The last leaf by o henry краткое содержание на английском

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In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places."

В небольшом квартале к западу от Вашингтон-сквера улицы перепутались и переломались в короткие полоски, именуемые проездами.

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!

Предположим, сборщик из магазина со счетом за краски, бумагу и холст повстречает там самого себя, идущего восвояси, не получив ни единого цента по счету!

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.

И вот люди искусства набрели на своеобразный квартал Гринич-Виллидж в поисках окон, выходящих на север, кровель ХVIII столетия, голландских мансард и дешевой квартирной платы.

Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a "colony."

Рассказ американского писателя О.Генри.
Два художника Сью и Джонси (женское имя) переезжают в Нью-Йорк и с приближением зимы Джонси заболевает пневмонией. С каждым днём ей становится хуже и она начинает верить, что когда за окном упадёт последний лист виноградной лозы - она умрёт.

The Last Leaf (Part 1)

The Last Leaf

In a little district west of Washington Square the street run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places".

Последний Лист

В небольшом квартале к западу от Вашингтон Сквер улицы были хаотично расположены и как-будто разделены на маленькие участки, так называемые "местечками".

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.

Эти "местечки" образовывали причудливой формы углы и кривые. Одна улица пересекала саму себя один или два раза. Однажды какой-то художник раскрыл её ценность.

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!

Предположим, сборщик налогов за краски, бумагу и холсты мог, совершая обход, мог неожиданно обнаружить, что возвращается без единого собранного цента!

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.

Поэтому к этой необычной старой Гринвич Вилледж вскоре потянулись люди искусства в поисках выходящих на север окон, фронтонов восемнадцатого века, Немецких мансард и низкой арендной платы.

Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony".

Потом они привезли с Шестой Авеню несколько оловянных кружек и жаровню или две, и превратились в "колонию".

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna.

Наверху приземистого трехэтажного кирпичного дома располагалась студия Сью и Джонси. "Джонси" - коротко от Джоанна.

One was from Maine; the other from California.

Одна была из Мэна; другая - из Калифорнии.

They had met at the table d"hote of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's", and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

Они повстречались за общим столом в "Дельмоникос", что на Восьмой Улице, и убедились в том, что их вкусы в искусстве, салате из цикория и широких рукавах настолько близки, что в результате возникла совместная студия.

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.

Это было в мае. В ноябре холодный, невидимый незнакомец, которого доктора прозвали Воспалением лёгких, пробирался по колонии, то и дело прикасаясь к кому-то своими ледяными пальцами.

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".

Там, на восточной стороне, этот разрушитель шагал широко и самоуверенно, поражая свои жертвы десятками, но по лабиринту узких, поросших мхом "местечек" он шёл медленно.

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman.

Мистер Воспаление лёгких нельзя было назвать благородным пожилым джентльменом.

A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer.

Миниатюрная женщина, ослабленная западными ветрами Калифорнии, вряд-ли могла стать достойным противником этому страдающему одышкой тупице с окровавленными руками.

But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking trought the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

Но он сразил Джонси; и она лежала, почти не двигаясь, на своей покрашенной железной кровати, глядя сквозь окна в Немецком стиле на голую стену соседнего кирпичного дома.

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In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places."

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 an old brick house in New York two young painters Sue and Johnsy had their studio. They had met in a cheap restaurant and soon discovered that though their characters differed, their views on life and art were the same. Some time later they found a room that was suitable for a studio and began to live even more economically than before.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, went from place to place in the district where they lived, touching people here and there with his icy fingers. Mr Pneumonia was not what you would call a kind old gentleman. It was hardly fair of him to pick out a little woman like Johnsy who was obviously unfit to stand the strain of the suffering, but he did, and she lay on her narrow bed, with no strength to move, looking at the next brick house.
After examining Johnsy one morning the doctor called Sue out of the room and gave her a prescription, saying: "I don't want to frighten you, but at present she has one chance in, let us say, ten, and that chance is for her to want to live. But your little lady has made up her mind that she isn't going to get well, and if a patient loses interest in life, it takes away 50 per cent from the power of medicine. If you could somehow get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in hats, I would promise you a one-in-five chance for her."
After the doctor had gone, Sue went out into the hall and cried. As soon as she could manage to check her tears, she walked gaily back into the room, whistling a merry tune. Johnsy lay with her eyes towards the window. Thinking that Johnsy was asleep, Sue stopped whistling. She arranged her drawing board and began working. Soon she heard a low sound, several time repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were wide open. She was looking out of the window and counting — counting backward. "Twelve," she said, and a little later, "eleven;" then "ten" and "nine", and then "eight" and "seven" almost together.
Sue looked out of the window. What was there to count? There was only the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old grape-vine climbed half way up the brick wall The cold autumn winds had blown off its leaves until it was almost bare.
"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.
"Six," said Johnsy almost in a whisper. "They're falling faster now, I can hardly keep up with them. There goes another one. There are only five left now."
"Five what, darling? Tell me."
"Leaves. On the grape-vine. When the last one goes, I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"How can the doctor have told me this nonsense?" Sue said, trying to control her voice. "He told me this morning your chances were ten to one. Anyhow, let me finish my drawing so that I can sell it and buy some port wine for you."
"You needn't buy any more wine," said Johnsy with her eyes still on the window. "There goes another. 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. "I must go and call Behrman to be my model. Will you promise me to keep your eyes closed and not look at those leaves until I come back? I'll be back in a minute."
"Tell me when I may open my eyes," Johnsy said, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I want to go sailing down like one of those poor tired leaves."
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor below them. He was past sixty and had been a painter for forty years, but he hadn't achieved anything in art. However, he wasn't disappointed, and hoped he would some day paint a masterpiece. Meantime he earned his living by doing various jobs, often serving as a model to those young painters who could not pay the price of a professional. He sincerely thought it his duty to protect the two girls upstairs.
Sue found Behrman in his poorly-lighted room and told him of Johnsy's fancy, and that she didn't know how to handle the situation.
"I can't keep her from looking at those leaves! I just can't!" she cried out. "And I can't draw the curtains in the daytime. I need the light for my work!"
"What!" the old man shouted. "Why do you allow such silly ideas to come into her head? No, I won't pose for you! Oh, that poor little Miss Johnsy!"
"Very well, Mr Behrman," Sue said, "If you don't want to pose for me, you needn't. I wish I hadn't asked you. But I think you're a nasty old — old — " And she walked towards the door with her chin in the air.
"Who said I wouldn't pose?" shouted Behrman. "I'm coming with you. This isn't a place for Miss Johnsy to be ill in! Some day I'll paint a masterpiece, and we'll all go away!"
Johnsy was asleep when they went upstairs. Sue and Behrman looked out of the window at the grape-vine. Then they looked at each other without speaking. A cold rain was falling, mixed with snow. They started working.

The last leaf (by O. Henry)At the top of an old brick house in New York two young painters Sue and Johnsy had their studio. They had met in a cheap restaurant and soon discovered that though their characters differed, their views on life and art were the same. Some time later they found a room that was suitable for a studio and began to live even more economically than before.That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, went from place to place in the district where they lived, touching people here and there with his icy fingers. Mr Pneumonia was not what you would call a kind old gentleman. It was hardly fair of him to pick out a little woman like Johnsy who was obviously unfit to stand the strain of the suffering, but he did, and she lay on her narrow bed, with no strength to move, looking at the next brick house.After examining Johnsy one morning the doctor called Sue out of the room and gave her a prescription, saying: "I don't want to frighten you, but at present she has one chance in, let us say, ten, and that chance is for her to want to live. But your little lady has made up her mind that she isn't going to get well, and if a patient loses interest in life, it takes away 50 per cent from the power of medicine. If you could somehow get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in hats, I would promise you a one-in-five chance for her."After the doctor had gone, Sue went out into the hall and cried. As soon as she could manage to check her tears, she walked gaily back into the room, whistling a merry tune. Johnsy lay with her eyes towards the window. Thinking that Johnsy was asleep, Sue stopped whistling. She arranged her drawing board and began working. Soon she heard a low sound, several time repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were wide open. She was looking out of the window and counting — counting backward. "Twelve," she said, and a little later, "eleven;" then "ten" and "nine", and then "eight" and "seven" almost together.Sue looked out of the window. What was there to count? There was only the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old grape-vine climbed half way up the brick wall The cold autumn winds had blown off its leaves until it was almost bare."What is it, dear?" asked Sue."Six," said Johnsy almost in a whisper. "They're falling faster now, I can hardly keep up with them. There goes another one. There are only five left now.""Five what, darling? Tell me.""Leaves. On the grape-vine. When the last one goes, I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?""How can the doctor have told me this nonsense?" Sue said, trying to control her voice. "He told me this morning your chances were ten to one. Anyhow, let me finish my drawing so that I can sell it and buy some port wine for you.""You needn't buy any more wine," said Johnsy with her eyes still on the window. "There goes another. 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. "I must go and call Behrman to be my model. Will you promise me to keep your eyes closed and not look at those leaves until I come back? I'll be back in a minute.""Tell me when I may open my eyes," Johnsy said, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I want to go sailing down like one of those poor tired leaves."Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor below them. He was past sixty and had been a painter for forty years, but he hadn't achieved anything in art. However, he wasn't disappointed, and hoped he would some day paint a masterpiece. Meantime he earned his living by doing various jobs, often serving as a model to those young painters who could not pay the price of a professional. He sincerely thought it his duty to protect the two girls upstairs.Sue found Behrman in his poorly-lighted room and told him of Johnsy's fancy, and that she didn't know how to handle the situation."I can't keep her from looking at those leaves! I just can't!" she cried out. "And I can't draw the curtains in the daytime. I need the light for my work!""What!" the old man shouted. "Why do you allow such silly ideas to come into her head? No, I won't pose for you! Oh, that poor little Miss Johnsy!""Very well, Mr Behrman," Sue said, "If you don't want to pose for me, you needn't. I wish I hadn't asked you. But I think you're a nasty old — old — " And she walked towards the door with her chin in the air."Who said I wouldn't pose?" shouted Behrman. "I'm coming with you. This isn't a place for Miss Johnsy to be ill in! Some day I'll paint a masterpiece, and we'll all go away!"Johnsy was asleep when they went upstairs. Sue and Behrman looked out of the window at the grape-vine. Then they looked at each other without speaking. A cold rain was falling, mixed with snow. They started working.

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