(单词翻译:单击)
听力文本
Our story today is called "The Last Leaf." It was written by O. Henry. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.
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. Sue obeyed.
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."
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. I'm Faith Lapidus.
重点解析
1.worth doing 值得做
Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.
任何一件值得做的事都应该把它做好。
2.promise to 承诺
The post office has promised to resume first class mail delivery to the area on Friday
邮局承诺于星期五恢复对这个地区第一类邮件的递送。
3.stare at 凝视
His dazed eyes stare at the eels, which still writhe and entwine
他茫然地盯着仍在翻滚缠绕的鳗鱼。
4.He earned a little money by serving as a model to artists who could not pay for a professional model.
pay for 支付
I have had to pay for repairs to the house.
我不得不支付房屋维修费用。
5.Mister Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital.
die of 死于
Her father and her brothers would die of shame
她父亲和她的兄弟们会羞愧死。
6.Tell me as soon as you have finished.
as soon as 一....就
As soon as we found this out, we closed the ward
我们一发现此事就关闭了病房。
参考译文
我们今天的故事叫做《最后一片叶子》，作者欧·亨利。演播芭巴拉·克莱恩。
那些搞艺术的人纷至沓来，云集又古又怪的纽约格林威治村。
两名年轻妇女，休易和乔安西的在一栋三层楼的楼顶上，共用一个工作室。乔安西的真名叫乔安娜。
到了11月，一位冷酷、看不见的不速之客闯进了这座城市，这位客人就是肺炎，很多人因它丧了命。
乔安西躺在油漆铁床上没有力气动弹，两眼呆望着小窗对面的砖墙。
一天上午，医生为乔安西做了检查，为她量了体温，把休易叫到旁边的屋子里。
“现在十成希望只剩下一成。”医生说，“这成希望取决于她抱不抱活下去的决心。
这的这位朋友已经认定自己再也好不了。就不知她还有什么心事吗？”
“她希望有一天能去画那不勒斯湾。”休易答道。
“画画？你扯到哪儿去啦！我是问她心里有没有还留恋的事。比方说，心里还会想着哪位男人。”
“男人？男人还会值得她想？”休易的声音尖得像单簧口琴，“没这种事，医生。”
医生说：“我一定尽力而为。
凡医学上有的办法都会采用。但是如果病人盘算起会有多少辆马车送葬来，药物的疗效就要打个对折。
医生走了以后，休易到画室里哭了一场。哭过后她拿着画板昂首阔步走进乔安西的房间，还一边吹口哨。
乔安西脸朝窗躺在被窝里，一动没动。休易以为她睡着了，忙不吹了。
她摆好画板，开始替杂志社作小说的钢笔画插图。
年轻作者要踏上文学之路得先替杂志社写短篇小说，美术工作者要闯出艺术之路得先替杂志社作小说的插图。
她听到一声巨响，重复了多次，她迅速走到床边。
乔安西睁大着眼在望窗外，数着数，是倒着数的。
“十二”，她数着，过了一会儿，“十一”。又过了会儿，“十”，“九”。又过了会儿，“八”，“七”，两个数几乎是接着数。
休易看着窗外。有什么可数呢？见到的只是个空荡荡的冷落院子和七米外一栋砖房的墙。
一根老而又老的藤趴在墙上，有半堵墙高，靠近根部的地方已经萎缩，
藤叶几乎全被冷飕飕的秋风吹落，只剩下光秃秃的枝干还紧贴在破败的墙上。
“怎么啦，亲爱的？”休易问。
“六，”乔安西得声音低得几乎听不见，“现在落得快了。三天前还有将近一百，
叫我数得头发痛。现在容易。又掉了一片，只剩下五片。”
“五片什么？快跟我说。”“藤叶。那根藤上的。等最后一片掉下来，我也就完了。
早三天我已经明白。难道医生没对你说？”
“快别胡思乱想啦！”休易觉得这太荒唐，不屑一顾地说，“一根老藤上的叶子跟你的病好不好得了有什么相干！
丫头，别乱想，就因为你平日里喜欢那根藤。不要这么傻里傻气。今天上午医生还对我说，你很快好起来的希望是，
让我想想他的原话来着，对啦，他说你的希望有九成！快喝点儿汤吧，
喝了我就再画画，卖给编辑，得了钱买紫葡萄酒，再买点吃的。”
“葡萄酒用不着再买，”乔安西说，眼睛还盯着窗外，
“又掉了一片。汤我也不要。只剩下四片叶了。
要是天黑前我看到最后一片掉下来就好，见到了我也好闭眼。”
“乔安西，你听我的，闭上眼睛，
别再看窗外，等我把这幅插图画完，怎么样？”休易弯下身对她说，“这些画明天等着交。”
“那你画完了得告诉我，我想看着最后一片飘下来。”乔安西边说边闭上眼睛，脸惨白，躺着不动，像尊倒下的石膏像，
我想要看最后一片落下，我不愿再等。也不愿想什么。
一切我都不要了，只愿像一片没有了生命力的败叶一样，往下飘，飘。”
“安心睡一会儿吧，”休易说，“我画退隐的老矿工要个模特儿，得找贝尔曼来。我只出去一会儿。别动，等我回来。”
贝尔曼老头也能画画，就住在下面一楼，贝尔曼在艺术上并不成功。
他一心要画出个惊人之作，但至今还没开笔。
近些年他就靠给这一带请不起职业模特儿的年轻画家当模特儿挣几个钱。
这小个子老头像个凶神恶煞，谁软绵绵的就瞧不起谁，自诩为保护楼上两位年轻画家的看家猛犬。
休易去时，贝尔曼果然在楼下他那间又暗又邋遢的房间里，屋角里画架上绷着块白画布，就等画上幅惊人之作，但等了二十五年还是一笔未画。
休易告诉了他关于乔安西的事情，她的朋友将像叶子一样飘走。
贝尔曼老头听到这般白痴似的胡想，他很生气。
“什么话！”他嚷着，“看到混账藤叶子掉了就会想死，阳世上还真有这种蠢货？你怎么让那种怪事钻到她脑瓜子里去啦？”
“她病得厉害，身体太虚弱。”休易说，“脑子烧糊涂了，老胡思乱想。
“乔安西小姐是大好人，怎么就病倒在这种地方？
哪天我画出张绝妙的画，我们一块儿远走高飞。老天爷！行啦。”
两人上楼时乔安西睡着了。休易把窗帘放得严严实实，
打个手势把贝尔曼带进了另一间房。他们在房里瞧着窗外的那根藤，心里不由得害怕。
接着，两人你看我，我看你，好一会儿没说话。冰冷的雨在不停地下，还夹着雪。贝尔曼坐着，看上去像是一名矿工。
休易只睡了一个小时，到早上醒来时，只见乔安西睁大两只无神的眼睛盯住放了下来的绿窗帘。
“卷起来，我要看。”她有气无力说。休易照办了。
经过漫漫长夜的一夜风吹雨打，竟然还有一片藤叶扒在砖墙上。这是藤上的最后一片叶，
叶柄附近依旧深绿，但锯齿形边缘已经枯败发黄。
它顽强地挂在离地面二十英尺高的一根枝上。
“这是最后一片叶，”乔安西说，“我还以为晚上它准会掉。
我听见了风声。今天它会掉的，我的死期也就来了。”
“乖乖，乖乖！你不愿为自己着想也得为我着想。丢下我怎么办呢？”休易说，把消瘦的脸贴到枕头上。
但是乔安西没有答话。天刚亮，乔安西不管三七二十一就叫拉开窗帘。
藤叶还在。乔安西躺在床上久久看着。后来她唤休易，休易正在翻动煤气炉上鸡汤里的鸡。
乔安西说：“休易，我太不应该。不知是怎么鬼使神差的，那片叶老掉不下来，可见我原来心绪不好。
想死是罪过。你这就给我盛点鸡汤来！
过了一小时，她说：“休易，我希望以后能去画那不勒斯湾。”
下午医生来了。医生刚走，休易找个借口跑进走廊。
“有五成希望。”医生握着休易的手说，“只要护理得好，就能战胜疾病。现在我得去楼下看另一个病人。
他叫贝尔曼，肯定也是个画画的。又是肺炎。
他年纪大，体质弱，病又来势凶，已经没有了希望，但今天还是要送医院，医院的条件好些。”
第二天，医生对休易说：“她出了危险期。你们胜利了。剩下的事是营养和护理。”
这天下午，休易坐到乔安西躺的床上，她伸出只手连人带枕头搂着乔安西。
“有件事告诉你，小宝贝。”她说，“贝尔曼先生得肺炎今天死在医院。
他只病了两天。头一天早上看门人在楼下房间发现他难受得要命，
衣服、鞋子全湿了，摸起来冰凉。谁也猜不着他在又是风又是雨的夜晚上哪儿去了。
后来他们发现了一盏灯笼，还亮着，又发现楼梯搬动了地方，
一块调色板上调了绿颜料和黄颜料。
现在你看窗外，乖乖。墙上还扒着最后一片藤叶。你不是奇怪为什么风吹着它也不飘不动吗？
唉，亲爱的，那是贝尔曼的杰作。在最后一片叶子落下来的晚上，他在墙上画了一片。”
您刚刚听到的是欧·亨利的短篇小说《最后一片叶子》。演播芭巴拉·克莱恩。
本篇故事由雪莱·高尔斯特改编，拉万·戴维斯制作，我是法斯·拉皮德斯。
