Sue and Jonesy are two young ones. II stage

Are you here: crafts

It is impossible not to admire the work of O. Henry. This American writer, like no other, knew how to reveal human vices and exalt virtues with one stroke of the pen. There is no allegory in his works, life appears as it really is. But even the tragic events are described by the master of words with his inherent subtle irony and good humor. We bring to your attention one of the most touching author's short stories, or rather its summary. "The Last Leaf" by O. Henry is a life-affirming story written in 1907, just three years before the writer's death.

A young nymph stricken with a serious illness

Two aspiring artists named Sue and Jonesy rent an inexpensive apartment in a poor area of Manhattan. The sun rarely shines on their third floor, as the windows face north. Behind the glass, you can only see a blank brick wall entwined with old ivy. This is approximately how the first lines of O. Henry's story "The Last Leaf" sound, the summary of which we are trying to produce as close as possible to the text.

The girls settled in this apartment in May, organizing a small painting studio here. By the time of the events described, November is standing outside and one of the artists is seriously ill - she was diagnosed with pneumonia. The visiting doctor fears for Jonesy's life, as she has lost heart and prepared to die. The thought firmly settled in her pretty head: as soon as the last leaf falls from the ivy outside the window, the last minute of her life will come for herself.

Sue tries to distract her friend, to instill at least a small spark of hope, but she does not succeed well. The situation is complicated by the fact that the autumn wind mercilessly plucks the leaves from the old ivy, which means that the girl does not have long to live.

Despite the brevity of this work, the author describes in detail the manifestations of Sue's touching care for her sick friend, the appearance and characters of the characters. But we are forced to omit many important nuances, as we set out to convey only a brief summary. "The Last Leaf" ... O. Henry gave his story, at first glance, an inexpressive title. It is revealed as the story progresses.

Evil Old Man Berman

The artist Berman lives in the same building one floor below. For the past twenty-five years, an aging man has been dreaming of creating his own pictorial masterpiece, but there is still not enough time to start work. He draws cheap posters and drinks heavily.

Sue, a friend of the sick girl, thinks Berman is an old man with a bad temper. But still, she tells him about Jonesy's fantasy, her obsession with her own death and the falling ivy leaves outside the window. But how can a failed artist help?

Probably, in this place the writer could put a long ellipsis and complete the story. And we would have to sigh sympathetically, reflecting on the fate of a young girl, whose life was fleeting, in book language, “had a summary”. "The Last Leaf" by O. Henry is a story with an unexpected ending, as, indeed, most of the author's other works. Therefore, it is too early to put an end to it.

A small feat in the name of life

A strong wind with rain and snow raged all night outside. But when Jonesy asked her friend to open the curtains in the morning, the girls saw that a yellow-green leaf was still hanging on the stiff ivy stalk. And on the second and on the third day the picture did not change - the stubborn leaf did not want to fly away.

Jonesy also cheered up, believing that it was too early for her to die. The doctor, who visited his patient, said that the disease had receded and the girl's health was on the mend. Fanfares should sound here - a miracle has happened! Nature sided with man, not wanting to take away the hope of salvation from a weak girl.

A little later, the reader will have to understand that miracles happen at the will of those who are able to perform them. It is not difficult to verify this by reading the story in full or at least its summary. "The Last Leaf" by O. Henry is a story with a happy ending, but with a slight touch of sadness and light sadness.

A few days later, the girls learn that their neighbor Berman has died in the hospital from pneumonia. He caught a bad cold that very night when the last leaf was to fall from the ivy. A yellow-green speck with a stalk and like living veins, the artist painted with paints on a brick wall.

Instilling hope in the heart of the dying Jonesy, Berman sacrificed his own life. Thus ends the story of O. Henry "The Last Leaf". An analysis of the work could take more than one page, but we will try to express its main idea in just one line: "And in everyday life there is always a place for a feat."

Sue and Joanna, two young artists, rent a small studio together in a bohemian New York City neighborhood. In a cold November, Joanna falls seriously ill with pneumonia. All day long she lies in bed and looks out the window overlooking the gray wall of the neighboring building. The wall is entwined with old ivy flying under the gusts of autumn wind. Joanna counts the falling leaves, she is sure that she will die when the wind blows the last leaf from the vine. The doctor informs Sue that medication won't help if Joanna doesn't feel at least some zest for life. Sue doesn't know how to help her sick friend.

Sue stops by Berman's neighbor to ask him to pose for a book illustration. She tells him that Joanna is sure of her imminent death, along with the last ivy leaf that has flown away. An old drunk artist, an embittered loser who dreamed of fame, and who never started a single painting, only laughs at these ridiculous fantasies.

The next morning, the friends see that one single ivy leaf is still miraculously in place, and all the following days too. Joanna comes to life, they consider this a sign that they must continue to live. The doctor visiting Joanna informs them that old Berman has been sent to the hospital with pneumonia.

The patient quickly recovers and soon her life is out of danger. Then Sue tells her friend that the old artist has died. He got pneumonia by drawing on a rainy and cold night on the wall of a neighboring building that very lonely, not flown ivy leaf that saved the young girl's life. The same masterpiece that he was going to write all his life.

Detailed retelling

Two young artist girls came from a deep province to New York. The girls are close childhood friends. Their names were Sue and Jonesy. They decided to rent a house for themselves, since they have no friends and relatives in such a big city. The apartment was chosen in the Greenwich Village quarter, on the very top floor. Everyone knows that people associated with creativity live in this quarter.

At the end of October, the beginning of November was very cold, the girls did not have warm clothes, and Jonesy fell ill. The doctor's diagnosis saddened the girls. The disease is inflammation of the lungs. The doctor said she had a one in a million chance of getting out. But the girl lost her spark in life. The girls just lie on the bed, look out the window, then at the sky, at the trees and wait for the time of their death. She sees a tree with leaves falling off. She decides for herself that as soon as the last leaf is torn off, she will go to another world.

Sue is looking for ways to get her friend back on her feet. She meets the elder Berman, he is an artist who lives on the floor below. The master is always going to create a work of art, but he does not succeed. Upon learning about the girl, the old man was upset. By evening, a strong storm began with rain and a thunderstorm, Jonesy knew that in the morning there would be no leaf on the tree, like herself. But what was her surprise that after such an element, the leaf stayed on the tree. Jnosi was very surprised. She blushes, she becomes ashamed, and suddenly she wants to live and fight.

The doctor came, he noticed the improvement of the body. Chances leveled 50% to 50%. The doctor came to the house again, the body began to get out. The doctor said that there was an epidemic going around the house, and the old man from the bottom floor was also ill with an illness and maybe the next day the doctor's visit was more joyful, as he told wonderful news. Jonesy will live and the danger is over.

In the evening, Sue learns that the artist from below died of an illness, the body stopped fighting the disease. Berman fell ill on that very terrible night when nature was raging. He painted the same ivy leaf and climbed a tree in heavy rain and cold wind to attach it. Because not a single leaf was left on the ivy. The Creator still created his excellent masterpiece. Thus he saved the girl's life and gave his own as a sacrifice.

Picture or drawing Last leaf

Other retellings and reviews for the reader's diary

Summary Out loud Mayakovsky
The book consists of three parts. Expat American narrator and journalist Jake Barnes. The location of the first part is Paris, France. Here Jake interacts with a number of other American expatriates.

LAST PAGE

(from the collection "Burning Lamp" 1907)

In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets tangled up and broke into short strips called driveways. 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 assembler from a store with a bill for paints, paper and canvas meets himself there, walking home without receiving a single cent on the bill!

And so the artists stumbled upon the peculiar Greenwich Village quarter in search of north-facing windows, eighteenth-century roofs, Dutch lofts, and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and a brazier or two there from Sixth Avenue and established a "colony."

Sue and Jonesy's studio was at the top of a three-story brick building. 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, chicory salad and fashionable sleeves were quite the same. As a result, a common studio arose.

It was in May. In November, the surly stranger, whom the doctors call Pneumonia, walked invisibly through the colony, touching first one, then the other with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer marched boldly, hitting dozens of victims, but here, in a labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered lanes, he trailed foot behind the naga.

Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. The petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, was hardly a worthy opponent for a burly old fool with red fists and shortness of breath. However, he knocked her down, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow Dutch window frame at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.

One morning, the preoccupied doctor called Sue into the hallway with a single movement of his shaggy gray eyebrows.

She has one chance... well, let's say against ten, - he said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. - And then, if she herself wants to live. Our whole pharmacopoeia loses its meaning when people start acting in the interests of the undertaker. Your little young lady decided that she would not get better. What is she thinking?

She... she wanted to paint the Gulf of Naples.

Paints? Nonsense! Doesn't she have something in her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, men?

Well, then she just weakened, the doctor decided. - I will do everything that I can do as a representative of science. But when my patient begins to count the carriages in his funeral procession, I discount fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to ask just once what style of sleeves they will wear 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 entered Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Jonesy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the covers. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Jonesy had fallen asleep.

She set up the blackboard and began an ink drawing of a 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 elegant breeches and a monocle in his eye for a story, Sue heard a low whisper, repeated several times. She hurried over to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.

Twelve, she said, and after a while: - 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 the empty, dreary yard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a knotted, rotten trunk at the roots half braided a 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's in there, honey? Sue asked.

Six,” Jonesy said in a barely audible voice. - Now they fly around much faster. Three days ago there were almost a hundred of them. My head was spinning counting. And now it's easy. Here's another one flying. Now only five remain.

What's five, honey? Tell your Sudy.

Leaves On 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 hear 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 loved that ivy so much, you nasty little girl! Don't be stupid. Why, even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover ... let me, how did he say that? .. that you have ten chances against one. But that's no less than what any of us here in New York have when we ride the tram or walk past our new house. Try to eat some broth and let your Sudy 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 have to buy any more wine," Jonesy answered, gazing intently out the window. - Here comes another one. No, I don't want broth. So there are only four left. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.

Jonesy, my dear,” 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 turn in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would lower the curtain.

Can't you paint in the other room? Jonesy asked coldly.

I would like to sit with you,” Sue said. "And besides, I don't want you to look at those stupid leaves."

"... this is Berman's masterpiece - he wrote it that night,
when the last leaf fell off."

O. HENRY THE LAST LEAF
(from the collection "Burning lamp" 1907)

In a small block west of Washington Square, the streets got mixed up and broke into short strips called driveways. 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 picker from a store with a bill for paints, paper and canvas meets himself there, going home without receiving a single cent on the bill!

And so the people of art came across a peculiar quarter of Greenwich Village in search of windows facing north, roofs of the eighteenth century, Dutch mansards and cheap rent. Then they moved a few pewter mugs and one or two braziers there from Sixth Avenue and established a "colony."

Sue and Jonesy's studio was at the top of a three-story brick building. 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, chicory salad, and fashionable sleeves were quite the same. As a result, a common studio arose.

It was in May. In November, an unfriendly stranger, whom the doctors call Pneumonia, invisibly walked around the colony, touching first one, then the other with his icy fingers. Along the East Side, this murderer marched boldly, hitting dozens of victims, but here, in the labyrinth of narrow, moss-covered lanes, he trailed behind the naga.

Mr. Pneumonia was by no means a gallant old gentleman. A petite girl, anemic from California marshmallows, could hardly be considered a worthy opponent for a hefty old dumbass with red fists and shortness of breath. However, he knocked her off her feet, and Jonesy lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking through the shallow Dutch window frame at the blank wall of the neighboring brick house.

One morning, a worried doctor with one movement of 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 then, if she herself wants to live. Our whole pharmacopoeia loses its meaning when people start acting in the interests of the undertaker. Your little lady decided that she would not get better. What is she thinking about?
- She ... she wanted to paint the Gulf of Naples.
- Paints? Nonsense! Doesn't she have something in her soul that is really worth thinking about, for example, men?
- Men? Sue asked, and her voice sounded sharp, like a harmonica. - Is a man really worth ... Yes, no, doctor, there is nothing like that.
- Well, then she just weakened, - the doctor decided. - I will do everything that I can do as a representative of science. But when my patient starts counting the carriages in his funeral procession, I discount fifty percent of the healing power of the drugs. If you can get her to ask at least once what style of sleeves they will wear this winter, I guarantee you that she will have one chance in five, instead of one in ten.

After the doctor left, Sue ran out into the workshop and cried into a Japanese paper napkin until she was completely soaked. Then she bravely entered Jonesy's room with a drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Jonesy lay with her face turned to the window, barely visible under the covers. Sue stopped whistling, thinking Jonesy had fallen asleep.

She set up a blackboard and began an ink drawing for a 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.
Sketching for the story the figure of a cowboy from Idaho in elegant breeches and with a monocle in his eye, Sue heard a quiet whisper, repeated several times. She hastily walked over to the bed. Jonesy's eyes were wide open. She looked out the window and counted - counted backwards.
- Twelve, - she said, and after a while: - 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, dreary yard and the blank wall of a brick house twenty paces away. An old, old ivy with a knotty, rotten trunk at the roots half-braided a brick wall. The cold breath of autumn tore the leaves from the vine, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.
- What is it, dear? Sue asked.

Six, - hardly audibly answered Jonesy. - 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. Here's another one flying. Now only five remain.
- What five, honey? Tell your Sudy.

Leaves. On ivy. When the last leaf falls, I will die. I've known this for three days now. Didn't the doctor tell you?
- The first time I hear 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, you ugly girl! Don't be stupid. Why, even today the doctor told me that you would soon recover ... let me, how did he say that? .. that you have ten chances against one. But this is no less than for each of us here in New York, when you ride a tram or walk past a new house. Try to eat some broth and let your Sudy 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 more wine, ”Johnsy answered, gazing intently out the window. - Here comes another one. No, I don't want broth. So there are only four left. I want to see the last leaf fall. Then I will die too.

Jonesy, my dear, - said Sue, bending over her, - you promise me not to open your eyes and not look out the window until I finish working? I have to turn in the illustration tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would lower the curtain.
- Can't you draw in another room? Jonesy asked coldly.
“I would like to sit with you,” Sue said. - And besides, I don't want you to look at those stupid leaves.

Tell me when you're done, - 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 be free from everything that holds me - to fly, fly lower and lower, like one of these poor, tired leaves.
"Try to sleep," Sue said. - I need to call Berman, I want to write from him a gold digger-hermit. I am at most for a minute. Look, don't move until I come.

Old Berman was an artist who lived downstairs under their studio. He was already over sixty, and a beard, all in curls, like that of Moses Michelangelo, descended from his head of a satyr onto the body of a dwarf. In art, Berman was a loser. He was going to write a masterpiece, but he didn't even start it. For several years he did not write anything except signs, advertisements and similar daub for the sake of a piece of bread. He earned something by posing for young artists who could not afford professional sitters. He drank heavily, but still talked about his future masterpiece. And in the rest it was a feisty old man who scoffed at any sentimentality and looked at himself as at a watchdog specially assigned to protect two young artists.

Sue found Berman, smelling strongly of juniper berries, in his semi-dark downstairs closet. In one corner, for twenty-five years, an untouched canvas stood on an easel, ready to receive the first strokes of a masterpiece. Sue told the old man about Jonesy's fantasy and her fears that she, light and fragile as a leaf, would not fly away from them when her fragile connection with the world weakened. Old Berman, whose red eyes were very visibly weeping, shouted, mocking at such idiotic fantasies.

What! he shouted. - Is such stupidity possible - to die because the leaves fall from the damned ivy! First time I hear. No, I don't want to pose for your idiot hermit. How do you let her fill her head with such nonsense? Ah, poor little Miss Jonesy!

She is very sick and weak, - said Sue, - and from the fever she comes up with various morbid fantasies. Very well, Mr. Berman - if you don't want to pose for me, then don't. But I still think you're a nasty old man... a nasty old talker.

Here is a real woman! Berman shouted. - Who said that I don't want to pose? Let's go. I am going with you. For half an hour I say that I want to pose. My God! This is no place for such a good girl as Miss Jonesy to get sick. Someday I will write a masterpiece, and we will all leave here. Yes, yes!

Jonesy was dozing when they went upstairs. Sue lowered the curtain all the way to the windowsill and signaled Berman to go into another room. There they went to the window and looked fearfully at the old ivy. Then they looked at each other without saying a word. It was cold, persistent rain mixed with snow. Berman, in an old blue shirt, sat down in the pose of a gold digger-hermit on an overturned teapot instead of a rock.

The next morning Sue, waking up from a short sleep, saw that Johnsy did not take his dull, wide eyes from the lowered green curtain.
"Pick it up, I want to see it," Jonesy whispered.

Sue wearily obeyed.
And what? After heavy rain and sharp gusts of wind that did not let up all night, one last leaf of ivy was still visible on the brick wall! Still dark green at the stalk, but tinged along the jagged edges with the yellowness of smoldering and decay, it bravely held on to a branch twenty feet above the ground.

This is the last one,” Jonesy said. - I thought that he would certainly fall at night. I heard the wind. He will fall today, then I will die too.
- God be with you! - said Sue, leaning her tired head to the pillow. - Think at least about me, if you don't want to think about yourself! What will happen to me?

But Jonesy did not answer. The soul, preparing to set off on a mysterious, distant journey, becomes alien to everything in the world. A painful fantasy took possession of Jonesy more and more, as one after another all the threads that connected her with life and people were torn.

The day passed, and even at dusk they saw that a lone ivy leaf held on its stalk against the background of a brick wall. And then, with the onset of darkness, the north wind picked up again, and the rain constantly beat on the windows, rolling down from the low Dutch roof.

As soon as it dawned, the merciless Jonesy ordered the curtain to be raised again.

The ivy leaf was still in place.

Jonesy lay for a long time looking at him. Then she called Sue, who was heating chicken broth for her on a gas burner.
"I've been a bad girl, Sudy," said Jonesy. - This last leaf must have been left on the branch in order to show me how ugly I was. It is a sin to wish for death. Now you can give me some broth, and then milk with port wine ... Although no: first bring me a mirror, and then cover me with pillows, and I will sit and watch you cook.

An hour later she said:
- Sudy, I hope someday to paint the Gulf of Naples.

In the afternoon the doctor came, and Sue, under some pretense, followed him into the hallway.
- The chances are equal, - said the doctor, shaking Sue's thin, trembling hand. - With good care, you will win. And now I have to visit one more patient downstairs. His last name is Berman. It seems he is an artist. Also inflammation of the lungs. He is already an old man and very weak, and the form of the disease is severe. There is no hope, but today he will be sent to the hospital, where he will be calmer.

The next day the doctor said to Sue:
- She's out of danger. You won. Now nutrition and care - and nothing else is needed.

That same evening, Sue went to the bed where Jonesy lay, happily knitting a bright blue, completely useless scarf, and hugged her with one arm - along with a pillow.
“I need to tell you something, white mouse,” she began. - Mr. Berman died today in the hospital from pneumonia. He was only ill for two days. On the morning of the first day, the porter found the poor old man on the floor in his room. He was unconscious. His shoes and all his clothes were soaked through and cold as ice. No one could understand where he went out on such a terrible night. Then they found a lantern that was still burning, a ladder moved from its place, several abandoned brushes and a palette with yellow and green paint. Look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf. Didn't it surprise you that he doesn't tremble or stir in the wind? Yes, honey, this is Berman's masterpiece - he wrote it the night the last leaf fell off.

American William Sidney Porter is known throughout the world as a writer O. Henry. He was orphaned early. He worked part-time at his uncle's pharmacy, saw a lot of bellowing, was even convicted of embezzlement and served time in the Columbus prison in Ohio. During his life he saw many people, faced with different fates. When he became a writer, it was they who became his heroes - little people, clerks, bandits, swindlers. One of the best, most dramatic short stories by O. Henry is The Last Leaf. Her heroines are two young artists Sue and Jonesy, who live in the “wonderful old” Grinch Village. A wet and cold winter in the North of America brought pneumonia to the inhabitants of the old house. Jonesy became so ill in November that she was one step away from death.

The doctor who came to see Jonesy said she needed to eat well and take her medicine to get well. But Jonesy has no will to live. She decided that she would die when the last yellowed leaf fell from the decrepit knotted ivy outside the window of the room.

In the second part of the novel, the old German Berman appears. He is an artist who all his life only dreams of a masterpiece that will someday come out from under his brush. This requires inspiration, which life does not provide. Therefore, Berman will never begin work on a masterpiece. The author talks a little about the artist's life and everything he did after he heard about Jonesy's illness.

We learn about Berman's act after his death. The old German skillfully painted an ivy leaf simply on a brick wall, and it seemed to sick Jonesy that the leaf was clinging to life so tightly that it would never fall. So several days passed. Jonesy began to recover. In the end, the girl realized that she was a bad girl and that it was a sin to want to die. She was helped to overcome the disease by an ivy leaf, a symbol of life drawn by Berman.

At the end of the novel, Jonesy finds out who helped her survive. Old Berman sketched a leaf at the cost of his life. He was soaked in the rain, frozen in the cold piercing wind. His old body could not stand the pneumonia and he died. The old artist gave his life so that Jonesy could live. The loser managed to give the girl more than an ordinary masterpiece - life.

The short story by O. Henry is about humanity, sympathy, self-sacrifice about art, which should inspire life, give inspiration, joy and inspiration. These are the lessons of O. Henry, they teach you to enjoy sincere human feelings that can make life in this frantic world happy and meaningful.

Writer O. Henry and his characters are small people. William One Porter is the real name of the writer O. Henry. The life of O. Henry is full of adventures, losses, meetings. His heroes are clerks, bandits, swindlers.

Novella "The Last Leaf" and its characters. The character of the novel is young artists Sue and Jonesy. Jonesy has pneumonia and does not want to live. She decided that she would die when the last leaf fell from the ivy outside the window.

Acquaintance with the artist-loser Berman. German Berman only dreams of a masterpiece. He draws an ivy leaf on the wall for Jonesy despite the rain, snow and wind. Jonesy recovers, while Berman falls ill and dies of pneumonia.

Jonesy's recovery. At the end of the novel, Jonesy learns that old Berman helped her survive and what price he paid for it. The short story by O. Henry is about humanity, sympathy, self-sacrifice.

The act of the artist Berman (story "The Last Leaf")