In the beginning of your letter you write that you’re pleased that there’s no reason to be concerned about the woman. Well, there isn’t immediately, inasmuch as I try to preserve my serenity and good spirits in that respect too. But I do have cares, heavy cares even, and there’s no lack of difficulties. I began trying to save the woman despite the difficulties, and have persevered up till now despite the difficulties, but it won’t all be rosy in the future either. Still, we must work as hard as we can. Theo, the difficulties I was having with the woman when I last wrote to you — do you know what that was? Her family were trying to get her away from me. I’ve never involved myself with anyone except the mother, because I considered them untrustworthy. The more I try to analyze the history of that family, the more I’m strengthened in that view. Well, they were intriguing precisely because I ignored them, and this led to a treacherous attack. I’ve told the woman how I view their intentions and also that she must choose between her family and me, but that I didn’t wish to have any dealings with any of them, in the first place because I believed relations with her family would lead her back to her previous wrong life. The family’s proposal was that she and her mother should keep house for a brother of hers who is separated from his wife and is a notoriously bad lot. The reason why the family advised her to leave me was that I earned too little and I wasn’t good for her, and only did it for the posing but would leave her in the lurch. Mark you, because of the small child she hasn’t done much posing for me this whole year, has she? Anyway, I leave it to you to decide to what extent these suspicions about me were well founded. Well then, but it was secretly discussed behind my back, and in the end the woman told me. I said to her, do what you like but I shan’t abandon you unless you go back to your previous life. The wretched thing is, Theo, that if we’re poor at some point, they try to upset the woman in this way, and that bad lot of a brother, for instance, tries to get her back to the old life. Now — I say only this of her — I would think it brave and generous of her if she broke off all relations with her family, I myself advise her not to go there, but if she wants to go I let her. And the temptation to show off her child, say, often brings her back to her family. And that influence is fatal and has a grip on her precisely because it comes from her family and those who unsettle her by saying ‘he’ll leave you in the lurch’. In this way they seek to persuade her to leave me in the lurch. Adieu, old chap, let’s work and keep a clear head and try to act rightly. You know how things are with my money, help me if you can.
Vincent
[Sketch 348A]
348A. The sandpit at Dekkersduin near The Hague
351 | The Hague, on or about Thursday, 7 June 1883 | To Theo van Gogh (D)
My dear Theo,
Today I received a letter from home and I wanted to talk to you about it, although Pa doesn’t mention you in the letter, because in the circumstances you might perhaps like to know something about their state of mind, above and beyond what they may write to you directly. And my impression is that for the present you may be entirely at ease on that score.
The letter in question is Pa’s first since his visit and is very amiable and cordial and was accompanied by a package containing a coat, a hat, a packet of cigars, a cake, a money order.
In the letter was the outline of a sermon, by far the best part of which I thought was the biblical text, and which made less of an impression on me than a few words about the funeral of a farm labourer later on.
And otherwise that Ma was at Princenhage and domestic details.
Well, the reason I’m telling you this at such length is so that you’ll see from it that there’s no particular tension or anything abnormal; rather, I got the impression that Pa’s mood was more passive or resigned, tending towards good-natured melancholy, more so than one would expect if one were to go only by the expressions of objections you wrote to me about.
So I think those words were intended more as advice or warning (advice that in the end has no solid grounds in my view, and doesn’t hold water) and less as a sign of definite resistance or opposition to your firm decision.
They may think that you haven’t yet made up your mind, or they may believe that you haven’t given it enough thought.
Because in my last letter I disapproved so strongly of what Pa had said — and still disapprove of it now, being decidedly of the opposite opinion inasmuch as I don’t consider it appropriate in this case to raise objections to do with money and religion — I wanted to soften my words, in the sense that I believe that it’s a question here of a fault (at any rate a fault in my view) that lies more in Pa’s words than in his heart and mood.
And I have in mind to talk to you about how Pa is an old man and so deeply fond of you, and you’ll find, I believe, that he’ll accept your view if there’s no alternative, even if it conflicts with his own, yet couldn’t possibly accept estrangement from you or having less contact, etc.
And adopting a humane point of view, I take back my opinion: ‘by saying that, they have shown they are unworthy of your trust and in my eyes you needn’t confide in them any further’, or something similar that I wrote then, I don’t remember exactly. But don’t misunderstand me, not because I disapprove less of what they said, but because I believe that in this case one shouldn’t take it too seriously, and there’s no pressing need to take up arms against it as long as it remains only words.
Cutting it short by saying something like, for example, ‘You take a rather gloomy view of the future’ and ‘can hardly demand from me that I act as if the end of the world were imminent’ is wiser in this case, I believe, than taking their words very seriously.
It seems to me that Pa’s a little melancholy, though, and is perhaps fretting a little about you and imagining gloomy things — but again Pa writes not a syllable about it directly, and said not a word about it at the time of his visit. But not talking about it is in fact also rather abnormal. Anyway — I, too, know Pa quite well, and believe I can see signs of some melancholy.
If you want to help him, write quite lightly and cheerfully, and write about your visit this summer as though it’s certain you’ll see them again soon (even though you may not know yourself yet how you’ll fit your visit in as regards the time).
For perhaps, perhaps Pa himself is conscious of having gone a little too far, or worried about how you’ll take it, or afraid that you won’t come.
Of course I don’t know how matters stand and am only guessing, but I do think this, Pa is an old man and deserves to have people cheer him up if they can.
You know well enough that in my view you ought to be loyal to the woman; there’s no question of my saying anything less about that than I did, but do what’s right and don’t blame Pa if he’s mistaken. That’s what I wanted to say. Don’t even refer to the fact that he’s mistaken unless he keeps going on, perhaps he’ll retract of his own accord.
Now a word about the work.
Today I asked for permission to draw sketches in the old men’s and old women’s home, namely the men’s ward, the women’s ward and the garden. I was there today. From the window I sketched an old gardener by a crooked apple tree, and the workshop of the home’s carpenter, where I drank tea with two orphan men.
I can go into the men’s ward as a visitor. It was very real, inexpressibly real.
A small chap with a long, thin neck in a chair on rollers, among others, was priceless.
In the carpenter’s workshop, with a view of the cool, green garden with those two old boys, it was just like the scene in, for example, that photo by Bingham after that small painting by Meissonier, the two priests sitting drinking. Perhaps you know the one I mean. Whether I’ll get permission isn’t, however, entirely certain, and has to be applied for from the assistant deacon, which I’ve done and have to go back for the answer.
Apart from that, I’m working out how to draw the dung-heap. I wrote to you that I had hopes of getting a Scheveningen cape, well, I’ve got it, and an old hat thrown in which isn’t
particularly beautiful, but the cape is superb and I immediately started working with it. Am just as pleased with it as I was with the sou’wester before.
And I’ve got as far with the sketch of the dung-heap as more or less getting into it that sheep-shed effect of inside against outside — the light under the dark sheds — and the group of women emptying their dustbins is beginning to develop and take shape.
Now the wheelbarrows going up and down and the rag-pickers with dung forks, that grubbing about under the sheds, has still to be expressed without losing the effect of light and shade of the whole. On the contrary, it must be strengthened as a result.
I believe you’ll have your own, similar view of Pa’s words, and so I’m not telling you anything new, but because I spoke so sharply about it I wanted you to know at the same time that I don’t do such a thing with pleasure but with regret, and would be glad if peace could be kept with a little geniality.
This winter Pa was pretty much against my being with the woman just as much as now, yet he sent a warm coat ‘in case I could make use of it’, not specifying what for but obviously with the idea ‘she may be cold’. Well, you see, that is right after all, and for one such deed I would gladly put up with a deluge of words.
Because I myself am not one of those who don’t fail in words either — such people would be perfect — and don’t make the slightest claim to perfection.
And wanted to point out to you that in any case Pa objects to my being with the woman, MUCH MORE SO indeed than with you, and despite that last winter he still no doubt thought something like: ‘that wretched woman — but she shouldn’t suffer from the cold’. Now, probably the same in your case: ‘that poor papist woman shouldn’t be alone even so’, or something like that. So don’t be concerned, be of good heart, and put their minds at ease.
Adieu, old chap, with a handshake.
Ever yours,
Vincent
354 | The Hague, on or about Friday, 15 June 1883 | To Anthon van Rappard (D)
My dear friend Rappard,
Was writing a letter to you when the post brought your most welcome letter just a moment ago. I’m pleased you’ve made progress with your drawing, I didn’t doubt that you would, by the way, for you’d made a manly start.
Well, let me begin by saying that I think what you say about the English draughtsmen is entirely correct and entirely right. I saw it in your work, exactly what you say. Well, I take the same view.
On the bold outlines in particular.
Take the etching by Millet, The diggers, take an engraving by Albrecht Dürer, take above all the large woodcut by Millet himself, The shepherdess, and then one sees fully what can be expressed by such an outline.
And as you say, one then has the feeling ‘that’s how I’d always have wanted to do it if I’d always gone my own way’ &c. That’s well said, old chap, and spoken like a man.
Now, what I also find an example of singularly robust, forceful drawing is Leys’s paintings, particularly the series of decorations for his dining room. The walk in the snow, the skaters, the reception, the table, the servant. And Degroux has it as well and Daumier has it as well.
Israëls himself and sometimes, sometimes Mauve and Maris too, cannot resist forceful outline, but don’t do it like Leys or like Herkomer.
And when one hears them, they really don’t want to know, and talk most about tone and colour. Yet in some charcoal drawings Israëls used lines reminiscent of Millet. I for one declare to you frankly that, with all the love and respect I have for these masters, I find it a pity that they, especially Mauve and Maris, don’t point out what can be done with the outline more often when talking to others, and recommend drawing carefully and softly.
And so it is that these days watercolour is the order of the day and considered to be the most expressive medium, and in my view too little effort goes into Black and White, to the point even that there’s a certain antipathy to it. In watercolour there’s no black, so to speak, and that’s the basis for people talking about ‘those black things’. All the same, there’s no need to spend the whole of this letter writing about that.
Wanted to inform you that at present I have 4 drawings on the easel. Peat diggers — Sand quarry — Dung-heap — Loading coal.
I even did the dung-heap twice; the first became too worn to continue working on.
I didn’t dare work on them much with turpentine and printer’s ink, have used charcoal, lithographic crayon and autographic ink so far. Except in the sketch for the dung-heap that got too worn — I tackled that with them, with not unfavourable results. It became black, but still some of the freshness came back into it, and now I see possibilities for working in it again, whereas before the printer’s ink came on it I saw no possibility of that.
I’ve worked hard since I visited you, I hadn’t composed for so long and had done a great many studies, so once I began I went at it furiously. Several mornings I was already at work at 4 o’clock. I would like it immensely if you saw them sometime, for I can make no sense of what Van der Weele said about them, the only one to have seen them.
Van der Weele’s judgement was rather sympathetic, but he said of the Sand quarry that there were too many figures in it. The composition wasn’t simple. He said, look, draw that one little fellow with his wheelbarrow on a dyke in the evening set against the light sky, how beautiful that would be, for instance, and now it lacked cohesion.
Well, then I showed him the drawing by Caldecott, Brighton Highroad, and said, do you mean that it’s absolutely not permitted to put many figures in a composition and to make it highly complicated? Leaving aside my drawing, tell me what you think of this composition. Well, he said, I don’t find that beautiful either but, he added, I’m speaking personally and can only speak personally. And that’s not what I like or what I look at. Well, I thought that was rather well said, but you understand that I didn’t find in him that awareness of the question that I sought. But for the rest he’s a solid fellow, and I had some very pleasant excursions with him and he showed me some devilishly beautiful things.
It was also during a walk with him that I saw the sand quarry, but that time he hardly looked at it and I went back alone the next day. I drew the sand quarry with a lot of figures, because sometimes there really are a great many fellows toiling away in those sandpits, for example in the winter and the autumn they provide work there in the name of the city for those who have no work. And then it’s wonderfully pleasing there.
I’ve had several fine models of late. A superb grass-mower, a splendid country lad, exactly like one of Millet’s figures.
A fellow with a wheelbarrow — you may remember me drawing his head in Sunday clothes with a Sunday patch over his blind eye.
Now I have him in his everyday suit, and it’s perhaps hard to believe that it’s the same man who posed for the two figures.
These four big drawings are 1 metre by ½ metre.
I feel happy using a brown passe-partout with a very deep black inside edge. Then many blacks that would appear too black in a white passe-partout look grey and the whole remains clear.
By Jove, I wish you could see them, not because I myself think they are good, but I would like to hear your thoughts about them, even though I’m not yet satisfied with them. To my taste they aren’t yet figure drawings in the true sense of the term, although they are still figure drawings, but I wanted to express the outlines of actions and structure even more squarely and boldly.
What you write about feeling that you’re now on a road and not on byways or side roads seems to me absolutely right. Have a similar feeling myself, because this last year I’ve concentrated more on the figure than in the past.
Be assured, if you believe I have eyes to see, that there is certainly sentiment in your figures; what you make is healthy and manly, do not doubt yourself in that respect and, precisely because you do not doubt, dash it on without hesitating.
The studies of heads for the blind fellows seem superb to me.
[Sketch 354A]
354A. Section of Faber pencil
They’re soft and better quality than the carpenter’s pencils, produce a marvellous black and are very agreeable to work with for large studies.
I used it to draw a woman sewing on grey papier sans fin and got an effect like lithographic crayon. These pencils are made of soft wood, dyed green on the outside, cost 20 cents apiece.
Before I forget — I wanted to borrow the issues of Harper’s Magazine you have to read the articles about Holland that Boughton and Abbey illustrated. I’ll send you a package with the old loose issues that I have with illustrations by Howard Pyle &c. so that you can look through them at your leisure. And shall add Erckmann-Chatrian, Histoire d’un paysan illustrated by Schuler, and enclose several illustrations by Green that you will remember I promised. If you still have duplicates, add them to the Harpers (at least if you can do without the latter for about a fortnight so that I can read them), and Zola’s book about Manet if you’ve finished it.
I’m sorry that your health isn’t yet in order, but I think that what will cheer you up more than the baths or whatever it is they do there in Soden is to make solid progress with your drawings. I reckon you’ll be longing for your studio as soon as you’re out of it. I know that Mauve became terribly melancholy during a journey to a similar kind of factory, speaking with all due respect.
As you know, I’m very unbelieving in matters of this kind, and can sympathize with Bräsig in Reuter’s Gedroogde kruiden as regards what I think that authority calls ‘the water art’.
Ever Yours Page 45