I’m very well, considering the circumstances.
I’ve come by a boarding-house that suits me very well for the present. There are also three Germans in the house who really love music and play piano and sing themselves, which makes the evenings very pleasant indeed. I’m not as busy here as I was in The Hague, as I only have to be in the office from 9 in the morning until 6 in the evening, and on Saturdays I’m finished by 4 o’clock. I live in one of the suburbs of London, where it’s comparatively quiet. It’s a bit like Tilburg or some such place.
I spent some very pleasant days in Paris and, as you can imagine, very much enjoyed all the beautiful things I saw at the exhibition and in the Louvre and the Luxembourg. The Paris branch is splendid, and much larger than I’d imagined. Especially the Place de l’Opéra.
Life here is very expensive. I pay 18 shillings a week for my lodgings, not including the washing, and then I still have to eat in town.
Last Sunday I went on an outing with Mr Obach, my superior, to Box Hill, which is a high hill (some 6 hours from L.), partly of chalk and covered with box trees, and on one side a wood of tall oak trees. The countryside here is magnificent, completely different from Holland or Belgium. Everywhere one sees splendid parks with tall trees and shrubs, where one is allowed to walk. During the Whitsun holiday I also took a nice trip with those Germans, but those gentlemen spend a great deal of money and I shan’t go out with them any more.
I was glad to hear from Pa that Uncle H. is reasonably well. Would you give my warm regards to him and Aunt and give them news of me? Bid good-day to Mr Schmidt and Eduard from me, and write to me soon. Adieu, I wish you well.
Vincent.
My address is:
Care of Messrs Goupil & Co.
17 Southampton Street
Strand
London.
11 | London, Sunday, 20 July 1873 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
London, 20 July 1873
My dear Theo,
Thanks for your letter, which gave me a great deal of pleasure. I’m glad you’re well and that living at Mr Schmidt’s is still to your liking. Mr Obach was pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope that in future we’ll do a lot of business with you. That painting by Linder is very beautiful.
As to the photogravure, I know more or less how they’re made, though I haven’t seen it, and it isn’t clear enough to me to explain it.
English art didn’t appeal to me much at first, one has to get used to it. There are some good painters here, though, including Millais, who made ‘The Huguenot’, Ophelia, &c., engravings of which you probably know, they’re very beautiful. Then Boughton, of whom you know the ‘Puritans going to church’ in our Galerie photographique. I’ve seen very beautiful things by him. Moreover, among the old painters, Constable, a landscape painter who lived around 30 years ago, whose work is splendid, something like Diaz and Daubigny. And Reynolds and Gainsborough, who mostly painted very, very beautiful portraits of women, and then Turner, after whom you’ll probably have seen engravings.
Several good French painters live here, including Tissot, after whom there are various photos in our Galerie photographique, Otto Weber and Heilbuth. The latter is currently making dazzlingly beautiful paintings in the style of the one by Linder.
Be sure, when you get the chance, to write and tell me whether there are photographs after Wauters, besides Hugo van der Goes and Mary of Burgundy, and whether you also know photographs of paintings by Lagye and De Braekeleer. It’s not the elder De Braekeleer I mean but, I believe, a son of his, who had 3 splendid paintings at the last exhibition in Brussels, titled ‘Antwerp’, ‘The school’ and ‘The atlas’.
Things are going well for me here. I go walking a lot. Here where I live it’s a quiet, convivial, nice-looking neighbourhood, in this I’ve really been fortunate. And yet I sometimes think back with nostalgia to the wonderful Sundays in Scheveningen and so on, but never mind that.
You’ll surely have heard that Anna is at home and not well. It’s a bad start to her holiday, but let’s hope she’s better by now.
Thanks for what you wrote to me about paintings. Be sure to write and tell me if you ever see anything by Lagye, De Braekeleer, Wauters, Maris, Tissot, George Saal, Jundt, Ziem, Mauve, who are painters I like very much, and by whom you’ll probably see something now and then.
Herewith a copy of that poem about that painter ‘who entered The Swan, the inn where he boarded’, which you no doubt remember. It’s Brabant to a T, and I’m so fond of it. Lies copied it out for me on my last evening at home. How much I’d like to have you here, what pleasant days we spent together in The Hague. I still think so often of our walk on Rijswijkseweg, where we drank milk at the mill after the rain. If those paintings we have from you are to be sent back, I’ll send you a portrait of that mill by Weissenbruch. Perhaps you remember, ‘the merry tune’ is his nickname, ‘I say, superrrb’. That Rijswijkseweg holds memories for me which are perhaps the most delightful I have. Perhaps we’ll speak of it again sometime when we meet.
And now, old chap, I wish you well, think of me from time to time and write to me soon. It’s so refreshing when I receive a letter.
Vincent
My regards to Mr Schmidt and Eduard. How are Uncle Hein and Aunt? Write to me about them, do you go there often? Give them my warm regards.
The evening hour.
Slowly the toll of the angelus-bell resounded o’er the fields,
As they blissfully bathed in the gold of the evening sun.
O solemn, moving moment! When every mother in the village suddenly
Stops the whirring of the wheel to bless herself with the sign of the cross;
While in the field the farmer reins in his steaming horses,
And, behind the plough, bares his head to murmur an Ave.
O solemn, moving moment! When the bell that proclaims far and wide
The end of the day’s work makes those powerful, dripping heads
Bow down for Him who causes the sweat in the furrow to thrive.
For the artist, too, on the slope of yon shady hill,
Absorbed in his painting from the earliest morning,
The angelus now gave the sign to retreat. Slowly he wiped
His brush and palette, which he stowed with his canvas in the valise,
Folded his camp-stool and dreamily descended the path
That leads, gently winding, through the flowery dale to the village.
Yet how oft, before reaching the foot of the hill, did he
Stand admiringly still, to imprint on his mind once again
The refreshing scene down below, unfolding before his eyes.
Just before him lay the village, with a hill to north and to south,
Between whose crests the sun, inflamed and sinking in the west,
Let flow the whole wealth of its colours and up-conjured glory.
The bell, in the grey tower entwined with black-green ivy,
Was now silent. Hanging motionless on high were the brown
Sails of the windmill; the leaves stood still and above the huts
Blue clouds of peat-smoke ascended so straight from the chimneys
That they, too, seemed to hang motionless in the shimmering air.
’Twas as though this village, this field, those hills, as though everything,
Before wrapping itself in a cloak of evening dew to sleep
Beneath the sun’s parting kiss, silently and gratefully
Recalled once more the peace and plenty it had again savoured.
Soon, though, this silence was gently disturbed by the sweet sounds
Of the evening. In the distance, from a hollow in the hill echoed
Lingeringly the sound of the cow-horn, calling the cattle.
And at this sign from their herdsman there soon appeared in the furrowed
Sandy mountain road the whole of a colourful herd of cows.
Cracking and smacking, the lad’s lash drove them forward,
Whil
e they, as if by turns, their necks outstretched, with friendly lowing
Greeted from afar the cow-shed where the milkmaid
Waited for them each evening to ease their taut udders.
Thus on the paths running out from the village like spokes
From an axle, there slowly came movement and life.
Here, ’twas a farmer, dragging homeward a harrow or plough
On a sledge, whistling a tune and riding beside on his bay;
There, a blushing lass, on her head a lock of sweet clover
Laced with daisies and poppies, called from afar to the others,
Kindly and gaily at once, her clear-toned ‘good evening’.
Further … But on the same track where the painter’s path
Led, he suddenly heard peals of joyous laughter.
Rocking from side to side, a wagon, nearly toppling
Under its load of fresh-harvested buckwheat, came rumbling closer,
Both horse and burden adorned with fluttering ribbons and greenery.
Children, all with wreaths of flowers on their little flaxen heads,
Were seated on top, happily waving branches of alder,
Or scattering flowers and leaves, which rained down on all sides,
While round the wagon a troop of country lads and lasses
Skipped and sang enough to startle the whole drowsy plain.
Quietly smiling, the Painter, from behind the thicket,
Watched as the revellers slowly wound their way down the rutted road.
‘Aye’, he thus mumbled, ‘Aye, the Lord must think it
A happy sound, the jubilance with which these hearts
So simply pour forth their thanks as they gather the last
Fruits, which He yearly lets grow fully ripe from their toil.
Yea, for the purest prayer of simplicity and innocence is joy!’
And thus contemplating the calm, deep delight upon which the soul
Feasts in the fields; or with his artist’s mind reconstructing
In silent rapture the glorious scene of a moment ago,
He found he had sauntered, unnoticing, into the village.
Already the purple and yellow had faded to grey in the west,
And in the east there had risen close by the little church the full
Copper-coloured disc of the moon, in mist enshrouded,
When he entered The Swan, the inn where he boarded.
Jan van Beers
(The boarder)
17 | London, beginning of January 1874 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
London, January 1874
My dear Theo,
Thanks for writing.
I sincerely wish you a very happy New Year. I know that things are going well for you in the office, because I heard as much from Mr Tersteeg. I saw from your letter that you have art in your blood, and that’s a good thing, old chap. I’m glad you like Millet, Jacque, Schreyer, Lambinet, Frans Hals &c., because — as Mauve says — ‘that’s it’. Yes, that painting by Millet ‘The evening angelus’, ‘that’s it’. That’s rich, that’s poetry. How I’d like to talk to you about art again, but now we can only write to each other about it often; find things beautiful as much as you can, most people find too little beautiful.
I’m writing below a few names of painters whom I like very much indeed. Scheffer, Delaroche, Hébert, Hamon.
Leys, Tissot, Lagye, Boughton, Millais, Thijs Maris, Degroux, De Braekeleer Jr.
Millet, Jules Breton, Feyen-Perrin, Eugène Feyen, Brion, Jundt, George Saal. Israëls, Anker, Knaus, Vautier, Jourdan, Jalabert, Antigna, Compte-Calix, Rochussen, Meissonier, Zamacois, Madrazo, Ziem, Boudin, Gérôme, Fromentin, De Tournemine, Pasini.
Decamps, Bonington, Diaz, T. Rousseau, Troyon, Dupré, Paul Huet, Corot, Schreyer, Jacque, Otto Weber, Daubigny, Wahlberg, Bernier, Emile Breton, Chenu, César de Cock, Mlle Collart. Bodmer, Koekkoek, Schelfhout, Weissenbruch, and last but not least Maris and Mauve.
But I could go on like this for I don’t know how long, and then come all the old ones, and I’m sure I’ve left out some of the best new ones.
Always continue walking a lot and loving nature, for that’s the real way to learn to understand art better and better. Painters understand nature and love it, and teach us to see.
And then, there are painters who make nothing but good things, who cannot make anything bad, just as there are ordinary people who cannot do anything that isn’t good.
Things are going well for me here, I have a wonderful home and it’s a great pleasure for me to observe London and the English way of life and the English themselves, and I also have nature and art and poetry, and if that isn’t enough, what is? Yet I haven’t forgotten Holland, and especially The Hague and Brabant.
We’re busy in the office, we’re occupied with the inventory, which is however drawn up in 5 days, so we have it a little easier than you do in The Hague.
I hope you had a nice Christmas, just as I did.
Well, old chap, I wish you well and write to me soon; in this letter I’ve written just what popped into my pen, I hope you’ll be able to understand it. Adieu, regards to everyone in the office and anyone else who asks after me, particularly everyone at Aunt Fie’s and the Haanebeeks’.
Vincent
Herewith a few words for Mr Roos.
18 | London, Monday, 9 February 1874 | To Caroline van Stockum-Haanebeek (D)
London, 9 February 1874
My dear Caroline,
I feel the need to write a few words to you.
What happy days those were ‘when we were together’. You must know that I haven’t forgotten you, but writing doesn’t come to me as easily as I’d like.
I have a rich life here, ‘having nothing, yet possessing all things’. Sometimes I start to believe that I’m gradually beginning to turn into a true cosmopolitan, meaning not a Dutchman, Englishman or Frenchman, but simply a man. With the world as my mother country, meaning that tiny spot in the world where we’re set down. But we aren’t there yet, but I follow after, if that I may apprehend.
And as our ideal that which Mauve calls ‘that’s it’.
Old girl, adieu.
Yours truly,
Vincent
A handshake for you and Willem, like old times, so that it hurts your fingers.
22 | London, Thursday, 30 April 1874 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
London, 30 April 1874
My dear Theo,
Many happy returns of the day. Do right and don’t look back, and things will turn out well.
I was glad to get your last letter. I sent you a photo a couple of days ago:
Young girl with a sword, Jacquet
because I thought you’d like to have it.
Van Gorkom’s painting isn’t very dirty. (Between you and me, I didn’t see it, but anyway tell him I wrote that it wasn’t very dirty.)
How are Mauve and Jet Carbentus? Write to me with news of them.
It’s good that you visit the Haanebeeks.
If I come to Holland, I’ll also come to The Hague for a day or two if possible, because The Hague is like a second home to me. (I’ll come and stay with you.)
I’d have liked to go on that walk to De Vink. I walk here as much as I can, but I’m very busy. It’s absolutely beautiful here (even though it’s in the city). There are lilacs and hawthorns and laburnums &c. blossoming in all the gardens, and the chestnut trees are magnificent.
If one truly loves nature one finds beauty everywhere. Yet I sometimes yearn so much for Holland, and especially Helvoirt.
I’m doing a lot of gardening and have sown sweet peas, poppies and reseda, now we just have to wait and see what comes of it.
I enjoy the walk from home to the office and in the evening from the office back home. It takes about three-quarters of an hour.
It’s wonderful to be finished so early here; we close at 6 o’clock and yet we work none the less because of it.
Give my regards to everyone I know at the Te
rsteegs’, Haanebeeks’ and Carbentuses’, and especially the Rooses’, also everyone at Uncle Pompe’s, because they’re going to Kampen, and Mr Bakhuyzen &c.
I wish you the best.
Vincent
The apple trees &c. have blossomed beautifully here; it seems to me that everything is earlier here than in Holland.
As soon as I know something more definite about my going home, I’ll write to you directly. I fear, however, that it will be around 4 weeks or so before it can happen. Write soon.
33 | London, Saturday, 8 May 1875 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
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.
Ever Yours Page 7