Rabindra Sangeet and European Musical Tradition

We often hear the question, How much was Rabindranath Tagore recognized in Europe, and why
is it that today he is no longer admired there as greatly as before?

Before answering this question we need to answer another one. The question is- how much do
we, the Bengalis, know Rabindranath? Rabindranath’s poetic genius, playwriting skill,
philosophical thought, sovereign religious sentiment, novelist's vision, scientific curiosity,
traditional effort of educating, grammatical inquisitiveness- keeping all these in mind, leaving
aside the question of portraying everything together in a unified, complete form of Rabindranath
in the heart and mind—how many Bengalis have even recognized him fully in the very sphere
where he surpassed all poets of India and indeed the world?

Let’s take poetry for example. Here, we see many are reluctant to fly the wings of “Balaka” by
going beyond their imagination in their imaginary world, many are satisfied to call the wife
“Mohua” after reaching “Mohua”, and few fearless connoisseur are willing to give company the
poet in sickbed. My purpose is not to blame anyone: I myself do not find any essence in
Gurudeb's prose and poetry. So, we all are joyfully seeing these like the blind men and the
elephant- but our deep condolence is that most of the blind of the world are not even a finger’s
width eager to give up their own staff in order to gain the faintest glimpse of the greater world.

It is also pointless to claim that whether or not we have received the full essence of
Rabindranath’s poetry, we have at least grasped the central tune of his poetic world. I recall that
at a literary gathering of Visva-Bharati, a young writer once read an excellent essay in which he
pointed out two principal similarities between the poetry of Rabindranath and that of Kalidas —
he said that both Rabindranath and Kalidas were poets of the monsoon and of love. When the
reading was over, the poet himself, presiding over the event, praised the essay highly and
remarked, ‘Although these two similarities are indeed undeniable, the question remains— except
these two themes, what could any Indian poet possibly have written about?’ Rabindranath
expressed his opinion with characteristic grace. After so many years, relying solely on memory
to reproduce his exact words would not be a mark of “literary honesty” on my part, but the gist
was somewhat like this: Raphael painted Madonnas, and the artists of Ajanta also painted mother
and child—yet how far apart are the true depths of the two?

In other words, if the central strain of Rabindranath’s poetry were truly of this simple order, then
it would have no real value.
(At this point it may seem irrelevant to add a remark, yet omitting it would perhaps be unfair to
the essayist. Although, in Rabindranath’s view, the essay had merely proved a self-evident fact
and thus demonstrated its own inadequacy, the other members of the gathering did not share that
opinion, and any student of Visva-Bharati would have felt gratified to have written such an
essay.)

But the greatest and sweetest flowering of Rabindranath’s poetic genius is in his songs.
Rabindranath himself used to say that in his songs he had even surpassed Nature, and he
expressed that pride in a song with very few words:
‘If you have brought it to me today, you may not bring it tomorrow—
Your flower-laden branch will then be empty.
This song of mine is for monsoon
When the floods of forgetfulness from your stream overflow,
The little boat will keep returning, bearing your honor.’

Just the kadam blossom! how insignificant a beauty of Nature, and yet, like the lofty hopes and
aspirations of human beings, their small sorrows and poverty, these too, touched by
Rabindranath’s musical philosopher’s stone, have attained a golden, perfect, eternal form. And in
the future—if I may borrow the language of the Catholics—they will be canonized, and for
generations will draw the reverent homage of the tender Bengali heart.

And yet it is also true that today only a very small number of Bengalis have had the good fortune
to listen even to two hundred and fifty of Rabindranath’s twenty-five hundred songs.

So, does this mean that we have not adequately recognized Rabindranath’s poetic genius? That is
not true either. All this while we were merely making the Bengali Yudhishthira behold his own
hell, and at the same time trying to remind him that if it is so difficult even for Bengalis to know
Rabindranath fully, then for non-Bengalis—especially for the Europeans, whether English or
German—it is utterly impossible.

After the First World War, when Rabindranath went to Europe, he received royal honors—
especially in Germany. The accounts of that reception are carefully preserved in various
languages in the Visva-Bharati library.

Later, Rabindranath visited Germany again, in 1930. He delivered a lecture in the grand hall of
the University of Marburg. On the occasion of some university jubilee, scholars from all over
Germany had gathered there; all of them were present at that event. Rabindranath read an essay
in English on religion. Professor Otto translated the lecture into German. The audience listened
to the reading as if spellbound, and when it ended, the wave of enthusiastic applause that arose is
beyond anything I can express in words.

That very afternoon I went to the bookstores of Marburg to find out which works of
Rabindranath were available in German translation. I was astonished when I heard the list—
Gitanjali, The Gardener, Chitra, The Post Office, Sadhana, and Nationalism! With just these few
books, and a single lecture heard in English, the Germans were so deeply impressed! It was my
firm belief then, and remains so even now, that by reading only these few works in English or in
German, it is impossible to grasp Rabindranath’s true greatness.

It was then that I became convinced that Germany’s enthusiasm for Rabindranath would not last
long. The devotional songs of Gitanjali may dazzle the German mind, the love poems of The
Gardener may cast their spell, and the essays of Sadhana may flash like streaks of lightning. But
for this admiration to endure, translations of Rabindranath’s greater and greatest works are
indispensable.
However, no one undertook any extensive translation project. Investigating the reasons for this
would require considerable research. For now, let me only express the greatest sorrow.

Germany has songs that are exactly like Rabindranath’s songs, and they are greatly cherished by
the Germans. These are called Lieder, and many German vocalists travel to Paris and London
every year solely to sing them. Some of these Lieder have lyrics authored by poets like Goethe
and music composed by composers like Beethoven.

My personal belief is that in Rabindranath’s songs there is a fusion of Goethe and Beethoven.
Because these two modes of creation were brought together in his music, Rabindrasangeet is far
superior to the German Lieder. The subtlety of feeling, the expansiveness of imagination, and—
most especially—the inseparable, intertwined unity of melody and word, an Ardhanarishvara-
like oneness, have appeared in no other song or Lied of the world to this day in the way they
appear in Rabindranath’s music.

Setting the Bengalis aside, it is Germany alone that could truly appreciate the real worth of
Rabindrasangeet.
No extensive translation was undertaken, and not even Rabindranath’s songs were sung in
German voices.
So the seven-day enchantment faded by the eighth day. Yet I remain firmly convinced that the
day a translator-poet like Satyendranath Dutta is born in Europe, that day Europe will—
‘Come to know him, truly come to know him.’