We are about to sail for Norway and Sweden, and for some weeks you may not hear from me. Never imagine any disaster happening to us; for if it does happen, the news will reach you without any effort on my part. The weather is wet and cold, and your people are trying to convince me that it is unusual for this time of the year, but that brings me no consolation. The last wet summer when I was in Europe I heard the same remark; this makes me suspect that the wetness and the remark on it are both usual for your climate!
There is a settled atmosphere of pessimistic gloom in the minds of all Indians we meet, which makes me feel hopeful of a change of psychology in our country which is greatly needed. All our attention must come back to our own resources, and the insults and disappointments which give a proper direction to our straying energies are welcome.
The enclosed letter I wrote to a great Russian artist. Show it to Nanda Lal and give him my blessings.
“Your pictures, which I saw in your room in London and some reproductions of your pictures which appeared in some Art Journal, profoundly moved me. They made me realise one thing which is obvious and yet which one needs to discover for oneself over and over again; it is that Truth is infinite. When I tried to find words to describe to myself what were the ideas which your pictures suggested, I failed. It was because the language of words can only express a particular aspect of truth, and the language of pictures finds its domain in truth where words have no access. Each art achieves its perfection when it opens for our mind the special gate of the infinite, whose key is in its exclusive possession. When a picture is great, we should not be able to say what it is, yet we should see it and know. It is the same with music. When one art can fully be explained by another, then it is a failure. Your pictures are distinct and yet are not definable by words. Your art is jealous of its independence, because it is great.”