Ever Yours

by Vincent Van Gogh

  When a rough man blossoms — it’s indeed a beautiful sight — but HE has had to endure an awful lot of cold winters before then — more than even the later sympathizers know.

  The artist’s life and WHAT an artist is, that’s very curious — how deep is it — infinitely deep.

  Because of your silence, inexplicable to me, and because I also associated it with the possible resumption of difficulties with the gentlemen, because for my part I was intolerably hard-pressed as a result of the mistrust of the people in the lodgings, I dropped Pa a line that, not having heard from you, I didn’t know what to think and asked Pa for a loan. I added that I was uneasy both about you and about myself, particularly when I thought about the future, and I wished that both you and I had become painters when we were boys, and actually saw no reason why we two brothers shouldn’t be painters even now IF G&CIE WERE NOT TO REMAIN WHAT IT ONCE WAS TO YOU. Should Pa ever write to you about it, you know the reason for it, but I’ll write to Pa myself (I haven’t had a reply from Pa yet) that your last letter has made it plain to me that for the time being G&Cie remains G&Cie. I add this to you, not to Pa: since G&Cie exercises an influence on our family, strangely compounded of good and evil; good, certainly, in any event because it prevents much stagnation (evil not being in question for the moment).

  That my heart perhaps has and feels bitterness of its own is something that in my view you both understand and consequently forgive me out of yourself.

  Ultimatum — YOU speak of it — NOT I (at least my intention was something very different) — if you want to interpret it that way — then it’s all right with me, but I shall not be the first — nor have I been — for the moment your interpretation runs very far ahead of my intention. I would perhaps not contradict you any more than I did G&Cie in the past, if you wanted to carry it through. Then I would say again, you said ultimatum first, NOT I. If you want to interpret it thus, then I don’t oppose this interpretation. With a handshake.

  Ever yours,

  Vincent

  Brother — after your last letter all my worst vague anxieties have been quieted — I mean that I have complete confidence in you as a man and in Marie.

  But I simply think that you’ll run into certain financial difficulties because of the course of events.

  I advise you, if you can economize on something, then economize, that’s to say if you can put something by, then put something by.

  I myself have nothing at the moment — but I’ll see if I can arouse some interest in certain plans of mine — or if no one wants to come back to Drenthe with me later on, then at least see if I can’t find some credit for myself so that I can settle there. I’m not flush, I have nothing.

  I’ve seen how shaky your finances have been for a long time — you had too much on your shoulders — you think now that the future will put it right — I think you’ll find the future hostile in Paris. Again, if I’m wrong you can all laugh at me and I’ll laugh about it myself. If it’s just my nerves deluding me, well then, it’s my nerves — but I fear you all too effectively have a fatality against you.

  I’ll be able to write to you more calmly from home. There’s certainly a working environment for me in Drenthe, but preferably I’ll have to be able to look at things rather differently from the outset and have a little more certainty in my finances. I have to watch the cents — on a small scale; at present, for instance, obviously I concede that this is the first time you have definitely skipped — the difference of some 25 guilders is something that may stump me again for 6 weeks perhaps. I can readily believe that you can’t imagine this — you cannot know what sort of difficulties over and over again, each very small in itself, make something possible or impossible. Don’t take it amiss of me, but believe me that I have to try to take some steps in order to accomplish what I want. Last week, for instance, I got a note from my former landlord, who gave me the impression that he could seize my things that I left behind (including all my studies, prints, books — that I could hardly do without) if I didn’t send him 10 guilders that I’ve promised him as payment for the use of an attic room for my belongings, and some rent that it was doubtful he was entitled to claim, but I agreed on condition of an arrangement to store my things. I have to pay for other things by the New Year, I still have to pay Rappard, and I economized on everything I could. In short, it’s not the same as feeling flush. Things can’t remain as they are at present. I have to find a way out. I don’t say that you’re to blame, of course, but even last year I couldn’t have economized more than I did. And the harder I work, the more hard-pressed I become. We’re now at a point where I say: at present I cannot go on.

  Nuenen, c. 7 December 1883–c. 14 November 1885

  410 | Nuenen, on or about Friday, 7 December 1883 | To Theo van Gogh (D)

  My dear Theo,

  I lay awake half the night, Theo, after I’d written to you yesterday evening.

  I’m heartbroken about the fact that when I come back now, after an absence of two years, the reception at home was as friendly and kind as could be, yet at bottom nothing, nothing, nothing has changed in what I have to call blindness and stupidity to the point of desperation when it comes to understanding the situation. Which was that we were going along in the very best of ways until the moment when Pa banned me from the house — not just in a passion but also ‘because he was tired of it’. It should have been understood then that this was something so important to my succeeding or not succeeding that it was made ten times more difficult for me because of it — almost intolerable.

  If I hadn’t felt the same then as I feel again now, that despite all the good intentions, despite all the friendliness of the reception, despite whatever you will, there’s a certain steely hardness and icy coldness, something in Pa that grates like dry sand, glass or tin — despite all his outward mildness — if I hadn’t already, I say, felt it then as I do now, I wouldn’t have taken it so badly then. Now I’m once again in almost unbearable indecision and inner conflict.

  You understand that I wouldn’t write as I write — having undertaken the journey here of my own volition, having been the first to swallow my pride — if there wasn’t really something I’m running up against.

  If I had now seen that there was any WILLINGNESS to do as the Rappards did with the best results and as we began here, also with good results, if I had now seen that Pa had also realized that he should not have barred the house to me, I would have been reassured about the future.

  Nothing, nothing of all that. There wasn’t then, nor is there now any trace, any hint of a shadow of a doubt in Pa as to whether he did the right thing then.

  Pa doesn’t know remorse as you and I and everyone who is human does. Pa believes in his own righteousness while you, I and other human beings are permeated with the feeling that we consist of mistakes and forlorn attempts.

  I pity people like Pa, I can’t find it in my heart to be angry with them because I believe that they’re unhappier than I am myself. Why do I think they’re unhappier? Because they use even the good in them wrongly so that it works as evil — because the light that’s in them is black — spreads darkness, gloom around them. Their friendly reception desolates me — to me, the way they make the best of it, without recognizing the mistake, is even worse, if possible, than the mistake itself.

  Instead of readily understanding and consequently promoting both my and indirectly their own well-being with a degree of fervour, I sense a procrastination and hesitancy in everything, which paralyzes my own passion and energy like a leaden atmosphere.

  My intellect as a man tells me that I have to regard it as an unalterable fact of fate that Pa and I are irreconcilable down to the deepest depths. My compassion both for Pa and for myself tells me ‘irreconcilable? never’ — until eternity there’s a chance, one has to believe in the chance of an ultimate reconciliation. But the latter, oh why is it sadly probably ‘an illusion’?

  Will you think that I’m making too much of things? Our life is an awfu
l reality and we ourselves go on into eternity, what is — is — and our view, weighty or less weighty, takes nothing from and adds nothing to the essence of things.

  That’s how I think about it when I’m lying awake at night, for instance, or that’s how I think about it in the storm in the sad twilight in the evening on the heath.

  Perhaps I sometimes appear as insensitive as a wild pig during the day in everyday life, and I can readily understand that people find me coarse. When I was younger I used to think much more than now that the problem lay in coincidences or little things or misunderstandings that were groundless. But as I get older I draw back from that more and more, and I see deeper grounds. Life’s ‘an odd thing’, brother.

  You can see how up and down my letters are, first I think it’s possible, then again it’s impossible. One thing is clear to me, that it doesn’t happen readily, as I said, that there’s no ‘willingness’. I’ve decided to go to Rappard and tell him that I would like it too if I could be at home, but that against all the advantages that this would have there’s a je ne sais quoi with Pa that I’m afraid I’m beginning to think is incurable, and that makes me apathetic and powerless.

  Yesterday evening it’s decided that I’ll be here for a while, the next morning, despite everything, we’re back to — let’s think about it again. Go ahead, sleep on it, think about it!!! As if they HADN’T HAD 2 YEARS to think about it, OUGHT to have thought about it as a matter of course, as the natural thing.

  Two years, every day a day of worry for me, for them — normal life — as if nothing had happened or nothing would happen. The burden didn’t weigh on them. You say, they don’t express it but they feel it. I DON’T BELIEVE THAT. I’ve sometimes thought it myself, but it’s not right.

  People act AS they FEEL. Our ACTIONS, our swift readiness or our hesitation, that’s how we can be recognized — not by what we say with our lips — friendly or unfriendly. Good intentions, opinions, in fact that’s less than nothing.

  You may think of me what you will, Theo, but I tell you it’s not my imagination, I tell you, Pa is not willing.

  I see now what I saw then, I spoke out four-square AGAINST Pa then, I speak now in any event, whatever may come of it, AGAINST PA again, as being UNwilling, as making it IMPOSSIBLE. It’s damned sad, brother, the Rappards acted intelligently, but here!!!!!! And everything you did and do about it, ¾ of it is rendered fruitless by them. It’s wretched, brother. With a handshake.

  Ever yours,

  Vincent.

  I don’t care so much about a friendly or unfriendly reception, what grieves me is that they aren’t sorry for what they did then. They think that THEY DIDN’T DO ANYTHING then, and for me that’s going too far.

  413 | Nuenen, on or about Saturday, 15 December 1883 | To Theo van Gogh (D)

  Dear brother,

  I feel what Pa and Ma instinctively think about me (I don’t say reasonably).

  There’s a similar reluctance about taking me into the house as there would be about having a large, shaggy dog in the house. He’ll come into the room with wet paws — and then, he’s so shaggy. He’ll get in everyone’s way. And he barks so loudly.

  In short — it’s a dirty animal.

  Very well — but the animal has a human history and, although it’s a dog, a human soul, and one with finer feelings at that, able to feel what people think about him, which an ordinary dog can’t do.

  And I, admitting that I am a sort of dog, accept them as they are.

  This home is also too good for me, and Pa and Ma and the family are so unduly fine (no feelings, though) and — and — they are ministers — many ministers. So the dog recognizes that if they were to keep him it would be too much a question of putting up with him, of tolerating him ‘IN THIS HOUSE’, so he’ll see about finding himself a kennel somewhere else.

  The dog may actually have been Pa’s son at one time, and Pa himself really left him out in the street rather too much, where he inevitably became rougher, but since Pa himself forgot that years ago and actually never thought profoundly about what a bond between father and son meant, there’s nothing to be said.

  Then — the dog might perhaps bite — if he were to go mad — and the village constable would have to come round and shoot him dead. Very well — yes, all that, most certainly, it is true.

  On the other hand, dogs are guards. But there’s no need for that, it’s peace, and there’s no danger, there are no problems, they say. So then I keep silent.

  The dog is just sorry that he didn’t stay away, because it wasn’t as lonely on the heath as it is in this house — despite all the friendliness. The animal’s visit was a weakness that I hope people will forget, and one that he’ll avoid lapsing into again.

  Since I’ve had no expenses in the time I’ve been here, and because I received money from you twice here, I paid for the journey myself and also paid myself for the clothes that Pa bought because mine weren’t good enough, yet at the same time I’ve repaid the 25 guilders from friend Rappard.

  I think you’ll be pleased that this has been done, it looked so careless.

  Dear Theo,

  Enclosed is the letter I was engaged in writing when I received your letter. To which, having read what you say attentively, I want to reply. I’ll start by saying that I think it noble of you, believing that I’m making it difficult for Pa, to take his part and give me a brisk telling-off.

  I regard this as something that I value in you, even though you’re taking up arms against someone who is neither Pa’s enemy nor yours, but who definitely does, however, give Pa and you some serious questions to consider. Telling you what I tell you, that being what I feel, and asking: why is this so?

  In many respects, moreover, your answers to various passages in my letter make me see sides to the questions that aren’t unfamiliar to me either. Your objections are in part my own objections, but not sufficiently. So I see once more your good will, your desire at the same time to achieve reconciliation and peace — which indeed I don’t doubt. But brother, I could also raise very many objections to your tips, only I think that would be a long-drawn-out way and that there’s a shorter way.

  There’s a desire for peace and for reconciliation in Pa and in you and in me. And yet we don’t seem to be able to bring peace about. I now believe that I’m the stumbling block, and so I must try to work something out so that I don’t ‘make it difficult’ for you or for Pa any more.

  I’m now prepared to make it as easy as possible, as tranquil as possible, for both Pa and you.

  So you also think that it’s I who make it difficult for Pa and that I’m cowardly. So — well then, I’ll try to keep everything shut up inside me, away from Pa and from you. What’s more, I won’t visit Pa again, and I’ll stick to my proposal (for the sake of mutual freedom of thought, for the sake of not making it DIFFICULT for you either, which I fear is already inadvertently starting to be your opinion) to put an end to our agreement about the money by March, if you approve.

  I’m deliberately leaving an interval for the sake of order and so that I’ll have time to take some steps that really have very little chance of success, but which my conscience won’t allow me to postpone in the circumstances.

  You must accept this calmly and accept it with good grace, brother — it isn’t giving you an ultimatum. But if our feelings diverge too far, well then, we mustn’t force ourselves to act as if nothing is happening. Isn’t this your opinion too, to some extent?

  You know very well, don’t you, that I consider that you’ve saved my life, that I shall NEVER forget, I’m not only your brother, your friend, even after we put an end to relations that I fear would create a false position, but at the same time I have an infinite obligation of loyalty for what you did in the past by stretching out your hand to me and by continuing to help me.

  Money can be repaid, not kindness such as yours.

  So let me get on with it — only I’m disappointed that a thoroughgoing reconciliation hasn’t come about now �
� and I’d wish that it still could, only you people don’t understand me and I fear that perhaps you never will. Send me the usual by return, if you can, then I won’t have to ask Pa for anything when I leave, which I ought to do as soon as possible.

  I gave the whole of the 23.80 guilders of 1 Dec. to Pa

  (having borrowed 14 guilders, and shoes and trousers came to 9 guilders)

  " " " " " " 25 " " 10 " "  Rappard.

  I only have a quarter and a few cents in my pocket. So that is the account, which you will now understand when, in addition, you know that from the 20 Nov. money, which came 1 Dec., I paid for the lodgings in Drenthe for a long period, because there had been some hitch then that was later put right, and from the 14 guilders (which I borrowed from Pa and have since given back) I paid for my journey etc.

  I’m going from here to Rappard’s.

  And from Rappard’s perhaps to Mauve’s. My plan, then, is to try to do everything in calmness, in order.

  There’s too much in my frankly expressed opinion about Pa that I cannot take back in the circumstances. I appreciate your objections, but many of them I cannot regard as sufficient, others I already thought of myself, even though I wrote what I wrote.

  I set out my feelings in strong words, and of course they’re modified by appreciation of very much that’s good in Pa — of course that modification is considerable.

  Let me tell you that I didn’t know that someone aged 30 was ‘a boy’, particularly not when he may have experienced more than just anyone in those 30 years. Regard my words as the words of a boy if you wish, though.

  I am not liable for your interpretation of what I say, am I? That is your business.

  As to Pa, I’ll also take the liberty of putting what he thinks out of my mind as soon as we part company.