All the chairs faced in one direction. It was a London sitting room, larger than most. The year was 1912.
The speaker was demure, reserved, perhaps disoriented. He felt he had been dropped into a new world, not of his own making. His stature, nonetheless, was tall, imposing to some, even exotic. His white hair and full beard did not create a well-manicured frame.
Inwardly, this was a man still in recovery. During a long sea voyage of some eleven thousand nautical miles and more than two months, he taken up his pen and upon sheets of loose stationary and a schoolroom lined notebook. He had begun to translate.
He was translating his own words. It was a way of moving back into the world of writing. He was translating from the his native Bengali to the language of empire: English.
This man was Rabindranath Tagore.
~~~
“Mr. Tagore” they called him, “Rabindranath” being a name with too many syllables. “Mr. Tagore, do you prefer to stand or sit? Mr. Tagore, here is some water, should you need it.”
Rabindranath Tagore did not need the water, but took a small sip and and then a full swallow. He stood so all could see, but mostly so all could hear. His voice was not at its fullest after his illness. With his throat clear and the water sipped, there was no excuse, but to begin.
His words were not addressed to the audience. Rabindranath Tagore spoke to God:
“Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.”
His memory returned to India.
“This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.”
The stilled room was fill with gentlemen, as well as a scattering of fine women. This is what many would call men of letters, the intelligentsia, society’s finest. They were of a class that Tagore would come to know as the literati, a circle of writers, publishers, poets, the educated and the educators.
~~~
The invitation to read had come from Tagore’s host in England, William Rothenstein, a portrait painter.
“These scribbles were but a timepass while at sea,” Tagore explained, “a medicine to recovery.” As an Indian and as a guest, he could not say no. He offered the small notebook.
That night Rothenstein read and reread the pages of verse. “As poems, they are grand,” he later wrote. “As hymns of praise and devotion, they are fantastic, without equal in our country. We have lost touch. The writings of saints no longer interest us. It has all become stale. But these words should be sung from the steeples, preached from the pulpits. These poems are inspired.”
He had the notebook copied. Three typed manuscripts were passed on to three men of influence and prestige. The first two were enthusiastic. The third was ecstatic. That man was William Butler Yeats, the Irish poet and playwright.
Hastily, Rothenstein arranged a reading in his home. The guests would come to hear Yeats, no doubt, but the words to remember would be those of Tagore.
~~~
“My life,” Tagore read from the concluding lines of his poem, still speaking in humble supplication to God, takes “its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee.”
He looked up, now back in the sitting room.
There was silence.
The reading was concluded. Mr. Tagore was thanked for his attendance and they moved on to the next order of business.
Rabindranath drank what remained of his water. He sat in his chair, but could not hear. He looked towards Yeats, who sat opposite, and beyond.
“They are insulted,” he thought. “I have mangled their great language. They see me as a colonial imposter, not of their style, their circle, their eloquence.”
What applause there was, was polite, muffled by gloves. There were no comments, no handshakes or smiles.
“They cannot hear the truth because my words are awkward, impolite, ill-mannered. It is my fault, not theirs.”
~~~
But then it came the next day. Slowly. First there were notes delivered in the morning post. Short letters, then discreet visits, warm handshakes, shy sideways compliments, followed by full praise.
“They are English,” Yeats explained. “They were overwhelmed into silence. They are English, you see. As poets, like you, they feel deeply, but they are not the ones who can shout “bravo!” or “encore!” Be assured: in their reserve, your words resonate.”
Yeats later wrote, “We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics — all dull things in the doing — while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilisation itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity.
“When he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints:
“They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.”
~~~
Did Rabindranath Tagore write home, reporting to friend or family in Kolkata? In our imagination we can hear him:
I do not remember ever hearing English for such a long time without interruption. And on top of that, it was my own words.
Mr. Yeats reads well. He is used to public speaking. He commands the stage and has the respect of his audience. But still, it might have been better if they had interrupted, spoken out, stopped it all, or at least smiled or frowned. It was like a wall, the blank faces. Boos and calls would have been better than that silence. But once started, there was no other course.
The evening was entirely Mr. Rothenstein’s doing, but Yeats was instrumental. He drew the audience and carried the weight. Mr. Yeats also read from my Gitanjali, but only selected poems of his choosing, each translated by myself. As I listened, I also edited and retranslated in my head.
“Not that word, another, but there is no English, Bengali knows the nuance, English is so broad.”
I don’t think they knew what to make of me. Even in India, my height sometimes brings some people to a standstill. I am odd in their eyes. In London, my kurta and shawl, my dark skin are added. My beard hides me. My accent bites at their language.
“Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.” Mr. Yeats reading is both commanding and humble. He understands.
“There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait.”
But do they understand, these men of English, published critics and essayists themselves? Do they know God?
“At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut, but if I find that yet there is time.”
Was there applause? It was slow in coming. It was polite. I have heard more clapping at the worst of my plays. With an Indian audience you know where you stand.
The words were also few and formal. “We wish to thank Mr. Tagore for being with us today, for sharing his poetry and his time.” Do they thank or do they wish to thank? I understand their language, but I do not understand the English.
Mr. Rothenstein walked with me afterwards on the heath. William is a kind and welcoming man. You can see it in his art. He said not to bother. The English are not expressive, he explained. Their hearts are not given full reign. Perhaps they will come around.
And then the next day it started. A letter or two arrived, simple notes and cards really. “I did not know what to say.” “Your words left me speechless.” “It was an honour to be present in the room.”
These English are another sort. To the face they cannot say, but with a pen in hand, they can express the feelings of their hearts. It is also the way of the writer, so I should understand. Sometimes I am the same.
Mr. Yeats says he reads my Gitanjali on the railway platform, upon the omnibus, at any spare moment, but quickly hides the book from view, lest some onlooker should see that he has been moved. Will they think less of him if they see a tear? Should they also not want that world?
Mr. Yeats has said the finest thing. My heart soars with his words. He calls my poetry a gift to English literature. He says Gitanjali is not simply an Indian voice, strange and far, but our voice. By “our voice” he mean the English, the Irish, the English-speaking world. He says I will be a bridge between East and West. What finer gift can I bear? It is all God’s doing.
~~~
In today’s world, it may seem unlikely that Indian devotional poetry would be prized as literature in the West.
Lines that describe homesick cranes flying back to their nest as a metaphor for mankind’s return to God are potent. What more need be said about life?
But in 1913, the West did have an answer. In one glorious moment of recognition, it awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature to Rabindranath Tagore.
Guided to nomination by William Butler Yeats, the Nobel committee saw Gitanjali not as a translation from an already published Bengali volume, something that would have made it ineligible for consideration, but as an entirely new work created in English. It was a creative interpretation of their own rules, just as Tagore had reworked his own words for a new medium.
~~~
Tagore’s gift to the West was received. And the answer was a resounding “Thank You.”
Tagore told them of their True Self and of a promised land they all shared.
It seems that English was indeed a worthy vehicle for such devotion.
~~~
~~~
Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore is available as a paperback and hardcover book here.
The fictional novel For Want of Wonders retells some of the same story of Tagore in London, in the context of a broader story of spiritual seeking. The book is available here.
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