The short story has always existed, though it was not until the 19th century that the art of writing it was consciously practised. As Sophocles said of Aeschylus, these early authors of short stories did the right thing without know ing why. It was only on rare occasions, however, that these happy accidents occurred. Thus Professor Baldwin, after an exhaustive and rather exhausting examination of the hundred tales in Boccaccio's Decameron, decided that only two of them—the second story of the second day, and the sixth of the ninth day— are short stories in the modern critical sense, while three others approach the "totality" of impression which is the result of conscious unity in expression. We must go back to the New Testament for a short story which is a structural masterpiece. There can be no denying that the parable of the Prodigal Son, which is only 500 words long in the noble prose of the Authorised Version, satisfies the modern definition, securing the greatest emphasis possible with a surprising economy of means. Setting aside the religious implications of the story and treating it as a single narrative effort, we have to admit that its theme is pro foundly interesting, that its three characters are perfectly por trayed, and that it is informed with a complete knowledge of human nature. The reiteration of the beautiful words of com passion and reconciliation : "For this thy brother was dead and is alive again; and was lost and is found" is a stroke of divine artistic genius which completes the whole prearranged design. The parable suggests a gold coin or medal which has been cre ated by a single impact of the die, and it rings true because it is of noble metal nobly wrought. It owes much, no doubt, to the grave simplicity of its style (less than half-a-dozen words in the narrative are of more than two syllables) and this fact should serve to remind us that nearly all fine great short stories in the English language have a distinction of style which measures and maintains the emotional significance of the theme.
The same author has seldom, if ever, been able to write great short stories as well as great novels. Scott's Wandering Willie's Tale and Dickens' A Child's Dream of a Star are notable excep tions to this rule. Poe, Maupassant, Bret Harte, G. W. Cable, 0. Henry, to name a few of the masters of the short story, could not have written great novels—perhaps because the minute ex actness and restriction of structure required for success in the short story create a mentality which cannot give us cross-sections through the vast body of human life or trace its bewildering intricacies. The painter of miniatures, if we may risk a com parison from another art, cannot hope to be successful in work on a large canvas.
Poe, whose mathematical mind could give a lucid explanation of the how and why of his artistic achievements, was really the ruling influence with Maupassant and other much-imitated French masters of the conte, which in their hands so often became a psychological epigram—with a sting, or perhaps a pang, in its conclusion. Nearly all these French
story-writers were pessimists, as many of the French masters of aphorisms were, in their view of human nature, and they set their small self-contained dramas against a gloomy background of man's moral turpitude. Boule de Suif is perhaps the most powerful example of this cruel criticism of life, and it does grave injustice to the French character which is so kindly and considerate, even among the bourgeoisie, to the courtesan. Anatole France's Crain quebille is one of the last large achievements in this mode, which has gone out of fashion since victory in the World War cured the French nation of its inferiority complex. Maupassant, however, will always remain a model of technique, especially for the young writer who suffers from the melancholy which is the shadow of youth's hopefulness.
Kipling, however, has had a more far-reaching in fluence in the development of the short story, and even those who have come to dislike his philosophy of life, largely as a result of post-war disillusionment, have adopted and adopt his technique, as a rule without admitting their indebtedness, even to themselves. Nine-tenths of the huge output of American short stories to-day might be described as acts of faith in the literary creed: "There is only one Kipling and 0. Henry is his prophet." 0. Henry, who is faithfully imitated by at least nine in every ten contributors to the American magazines, copied most of Kipling's mannerisms and has made a feature of the expository opening, which is so often used in Plain Tales from The Hills and the volumes that followed it in the next few years. It is a popular, but inartistic expedient, which may be compared with the informative soliloquy of the old family servitor in pre-Ibsenite comedies. The younger school of writers reject it, knowing that it is much more effective to convey such information implicitly, through the words and works of the characters, which has the added advantage of not subverting the narrative form. In his later short stories, such as the admirable They and The Brushwood Boy, the English master has avoided it, nor has he committed the technical blunder (it occurs more than once in the "Plain Tales") of adding super fluous' matter when his story is logically complete—a blunder perpetrated by 0. Henry in The Gift of the Magi, perhaps the most famous of all his stories.
To-day the Russians, especially Chekov and Kuprin, whose Captain Ribnekov is one of the best short stories in any language, are the dominating influence with the youngest writers. Since the Slav genius, with its abiding sense of prostor, or illimitable horizons, has no liking for such limitations, some of them are in rebellion against the doctrine of unity.
Since the World War ended—to be trans ferred to the spiritual sphere as a campaign against all manner of conventions—the output of short stories has greatly increased.