London, 8 May 1875
My dear Theo,
Thanks for your last letter. How is the patient? I’d already heard from Pa that she was ill, but I didn’t know that it was as bad as you said.
Write to me about this soon, if you will. Yes, old boy, ‘what shall we say?’
C.M. and Mr Tersteeg were here and left again last Saturday. In my opinion they went a little too often to the Crystal Palace and other places that didn’t concern them. It seems to me they could also have come and seen where I lived.
You ask about Anna, but we’ll discuss that another time.
I hope and believe that I’m not what many think me to be at present, we’ll see, we have to give it time; people will probably say the same about you in a couple of years; at least if you continue to be what you are: my brother in two senses of the word.
Regards, and my regards to the patient. With a handshake,
Vincent
To act on the world one must die to oneself. The people that makes itself the missionary of a religious thought has no other country henceforth than that thought.
Man is not placed on the earth merely to be happy; nor is he placed here merely to be honest, he is here to accomplish great things through society, to arrive at nobleness, and to outgrow the vulgarity in which the existence of almost all individuals drags on.
Renan
Saturday
Between 13 and 18 April, 1875
London, April 1875
My dear Theo,
I’m sending you herewith a small drawing. I made it last Sunday, the morning a daughter (13 years old) of my landlady died.
It’s a view of Streatham Common, a large, grass-covered area with oak trees and broom.
It had rained in the night, and the ground was soggy here and there and the young spring grass fresh and green.
As you see, it’s scribbled on the title page of the ‘Poesies d’Edmond Roche’.
There are beautiful ones among them, serious and sad, including one that begins and ends
Sad and alone, I climbed the sad, bare dune,
Where the sea keens its ceaseless moaning plaint,
The dune where dies the wide unfurling wave,
Drab path that winds and winds upon itself again.
and another, ‘Calais’
How I love to see you once again, o my native town,
Dear sea nymph seated at the waters’ edge!
I love the soaring spire of your bell-tower,
Lovely in its boldness and its elegance,
Its fretted cupola, through which we see the sky.
You’ll probably be curious about what goes with the etching by Corot and so I’ve copied that out as well.
The pond
to Corot
We watched the pond, its water leaden, drear,
Form crease upon crease slowly in the breeze,
And the mud, enfolding in a softened line
The prow and black sides of a boat aground;
The woods’ high crown, leaf by fallen leaf,
Lay strewn upon the ground; the sky was filled with mist;
We two, in whispers, almost furtively,
Were sadly saying, ‘Summer’s past:
These slopes have lost their accustomed grace;
No more green foliage, no more golden light
Trembling in the trembling water or touching tops with gold!’
This idyll may yet come before our eyes again,
If you would have it so: are you not the master
Who re-created it after its first creator’s hand?
Ville-d’Avray
Warm regards, and I wish you the best. Adieu
Vincent
My dear Theo,
I’m sending you herewith a small drawing. I made it last Sunday, the morning a daughter (13 years old) of my landlady died.
It’s a view of Streatham Common, a large, grass-covered area with oak trees and broom.
It had rained in the night, and the ground was soggy here and there and the young spring grass fresh and green.
As you see, it’s scribbled on the title page of the ‘Poesies d’Edmond Roche’.
There are beautiful ones among them, serious and sad, including one that begins and ends
Sad and alone, I climbed the sad, bare dune,
Where the sea keens its ceaseless moaning plaint,
The dune where dies the wide unfurling wave,
Drab path that winds and winds upon itself again.
and another, ‘Calais’
How I love to see you once again, o my native town,
Dear sea nymph seated at the waters’ edge!
I love the soaring spire of your bell-tower,
Lovely in its boldness and its elegance,
Its fretted cupola, through which we see the sky.
You’ll probably be curious about what goes with the etching by Corot and so I’ve copied that out as well.
The pond
to Corot
We watched the pond, its water leaden, drear,
Form crease upon crease slowly in the breeze,
And the mud, enfolding in a softened line
The prow and black sides of a boat aground;
The woods’ high crown, leaf by fallen leaf,
Lay strewn upon the ground; the sky was filled with mist;
We two, in whispers, almost furtively,
Were sadly saying, ‘Summer’s past:
These slopes have lost their accustomed grace;
No more green foliage, no more golden light
Trembling in the trembling water or touching tops with gold!’
This idyll may yet come before our eyes again,
If you would have it so: are you not the master
Who re-created it after its first creator’s hand?
Ville-d’Avray
Warm regards, and I wish you the best. Adieu
Vincent
Thursday
April 6, 1875
[Letterhead: Strand London]
6 April 1875
My dear Theo,
Thanks for your letter. Didn’t I copy out Meeresstille by Heine in your little book?1 Some time ago I saw a painting by Thijs Maris that reminded me of it.
An old Dutch town with rows of brownish red houses with step-gables and tall flights of steps, grey roofs, and white or yellow doors, window-frames and cornices; canals with ships and a large white drawbridge, a barge with a man at the tiller going under it. The little house of the bridge-keeper, whom one sees through the window, sitting in his office.
Some distance away a stone bridge over the canal, with people and a cart with white horses crossing it.
And everywhere movement, a porter with his wheelbarrow, a man leaning against the railing, gazing into the water, women in black with white caps.
The foreground a quay with paving-stones and a black railing.
In the distance a tower rises above the houses.
A greyish white sky over everything.
It’s a small painting, upright. The subject is nearly the same as the large J. Maris, Amsterdam, which you perhaps know, only this is talent and the other is genius.
I’ve again copied out one or two things for you, which I’ll send when I get the chance.
Think of ‘The cliff’ and whether you know of anything else. That Victor Hugo piece is beautiful.
Adieu, give my regards to Pa if you see him.
Vincent
6 April 1875
My dear Theo,
Thanks for your letter. Didn’t I copy out Meeresstille by Heine in your little book?1 Some time ago I saw a painting by Thijs Maris that reminded me of it.
An old Dutch town with rows of brownish red houses with step-gables and tall flights of steps, grey roofs, and white or yellow doors, window-frames and cornices; canals with ships and a large white drawbridge, a barge with a man at the tiller going under it. The little house of the bridge-keeper, whom one sees through the window, sitting in his office.
Some distance away a stone bridge over the canal, with people and a cart with white horses crossing it.
And everywhere movement, a porter with his wheelbarrow, a man leaning against the railing, gazing into the water, women in black with white caps.
The foreground a quay with paving-stones and a black railing.
In the distance a tower rises above the houses.
A greyish white sky over everything.
It’s a small painting, upright. The subject is nearly the same as the large J. Maris, Amsterdam, which you perhaps know, only this is talent and the other is genius.
I’ve again copied out one or two things for you, which I’ll send when I get the chance.
Think of ‘The cliff’ and whether you know of anything else. That Victor Hugo piece is beautiful.
Adieu, give my regards to Pa if you see him.
Vincent
Tuesday
March 6, 1875
[Letterhead: Strand London]
6 March 1875
My dear Theo,
Bravo Theo – You well understood that girl in Adam Bede. That landscape – in which a dull yellow sandy road leads over the hill to the village, with mud or whitewashed huts with green, moss-covered roofs and here and there a blackthorn, on either side brown heather and bunt and a grey sky, with a narrow white strip above the horizon – is by Michel. Except that the atmosphere is purer and nobler than in Michel.
Today I’m enclosing that little book for you in the crate to be sent. Also Jesus by Renan and Jeanne d’Arc by Michelet, and also a portrait of Corot, from the London News, which I also have hanging in my room.
I don’t believe there’s any chance that you’ll be transferred to the London branch for the time being.
Don’t feel bad because you’re not finding things difficult; I have it easy, too. I believe that life is quite long, and the time when ‘another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not’ will come of its own accord. Adieu, give my regards to everyone I know.
With a handshake,
Vincent
6 March 1875
My dear Theo,
Bravo Theo – You well understood that girl in Adam Bede. That landscape – in which a dull yellow sandy road leads over the hill to the village, with mud or whitewashed huts with green, moss-covered roofs and here and there a blackthorn, on either side brown heather and bunt and a grey sky, with a narrow white strip above the horizon – is by Michel. Except that the atmosphere is purer and nobler than in Michel.
Today I’m enclosing that little book for you in the crate to be sent. Also Jesus by Renan and Jeanne d’Arc by Michelet, and also a portrait of Corot, from the London News, which I also have hanging in my room.
I don’t believe there’s any chance that you’ll be transferred to the London branch for the time being.
Don’t feel bad because you’re not finding things difficult; I have it easy, too. I believe that life is quite long, and the time when ‘another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not’ will come of its own accord. Adieu, give my regards to everyone I know.
With a handshake,
Vincent
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