daily vincent

Johan (Jan) Hendrik Weissenbruch - Mill by the Trekvaart (Landscape at sunset), 1867.

Henri de Braekeleer - The atlas (The geographer), 1871.

Henri de Braekeleer - The catechism lesson (The lesson), 1872.

Henri de Braekeleer - Antwerp: The cathedral, 1872.

Emile Wauters - Mary of Burgundy begging mercy of the magistrates for her advisers Hugonet and Humbercourt, 1870.

Emile Wauters - The painter Hugo van der Goes in the Red Cloister, 1872.

George Henry Boughton - Early Puritans of New England going to worship armed (...), 1867.

James Stephenson after John Everett Millais - Ophelia (1852), 1866.

Thomas Oldham Barlow after John Everett Millais - The Huguenot (1852), 1857.

London, 20 July 1873 My dear Theo, Thanks for your letter, which gave me a great deal of pleasure. I’m glad you’re well and that living at Mr Schmidt’s is still to your liking. Mr Obach was pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope that in future we’ll do a lot of business with you. That painting by Linder is very beautiful. As to the photogravure, I know more or less how they’re made, though I haven’t seen it, and it isn’t clear enough to me to explain it. English art didn’t appeal to me much at first, one has to get used to it. There are some good painters here, though, including Millais, who made ‘The Huguenot’, Ophelia, &c., engravings of which you probably know, they’re very beautiful. Then Boughton, of whom you know the ‘Puritans going to church’ in our Galerie photographique. I’ve seen very beautiful things by him. Moreover, among the old painters, Constable, a landscape painter who lived around 30 years ago, whose work is splendid, something like Diaz and Daubigny. And Reynolds and Gainsborough, who mostly painted very, very beautiful portraits of women, and then Turner, after whom you’ll probably have seen engravings. Several good French painters live here, including Tissot, after whom there are various photos in our Galerie photographique, Otto Weber and Heilbuth. The latter is currently making dazzlingly beautiful paintings in the style of the one by Linder. Be sure, when you get the chance, to write and tell me whether there are photographs after Wauters, besides Hugo van der Goes and Mary of Burgundy and whether you also know photographs of paintings by Lagye and De Braekeleer. It’s not the elder De Braekeleer I mean but, I believe, a son of his, who had 3 splendid paintings at the last exhibition in Brussels, titled ‘Antwerp’, ‘The school’ and ‘The atlas’. Things are going well for me here. I go walking a lot. Here where I live it’s a quiet, convivial, nice-looking neighbourhood, in this I’ve really been fortunate. And yet I sometimes think back with nostalgia to the wonderful Sundays in Scheveningen and so on, but never mind that. You’ll surely have heard that Anna is at home and not well. It’s a bad start to her holiday, but let’s hope she’s better by now. Thanks for what you wrote to me about paintings. Be sure to write and tell me if you ever see anything by Lagye, De Braekeleer, Wauters, Maris, Tissot, George Saal, Jundt, Ziem, Mauve, who are painters I like very much, and by whom you’ll probably see something now and then. Herewith a copy of that poem about that painter ‘who entered The Swan, the inn where he boarded’, which you no doubt remember. It’s Brabant to a T, and I’m so fond of it. Lies copied it out for me on my last evening at home. How much I’d like to have you here, what pleasant days we spent together in The Hague. I still think so often of our walk on Rijswijkseweg, where we drank milk at the mill after the rain. If those paintings we have from you are to be sent back, I’ll send you a portrait of that mill by Weissenbruch. Perhaps you remember, ‘the merry tune’ is his nickname, ‘I say, superrrb’. That Rijswijkseweg holds memories for me which are perhaps the most delightful I have. Perhaps we’ll speak of it again sometime when we meet. And now, old chap, I wish you well, think of me from time to time and write to me soon. It’s so refreshing when I receive a letter. Vincent My regards to Mr Schmidt and Eduard. How are Uncle Hein and Aunt? Write to me about them, do you go there often? Give them my warm regards.

Slowly the toll of the angelus-bell resounded o’er the fields, As they blissfully bathed in the gold of the evening sun. O solemn, moving moment! When every mother in the village suddenly Stops the whirring of the wheel to bless herself with the sign of the cross;

While in the field the farmer reins in his steaming horses, And, behind the plough, bares his head to murmur an Ave. O solemn, moving moment! When the bell that proclaims far and wide The end of the day’s work makes those powerful, dripping heads Bow down for Him who causes the sweat in the furrow to thrive.

For the artist, too, on the slope of yon shady hill, Absorbed in his painting from the earliest morning, The angelus now gave the sign to retreat. Slowly he wiped His brush and palette, which he stowed with his canvas in the valise, Folded his camp-stool and dreamily descended the path That leads, gently winding, through the flowery dale to the village.

Yet how oft, before reaching the foot of the hill, did he Stand admiringly still, to imprint on his mind once again The refreshing scene down below, unfolding before his eyes.

Just before him lay the village, with a hill to north and to south, Between whose crests the sun, inflamed and sinking in the west, Let flow the whole wealth of its colours and up-conjured glory. The bell, in the grey tower entwined with black-green ivy, Was now silent. Hanging motionless on high were the brown Sails of the windmill; the leaves stood still and above the huts Blue clouds of peat-smoke ascended so straight from the chimneys That they, too, seemed to hang motionless in the shimmering air. ’Twas as though this village, this field, those hills, as though everything, Before wrapping itself in a cloak of evening dew to sleep Beneath the sun’s parting kiss, silently and gratefully Recalled once more the peace and plenty it had again savoured.

Soon, though, this silence was gently disturbed by the sweet sounds Of the evening. In the distance, from a hollow in the hill echoed Lingeringly the sound of the cow-horn, calling the cattle. And at this sign from their herdsman there soon appeared in the furrowed, Sandy mountain road the whole of a colourful herd of cows. Cracking and smacking, the lad’s lash drove them forward, While they, as if by turns, their necks outstretched, with friendly lowing Greeted from afar the cow-shed where the milkmaid Waited for them each evening to ease their taut udders. Thus on the paths running out from the village like spokes From an axle, there slowly came movement and life. Here, ’twas a farmer, dragging homeward a harrow or plough On a sledge, whistling a tune and riding beside on his bay; There, a blushing lass, on her head a lock of sweet clover Laced with daisies and poppies, called from afar to the others, Kindly and gaily at once, her clear-toned ‘good evening’. Further... But on the same track where the painter’s path Led, he suddenly heard peals of joyous laughter. Rocking from side to side, a wagon, nearly toppling Under its load of fresh-harvested buckwheat, came rumbling closer, Both horse and burden adorned with fluttering ribbons and greenery. Children, all with wreaths of flowers on their little flaxen heads, Were seated on top, happily waving branches of alder, Or scattering flowers and leaves, which rained down on all sides, While round the wagon a troop of country lads and lasses Skipped and sang enough to startle the whole drowsy plain.

Quietly smiling, the Painter, from behind the thicket, Watched as the revellers slowly wound their way down the rutted road. ‘Aye’, he thus mumbled, ‘Aye, the Lord must think it A happy sound, the jubilance with which these hearts So simply pour forth their thanks as they gather the last Fruits, which He yearly lets grow fully ripe from their toil. Yea, for the purest prayer of simplicity and innocence is joy!’

And thus contemplating the calm, deep delight upon which the soul Feasts in the fields; or with his artist’s mind reconstructing In silent rapture the glorious scene of a moment ago, He found he had sauntered, unnoticing, into the village.

Already the purple and yellow had faded to grey in the west, And in the east there had risen close by the little church the full Copper-coloured disc of the moon, in mist enshrouded, When he entered The Swan, the inn where he boarded.

Jan van Beers (The boarder)

Sourced from vangoghletters.org, as part of the copied poetry belonging to the letter number 010 and number 011.

London, 2 July 1873 My dear friends, I wanted to write to you even earlier, and now I don’t want to put it off any longer. How are you? I’ve heard that you have made your house as neat as a new pin and that you’re doing well. I commend myself expressly to hear something from you, should you have a moment at your disposal. I’m doing well here; I’m seeing a lot of new and beautiful things, and have had luck in finding a good boarding-house, so that I already feel relatively settled here. Still, I haven’t forgotten The Hague and should very, very much like to spend another evening in the Poten and also look in on you. This branch is just a stockroom and is therefore completely different from working in The Hague, though I’m sure I’ll get used to it. I’m already finished with my work at 6 o’clock, so I still have a fair amount of time for myself, which I spend very pleasantly walking, reading and writing letters. The neighbourhood where I live is very pretty, and so peaceful and convivial that one almost forgets one is in London. In front of every house is a small garden with flowers or a couple of trees, and many houses are built very tastefully in a sort of Gothic style. Still, I have to walk for more than half an hour to reach the countryside. We have a piano in the drawing room, and there are also three Germans living here who really love music, which is most agreeable. One of the nicest things I’ve seen here is Rotten Row in Hyde Park, which is a long, broad avenue where hundreds of ladies and gentlemen go riding. In every part of the city there are splendid parks with a wealth of flowers such as I’ve seen nowhere else. I enclose a copy of a poem by Van Beers, which you may not know. Our Elisabeth copied it out for me on my last evening in Helvoirt, because she knew how much I liked it. It’s Brabant to a T. I thought you’d enjoy reading it, so I’ve copied it out for you. It was very thoughtful of your sister Marie to send me an announcement. I’m longing to hear about the wedding, on which I congratulate you as well. Would you be so kind as to send me a list of your birthdays when you get the opportunity? I had one which I’ve lost. And now, regards, bid everyone in the Poten good-day from me, and I wish you all well. Excuse the poor handwriting, it’s already late and time to go to bed. Good-night. Vincent

London, 13 June 1873. My dear Theo, You’re probably longing to hear from me, so I don’t want to keep you waiting for a letter any longer. I heard from home that you’re now staying with Mr Schmidt, and that Pa has been to see you. I sincerely hope that this will be more to your liking than your previous boarding-house, and don’t doubt that it will be. Write to me soon, I’m longing to hear from you, and tell me how you’re spending your days at present, &c. Write to me especially about the paintings you’ve seen recently, and also whether anything new has been published in the way of etchings or lithographs. You must keep me well informed about this, because here I don’t see much in that genre, as the firm here is just a stockroom. I’m very well, considering the circumstances. I’ve come by a boarding-house that suits me very well for the present. There are also three Germans in the house who really love music and play piano and sing themselves, which makes the evening very pleasant indeed. I’m not as busy here as I was in The Hague, as I only have to be in the office from 9 in the morning until 6 in the evening, and on Saturdays I’m finished by 4 o’clock. I live in one of the suburbs of London, where it’s comparatively quiet. It’s a bit like Tilburg or some such place. I spent some very pleasant days in Paris and, as you can imagine, very much enjoyed all the beautiful things I saw at the exhibition and in the Louvre and the Luxembourg. The Paris branch is splendid, and much larger than I’d imagined. Especially the Place de l’Opéra. Life here is very expensive. I pay 18 shillings a week for my lodgings, not including the washing, and then I still have to eat in town. Last Sunday I went on an outing with Mr Obach, my superior, to Box Hill, which is a high hill (some 6 hours from L.), partly of chalk and covered with box trees, and on one side a wood of tall oak trees. The countryside here is magnificent, completely different from Holland or Belgium. Everywhere one sees splendid parks with tall trees and shrubs, where one is allowed to walk. During the Whitsun holiday I also took a nice trip with those Germans, but those gentlemen spend a great deal of money and I shan’t go out with them any more. I was glad to hear from Pa that Uncle H. is reasonably well. Would you give my warm regards to him and Aunt and give them news of me? Bid good-day to Mr Schmidt and Eduard from me, and write to me soon. Adieu, I wish you well. Vincent. My address is: Care of Messrs Goupil & Co. 17 Southampton Street Strand London.