The Last Leaf by O. Henry "A man?

" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her

voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets the kind."
have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips
called "places." These "places" make strange angles and "Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will
curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist do all that science, so far as it may filter through my
once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins
Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract
canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you
himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on will get her to ask one question about the new winter
account! styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five
chance for her, instead of one in ten."
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon
came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth- After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom
century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she
imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board,
from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony." whistling ragtime.

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the
Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped
One was from Maine; the other from California. They had whistling, thinking she was asleep.
met at the table d'hte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's,"
and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink
sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must
pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, stories that young authors write to pave their way to
whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the Literature.
colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers.
Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow
his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an
maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places." Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times
repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric
old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the
by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red- window and counting - counting backward.
fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and
she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, "Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then
looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost
blank side of the next brick house. together.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there
hallway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow. to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen,
and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An
"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots,
shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of
that chance is for her to want to live. This way people autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its
have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling
entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made bricks.
up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she
anything on her mind?" "What is it, dear?" asked Sue.

"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling
day." said Sue. faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred.
It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy.
"Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth There goes another one. There are only five left now."
thinking twice - a man for instance?"
"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."
 "Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-
go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio
tell you?" above.

"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."
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.

"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping "Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der
her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a
don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will
the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too." not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy
do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her?
"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."
promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the
window until I am done working? I must hand those "She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has
drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well,
the shade down." Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you
needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, flibbertigibbet."
coldly.
"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said
"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I
want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves." 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
"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all
closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, go away. Gott! yes."
"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 Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue
on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned
those poor, tired leaves." Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the
window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each
"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold
my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old
minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back." blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an
upturned kettle for a rock.
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground
floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next
Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes
satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a staring at the drawn green shade.
failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without
getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's "Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece,
but had never yet begun it. For several years he had Wearily Sue obeyed.
painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of
commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind
a model to those young artists in the colony who could not that had endured through the livelong night, there yet
pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last
and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its
was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and
decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her,
above the ground. pillows and all.

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would "I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said.
surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to- "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He
day, and I shall die at the same time." was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of
the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His
"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They
the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful
What would I do?" night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a
ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow
the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at
mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it
more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling,
friendship and to earth were loosed. it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night
that the last leaf fell."
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they
could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the Summary
wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north
wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the In The Last Leaf by O. Henry we have the theme of
windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. commitment, sacrifice, friendship, compassion, hope and
dedication. Set in the first decade of the twentieth century
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, the story is narrated in the third person by an unnamed
commanded that the shade be raised. narrator and after reading the story the reader realises
that Henry may be exploring the theme of commitment.
The ivy leaf was still there. Throughout the story there is a sense that all three
painters mentioned Sue, Johnsy and Behrman are
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she committed to something. Sue has a piece to draw and is
called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the working on it throughout the story, while Behrman though
gas stove. he hasnt completed his masterpiece remains focused on
it. And Johnsy though not painting is committed to dying
"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something as soon as the last ivy leaf falls from the vine. By
has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked highlighting each characters commitment Henry may also
I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little be suggesting that those who live their lives artistically
broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; are driven or focused. Unlike the majority of people who
bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows may live their lives working nine to five and forget about
about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook." work as soon as they clock out.

Henry also appears to be exploring the theme of

And hour later she said:
friendship. There is the obvious friendship between Sue
and Johnsy with Sue remaining focused on helping Johnsy
"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."
get better. Also Behrman, though when first introduced to
the reader comes across as being a cantankerous old
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an
man, he is in reality fond of both Sue and Johnsy. This
excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
fondness is probably based on Behrmans understanding
of how difficult life is for an artist. The sacrifices that they
"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin,
have to make in order to pursue their work. It is only at
shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And
the end of the story that the reader realises just how
now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman,
committed or fond of Johnsy (and Sue) Behrman actually
his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia,
is when he sacrifices his own life in order to save Johnsys.
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 It is also noticeable that Johnsy very early on in the story
be made more comfortable." gives up any hope of living or beating pneumonia. This
lack of hope in many ways is mirrored by the doctor. He
The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of remains practical, aware that there is nothing he can do
danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all." for Johnsy unless she herself also makes some form of
commitment (to stay alive). He feels that rather than
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy focusing on the leaves on the vine it would be more
lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless practical for her to focus on her recovery from pneumonia.
Though it is also possible that Henry may have
deliberately set the story with one medical doctor and
three artists in it to highlight to the reader the differences
in interpretation of all three (medical versus artist) when it
comes to defining practical. Which may further highlight
the high levels of commitment (to dying) that are being
displayed by Johnsy. Just as all three artists are committed
to giving their all for their art, likewise Johnsy is
committed to dying.
There is also some symbolism in the story which may be
important. Each leaf that Johnsy sees falling from the vine
in many ways leads her into further despair. However
when Behrman paints the one leaf it symbolises hope for
Johnsy. Something that is noticeable when her health
improves on her discovery that the last leaf has not fallen.
The weather itself may also be symbolic as Henry may be
using the weather to highlight how for some people
(Behrman) life is not as easy as it is for others. It is
possible that Henry is suggesting that artists, though
many might say they make life difficult for themselves,
this may not necessarily be the case. Rather as previously
mentioned artists are driven by their art unlike the
majority of people who will work and then go home. An
artists home is their work. It is also noticeable that Henry
makes a comparison between the worlds of Art and
Literature in the 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. This line
may be important as by comparing both the world of Art
and Literature to each other Henry may be highlighting
again the sacrifices that an artist or a writer must make.
Sacrifices that the majority of people will never
understand or have to make.
The ending of the story is also interesting because it is
only at the end does the reader fully realise the sacrifice
that Behrman has made. He has given his own life in order
to save another persons life and in many ways the single
leaf that he has painted on the wall is his masterpiece. It
has rejuvenated Johnsy. Just as the pneumonia was taking
a toll on her lungs (and breathing) the last leaf has given
her back her breath or life. Something that is noticeable
when the doctor arrives and notices an improvement in
Johnsys well-being. It is also interesting that on seeing the
last leaf Johnsy no longer views life as negatively as she
has previously done throughout the story. Rather she
realises that it is a sin to want to die. This line may be
important as it is possible that Henry is suggesting that
regardless of how one feels an individual should never
give up. That they should keep trying just as Behrman did
till the end when he finally managed to complete his
masterpiece and restore hope into Johnsys life.
Themes:
Death and Dying: Last leaf is a short story that
entails the treasury of life and the existence of faith and
hope. It need to the importance of living and how we deal
with the hindrances we battle through our life story. It is a
moving story across the traps that come across us in the
most significant parts of our lives, the value of life is the
centerpiece of story, where all the things go back and
revolveApart of this story gives us a hint that God is the
only one who knows that whether we ride on with life and
chances or trail on and be drawn against the judgment,
the melodramatic and picturesque setting of the story
connects to the negative status of main character facing
life and death subject matter.
Pessimism: Johnsy the main character seems to be a
very pessimistic person. She has lost the entire positive
attitude in life due to her disease and she is waiting for
her death.Your little lady has made up her mind that
shes not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind
That is the first step of Jhonsy that she has made up her
mind that she will die when the last leaf fall. That signifies
the mental and psychological conditionn of her and is
describing the theme of pessimistic.
She was looking out of window and counting -counting
backwards
The psychological disturbances shown by O Henry in
these lines as she is tired of waiting that when the last leaf
falls, she will be near to death.
When the last one falls I must go, too.
Here in these lines Henry has showed extreme pessimism.
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.
These words literated by jonsy again show her desperate
and chaotic state of mind. She has supposed the things
which have no logic and waiting for her death, or waiting
for the last leaf to fall.
Self-Sacrifice: Mr. Behrman risks his life for Johnsy. He
has sacrificed his own life, to give life to Johnsy the
painting he made at the wall, shows his self sacrificing,
kind and noble nature. He himself catches the pneumonia
and dies, but he didnt let Johnsy to die. With the
character of Mr. Buhrmann, O Henry is showing the
sacrificing mature of a man and it gives us a message that
self sacrificing is a great deed and one has to kind and
gentle towards others. Mr. Buhrmann died of pneumonia
today in hospital.
Hope: Theme of hope is very nicely presented in this
story. Doctor is a very optimistic person and he tries to
make Johnsy realized that is she has made her mind that
she will die when the last leaf fall that could be harmful for
her. He told her that he can only provide her medicine and
that is effective as 50 cent, the next situation is in her
hand.
I subtract 50 percent from the curative power of enveloped in a white cloth glued to the hair and
medicines. surmounted by a cap.
If you will get her to ask one question about the new
writer styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you one-in-five Then a wagon passed at the jerky trot of a nag, shaking
chance for her, instead of strangely, two men seated side by side and a woman in
the bottom of the vehicle, the latter holding onto the sides
to lessen the hard jolts.
So O Henry conveys message one never let go for hope
and optimist approach in life. It is out state of mind which
In the public square of Goderville there was a crowd, a
can bring worse or better for us in our lives
throng of human beings and animals mixed together. The
horns of the cattle, the tall hats, with long nap, of the rich
Sadie, someday I hope to point the bay of Naples peasant and the headgear of the peasant women rose
These lines show Johnsys desires and aspirations. It gives above the surface of the assembly. And the clamorous,
the picture of hope and this hope in life gives us the spirit shrill, screaming voices made a continuous and savage
of living in this world. din which sometimes was dominated by the robust lungs
of some countryman's laugh or the long lowing of a cow
tied to the wall of a house.
Love and Friendship: In last leaf O Henry describes
friendship and bondage between two friends. They care
All that smacked of the stable, the dairy and the dirt heap,
and love each other, and she supports Johnsy morally
when she falls ill. She proves to be great support for hay and sweat, giving forth that unpleasant odor, human
Johnsy and she tries her level best to bring back Johnsy and animal, peculiar to the people of the field.
towards life and in the world of optimism.
Matre Hauchecome of Breaute had just arrived at
Goderville, and he was directing his steps toward the
Dear, Dear! said she, learning her won face down to the public square when he perceived upon the ground a little
pillow think of me, if you wont think of yourself. What piece of string. Matre Hauchecome, economical like a true
would I do?
Norman, thought that everything useful ought to be
picked up, and he bent painfully, for he suffered from
These lines show the effective relationship between two rheumatism. He took the bit of thin cord from the ground
friends. Mr. Behrman also shows great deal of love for and began to roll it carefully when he noticed Matre
these girls. Although he is bit careless person but he really Malandain, the harness maker, on the threshold of his
cared for Johnsy and his love is shown by his painting for door, looking at him. They had heretofore had business
the sake of Johnsys life.
together on the subject of a halter, and they were on bad
terms, both being good haters. Matre Hauchecome was
A Piece of String by Guy de Maupassant seized with a sort of shame to be seen thus by his enemy,
picking a bit of string out of the dirt. He concealed his
ALONG ALL THE ROADS around Goderville the peasants "find" quickly under his blouse, then in his trousers'
and their wives were coming toward the burgh because it pocket; then he pretended to be still looking on the
was market day. The men were proceeding with slow ground for something which he did not find, and he went
steps, the whole body bent forward at each movement of toward the market, his head forward, bent double by his
their long twisted legs; deformed by their hard work, by pains.
the weight on the plow which, at the same time, raised
the left shoulder and swerved the figure, by the reaping of He was soon lost in the noisy and slowly moving crowd
the wheat which made the knees spread to make a firm which was busy with interminable bargainings. The
"purchase," by all the slow and painful labors of the peasants milked, went and came, perplexed, always in
country. Their blouses, blue, "stiff-starched," shining as if fear of being cheated, not daring to decide, watching the
varnished, ornamented with a little design in white at the vender's eye, ever trying to find the trick in the man and
neck and wrists, puffed about their bony bodies, seemed the flaw in the beast.
like balloons ready to carry them off. From each of them
two feet protruded. The women, having placed their great baskets at their
feet, had taken out the poultry which lay upon the ground,
Some led a cow or a calf by a cord, and their wives, tied together by the feet, with terrified eyes and scarlet
walking behind the animal, whipped its haunches with a crests.
leafy branch to hasten its progress. They carried large
baskets on their arms from which, in some cases, chickens They heard offers, stated their prices with a dry air and
and, in others, ducks thrust out their heads. And they impassive face, or perhaps, suddenly deciding on some
walked with a quicker, livelier step than their husbands. proposed reduction, shouted to the customer who was
Their spare straight figures were wrapped in a scanty little slowly going away: "All right, Matre Authirne, I'll give it to
shawl pinned over their flat bosoms, and their heads were you for that."
Then lime by lime the square was deserted, and the
Angelus ringing at noon, those who had stayed too long
scattered to their shops.
At Jourdain's the great room was full of people eating, as
the big court was full of vehicles of all kinds, carts, gigs,
wagons, dumpcarts, yellow with dirt, mended and
patched, raising their shafts to the sky like two arms or
perhaps with their shafts in the ground and their backs in
the air.
Just opposite the diners seated at the table the immense
fireplace, filled with bright flames, cast a lively heat on the
backs of the row on the right. Three spits were turning on
which were chickens, pigeons and legs of mutton, and an
appetizing odor of roast beef and gravy dripping over the
nicely browned skin rose from the hearth, increased the
jovialness and made everybody's mouth water.
All the aristocracy of the plow ate there at Matre
Jourdain's, tavern keeper and horse dealer, a rascal who
had money.
The dishes were passed and emptied, as were the jugs of
yellow cider. Everyone told his affairs, his purchases and
sales. They discussed the crops. The weather was
favorable for the green things but not for the wheat.
Suddenly the drum beat in the court before the house.
Everybody rose, except a few indifferent persons, and ran
to the door or to the windows, their mouths still full and
napkins in their hands.
After the public crier had ceased his drumbeating he
called out in a jerky voice, speaking his phrases
irregularly:
"It is hereby made known to the inhabitants of Goderville,
and in general to all persons present at the market, that
there was lost this morning on the road to Benzeville,
between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather pocketbook
containing five hundred francs and some business papers.
The finder is requested to return same with all haste to
the mayor's office or to Matre Fortune Houlbreque of
Manneville; there will be twenty francs reward."
Then the man went away. The heavy roll of the drum and
the crier's voice were again heard at a distance.
Then they began to talk of this event, discussing the
chances that Matre Houlbreque had of finding or not
finding his pocketbook.
And the meal concluded. They were finishing their coffee
when a chief of the gendarmes appeared upon the
threshold.
He inquired:
"Is Matre Hauchecome of Breaute here?"
Matre Hauchecome, seated at the other end of the table,
replied:
"Here I am."
And the officer resumed:
"Matre Hauchecome, will you have the goodness to
accompany me to the mayor's office? The mayor would
like to talk to you."
The peasant, surprised and disturbed, swallowed at a
draught his tiny glass of brandy, rose and, even more bent
than in the morning, for the first steps after each rest were
specially difficult, set out, repeating: "Here I am, here I
am."
The mayor was awaiting him, seated on an armchair. He
was the notary of the vicinity, a stout, serious man with
pompous phrases.
"Matre Hauchecome," said he, "you were seen this
morning to pick up, on the road to Benzeville, the
pocketbook lost by Matre Houlbreque of Manneville."
The countryman, astounded, looked at the mayor, already
terrified by this suspicion resting on him without his
knowing why.
"Me? Me? Me pick up the pocketbook?"
"Yes, you yourself."
"Word of honor, I never heard of it."
"But you were seen."
"I was seen, me? Who says he saw me?"
"Monsieur Malandain, the harness maker."
The old man remembered, understood and flushed with
anger.
"Ah, he saw me, the clodhopper, he saw me pick up this
string here, M'sieu the Mayor." And rummaging in his
pocket, he drew out the little piece of string.
But the mayor, incredulous, shook his head.
"You will not make me believe, Matre Hauchecome, that
Monsieur Malandain, who is a man worthy of credence,
mistook this cord for a pocketbook."
The peasant, furious, lifted his hand, spat at one side to
attest his honor, repeating:
"It is nevertheless the truth of the good God, the sacred
truth, M'sieu the Mayor. I repeat it on my soul and my
salvation."
The mayor resumed:
"After picking up the object you stood like a stilt, looking a
long while in the mud to see if any piece of money had
fallen out."
The good old man choked with indignation and fear.
"How anyone can tell--how anyone can tell--such lies to
take away an honest man's reputation! How can
anyone---"
There was no use in his protesting; nobody believed him.
He was con.
fronted with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and
maintained his affirmation. They abused each other for an
hour. At his own request Matre Hauchecome was
searched; nothing was found on him.
Finally the mayor, very much perplexed, discharged him
with the warning that he would consult the public
prosecutor and ask for further orders.
The news had spread. As he left the mayor's office the old
man was sun rounded and questioned with a serious or
bantering curiosity in which there was no indignation. He
began to tell the story of the string. No one believed him.
They laughed at him.
He went along, stopping his friends, beginning endlessly
his statement and his protestations, showing his pockets
turned inside out to prove that he had nothing.
They said:
"Old rascal, get out!"
And he grew angry, becoming exasperated, hot and
distressed at not
being believed, not knowing what to do and always
repeating himself.
Night came. He must depart. He started on his way with
three neighbors to whom he pointed out the place where
he had picked up the bit of string, and all along the road
he spoke of his adventure.
In the evening he took a turn in the village of Breaute in
order to tell it to everybody. He only met with incredulity.
It made him ill at night.
The next day about one o'clock in the afternoon Marius
Paumelle, a hired man in the employ of Matre Breton,
husbandman at Ymanville, returned the pocketbook and
its contents to Matre Houlbreque of Manneville.
This man claimed to have found the object in the road, but
not knowing how to read, he had carried it to the house
and given it to his employer.
The news spread through the neighborhood. Matre
Hauchecome was informed of it. He immediately went the
circuit and began to recount his story completed by the
happy climax. He was in triumph.
"What grieved me so much was not the thing itself as the
lying. There is nothing so shameful as to be placed under
a cloud on account of a lie."
He talked of his adventure all day long; he told it on the
highway to people who were passing by, in the wineshop
to people who were drinking there and to persons coming
out of church the following Sunday. He stopped strangers
to tell them about it. He was calm now, and yet something
disturbed him without his knowing exactly what it was.
People had the air of joking while they listened. They did
not seem convinced. He seemed to feel that remarks were
being made behind his back.
On Tuesday of the next week he went to the market at
Goderville, urged solely by the necessity he felt of
discussing the case.
Malandain, standing at his door, began to laugh on seeing
him pass. Why?
He approached a farmer from Crequetot who did not let
him finish and, giving him a thump in the stomach, said to
his face:
"You big rascal."
Then he turned his back on him.
Matre Hauchecome was confused; why was he called a big
rascal?
When he was seated at the table in Jourdain's tavern he
commenced to explain "the affair."
A horse dealer from Monvilliers called to him:
"Come, come, old sharper, that's an old trick; I know all
about your piece of string!"
Hauchecome stammered:
"But since the pocketbook was found."
But the other man replied:
"Shut up, papa, there is one that finds and there is one
that reports. At any rate you are mixed with it."
The peasant stood choking. He understood. They accused
him of having had the pocketbook returned by a
confederate, by an accomplice.
He tried to protest. All the table began to laugh.
He could not finish his dinner and went away in the midst
of jeers.
He went home ashamed and indignant, choking with
anger and confusion, the more dejected that he was
capable, with his Norman cunning, of doing what they had
accused him of and ever boasting of it as of a good turn.
His innocence to him, in a confused way, was impossible
to prove, as his sharpness was known. And he was
stricken to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.
Then he began to recount the adventures again,
prolonging his history every day, adding each time new
reasons, more energetic protestations, more solemn oaths
which he imagined and prepared in his hours of solitude,
his whole mind given up to the story of the string. He was
believed so much the less as his defense was more
complicated and his arguing more subtile.
"Those are lying excuses," they said behind his back.
He felt it, consumed his heart over it and wore himself out
with useless efforts. He wasted away before their very
eyes.
The wags now made him tell about the string to amuse
them, as they make a soldier who has been on a
campaign tell about his battles. His mind, touched to the
depth, began to weaken.
Toward the end of December he took to his bed.
He died in the first days of January, and in the delirium of
his death struggles he kept claiming his innocence,
reiterating:
"A piece of string, a piece of string--look--here it is, M'sieu
the Mayor."
Background
Christian author, Regina Brett, said 'What other people think of you is
none of your business.' If Matre Hauchecorne, the protagonist of Guy
de Maupassant's The Piece of String had followed this advice, he may
have saved himself some trouble. This is the story of a French peasant
who is accused of a crime he didn't commit. Let's discuss some of the
themes from this story.
Be Proud of Who You Are
Matre Hauchecorne's trouble begins when he finds a piece of thin string
on the ground. He is beginning to roll it up when he notices his
enemy, Matre Malandain, staring at him. Embarassed that his enemy
caught him being so frugal, Hauchecorne 'quickly hid it beneath his
blouse and then slipped it into his breeches, pocket, then pretended to be
still looking for something on the ground.'
Hauchecorne's odd behavior because of his shame draws suspicion to
him. Later, when it is discovered that a wallet has gone missing,
Malandain accuses Hauchecorne of stealing it. This shame follows
Hauchecorne for the rest of his life. Had Hauchecorne owned his
thriftiness instead of trying to hide it, he could have avoided a lot of
problems. There is no reason to be ashamed of who you are.
Avoid Stereotypes
The next lesson this story teaches the reader is about avoiding
stereotypes. There is a great amount of distrust between the peasants. The
narrator describes the way the peasants 'examined the cows, went off,
came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, never quite daring
to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in the effort to discover the
tricks of the man and the defect in the beast.'
The theme of The Piece of String is the injustice of
humanity. Maupassant frequently wrote stories about selfishness, envy,
wickedness, spite, greed and other negative human qualities.
In Maupassants world, virtually everyone is perfidious, a liar and a
phony. He persuades his reader to accept his contention that cunning,
ferocity, greed and coarseness are more common among men that one
would like to accept. As a writer, he appears tormented at mans painful
state of spiritual loneliness, of the bar which separates man from his
fellow men, and of the fact that ones loneliness is more painfully
experienced the nearer one is to others.
In The Piece of String, an entire village makes a humble mans life
miserable by accusing him of theft. He tries relentlessly, but
unsuccessfully, to persuade them that he was merely picking up a piece of
string. The villagers refuse to believe him not as much because they are
convinced of his guilt, but rather because they enjoy venting their spite
on this humble, defenseless man.
Maupassant was profoundly influenced by the pessimistic German
philosopher, Artur Schopenhauer, who had an even lower opinion of
human nature. "The Piece of String" might be compared with Shirley
Jackson's story "The Lottery" and with Maupassant's famous story
"Boule de Suif," according to eNotes.com.