大师级短篇小说

⑴ 世界著名短篇小说

THE GIFT OF THE
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is graally subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze ring a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out lly at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The ll precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of plication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

⑵ 求世界短篇名著

可以试试世界三大短篇小说大师的作品:
莫泊桑:《漂亮朋友》、《我的叔叔于勒》、《羊脂球》、《项链》、《珠宝》；
契诃夫：《变色龙》;《小公务员之死》
欧·亨利：《爱的牺牲》、《警察与赞美诗》、《带家具出租的房间》、《贤人的礼物》（或《麦琪的礼物》）、《最后一片藤叶》等。

（1）莫泊桑
十九世纪法国著名的批判现实主义小说家。1880年发表第一个短篇小说《羊脂球》，此后陆续写了一大批思想性和艺术性完美结合的短篇小说，博得世界短篇小说巨匠的赞誉。他的创作广泛而深刻地反映了十九世纪后半期的法国社会现实，无情地揭露了资产阶级道德风尚的丑恶，对下层社会的“小人物”寄予同情。小说构思新颖，描写生动，人物语言个性化，布局谋篇别具匠心。代表作有短篇小说《羊脂球》、《项链》等，长篇小说《一生》、《俊友》（又译做《漂亮的朋友》等。

（2）契可夫
十世世纪俄国批判现实主义作家、戏剧家和短篇小说艺术大师。他的早期合作讽刺和揭露了俄国社会官场人物媚上欺下的丑恶面目，写得谐趣横生，发人深思。八十年代中期，他创作了既幽默又富于悲剧的短篇小说，反映了社会底层人民的被侮辱被损害的不幸生活，具有深刻的思想意义。代表作有短篇小说《变色龙》、《苦恼》、《万卡》、《第六病室》、《套中人》等。

（3）欧.亨利
十九世纪末二十世纪初美国现实主义著名作家。曾被诬告罪入狱三年。后迁居纽约，专事写作，他几乎每周写一篇短篇小说，供报刊发表。他一生创作了近三百篇短篇小说和一部长篇小说，对腐朽的资本主义制度、反人道的法律、虚伪的道德给予揭露和讽刺。代表作有长篇小说《白菜与皇帝》，短篇小说《麦琪的礼物》、《警察与赞美诗》等。

⑶ 请推荐几个短篇小说,最好是名作家的,谢谢!

鲁迅《阿Q正传》、《狂人日记》、《伤逝》、《在酒楼上》、《祝福》
叶绍钧《潘先生在难中》
冰心《超人》
郁达夫《沉沦》、《迟桂花》、《春风沉醉的晚上》、《薄奠》
庐隐《海滨故人》
王鲁彦《黄金》
台静农《拜堂》
废名《竹林的故事》、《桥》、《莫须有先生传》
许地山《缀网劳蛛》、《落花生》、《春桃》
茅盾《春蚕》、《林家铺子》
巴金《灭亡》、《雾》、《雨》、《电》
老舍《骆驼祥子》、《断魂枪》、《月牙儿》
沈从文《边城》、《丈夫》、《八骏图》、《长河》、《萧萧》
柔石《二月》、《为奴隶的母亲》
丁玲《莎菲女士的日记》、《我在霞村的时候》、《在医院中》
张天翼《华威先生》、《包氏父子》
沙汀《在其香居茶馆里》
艾芜《山峡中》
萧红《生死场》、《呼兰河传》
穆时英《夜总会里的五个人》
施蛰存《梅雨之夕》
赵树理《小二黑结婚》、《李有才板话》、《李家庄的变迁》
孙犁《荷花淀》
李季《王贵与李香香》

⑷ 世界著名短篇小说作家有哪些

希望对你有帮助： 世界短篇小说之王（1）莫泊桑
十九世纪法国著名的批判现实主义小说家。1880年发表第一个短篇小说《羊脂球》，此后陆续写了一大批思想性和艺术性完美结合的短篇小说，博得世界短篇小说巨匠的赞誉。他的创作广泛而深刻地反映了十九世纪后半期的法国社会现实，无情地揭露了资产阶级道德风尚的丑恶，对下层社会的“小人物”寄予同情。小说构思新颖，描写生动，人物语言个性化，布局谋篇别具匠心。代表作有短篇小说《羊脂球》、《项链》等，长篇小说《一生》、《俊友》（又译做《漂亮的朋友》等。

（2）契可夫
十世世纪俄国批判现实主义作家、戏剧家和短篇小说艺术大师。他的早期合作讽刺和揭露了俄国社会官场人物媚上欺下的丑恶面目，写得谐趣横生，发人深思。八十年代中期，他创作了既幽默又富于悲剧的短篇小说，反映了社会底层人民的被侮辱被损害的不幸生活，具有深刻的思想意义。代表作有短篇小说《变色龙》、《苦恼》、《万卡》、《第六病室》、《套中人》等。

（3）欧.亨利
十九世纪末二十世纪初美国现实主义著名作家。曾被诬告罪入狱三年。后迁居纽约，专事写作，他几乎每周写一篇短篇小说，供报刊发表。他一生创作了近三百篇短篇小说和一部长篇小说，对腐朽的资本主义制度、反人道的法律、虚伪的道德给予揭露和讽刺。代表作有长篇小说《白菜与皇帝》，短篇小说《麦琪的礼物》、《警察与赞美诗》等。
以上回答你满意么？

⑸ 世界四大短篇小说之王

1.世界四大短篇小说之王分别是：莫泊桑、马克.吐温、欧.亨利、契诃夫。
2.莫泊桑一生写的短篇小说长篇将近三百篇，是法国文学史上短篇小说创作数量最大、成就最高的作家，三百余篇短篇小说的巨大创作量在十九世纪文学始终是绝无仅有的。《羊脂球》写于1880年，是莫泊桑经过长期写作锻炼之后达到完全成熟的标志，紧接着这个时期，他如喷泉一样涌出的一大批中短篇小说，几乎每年都有数量可观的精彩之作问世，特别是在前三思念，佳品更是以极大的密集程度出现。
3.马克·吐温是美国批判现实主义文学的奠基人，他的主要作品已大多有中文译本。他经历了美国从初期资本主义到帝国主义的发展过程，其思想和创作也表现为从轻快调笑到辛辣讽刺再到悲观厌世的发展阶段，前期以辛辣的讽刺见长，到了后期语言更为暴露激烈。被誉为“美国文学史上的林肯”。
4.欧·亨利，20世纪初美国著名短篇小说家，美国现代短篇小说创始人。与法国的莫泊桑、俄国的契诃夫并称为世界三大短篇小说巨匠。 他少年时曾一心想当画家，婚后在妻子的鼓励下开始写作。后因在银行供职时的账目问题而入狱，服刑期间认真写作，并以“欧·亨利”为笔名发表了大量的短篇小说，引起读者广泛关注。他是一位高产的作家，一生中留下了一部长篇小说和近三百篇的短篇小说。他的短篇小说构思精巧，风格独特，以表现美国中下层人民的生活、语言幽默、结局出人意料（即“欧·亨利式结尾”）而闻名于世。
5.安东·巴甫洛维奇·契(qì)诃（hē）夫 （1860年1月29日－1904年7月15日）是俄国的世界级短篇小说巨匠，是俄国19世纪末期最后一位批判现实主义艺术大师，与莫泊桑和欧·亨利并称为“世界三大短篇小说家”，是一个有强烈幽默感的作家。他的作品的三大特征是对丑恶现象的嘲笑与对贫苦人民的深切的同情，并且其作品无情地揭露了沙皇统治下的不合理的社会制度和社会的丑恶现象。他被认为19世纪末俄国现实主义文学的杰出代表。