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#Post#: 75--------------------------------------------------
"The Last Leaf," re-written in simple English
By: Dan Smith Date: April 29, 2018, 7:40 am
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This is my own attempt at rewriting a classic story in simple
English; comments invited.
The following is copyright ©2018 by Dan Smith, and licensed
HTML under the terms of the http://Creative Commons
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International (CC
BY-NC-ND 4.0)
This story was written in 1907. It is by O. Henry, the pen name
of William Sydney Porter. O. Henry wrote many famous short
stories. He is a beloved American author. O. Henry is known for
his "surprise" endings.
THE LAST LEAF
Greenwich Village is a neighborhood in New York. Young artists
liked to live there. The rent was cheap. It became an "art
colony."
Sue and Johnsy had an art studio. Johnsy's real name was Joanna;
"Johnsy" was her nickname. Sue and Johnsy were both artists.
They met in a restaurant and became friends. They rented space
for a studio together.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger came to the
colony. The doctors called him Pneumonia, He touched people here
and there with his icy fingers.
Mr. Pneumonia was not a gentleman. It was not fair for him to
hit a little woman like Johnsy. But he did. She lay on her bed.
She did not move. She looked through her window at the brick
wall of another building.
One morning the doctor visited and talked to Sue.
"She has one chance in ten. That chance is for her to want to
live. But your little lady doesn't. She thinks that she's not
going to get well. Has she anything she wants to live for?"
"She--she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue.
"Paint? Well," said the doctor. "I will do what I can. But she
needs to want to live."
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried
for a while. Then she walked into Johnsy's room, acting cheerful
and whistling.
Johnsy lay still, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped
whistling. Sue thought Johnsy was asleep.
Sue arranged her drawing board. She began a pen-and-ink drawing
to illustrate a magazine story. It was a picture of a handsome
cowboy and an old miner.
As Sue was sketching the cowboy, she heard a low sound. It was
repeated several times. She went quickly to the bedside. It was
Johnsy.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and
counting. She was counting backward.
"Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven;" and then "ten,"
and "nine;" and then "eight" and "seven," almost together.
Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? There was
nothing to see but a brick wall, twenty feet away. It had no
doors or windows. An old, old ivy vine climbed half way up the
brick wall. The wind had blown away most of its leaves. Its
skeleton branches were almost bare. The vine clung to the old
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?"
"Nonsense!" complained Sue. "Ivy leaves have nothing to do with
you. The doctor told me this morning that you would get well.
Try to eat some soup now. Later I will buy some port wine for my
sick child.
"You won't need any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes
fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any
soup. 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, "don't look out the
window."
"I want to see the last one fall," said Johnsy. "I'm tired of
waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to let go. I want to go
sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."
"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up. He is going
to be my model for the old miner in my picture."
Old Behrman was a painter. He lived on the ground floor beneath
them. He was more than sixty years old. He had a long beard.
Behrman was a failure in art. He had been painting for forty
years. He always said he was going to paint a masterpiece, but
he never did. He painted pictures for advertising, and he worked
as a model for other artists. He drank a lot. His favorite drink
was gin. He was a fierce little old man. But like a guard dog,
he thought it was his job to protect the two young artists in
the studio above.
Sue found Behrman in his dark studio. He was smelling of gin. In
one corner was a blank canvas on an easel. It had been waiting
there for twenty-five years. It was going to be his masterpiece,
but it was still blank. She told him about Johnsy. She told him
that Johnsy thought she would die when the last leaf fell from
the ivy vine.
Old Behrman shouted. Such an idea was nonsense. Behrman talked
with a heavy German accent. He said "dere" for "there," and
"bose" for "pose."
"Vass!" he cried. "Are dere people so foolish to die because
leaves dey drop off from a vine? I haff never heard such a
thing. No, I will not bose as model for you, you fool. Why do
you let her get such a silly idea in her brain? Ach, dot poor
leetle Miss Johnsy."
"She is very weak." said Sue, "The fever has affected her brain.
Very well, Mr. Behrman, don't pose for me. 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 with you. For half an hour I have saying
I am ready to bose. Miss Johnsy should not lie sick. Some day I
will paint a masterpiece, and we will all travel to Naples. God!
Yes!"
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue and Berhman
looked out the window at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each
other for a moment without speaking. A cold rain was falling,
mixed with snow. Sue pulled the shade closed.
The next morning she found Johnsy awake. She was looking at the
drawn green shade.
"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
Sue obeyed.
A miracle! The rain and the fierce wind had blown all night, but
there was still one leaf. It was the last on the vine. It was
still dark green near its stem. Its edges were yellow. It was
decaying and dying, but it hung bravely from a branch. It was
twenty feet above the ground.
"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would 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 without you?"
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 day passed. It started to get dark. The ivy leaf was still
clinging to its stem against the wall. The wind blew again. The
rain still beat against the windows.
When it was light enough Johnsy told Sue to raise the shade.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to
Sue. Sue was stirring chicken soup over the gas stove.
"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "That last leaf
showed me how bad I was. It is a sin to want to die. I would
like to eat some soup now. And I would like some milk with a
little port wine in it."
An hour later she said, "Sudie, some day I am going to paint the
Bay of Naples."
The doctor came in the afternoon.
"She's much better," said the doctor, taking Sue's hand in his.
"With good nursing you'll win. Now I must see another case I
have downstairs. His name is Berhman. He is an artist, I think.
He has pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man. He is very sick.
There is no hope for him. He will go to the hospital today and
they will make him more comfortable.
The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger.
You've won."
And that afternoon Sue came to Johnsy's bed. She was sitting up
and knitting a scarf.
"I have something to tell you, Johnsy," she said. "Mr. Behrman
died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. The janitor found him
in his room yesterday. His shoes and clothing were wet through
and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been. And then
they found a lantern, still lighted. They found a ladder. They
found some brushes on the ground. They found an artist's palette
with green and yellow paint on it, 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."
#Post#: 78--------------------------------------------------
Re: "The Last Leaf," re-written in simple English
By: the lost minion Date: April 29, 2018, 11:07 am
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Great work and a good idea, Dan. I really enjoyed it.
#Post#: 79--------------------------------------------------
Re: "The Last Leaf," re-written in simple English
By: Chizuko hanji Date: April 29, 2018, 12:02 pm
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I'm almost crying.
I read this story in Japanese when I was 12 years old in the
school library. It moved me to tears at that time. And your
English made me cry again just now. Thank you so much, Dan.
I saw an interesting YouTube and someone said it was very
impressive story. And I sent a message to him that this story
reminds me of The Last Leaf by O. Henry. He replied me that he
didn't know about O.Henry and read O.Henry for the first time.
Here is the video.
HTML https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82d84rn306M
#Post#: 82--------------------------------------------------
Re: "The Last Leaf," re-written in simple English
By: Chizuko hanji Date: April 29, 2018, 12:22 pm
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The video is modern American style the blind man smiles at the
end.
O. Henry's story shows more subtleties of life. <<< I needed a
dictionary.
I hope I make myself understood. :)
#Post#: 89--------------------------------------------------
Re: "The Last Leaf," re-written in simple English
By: Alharacas Date: April 29, 2018, 4:20 pm
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Thank you, Chizuko! I quite understand why that video reminded
you of O. Henry's story.
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