最后一片藤叶主要内容
最后一片藤叶 主要内容
《最后一片藤叶》主要内容：
又译作《最后一片叶子》。它描写患肺炎的穷学生乔安西看着窗外对面墙上的常春藤叶子不断被风吹落，她说，最后一片叶子代表她，它的飘落，代表自己的死亡。贝尔曼，一个伟大的画家，在听完休易讲述完室友乔安西的故事后，在最后一片叶子飘落，下着暴雨的夜里，用心灵的画笔画出了一片“永不凋落”的长春藤叶，编造了一个善良且真实的谎言，而自己却从此患上肺炎，去世了。
最后一片常春藤叶依然留在古老的墙面；乔安西也绽放出了往日的笑容；伟大的画家贝尔曼永远留在人们的心中。
最后一片藤叶 主要内容
《最后一片藤叶》主要内容：
又译作《最后一片叶子》。它描写患肺炎的穷学生乔安西看着窗外对面墙上的常春藤叶子不断被风吹落，她说，最后一片叶子代表她，它的飘落，代表自己的死亡。贝尔曼，一个伟大的画家，在听完休易讲述完室友乔安西的故事后，在最后一片叶子飘落，下着暴雨的夜里，用心灵的画笔画出了一片“永不凋落”的长春藤叶，编造了一个善良且真实的谎言，而自己却从此患上肺炎，去世了。
最后一片常春藤叶依然留在古老的墙面；乔安西也绽放出了往日的笑容；伟大的画家贝尔曼永远留在人们的心中。
最后一片常春藤叶 中 常春藤叶的象征意义是什么。
1、象征意义
对琼珊而言：表层义：叶子的飘落；隐喻义：生命的飘逝——玄想，“当最后一片叶子掉下来，我也要去了”是精神支点，生存寄托。
对贝尔曼而言：“绝笔”。表层义：冒雨画上去的叶子，艺术生涯最后的作品；隐喻义：维系生命的叶子，人生最精彩的杰作。
2、原文简介
《最后一片叶子》，又译《最后的常春藤叶》，主人公是琼珊、苏艾、贝尔曼。文中作者着力挖掘和赞美小人物的伟大人格和高尚品德，展示他们向往人性世界的美好愿望。最后一片叶子”的故事，着实让我们为琼西的命运紧张了一番，为苏艾的友谊感叹了一回，为贝尔曼的无私震撼了一次。
3、作者简介
欧·亨利（英语：O. Henry，1862年9月11日－1910年6月5日），有时又译奥亨利，原名威廉·西德尼·波特（William Sydney Porter），20世纪初美国著名短篇小说家，美国现代短篇小说创始人。与法国的莫泊桑、俄国的契诃夫并称为世界三大短篇小说巨匠。 他少年时曾一心想当画家，婚后在妻子的鼓励下开始写作。后因在银行供职时的账目问题而入狱，服刑期间认真写作，并以“欧·亨利”为笔名发表了大量的短篇小说，引起读者广泛关注。他是一位高产的作家，一生中留下了一部长篇小说和近三百篇的短篇小说。他的短篇小说构思精巧，风格独特，以表现美国中下层人民的生活、语言幽默、结局出人意料（即“欧·亨利式结尾”）而闻名于世。
《最后一片长春藤叶》（欧亨利）全文
1、最后一片常春藤叶原文
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。
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关，气吁吁的老家伙的常识。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，提出一个总是，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。一标极老极老的常春藤，纠结的根已经枯萎，樊在半墙上。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。我去不了一分钟。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。”
2、作品介绍
《最后一片常春藤叶》（The Last Leaf），又译作《起死回生的琼珊》、《最后一片叶子》、《两个病人》等，是美国著名短篇小说家欧·亨利创作于1907年的作品。小说讲述了老画家费曼为了使患肺炎的年轻女画家莲安获得生的希望，在一个夜晚冒着暴风雨在墙上画上了最后一片常春藤叶，因而不幸罹患肺炎去世的故事。全文语言幽默，结构巧妙，特别是结尾出人意料，给人以极大的震撼。
3、作者简介
欧·亨利，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。他出生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，结局总使人“感到在情理之中，又在意料之外”；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》、《麦琪的礼物》（也称作《贤人的礼物》）、《带家具出租的房间》、《最后一片常春藤叶》等使他获得了世界声誉，短篇小说《麦琪的礼物》以及《二十年后》被编入上海初中八年级语文课本。《最后一片常春藤叶》被编入上海九年级语文课本及人教版高一课本。
查找欧亨利的最后一片藤叶的原文和赏析
你好。以下是欧.亨利的名作《最后一片藤叶》全文以及赏析：
全文：
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。
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”并不是你们所户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关，气吁吁的老家伙的常识。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。
“绘画？——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，提出一个总是，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......更多唯美的句子：www.laorenka.com
有谁知道<最后一片藤叶>的创作背景 谢谢!!
欧·亨利的小说通俗易懂，其中无论发生了什么，发生在何处，也无论主人公是何等人物，他的故事写的都是世态人情，并且易有浓郁的美国风味。一般说来，驱使人们行动的欲望和动机是相当复杂的，但是欧·亨利人物的思想相对来说却都比较简单，动机也比较单一，矛盾冲突的中心似乎都是贫与富。这一方面大概因为美国是个平民社会，不存在天生高人一等的贵族阶级，既然金钱面前人人平等，贫富就成了社会的主要矛盾。另一方面，此时正值美国内战后的“镀金时代”，拜金主义盛行，坑蒙拐骗样样齐全，贪污舞泛滥成灾，似乎只人能赚到钱便是成功，并不问问钱的来历是否清白合法，难怪金钱的占有程度便成了人们关注的中心，与欧·亨利同时代的马克·吐温说得好：“在世界上任何地方，贫穷总是不方便的。但只有在美国，贫穷是耻辱。”欧·亨利笔下的芸芸众生就是生活在这样一个金钱主宰的世界中，他们的处境动机，他们的的喜怒哀乐，大都与金钱的占有有关，所以欧·亨利描绘的世态人情，无论是善是恶，都有某种美国式的单纯。
两难的处理和意外的结局往往产生令人啼笑皆非的幽默效果，在欧·亨利的小说中，幽默是贯穿始终的，有的专门是为幽默而幽默的。绑架孩子的歹徒被顽童折磨得苦不堪言，宁可倒贴钱把孩子护送回家。幽默家被近日复一日地制造幽默，竟变成了一个心力交瘁的吸血鬼，最终在殡仪馆的后房中才得以告别尘世的愚蠢，重新恢复了一个正常人的知觉。欧·亨利显然是把自己视为一个幽默家，他在《幽默家自白》中写道：“我的笑话的性质是和善亲切的，绝不流于讽刺，使别人生气。”这句话也适用于欧·亨利本人，他讽刺，但不流于讽刺，他的嘲讽和幽默通常是善意的，有时能令人震惊地揭示出人生的真谛，如《生活的陀螺》和《钟摆》那样，它们体现了欧·亨利透视生活的能力。欧·亨利的语言本身也充满了夸张和幽默，而幽默能直到淡化事物悲剧性的作用，使大众读者更能接受。
《最后一片藤叶》的结尾有什么特点
最后的常春藤叶》的作者欧·亨利(O.Henry)是美国小说家，他的作品结尾常常出人意料又在情理之中,富于戏剧性。
他的作品结尾被人称为"欧·亨利式的结尾".
小说的结尾突如其来却又在情理之中，作者并未正面描述贝尔曼用生命画出那片藤叶的场景，只是在结尾以休易之口转述。谜底一揭开，小说达到了高潮，但高潮即结尾，小说至此戛然而止。作者总是平平淡淡地娓娓而谈，如诉家常，既无跌宕起伏也无一波三折，一切都在情理之中缓缓进行，不动声色地向读者叙述一个故事。结尾时却重笔一戳，露出机关，使人恍然大悟，叹为观止。因为在前文中我们丝毫看不出老画家画叶救人的任何端倪，结尾却揭示出一个人生奇迹，作品潜在的艺术光彩奇迹般地闪耀出来，于平静中掀起波澜，兜笔转势。欧?亨利式的结尾的魅力恰在于此。回味全篇，老贝尔曼才是小说的主角，全篇的精神。
最后一片藤叶的英文原文
IIn 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 tabled'hôte 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.
欧亨利最后一片常青藤叶 鉴赏
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！
《最后一片常春藤叶》中为什么说贝尔曼最后画的一片藤叶是他的杰作
贝尔曼最后画的那一片藤叶给了琼珊活着的希望，给他那颗已快死的心注入了一丝绿色：只要那片藤叶不掉，树上还有藤叶，他就还有理由撑下去。贝尔曼的那一片藤叶给了人希望并救了那个几近绝望的人，所以那片藤叶是他的杰作。 在当时看来“肺炎”一下子就击倒几十个受害者，这说明这种病很棘手，人不易救住，因此苏艾和老贝尔曼忧心忡忡却无能为力。至于琼珊却出人意料地得救了，那是因为他还有一丝渺茫的希望存在：只要那棵树上还有藤叶，他就有理由或者借口继续。这个结果是有点出乎意料，但是人只要有希望，还有什么事情不能克服。