大師級短篇小說

⑴ 世界著名短篇小說

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

可以試試世界三大短篇小說大師的作品:
莫泊桑:《漂亮朋友》、《我的叔叔於勒》、《羊脂球》、《項鏈》、《珠寶》；
契訶夫：《變色龍》;《小公務員之死》
歐·亨利：《愛的犧牲》、《警察與贊美詩》、《帶傢具出租的房間》、《賢人的禮物》（或《麥琪的禮物》）、《最後一片藤葉》等。

（1）莫泊桑
十九世紀法國著名的批判現實主義小說家。1880年發表第一個短篇小說《羊脂球》，此後陸續寫了一大批思想性和藝術性完美結合的短篇小說，博得世界短篇小說巨匠的贊譽。他的創作廣泛而深刻地反映了十九世紀後半期的法國社會現實，無情地揭露了資產階級道德風尚的丑惡，對下層社會的「小人物」寄予同情。小說構思新穎，描寫生動，人物語言個性化，布局謀篇別具匠心。代表作有短篇小說《羊脂球》、《項鏈》等，長篇小說《一生》、《俊友》（又譯做《漂亮的朋友》等。

（2）契可夫
十世世紀俄國批判現實主義作家、戲劇家和短篇小說藝術大師。他的早期合作諷刺和揭露了俄國社會官場人物媚上欺下的丑惡面目，寫得諧趣橫生，發人深思。八十年代中期，他創作了既幽默又富於悲劇的短篇小說，反映了社會底層人民的被侮辱被損害的不幸生活，具有深刻的思想意義。代表作有短篇小說《變色龍》、《苦惱》、《萬卡》、《第六病室》、《套中人》等。

（3）歐.亨利
十九世紀末二十世紀初美國現實主義著名作家。曾被誣告罪入獄三年。後遷居紐約，專事寫作，他幾乎每周寫一篇短篇小說，供報刊發表。他一生創作了近三百篇短篇小說和一部長篇小說，對腐朽的資本主義制度、反人道的法律、虛偽的道德給予揭露和諷刺。代表作有長篇小說《白菜與皇帝》，短篇小說《麥琪的禮物》、《警察與贊美詩》等。

⑶ 請推薦幾個短篇小說,最好是名作家的,謝謝!

魯迅《阿Q正傳》、《狂人日記》、《傷逝》、《在酒樓上》、《祝福》
葉紹鈞《潘先生在難中》
冰心《超人》
郁達夫《沉淪》、《遲桂花》、《春風沉醉的晚上》、《薄奠》
廬隱《海濱故人》
王魯彥《黃金》
台靜農《拜堂》
廢名《竹林的故事》、《橋》、《莫須有先生傳》
許地山《綴網勞蛛》、《落花生》、《春桃》
茅盾《春蠶》、《林家鋪子》
巴金《滅亡》、《霧》、《雨》、《電》
老舍《駱駝祥子》、《斷魂槍》、《月牙兒》
沈從文《邊城》、《丈夫》、《八駿圖》、《長河》、《蕭蕭》
柔石《二月》、《為奴隸的母親》
丁玲《莎菲女士的日記》、《我在霞村的時候》、《在醫院中》
張天翼《華威先生》、《包氏父子》
沙汀《在其香居茶館里》
艾蕪《山峽中》
蕭紅《生死場》、《呼蘭河傳》
穆時英《夜總會里的五個人》
施蟄存《梅雨之夕》
趙樹理《小二黑結婚》、《李有才板話》、《李家莊的變遷》
孫犁《荷花澱》
李季《王貴與李香香》

⑷ 世界著名短篇小說作家有哪些

希望對你有幫助： 世界短篇小說之王（1）莫泊桑
十九世紀法國著名的批判現實主義小說家。1880年發表第一個短篇小說《羊脂球》，此後陸續寫了一大批思想性和藝術性完美結合的短篇小說，博得世界短篇小說巨匠的贊譽。他的創作廣泛而深刻地反映了十九世紀後半期的法國社會現實，無情地揭露了資產階級道德風尚的丑惡，對下層社會的「小人物」寄予同情。小說構思新穎，描寫生動，人物語言個性化，布局謀篇別具匠心。代表作有短篇小說《羊脂球》、《項鏈》等，長篇小說《一生》、《俊友》（又譯做《漂亮的朋友》等。

（2）契可夫
十世世紀俄國批判現實主義作家、戲劇家和短篇小說藝術大師。他的早期合作諷刺和揭露了俄國社會官場人物媚上欺下的丑惡面目，寫得諧趣橫生，發人深思。八十年代中期，他創作了既幽默又富於悲劇的短篇小說，反映了社會底層人民的被侮辱被損害的不幸生活，具有深刻的思想意義。代表作有短篇小說《變色龍》、《苦惱》、《萬卡》、《第六病室》、《套中人》等。

（3）歐.亨利
十九世紀末二十世紀初美國現實主義著名作家。曾被誣告罪入獄三年。後遷居紐約，專事寫作，他幾乎每周寫一篇短篇小說，供報刊發表。他一生創作了近三百篇短篇小說和一部長篇小說，對腐朽的資本主義制度、反人道的法律、虛偽的道德給予揭露和諷刺。代表作有長篇小說《白菜與皇帝》，短篇小說《麥琪的禮物》、《警察與贊美詩》等。
以上回答你滿意么？

⑸ 世界四大短篇小說之王

1.世界四大短篇小說之王分別是：莫泊桑、馬克.吐溫、歐.亨利、契訶夫。
2.莫泊桑一生寫的短篇小說長篇將近三百篇，是法國文學史上短篇小說創作數量最大、成就最高的作家，三百餘篇短篇小說的巨大創作量在十九世紀文學始終是絕無僅有的。《羊脂球》寫於1880年，是莫泊桑經過長期寫作鍛煉之後達到完全成熟的標志，緊接著這個時期，他如噴泉一樣湧出的一大批中短篇小說，幾乎每年都有數量可觀的精彩之作問世，特別是在前三思念，佳品更是以極大的密集程度出現。
3.馬克·吐溫是美國批判現實主義文學的奠基人，他的主要作品已大多有中文譯本。他經歷了美國從初期資本主義到帝國主義的發展過程，其思想和創作也表現為從輕快調笑到辛辣諷刺再到悲觀厭世的發展階段，前期以辛辣的諷刺見長，到了後期語言更為暴露激烈。被譽為「美國文學史上的林肯」。
4.歐·亨利，20世紀初美國著名短篇小說家，美國現代短篇小說創始人。與法國的莫泊桑、俄國的契訶夫並稱為世界三大短篇小說巨匠。 他少年時曾一心想當畫家，婚後在妻子的鼓勵下開始寫作。後因在銀行供職時的賬目問題而入獄，服刑期間認真寫作，並以「歐·亨利」為筆名發表了大量的短篇小說，引起讀者廣泛關注。他是一位高產的作家，一生中留下了一部長篇小說和近三百篇的短篇小說。他的短篇小說構思精巧，風格獨特，以表現美國中下層人民的生活、語言幽默、結局出人意料（即「歐·亨利式結尾」）而聞名於世。
5.安東·巴甫洛維奇·契(qì)訶（hē）夫 （1860年1月29日－1904年7月15日）是俄國的世界級短篇小說巨匠，是俄國19世紀末期最後一位批判現實主義藝術大師，與莫泊桑和歐·亨利並稱為「世界三大短篇小說家」，是一個有強烈幽默感的作家。他的作品的三大特徵是對丑惡現象的嘲笑與對貧苦人民的深切的同情，並且其作品無情地揭露了沙皇統治下的不合理的社會制度和社會的丑惡現象。他被認為19世紀末俄國現實主義文學的傑出代表。