FICTION
THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1924
WHATZVER else can be said of the American short-story writers represented in this annual collection, it must be conceded that they are very dexterous and sure of themselves ; their lkeliness of:touch is wonderful, ;their talent, undoubted. Yet it is impossible to suggest that there is more than a transitory interest in any one of their tales. Perhaps it was a bad year for short stories ; there is nothing, for instance, by Sherwood Anderson, Joseph Hergesheinier, Konrad Bereovici, or Katherine Gerould—a contemporary antholcigy without them is like an accompaniment without the singers—and Mr. O'Brien's well-known dictum, " a year which produced one great shbrt story would be a - remarkable one,- finds a very negative exemplification indeed. The origin of an fiction is, of course, the folk-tale, the ancient short story : the novel is but a modern amplification of this original, and it is wrong to imagine that in the matter of substance there is any fundamental difference between them, or that the short story is a mere illegitimate offspring of the novel. Char- din, Van Ostade, and Albrecht Direr are great artists in their own right as much as Holbein or Botticelli ; Herrick and Burns are as fine as Spenser and Shelley. How curious to note that as our poems got shorter our tales grew longer ! Now, the point in which most of these stories fail is that in respect of literary substance they are mainly anecdotal. Whoever met an American who was not choke full of anecdotes ? That feature is reflected in the literature collected here, which is full of small stories and the click of the machine. O. Henry has done his deadly work. There are things which have point, but have no life, such as " Grudges," by Rupert Hughes ; and others which have life but no point, like" The Cracked Teapot," by Charles Caldwell Dobie, or "Nocturne," by Roger Sergel. Fortunately, most of the stories here fall into the second category, a hopeful sign, although it must be conceded that the cleverest story in the book, " Billy," by Mildred Cram, falls markedly into the first. It is about a world-famous comic film actor who longs for quietude, retreat from his exacerbating publicity, some opportunity to meditate upon Hamlet ! He learns of a remote coral island, whose natives have never seen or heard of him, where also resides an austere scientist who has been there for twenty years unselfishly prosecuting studies for the benefit of mankind. Billy goes to the island and is left there for six months. All is exactly as outlined, no one regards him, he is a nonentity. But soon he misses the general acclaim, and to restore the faith in himself he gives a show to the islanders. Everybody succumbs forthwith to his comic wizardry, and when Billy at last goes home even the scientist accompanies him—to be his Man Friday on the films ! There is a satire about this story which puts it on a higher level than anything elge in 'the book.'
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