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RM08 Prose passage copied from Henri Conscience’s Le conscrit (The conscript). Ramsgate or Isleworth, between about July and November 1876.

metadata
No. RM08 (Brieven 1990 -, Complete Letters )
From: Vincent van Gogh
To: Theo van Gogh
Date: Isleworth, between about July and November 1876

Source status
Original manuscript

Location
Amsterdam, Van Gogh Museum, inv. no. b88 a V/1962

Date
Because Van Gogh copied this very passage in Annie Slade-Jones’s guestbook, the contributions to which are dated between July and November 1876, this loose leaf must also date from about the same time. See Pabst 1988, pp. 65-66. In letter 93 of October 1876, Van Gogh quotes Conscience’s Le conscrit. We therefore date this sheet to a period beginning around July and running through November 1876. It was placed in De brieven 1990 with letter 89 of 26 August 1876, but we see no reason to connect it with that letter.

original text
 1r:1
L’heure du départ a sonné! Devant les chaumières se tient un beau jeune homme, le bâton de voyage sur l’épaule, un sac sur le dos. Ses yeux, ordinairement si vifs, errent lentement autour de lui; sa physionomie est calme, et tout en lui semble annoncer une grande tranquilité d’âme; et cependant son coeur bat violemment, et sa poitrine oppressée s’élève et s’abaisse péniblément. Sa mère serre une de ses mains et lui prodigue les marques de la plus ardente affection; la pauvre femme ne pleure pas; ses joues frémissent sous l’effort qu’elle fait pour dissimuler sa douleur. Elle sourit à son enfant pour le consoler; mais ce sourire, contraint et pénible, est plus triste que la plainte la plus déchirante. L’autre veuve est occupée à calmer le petit garçon, et essaie de lui faire accroire que Jean reviendra bientôt; mais l’enfant a compris à la tristesse qui accable ses parents depuis un an que la séparation est un terrible malheur, et maintenant il jette des cris perçants.– Le grand-père et Cathérine font à l’intérieur les derniers préparatifs du voyage: ils creusent un pain de seigle et le remplissent de beurre. Ils sortent avec les provisions de route et s’arrêtent auprès du jeune homme. L’étable est ouverte; le boeuf regarde tristement son maître et pousse par intervalles un mugissement doux et mélancolique; on dirait que l’animal comprend ce qui va arriver. Tout est prêt: il va partir. Déjà il a serré la main de sa mère d’une étreinte plus vive et fait un pas en avant; mais il jette les yeux autour de lui, embrasse d’un regard affectueux l’humble chaumière qui abrita son berceau, la bruyère et les bois témoins de son enfance et les champs arides si souvent fécondés par les sueurs de sa jeunesse! Puis son oeil s’arrête tour à tour sur les yeux de tous ceux qu’il aime, sur les yeux de ce boeuf aussi, le compagnon de ses rudes travaux; il couvre son visage de sa main, cache les larmes qui coulent sur ses joues, et dit d’une voix presque inintelligible: – A Dieu.–
Il relève la tête, secoue l’abondante chevelure qui tombe sur son cou comme une crinière, et marche résolument en avant. Mais tous le suivent: le moment de la séparation n’est pas encore venu. A une certaine distance dans la direction du village à l’endroit où les chemins se croisent, s’élève un tilleul auquel est suspendue une Sainte Vierge. Trine l’y a placée un beau soir de Mai, et Jean a fait au pied de l’arbre un prie-Dieu en gazon. C’est en ce lieu sacré, où chaque jour quelqu’un d’entre eux venait remercier et prier Dieu, que les paroles déchirantes de l’à Dieu échapperont à leurs lèvres tremblantes...
Déjà apparait au loin le tilleul, limite où doit commencer la fatale séparation. Le jeune homme ralentit sa marche, tandis que sa mère, tout en lui prodiguant des caresses lui dit: Jean, mon fils, n’oublie jamais ce que je t’ai dit. Aie toujours Dieu devant les yeux, et ne manque jamais à dire tes prières avant d’aller te coucher. Aussi longtemps que tu le feras, tu resteras bon; mais s’il devait arriver qu’un soir tu oubliasses de prier, songe à moi le lendemain, songe à ta mère, et tu redeviendras bon et brave; car celui qui pense à Dieu et à sa mère, est à l’abri de tout mal, mon cher enfant.–
Je penserai toujours, toujours à vous, mà mère, dit le jeune homme avec un soupir, mais d’une voix calme, si je suis triste et que je perde courage, votre souvenir sera mon appui et ma consolation; et je le sens, je serai malheureux, je vous aime trop tous.
 1v:2
Ensuite il ne faut pas jurer, sais tu, ni mener mauvaise vie. Tu iras à l’église, n’est ce pas? Tu nous donneras aussi souvent que possible des nouvelles de ta Santé, et tu n’oublieras jamais que le moindre mot de son enfant rend heureuse une mère n’est ce pas? Oh je dirai tous les jours une prière à ton saint Ange gardien pour qu’il ne t’abandonne jamais! Jean est profondement ému par la voix douce et pénétrante de sa mère; il n’ose porter les yeux sur elle, tant le frappe à cette heure solennelle, le regard brillant de la digne femme: c’est la tête baissée qu’il écoute. Sa seule réponse est parfois un serrement de main plus fort et un long soupir auquel se mêlent de temps en temps les mots: Mère, chère Mère! Ils approchaient en silence du carrefour; le grand-père se plaça de l’autre côté du jeune homme, et lui dit d’un ton grave: Jean, mon fils, tu rempliras tes devoirs sans répugnance et avec amour, n’est ce pas? Tu seras obéissant envers tes supérieurs, et tu souffriras, sans te plaindre l’injustice, s’il arrive, par hasard, qu’il t’en soit fait une? Tu seras prévenant et serviable pour chacun; tu feras preuve de bon vouloir, et t’acquitteras courageusement de tout ce qui te sera ordonné? Alors Dieu t’aidera, tes officiers et tes camarades t’aimeront. Trine, sa mère et le petit garçon étaient déjà sous le tilleul, priant agenouillés sur le banc de gazon. Jean n’eut pas le temps de répondre aux recommandations du grand-père; sa Mère l’attirait vers le banc. Tous se mirent à genoux et prièrent les mains levées au ciel.–
Le vent murmure doucement dans les branches des sapins, le soleil printanier dore de ses rayons joyeux le chemin de sable, les oiseaux chantent leur gaie chanson; pourtant il règne un silence solennel, car on entend distinctement la prière s’élever autour du tilleul... C’est fini; tous se lèvent, mais de tous les yeux s’échappe un torrent de larmes. La mère embrasse son fils en poussant des plaintes déchirantes, et bien que les autres aient déjà les bras ouverts pour la triste étreinte de l’àDieu, elle ne laisse pas aller son enfant, elle étanche sous ses baisers les larmes qui baignent ses joues, et laisse échapper d’inintelligibles paroles d’anxiété et d’amour, et elle pleure sur son épaule.
Enfin la pauvre femme abattue, épuisée et toujours pleurante va s’affaisser sur le banc. Jean embrasse précipitamment son grand-père et la mère de Trine; il se dégage avec une douce violence de l’étreinte de son petit frère au désespoir, court encore à sa mère, la serre dans ses bras, dépose un baiser sur son front et s’écrie d’une voix déchirante: à Dieu.–
Et, sans oser se retourner, il marche rapidement dans la direction du village, jusqu’à ce qu’au coin du bois, il ait disparu aux yeux de ses parents.

(Conscience, Le Conscrit)1

translation
 1r:1
The clock has struck the hour to leave! In front of the cottages stands a handsome young man, his traveller’s stick across his shoulder, a bag on his back. His glance, usually so bright, wanders slowly about him; his expression is calm, and everything about him seems to suggest great peace of mind; and yet his heart is beating fast, and his weighed-down bosom painfully rises and falls. His mother grips one of his hands and pours out upon him the signs of the most ardent affection; the poor woman does not weep; her cheeks tremble under the effort she makes to hide her sorrow. She smiles at her child to comfort him, but her smile, forced and pained, is sadder than the most heart-rending cries. The other widow is busy calming the little boy, and tries to convince him that Jean will come back soon; but the child has understood from the sadness that has overcome his family for the past year that separation is a terrible misfortune, and now he is crying loudly. Inside, the grandfather and Catherine are making the last preparations for the journey: they hollow out a rye loaf and fill it with butter. They go outside with the provisions for the journey and stand near the young man. The cowshed is open; the bull looks sadly at his master, and from time to time makes a soft, melancholy lowing; it is as if the animal understands what is about to happen. Everything is ready: he is about to leave. He has already squeezed his mother’s hand with a harder grip and taken a step forward; but he casts his gaze around him, casts an affectionate glance over the humble cottage that held his cradle, the heath and woods that witnessed his childhood and the arid fields so often watered with the sweat of his youth! Then his eye meets in turn the eyes of all those whom he loves, and those of that bull, too, companion of his hard labours; he covers his face with his hand, hides the tears that run down his cheeks, and says in a voice than can scarcely be understood: Farewell.
He raises his head, shakes the thick hair that falls over his neck like a mane, and steps firmly forward. But they all follow him; the moment of separation has not yet come. At a certain point on the way to the village, at the place where the roads cross, stands a lime tree, on which is hung an image of the Holy Virgin. Trine put it there on a beautiful May evening, and Jean made a prie-dieu of turf at the foot of the tree. It is in this holy place, where every day, one of them would come to thank and to praise God, that the heart-rending words of farewell will escape their trembling lips…
In the distance can already be seen the lime tree, the point at which the inevitable separation must begin. The young man slows his pace, while his mother, still lavishing caresses upon him, says: Jean, my son, never forget what I have told you. Always have God before your eyes, and never fail to say your prayers before you go to bed. As long as you do that, you will always be good; but if it should happen that one evening you forget to pray, think of me the next day, think of your mother, and you will be good and brave again; for the man who thinks of God and of his mother, is protected from all evil, my dear child.
I shall always, always, think of you, my mother, said the young man with a sigh, but in a calm voice; if I am sad, and I lose courage, your memory will be my support and my consolation; and I feel it, I shall be unhappy, I love you all too dearly.  1v:2
And then you mustn’t swear, you know, or lead a bad life. You’ll go to church, won’t you? You’ll give us news about your Health as often as possible, and you won’t forget that the smallest word from her child makes a mother happy, isn’t that so? Oh, I’ll say a prayer every day to your blessed guardian Angel, praying that he will never abandon you! Jean is deeply moved by his mother’s soft, penetrating voice; he dare not look at her, so much is he struck at this solemn moment by the worthy woman’s clear look: it is with bowed head that he listens. His only answer is from time to time a tighter handclasp, and a long sigh, with which now and then are mingled the words, Mother, dear Mother! They approached the crossroads in silence; the grandfather stood on the other side of the young man, and said to him in a grave voice: Jean, my boy, you’ll do your duty without reluctance and with love, won’t you? You’ll be obedient to your superiors, and you’ll put up with an injustice without complaining about it, if one should be done to you? You’ll be considerate and obliging to everyone, you’ll show you’re willing, and you’ll carry out courageously all the orders you’re given? Then God will help you, your officers and comrades will love you. Trine, his mother, and the little boy were already under the lime tree, praying on their knees on the turf bench. Jean had no time to reply to his grandfather’s recommendations; his Mother drew him towards the bench. They all knelt and prayed with hands raised to heaven.
The wind murmurs softly in the branches of the pines, the spring sunshine gilds the sandy road with its joyful rays, the birds sing their gay song; and yet a solemn silence reigns, for one can clearly hear the prayers rising from around the lime tree... It is done; they all rise, but from every eye falls a torrent of tears. The mother embraces her son while giving heart-rending cries, and though the others’ arms were already opened wide for the sad farewell embrace, she does not let her child go, she staunches with her kisses the tears that bathe his cheeks, and utters unintelligible words of anxiety and love, and she weeps on his shoulder.
At last, the poor woman, worn out, exhausted and still weeping, goes and sinks down on the bench. Jean hastily kisses his grandfather and Trine’s mother; he releases himself with gentle force from the embrace of his despairing little brother, runs back to his mother, presses her tightly in his arms, places a kiss on her forehead and shouts in an agonizing voice: Farewell!
And without daring to look back, he walks rapidly in the direction of the village, until at the corner of the wood, he has disappeared from his family’s sight.

(Conscience, Le conscrit)1
notes
1. The differences in text in the various editions consulted reveal that Van Gogh knew Scènes de la vie flamande, by Henri Conscience, translated by Léon Wocquier. First series, new edition. Paris 1864. Van Gogh himself must have added the phrase ‘et elle pleure sur son épaule’ (and she weeps on his shoulder) (ll. 95-96); it does not occur in either Conscience’s manuscript or the editions consulted. Remarkably, the early Dutch edition includes, precisely in the place where this sentence occurs, a print by Eduard Dujardin depicting a girl crying on the conscript’s shoulder. It is therefore possible that Van Gogh had read this version of the book earlier, and had remembered the illustration while copying out the passage. An indication of this is that his version does not correspond thematically: in the print, it is the girl Trien who cries, whereas in the text it is the conscript’s mother. There might indeed be an edition in which this phrase occurs as a caption below an illustration.