O. Henry (1907) — a dying girl, an old painter, and the masterpiece nobody saw being made
Easier version available: read this lesson at A2/B1 level →
O. Henry tells this whole story in a few thousand words, and he saves the most important fact until the very last line. Read each part, pause for the discussion box, then continue. Do not skip ahead — the ending only works if you arrive at it honestly.
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets run crazy and break themselves into small strips called "places." Artists soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and cheap rents, and so a colony grew up in quaint old Greenwich Village. At the top of a squatty three-storey brick house Sue and Johnsy had their studio. They had met at a cheap table on Eighth Street, and had found their tastes in art and chicory salad so much in tune 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 one there with his icy fingers. Mr Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. He struck Johnsy down, 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.
"She has one chance in, let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his thermometer. "And that chance is for her to want to live. Your little lady 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 some day," said Sue.
"Paint? Bosh! Has she anything worth being anxious about — a man, for instance?"
Sue said no, there was nothing of the kind. After the doctor had gone she went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she walked into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling a ragtime tune.
Johnsy lay with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing. As she worked she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out of 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 of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard, 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, 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. There goes another one. There are only five left now."
"Five what, dear?"
"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?"
Sue scolded her, but Johnsy only watched the falling leaves. That evening Sue went down to the floor below, to the den of old Behrman. Behrman was a painter who had failed in art. For forty years he had wielded the brush without ever 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. He earned a little by serving as a model to the young artists 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 anyone, and who regarded himself as guard-dog to the two young artists above.
Sue found him smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared the girl would float away like a leaf when her own slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt 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. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Yes."
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.
Sue obeyed. After the beating rain and the 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 on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution, it hung bravely from a 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 today, and I shall die at the same time."
But the leaf clung to its stem. The day wore away, and through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stalk 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. When it was light enough Johnsy 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, Sue," 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 me a little broth now."
And hour by hour she mended. In the afternoon the doctor came, and Sue followed him into the hallway.
"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."
The next day the doctor said Johnsy was out of danger. That afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, and put one arm around her.
"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on 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 is Behrman's masterpiece — he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."
Ten words from the story that earn their keep far beyond it. Tap each card to reveal the meaning and a usable example.
The whole story is engineered to spring on one withheld fact. Notice three of the tools O. Henry uses to set it up and disguise it.
| Craft move | How it works | Where you see it |
|---|---|---|
| The withheld climax | The decisive act happens off the page; we only learn of it in the closing line | "he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell" |
| Sentiment held in check | A tender subject kept dry by brisk narration, irony and a joking tone | "Mr Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman." |
| Behrman's dialect | Heavy German-accented English marks him as comic — so the reader underrates him until the end | "Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away." |
This story turns on a single interrupted night: a long, ongoing action (the storm raging, Behrman painting) cut across by sudden, single events (the doctor arrives, Johnsy wakes). That is exactly the work the past continuous and the past simple do together.
Use the past continuous for the longer background action that was already in progress; use the past simple for the shorter completed event that interrupts it. The linking words tell you which is which: while and as usually frame the ongoing action; when usually introduces the interrupting event.
Patterns: While / As + past continuous … , past simple. — When + past simple … , past continuous (background).
1. While the storm (rage), Behrman (paint) the leaf onto the wall.
2. When Johnsy (wake), the leaf was still there.
3. Sue (whistle) a ragtime tune as she (walk) into the room.
4. While Johnsy (count) the leaves, Sue (look) out of the window.
5. The janitor (find) Behrman the next morning while he (lie) helpless in his room.
1. was raging / painted (ongoing background + the completed act inside it)
2. woke (single completed event after "when")
3. was whistling / walked ("as" frames the longer action; "walked" is the moment)
4. was counting / looked (also acceptable: was looking, if both are ongoing together)
5. found / was lying
Same two clauses, different connector. Fill the gap with while, when or as — sometimes more than one is possible, so be ready to justify your choice.
1. ___ the wind was beating against the window, the leaf held on.
2. Johnsy decided she would live ___ she saw the leaf had survived the second night.
3. ___ the days wore away, the colour drained slowly from the painted leaf — though no one yet knew it was painted.
4. The doctor was leaving ___ he mentioned the old man downstairs.
1. While (long ongoing action; "As" also works)
2. when (a single moment of realisation)
3. As (two changes developing in parallel over time)
4. when (the leaving was in progress; "as" also works)
Join each pair into one sentence using the cue word, putting the longer action in the past continuous and the shorter in the past simple.
1. Sue / stir the broth + Johnsy / call to her. (as)
2. The doctor / shake the thermometer + he / give Sue the news. (while)
3. Johnsy / look at the window + the last leaf / fall (it never did). (when)
1. As Sue was stirring the broth, Johnsy called to her.
2. While the doctor was shaking the thermometer, he gave Sue the news.
3. Johnsy was looking at the window when she expected the last leaf to fall — but it never did. (model answer; wording will vary)
Four moves to spot. They are the reason this story still works more than a century later.
For most of the story we believe, with Johnsy, that the leaf is real — a living thing fighting the storm. The final sentence reveals it was painted. O. Henry ironises our whole reading: every time we admired the leaf's "courage," we were admiring Behrman without knowing it.
The ivy leaf stands for the thread of Johnsy's will to live; then, in the turn, it stands for Behrman's sacrifice and his finally-achieved masterpiece. One small object is made to carry both meanings, and the second recasts the first.
The most important action in the story — an old man dragging a ladder out into a freezing storm to paint a leaf — happens entirely off the page. O. Henry withholds it and lets us assemble it afterwards from a wet lantern, a moved ladder, and a palette of green and yellow. By making us do the work, he makes the image land harder.
The raw material here is pure tear-jerker: a dying girl, a self-sacrificing old man. O. Henry keeps it from collapsing into mush by undercutting it — the joking personification of "Mr Pneumonia," Behrman's comic dialect, Sue's brisk ragtime — so that the genuine emotion of the ending feels earned rather than demanded.
Now move to the next tab. The technique work above feeds directly into the three speaking tasks.
Do all four. Each one builds on the last. The timer is for your benefit — it forces you to fill the time rather than escape it. Use the past continuous / past simple contrast and the effect verbs from the previous tabs.
Before we discuss it, tell the story back to me as if I had never read it — in your own words, not line by line. Aim for about eight to ten sentences.
As you go, use at least five words from the Vocabulary tab and keep the events in order using the contrast between past continuous and past simple from the Grammar tab. These beats will help you: two young painters share a studio and Johnsy falls ill with pneumonia · she decides she will die when the last ivy leaf falls outside her window · old Behrman downstairs dreams of painting a masterpiece · through a stormy night one last leaf refuses to fall and Johnsy recovers · Behrman has died of pneumonia — he painted that last leaf on the wall, his masterpiece.
Behrman gave everything — and made sure no one watched him do it. Describe a time when someone made a sacrifice for another person without seeking any credit. It can be from your own life, your family, your work, or a story you know.
Set the scene with the past continuous to paint the background ("It was raining hard and everyone was sleeping when…"), then use the past simple for the decisive act. Bring in at least two effect verbs from the Technique tab (recasts, withholds, undercuts…) as you explain what the act meant.
Johnsy tied her survival to one leaf on a wall. People often fix on one small thing — a routine, an object, a phrase — to get through a hard stretch.
Talk about why that works, using a character, a public figure, or someone you've read about. Narrate it as an interrupted past: what was going on around them (past continuous) and the moments that changed direction (past simple). Use while, when and as at least once each.
The leaf looked alive; it was paint. Describe something in your own experience that seemed completely real or true at the time, but later turned out to be something else — a promise, an image, a person's confidence, a "fact" everyone believed.
Argue for two minutes for how convincing it was, and what it made you do or feel. Then for two more, describe the moment the truth came out and how it reframed everything that came before. Use cleft sentences ("What I had taken for real was actually…") and at least one past continuous describing what you were doing when you found out.