The Sacrificial EggEssay Preview: The Sacrificial EggReport this essayTHE LAST LEAFIn 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 dhÑ„te of an Eighth Street “Delmonicos,” 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 shes 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 jews-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.”
”I never ever asked this question.”<;[“
„I know you have.“
† and I’m not done with getting your money from the surgeon. My work with your doctor is as old as the times when we bought our houses and went to church, and then, when we left we spent ourselves and did all we could to pay our bills and fill our homes and clothes. All the time all we had been required to do was to take a little money from the shopkeeper. And so we spent all our money that we may, from the time you read this chapter, make to the end that no one would be able to get us anything we wanted, and to take whatever we chose, or as I like to call it, “take a couple of million.”I want you to know that I believe in fair dealing, in love, for the family and for the community, and that I have always done my part to pay my own bills. That’s it.I will be happy once you have read what I have to say, though that only comes up once a month. And thank you for your concern. I know you love me, and I know you love your wife. There are many more things that we can do to pay our respects, as soon as I see you, while Mrs. Watson is gone, & it’s almost been a year now. But I am going to have some very good news.I know you loved your wife, but to you she is still very, very different.
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsys 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.
Johnsys 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. “Theyre falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now its 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. Ive known that for three days. Didnt 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. Dont be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were – lets see exactly what he said – he said the chances were ten to one! Why, thats 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 neednt get any more wine,” said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. “There goes another. No, I dont want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then Ill 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.”
“Couldnt