Vincent van Gogh - Dear Theo (Ch. 1.1) lyrics

London, June, 1873 Dear Theo: Oh, lad, I should like to have you here to show you my new lodgings. I now have a room such as I always longed for, without a slanting ceiling and without blue paper with a green border. I live with a very amusing family; they keep a school for little boys. I am quite contented; I walk much, the neighbourhood where I live is quiet, pleasant and fresh, and I was really very lucky in finding it. I am not so busy here as I was in The Hague, as I work only from nine until six, and on Saturdays, we close at four o'clock. One Saturday I went boating on the Thames with two Englishmen. That was very beautiful. Although the house is not so interesting as the house in The Hague, it is perhaps well that I am here; and especially later on when the sale of pictures shall grow more important, I shall perhaps be of some use. Lately we have had many pictures and drawings and we sold a great many but it is not enough yet; it must become something more enduring and solid. I think there must become something more enduring and solid. I think there is still much work to do in England, and of course the first thing necessary is to have good pictures, and that will be very difficult. I am doing very well and it is a great pleasure for me to study London and the English way of living and the English people themselves; and then I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough? At first English art did not seem very attractive to me; one must get used to it. But there are clever painters here, among others Millais, who has painted the 'Hugenot.' His things are beautiful. Then there is Boughton, and among the old painters, Constable, a landscape painter who lived about thirty years ago; he is splendid, his work reminds me of Diaz and Daubigny; and there are Reynolds and Gainsborough, who have especially painted very beautiful ladies' portraits; and then Turner. I see that you have a great love for art; that is a good thing, lad. I am glad you like Millet, Jacque, Scheyer, Frans Hals, for as Mauve says, 'That's the stuff.' Yes, that picture by Millet, 'The Angelus,' that's the thing, that is beauty, that is poetry. Admire as much as you can; most people do not admire enough. I have read a book on art by Van Vloten and did not quite agree with him, and it was very learned. Burger is more simple, and whatever he says is true. Last Sunday I went to the country with Mr. Obach, my principal, to Boxhill; that is a high hill about six hours by road from London, partly of chalk and overgrown with box, and at one side a wood of high oak trees. Everywhere you see charming parks with high trees and shrubs. Still I do not forget Holland and especially The Hague, and Brabant. What pleasant days we spent together at The Hague! I think so often of that walk on the Ryswyk road, where we drank milk after the rain, at the mill. I will send you a portrait of that mill by Weissenbruch; the merry Weiss, is his surname -- that road of Ryswyk hold memories for me which are perhaps the most beautiful I have. I am glad you like César de co*k so much; he is one of the few painters who understand our dear Brabant intimately. I met him last year in Paris. You must try by all means to get a good knowledge of pictures. Go to the museum as often as you can; it is a good thing to know the old painters also, and if you have a chance, read about art and especially the art magazine, 'Gazette des Beaux-Arts.' Try to walk as much as you can, and keep your love for nature, for that is the true way to learn to understand art more and more. Painters understand nature and love her and teach us to see her. If one really loves nature, once can find beauty everywhere. I am very busy gardening and have sown a little garden full of poppies sweet peas, and mignonette. Now we must wait to see what comes of it. Of late I took up drawing again, but stopped. Perhaps I shall take it up again some day or other. I am reading a great deal now. I am glad you have read Michelet and that you understand him so well. Such a book teaches us that there is more in love than people generally suppose. 'L'Amour' has been a revelation to me as well as a Gospel. 'No woman is old.' That does not mean there are not old women, but that a woman is not old as long as she loves and is loved. That a woman is quite a different being from a man, and a being that we do not yet know, at least only quite superficially -- yes, I am sure of it. And that man and wife can be one, that is to say one whole, and not two halves -- yes, I believe that too. From the money I gave you, you must buy Alphonse Karr's 'Journey Round My Garden.' Be sure to do that. Autumn is coming fast, and that makes nature more serious and more intimate still. Our gallery is ready now and is very beautiful; we have some splendid pictures: Jules Dupré, Michel, Daubigny, Maris, Israëls. In April we shall have an exhibition. You know the 'Margaret at the Fountain,' by Ary Scheffer? Is there a purer being than that girl, 'that loved so much'! Don't regret that your life is too easy; mine is rather easy too. I think that life is pretty long, and that the time will arrive soon enough in which another 'shall gird thee and lead thee where thou wouldst not.' In a little book containing poetry I sent you, I copied 'Meerestille' by Heine. Some time ago I saw a picture by Thys Maris that reminded me of it: an old Dutch town with rows of brownish red houses with stepped gables and high stoops, grey roofs, and white or yellow doors, window frames, and cornices; can*ls with ships and a large white drawbridge under which a barge pa**es with a man at the rudder. And there is life everywhere. A porter with his wheelbarrow, a man who is leaning against the railing of the bridge and looking into the water, a woman in black with a white bonnet. I send you a little drawing. I made it last Sunday, the morning when the little daughter of my landlady died. It is a view on Streatham Common, a large gra**y plain with oak trees and gorse. As you see, it is sketched on the title-page of the 'Poems,' by Edmond Roche. There are some very fine ones among them, grave and sad. I copy them for you. Ay, lad, 'What shall we say?' C.M. Van Gogh and Mr. Tersteeg have been here and left again last Saturday. In my opinion they have been too often to the Crystal Palace and other places with which they had nothing to do. I think they might just as well have come to see the place where I am living. I hope and trust that I am not what many people think me to be just now; we shall see, some time must pa**.