Tue Wreck. By Rabindranath Tagore.
(Macmillan. 8s. 6d. net.)
The ordinary English reader must put himself into ai certain lracod if he is to enjoy this novel. By the ordinary English reader we mean one who knows India only by hearsay and who has not even been well broken in by a course of Tagore the poet to submit to "Tagore the novelist. But probably that ordinary person does not put himself into the mood: it is the book that does that, or fails with him utterly. The present reviewer confesses to being no worshipper of Tagore, thought interested afar off. But the queer, slow, distant charm of this story is not to be resisted. There are moments when the distance becomes too great, and the whole thing is blurred: our fault; not Tagore's. Do we ever know this people of such different race? Not really, but we recognize here and there the common root of them and ourselves, or, unrecognizing, are glad of the difference. It is a restful book to drift through, though we felt it too long. It has a queer plot. Two bridegrooms neither of whom had seen his bride, were wrecked as they sailed down the river on the bridal night. Afterwards Ramesh, the English-taught lawyer, imagined pretty Kamala te be his wife, whereas—but "whereas" is the story, which is so slowly unfolded, with glimpses of quiet poetic beauty, and charming touches of tenderness and gentle human affections. Strange and remote it all is, but curiously healing in its remoteness if one happens to be tired by fiction that is too near and actual.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.