I am writing this from Strasbourg where I am going to read my lecture at the University this evening.
I miss you very much at this moment; for I feel certain that it would overwhelm you with happiness could you be with me now, realising the great outburst of love for me in the continental countries of Europe which I have visited. I have never asked for it, or striven for it, and I never can believe that I have deserved it. However, if it be more than is due to me, I am in no way responsible for this mistake. For I could have remained perfectly happy in my obscurity to the end of my days, on the banks of the Ganges, with the wild ducks as my only neighbours on the desolate sand islands.
“I have only sown dreams in the air,” for the greater part of my life, and I never turned back to see if they bore any harvest. But the harvest now surprises me, almost obstructs my path, and I cannot make up my mind to claim it for my own. All the same, it is a great good fortune to be accepted by one’s fellow-beings from across the distance of geography, history and language; and through this fact we realise how truly one is the mind of Man, and what aberrations are the conflicts of hatred and the competitions of self-interest.
We are going to Switzerland to-morrow and our next destination will be Germany. I am to spend my birth-day this year in Zurich. I have had my second birth in the West, and there is rejoicing at the event. But by nature all men are dwija or twice born—first they are born to their home, and then, for their further fulfilment, they have to be born to the larger world. Do you not feel yourself, that you have had your second birth among us? And with this second birth, you have found your true place in the heart of humanity.
It is a beautiful town, this Strasbourg—and to-day the morning light is beautiful. The sunshine has mingled with my blood and tinged my thoughts with its gold, and I feel ready to sing,—
“Brothers, let us squander this morning with futile songs.”
This is a delightful room where I am sitting now, with its windows looking over the fringe of the Black Forest. Our hostess is a charming lady, with a fascinating little baby, whose plump fingers love to explore the mystery of my eye-glasses.
We have a number of Indian students in this place, among whom is Lala Harkishen Lal’s son, who asks me to send you his respectful regards. He is a fine young man, frank and cheerful, loved by his teachers.
We have missed this week’s letters which are now evidently lost beyond recovery. It is difficult for me to forgive the Mediterranean for doing me this disservice! The present week’s mail is due, and if Thos. Cook and Son are prompt about it we shall find our letters to-day! *