致之处。不过从另一方面看，小说章与章之间的内在联系不够紧密，各有独立的内容、四百万(1906)、西部之心(1907)、市声(1908)、滚石(1913)等集子，其中以描写纽约曼哈顿市民生活的作品为最著名。他把那儿的街道、小饭馆、破旧的公寓的气氛渲染得十分逼真，故有“曼哈顿的桂冠诗人”之称。他曾以骗子的生活为题材，写了不少短篇小说。作者企图表明道貌岸然的上流社会里，有不少人就是高级的骗子，成功的骗子。欧亨利对社会与人生的观察和分析并不深刻，有些作品比较浅薄，但他一生困顿，常与失意落魄的小人物同甘共苦，又能以别出心裁的艺术手法表现他们复杂的感情。他的作品构思新颖，语言诙谐，结局常常出人意外；又因描写了众多的人物，富于生活情趣，被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。因此，他最出色的短篇小说如爱的牺牲(A Service of Love)、警察与赞美诗(The Cop and the Anthem)、带家具出租的房间(The Furnished Room)、麦琪的礼物(The Gift of the Magi)、最后的常春藤叶（The Last Leaf）等都可列入世界优秀短篇小说之中。 他的文字生动活泼，善于利用双关语、讹音、谐音和旧典新意，妙趣横生,被喻为含泪的微笑。他还以准确的细节描写，制造与再现气氛，特别是大都会夜生活的气氛。 手法欧亨利还以擅长结尾闻名遐迩，美国文学界称之为“欧亨利式的结尾”他善于戏剧性地设计情节，埋下伏笔，作好铺垫，勾勒矛盾，最后在结尾处突然让人物的心理情境发生出人意料的变化，或使主人公命运陡然逆转，使读者感到豁然开朗，柳暗花明，既在意料之外，又在情理之中，不禁拍案称奇，从而造成独特的艺术魅力。有一种被称为“含泪的微笑”的独特艺术风格。欧亨利把小说的灵魂全都凝聚在结尾部分，让读者在前的似乎是平淡无奇的而又是诙谐风趣的娓娓动听的描述中，不知不觉地进入作者精心设置的迷宫，直到最后，忽如电光一闪，才照亮了先前隐藏着的一切，仿佛在和读者捉迷藏，或者在玩弄障眼法，给读者最后一个惊喜。在欧亨利之前，其他短篇小说家也已经这样尝试过这种出乎意料的结局。但是欧亨利对此运用得更为经常，更为自然，也更为纯熟老到。 小人物描写小人物是欧亨利的短篇小说最引人瞩目的内容，其中包含了深厚的人道主义精神。欧亨利长期生活在社会底层，深谙下层人民的苦难生活，同时也切身感受过统治阶层制定的法律对穷人是如何无情。因此，他把无限的同情都放在穷人一边。在他的笔下，穷人有着纯洁美好的心灵，仁慈善良的品格，真挚深沉的爱情。但是他们却命运多坎，弱小可怜，孤立无援，食不果腹，身无居所，苟延残喘，往往被社会无情地吞噬。这种不公平的现象与繁华鼎盛的社会景象相映照，显得格外刺目，其中隐含了作者的愤愤不平。 欧亨利纪念奖欧亨利给美国的短篇小说带来新气息，他的作品因而久享盛名，并具有世界影响。美国自1918年起“欧亨利纪念奖”，以奖励每年度的最佳短篇小说，由此可见其声望之卓著。 死因在纽约，由于大量佳作出版，他名利双收。他不仅挥霍无度，而且好赌，好酒贪杯。写作的劳累与生活的无节制使他的身体受到严重损伤。1907年，欧亨利再婚。可惜，第二次婚姻对他来说并没有什么幸福可言。1910年6月3日，他病倒了。两天后，即6月5日，与世长辞，死于肝硬化，年仅48岁。 创作特色：意料之外，情理之中 ；从题材的性质来看，欧亨利的作品大致可分为三类。 一类：以描写美国西部生活为主。 二类：写的是美国一些大城市的生活。 三类：则以拉丁美洲生活为对象。这些不同的题材，显然与作者一生中几个主要生活时期的不同经历，有着密切的关系。 而三类作品当中，无疑又以描写城市生活的作品数量最多，意义最大。 思想和作品的弱点：欧亨利思想的矛盾和他作品的弱点，与他的创作环境有极大关系。即使在他已经成名，受到读者广泛欢迎的时候，他的生活也依然经常处于拮据状态。他曾经直言不讳地说：我是为面包而写作的”。 作品评价：欧亨利因为他本身是一个穷苦的人，因此他的文章主人公大多是一些贫穷的劳动人民，充满了对劳动人民的同情。我认为，欧亨利的小说之所以让我喜欢，是因为他的小说，我们往往猜不出结果是什么，而真正的结果会让我们难以置信，这也说明了他丰富的想象力，欧?亨利的小说语言很生动而且很精练，他的短篇小说一开始就抓住了我们的兴趣和注意力，小说中除了文字的幽默诙谐之外，总有一些让费人猜测的地方，他常常让我们以为以逻辑思维就可以猜到的结局，却往往情节一转，使故事的结尾变的出人意料却又合情合理,从而造成独特的艺术魅力,因此被誉为“欧亨利式结尾”，这也是欧亨利最为出名的一个方面。欧亨利的短篇小说内容很多：其中多为描写一些小人物，描写美国西部牧场，描写那些死要面子，成天做白日梦的小职员，以及一些城市的骗子，和对拜金主义者的嘲讽。尽管欧亨利对于社会现状总有不满，可他也没有放弃希望，因此，悲惨的故事和人物总会有一个相对比较好的结局，也让我们深深的体会到微笑里的辛酸，讽刺里的悲哀和无可奈何。 作品目录及译名(部分):赏析：冬天一定会到，树上的叶也一定会落尽藤叶也不例外。不要以为这是树木斗不过天，它是无能的，也是无奈的。因为这恰恰体现了树木的一种智慧，为了明年春天的萌发，它实在没有必要死守着最后一片叶子，苦苦地挣扎，为此耗尽了最后一丝力量。 因为，叶子落尽并未表示生命的死亡或者希望彻底地成为泡影；反之，这是一种大智的等待，重新萌生的希望在它落尽最后一片叶子时，新的希望，也就在叶子落下的叶柄处悄悄地孕育了，萌生了。然后是静静地、静静地等待。此时的静静也就像沉睡的火山，一旦春天到来，它就以不可阻挡之势爆发出来了。 而假如，到了冬天所有的叶子都不落下来，那么第二年也就会少了许多新生的芽，至少我们将失去欣赏一树新芽花朵般盛开的机会。 也因此，守住你的最后一片藤叶的办法就是让秋天的叶子随风飘尽，而守住那叶子落下处的饱满的叶芽，因为那叶芽里面，就是一片新的藤叶，一个新的春天。 我们今天也一样，我们要学的决不是如何使自己永不摔倒，而是要学会在摔倒之后如何站起来，如何在摔倒中吸取教训，汲取力量，使摔倒的地方成为重新站起和前进的起点。这样，摔倒越多，吸取的力量也就越多，就像小溪东流，越流越宽广，最后成为大海。而坚守住最后一片上一个秋天的藤叶，让自己在冬天中耗尽养份的笨办法，只会招之更大的失败。我们现在已经是初三了，对于部分同学来说，高中的理想已经成了风中的最后一片藤叶，对此，我的观点是顺应自然，让落叶落尽，等待春天，另辟蹊径，再萌生新的希望之嫩芽。 冬天的落叶，你随风去吧！但你千万别忘了在明年春来之时，重新长出嫩芽！ 人生如梦亦如歌! 接下来则是欧.亨利小说赏析： 欧亨利的小说通俗易懂，其中无论发生了什么，发生在何处，也无论主人公是何等人物，他的故事写的都是世态人情，并且易有浓郁的美国风味。一般说来，驱使人们行动的欲望和动机是相当复杂的，但是欧亨利人物的思想相对来说却都比较简单，动机也比较单一，矛盾冲突的中心似乎都是贫与富。这一方面大概因为美国是个平民社会，不存在天生高人一等的贵族阶级，既然金钱面前人人平等，贫富就成了社会的主要矛盾。另一方面，此时正值美国内战后的“镀金时代”，拜金主义盛行，坑蒙拐骗样样齐全，贪污舞泛滥成灾，似乎只人能赚到钱便是成功，并不问问钱的来历是否清白合法，难怪金钱的占有程度便成了人们关注的中心，与欧亨利同时代的马克吐温说得好：“在世界上任何地方，贫穷总是不方便的。但只有在美国，贫穷是耻辱。”欧亨利笔下的芸芸众生就是生活在这样一个金钱主宰的世界中，他们的处境动机，他们的的喜怒哀乐，大都与金钱的占有有关，所以欧亨利描绘的世态人情，无论是善是恶，都有某种美国式的单纯。 两难的处理和意外的结局往往产生令人啼笑皆非的幽默效果，在欧亨利的小说中，幽默是贯穿始终的，有的专门是为幽默而幽默的。绑架孩子的歹徒被顽童折磨得苦