Paris 29 March ’90

Dear Vincent,

Among all the letters from brothers and sisters, mine wishing you the best may not be missing tomorrow,1 and I do it at the same time on behalf of your godchild, who can’t do it very well himself yet. He always looks with very great interest at Uncle Vincent’s paintings, though — in particular the tree in blossom that hangs over our bed2 really fascinates him — and the Rembrandt3 too, although I can’t swear that it isn’t the gold frame that attracts him. He’s thriving, fortunately — we’re longing  1v:2 to show him to you. But there’s still a whole art to being father and mother — perhaps it’s because I’ve had to learn and experience so many things in this one year — because I’ve never heard other people talk about it like this — they had a child and then everything was all right and happened of its own accord — but with me it’s not like that. What surprises me most is that such a tiny baby already has its own personality, in the face of which you’re utterly powerless. He can sometimes look at me as if he wants to say: what are you actually doing to me — I  1v:3 know much more about things than you do — they’re the eyes of a grown-up, and then with a great deal of expression — could he have the makings of a philosopher?

Your loving