...were sometimes written on Van Gogh’s notepaper or were enclosed with a letter of his are also...
...or about Friday 2 January 1874. ‘Monday morning at breakfast I found a letter from London, which contained a letter from Vincent and one from Ursula Loyer, both were very kind and amiable. She asks me to write her and Vincent wished very much we should be friends. I’ll tell what he writes about her. “Ursula Loyer is a girl with whom I have agreed that we’ll be each other’s brother and sister. You must also look on her as a sister and write to her, and I think that you will then soon discover what she is. I say no more than that I have never seen or dreamt of anything like the love between her and her mother.” Then there follows a discription of Christmas and New-year and then still the following phrase. “Old girl, you mustn’t think that there’s anything more behind it than what I have written to you. But don’t say anything about it at home, I must do that myself. Just this again, love that girl for my sake.” I suppose there will be a love between those two, as between Agnes and David Copperfield. Although I must say, that I believe there is more than a brother’s love between them; I send you here Ursula’s letter so you can judge for yourself...
...that country. He thinks that it is not impossible. Or at least a place as an evangelist might fall vacant...
...he obstinately refuses to receive money from me or to be supported by me, knowing that I am far from...
...the acquaintance of many there who ask him to speak or where he offers to do so. There was one place that...
...a day longer for once. It is getting a bit busier, or doesn’t that start until September? Pa has gone to...
...invited to visit the studios of painters of repute, or people come to him. He also has acquaintances from...
...or children of the same class? You can hardly imagine the great loneliness there can be in a big city. Now, you will say: have you no hope, then, that that will change? Yes, but in the meantime it’s rough. Perhaps you can’t understand how it is that there are no folk with whom I mix, but remember that people here are busy from morning till night, and then don’t feel that the day is long enough to do what has to be done, and then I dislike mixing with just anyone and find it absurd to say that people turn out better than expected after a while and that everyone has his good qualities. I find that one very quickly discovers the kind of a person that one is dealing with, and that as a rule mixing with mediocrities doesn’t lead anywhere. There’s an enormous difference between that and being a misanthrope, because I find that on the contrary there are people whom I love very much and who are so good and special that I feel myself so small compared to them that I have difficulty mixing with them and above all to take the first step to becoming intimate with them. I don’t remember when I last wrote to you and whether I’ve already told you my secret. To come straight to the point, if you don’t know. I plan to propose to Jo Bonger some time. It’s true that I don’t know her well enough to be able to tell you much about her. As you know, I’ve only seen her a few times, but what I know of her pleases me. She gave me the impression that I can place my trust in her completely unreservedly, as I wouldn’t with anyone else. I would be able to speak to her about everything, and I believe that if she wanted to she could mean oh so much to me. Now the question is whether she, for her part, has the same idea, and whether it isn’t a completely egotistical business I’m embarking on. You girls usually think that there are heroes of every kind in the world, and that the man who proposes to you naturally ought to be one of those beings. I find that very beautiful and don’t want to rob you of the illusion, but for my part I believe that many are taken in if they count on that. In any event, in this case I don’t wish anyone to take me for what I am not, and if I get to know her a little better I’ll let her know that she mustn’t have too many illusions, and I’m still very doubtful whether she will have me. However, I can’t get her out of my thoughts. She is always with me, and how often I curse the impossibly great distance that lies between us. Why can I not see her more often and get to know her, to discover what she would wish and how she thinks about oh so many things? What can I do to come into contact with her in some other way than being in Amsterdam for a day or two once a year and then finish? I’ve already thought about starting to write to her, but even that wasn’t possible at that time because I was foolish enough not to ask her last year whether she wanted to correspond with me. If I do so now, or have someone ask her, then I’d be surrendering myself to her completely, and you’ll perhaps agree with me that she shouldn’t buy a pig in a poke. So I can ask your advice and so you must begin by telling me if you still correspond with her. Now there’s something else. At the moment I’m absolutely unable even to get engaged, since a change in my circumstances is imminent, which I’ll write to you about some other time. I hope that everything will be in order by this summer, but before then I don’t have enough certainty. So keep what I’m writing to you about to yourself, for I’ve written to no one about it and I’ve only spoken to her brother, who feels I should wait a little, at least until my affairs are settled. And how are things with you, little sister. Are you living happily, or rather are you really into life? For my part I feel that I’ve lived too much through the eyes and feelings of others, and that although I like reading and paintings there is something more that I know exists and that I’m not into it. Living simply with nature without poetry that comes from somewhere other than your own heart and own thoughts, that is the true thing. Certainly, everyone has that well-spring and it’s just a question of arranging life so that that spring wells up. Certainly, encouragement from outside is part of it, and that consists of two large components. In the first place mixing with congenial souls, and secondly, but that is an aid, by seeking it from other poets. That seeking is so difficult, and is actually sterile if one isn’t into real life oneself. I hope for your sake that you find much sympathy and some happiness in your life. How is your work and your writing getting along? Do you still have a great love of nature? How is it at home? And how is your health? There, a whole lot of questions, and I’m sure that you’ll soon answer them. Spring is slowly coming here, but it was raw and cold for oh so long. Now it’s becoming lovely, and people, like nature, sometimes thaw out when the sun shines. I needed that oh so much. Now little sister, a hearty kiss, and don’t grumble too much that I kept you waiting so long. Just think that it was winter and that that’s over now. Good-day and ever yours, Theo...
...number of years yet to live he’ll make a name for himself. It was through him that I came into contact with many painters who regarded him very highly. He’s one of the champions of new ideas, that’s to say there’s nothing new under the sun and it would therefore be more correct to speak of the regeneration of old ideas that have been corrupted and diminished by the daily grind. In addition, he has such a big heart that he’s always looking to do something for others, unfortunately for those who cannot or will not understand him. Since I had put my letter to one side, which I do more often if they’re not thrown straight into the fire, I can now tell you a little more about him and also send you a letter from him. He has arrived in Arles, and found 50 centimetres of snow there, which isn’t exactly what he’d been expecting, but he writes that he has made three studies all the same, which he wouldn’t have been able to do in Paris at this time, and he goes on to say: “At times it seems to me that my blood is more or less ready to start circulating again, which wasn’t the case the last few months, I really couldn’t stand it any more.” I hope that the milder air will do him good. I think that I’ll be getting a young painter, “Koning”, to come and live with me at the beginning of next month. He isn’t nearly as skilful as Vincent, but it will be more companionable than being on my own. How is your drawing coming along? Is it a success, or have you given it up? Will you let me know if there’s anything you need? I would so much like to know if there’s anything I can do for you. You mustn’t be angry if you don’t get any more letters. Vincent started writing to you ten times and I’ve read more letters to you than you’ve received from him, but sometimes one begins rattling away if one has finally got started, and then it’s better to start afresh. But his letters are always interesting, which is why it’s a pity that he doesn’t write more. Bid Ma good-day from me, and tell her that I’ll write to her this week. Warm regards, and believe me your loving Theo...
...Or the same landscape but with a few beech trees with the reddish brown withered leaves as a contrast to the green. There are also spring landscapes with the delicate branches of the trees from which the young leaves hang like little bells and tell of the jubilance of nature rejuvenated. Or a small village in the first days of spring hidden in a purple haze behind the more deeply coloured tree-trunks, the bright green leaves of which find their echo in the green fields that one sees stretching out against the hill in the distance beyond the village. You’d have to see them to get an idea of how diversely he expresses himself, and above all to sense the different moods in which he made them. Mostly the calm nature that fills his inner being with resignation, but sometimes also the fierce upwelling of all his suffering and struggles, which he expresses through the most powerful, deepest tones that reverberate above all when he saw nature swelling up under the benevolent and creative power of the sun. It’s impossible to describe everything that there is in those paintings, but it turns out that he’s even greater than anyone had supposed. The same thing could happen with him as formerly happened with Millet, who is now understood by everyone because the poetry he proclaimed is so powerful that everyone, from great to small, finds it satisfying. Monet, too, makes superb scenes of nature, but one has to be happy and healthy oneself to enjoy them, otherwise one might think: “Oh, if only I was there, then I’d be happy”. While from Gauguin consoling words are whispered, as it were, to those who are not happy or healthy. With him, nature itself speaks, while with Monet one hears the maker of the paintings speaking. Degas is surprisingly taken with Gauguin’s work. So much so that he wants to go to Arles to visit him. “Lucky dogs,” says Degas of Vincent and Gauguin, “that’s the life”. I don’t need to tell you what that means coming from the lips of the great Degas, who himself has such an understanding of life in its fullness. Vincent hasn’t sent me anything in a long time, but I suspect from his letters that he has made beautiful things. Gauguin’s company is naturally worth a great deal to him, and it’s absorbing him quite a lot at the moment. He recently painted portraits, and above all he seems to be satisfied with them. It’s in the figure that he finds the highest expression of his art...
...Israëls and the others had said about his work, and for the New Year, because don’t think I forgot him. Oh Theo, what will happen now, how will things turn out? I would almost say, if only he would become really ill, it would bring things to a head, but he already is very ill, you might say, the worst that one could imagine. My consolation is that he is a child of our heavenly Father, and He will neither fail nor forsake him. If it was for me to say, I would ask, ‘Take him unto Thee’, but we must take things as God gives them. Oh Theo, if it is borne out, you remember what Prof. Ramaar in The Hague said – when Pa so much wanted him to go with him as a nerve patient, and Vincent said he was willing to go and ask for medicine, and just when they were supposed to leave, he refused and Pa went anyway to tell him – and he said, from what I now hear something is missing or wrong in the little brain. Poor thing, I believe he was always ill, and what he and we have suffered are the consequences of it. Poor brother of Vincent, sweet, dearest Theo, you too have been very worried and troubled because of him, your great love, wasn’t it too heavy a burden, and now you’ve again done what you could, Wil went to The Hague today, how disappointed she will be too, I am grievously saddened and anyway you will no doubt send me news as often as possible, honestly Theo, if things get even worse and Aix has to happen, tell me everything, otherwise I’ll think even worse. What a coincidence, your hoping for happiness now, and this deep sorrow, may she be a comfort to you, but Theo, I didn’t say anything, I wrote nothing to Jo before you had your answer from Amsterdam. Write to me as soon as you know anything, although I am saddened with grief, I can however be glad about happiness and being the bearer of good news, Jo and Anna also wanted to write. Oh Theo, must the year end with such a disaster? Where is Aix? Such suffering for both of you, how he must feel it all, how touching about Zundert, together on one pillow. Goodbye, dear Theo, may God be near with His comfort, and if possible bring help. God bless the remedies. Thanks for your love, God bless your endeavours. Anna is also sad, Jo and Wil are not at home. A kiss from your ma...
...or do they fear for his life? It is those very moments of consciousness, and that he is alone then, that I find so terrible. Did you get the impression that he feels his own suffering very badly? I find it so fortunate for you that it didn’t happen last year when you were so alone. Now, with De Haan with you, and Jo, it’s surely easier to bear. How your whole heart must be with him. Touching, that story about the little room you two had in Zundert. Could I write to him? Do tell me where he is. And the exact truth about how he is. Do you hear something from a doctor now and then? Could it have been foreseen, did Gauguin see it coming, did he notice more than usual recently, or did something happen to cause the outburst? And you just happened to write that he himself was satisfied with what he’d made. I’m re-reading your letter about that, who is the man who has taken an interest in him, is it that postman? Fortunate that there’s at least someone. Sadness and happiness go together in a strange way...I think of Vincent all the time, if only he wasn’t so far away. Ma is also so upset about it. But what a difficult life, and how difficult things have always been for him. If only he could ever find some peace. That is possible, isn’t it, or is it too much a physical illness? I feel so awfully sorry for him, and I wish he knew that. Now dear Theo, the new year will also bring light and darkness, but I hope that there will be much light for you through all things. With a hearty kiss, ever your Wil One of these days you’ll get Vincent’s money that I have for safe-keeping.’...
...will give instructions for him to be taken to Aix or Marseille. I myself was a house physician in...