Far off has been raining.
My peace I leave with you — we saw how there is peace even in the storm. Thanks be to God who has given us to be born and to live in a Christian country. Has any of us forgotten the golden hours of our early days at home, and since we left that home — for many of us have had to leave that home and to earn their living and to make their way in the world. Has He not brought us thus far, have we lacked anything. We believe Lord, help Thou our unbelief. I still feel the rapture, the thrill of joy I felt when for the first time I cast a deep look in the lives of my Parents, when I felt by instinct how much they were Christians. And I still feel that feeling of eternal youth and enthusiasm wherewith I went to God, saying ‘I will be a Christian too’.
Are we what we dreamt we should be? No — but still — the sorrows of life, the multitude of things of daily life and of daily duties, so much more numerous than we expected — the tossing to and fro in the world, they have covered it over — but it is not dead, it sleepeth. The old eternal faith and love of Christ, it may sleep in us but it is not dead and God can revive it in us. But though to be born again to eternal life, to the life of Faith, Hope and Charity — and to an evergreen life — to the life of a Christian and of a Christian workman be a gift of God, a work of God — and of God alone — yet let us put the hand to the plough on the field of our heart, let us cast out our net once more — let us try once more — God knows the intention of the spirit, God knows us better than we know ourselves for He made us and not we ourselves. He knows of what things we have need, He knows what is good for us. May He give His blessing on the seed of His word that has been sown in our hearts.
God helping us, we shall get through life. With every temptation He will give a way to escape.
Father we pray Thee not that Thou shouldest take us out of the world, but we pray Thee to keep us from evil. Give us neither poverty nor riches, feed us with bread convenient for us. And let Thy songs be our delight in the houses of our pilgrimage. God of our Fathers be our God: may their people be our people, their Faith our faith. We are strangers in the earth, hide not Thy commandments from us but may the love of Christ constrain us. Entreat us not to leave Thee or to refrain from following after Thee. Thy people shall be our people, Thou shalt be our God.
Our life is a pilgrims progress. I once saw a very beautiful picture, it was a landscape at evening. In the distance on the right hand side a row of hills appearing blue in the evening mist. Above those hills the splendour of the sunset, the grey clouds with their linings of silver and gold and purple. The landscape is a plain or heath covered with grass and heather, here and there the white stem of a birch tree and its yellow leaves, for it was in Autumn. Through the landscape a road leads to a high mountain far far away, on the top of that mountain a city whereon the setting sun casts a glory. On the road walks a pilgrim, staff in hand. He has been walking for a good long while already and he is very tired. And now he meets a woman, a figure in black that makes one think of St Pauls word ‘As being sorrowful yet always rejoicing’. That Angel of God has been placed there to encourage the pilgrims and to answer their questions:
And the pilgrim asks her:
Does the road go uphill then all the way?
and the answer is
“Yes to the very end”—
and he asks again:
And will the journey take all day long?
and the answer is:
“From morn till night my friend”.
And the pilgrim goes on sorrowful yet always rejoicing — sorrowful because it is so far off and the road so long. Hopeful as he looks up to the eternal city far away, resplendent in the evening glow, and he thinks of two old sayings he has heard long ago — the one is:
‘There must much strife be striven
There must much suffering be suffered
There must much prayer be prayed
And then the end will be peace.’
and the other:
The water comes up to the lips
But higher comes it not.
And he says, I shall be more and more tired but also nearer and nearer to Thee. Has not man a strife on earth? But there is a consolation from God in this life. An angel of God, comforting men — that is the Angel of Charity. Let us not forget Her. And when everyone of us goes back to daily things and daily duties, let us not forget — that things are not what they seem, that God by the things of daily life teacheth us higher things, that our life is a pilgrims progress and that we are strangers in the earth — but that we have a God and Father who preserveth strangers, and that we are all bretheren.
Amen.
And now the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, our Father, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us for evermore.
Amen.
(Reading Scripture Psalm XCI)
Tossed with rough winds and faint with fear,
Above the tempest soft and clear
What still small accents greet mine ear
‘’t Is I, be not afraid.’
’t Is I, who washed thy spirit white;
’t Is I, who gave thy blind eyes sight,
’t Is I, thy Lord, thy life, thy light,
’t Is I, be not afraid.
These raging winds, this surging sea
Have spent their deadly force on me
They bear no breath of wrath to Thee
’t Is I, be not afraid.
This bitter cup, I drank it first
To thee it is no draught accurst
The hand that gives it thee is pierced
‘’t Is I, be not afraid’.
When on the other side thy feet,
Shall rest, mid thousand welcomes sweet;
One well known voice thy heart shall greet —
’t Is I, be not afraid.
Mine eyes are watching by thy bed
Mine arms are underneath thy head
My blessing is around Thee shed
‘’t Is I, be not afraid’.
Again, a handshake in thought — yesterday evening I was at Turnham Green in place of Mr Jones, who wasn’t well. I walked over there with the oldest boy, 17 years old, but he’s as big as I am and has a beard. He’ll go into business later, his father has a large factory; he has a good, honest, feeling heart and a great need of religion, it is his hope and desire to do good among the workers later on in life, I recommended ‘Felix Holt’ by Eliot to him. It was lovely in the park with the old elm trees in the moonlight and the dew on the grass. It was so good for me to speak in the little church, it is a little wooden church. Goodbye, Theo. Goodbye, old boy, I hope I’ve written it so that you’ll be able to read it. Remain steadfast and do get well soon.
99 | Isleworth, Saturday, 25 November 1876 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
Isleworth, 25 Nov. 1876
My dear Theo,
Thanks for your last letter, which I received at the same time as one from Etten. So you’re back at the gallery. Do whatever your hand finds to do, with all your might, and your work and prayers cannot fail to be blessed. How I’d have liked to go along on that walk to Het Heike and to Sprundel in the first snow. But before I go further, I’ll copy out a couple of poems that you’ll no doubt like.
The journey of life
Two lovers by a mossgrown spring
They leaned soft cheeks together
Mingled the dark and sunny hair,
And heard the wooing thrushes sing
o Budding time
o Loves best prime.
Two wedded from the portal steps
The bells made happy carolings
The air was soft as fanning wings
While petals on the pathway slept
O pure eyed bride
o tender pride.
Two faces o’er a cradle bent
Two hands above the head were locked
These pressed each other while they rocked
Those watched a life which love had sent
O solemn hour
o hidden power.
Two parents by the evening fire
The red light fell about their knees
On heads that rose by slow degrees
Like buds upon the lily spire
O patient life
O tender strife.
The two still sat together there
The red light shone about their knees
But all the heads by slow degrees
Had gone and left that lonely pair
O Voyage fast
O Banished past.
The red light shone upon the floor
And made the space between them wide
They drew their chairs up side by side
Their pale cheeks joined, and said ‘once more’
O, memories!
O past that is!
The three little chairs.
They sat alone by the bright woodfire
The grey-haired dame and the aged sire
Dreaming of days gone by;
The tear drop fell on the wrinkled cheek
They both had thoughts that they could not speak,
And each heart uttered a sigh.
For their sad and tearful eyes descried
Three little chairs placed side by side
Against the sitting room wall;
Old fashioned enough as there they stood
Their seats of flag, and their frames of wood,
With their backs so straight and tall.
Then the sire shook His silvery head,
And with trembling voice he gently said,
‘Mother, those empty chairs,
They bring us such sad, sad thoughts tonight,
We’ll put them for ever out of sight
In the small dark room upstairs’.
But she answered: Father, no, not yet;
For I look at them, and I forget
That the children went away,
The boys come back, and our Mary, too,
With her apron on of checkered blue
And sit here every day.
Johnny still whittles a ships tall masts,
And Willie his leaden bullets casts
While Mary her patchwork sows;
At evening time three childish prayers
Go up to God from those little chairs,
So softly that no one knows.
Johnny comes back from the billowy deep,
Willie wakes from the battle field sleep,
To say good night to me:
Mary’s a wife and mother no more,
But a tired child whose play-time is o’er,
And comes to rest on my knee.
So let them stand there — though empty now,
And every time when alone we bow
At the Fathers throne to pray,
We’ll ask to meet the children above
In our Saviours home of rest and love,
Where no child goeth away.
In his letter Pa wrote, among other things: ‘in the afternoon I had to go to Hoeven, Ma had ordered the cab but it couldn’t come, because they hadn’t yet been able to have the horses’ shoes frosted — I therefore decided to go on foot and good Uncle Jan didn’t want me to go alone, so he came along. It was a hard journey, but Uncle Jan rightly said: the devil is never so black that you can’t look him in the face. And indeed, we arrived there and returned safe and sound, even though there was a gale blowing, coupled with freezing rain, so that the roads were slippery as ice, and I cannot describe how wonderful it was to sit so cosily in a nice warm room in the evening, resting after work — that dear Theo was still with us then’.
Shall we, too, go once again to some church in this way? As sorrowful yet alway rejoicing, with everlasting joy in our hearts because we are the poor in the kingdom of God, because we have found in Christ a friend in our lives that sticketh closer than a brother, who brought us to the end of the journey as to the door of the Father’s house. May God grant it — what God hath done is done aright.
Last Sunday evening I went to a village on the Thames, Petersham. In the morning I had been at the Sunday school at Turnham Green, and went after sunset from there to Richmond and then on to Petersham. It grew dark early and I wasn’t sure of the way, it was a surprisingly muddy road over a kind of embankment or rise on the hill covered with gnarled elm trees and shrubs. At last I saw below the rise a light in a small house, and scrambled and waded over to it, and there I was told the way. But, old boy, there was a beautiful little wooden church with a kindly light at the end of that dark road, I read Acts V:14–16. Acts XII:5–17, Peter in prison, and Acts XX:7–37, Paul preaching in Macedonia, and then I told the story of John and Theagenes yet again. There was a harmonium in the church, played by a young woman from a boarding school that was attending en masse.
In the morning it was so beautiful on the way to Turnham Green, the chestnut trees and clear blue sky and the morning sun were reflected in the water of the Thames, the grass was gloriously green and everywhere all around the sound of church bells. The day before I’d gone on a long journey to London, I left here at 4 in the morning, arrived at Hyde Park at half past six, the mist was lying on the grass and leaves were falling from the trees, in the distance one saw the shimmering lights of street-lamps that hadn’t yet been put out, and the towers of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, and the sun rose red in the morning mist — from there on to Whitechapel, that poor district of London, then to Chancery Lane and Westminster, then to Clapham to visit Mrs Loyer again, her birthday was the day before. She is indeed a widow in whose heart the psalms of David and the chapters of Isaiah are not dead but sleeping. Her name is written in the book of life. I also went to Mr Obach’s to see his wife and children again. Then from there to Lewisham, where I arrived at the Gladwells at half past three. It was exactly 3 months ago that I was there that Saturday their daughter was buried, I stayed with them around 3 hours and thoughts of many kinds occurred to all of us, too many to express. There I also wrote to Harry in Paris. I hope you’ll see him sometime.
It may well be that you too will go to Paris sometime. That night I was back here at half past ten, I went part of the way with the underground railway. Fortunately I’d received some money for Mr Jones. Am working on Ps. 42:1, My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God. At Petersham I told the congregation that they would be hearing poor English, but that when I spoke I thought of the man in the parable who said ‘have patience with me, and I will pay thee all’, God help me.
At Mr Obach’s I saw the painting, or rather the sketch, by Boughton: the pilgrim’s progress. If you can ever get Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s progress, it’s very worthwhile reading. For my part I love it with heart and soul.
It’s night-time now, I’m still doing a bit of work for the Gladwells at Lewisham, copying out one thing and another etc.; one must strike while the iron is hot and soften the human heart when it is burning within us. Tomorrow off to London again for Mr Jones. Beneath that poem The journey of life and The three little chairs one should write: that in the dispensation of the fullness of times he might gather together in one all things in Christ, both which are in heaven, and which are on earth. So be it. A handshake in thought, give my regards to Mr and Mrs Tersteeg and to everyone at the Rooses’ and the Haanebeeks’ and the Van Stockums’ and the Mauves’, adieu and believe me
Your most loving brother
Vincent
[Sketch 99A]
99A. Small churches at Petersham and Turnham Green
Dordrecht, 7 February–23 March 1877
102 | Dordrecht, Wednesday, 7 and Thursday, 8 February 1877 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
My dear Theo,
Adam Bede costs 2.60 guilders, so herewith you get back 1.40 guilders. Now I only hope that it will give them some pleasure at home, but no doubt it will.
Thanks for your letter, which made me so happy. When next we meet we’ll look each other straight in the eye. I sometimes think how wonderful it is that we have the same ground beneath our feet and that we speak the same
language.
Last week we were flooded here. Coming from the shop between 12 and 1 at night, I took another turn around the Grote Kerk. The wind was blowing hard in the elm trees surrounding it, and the moon shone through the rain-clouds and reflected in the canals that were already filled to the brim. At 3 o’clock in the morning we were all rushing around at Rijken’s, the grocer in whose house I’m lodging, bringing things upstairs from the shop, because the water was an ell high in the house. There was quite a bit of commotion, and in all the downstairs rooms people were busy bringing upstairs what they could, and a small boat came down the street. In the morning, when it was beginning to grow light, one saw a group of men at the end of the street, wading one after another to their warehouses. There’s a lot of damage, the water has also got into the place where Mr Braat keeps his paper &c., not because of the flood but because of the great pressure coming from under the ground.
Mr Braat says it will cost him a banknote of the largest kind. It took us a day and a half to carry everything to an upstairs flat. Working with your hands like that for a day is a welcome change, though it was a pity it was for that reason. You should have seen the sun go down that evening, the streets shone of gold, the way Cuyp used to paint them.
Longing to have my trunk, which is on the way, one reason being to have some prints hanging in my room again. I now have Christus Consolator, which you gave me, and two English woodcuts, namely the Supper at Emmaus: ‘But they constrained Him, saying, Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent’, and another: ‘They that sat in darkness and the shadow of death have seen a great light’; ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning’. There can come a time in life when one is tired of everything, as it were, and has the feeling as if everything that one does is wrong, and there’s certainly some truth in that — is this a feeling that one ought to avoid and repress, or it is rather ‘the godly sorrow’ that one must not fear but carefully consider whether it can perhaps compel us to do good — is it perhaps ‘the godly sorrow that worketh a choice not to be repented of’? And at such times, in which one feels tired of oneself, one may think with heedfulness, hope and love of the words ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your soul. For My yoke is easy, and my burden is light’. ‘If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me.’ At such times one may well reflect upon: ‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God’. If we let ourselves be taught by the experience of life and led by godly sorrow, then new vitality may spring from the tired heart. If we are once good and tired, then we shall believe more firmly in God, and shall find in Christ, through His word, a Friend and Comforter. And then there may be times when we feel ‘thou removest my iniquities from me as far as the east is from the west’, when we feel something of ‘the zeal for Thine house hath eaten me up’ and ‘our God is a consuming fire’ — when we shall again know what it is to be fervent in spirit. Hope will not always fade away.
Ever Yours Page 11