My dear little sister,
I thank you very much for your letter, but for my part I hate
writing these days. Still, there are some questions in your
letter which I should like to answer.
To begin with, I must disagree with you when you say you
thought Theo looked “so wretched” this summer.
Personally, I think that on the contrary Theo's appearance has
become a great deal more distinguished during the past year.
One has to be strong to stand life in Paris for as many years
as he has done.
But might it have been that Theo's family and friends in
Amsterdam and The Hague didn't treat him, or even receive him,
with the cordiality he deserved from them and was entitled to
expect? On that score, I can tell you that he may have felt
hurt but is otherwise not at all bothered; after all, he is
doing business even in these particularly bad times for the
picture trade, so may it not be that his Dutch friends were
somewhat affected by jalousie de métier? [Professional
Now, what shall I say about your little piece on the plants
and the rain? You can see yourself that in nature many flowers
are trampled underfoot, frozen or scorched, and for that matter
not every grain of corn returns to the soil after ripening to
germinate and grow into a blade of corn - indeed, that by far
the greatest number of grains of corn do not develop fully but
end up at the mill - isn't this so? To compare human beings
with grains of corn, now - in every human being who is healthy
and natural there is a germinating force, just as there
is in a grain of corn. And so natural life is
germination. What the germinating force is to the grain,
love is to us.
Now we tend to stand about pulling a long face and at a loss
for words, I think, when, thwarted in our natural development,
we find that germination has been foiled and we ourselves
placed in circumstances as hopeless as they must be for a grain
between the millstones.
When that happens to us and we are utterly bewildered by the
loss of our natural life, there are some amongst us who, though
ready to submit to the inevitable, are yet unwilling to
relinquish their self-confidence, and determine to discover
what is the matter with them and what is really happening.
And if, full of good intentions, we search in the books of
which it is said that they illuminate the darkness, with the
best will in the world we find precious little that is certain,
and not always the satisfaction of personal consolation.
And the diseases from which we civilized people suffer most
are melancholy and pessimism. So I, for instance, who can count
so many years of my life during which I lost any inclination to
laugh - leaving aside whether or not this was my own fault - I,
for one, feel the need for a really good laugh above all else.
I've found it in Guy de Maupassant, and there are others -
Rabelais among the older writers, Henri Rochefort among the
present-day ones - who provide it as well - and Voltaire in
If, on the other hand, one wants the truth, life as it is,
then there are, for instance, de Goncourt in Germinie
Lacerteux, La Fille Eliza, Zola in La Joie de Vivre and
L'assommoire, and so many other masterpieces, all portraying
life as we feel it themselves, thus satisfying our need for
being told the truth.
The work of the French naturalists, Zola, Flaubert, Guy de
Maupassant, de Goncourt, Richepin, Daudet, Huysmans, is
magnificent, and one can scarcely be said to belong to one's
time if one is not acquainted with them. Maupassant's
masterpiece is Bel Ami. I hope to be able to get it for
Is the Bible enough for us? These days I think Jesus himself
would say again to those who sit down in melancholy, “It
is not here, it is risen. Why seek ye the living among the
dead?” If the spoken or written word is to remain the
light of the world, then we have the right and duty to
acknowledge that we live in an age when it should be spoken and
written in such a way that, if it is to be just as great and
just as good and just as origional and just as potent as ever
to transform the whole of society, then its effect must be
comparable to that of the revolution wrought by the old
I, for my part, am always glad that I have read the Bible
more carefully than many people do nowadays, just because it
gives me some peace of mind to know that there used to be such
But precisely because I find the old beautiful, I find the
news beautiful à plus forte raison because we are able
to take action in our own time while the past and the future
concern us only indirectly.
My own adventures are confined chiefly to making swift
progress toward growing into a little old man - you know, with
wrinkles, a tough beard and a number of false teeth, and so on.
But what does all that matter? I have a dirty and difficult
trade - painting, and if I were not as I am, I should not
paint; but being as I am, I often work with pleasure and can
visualize the vague possibility of one day doing paintings with
some youth and freshness in them, even though my own youth is
one of the things I have lost.
If I didn't have Theo, I should not be able to do justice to
my work, but having him for a friend, I'm sure I shall make
progress and things will fall into place. As soon as possible I
plan to spend some time in the south, where there is even more
colour and even more sun.
But what I really hope to do is to paint a good portrait. So
To get back to your little piece of literature, I have
qualms about adopting for my own use, or about advising others
to do so for theirs, the belief that there are powers above us
that interfere personally in order to help or console us.
Providence is such a strange thing, and I must confess that I
haven't the slightest idea what to make of it. And well, there
is still a degree of sentimentality in your little piece, and
its form is reminiscent above all of tales about the
above-mentioned providence, or let's say the providence in
question. Tales that so often don't hold water, and to which a
great many objections might be made.
And above all I find it alarming that you believe you must
study in order to write. No, my dear little sister, learn how
to dance, or fall in love with one or more of the notary's
clerks, officers, in short, any who are within your reach -
rather, much rather commit any number of follies than study in
Holland. It serves absolutely no other purpose than to make
people slow-witted, and I won't hear of it.
For my part, I still continue to have the most impossible
and highly unsuitable love affairs, from which as a rule I come
away with little more than shame and disgrace. And in my own
opinion I am absolutely right to do this, since, as I keep
telling myself, in years gone by, when I ought to have been in
love, I gave myself up to religious and socialist affairs, and
considered art holier than I do now.
Why are religion or justice or art so sacred? People who do
nothing but fall in love are perhaps more serious and saintly
than those who sacrifice their love and their hearts to an
idea. Be that as it may, in order to write a book, do a deed,
paint a picture with some life in it, one has to be alive
oneself. And so, unless you never want to progress, study is a
matter of very secondary importance for you. Enjoy yourself as
much as you can, have as many diversions as you can, and
remember that what people demand in art nowadays is something
very much alive, with strong colour and great intensity. So
intensify your own health and strength and life a little; that
is the best study.
I should be most obliged if you could let me know how Margot
Begemann is and how things are with the De Groots, how did that
business turn out? Did Sien de Groot marry her cousin? And did
her child live?
Of my own work I think that the picture of peasants eating
potatoes I did in Nuenen is après tout the best I've
done. But since then I've had no chance of getting models,
though on the other hand I did have the chance to study the
colour question. And if I should find models again for my
figures later, then I would hope to be able to show that I am
after something other than little green landscapes or
Last year I painted almost nothing but flowers so as to get
used to colours other than grey, vis. pink, soft or bright
green, light blue, violet, yellow, orange, glorious red.
And when I was painting landscapes at Asnières this
summer, I saw more colour in them than I did before. Now I'm
going to try it with a portrait. And I must say that I'm not
painting any the worse for it, perhaps because I could tell you
of a very great deal that's wrong with both painters and
paintings if I wanted to, quite as easily as I could tell you
something that's good about them.
I don't want to be included among the melancholy or those
who turn sour and bitter or ill-tempered. “Tout
comprendre c'est tout pardonner” [to understand
everything is to forgive everything], and I believe that if we
knew everything we should attain some serenity. Now, having as
much of that serenity as possible, even when one knows little
or nothing for certain, is perhaps a better remedy for all ills
than what is sold in the pharmacy. Much of it comes by itself,
one grows and develops of one's own accord.
So don't study and grind away too much, for that makes one
sterile. Enjoy yourself too much rather than too little, and
don't take art and love too seriously - there is very little
one can do about it, it is mainly a question of
If I were living near you, I should try to make you
understand that it might perhaps be more practical for you to
paint with me than to write, and that you might be able to
express your feelings more easily that way. In any case I can
do something personally about your painting, but I am not in
the writing profession.
Anyway, it's not a bad idea for you to become an artist, for
when one has fire within oneself and a soul, one cannot keep
bottling them up - better to burn than to burst, what is in
will out. For me, for instance, it is a relief to do a
painting, and without that I should be more miserable than I
Give Mother much love from me,
I was deeply moved by A la recherche du bonheur. I have just
finished Mont-Oriol by Guy de Maupassant.
Art often seems very exalted and, as you say, sacred. But
the same can be said of love. And the only problem is that not
everybody thinks about it in this way, and that those who do
feel something of it, and let themselves be carried away by it,
have to suffer so much, firstly because they are misunderstood,
but quite as often because their inspiration is so often
inadequate, or their work is frustrated by circumstances. One
ought to be able to do two or even more things at once. And
there are certainly times when it is far from clear to us that
art should be something sacred or good.
Anyway, do weigh up carefully if those with a feeling for
art, and trying to work at it, wouldn't do better to declare
that they are doing it because they were born with that
feeling, cannot help themselves and are following their nature,
than make out they are doing it for some noble purpose. Doesn't
it say in A la recherche du bonheur that evil lies in our own
nature - which we have not created ourselves? I think it so
admirable of the moderns that they do not moralize like the old
ones. Thus many people are appalled and scandalized by
“Le vice et la vertu sont des produits chimiques, comme
le sucre et le vitrol.” [Vice and virtue are chemical
products, like sugar and vitriol.]
Note by Johanna: Vincent uses the unusual spelling
“Kristenen” here instead of
“Christenen,” thereby expressing his aversion
to all religious conventionalism. [Editor's note: Studying the original
letter, in fact we see that Vincent used the
conventional spelling “christenen”. We can only wonder at Johanna's motive for
this piece of religious mythical nonesense.]
At this time, Vincent was 34 year old
Vincent van Gogh. Letter to Wilhelmina van Gogh. Written Summer/fall 1887 in Paris. Translated by Robert Harrison, edited by Robert Harrison, number W01.
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