Song Offerings
A collection of prose translations made by the author from the original Bengali
With an introduction by
W. B. YEATS
TO
WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN
A few days ago I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of medicine, “I know noGerman, yet if a translation of a German poet had moved me, I would go to theBritish Museum and find books in English that would tell me something of hislife, and of the history of his thought. But though these prose translationsfrom Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as nothing has for years, Ishall not know anything of his life, and of the movements of thought that havemade them possible, if some Indian traveller will not tell me.” It seemed tohim natural that I should be moved, for he said, “I read Rabindranath everyday, to read one line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world.” Isaid, “An Englishman living in London in the reign of Richard the Second had hebeen shown translations from Petrarch or from Dante, would have found no booksto answer his questions, but would have questioned some Florentine banker orLombard merchant as I question you. For all I know, so abundant and simple isthis poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country and I shallnever know of it except by hearsay.” He answered, “We have other poets, butnone that are his equal; we call this the epoch of Rabindranath. No poet seemsto me as famous in Europe as he is among us. He is as great in music as inpoetry, and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burma whereverBengali is spoken. He was already famous at nineteen when he wrote his firstnovel; and plays when he was but little older, are still played in Calcutta. Iso much admire the completeness of his life; when he was very young he wrotemuch of natural objects, he would sit all day in his garden; from histwenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he had a greatsorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our language,” and then hesaid with deep emotion, “words can never express what I owed at seventeen tohis love poetry. After that his art grew deeper, it became religious andphilosophical; all the inspiration of mankind are in his hymns. He is the firstamong our saints who has not refused to live, but has spoken out of Lifeitself, and that is why we give him our love.” I may have changed hiswell-chosen words in my memory but not his thought. “A little while ago he wasto read divine service in one of our churches—we of the Brahma Samaj use yourword ‘church’ in English—it was the largest in Calcutta and not only was itcrowded, but the streets were all but impassable because of the people.”
Other Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded strangein our world, where we hide great and little things under the same veil ofobvious comedy and half-serious depreciation. When we were making thecathedrals had we a like reverence for our great men? “Every morning at three—Iknow, for I have seen it”—one said to me, “he sits immovable in contemplation,and for two hours does not awake from his reverie upon the nature of God. Hisfather, the Maha Rishi, would sometimes sit there all through the next day;once, upon a river, he fell into contemplation because of the beauty of thelandscape, and the rowers waited for eight hours before they could continuetheir journey.” He then told me of Mr. Tagore’s family and how for generationsgreat men have come out of its cradles. “Today,” he said, “there areGogonendranath and Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists; and Dwijendranath,