by Ruskin Bond
The Rupa Book of
LOVE STORIES
By the same author:
Angry River
A Little Night Music
A Long Walk for Bina
Hanuman to the Rescue
Ghost Stories from the Raj
Strange Men, Strange Places
The India I Love
Tales and Legends from India
The Blue Umbrella
Ruskin Bond's Children's Omnibus
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-I
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-II
The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-III
Rupa Book of Great Animal Stories
The Rupa Book of True Tales of Mystery and Adventure
The Rupa Book of Ruskin Bond's Himalayan Tales
The Rupa Book of Great Suspense Stories
The Rupa Laughter Omnibus
The Rupa Book of Scary Stories
The Rupa Book of Haunted Houses
The Rupa Book of Travellers' Tales
The Rupa Book of Great Crime Stories
The Rupa Book of Nightmare Tales
The Rupa Book of Shikar Stories
The Rupa Book of Love Stories
The Rupa Book of Wicked Stories
The Rupa Book of Heartwarming Stories
The Rupa Book of Thrills and Spills
The Rupa Book of
LOVE STORIES
Edited by
Ruskin Bond
copyright © Rupa & Co. 2004
Selection and Introduction Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2004
First Published 2004
This edition 2010
Second Impression 2011
Published by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj,
New Delhi 110 002
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Contents
Introduction
We Must Love Someone
The Lotus and the Bee
FROM THE SANSKRIT
Medieval Tale
BY A. LL. OWEN
Happiness
BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT
The Box Tunnel
BY CHARLES READE
Maru
BY H. DE VERE STACPOOLE
The Love of the Prince of Glottenburg
BY ANTHONY HOPE
Mary Ansell
BY MARTIN ARMSTRONG
Laylá and Majnún
BY NIZAMI
The Pillar of Heliodoros
ANONYMOUS
The Poison Maid
BY RICHARD GARNETT
The Nightingale and the Rose
BY OSCAR WILDE
The Girl Called Marie
BY PETER TIZACK
The Gift of the Magi
BY O. HENRY
The Folder
BY NOEL LANGLEY
The Duenna
BY MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES
Binya Passes By
BY RUSKIN BOND
Love and Cricket
BY RUSKIN BOND
The Patang-Wallah
BY JAISHANKAR KALA
Introduction
Why do so many great love stories end in sadness or tragedy? Whether it's Laila and Majnu, Romeo and Juliet, Sohni and Mehar, Antony and Cleopatra, or the star-crossed lovers of operas such as Carmen or Tosca, hero and heroine seem doomed to dying in each other's arms. Happy endings are hard to come by. And would they have been happy, these passionate beings, if all had gone well and there had been no opposition to their union? Romeo and Juliet might well have become bored with each other after a couple of years of marriage; Laila might have been disenchanted with Majnu; and Carmen, with her fiery temper, would certainly have been a handful for any husband. The authors were perhaps wise to end on a final high note, albeit a tragic one. As Wilde said, "Marriage is a romance in which the hero dies in the first chapter."
Perhaps, that's why few great love stories are about married life. 'And they lived happily ever after' is such a convenient ending!
Another appeal of the tragic love story is that it leaves the doomed lovers forever young. They are trapped in time—always youthful, always beautiful, always passionate. Had the amorous poet Shelley died an old man, we would not have such a romantic notion of him. But for the passionate young man to be drowned at sea—that gave him an added dimension! Juliet with wrinkles and Romeo limping from arthritis would be fatal to their appeal. If you want to be immortal, die young, like Alexander and his Persian boy; or Isadora Duncan, or Lola Montez. Only Casanova lived to a considerable age, and in his lifetime he was better known as a swindler than as a lover.
However, this is a collection of fiction, and Cleopatra and her like must wait for another anthology. Although it is impossible to avoid the tragic, I have gone out of my way to track down a number of cheerful love stories in order to counter-balance those that end sadly or in despair.
We do not usually think of Maupassant as a cheerful writer (he took his own life, remember), but in his short story Happiness he makes a departure from his more morbid themes and gives us a picture of true love lasting into old age
Clarles Reade wrote a classic novel, The Cloister and the Hearth. In his story The Box Tunnel, he takes us on a train journey during the early days of rail travel. A gallant soldier makes a bet that he will kiss an unknown lady when they enter a tunnel. Naturally, complications ensue.
Another happy story is Noel Langley's The Folder, set in the lobby of a fashionable hotel. You can see why he was such a good playwright, and why his screenplay for the film The Wizard of Oz, helped to make it an all-time favourite.
A bit of magic there, as in many of these stories, including O. Henry's evergreen The Gift of the Magi and Richard Garnett's off-beat The Poison Maid set in ancient times.
H. de vere Stacpoole was a romantic who chose for his settings the islands of the South Seas. A great favourite with me when I was a boy, was his most famous novel The Blue Lagoon. In Maru, a bitter-sweet romance of the Pacific islands, he takes us back to his favourite milieu, the coral reefs and lagoons he knew so well.
Anthony Hope's historical romances were bestsellers in their time. He was best-known for his novel, The Prisoner of Zenda, which was filmed at least four times—once as a silent film, then with Ronald Colman in the lead, followed by Stewart Granger, and finally done as a spoof by Peter Sellers. Anthony Hope gave up a successful legal career in order to devote all his time to writing. His heart lay in medieval romance, as his story testifies.
The Pillar Of Heliodoros has not appeared in any previous collection or anthology. I discovered it in an old magazine and have edited it slightly. It's an unusual tale, set in a period of Indian history that is largely unfamiliar to the modern reader.
One fact that has struck me while compiling this anthology is that there are comparatively few short love stories written by women. It's not that women don't write about love; but they seem to prefer the medium of the novel for this purpose. Jane Austen, the Brontes, George Eliot, all wrote great novels of love and passion, but they needed the broad canvas of the novel in which to express themselves. With two or three exceptions, it was men who dominated the short story form.
In poetry, however, some of the most exquisite love poems have been written by women. My own favourite is Christina Rosetti, and I never tire of turning to her poems, such as this one, called Remember:
>
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve;
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
My own inclinations towards romantic literature stem from an early familiarity with the poetry of Emily Brontë, Mary Coleridge, and, Christina Rosetti; not forgetting the operas of Puccini, and the operettas and musicals of the 20th century, from Rose Marie to The Phantom of the Opera. For all the great musical librettos are based on love stories, whether it be Carmen's love for Don Jose (based on Prosper Merrimee's novella) or the mad phantom's love for Christine (based on Gaston Leroux's novel).
The love story provides the libretto, the libretto inspires the music.
And if music be the food of love, play on!
March, 2004
Ruskin Bond
Landour, Mussoorie
We Must Love Someone
We must love someone
If we are to justify
Our presence on this earth.
We must keep loving all our days,
Someone, anyone, anywhere
Outside our selves;
For even the sarus crane
Will grieve over its lost companion,
And the seal its mate.
Somewhere in life
There must be someone
To take your hand
And share the torrid day.
Without the touch of love
There is no life, and we must fade away.
Ruskin Bond
March 22, 2004
The Lotus and the Bee
FROM THE SANSKRIT
Princess, once upon a time a young and handsome bee, that had till then grown up at home and been fed by his parents, set out for the first time in his life on an expedition to fetch flower-nectar for the purpose of making honey. And attracted by its fragrance he flew to a red lotus, growing on a pool in the forest, and was about to drain her of her sweetness. But the lotus closed her flower, and would not let him enter, saying: O bee, you come here, after the manner of your kind, insolently pushing into me, and seeking to rob me of my nectar, expecting to get all for nothing. Learn that you must buy my nectar of me. Then the bee buzzed and said: What shall I give you for it? What is there that you can want? Is it not enough for you to blow and bloom on this pool, scenting the air? Then the lotus said: There is still something wanting. Out upon you, foolish bee; You, a bee, not to know what I want! Go away, and find out, and then come back to me, if you want any of my nectar.
Then the bee buzzed violently in anger, and flew away, to find out what the lotus wanted. And he saw a beetle busily grubbing in the earth at the foot of a tree. So he said: O beetle, tell me what the lotus wants. But the beetle answered: What is a lotus to me? Go elsewhere; I have no leisure. So the bee flew off and saw a spider, spinning a web in a branch. And he asked him. And the spider said: What she wants is doubtless a fly. But the bee thought: It cannot be a fly. This spider judges others by himself. And seeing a cloud floating in the air above him, he flew up and asked it: O cloud, what does the lotus want? The cloud said: Raindrops. So the bee flew back and offered water to the lotus. But she said: I get that from the cloud and from the pool, not from you. Try again. So he flew away, and saw a sunbeam playing on a blade of grass, and asked it what the lotus wanted. The sunbeam said: Warmth. So the bee flew back bringing with him a fire-fly, and tried to warm the lotus. But she said: I get warmth from the sun, not from you. Try again. Then the bee flew off again, and saw an owl blinking in a tree; and he buzzed in his ear and roused him, and said: O owl, tell me what the lotus wants. The owl said: Sleep. And the bee flew back, and said to the lotus: I will lull you to sleep by humming to you, and fanning you with my wings. But the lotus answered: I get sleep from the night, not from you. Try again.
Then the bee in despair flew away, crying aloud: What in the world can this niggardly and capricious lotus want of me? And as fate would have it, his cry was overheard by an old hermit, who lived in the forest, and knew the language of all beasts and birds. And he called to the bee, and said: O thou dull-witted bee, this is what the lotus wants: and he told him. Then the bee was delighted, and flew away to the lotus, and gave her what she wanted. And she opened her flower, and he went in and stole her nectar.
Now tell me, Princess, what did the bee give the lotus? And the Princess blushed, and said: He gave her a kiss.
Medieval Tale
BY A. LL. OWEN
There was a youth, and he loved a maiden.
And men behoove to take heed of a maiden, for a maiden be pliant, and demure, and she speaketh small. And in external disposition she is comely. And though her eyelashes be never so low on her cheek, she is aware of all.
And the youth was poor.
And the youth wandered in wood in winter, and was wondrous wan. And he saw before him a tree. And he saw peaches on the tree. And though it was winter, yet they were ripe.
And men behoove to take heed of a peach, for when it is ripe, and it is bitten, it is the way of its juice to drip.
And the youth plucked the peaches, and he put them in a basket, and he took them to the king, so that he should be rewarded for so rare a fruit.
And men behoove to take of a king, for though the stomach be never so wambly of a morning, and there be beating and clouting in the head, and the sight darkle: when a king laugheth, men must laugh. And when a king frowneth, men must frown, though the heart be never so merry, and laughter bumble in breast.
And the youth came to the palace, and he hailed the porter.
And men behoove to take heed of a porter at a palace, for where he standeth, all men must come to him, and go from him. And to the baser sort of men he is a genial menial, but his mirth is privy to him, for he jests as it were from a height, and of a sudden he glareth, and claps to the window. And they can wait, else they pay a fee.
And the youth said, Open, for I have peaches for the king. And the porter said, Yea, thou has peaches for the king, though it be winter. And he stared, and said, Verily, thou hast peaches for the king. And he said, Thou comest with peaches, and thou goest with gold. And he said, Give me a third of the reward, or else thou shalt not enter.
And the youth was sad, and grew cold. And the youth said, Yea.
And the porter admitted the youth, and he called an usher.
And men behoove to take heed of an usher, for he listens not nor stirs, but he picketh teeth when asked for guidance; yet a lord he taketh to the king with strutting, and he calls the lord's name bravely. And to the poor he shows his palm as it were secretly, and he rubbeth fingers. And he walks as though they were not with him. And the usher said to the youth, Pay me a third of what the king giveth thee. And the youth said, Yea.
And the usher took him to a steward.
And men behoove to take heed of a steward, for a steward hath charge of another's goods, and he must answer for them. And he prepares his answers shrewdly, for what is not missed is to the owner as if it were not; yet it is under the steward's pillow. And the steward said to the youth, Give me a third of what the king giveth thee. And the youth said, Yea.
And the youth knelt before the king, and he gave the peaches to the king. And the king was content, and he said to the youth, How shall I reward thee?
And the youth said, O king, though thou givest me in thousands what I ask for, yet thou wilt not be ever the poorer.
And the king said, An amiable youth, and
clever. And the king said, What thou asketh, I shall give.
And the youth said, O king, I ask for thirty lashes with a cord. And the cord should be well knotted, and lithe with the grease of bears. And the man who shall wield the cord must be an eater of beef, and in his heart there should be rancour to all men.
And the king looked ghastful. And he said, What manner of gift is this?
And the youth told him that a third of it was for the porter, and a third for the usher, and a third for the steward.
And the king listened. And the king said, I have armies on my frontiers, and when I cough, it is a great cough, and it hath many meanings. And he said, Yet there is villainy in mine own kitchen.
And he said, Call the porter, and the usher, and the steward. And he said, Call him whom men call Samsoun.
And the villainy was corrected.
And the king said to the youth, Thou hast been rewarded for the peaches, but thou shalt be rewarded for unmasking villainy. And the king said, Yea, though they were grown men, wondrous high were their songsters' voices. And the king said, Yea, it was as though a throat could whelp a cry. And the queen said, Look, for they sitteth in the moat. And the king's hands shook as he gave gold to the youth, so that the youth was rewarded overmuch.
And the youth returned to his home, and he showed to the maiden and to the father of the maiden his gold.
And the maiden became more pliant, and more demure, and more comely than before, and more small of voice.
Happiness
BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT
Guy de Maupassant (1850–1893), though one of the world's supreme "artists of the short story," was only forty-three when he died. His life of tragic misfortune is reflected in the cynicism and morbidity of many of his tales. "Happiness," however, reveals De Maupassant in a more optimistic mood. The story is told with such delicate perception that this simple romance becomes a living human document.
It was tea-time before the lights were brought in. The sky was all rosy with sunset and shimmering with gold dust. The villa looked down upon the Mediterranean, which lay without ripple or quiver, like a vast sheet of burnished metal, smooth and shining in the fading daylight. The irregular outline of the distant mountains on the right stood out black against the pale purple background of the western sky.