The Last Leaf

In a small room in New York, Johnsy lay ill with pneumonia. Her friend Sue cared for her while she watched the ivy climbing the wall across from their window, counting its falling leaves.

An idea had taken hold of her: when the last leaf fell, she would die too.

Sue tried to draw her away from this thought, then told their neighbour Behrman. He was an old painter who had talked for years about the masterpiece he would one day paint. His canvas was still waiting for its first brushstroke.

The wind rose that night, and cold rain fell. In the morning, Johnsy asked for the curtain to be raised.

One leaf was still there, green at the stem and yellow at the edges.

All day she waited for it to fall. Another night of wind and rain came. When morning broke, the leaf was still in place.

Johnsy looked at it for a long time. Then she asked for a little soup, a mirror, and some pillows so she could sit up. She began to speak again of her old wish: to paint the Bay of Naples one day.

With care, she began to recover. When the doctor said she was out of danger, Sue sat beside her.

She had news of Behrman. He had died in hospital of pneumonia. Two days earlier, he had been found unable to get up, his clothes and shoes soaking wet. A ladder, a lantern, brushes, and a palette with green and yellow mixed on it had been found too.

Sue drew her attention to the leaf that had never stirred in the wind.

Behrman had painted it on the wall on the night the last real leaf fell.

It was his masterpiece.