1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

"The streets of Southwark are laid out in a chaotic mess, each narrow and long, called 'alleys.' These alleys form peculiar angles and curves, and an alley can intersect itself once or twice. Once, an artist discovered that these alleys had a considerable value. For example, a merchant came here to collect payment for paints, paper, and canvases, wandered around the area, and suddenly ended up back where he started, without collecting a single penny."

So soon, my art-loving friends quietly came to Southwark to rent apartments, specifically looking for those with north-facing windows, gables, Dutch-style rooftops, and low rent. Then they bought some large water bottles and a couple of hot pots from the street, and this became their "housing."

"On the top floor of a low, three-story building, Sue and Johnsy set up their studio. One of them came from the Devon countryside, and the other was the daughter of a clerk in the suburbs of London. They met in a drawing class at the art academy and, because of their similarly impoverished circumstances, rented the place together, which also served as their studio."

Oh thank goodness it's not an essay; the characters and location are mentioned right at the beginning. But what does this have to do with Ye Zi?

After reading the previous part, Michael nodded slightly. It was a heartwarming story about two impoverished young painters, one of whom unfortunately contracted pneumonia, and the other diligently caring for him.

As far as he knew, there was indeed a considerable number of so-called young artists living near Southwark. As for pneumonia, it was a frequent visitor in winter, taking away many people from London every year.

He continued reading, and as he delved deeper into the text, his previous questions were answered.

Su Ai looked out the window with concern. What was there to see outside the window? All she saw was a bare, desolate courtyard and an ancient ivy with withered roots and barren roots, the cold autumn wind having stripped it of its leaves.

"What's wrong, darling?" Sue asked.

"Six," Johnsy's voice was almost a whisper.

"Now it's falling off even faster. Three days ago, there were almost a hundred pieces, which gave me a headache to count. But now it's easier. Another piece has fallen off, and now there are only five pieces left."

"Five pieces, my dear, tell your Sue."

"The leaves, from the ivy. When the last one falls, I'll have to go too."

It turns out that the leaf symbolized the young painter's life, and when the last leaf fell, it would be the end of her will to live.

Subsequent events confirmed Michael's suspicions: Johnny, suffering from pneumonia, grew increasingly weak in her will to live, and her friends tried everything to rouse her spirit, but to no avail. She counted the ivy leaves outside her window, as if counting down the days to her own life.

Downstairs lived an elderly painter named Behrman, nearing sixty. He was short-tempered, an alcoholic, and had spent his life dreaming of painting a "masterpiece," yet he had never actually done so. Even the old painter thought Johnsy's idea was foolish.

The old painter was right. How could you be so foolish, so easily giving up on your life? You have to stand up for yourself! Michael couldn't help but feel anxious for Johnny, and at the same time, he realized that he was already immersed in the story...

He was quite surprised that a newcomer could write so fluently and delicately. If the later parts weren't too bad, he even thought the manuscript might have a chance of being published.

Joseph did recommend a pretty good book this time. It's a heartwarming novel, not amazing but not bad either. It's good enough for a newcomer. Michael has already made his decision at this point.

Out of respect for the integrity of the story, he continued reading, but as he read, a look of surprise appeared on his normally calm face, to the point that his face became somewhat distorted.

"The next day, just as dawn broke, the heartless Johnny ordered the curtains to be drawn again. The vines still clung to the wall."

"Johnny lay in bed and looked at it for a long time. Then she called out to Sue, who was cooking chicken soup for her on the gas stove."

“I’m a bad girl, Sudi,” Johnny said. “God made that last leaf stay there so I would know how bad I am and that it’s a sin not to want to live.”

The doctor came in the afternoon. When he left, Su Ai made an excuse to follow him into the corridor.

"I hope there's a 50% chance," the doctor said, holding Su Ai's thin hand. "Take good care of her, and you'll succeed."

Now I have to go downstairs to see another patient, named Behrman, who, as far as I know, is also a painter. He also has pneumonia. He's old and frail, and his illness came on suddenly; there's not much hope for him.

The next day, the doctor told Su Ai, "She's out of danger. You've succeeded. Now she just needs nutrition and good care."

That afternoon, as Johnny was leaning against the headboard, Sue walked to the bedside, grabbed Johnny and her pillow, and said:

"I have something to tell you, little girl. Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia in the hospital today. He had only been sick for two days. The first morning, the doorman found him in his downstairs room, suffering terribly. His clothes and shoes were soaked and cold. Nobody could guess where he had gone on such a terrible night."

Later they found a lamp, still lit, a ladder they'd dragged out somewhere, several paintbrushes scattered on the floor, and a palette, mixing green and yellow paint. And—look out the window, my dear, look at the last wisteria leaf on the wall. Don't you find it strange that it doesn't move when the wind blows? Ah, my dear, it's Behrman's masterpiece—he painted it on the wall that night when the last wisteria leaf fell.

My God.

Michael was experiencing this unexpected yet reasonable ending. After the initial surprise subsided, a deep sense of emotion welled up in his heart, and for a moment he couldn't utter a word, savoring the emotion that resonated within him.

This story is so short, yet so touching. Michael could see that the core of this work was so warm, as if injecting something called 'hope' into the cold winter of London.

No wonder this leaf never fell; it was a masterpiece painted by the old artist Behrman with his life.

How could such pure warmth and kindness not touch people's hearts?

"This is even more moving than Dickens's Pickwick Papers this year."

Michael made his final decision, then took out a handkerchief and silently wiped away the tears from the corners of his eyes. Before he knew it, his eyes were brimming with tears.

Then, his gaze fell on Michelle, and unlike his initial disdain, it became fervent and restless.