O.Henry - The Last Leaf - (Last Leaf, The) - WebLitera - библиотека параллельного чтения. Рассказ О

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"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, gray 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 colors 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."

Our story today is called "The Last Leaf." It was written by O. Henry. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.

BARBARA KLEIN: 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. Johnsy"s 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 Johnsy"s room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

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.

Johnsy"s 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. "They"re falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head hurt to count them. But now it"s 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. I"ve known that for three days. Didn"t 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. Don"t be silly. 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! 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 needn"t get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another one. No, I don"t want any soup. 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, "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. 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 Mister Behrman up to be my model for my drawing of an old miner. Don"t 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 hour"s sleep. She found Johnsy with wide-open eyes staring at the covered window.

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

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 won"t 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.

"I"ve 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, you"ll 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: "She"s out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now -- that"s 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. "Mister 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. Didn"t you wonder why it never moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it is Behrman"s masterpiece – he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

FAITH LAPIDUS: You have heard the story "The Last Leaf" by O.Henry. Your storyteller was Barbara Klein. This story was adapted by Shelley Gollust and produced by Lawan Davis.

Если вы еще не читали рассказы О. Генри, то самое время познакомиться с этим американским писателем. И начнем мы с его, пожалуй, самого лучшего рассказа «Последний лист» (The Last Leaf). Хотя О. Генри старался избегать плохих концов, чтобы не расстраивать своего читателя, конец этой истории неоднозначен… Рассказ адаптирован до уровня intermediate (для продолжающих). Читайте онлайн рассказ «The Last Leaf» на английском или на русском языке, а также смотрите его экранизации.

O. Henry «The Last Leaf (part 1)»

Words for part 1:

• shared a studio apartment — делили однокомнатную квартиру
• This disease, pneumonia — Эта болезнь, пневмония
• She has one chance in — let us say ten — У нее один шанс из, скажем, десяти.
• Has she anything on her mind worth thinking? — Есть ли ей о чем стоит думать?
• to count the carriages at her funeral — считать кареты в своей похоронной процессии
• several times repeated —который повторялся несколько раз
• She was …. — counting backward — Она считала в обратном порядке.
• What was there to count? — Что там было считать?
• An old ivy vine — старый плющ
• When the last one falls — Когда последний упадет
• Then I’ll go, too. — Тогда я умру.

Предлагаем прочитать рассказ О. Генри «Последний лист» на русском языке (в сокращении). Такой вариант подойдет не для тех, кто изучает русский язык, английский язык или для тех, кто хочет ознакомиться с содержанием произведения. Как известно О. Генри отличает своеобразный стиль. Он изобилует неологизмами, софизмами, каламбурами и другими стилистическими средствами. Чтобы читать рассказы О. Генри в оригинале, нужна подготовка.

О Генри. Последний лист. Часть 1 (по рассказу O. Henry «The Last Leaf»)

В небольшом квартале к западу от Вашингтон-сквера улицы называются проездами. Они образуют странные углы и кривые линии. И вот в этом квартале любили селиться художники, ведь окна там выходили большей частью на север, и квартирная плата была дешевая.

Студия Сью и Джонси помещалась наверху трехэтажного кирпичного дома. Джонси — уменьшительное от Джоанны. Одна приехала из штата Мэйн, другая из Калифорнии. Они познакомились в одном кафе на Восьмой улице и нашли, что их взгляды на искусство, цикорный салат и модные рукава вполне совпадают. В результате и возникла общая студия. Это было в мае.

В ноябре неприветливый чужак, которого доктора именуют Пневмонией, незримо разгуливал по кварталу, касаясь то одного, то другого своими ледяными пальцами. Но если в других частях города он шагал смело, поражая десятки жертв, то здесь, в лабиринте узких переулков, он плелся нога за ногу. Господина Пневмонию никак нельзя было назвать галантным джентльменом. Худенькая малокровная девушка, едва ли могла считаться достойным противником для дюжего молодца с красными кулачищами и одышкой. Однако он свалил ее с ног, и Джонси лежала неподвижно на крашеной железной кровати, глядя сквозь мелкий переплет окна на глухую стену соседнего кирпичного дома.

У нее один шанс… ну, скажем, против десяти, — сказал доктор, стряхивая ртуть в термометре. — И то, если она сама захочет жить. Вся наша медицина теряет смысл, когда люди начинают действовать в интересах гробовщика. Ваша маленькая барышня решила, что ей уже не поправиться. О чем она думает?

— Ей… ей хотелось написать красками Неаполитанский залив, -сказала Сью.

— Красками? Чепуха! Нет ли у нее на душе чего-нибудь такого, о чем действительно стоило бы думать, например, мужчины?

— Ну, тогда она просто ослабла, — решил доктор. — Я сделаю все, что буду в силах сделать как представитель науки. Но когда мой пациент начинает считать кареты в своей похоронной процессии, я скидываю пятьдесят процентов с целебной силы лекарств. Если вы сумеете добиться, чтобы она хоть раз спросила, какого фасона рукава будут носить этой зимой, я вам ручаюсь, что у нее будет один шанс из пяти, вместо одного из десяти.

После того как доктор ушел, Сью выбежала в мастерскую и долго плакала. Потом она храбро вошла в комнату Джонси с чертежной доской, насвистывая рэгтайм.

Джонси лежала, повернувшись лицом к окну, едва заметная под одеялами. Сью перестала насвистывать, думая, что Джонси уснула. Она пристроила доску и начала рисунок к журнальному рассказу.

Набрасывая для рассказа фигуру ковбоя, Сью услышала тихий шепот, повторившийся несколько раз. Она торопливо подошла к кровати. Глаза Джонси были широко открыты. Она смотрела в окно и считала — считала в обратном порядке

— Двенадцать, — произнесла она, и немного погодя: — одиннадцать, — а потом: — «десять» и «девять», а потом: — «восемь» и «семь» — почти одновременно. Сью посмотрела в окно. Что там было считать? Был виден только пустой, унылый двор и глухая стена кирпичного дома в двадцати шагах. Старый-старый плющ с узловатым, подгнившим у корней стволом заплел до половины кирпичную стену. Холодное дыхание осени сорвало листья с лозы, и оголенные скелеты ветвей цеплялись за осыпающиеся кирпичи.

— Шесть, — едва слышно ответила Джонси. — Теперь они облетают гораздо быстрее. Три дня назад их было почти сто. Голова кружилась считать. А теперь это легко. Вот и еще один полетел. Теперь осталось только пять.

— Чего пять, милая? Скажи своей Сьюди.

— Листьев. На плюще. Когда упадет последний лист, я умру. Я это знаю уже три дня.

— Первый раз слышу такую глупость! — с презрением отпарировала Сью. — Какое отношение могут иметь листья на старом плюще к тому, что ты поправишься? А ты еще так любила этот плющ, гадкая девочка! Не будь глупышкой. Да ведь еще сегодня доктор говорил мне, что ты скоро выздоровеешь… позволь, как же это он сказал?.. что у тебя десять шансов против одного. Попробуй съесть немножко бульона и дай твоей Сьюди закончить рисунок, чтобы она могла сбыть его редактору и купить вина для своей больной девочки и свиных котлет для себя.

— Вина тебе покупать больше не надо, — отвечала Джонси, пристально глядя в окно. — Вот и еще один полетел. Нет, бульона я не хочу. Значит, остается всего четыре. Я хочу видеть, как упадет последний лист. Тогда умру и я.

.
Два художника Сью и Джонси (женское имя) переезжают в Нью-Йорк и с приближением зимы Джонси заболевает пневмонией. С каждым днём ей становится хуже и она начинает верить, что когда за окном упадёт последний лист виноградной лозы - она умрёт.

The Last Leaf (Part 1)

The Last Leaf In a little district west of Washington Square the street run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places".	Последний Лист В небольшом квартале к западу от Вашингтон Сквер улицы были хаотично расположены и как-будто разделены на маленькие участки, так называемые "местечками".
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.	Эти "местечки" образовывали причудливой формы углы и кривые. Одна улица пересекала саму себя один или два раза. Однажды какой-то художник раскрыл её ценность.
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!	Предположим, сборщик налогов за краски, бумагу и холсты мог, совершая обход, мог неожиданно обнаружить, что возвращается без единого собранного цента!
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.	Поэтому к этой необычной старой Гринвич Вилледж вскоре потянулись люди искусства в поисках выходящих на север окон, фронтонов восемнадцатого века, Немецких мансард и низкой арендной платы.
Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony".	Потом они привезли с Шестой Авеню несколько оловянных кружек и жаровню или две, и превратились в "колонию".
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna.	Наверху приземистого трехэтажного кирпичного дома располагалась студия Сью и Джонси. "Джонси" - коротко от Джоанна.
One was from Maine; the other from California.	Одна была из Мэна; другая - из Калифорнии.
They had met at the table d"hote of an Eighth Street "Delmonico"s", and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.	Они повстречались за общим столом в "Дельмоникос", что на Восьмой Улице, и убедились в том, что их вкусы в искусстве, салате из цикория и широких рукавах настолько близки, что в результате возникла совместная студия.
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.	Это было в мае. В ноябре холодный, невидимый незнакомец, которого доктора прозвали Воспалением лёгких, пробирался по колонии, то и дело прикасаясь к кому-то своими ледяными пальцами.
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".	Там, на восточной стороне, этот разрушитель шагал широко и самоуверенно, поражая свои жертвы десятками, но по лабиринту узких, поросших мхом "местечек" он шёл медленно.
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman.	Мистер Воспаление лёгких нельзя было назвать благородным пожилым джентльменом.
A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer.	Миниатюрная женщина, ослабленная западными ветрами Калифорнии, вряд-ли могла стать достойным противником этому страдающему одышкой тупице с окровавленными руками.
But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking trought the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.	Но он сразил Джонси; и она лежала, почти не двигаясь, на своей покрашенной железной кровати, глядя сквозь окна в Немецком стиле на голую стену соседнего кирпичного дома.