You will understand that I am longing to hear from you
whether you have read my letter. As for myself, I think the
cheapest way will be the most reasonable one for me under the
circumstances - I think I shall have to move to a village.
If you can continue to send the 150 francs a month, I think
it will be almost or entirely sufficient.
Dear brother, there doesn't seem to be a little more ease in
store for me. I will try not to complain, I will bear what I
Though I stick to my conviction that my work really demands
more, and that I also ought to be able to spend a little more
on food and other necessities, if I must do with less, so be
it. After all, my life is perhaps not worth the money, why
should I worry about it? And it's really nobody's fault,
neither is it my own.
But I hope you will be convinced of one thing - that it is
impossible to do more than stint oneself even in food, clothes,
every comfort, every necessity. When one has skimped in
everything, there can be no question of unwillingness, can
there? You know very well that if somebody said to me, Do this
or that, make a drawing of this or that, I should not refuse,
yes, I would even make several trials with pleasure if the
first one did not succeed. But nobody has said it - or only so
vaguely, so generally, that it puts me out rather than helps
For the moment I have the suit you brought for me to wear
when I go out, and more things that are still quite
presentable. But you must excuse my not putting them on in the
studio or when I work out-of-doors - it would be spoiling them
recklessly, for one always gets some stains on one's clothes
while painting, especially if one tries to catch an effect even
in rain and storm.
My idea about earning money is as simple as can be - it is
that it must come through my work, and that nothing can be
gained by going to speak to people about it.
Yet whenever there is a chance, I try to catch it - as, for
instance, what I told you about Belinfante, about Smulders, but
up to now fortune has favoured me but little. Well, never mind,
if only you do not upset me by suspecting me of
For I think if you consider things seriously, you will not
doubt my working hard, and besides, if you should insist on my
going to ask people to buy from me, I would do so, but
in that case I should perhaps get melancholy.
If possible, let me go on as I have up to now. If not, and
if you want me to take my work around to different people, I
shall not refuse to do so if you think it better.
But, brother dear, human brains cannot bear everything;
there is a limit. Look at Rappard, who got brain fever, and had
to travel as far as Germany to recover. Trying to go and speak
to people about my work makes me more nervous than is good for
me. And what is the result? Rejection, or being put off with
fair promises. It would not make me nervous if it were you, for
instance - you know me and I am used to speaking with you.
I assure you, I feel less energy for my work when I have
been among people. If we do not lose time now because of that
kind of thing, we'll make slow but sure progress, and I do not
know a better way. In no case would I refuse any serious order,
whether to my liking or not. I would try to do it the way it is
wanted - do it over again if necessary.
Well, I have made up my mind in no case to become
impatient, even if people purposely put obstacles in my
I cannot say more than that, and if you were to order
something yourself, you could make more than one trial. I am at
I think there is a difference between now and the past. In
the years gone by there used to be more passion both in making
and in judging work. They deliberately chose this or that
direction, they energetically took the part of one or the
other. There was more animation. I think now there is a spirit
of capriciousness and satiety; people are generally more
lukewarm. For my part, I already wrote you some time ago that
it seemed to me that there had been a sharp decline since
Millet, as if the top had already been reached and decadence
had set in. This has influenced everybody and everything. I am
always glad that I saw the collection of drawings by Millet in
the Hôtel Drouot when it was there.
At this moment you are in Nuenen.
I repeat - I do not quite understand it, and think it is
going a little too far - when you as well as Father feel
ashamed just to walk with me. For my part I stay away, though
my heart longs for us to be together.
Because I cannot spare that one little moment of seeing you
or Father without mental reservations, only for the sake of
indissoluble ties, I wish we would never again speak about the
question of manners or clothes when we meet again. You see that
in everything I withdraw as far as possible instead of pushing
myself forward. But don't let decorum breed a general
estrangement. That one bright moment - of seeing each other
once a year - must not be darkened. Adieu.
Yours sincerely, Vincent
I do not hesitate about the work.
You have read Fromont Jeune et Riszler ainé, haven't
you? Of course I do not find you in Fromont Jeune, but in
Riszler ainé - in his being absorbed in his work, his
resoluteness there, for the rest a simple fellow and
rather careless and short-sighted, wanting little for himself,
so that he himself did not change when he became rich - I find
some likeness to myself.
All my ideas about my work are so well ordered, so definite,
that I think you would do well to accept what I say: let me go
my own way, just as I am. My drawings will become good, even if
we continue as we did till now; but as their turning out well
depends a little on the money for my obligations and expenses -
and not just on my efforts - be as liberal as you can about the
money, and if you see a chance of finding any help from others,
don't neglect it. But in fact, I have said everything I have to
say in these few lines.
You must not let my conduct when I left Goupil's deceive you
as to my real character. If business would have meant to me
then what art does now, I would have acted more resolutely. But
then I was in doubt whether it was my career or not, and I was
more passive. When they said to me, “Hadn't you better
go,” I replied, “You think I had better go, so I
shall go” - no more. At the time more things were left
unspoken than said aloud.
If they had acted differently then, if they had said,
“We do not understand your behaviour on this or that
occasion, explain it,” things would have turned out
I already told you, brother, that discretion is not always
understood. “Tant pis,” perhaps. Now I think it is
better that I have the career I have, but when I left Goupil's
there were motives other than my attire, at least on my
There was a kind of plan then to give me a position in
London in the new gallery, in the picture department, for
which, in the first place, I didn't think myself qualified, and
in the second place, I didn't like it. I should not have minded
staying with Goupil if my work had been other than entertaining
In short, if they had asked me then, “Do you like this
business?” My answer would have been, “Yes,
“Do you care to stay?” “Yes, if you think
me worth my wages, and do not think me a nuisance or injurious
to your interests.”
And then I should perhaps have asked for a position in the
printing office, or that one in London, but a little modified,
and I think I should have got it.
But they did not ask me anything, but just said, “Vous
êtes un employé honnête et actif, mais vous
donnez un exemple mauvais pour les autres.” [You are an
honest and active employee, but you set a bad example to the
others.] And I did not say anything in reply because I did not
want to have any influence on my staying or not.
But I could have said a lot of things in reply if I had
cared too, and such things as I believe would have made it
possible for me to stay.
I tell you this because I do not understand why you do not
know that the reason then was quite another than my manner of
Now - to you - I say what I do not doubt it is right to say,
as my profession is my profession and I do not waver, but must
stick to it. So I tell you this: not only do I wish to keep
things as they are between us, but I am so grateful for our
relation that I pay no attention to the question of being
richer or poorer, having an easier or a more difficult life -
silently accepting the fact that I am content with every
condition, and that I resign myself to everything and put up
with everything, if it must be.
The only thing I do not want you to doubt is my good will,
my zeal - and further, I want you to credit me with some common
sense, and not suspect me of doing absurd things, and I want
you to let me go on living quietly in my own way.
Of course I must experiment to find things, and suffer
failures, but in the end the work will come out all right.
To have patience till it turns out well, not to give up
before the end, not to doubt - that is what I wish you and I
together would do and continue to do. I do not know to what
extent we shall have financial success if we stick to that, but
I feel sure of one thing, that - provided there is
cooperation and harmony - we shall be able to continue as
long as we live, sometimes not selling anything, and having
hard times, then again selling and living more comfortably.
That's the long and the short of it. Success depends on our
will to stay together: as long as that remains, it is
Now I mention Riszler ainé again (I think you know
the book, otherwise you must read it, and you will see what I
mean) and I call your attention to the fact that the man's
appearance was more or less like mine, that he spent his life
working at his designs and machines in the garret of the
factory, not caring about or minding anything else, his
greatest luxury being to take a glass of beer with an old
Mind, the plot of the novel does not matter at all here,
other things in the book of no consequence, but I called the
character to your attention, Riszler ainé's way of
living, without arrière-pensée of anything
else in the story. In fact, only to explain to you that I
think little of my clothes because my way of working - my way
of doing business, if you like - is a personal thing, is
not having to go to see other people. The few friends I
shall make later on will take me as I am, I hope.
I think you will understand this, and that it does not make
me angry when things are said to me about my clothes. No, it
makes me inwardly more and more calm and concentrated, and it
would take entirely different things to make me angry. Wherever
I go, I should always be about the same - perhaps everywhere I
should really make a bad impression at first. But I doubt if
that impression should remain forever with those persons to
whom I should speak about it intimately.
Well, from this moment I am again quite absorbed in my work.
Do for me what you can, think yourself about what can be of use
to us and hasten the success. I do not doubt your goodwill and
Goodbye, have pleasant days and write soon. Adieu.
At this time, Vincent was 30 year old
Vincent van Gogh. Letter to Theo van Gogh. Written 20 or 21 August 1883 in The Hague. Translated by Mrs. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, edited by Robert Harrison, number 315.
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