echo to die away.  In this austerity of concentration the German “Novelle,” the one rigidly artistic form of German prose, is related to the “Short Story” which has been so eagerly heralded in recent times, especially by America.  The “Novelle” differs, however, from this form of literary composition, which Maupassant cultivated with the most masterly and unrivaled success, by its subordination to a climax; whereas the Short Story, in reality, is usually a condensed novel, that is to say, the history of a development concentrated in a few incidents.  Our literature also possesses such short “sketches,” but the love of psychological detail in the development of the plot nearly always results in the greater diffuseness of the novel.  The real “Novelle” is, however, at least as typical of the Germans as the Short Story is of the Americans, and in no other form of literary composition has Germany produced so many masters as in this—­and in the lyric.  For the latter is closely related to the German “Novelle” because it loves to invest the way to and from the culminating point with the charm produced by a certain mood, as the half-German Bret Harte loves to do in similar artistic studies, but the Russian Tschechow never indulges himself in, and the Frenchman Maupassant but seldom.  On this account our best writers of “Novellen” have also been, almost without exception, eminent lyric poets; such were Goethe, Tieck, Eichendorff, Moerike, Keller, Heyse, Theodor Storm and C.F.  Meyer; whereas, in the case of Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach, who otherwise would form an exception, even what appears to be a “Novelle” is in reality a “small novel.”

The novel, on the contrary, still enjoys in Germany the dangerous privilege of formlessness.  In its language it varies from the vague lyric of romantic composition to the bureaucratic sobriety of mechanically-compiled studies of real life.  In its outline, in the rhythm of its construction, in the division of its parts and the way in which they are brought into relief, it has, in spite of masterly individual performances, never attained a specific literary form, such as has long been possessed by the English and the French novels.  Likewise the inclination, sanctioned by Goethe and the Romantic school, to interpolate specimens of the least formed half-literary genres—­namely, letters and diaries—­worked against the adoption of a fixed form, notwithstanding that this expedient augmented the great—­often indeed too great—­inner richness of the German novel.  Thus the German novel, as well as the so justly favorite form of letters and diaries, is of infinitely more importance as a human or contemporary “document” than as a direct work of art.  We have, however, already drawn attention to the fact that the never-failing efforts to clothe the novel in a more esthetically pure form have, in our own day, happily increased.