标题：最后的常春藤叶
内容简介
最后的常春藤叶（又名《最后一片叶子》）
作者：[美] 欧·亨利 
《最后的常春藤叶》歌颂了艺术家之间相濡以沫的友谊和苍凉人生中那种崇高的艺术家品格——舍己救人。
这篇小说，表面上看像一泓静静的秋水，水面上却拂过一丝透骨的寒意。读着它，就像乘着一叶小舟从秋水上划过。但是，当我们弃舟上岸，再来顾盼这秋水时，才发现在它的底层，奔涌着一股股汹涌的波涛，这涛声撞击着你的心弦，拍打着你的肺腑。贝尔曼，这位在美术园地辛勤耕耘了四十载却一无所获的老艺术家，凭着他博大的爱心，用他的生命为代价，完成了一幅不朽的杰作。
正文
在华盛顿广场西面的一个小区里，街道仿佛发了狂似地，分成了许多叫做“巷子”的小胡同。这些“巷子”形成许多奇特的角度和曲线。一条街本身往往交叉一两回。有一次，一个艺术家发现这条街有它可贵之处。如果一个商人去收颜料、纸张和画布的账款，在这条街上转弯抹角、大兜圈子的时候，突然碰上一文钱也没收到，空手而回的他自己，那才有意思呢！ 
因此，搞艺术的人不久都到这个古色天香的格林威治村来了。他们逛来逛去，寻找朝北的窗户，18世纪的三角墙，荷兰式的阁楼，以及低廉的房租。接着，他们又从六马路买来了一些锡蜡杯子和一两只烘锅，组成了一个“艺术区”。 
苏艾和琼珊在一座矮墩墩的三层砖屋的顶楼设立了她们的画室。“琼珊”是琼娜的昵称。两人一个是从缅因州来的；另一个的家乡是加利福尼亚州。她们是在八马路上一家“德尔蒙尼戈饭馆”里吃客饭时碰到的，彼此一谈，发现她们对于艺术、饮食、衣着的口味十分相投，结果便联合租下那间画室。  文章插图那是五月间的事。到了十一月，一个冷酷无情，肉眼看不见，医生管他叫“肺炎”的不速之客，在艺术区里潜蹑着，用他的冰冷的手指这儿碰碰那儿摸摸。在广场的东面，这个坏家伙明目张胆地走动着，每闯一次祸，受害的人总有几十个。但是，在这错综复杂，狭窄而苔藓遍地的“巷子”里，他的脚步却放慢了。 
“肺炎先生”并不是你们所谓的扶弱济困的老绅士。一个弱小的女人，已经被加利福尼亚的西风吹得没有什么血色了，当然经不起那个有着红拳头，气吁吁的老家伙的赏识。但他竟然打击了琼珊；她躺在那张漆过的铁床上，一动也不动，望着荷兰式小窗外对面砖屋的墙壁。 
一天早晨，那位忙碌的医生扬扬他那蓬松的灰眉毛，招呼苏艾到过道上去。 
“依我看，她的病只有一成希望。”他说，一面把体温表里的水银甩下去。“那一成希望在于她自己要不要活下去。人们不想活，情愿照顾殡仪馆的生意，这种精神状态使医药一筹莫展。你的这位小姐满肚子以为自己不会好了。她有什么心事吗？” 
“她——她希望有一天能去画那不勒斯海湾。”苏艾说。 
“画画？——别扯淡了！她心里有没有值得想两次的事情——比如说，男人？” 
“男人？”苏艾像吹小口琴似地哼了一声说，“难道男人值得——别说啦，不，大夫；根本没有那种事。” 
“那么，一定是身体虚弱的关系。”医生说，“我一定尽我所知，用科学所能达到的一切方法来治疗她。可是每逢我的病人开始盘算有多么辆马车送他出殡的时候，我就得把医药的治疗力量减去百分之五十。要是你能使她对冬季大衣的袖子式样发生兴趣，提出一个问题，我就可以保证，她恢复的机会准能从十分之一提高到五分之一。” 
医生离去之后，苏艾到工作室里哭了一声，把一张日本纸餐巾擦得一团糟。然后，她拿起画板，吹着拉格泰姆音乐调子，昂首阔步地走进琼珊的房间。 
琼珊躺在被窝里，脸朝着窗口，一点儿动静也没有。苏艾以为她睡着了，赶紧停止吹口哨。 
她架起画板，开始替杂志画一幅短篇小说的钢笔画插图。青年画家不得不以杂志小说的插图来铺平通向艺术的道路，而这些小说则是青年作家为了铺平文学道路而创作的。 
苏艾正为小说里的主角，一个爱达荷州的牧人，画上一条在马匹展览会里穿的漂亮的马裤和一片单眼镜，忽然听到一个微弱的声音重复了几遍。她赶紧走到床边。 
琼珊的眼睛睁得大大的。她望着窗外，在计数——倒数上来。 
“十二，”她说，过了一会儿，又说“十一”；接着是“十”、“九”；再接着是几乎连在一起的“八”和“七”。 
苏艾关切地向窗外望去。有什么可数的呢？外面见到的只是一个空荡荡、阴沉沉的院子，和二十英尺外的一幛砖屋的墙壁。一株极老极老的常春藤，纠结的根已经枯萎，攀在半墙上。秋季的寒风把藤上的叶子差不多全吹落了，只剩下几根几乎是光秃秃的藤枝依附在那堵松动残缺的砖墙上。 
“怎么回事，亲爱的？”苏艾问道。 
“六。”琼珊说，声音低得像是耳语，“它们现在掉得快些了。三天前差不多有一百片。数得我头昏眼花。现在可容易了。喏，又掉了一片。只剩下五片了。” 
“五片什么，亲爱的？告诉你的苏艾。” 
“叶子，常春藤上的叶子。等最后一片掉落下来，我也得去了。三天前我就知道了。难道大夫没有告诉你吗？” 
“哟，我从没听到这样荒唐的话。”苏艾装出满不在乎的样子数落地说，“老藤叶同你的病有什么相干？你一向很喜欢那株常春藤，得啦，你这淘气的姑娘。别发傻啦。我倒忘了，大夫今天早晨告诉你，你很快康复的机会是——让我想想，他是怎么说的——他说你好的希望是十比一！哟，那几乎跟我们在纽约搭街车或者走过一幛新房子的工地一样，碰到意外的时候很少。现在喝一点儿汤吧。让苏艾继续画图，好卖给编辑先生，换了钱给她的病孩子买点儿红葡萄酒，也买些猪排填填她自己的馋嘴。” 
“你不用再买什么酒啦。”琼珊说，仍然凝视着窗外，“又掉了一片。不，我不要喝汤。只剩四片了。我希望在天黑之前看到最后的藤叶飘下来。那时候我也该去了。” 
“琼珊，亲爱的，”苏艾弯着身子对她说，“你能不能答应我，在我画完之前，别睁开眼睛，别瞧窗外？那些图画我明天得交。我需要光线，不然我早就把窗帘拉下来了。” 
“你不能到另一间屋子里去画吗？”琼珊冷冷地问道。 
“我要呆在这儿，跟你在一起。”苏艾说，“而且我不喜欢你老盯着那些莫名其妙的藤叶。” 
“你一画完就告诉我。”琼珊闭上眼睛说，她脸色惨白，静静地躺着，活像一尊倒塌下来的塑像，“因为我要看那最后的藤叶掉下来。我等得不耐烦了。也想得不耐烦了。我想摆脱一切，像一片可怜的、厌倦的藤叶，悠悠地往下飘，往下飘。” 
“你争取睡一会儿。”苏艾说，“我要去叫贝尔曼上来，替我做那个隐居的老矿工的模特儿。我去不了一分种。在我回来之前，千万别动。” 
老贝尔曼是住在楼下底层的一个画家。他年纪六十开外，有一把像米开朗琪罗的摩西雕像上的胡子，从萨蒂尔似的脑袋上顺着小鬼般的身体卷垂下来。贝尔曼在艺术界是个失意的人。他耍了四十年的画笔，还是同艺术女神隔有相当距离，连她的长袍的边缘都没有摸到。他老是说就要画一幅杰作，可是始终没有动手。除了偶尔涂抹了一些商业画或广告画之外，几年没有画过什么。他替“艺术区”里那些雇不起职业模特儿的青年艺术家充当模特儿，挣几个小钱，他喝杜松子酒总是过量，老是唠唠叨叨地谈着他未来的杰作。此外，他还是个暴躁的小老头儿，极端瞧不起别人的温情，却认为自己是保护楼上两个青年艺术家的看家恶狗。 
苏艾在楼下那间灯光暗淡的小屋子里找到了酒气扑人的贝尔曼。角落里的画架上绷着一幅空白的画布，它在那儿静候杰作的落笔，已经有了二十五年。她把琼珊的想法告诉了他，又说她多么担心，惟恐那个虚弱得像枯叶一般的琼 珊抓不住她同世界的微弱联系，真会撒手而去。 
老贝尔曼的充血的眼睛老是迎风流泪，他对这种白痴般的想法大不以为然，连讽带刺地咆哮了一阵子。
“什么话！”他嚷道，“难道世界上竟有这种傻子，因为可恶的藤叶落掉而想死？我活了一辈子也没有听到过这种怪事。不，我没有心思替你当那无聊的隐士模特儿。你怎么能让她脑袋里有这种傻念头呢？唉，可怜的小琼珊小姐。” 
“她病得很厉害，很虚弱，”苏艾说，“高烧烧得她疑神疑鬼，满脑袋都是希奇古怪的念头。好吗，贝尔曼先生，既然你不愿意替我当模特儿，我也不勉强了。我认得你这个可恶的老——老贫嘴。” 
“你真女人气！”贝尔曼嚷道，“谁说我不愿意？走吧。我跟你一起去。我已经说了半天，愿意替你替你效劳。天哪！像琼珊小姐那样好的人实在不应该在这种地方害病。总有一天，我要画一幅杰作，那么我们都可以离开这里啦。天哪！是啊。” 
他们上楼时，琼珊已经睡着了。苏艾把窗帘拉到窗槛上，做手势让贝尔曼到另一间屋子里去。他们在那儿担心地瞥着窗外的常春藤。接着，他们默默无言地对瞅了一会儿。寒雨夹着雪花下个不停。贝尔曼穿着一件蓝色的旧衬衫，坐在一翻转过身的权充岩石的铁锅上，扮作隐居的矿工。 
第二天早晨，苏艾睡了一个小时醒来的时候，看到琼珊睁着无神的眼睛，凝视着放下末的绿窗帘。 
“把窗帘拉上去，我要看。”她用微弱的声音命令着。 
苏艾困倦地照着做了。 
可是，看那！经过了漫漫长夜的风吹雨打，仍旧有一片常春藤的叶子贴在墙上。它是藤上最后的一片了。靠近叶柄的颜色还是深绿的，但那锯齿形的边缘已染上了枯败的黄色，它傲然挂在离地面二十来英尺的一根藤枝上面。 
“那是最后的一片叶子。”琼珊说，“我以为昨夜它一定会掉落的。我听到刮风的声音。它今天会脱落的，同时我也要死了。” 
“哎呀，哎呀！”苏艾把她困倦的脸凑到枕边说，“如果你不为自己着想，也得替我想想呀。我可怎么办呢？” 
但是琼珊没有回答。一个准备走上神秘遥远的死亡道路的心灵，是全世界最寂寞、最悲哀的了。当她与尘世和友情之间的联系一片片地脱离时，那个玄想似乎更有力地掌握了她。 
那一天总算熬了过去。黄昏时，她们看到墙上那片孤零零的藤叶仍旧依附在茎上。随夜晚同来的北风的怒号，雨点不住地打在窗上，从荷兰式的低屋檐上倾泻下来。 
天色刚明的时候，狠心的琼珊又吩咐把窗帘拉上去。 
那片常春藤叶仍在墙上。 
琼珊躺着对它看了很久。然后她喊喊苏艾，苏艾正在煤卸炉上搅动给琼珊喝的鸡汤。 
“我真是一个坏姑娘，苏艾，”琼珊说，“冥冥中有什么使那最后的一片叶子不掉下来，启示了我过去是多么邪恶。不想活下去是个罪恶。现在请你拿些汤来，再弄一点掺葡萄酒的牛奶，再——等一下；先拿一面小镜子给我，用枕头替我垫垫高，我想坐起来看你煮东西。” 
一小时后，她说： 
“苏艾，我希望有朝一日能去那不勒斯海湾写生。” 
下午，医生来，他离去时，苏艾找了个借口，跑到过道上。 
“好的希望有了五成。”医生抓住苏艾瘦小的、颤抖的手说，“只要好好护理，你会胜利。现在我得去楼下看看另一个病人。他姓贝尔曼——据我所知，也是搞艺术的。也是肺炎。他上了年纪，身体虚弱，病势来得很猛。他可没有希望了，不过今天还是要把他送进医院，让他舒服些。” 
第二天，医生对苏说：“她已经脱离危险，你成功了。现在，你只需要好好护理，给她足够的营养就行了。”
那天下午，苏艾跑到床边，琼珊靠在那儿，心满意足地在织一条毫无用处的深蓝色户巾，苏艾连枕头把她一把抱住。 
“我有些话要告诉你，小东西。”她说，“贝尔曼在医院里去世了。他害肺炎，只病了两天。头天早上，看门人在楼下的房间里发现他难过得要命。他的鞋子和衣服都湿透了，冰凉冰凉的。他们想不出，在那种凄风苦雨的的夜里，他究竟是到什么地方去了。后来，他们找到了一盏还燃着的灯笼，一把从原来地方挪动过的梯子，还有几去散落的的画笔，一块调色板，上面和了绿色和黄色的颜料，末了——看看窗外，亲爱的，看看墙上最后的一片叶子。你不是觉得纳闷，它为什么在风中不飘不动吗？啊，亲爱的，那是贝尔曼的杰作——那晚最后的一片叶子掉落时，他画在墙上的。”
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 d'h&ocirc;te of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," 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 she's 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 jew's-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 Johnsy's 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.
Johnsy's 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. "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?"
"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. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's 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 needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. 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, "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."
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.
"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't 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. I'm tired of waiting. I'm 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. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't 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 Angelo's 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 Mistress's 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 Johnsy's 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 needn't. 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 hour's 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 won't 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.
"I've 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 Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll 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: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's 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 couldn't 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. 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."
作者简介
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。
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。他出身于美国北卡罗来纳州格林斯波罗镇一个医师家庭。
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”。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》、《带家具出租的房间》、《麦琪的礼物》、《最后一片常春藤叶》等使他获得了世界声誉。
名句：“这时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》)
相关信息
课文结构分析《最后的常春藤叶》是美国作家欧·亨利的一篇著名短篇小说。在这篇小说中，作家讲述了老艺术家贝尔曼用生命绘制毕生杰作，点燃别人即将熄灭的生命火花的故事，歌颂了艺术家之间相濡以沫的友谊，特别是老艺术家贝尔曼舍己救人的品德。
小说按情节的开端、发展、高潮、结局可分为四个部分。
第1至11节为开端。故事发生在华盛顿的格林尼治村，一个社会下层艺术家聚居的小区。主人公苏艾和琼珊是一对志同道合的年轻画家，她们租用同一间画室并在一起生活、工作，随着秋天的到来，一位不速之客———肺炎，开始在“ 艺术区”游荡。琼珊不幸被感染，生命垂危。
第12至36节为发展。哀莫大于心死。尽管好友苏艾鼓励琼珊要有信心战胜病魔，但是琼珊都不理睬，只是痴痴地望着窗外凋零的藤叶。此刻的她，已放弃了主观上求生的努力，而把生命寄予给随风飘零的树叶，深信当最后一片叶子掉下时，她也该离开人世了。
第37至50节为高潮。不落的藤叶使琼珊重又燃起了生的欲望。
第51至55节为结局。琼珊脱离危险，贝尔曼病逝。揭示叶子不落的谜底。语篇脉络梳理时间
人物与情节
十一月
琼珊病倒
一天早晨
琼珊病重
这天夜里
贝尔曼画常春藤叶
第二天早晨
琼珊病危，贝尔曼生病
第三天天色刚明的时候
琼珊病情转好，贝尔曼被送到医院
第四天
琼珊脱离危险，贝尔曼在医院去世语篇品读【重点语段品读】
华盛顿广场西南的一个小区，街道仿佛发了狂似的，分成了许多叫做“ 巷子”的小胡同。
『品味』 街道分成许多小胡同，作者说“ 街道仿佛发了狂似的”，风趣的风格，开篇就显现出来了。
『体会』 这是环境描写。欧·亨利有一种幽默的方式值得回味。难以想象，在年代上，他距离我们一百年不止，在幽默感的丰富上，他超越了我们一百倍。有一群人，他们拿着欧·亨利的小说，一遍一遍地看，咬着小指头痴痴地笑，有时笑出眼泪来，他的幽默绝不是快餐式的幽默，分明是一种在想象力上的探索，又是一种对生活哲理的捕捉。
到了十一月，一个冷酷无情、肉眼看不见、医生管他叫做“ 肺炎”的不速之客，在艺术区里蹑手蹑脚，用他的冰冷的手指这儿碰碰那儿摸摸。
『品味』 采用幽默、风趣、俏皮、比拟的语言，渲染悲剧的喜剧色彩，让读者在俏皮的描写中醒悟内在庄严的思想感情，在生动活泼中给人启迪。
『体会』 交代了时间线索：十一月。作者用幽默、风趣的语言，十分形象地写出了肺炎流行的过程和危害。
他喝杜松子酒总是过量，老是唠唠叨叨地谈着他未来的杰作。此外，他还是个暴躁的小老头儿，极端瞧不起别人的温情，却认为自己是保护楼上两个青年艺术家的看家恶狗。
『品味』 正面描写贝尔曼：性格暴躁，酗酒成性，爱讲大话（杰作），牢骚满腹——— 一个穷困潦倒，消沉失意，好高骛远，郁郁不得志的失意老画家。
『体会』 介绍贝尔曼，刻画贝尔曼的肖像，也充满俏皮和风趣；就在俏皮之中，一个落寞、潦倒、极有个性又极善良的老头儿形象，活灵活现地站在我们面前。
老贝尔曼的充血的眼睛老是迎风流泪。他对这种白痴般的想法大不以为然，讽刺地咆哮了一阵子。
『品味』通过语言描写，说明贝尔曼善良，有同情心，关心他人。
『体会』初见贝尔曼主要是通过外貌描写告诉我们他是一个郁郁不得志的老画家。这里由他的“不以为然”和“ 咆哮”让我们在人物暴躁的性格和嗜酒成性中，看到了他的善良和同情心。
啊，亲爱的，那是贝尔曼的杰作———那晚最后的一片叶子掉落时，他画在墙上的。
『品味』侧面描写了最后一片叶子是贝尔曼冒雨画上去的，因此得了肺炎，两天就去世了。从而人格得到升华：崇高的爱心，自我牺牲精神得到展现。结尾揭示叶子是假的，在前文有几处伏笔暗藏：（1）其它的叶子都落了，只有这片叶子经历两天的狂风暴雨傲然挺立。（2）“你不是觉得纳闷，它为什么在风中不飘不动吗？”（3）“ 仍旧有一片常春藤的叶子贴在墙上”的“贴”字。
『体会』一片常春藤叶子。它原本就不是一片叶子，也算不上一幅画，可它却超越了叶子和画的含义：它像一位神医，治愈了琼珊的肺炎，给了她生活下去的勇气和希望；它又像一面镜子，映照出贝尔曼老人的善良心灵，反射出伟大的舍己为人的精神光芒。比期待了二十五年的杰作更有价值。疑难问题探析1、本文的中文译名有三个———《最后一片叶子》《最后一片藤叶》《最后的常春藤叶》，请结合自身理解谈一谈哪一个更好，简要说出你的理由。
提示：题目具有开放性，言之成理即可。分析最后一个：“常春”使人产生明丽光辉的联想，给人一种温馨的感觉，暗示性、蕴含力更强，能更充分地表现文章的主旨。相关链接有一个故事说：一个人失业后，心情糟透了。为了排解心中的苦闷，他找到了镇上的牧师。
牧师听完了他的诉说，把他带进一个古旧的小屋，屋子里唯一的一张桌上放着一杯水。牧师微笑着说：“看这只杯子，它已经放在这儿很久了，几乎每天都有灰尘落在里面，但它依然澄清透明。你知道是为什么吗？”
他认真思索，像是要看穿这杯子。他忽然说：“我懂了，所有的灰尘都沉淀到杯子底了。”牧师赞同地点点头：“年轻人，生活中烦心的事很多，有些你越想忘掉越不易忘掉，那就记住它好了。就像这杯水，如果你厌恶地振荡自己，会使整杯水都不得安宁，混浊一片，这是多么愚蠢的行为。而如果你愿意慢慢地、静静地让它们沉淀下来，用宽广的胸怀去容纳它们，这样，心灵并未因此受到污染，反而更加纯净了。”我们可以通过沉淀自己使我们的胸怀更加宽广，走出困境创造辉煌。在物欲横流、人情冷漠的今天，我们更应该沉淀自己使我们像文中的苏艾和老贝尔曼一样用心去关爱我们身边的每一个人，那么人类的福音将真正的到来了！
2、最后一片叶子与琼珊有怎样的关系？为什么最后的藤叶能挽救琼珊的生命？
最后一片叶子关系到琼珊的生死。叶子是希望的象征，如若叶子落了，她也就给自己找到了放弃抗争的理由；当然，只要叶子不落，她就有所期待，有所抗争，在最后一片常春藤叶的鼓舞下，重新振作起来，直到康复。
3、贝尔曼画常青藤本应是小说的重要情节，作者却没有实写，这样处理有什么好处？
作品没有实写这一情节，使得小说产生出人意外的效果（欧·亨利式结尾），也给读者留下了想象的空间。我们可以想象，那个风雨交加的夜晚，老人是怎样冒雨踉踉跄跄爬到离地面二十来英尺的地方，颤抖着调拌黄色和绿色，在墙上施展他从未施展的艺术才能，同时也毫无保留地献出了生命。
我的感悟
如果说贝尔曼是那堵松动残缺的砖墙，那么琼珊就像那依附在上面的藤枝；如果说贝尔曼是那株极老极老的常春藤，那么琼珊就是那藤上的一片叶子。小说《最后的常春藤叶》让人从哀伤中奋起，从悲秋中见到阳春，从黑夜中见到光明，从灵魂中体会到悲怆美。
4、贝尔曼是小说的主人公，作品集中写他的只有两处，试分析这个他是怎样的人？
初见贝尔曼时，作者通过外貌描写告诉我们：贝尔曼是一个性格暴躁、酗酒成性、牢骚满腹、郁郁不得志的老画家；又通过语言描写，当他得知琼珊的病情和“白痴般的想法”后，“讽刺地咆哮了一阵子”，写出他的善良和同情心。再见贝尔曼时，贝尔曼已经身体虚弱，病了两天就去世了。贝尔曼是因为冒雨画最后一片叶子，得了肺炎而去世的。他的崇高爱心、自我牺牲精神由此得到了展现。我们看到了贝尔曼平凡的甚至有点讨厌的外表下有一颗火热的爱心，虽然穷困潦倒，却无私关怀、帮助他人，甚至不惜付出生命的代价。作者借此歌颂了穷苦朋友相濡以沫的珍贵友情和普通人的心灵美。
读写链接
a、苏艾与琼珊从5月相识直到琼珊得病的11月间相处融洽，发挥联想与想象，写一篇约200字的短文
b、 假设琼珊在弥留之际让你带她给她的好友苏艾写一封感谢苏艾的信，请发挥想象写一封300字左右的信。
C、苏艾与琼珊参加了老贝尔曼的葬礼并写了一篇悼词，请想象它的内容，200字左右。
语篇鉴赏语篇整体赏析整篇小说，作者对于体现主题的主人公贝尔曼的描写并不多，大都采用了侧面烘托。甚至连最感人的贝尔曼画叶子的镜头都没写。但我们仍可以强烈感受到贝尔曼老人火一样的热情和舍己为人的精神。而且小说给了我们足够的想象空间，我们可以想象到，那个风雨交加的夜晚，可怜的老人是怎样冒雨踉踉跄跄爬到离他二十英尺的地方，颤抖着调拌着黄色和绿色，在墙上施展他从未施展的艺术才能，同时也毫不保留地献出了生命……
当然，琼珊的康复仅有贝尔曼为之牺牲的最后一片叶子是不够的，还需要琼珊自己的力量来战胜病魔。在琼珊患肺炎病危的时刻，医生为什么既不判她“ 死刑”，又不肯定她可以治愈，而说一切看她自己呢？就是因为在生与死、抗争与屈服之间，只有自己树立信心，作出努力，才能得胜。琼珊的病果然康复了。每个人都会遇到困难和挫折，关键是看你自己有没有信心，能不能去面对，用自己的力量去克服它。琼珊也曾陷入失望的低谷，但她在贝尔曼用生命换来的最后一片藤叶的鼓舞下，她重新振作起来，直到康复。她是一位战胜了困难的勇敢者、胜利者！
综观全文，可以看出这篇小说极具思想性，它既没有惊天动地扣人心弦的情节，也没有更多的华丽的辞藻。但它以崇高的思想作为整篇小说的支柱，含义深邃。或许这也是欧·亨利的成功之处吧！