In November a cold, unseen stranger whom the doctors
called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with
his icy fingers. Mr. Pneumonia wasn’t 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.
“She has one chance in – let us say, ten,” said the
doctor to Sue. “And that chance is for her to want to live. Your little lady
has made up her mind that she’s not going to get well.”
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.
Johnsy lay, scarcely making aripple under the bedclothes. Sue arranged her board and began a
pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story.
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 solicitously out of the window. 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? Tell you Sudie.”
“Six,” said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. “They are
falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. There goes
another one. There are only five left now.”
“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 a magnificent scorn… “Johnsy, dear. Will you promise me to keep your eyes
closed, and not to look out of the window until I’m done working? I must call
Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner.”
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground
floor beneath them. Behrman was a failure in art. He had been about to paint a
masterpiece, but he had never yet begun it. He drank gin toexcess, and still
talked of his coming masterpiece.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries
in his dimly lighted den below. 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 for such idiotic imagination.
… When Sue awoke from an hour’s sleep the next morning
she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes starting at the drawn green shade.
“Pull it up; I want to see,” she ordered, in a
whisper.
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 on the vine.
“It is the last one. 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,” said Johnsy. The loneliest thing in all the world is a soul when it
is making ready on its mysterious, far journey.
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 on 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 for it.
“I’ve been a bad girl, Sudie”, she said. “Something
has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It’s a sin to
want to die.”
“Even chances,” said the doctor in the afternoon,
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. He is an old,
weak man, and the attack is acute. There’s no hope for him.”
…..The next afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy
lay. “I have something to tell you, little mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died
of pneumonia to-day in 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 have
imagined where he was on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern,
still lighted, and some scattered brushes, and – look out of the window, dear,
at the last ivy leafon the wall. It’s Behrman’s masterpiece – he painted it there
the night that the last leaf fell.” Listen to the audio of the storyto practise your pronunciation. http://listentogenius.com/recordings/TheLastLeaf.mp3
Task 1. Read the text and translate it.
Task 2. Find English equivalents of the following words and phrases.
In a new book, Euny Honginv estigates the social
‘art of understanding’ that Koreans cultivate from childhood.
Koreans don’t say someone has
‘good’ nunchi, but ‘quick’ nunchi – the ability to rapidly process changing social information.
Photograph: Sensor Spot/GettyImages
Have you ever wanted to read minds? Or wished you had a little bit more of
whatever ineffable quality it is that makes some people seem effortlessly
popular at parties, lucky in love, and successful at work? Perhaps you need to brush up on you nunchi – a
traditional Korean concept of situational awareness and the focus of the Korean
American journalist and author Euny Hong’s new book The Power of Nunchi:
The Korean Secret to Happiness and Success.
According to Hong, nunchi is the “art of understanding
what people are thinking and feeling” – a quality held by those who are
sensitive to the dynamics within a given group.
Koreans cultivate nunchi from a young age. “Kids in
Korea know the word by age three,” she says. “You usually learn it in the
negative; if everyone is standing on the right side of an escalator and a kid
is lounging on the left, the parent will say, ‘Why don’t you have any nunchi?’
It’s partly about not being rude, but it’s also partly, ‘Why are you not
plugged into your environment?’”
The word “nunchi” itself
roughly translates to “eye-measure”, a sort of sizing-up, not of individuals
but of the overall context and atmosphere of a situation. It’s applicable to
just about every social setting one can be in, from a wedding to a job
interview.
In action, nunchi involves noticing who, in any given
context, is speaking, who is listening, who interrupts, who apologizes, who is
rolling their eyes. From there, one can make potentially useful assessments
about the nature of relationships and hierarchies within a group, the overall
mood, and how to behave accordingly.
As the truly skilled discern such cues intuitively
even as they’re constantly in flux, Koreans don’t say someone has “good”
nunchi, but “quick” nunchi – the ability to rapidly process changing social
information.
Because people with quick nunchi take the time to read
the room, their chances of success in any social environment are high – they’re
more likely to fit in and make connections and are less prone to coming across
as clueless or incompetent, or of committing awkward faux pas.
“At a very basic level, people will be happier to be
around you if you have quick nunchi,” says Hong, “and from a Machiavellian
point of view, you can negotiate better” by staying quiet, listening carefully,
and gathering information from others before speaking.
Because nunchi is a soft skill premised on discretion,
Hong notes it can be a superpower for introverts. She claims approaching social
situations through the lens of nunchi even helped her battle social anxiety,
allowing her to remain grounded in stressful circumstances.
In her book, Hong also makes the case that nunchi not
only helps individuals but has factored into Korea’s rapid development from one
of the world’s poorest nations to a high-income, culturally powerful country in
a matter of generations.
This is, as they say, big if true.
Yet if the subtle art of nunchi is so powerful, why
does it seem that these days corporate and world leaders seem to more often be
blustery loudmouths, rather than sensitive, quiet types?
Hong’s investigation of this question illuminates why
the concept of nunchi – with its emphasis on unity, relationship building, and
collective harmony – may be particularly relevant at a cultural and political
moment characterized by divisiveness. It is, after all, essentially the power
of understanding others.
“In the west, autonomy and individualism are
emphasized, and nunchi seems to advocate the opposite,” she says. “But developing
nunchi doesn’t mean becoming a lemming, it just means you are using data to
your advantage to create comfort for yourself and everybody else.”
Task 2. Find
English equivalents of the following words and phrases.
1)быть погруженным
2)различать
3)быдло
4)исследование, расследование
5)совершить оплошность/проступок
6)подтянуть,
привести в порядок
7)невежественный
8)вписываться
9)крикун
10) раскол, спор
11) неописуемый, невыразимый
12) осмотрительность Task 3. Match the synonyms
1)easily a) loudmouth
2)discover b) clueless
3)survey с) divisiveness
4)stumble
(n.) d) efortlessly
5)screamer,
roarer e) discern
6)ignorant f) investigation
7)split,
controversy g) faux pas Task 4. Answer the following questions
1)What is
understood by “nunchi”? Where did this notion originate from?
2)When and how do
Koreans learn and cultivate nunchi?
3)In what social
context can nunchi be applicable to?
4)Why do Koreans
use the word quick in a positive sense referring to someone’s nunchi?
5)How can nunchi
be helpful to introverts?
6)Why doesn’t
nunchi have the power to change the world politics for the better?
7)Do you think you
possess the superpower of nunchi? Do you know any people who do? Does it really
promotesuccess?
8)Can you find any
adequate equivalents of the notion nunchi in your own culture or any other
cultures of the world?
9)If you were
asked to call your national secret to happiness, what would it be? Task 5. Watch the video "How the power of nunchi could change your life". Be ready to discuss the video.
(Virginia is seatedby the fire.Her outdoor
thingsare thrownon a chair; her boots are faintly steaming in
the fender).
Virginia (laying the letter down): I don't like this
letter at all—not at all. I wonder if he means it to be so snubbing—or if it's
just his way. (Reads.) "Many thanks for the socks. As I have had five
pairs sent me lately, I am sure you will be pleased to hear I gave yours to a
friend in my company." No, it can't be my fancy. He must have meant it; it
is a dreadful snub.
Oh, I wish I hadn't sent him that letter telling him
to take care of himself. I'd give anything to have that letter back. I wrote it
on a Sunday evening too—that was so fatal. I never ought to write letters on
Sunday evenings— I always let myself go so. I can't think why Sunday evenings
always have such a funny effect on me. I simply yearn to have someone to write
to—or to love. Yes, that's it; they make me feel sad and full of love. Funny,
isn't it?
I must start going to church again; it's fatal sitting
in front of the fire and thinking. There are the hymns, too; one can let
oneself go so safely in the hymns. (She croons.) "And then for those our
Dearest and our Best"— (but her eye lights on the next sentence in the
letter). "It was most kind of you to have knitted them yourself."
Really! Really, that is too much! Men are abominably arrogant! He actually
imagines that I knitted them myself.
Why, I hardly know him; I've only spoken to him a few
times. Why on earth should I knit him socks? He must think I am far gone to
throw myself at his head like that. For it certainly is throwing oneself at a
man's head to knit him socks—if he's almost a stranger. Buying him an odd pair
is a different matter altogether. No; I shan't write to him again—that's
definite. And, besides, what would be the use? I might get really keen on him
and he'd never care a straw for me. Men don't.
I wonder why it is that after a certain point I always
seem to repel people. Funny, isn't it! They like me at first; they think me
uncommon, or original; but then immediately I want to show them—even give them
a hint—that I like them, they seem to get frightened and begin to disappear. I
suppose I shall get embittered about it later on. Perhaps they know somehow
that I've got so much to give. Perhaps it's that that frightens them. Oh, I
feel I've got such boundless, boundless love to give to somebody—I would care
for somebody so utterly and so completely— watch over them—keep everything
horrible away—and make them feel that if ever they wanted anything done I lived
to do it. If only I felt that somebody wanted me, that I was of use to
somebody, I should become a different person. Yes; that is the secret of life
for me—to feel loved, to feel wanted, to know that somebody leaned on me for
everything absolutely—forever. And I am strong, and far, far richer than most
women. I am sure that most women don't have this tremendous yearning to—express
themselves. I suppose that's it—to come into flower, almost. I'm all folded and
shut away in the dark and nobody cares. I suppose that is why I feel this
tremendous tenderness for plants and sick animals and birds—it's one way of
getting rid of this wealth, this burden of love. And then, of course, they are
so helpless—that's another thing. But I have a feeling that if a man were really
in love with you he'd be just as helpless too. Yes, I am sure that men are very
helpless...
I don't know why, I feel inclined to cry tonight.
Certainly not because of this letter; it isn't half important enough. But I
keep wondering if things will ever change or if I shall go on like this until I
am old—just wanting and wanting. I'm not as young as I was even now. I've got
lines and my skin isn't a bit what it used to be. I never was really pretty,
not in the ordinary way, but I did have lovely skin and lovely hair—and I
walked well. I only caught sight of myself in a glass today—stooping and
shuffling along.... I looked dowdy and elderly. Well, no; perhaps not quite as
bad as that; I always exaggerate about myself. But I'm faddy about things now—that's
a sign of age, I'm sure. The wind—I can't bear being blown about in the wind
now; and I hate having wet feet. I never used to care about those things—I used
almost to revel in them—they made me feel so one with Nature in a way. But now
I get cross and I want to cry and I yearn for something to make me forget. I
suppose that's why women take to drink. Funny, isn't it!
The fire is going out. I'll burn this letter. What's
it to me? Pooh! I don't care. What is it to me? The five other women can send
him socks! And I don't suppose he was a bit what I imagined. I can just hear
him saying, "It was most kind of you, to have knitted them yourself."
He has a fascinating voice. I think it was his voice that attracted me to
him—and his hands; they looked so strong—they were such man's hands. Oh, well,
don't sentimentalize over it; burn it!... No, I can't now—the fire's gone out.
I'll go to bed. I wonder if he really meant to be snubbing. Oh, I am tired.
Often when I go to bed now I want to pull the clothes over my head - and just
cry.
Funny, isn’t it.
Task 1. Look
at the title of the story. What do you think the story is going to be about?
Task 2.Read
the text. Be ready to discuss the main idea.
Task 3. Translate into Russian these words and
phrases.
Outdoor
things, faintly steaming in the fender, a dreadful snub, I wish I hadn't sent, fatal, to
yearn to have someone, the
hymns, to
croon, to be abominably, arrogant, to
throw myself at his head , an odd pair, to
get really keen on smb, never
care a straw for me, to repel people, give them a hint, to
get, embittered about smth, boundlesslove, so utterly and so completely, tremendous, to
be folded and shut away, burden , to feel inclined to, to
catch sight of myself, to
stoop and shuffle along, to revel in , yearn for something.
Task 4. Write a summary.
Task 5. Write linguo-stylistic analysis of the text.
