Many artists lived in the Greenwich Village area of New York. Two young women named Sue and Johnsy shared a studio apartment at the top of a three-story building. Johnsys real name was Joanna.

In November， a cold， unseen stranger came to visit the city. This disease， pneumonia， killed many people. Johnsy lay on her bed， hardly moving. She looked through the small window. She could see the side of the brick house next to her building.

One morning， a doctor examined Johnsy and took her temperature. Then he spoke with Sue in another room.

“She has one chance in—let us say， ten，” he said. “And that chance is for her to want to live. Your friend has made up her mind that she is not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind？”

“She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples in Italy some day，” said Sue.

“Paint？” said the doctor. “Bosh！Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice—a man for example？”

“A man？” said Sue. “Is a man worth—but， no， doctor; there is nothing of the kind.”

“I will do all that science can do，” said the doctor. “But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages at her funeral， I take away fifty percent from the curative power of medicines.”

After the doctor had gone， Sue went into the workroom and cried. Then she went to Johnsys room with her drawing board， whistling ragtime8.

Johnsy lay with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling， thinking she was asleep. She began making a pen and ink drawing for a story in a magazine. Young artists must work their way to “Art” by making pictures for magazine stories. Sue 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 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 only an empty yard and the blank side of the house seven meters away. An old ivy vine， going bad at the roots， climbed half way up the wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken leaves from the plant until its branches， almost bare， hung on the bricks.

“What is it， dear？” asked Sue.

“Six，” said Johnsy， quietly. “Theyre falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head hurt to count them. But now its easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.”

“Five what， dear？” asked Sue.

“Leaves. On the plant. 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 a thing，” said Sue. “What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well？ And you used to love that vine. Dont be silly. 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！Try to eat some soup now. And， let me go back to my drawing， so I can sell it to the magazine and buy food and wine for us.”

“You neednt get any more wine，” said Johnsy， keeping her eyes fixed out the window. “There goes another one. No， I dont want any soup. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then Ill go， too.”

“Johnsy， dear，” said Sue， “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 tomorrow.”

“Tell me as soon as you have finished，” said Johnsy， closing her eyes and lying white and still as a fallen statue. “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 Mr. Behrman up to be my model for my drawing of an old miner. Dont try to move until I come back.”

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor of the apartment building. Behrman was a failure in art. For years， he had always been planning to paint a work of art， but had never yet begun it. He earned a little money by serving as a model to artists who could not pay for a professional model. He was a fierce， little， old man who protected the two young women in the studio apartment above him.

Sue found Behrman in his room. In one area was a blank canvas that had been waiting twenty-five years for the first line of paint. Sue told him about Johnsy and how she feared that her friend would float away like a leaf.

Old Behrman was angered at such an idea. “Are there people in the world with the foolishness to die because leaves drop off a vine？ Why do you let that silly business come in her brain？”

“She is very sick and weak，” said Sue， “and the disease has left her mind full of strange ideas.”

“This is not any place in which one so good as Miss Johnsy shall lie sick，” yelled Behrman. “Some day I will paint a masterpiece， and we shall all go away.”

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to cover the window. She and Behrman went into the other room. They looked out a window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other without speaking. A cold rain was falling， mixed with snow. Behrman sat and posed as the miner.

The next morning， Sue awoke after an hours sleep. She found Johnsy with wide-open eyes staring at the covered window.

“Pull up the shade; I want to see，” she ordered， quietly.

Sue obeyed.

After the beating rain and fierce wind that blew through the night， there yet stood against the wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. It was still dark green at the center. But its edges were colored with the yellow. It hung bravely from the branch about seven meters 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 today and I shall die at the same time.”

“Dear， dear！” said Sue， leaning her worn face down toward the bed. “Think of me， if you wont think of yourself. What would I do？”

But Johnsy did not answer.

The next morning， when it was light， Johnsy demanded that the window 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 preparing chicken soup.

“Ive been a bad girl，” said Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how bad I was. It is wrong to want to die. You may bring me a little soup now.”

An hour later she said， “Someday I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”

Later in the day， the doctor came， and Sue talked to him in the hallway.

“Even chances，” said the doctor. “With good care， youll win. And now I must see another case I have in your building. Behrman， his name is—some kind of an artist， I believe. Pneumonia， too. He is an old， weak man and his case is severe. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital today to ease his pain.”

The next day， the doctor said to Sue， “Shes out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now—thats all.”

Later that day， Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay， and put one arm around her.

“I have something to tell you， white mouse，” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was sick only two days. They found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were completely wet and icy cold. They could not imagine where he had been on such a terrible night. And then they found a lantern， still lighted. And they found a ladder that had been moved from its place. And art supplies and a painting board with green and yellow colors mixed on it. And look out the window， dear， at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didnt you wonder why it never moved when the wind blew？ Ah， darling， it is Behrmans masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”

许多艺术家住在纽约的格林威治村地区。两名年轻的女子分别叫苏和琼西，她们在一栋三层楼的顶楼合租了一间画室。琼西的真名是乔安娜。

11月，一位冷酷无情而又看不见的不速之客造访了这座城市。肺炎这种疾病，杀死了许多人。琼西躺在床上，几乎一动不动。她从小窗往外看，能看到她房子旁边那栋砖房的墙。

一天早上，医生给琼西做了检查，量了体温。然后他到另一个房间和苏谈话。

“她可以说只有十分之一的康复机会。”他说，“这个机会在于她自己想活下去。你的朋友已经断定她自己不会好起来了。她有什么心事吗？”

“她——她想有朝一日画出意大利那不勒斯湾。”苏说。

“画画？”医生说，“胡扯！她脑子里有什么值得琢磨的事情——比如说一个男人？”

“男人？”苏说，“男人就值得吗？但是，没有，医生，没有这样的事。”

“我将尽一切科学所能。”医生说，“但是，每当我的病人开始算计自己葬礼上有多少辆马车时，我就得把药物的疗效减掉百分之五十。”

医生走后，苏走进工作室哭了起来。然后她拿着画板去了琼西的房间，吹着拉格泰姆爵士乐的口哨。

琼西脸朝窗户躺着。苏不再吹口哨了，以为她睡着了。她开始为杂志上的一个故事画钢笔画。年轻的艺术家为了铺平通向“艺术”的道路，不得不为杂志上的故事画插图。苏听到一个低沉的声音，重复了好几次。她快步走到床边。

琼西睁大着眼睛，她看着窗外，数着数——倒数着。“十二，”她数道，过了一会儿又说“十一”;接着是“十”和“九”;然后几乎同时数了“八”和“七”。

苏向窗外望去，那儿有什么可数的呢？只有一个空荡荡的院子和七米开外房子的空墙。一棵老常春藤，根枯萎了，爬到了墙的一半。秋天的寒风把这颗植物的叶子刮落，几乎光秃秃的树枝挂在砖上。

“怎么了，亲爱的？”苏问。

“六片。”琼西低声地说，“它们现在掉得更快了。三天前差不多有一百片，我数得头疼，但现在好数了。又掉了一片，现在只剩下五片了。”

“五片什么，亲爱的？”苏问。

“叶子，在那棵植物上。当最后一片掉下来的时候，我也得走了。这事儿我三天前就已经知道了。医生没告诉你吗？”

“哦，我从来没听说过这种事。”蘇说，“老常春藤的叶子跟你的康复有什么关系？你以前很喜欢那棵藤的啊。别傻了，对了，今天早上医生告诉我，你很快康复的机会是——让我们看看他到底说了什么——他说机会是十分之一！现在试着喝点汤。我要回去画画，这样我就可以把画卖给杂志社，给我们买些吃的和酒。”

“你不用再买酒了。”琼西说，眼睛一直盯着窗外，“又掉了一片。不，我不想喝汤。只剩下四片了。我想在天黑之前看到最后一片掉下来，然后我也要走了。”

“琼西，亲爱的。”苏说，“你能答应我闭上你的眼睛，在我画完之前不要往窗外看吗？我必须在明天之前把那些画交出去。”

“你一画完就告诉我。”琼西闭上眼睛，脸色苍白地躺着，像一尊倒下的雕像，“我想看到最后一片掉下来。我等够了，我厌倦了思考，我想摆脱一切，像那些可怜的、疲惫的叶子一样，一路飘下去，飘下去。”

“你睡会儿吧。”苏说，“我得叫贝尔曼先生来做我画老矿工的模特。你不要动，等我回来。”

老贝尔曼是个画家，住在公寓楼的一楼。贝尔曼在艺术方面是个失败者。多年来，他一直在计划画一件艺术品，但一直没开始。他为那些找不起专业模特的艺术家当模特挣了一点钱。他是一个火气十足的矮小老头，保护着他楼上公寓里的两位年轻女性。

苏在贝尔曼的房间里找到了他。房间里有个地方放着一块空白的画布，等着第一笔落下已经等了25年。苏告诉他琼西的事，以及她有多么担心她的朋友会像树叶一样飘走。

老贝尔曼对这种想法感到生气。“世界上居然有人蠢到因为树叶从藤蔓上掉下来就要死吗？你怎么可以让她胡思乱想？”

“她病得很重，很虚弱。”苏说，“这个病使她满脑子奇怪的想法。”

“像琼西小姐这样的好人真不应该在这种地方病倒。”贝尔曼喊道，“总有一天我会画一幅杰作，我们就都会搬走了。”

他们上楼的时候，琼西正在睡觉。苏把窗帘拉下来遮住窗户。她和贝尔曼走进另一个房间。他们提心吊胆地看着窗外的常春藤。然后他们默默无言，彼此对望着。冷雨夹杂着雪不停地下着。贝尔曼坐着，摆出矿工的样子。

第二天早上，苏睡了一个小时就醒了。她发现琼西的眼睛睁得大大的，盯着窗帘遮着的窗户。

“把窗帘拉上来，我想看看。”她低声命令道。

苏照办了。

在一夜的狂风暴雨过后，墙上还挂着一片常春藤叶子。这是藤上最后一片叶子，中间还是深绿色的，但它的边缘已经发黄。它傲然挂在离地约7米高的藤枝上。

“这是最后一片。”琼西说，“我以为它一定会在夜里掉下来。我听到了风声，它今天会掉下来，我也会同时死去。”

“亲爱的，亲爱的！”苏说着，把她那张憔悴的脸凑到床边，“如果你不为自己着想，想想我。我该怎么办？”

但琼西没有回答。

第二天早上，天亮了，琼西要求把窗帘拉起。那片常春藤叶子还在那儿。琼西躺了很长时间，看着它。然后她向正在准备鸡汤的苏喊了一声。

“我是个坏女孩。”琼西说，“有什么东西让最后一片叶子留在那里，让我知道我有多坏。想死是不对的。现在你可以给我拿点汤来。”

一小时后，她说：“我希望有一天能去画那不勒斯湾。”

那天晚些时候，医生来了，苏在走廊里和他说话。

“有五成的希望。”医生说，“小心照顾，你会成功的。现在我得去看看你楼里的另一个病人。他的名字是贝尔曼——我相信他是个画家，也得了肺炎。他年老体虚，病情很严重。他没有希望了，但他今天去医院减轻痛苦。”

第二天，医生对苏说：“她已经脱离危险了，你成功了。现在只需要注意营养和护理。”

那天晚些时候，苏来到琼西躺着的床前，用一只胳膊搂着她。

“我有话要告诉你，小家伙。”她说， “贝尔曼先生今天在医院死于肺炎。他只病了两天。第一天早上，他们发现他在楼下的房间里疼得动弹不得。他的鞋子和衣服都湿透了，冰冷刺骨。他们无法想象在这样一个糟糕的夜晚他去过哪里。然后他们发现了一盏提灯，还亮着，一个梯子被挪动过不在原地。还有美术用品和一块画板抹着黄绿混合的颜料。看看窗外，亲爱的，看看墙上最后一片常春藤叶子。你不奇怪为什么风吹的时候它动也不动吗？啊，亲爱的，这是贝尔曼的杰作——最后一片叶子掉下来的那天晚上，他把它画在了那儿。”