YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF
VINCENT VAN GOGH

VINCENT VAN GOGH
painted by himself

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF
VINCENT VAN GOGH
BY
ELIZABETH DU QUESNE VAN GOGH
TRANSLATED BY
KATHERINE S. DREIER
WITH
A FOREWORD BY ARTHUR B. DAVIES
ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
(sttftt ftitaerjiibe pre# Cambtibge
1913

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY KATHERINE S. DREIER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published November 1Q13

CONTENTS
Introduction  xiii
I. The Preparation  3
II. The Beginning  26
III. France once more  45
IV. The End  49

ILLUSTRATIONS
Sunflowers  Cover
Portrait of Vincent Van Gogh, by Himself Frontispiece
A Workman  6
Scheveningen Fish-Houses  6
The Road under the Railway  io
The Bridge over the Railway .... 10
The "Aardappeleeters"  14
The Farm Laborer  14
A View of Arles, I  22
A View of Arles, II  22
Flowers  28
Flowering Olive Trees . . . . ' . . 28
Sorrow  32
The Good Samaritan  32
Copy of a lithograph of Delacroix's painting.
Fields near Arles  34
A Woman of Arles  34
Mother and Child  38
Van Gogh's Bedroom in Arles .... 38
The Garden  .42
The Pine Trees . .  42

FOREWORD
The paintings of Van Gogh show soundness and lucidity
of mind, in form and in color, and contain sure indica
tions of generous human sympathies. All this com
bines to make an art work which is essentially aristo
cratic. His powerful stride leads us into the domain of
cosmic unity, where the great artists cluster in Pleiades.
Because so satisfyingly permanent they give that zest
to life, showing that the ascendency of any human be
ing, though handicapped by depressions and the sense
of imminent misfortunes, will prevail over all those
seemingly inherited material conditions.
It is blindness not to recognize in Van Gogh's paint
ings a fine balance of faculties, simplicity, and serious
ness based upon a natural expression. He had no eye
for compromise, for the devil of academic security of
possession. He has ruled his domain with kingly power
and made his visions beautiful, painting them in char
acters of rugged construction.
To see his master works is to realize his loyalty to his
subjects, a singleness of purpose which is almost pain
ful. His masterstroke is a prayer of thankfulness, his
final thought a law of eternal energy.
As a seeker after some " new spirit," Van Gogh again
verifies that, in avoiding conventional realism, art is
vitally augmented change, suggesting so much, com-

x ILLUSTRATIONS
Sketch at Les Stes. Maries ,  46
The Cypresses  46
La Berceuse . .  48
Dr. Gachet  48
A Facsimile of one of Van Gogh's Letters . . 52

INTRODUCTION
DURING the summer of 191 2, Der Sonderbund of
Cologne held an exhibition of modern paintings,
representing especially those painters of various na
tions who are trying to express not only themselves but
the spirit of to-day.
Europe is greatly in advance of us in this respect,
ready to give a hearing to a group of earnest thinkers in
whatever branch of thought, be it science or the arts.
This is especially true of France, and that hospitable
city, Paris, which is always ready to share all its knowl
edge and its thoughts with those who wish to enter its
portals. Who has not heard of or met with those kind
French dealers, men of moderate means, of plain birth,
whose passion for art has made them true patrons, in
the real sense of the word — men who have given as
sistance to young, struggling, and unknown painters
or sculptors ; who gave them their first chance by plac
ing their work in their show-windows, or, by giving
credit for material, offered them the first real opportun
ity for work; who, when asked by commercial friends
whether the loss was not great, answered, as did Pere
Foinet, "No, for they always pay back unless death
instead of fame first overtakes them"!
Germany, too, is trying to bring to life this spirit,
in forming art associations throughout her large cities,

xn FOREWORD

pleting so little, yet conformable to the natural order
of intuition and duration.
The ordinary person is not naturally delighted with
a great break, as made by Cezanne, Van Gogh, Gau
guin, Matisse, and Brancusi; with the determination
not to go on imitating facts but to produce, instead,
things of plastic, decorative beauty. Mankind never
theless is always able to discern that sincerity is_a ne
cessity of occupation in an art work, and that there is a
relation of the fact to the perfect idea, and to the per
fect artist. Arthur B. Davies.

INTRODUCTION
DURING the summer of 1912, Der Sonderbund of
Cologne held an exhibition of modern paintings,
representing especially those painters of various na
tions who are trying to express not only themselves but
the spirit of to-day.
Europe is greatly in advance of us in this respect,
ready to give a hearing to a group of earnest thinkers in
whatever branch of thought, be it science or the arts.
This is especially true of France, and that hospitable
city, Paris, which is always ready to share all its knowl
edge and its thoughts with those who wish to enter its
portals. Who has not heard of or met with those kind
French dealers, men of moderate means, of plain birth,
whose passion for art has made them true patrons, in
the real sense of the word — men who have given as
sistance to young, struggling, and unknown painters
or sculptors ; who gave them their first chance by plac
ing their work in their show-windows, or, by giving
credit for material, offered them the first real opportun
ity for work ; who, when asked by commercial friends
whether the loss was not great, answered, as did Pere
Foinet, "No, for they always pay back unless death
instead of fame first overtakes them"!
Germany, too, is trying to bring to life this spirit,
in forming art associations throughout her large cities,

xiv INTRODUCTION

which will enable artists to exhibit their work at almost
no expense.
One of these new associations representing the mod
ern movement is the Sonderbund of Cologne, which
held an exhibition last year. From all over Europe
people came to see and to learn. It was held in a large
temporary*structure, and of the twenty rooms, four
were given over entirely to the works of Van Gogh.
One hundred and twelve of his paintings had been
gathered together from collections scattered through
out Europe. Here at last was an opportunity to study
the works of a man who was deeply impressing and in
fluencing artists and critics in many countries. They
were not slavish followers, imitators, that one met,
but men who were doing vigorous original work. Van
Gogh seemed to have stimulated and opened out to
them a whole new vision of color construction.
We reached Cologne after a long, dusty railroad
journey and immediately drove out to the exhibition.
The first room that one entered was the large hall with
a single line of Van Gogh's paintings, all done in his
last and most brilliant period, hung spaciously, so that
each picture came to its full value.
It was like stepping out of a stuffy room into glorious,
bracing air.
What courage and conviction had "produced this
vitality — these pictures vibrant with life!
How did Van Gogh secure this result?
? ' The foundation of it all— his mind— what was it like,
that made this extraordinary personality what it was?

INTRODUCTION xv
That was the question that kept repeating itself, and
I read all that I could find about him, in the hope of
having it answered.
This simple, exquisite appreciation written by his
sister seemed to me to give one more truly a keynote
of understanding of his work than all the technical
dissertations on his methods and achievements. Here,
through his sister, one has the privilege of an intimate
and sincere introduction into the life and work of the
man. He had a broad education, a great capacity for
work, a fine intellect, fed by incessant study, which,
when concentrated upon art, developed both theory
and practice. His knowledge of many languages opened
out vast fields of literature on art and chemistry, and
nothing which could be found relating to these sub
jects escaped him. The single-mindedness of his life
alone made possible the progress which he achieved.
It was, however, also the philosophical problems of
life that consumed him, and his tremendous concentra
tion caused the tragic temporary mental breakdowns.
For critics, therefore, to emphasize these periods of
depression and insanity, as if the saneness were but a
j matter of lucid intervals, is about as unfair a proceed-
t ing as one can find. The conclusion of one critic, that
Van Gogh was unable to "think straight" because of
them, tempts one to ask the objector how many pic
tures by Van Gogh have been seen and studied, — not
how many books or articles have been read?
The only criticism that can be made on the work of
an artist is on his pictures, not on what he has written.

xvi INTRODUCTION
He is not a writer, but a painter. The medium chosen
whereby to express the individuality — that is of primal
value to the world. Therefore, by his paintings alone
Van Gogh must be judged.
To any one who has made a study of color, Van
Gogh's pictures will open a new door that leads to a
future which the old masters never dreamt of. It is as
revolutionary in painting as Giorgioni's oil is to Botti
celli's tempera-paintings — though oil is used by Van
Gogh. That he did not live to carry his work to completion,
but must leave that to some other genius to do, is one
of the tragedies of this world. Van Gogh took the im-
pressionist idea of broken color to give light effect, and
carriecHt further, by drawing in color, — trying to give
both light and form through color, as it has never been
done before.
He took the great truth, which I believe El Greco
first promoted, of drawing in color, and combined it
with the impressionist idea of light. It was a tremen
dously bold and new undertaking, and when one con
siders that it was worked out by a man who painted
only ten years in all, one realizes the magnitude and
penetration of the mind that conceived and developed
this idea.
His olive trees, his mountains and rocks, his plowed
fields, the last heads and figure-paintings, all show the
working out of this thought. But he was unable to
carry it to the completion which he sought so passion
ately to accomplish.

INTRODUCTION xvii
Those whose development in observation has only
reached form without knowledge of color will simply
be conscious of that crudity of which he himself was
aware. Instead of not being able to "think straight,"
it is the straightest thinking in the matter of color con
struction the Western world has ever known.
To show the progress of color down the centuries, I
need only touch a little more clearly on the difference
in color-method between Botticelli and Giorgioni, or
the primitive and the man of the Renaissance.
The primitives painted on white ground; the effect
they sought was that of light shining through; they
sought brilliancy, but every color was within its own
outline. As light does not show well over light, they
made an underpainting of terre verte where heads,
hands, or white garments should be on the finished
picture. Giorgioni, Titian, Leonardo, and the other masters
of the Renaissance, on the contrary, painted on a dark
canvas to secure the somber rich effect which they
sought. As that excellent technician, Mr. Otto Ver-
mehren, of Florence, said to me, in illustration — "the
primitives sought the colors of the sunset, the light
shining through, while the later men sought the somber
reflected colors of the sunset at the east."
It would simplify the work of many a modern painter
if he would use the dark-ground prepared canvases,
instead of white or light gray when painting rich and
somber pictures.
El Greco, I believe, was the first man to paint in

xviii INTRODUCTION
color and not in outline: that is, in painting the hand,
for example, he would be influenced by light and shade
or color, his aim being to paint the hand and not the
outline of the fingers or the bone construction. His
color is very somber, very wonderful in its gradation,
and it was very instructive when the big Sonderbund
Exhibition in Cologne set aside one room with a very
fine example of El Greco and a collection of Van Gogh's
paintings in his Brabant period, which are in the same
color scheme. It enabled one to see the line of de
scent, and trace the evolution of Van Gogh's mind to
his later great and last period, where he combined the
drawing in color with his impressionist picture of light,
and gave us that great new thought of color construc
tion in light.
In America little opportunity had been given for
studying the modern movement until the recent big
International Exhibit this year. We have been reared
and trained either in the so-called classic or realistic
art, which have produced some of the finest flowers of
both the past and the present. But the new branches
of art are as legitimate in their way as the two forms
already mentioned.
Manet had found his way across the ocean and for
a long time has been exercising an influence over the
younger painters of this country. Monet, too, left a
decided influence; Twacthman and Hassam being the
two finest examples — but Pissarp, Renoir, Cezanne,
^auquin, and Van Gogh were hardly more than names.
' Of the first two, fine examples are to be seen in the

INTRODUCTION xix
Boston Museum, and in New York. Renoir is to be
found also.
The presentation at the recent International Exhibi
tion of the works of these men, with the yet newer
movements of Matisse, the Cubist, and the Futurist,
caused a confusion of discrimination which is appalling
when found in a critic who says, " Post-Impressionist,
Cubist, Futurist, however they may be designated,
their aim is to turn the world upside down — the one
interesting outcome of their common foible is a curious
family likeness running through their production."
On reading this one feels the effect of a foreigner in a
foreign land where all people look alike.
This same critic has well voiced in the following
quoted paragraph the lack of understanding of the aims
of these earnest painters, who are in the beginning of a
new movement in art and not at the completion of it.
" It is, I frankly confess, a difficult if not an impos
sible task to explain that hypothesis in terms that will
be acceptable to the zealots, who, moreover, have al
ways the easy resort that one has not understood their
sublime mystery. But I must take the risk and state
what after careful study I have gathered to be the Post-
Impressionist aim — it is to eschew such approximately
accurate representation of things seen as has been
hitherto pursued by painters of all schools and to cover
the canvas with an arrangement of line and color sym
bolizing the very essence of the object or scene attacked.
For some occult reason it is assumed that a portrait
or picture painted according to the familiar grammar of

xx INTRODUCTION

art, understood of all men, is clogged with irrelevant
matter. The great masters of the past, to be sure, are
not invalidated and they need not be sent to the lum
ber-room, but their day is done and with the Post-
Impressionist we must slough off a quantity of played-
out conventions before we can enter the 'Promised
Land.'" After reading such a paragraph, the mind goes back
a few hundred years and one has the desire to ask the
writer if there is a greater chasm between the past and
the present, than there was, at the time of Giotto,
between Giotto, Cimabue, and the Byzantine school.
One can easily picture the ardent followers of By
zantine art horrified at the realism Giotto displayed
and energetically indorsed, saying, "Why are the fol
lowers and admirers of Giotto not content with the
familiar grammar of art, understood of all men?" Is
it strange that after all these years there should be the
swing of the pendulum back from realism to the spirit
as best conveyed through formalism? The realism,
so splendid in its ascendency, grew until at the end
it became mere literal representation — so literal, in
fact, that a sitter hardly seemed amazed when she was
asked by a well-known portrait painter to secure a bay
tree of exact measurements which was needed in the
picture as a part of the background. In vain did the
sitter search the neighborhood for that special size, and
the bay tree had to be abandoned because those se
cured lacked or exceeded by a few inches the measure
ment wanted. This story, of course, is extreme, but

INTRODUCTION xxi
the rank of the painter made one realize to what ex
tent literalness had grown.
Another outgrowth of this realism is the storytelling
picture which has caused untold confusion in the minds
of the public in matters relating to art. They con
fuse the subject with the art standard of the picture.
We all know people to whom a religious painting badly
painted means more than a fine still-life by a great
master. And this confusion is much more prevalent
than one at first imagines. Any painter primarily
interested in light, color, line, and form can enumer
ate endless anecdotes where questions were asked
which drove him to despair — "What does it mean?"
"Why did you paint the figure standing thus or so?"
"How strange, I do not see any meaning in that pic
ture!" It is hard to keep constant patience and to
explain — especially when these questions are asked
by people who are well read in the history of art. It is
discouraging to notice how little people use their brains
in connection with their eyes — how little they observe.
They come to pictures with preconceived ideas of what
they wish to see, and if the exhibition is along other
lines, they condemn. It is the same in every form of
life — people do not like to be disturbed; they love to
jog-trot along, enjoying the things in the same every
day way.
Another thing one is conscious of is the confusion
as to what constitutes criticism. Criticism should be
constructive as well as destructive — the good as well
as the bad should be noticed and emphasized. It is

xxii INTRODUCTION

illuminating to listen to the conversation in an art
gallery or an exhibition. I have often noticed how peo
ple will rearrange the composition, perfectly oblivious
of the fact that the rearrangement would make a
totally different picture — in fact, it became their pic
ture and not the painter's that was being reviewed.
The critic quoted before ends his article with the fol
lowing paragraph: "Here from the incomplete, halting
methods of Cezanne there has flowed out of Paris into
Germany, Russia, England, and to some slight extent
to the United States, a gospel of stupid license and self-
assertion which would be swept into the rubbish heap
were it not for the timidity of our mental habit. When
the stuff is rebuked as it should be, the Post- Impression
ist impresarios and fuglemen insolently proffer us a
farrago of supersubtle rhetoric. The farce will end
when people look at Post-Impressionist pictures as Mr.
Sargent looked at those shown in London, ' absolutely
skeptical as to their having any claim whatever to
being works of art.' " But is it quite fair to Mr. Sargent
to end the quotation with a period when it is only a
comma? He adds in that famous letter, "with an ex
ception of Qauquin, that strike me as admirable in color
and in color only." If Post-Impression is a beginning,
a beginning founded essentially on color, and one of the
leading realists recognizes one of the leaders, is it
"timidity" that causes many a person to admire in
stead of to condemn? And is it within the realm of an
artist to be a true critic? If a person is an ardent ad
herent of one school, can he , see as clearly as a non-

INTRODUCTION xxiii
partisan the real intrinsic values of all schools — when
ideas are intense?
To take an example of another period, when feeling
ran high at the time of the Reformation, we now would
hardly feel that one could secure an unbiased opinion
of the works of a Catholic from a man who was a Prot
estant, or vice versa. Neither was wholly right, but
neither could have accomplished in his own line as
much as he did had each not been convinced that his
was the only road to salvation. And to ask the opinion
or to quote the opinion of a man, who is essentially and
brilliantly objective, about a man who is subjective in
his work and not the same master of his medium, seems
unwise, if what you seek is truth.
I hope that in this Introduction I have in some small
measure made clear why in my opinion Van Gogh
deserves very serious attention, and have stated it in
sufficiently clear and concrete form to prevent it from
being called "subtle subterfuge."
Van Gogh has been dead twenty-three years ; twenty-
three years is a time to be reckoned with.
Rejected in his day and generation by the majority
of painters, critics, collectors, and laymen, because he
blazed a path into a future in Art which few had the
vision to see, and fewer yet to follow, he died because
the battle was too constant and his body too weak to
stand the strain. Twenty-three years have passed
and the vision he sought so passionately is being seen
by others until the number of his followers has increased
by leaps and bounds. No museum in Holland or Ger-

xxiv INTRODUCTION
many finds itself complete without owning his work.
So alive is the question in Germany that lawsuits
have been waged.
Does all this stand for naught?
Time alone will justify this judgment and this faith,
and the truth-seeker will be satisfied. For it is not more
fetters, but greater knowledge and freedom that he
seeks. "The Truth shall make you free." For out of
freedom alone can come the greatest art.
Katherine S. Dreier.
June, 1913.

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF
VINCENT VAN GOGH

ERRATA
In the Introduction, for "Qauquin" read
"Gauguin," for "Giorgioni" read "Giorgione,"
and for"Pissaro" read "Pissarro."

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF
VINCENT VAN GOGH

CHAPTER I
THE PREPARATION
THEY were real village children, playing in the farm
garden. Beds of marigolds, mignonette, and bril
liant red geraniums were aglow with the setting sun.
Everything was in full bloom and athirst for water, this
hot late August afternoon. Behind the flower-beds
lay the lawn where the snow-white linen was bleached
and spread to keep it fresh; next followed row upon
row of berry-bushes, rich with the fragrance of the
ripening fruit; and the entire garden was inclosed in a
beech hedge, which separated it from the fields of rye
and grain that stretched beyond as far as the eye could
see. In a corner stood a stack of dried peavines with
the pods still clinging to them.
Three happy children were clambering up the mound,
only to slide down again in greatest glee.
Now and again they stopped a second on their high
ground of vantage to survey the surrounding country.
Behind them rose the old farmhouse, with its long line
of windows, and dark-green shutters, against which the
flowers seemed to glow with greater brilliancy. It was
a house containing a history — generations had dwelt
in it, all of whom had led the same free, unhampered

VINCENT VAN GOGH

existence; none had known great changes in the even
tenor of their lives.
Back of the children stood the house, while stretch
ing out before them as far as the eye could see, lay
the fields of rye until lost in a pale gray line on the
horizon. There were the meadows and the fruit farms,
hardly to be discerned at this great distance, through
which a small Brabant stream was gliding under a
near-by gleaming white bridge. Speechless the three
children — two girls and a boy, of the ages ranging
from nine to thirteen — were watching to see who was
approaching. Models of spotlessness they certainly
were not. The cleanliness of their little frocks and
hands left much to be desired. But one forgave them
heartily their appearance, for on their faces was the
sparkle of childhood and their eyes reminded one of
the happiness of the flowers and the freshness of the
running stream.
In turning, one of them saw their oldest brother ap
proaching — a boy of seventeen, as broad as he was
long, his back slightly bent, with the bad habit of let
ting the head hang; the red blond hair cropped close
was hidden under a straw hat : a strange face, not young ;
the forehead already full of lines, the eyebrows on the
large, noble brow drawn together in deepest thought.
The eyes, small and deep-set, were now blue, now green,
according to the impressions of the moment. But in
spite of all awkwardness and the ugly exterior, one was
conscious of a greatness, through the unmistakable sign
of the deep inner life.

THE PREPARATION

Brother and sisters were strangers to him as well
as his own youth. Hardly matured, his genius was al
ready being felt, though unknown to himself; as a child,
who does not understand what its mother is, yet an
swers at her call.
Without a greeting the brother passed by, out of the
garden gate, through the meadows, along the path that
led to the stream. The children noted whither he was
going, because of the bottle and fishnet he carried.
It did not occur to any of them to call after him, "May
I come too?" Yet they knew only too well how clever
he was at catching the water insects; he would show
his trophies to the children on his return. Such jolly
little and big beasties ! There were broad beetles, with
their glossy backs; others with great round eyes, and
crooked legs, that nervously wriggled the minute they
left the water.
All the beetles, even those with the terrible long
feelers, had names, — such horribly long names one
could never remember, — and yet their brother knew
them all. And then, after he had prepared them, he
would carefully pin them in a little box, which first
had been beautifully lined with snow-white paper, and
neatly labeled with the names pasted above each insect
— even the Latin names !
None of the children ever thought of laughing at
him : no ; he was treated with the deepest respect ; but to
ask permission to go along to the brook, where it was
so deliciously cool, where one could dip one's hands
into the sand without soiling one's self — that they did

VINCENT VAN GOGH

not dare. The'most beautiful forget-me-nots grew along
the stream, as well as pink water-lilies! The little girls,
who loved flowers above everything else, longed for
the unattainable!
They were not permitted to leave the garden alone,
and on their walks with their parents, it was always,
"Children, children, don't go near the water." They
felt, however, instinctively, with the delicate sensitive
ness of children, that their brother preferred to be
alone when home on his vacation from boarding-school.
For he sought solitude, not the companionship of his
family, and he knew all the places where the rarest
flowers grew.
He avoided the little village, with the straight streets
and small village houses, out of whose windows the gos
sips would peep over their curtains with their spec
tacles tilted on the tips of their noses, and follow the
passer-by to see whither he was going. Since the once
important little village was no longer the resting-place
for the post, where the change of horses was made, it
lay as dead and buried. He let it be, and sought in
stead the woods and fields, watching and studying the
life of the underbrush and the birds. The birds he knew
intimately; knew where they all lived and had their
being, and. if he saw a pair of larks descend among the
rye, he knew how to watch them closely, without even
breaking one fine stalk of grain.
With a thousand voices Nature spoke to him while he
listened, but his time had not yet ripened into action.
Not a pen-and-ink drawing, not a pencil sketch of

THE PREPARATION

this time, exists. He did not think of drawing, the
future draughtsman. His mind was given to watching
and thinking. When a small boy he modeled an elephant
with great accuracy out of some clay which a sculptor's
assistant had given him. When eight years old, he sur
prised his mother by presenting her with a sketch of a
cat, who with wild leaps was trying to climb the apple
tree in the garden. Surprising as these spontaneous
expressions were, even more surprising because they
occurred at such rare intervals, they were forgotten,
and only remembered years later.
How strong must have been the impressions which
cities like The Hague, Brussels, Paris, and London made
on this sensitive personality from the country! Often,
years afterwards, those dormant impressions would
waken to some spontaneous form of line and color under
totally different aspects, even outwardly taking other
shapes. Yet one can trace them back to these first im
pressions. And possibly it was this long slumbering
impression of Paris which years later produced "Mar
seille," as it stretches along with its sharp contours
against the dark-blue heavens, with its thousand
lights streaming out from the town and harbor, trying
to conquer the brilliancy of the stars above. The con
viction with which this brilliancy was accomplished
may never again be attained in art.
His school-days were ended. The Director of the
Academy had wished the parents success and happi-

8 VINCENT VAN GOGH
ness in the future of their gifted son. And following
family tradition, Vincent Van Gogh was now to become
a merchant. Formerly, as now, it was considered a special favor
for a young man, who wished to become an art dealer,
to receive his training from Goupil, who had made the
business a world-wide enterprise by establishing houses
in Berlin, New York, and London, besides having con
nections in The Hague and Brussels. First at The
Hague and then at Brussels, he received his training.
Later he was to go to Paris. The duties of an appren
tice were similar to those in a bookshop — to pack or
unpack, to develop and have under his charge all pho
tographs and 'reproductions of well-known pictures,
or even to lend a hand in the boxing of paintings.
With all these tasks he was content. He had a dex
terity which one would not have suspected from his
rough exterior. It had been noticed already, when, as
a child, he so carefully handled his collection of beetles;
or in the tying and arranging of flowers; and later in his
great natural gift of nursing the sick. Without a mur
mur he performed all these humble duties which were
really beneath a man of his knowledge of art and liter
ature, yet all the more gladly he seemed to do them,
because he felt that they were aiding him in his prepa
ration as a painter.
Art of the most varying kind came to his hand: art
from all the ruling countries of the world, pictures and
their reproductions by all sorts of artists. As hereto
fore he had been absorbed in Nature, so now he became

THE PREPARATION

deeply engrossed in studying how she was reproduced.
Often it seemed to him that the picture did not reproduce
the Nature he knew and loved so well, with the sin
cerity and truth due her. He also noticed that praise
was not always given where, according to his knowl
edge, praise seemed due. It astonished, troubled, and
angered him.
"Que voulez-vous? C'est la mode" was the answer
given him as he hesitatingly told his opinion to a fellow-
assistant. It was Fashion, then, that dictated the laws
in the Realm of Beauty — Fashion, which he scorned
— Fashion put her stamp of "to be or not to be" on
the works of an artist and determined the fate of
those who belonged to him. She it was who gathered
unto herself these treasures or threw them aside with
scorn, and banished the creator to a poverty which
could cripple his ability forever. And he should become
her slave and kneel at her feet to pay her homage, —
he who had never felt any need for society, who was
a stranger to her laws and her convention! He should
help to throw sand into the eyes of the public, spoil
good taste knowingly, and in this way help to destroy
what was truly fine — that would, indeed, suit him!
As an art dealer, an educated young man could al
ways find a secured future. But though he was modest,
as most great men are, he had never taken the slightest
notice of what the world calls "form." He was per
fectly unconscious of having distressed his parents, in
that he never joined the happy family group, never

io VINCENT VAN GOGH

met people, but always sought solitude. The sending
nome of his first earnings, after he had been advanced A
co Paris, proved to his family that this aloofness was
only an inability to give himself, even to those he loved*
Shortly after receiving this gift from their son, his
parents received word from the firm that they weref
very sorry to say that while he gave absolute satisf ac-1
tion at first while at The Hague and in Brussels, espe-J
daily on the practical side, they were compelled to in
form them that his awkwardness and shyness were a
detriment to him in his business which threatened to
become insurmountable. Personal peculiarities of this
kind were particularly disturbing to the Parisians —
especially to ladies, who, being convinced of their own
knowledge of art, did not care to be corrected by this
"rustre Hollandais," as they termed him. Were it
not for the connection which his family had with one
of the heads of the firm, he would long ago have been
dismissed. They were sending him to London to see
whether it were not possible to meet the situation in
that way, as it might be easier for him to have dealings
with the English.
This news was like a bolt out of a clear sky, for though!
the parents were not blind to the peculiarities of theial
eldest son, they were yet so accustomed to hear him
praised that it was hard to realize that he could be so >
careless about his future as to destroy it so ruthlesslyfl
Their depression was great, when, six weeks later!
they received word from him that he had received his ?
final dismissal. A quarrel had occurred between him "*

THE ROAD UNDER THE RAILWAY

THE BRIDGE OVER THE RAILWAY

THE PREPARATION u
and his London chief in which he had clearly told the
latter his opinion: that bargaining was seeking to get
the better of another, which was simply legitimate
stealing and that he would not stand for it. Because
of his honesty, he had received his dismissal. His par
ents need not be troubled over the matter. One month's
salary had been paid in advance, besides which he had
looked for a situation and had already found one; thus
he wrote.
A vicar had established a boarding-school, to eke
out the pittance which did not meet his daily needs for
himself and his large family, and wanted the young man
to teach French.
The shyness which one felt in his speech did not
show itself in his home letters. He wrote often and in
great detail. His style was halting and abrupt, as if
a deep impression had to rest awhile within his heart be
fore it could find expression. With the stroke of a real
artist, along big human lines, he would depict exquis
ite landscapes, sunny corners, street scenes, etcetera,
comparing them with scenes at home, thereby making
them real and concrete. Sometimes with a few lines
he would sketch figures to illustrate more clearly his
thought. Later, when writing about paintings on which
he was working, he would illustrate them with pen-and-
ink drawings.
In a letter to his parents he gave a description of his
present situation in the neighborhood of London. He
described the vicar as a long, lean man, bent with the

12 VINCENT VAN GOGH
care of his large family, whose needs his small earnings
in no wise met, and who, so to speak, just hung in his
clothes. His face was heavily lined, and the color of
some wooden-looking saint in an old picture. The wife
he described as a quiet, delicate little woman, with eyes
as blue as the early March violets.
There were twenty boarders in the old gray vicar
age which was overgrown with clematis and roses.
Nevertheless, the interior furnishing resembled one of
Dickens's descriptions of a school, so cleverly carica
tured in the Chapman & Hall edition. The boys ap
peared as if they had stepped out of these illustrations,
especially when, on a Sunday afternoon, in their short
jackets, long trousers, and high hats, after the service,
where they had sung in the choir, they played leap
frog — boys between eleven and sixteen, lean and pale,
caricatures of their youth — "Mr. Creakle's young
gentlemen, as they appear enjoying themselves."
Again, though hardly as a surprise, it was found that
the young man had little talent for his new-chosen
duty. His pupils did not torment him. His troubles
were not those of Mr. Meil in "David Copperfield," a
subject of torment and a person to be scorned, for he
always knew how to awaken respect. Besides, over
those of his pupils whose mentality was a little more
developed than the rest, he knew how to cast a spell
with tales of Holland, the land without hills and of
many rivers, where the houses and streets were as
clean and spotless as the play-toys of the giants
in ' ' Gulliver's Travels. " As a teacher of languages he

THE PREPARATION 13
served little purpose. His growing genius rebelled to
find itself in fetters. He suffered greatly from the nar
row limits of his field of work, and the ever regular
recurring duties, to which he could never quite ac
custom himself.
Most of the scholars belonged to the very lowest
class of small London shopkeepers, sons of small
butchers, if one may give them the dignified name of
butchers ; men who bought and sold meat that reputable
firms had refused to purchase; sons of cobblers or of
small shopkeepers, where notions or tobacco were sold.
The children were generally sent to school because of
their health, or because of the numerous ones at
home, without considering whether the small income
could meet this extra expense.
If the money were not forthcoming at the close of
the term, steps were often taken to collect these pay
ments first by personal calls upon the parents, before
sending the pupils away or even taking sharper meas
ures. To this undesirable task of collecting outstand
ing school debts, the principal now assigned his young
teacher. It was in all probability the most distasteful
duty, to one of his temperament, that the young man
had yet been asked to perform.
However, stuffing a map of London and the needed
addresses in his pocket, he set forth, with just enough
money to meet his bare expenses. Knowing London
thoroughly, and being used to poking around odd
corners, he soon found the desired families, even those
who had moved, or, worse still, had given false ad-

14 VINCENT VAN GOGH

dresses. The debtors, being unprepared for this visit,
paid, and the vicar was indeed gratified, as he had never
before collected so fully all that was due him.
If it was not the very lowest section of the city the
young teacher visited, they certainly were back streets
and alleys to which he had to go, where the struggle
for life had emaciated the bodies, bent the backs, and
left relentless lines on drawn and pinched faces. Who
knows but that the poverty witnessed here imprinted
on the future painter's imagination the desire to picture.
it upon canvas, and gave to the world, years later, in
his Brabant period, the "Aardappeleeters," where a
workingman's family is seated around the evening meal
of a dish of potatoes.
If the vicar congratulated himself on the ability of
his young teacher to collect debts, he certainly met
with disappointment with the returns from the second
attempt. Prepared to meet him, these small shopkeepers
told such tales of woes that were pressing upon them
that it seemed as if no chance for happiness were left.
Instead, they seemed to kill, in a far greater measure
than the most sordid need he had met with in the coun
try. The heart of the young Dutchman bled at the sor
row he beheld — parents who dragged out a miserable
life like gray shadows, through grayer streets, without
fresh air, a life full of burdens for the body as well as
the soul; children who never knew the meaning of the .4
word "youth," but came into the world with the gray,
drawn faces of old men.
Full of keen sympathy for all the sorrow he had seen,

THE FARM LABORER

THE PREPARATION! 15

he forgot the mission he had come for, and returned
with empty purse and a heart full of woe. On his return
he told of the heartrending things he had seen, but was
again and again interrupted, for the vicar's only inter
est lay in the amount he had succeeded in collecting
from these miserable people. When, therefore, he heard
of the empty purse, he flew into such a rage that he dis
missed his young assistant on the spot.
With worn boots, and no outlook, the young teacher
returned to the home of his parents. Great was their
disappointment — greater their fear for his future.
Only too well did they realize that all this misfortune
was due to his awkwardness, as his mother was wont
to call it.
However, fortune favored him and a position was
soon secured in a well-known bookshop. Being a great
reader, his knowledge of literature and foreign lan
guages made him a valued asset to the firm.
Even greater attraction than his new-found work did
the old Dutch town hold for him, with its quaint char
acter and its lovely scenery. One street especially had
great charm for him ; for from a certain point it looked
exactly as it must have done three hundred years ago.
Especially entrancing was the view overlooking the
broad stream, alongside of which he lived. On the op
posite shore stretched the broad meadows; in the dis
tance buildings and towers rose high above the horizon,
and the stream itself ever changed color, according to
wind and weather, sunshine and clouds mirroring them
selves in it. The river carried many crafts of all kinds

16 VINCENT VAN GOGH
and descriptions, a sight that has constantly aroused
painters to try their mettle. But the time, for him, was
not yet ripe.
His apprenticeship had not been served. The master-
craft lay in the distant future, as far removed from the
present time as the distant towers on the horizon. His
genius had not yet awakened, but unconsciously was
working all the time towards its final goal. Always
observing and alert, as those others who work at their
own deyelopment in their own special way, there is
nothing strange in what he achieved when once he be
gan to paint; it is not surprising that he should develop
more rapidly and accomplish more within ten years
than others achieve in a lifetime. People have mar
veled over this, those who have written about him.
But as they talked about one they did not know,
and only listened to the sound of their own voices, they
did not consider, or were unable to grasp, all that
was developing in the painter during these preceding
years. A quiet apprentice-shop was the museum that bears
the name of Ary Scheffer, and his art treasures, especi
ally the works by Scheffer himself, a jewel in the crown
of the old town of Dordrecht. Never, even with his
tremendous colors, would Vincent have succeeded as he
did, had he not first thoroughly studied the works of
Ary Scheffer, teacher of the children of Louis Philippe,
who was thoroughly acquainted with the old and the
modern French paintings, and who had sought to
achieve through exactness and delicacy of drawing what

THE PREPARATION 17
his admirer sought to gain through vigor, greater sim
plicity, and the use of contrasting colors.
In the bookshop where he was engaged, he could
satisfy his craving for knowledge. His employer had
recognized that the young man was exceptionally gifted,
as did every one who came in personal touch with him,
and allowed him the use of his most valuable books.
This increased his knowledge. A clergyman — one
could more readily call him a scholar — at whose house
he was made welcome, and where he would often go to
enjoy a scholarly disputation, told Vincent's family,
whom he knew well, that he was amazed that so
talented a young person did not attend the university.
With his insight into human nature, and his deep, true
outlook on life, surely he would forge ahead of all
others as soon as the opportunity was given him to de
vote his entire time to his studies. Of course, he was
not normal, but great men seldom were.
Hope reawakened in the hearts of his parents. A
new future seemed again to be opening for their eldest-
born. In the mean time, the second son had accepted
a position at Goupil's, where Vincent had all but failed.
The same opportunities were offered to this brother,
for whom one could predict success.
After all, might these early trials not have been the
wrong turnings on the road of life, and antagonistic
to his real nature, which sought seclusion and intro
spection? An uncle, a brother of his father, stationed at the

18 VINCENT VAN GOGH
Navy Yard at Amsterdam, offered the young man
the hospitality of his home during the year of prepara
tion for the university. He paid for his nephew's tui
tion in the study of the ancient languages, which were
needed to pass the entrance examination. Within a few
months Vincent had mastered both Latin and Greek, un
der the guidance of a Jewish rabbi, who, though young
at the time, had already won a reputation for himself
as a scholar.
In the mean time, the parents dreamt their dreams ;
of the future, in the small border village of Brabant, '•
far from the turmoil of the large cities. They are not
forgotten, this honored couple, in the small world in
which they lived in undisturbed married felicity spin
ning threads of love and loyalty around the hearts of
their neighbors. When one thinks of them, one is
tempted to quote from Horace, " Disturbed by no ill
word, our love lasts until death."
Often one could see them on their way to visit the
sick in all stations of life and to render help. Regardless
of bad weather or worse roads, walking along the
countryside, across fields or down paths that were
skirted by hedges, or following the dykes and moats:
two dark figures in the lonely landscape, now and then
stopping to emphasize a point in some lively discussion }
which they were holding, or to notice the beauty in the
landscape — the silver edge of a cloud, or the last rays
of the sun, glorifying the heavens; a pool made mys
terious through the dark reflection of somber pines, yet

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THE PREPARATION 19
mirroring back a glint of the blue sky; or the lonely
farm which they had been seeking, where dwelt the
invalid they had come to succor; a farm with all the
happy and comfortable whirr of farm life, which only
the real country offers. Picturesquely it lay there in the
landscape, with its simple straight lines, and masses
of color. There they would stand for a moment to
gether, neither of them tall, but straight and conscious
— he with finely chiseled features, set in silver locks,
not suited to his age; she with less even features and
the wide-awake, alert look of deep-seeing eyes which
her eldest son had inherited : a perfect couple, such as
one finds portrayed in the early English novels, or
sees pictured in those splendid English engravings
of that same period.
Naturally, the fate of their six children was often
under discussion. The eldest daughter, with her
father's fine features but the blond hair and coloring
of the mother, was in England, completing her educa
tion. Her future seemed assured. The second son, who
had inherited his father's name and goodness of heart,
was in Paris. The three youngest were children who
still needed their mother's care and forethought. It
was always the eldest son whose welfare mostly con
cerned them. It was as if a still, small voice was whis
pering to them all that which was ripening within
him, and which only the mother lived to see fulfilled.
In spite of their great modesty they loved to dwell on
the past and to recall special figures in it. The father,

2© VINCENT VAN GOGH

who was well informed concerning such matters, would
tell his wife of one who, hundreds of years ago, had
borne the same name; he had been Bishop of Utrecht.
Madame Bosboom Tousaint mentions him in her his
torical romance, "Elizabeth Musch." Another, a
knight, was treasurer of the United General States,
and brought honor to the family name during the siege
of Hertogenbosh, under Frederick Henry. Yet another
had been ambassador to England under William III.
Apparently the love of study was once more manifest
ing itself in their eldest son.
Already their dreams were to be shattered on this
same rock. During the time that the young man was
preparing for his examinations, he had a mental break
down. While studying, he not only spent half the night
working, but wrote so incessantly that at last the
writing was no longer legible on the closely written
sheets, and became mere pen-strokes without rhyme
or reason — nothing more. The flame had burned too
fiercely. A glimmering flame always, it was now ready
to break forth at any moment to destroy him.
His uncle and host had nothing to offer in the way
of companionship. His public as well as his private life
was lived with military precision. Punctual, and with
an inordinate love for order, he had taken this strange
nephew into his home only to please the latter's parents.
The young man was served separately and he took no
further notice of him.
' Nor was any notice of him altogether possible, for the
young man wandered about the old town and the back

THE PREPARATION 21

streets at all hours of the day and night. Sundays he
would attend six or seven churches or meetings. To the
synagogues he would also go, to study their form of
service and the old Hebrew laws which are the basis of
the new laws Christ established. How much his ner
vous system was unstrung is revealed by the fact that
at one time he threw his silver watch into the collection
plate; at another time his gloves. The watch was
marked with his monogram and name, and was re
turned to his uncle's house.
The great number of home letters he wrote at this
time caused his parents to shake their heads. Sometimes
two would arrive the same day, and if the mail brought
one late, it generally meant a sleepless night.
It was a bitter disappointment when their son in
formed his parents, just as his term at the university
was to begin, that he felt called upon to preach the
Gospel, without further preparation. Christ Himself
was his example. He had attended lectures under the
Pharisees and Sadducees, and so had the Apostles.
During the stay in England, Vincent had heard much
about mission work among the miners. One of Dickens's
books had awakened in him a deep sympathy for the
people who spent half their lives in the dark, as well as
under great danger. While reading this description, his
sympathetic heart had felt called upon to do its share
to relieve the suffering. Shortly after this decision he
offered his services and was called to the Borinage, the
well-known coal-fields of Belgium, where the need for
the Gospel was great. A small wooden church had not

22 VINCENT VAN GOGH

yet been erected, as there were no means, but a large
room or barn could be found.
Despite their great.desire to see their son in a secure
post, the parents gave their consent to this plan, for
the great need and praiseworthy motive had to be ac
knowledged. That his parents were suffering financially because of
him he was quite unconscious of, though it was just at
this period that his father appeared to him as his ideal.
For the present his parents could do nothing but see
that all his needs were met for his new position, and
to send a trunk filled with what his mother had sewn
and knitted with her own hands, works of love, ten
derest mother-love woven in with the threads.
How could a real artist soul, such as his was, place
itself in the midst of such terrible suffering? I have
often thought that the source of all true art is real hu
man love, a love which has to express itself again and
again. Every new work is a sacrifice to this love for
mankind, to bring to it new hope in its sorrow, new
strength for the battle. There, where Art appears on
holy ground, she appears to me at her highest, in remem
brance of the great Sacrifice, the complete giving of Him
who surely realized to the full the god-quality in Art^ x
A...
How these types of miners must have impressed
themselves upon the future painter, the faces lined and
withered, — never fresh and blooming as are those of
other people, who also must earn their living by the
sweat of their brows, but can do so under God's own

A VIEW OF ARLES

A VIEW OF ARLES

THE PREPARATION 23
sun, when it breaks forth through the early morning
mist, until the twilight steals along!
The women of the Borinage in their unattractive
dress, the head wrapped in a black kerchief to protect
it against the coal dust, were, almost without exception,
thin, ugly, and old before their time. Occasionally one
saw a maiden or a young matron who seemed like some
glorified being in spite of her tragic surroundings; like
a lily in all its purity, which has grown to the glory of
God; or the apparition of an angel, or the memory of
the Eve of Paradise.
With a baker, a little better situated than the rest,
the young Hollandaise found quarters. A large work
shop with red-brick flooring and blackened beams,
which joined the baker's shop and was heated from it,
was chosen for the religious meetings. The baker's
family consisted of father, mother, and three splendid
sons, who faithfully attended all the services. The rest
of the audience consisted of a small group of miners,
who came irregularly, but since the arrival of our friend
came rather more often than less. The preaching had
been in French and was the language chosen. This was
no obstacle, since Vincent spoke and wrote French as if
it were his mother tongue. He was no orator, although
the manners of a speaker were his. The quick, telling
gesticulation of his hands with which he would em
phasize a point in his stories — stories told with the
same simplicity his mother had used when telling them
to him as a child — gripped the hearts of his unlettered
listeners, and brought food and renewed vigor to the

24 VINCENT VAN GOGH
brain which had become exhausted through the heavy
physical labor of the day.
Although no serious accident occurred during the
period that Vincent was in the Borinage, no day passed
which did not record some minor mishaps, and soon it
became customary to turn to the missionary for the
needed help of having one's wounds dressed.
I was anticipating when I spoke elsewhere of his
great dexterity and almost feminine tenderness in
nursing, which found its fullest expression when a ty
phoid epidemic broke out among the miners. Their
numbers lessened — no one was spared. Old and young
suffered alike, and it was then that the baker's wife
wrote, in her firm round hand, to the parents, and told
them in her simple fashion of the terrible conditions
which existed ; how merciless the sickness had been ; how
great the poverty was; and that "le jeune Monsieur
qui n'etait pas comme toutes autres" had given every
thing to relieve the suffering. He had moved into a
lonely, empty hut to save all personal expense, thereby
being able to give even more; and everything he owned,
in' the way of clothing or money, he had sacrificed to the
poor. Day and night he had nursed them, and had not
left their bedside. She herself had sons and was a
mother, and, therefore, she had written the parents,
who would know nothing, and would believe their son
well cared for in her home.
As usual, the mail was late in bringing the letter.
Silently the mother had listened to the reading, silently

THE PREPARATION 25
had husband and wife stood together at its close, both
fearful to express their thoughts to each other.
"The best thing will be for me to go there to-morrow
and bring him back myself," the father said, at last.
The pressure of his hand was all the mother was able
to give him at that time. After a long, dreary, sleepless
night, all the difficulties of the journey were discussed,
but they were all banished by the overwhelming desire
to have their beloved son safe once more.
Everything was as the good baker's wife had said.
In a forsaken hut, a straw sack for a bed, a jacket for
a cover, the father found his son. Broken under the
heavy strain of nursing and the renunciation of even the
bare necessities of life, he soon consented to return home
with his father. The baker's eldest son had to promise
him to continue the services. The father spent the
night with these hospitable and kindly people, and a
service was held before their departure the next day.
The quiet hour left an impression on both which was
never to be forgotten. A handful of miners, ravaged
by hunger and sickness, followed with deep attention
the service, which was read by one of their own num
ber. The hanging lamps cast fantastic shadows against
the whitewashed walls, and threw across the ceiling
curious shapes and forms. Yet over the faces of these
miners a light was shining, as they attended, which was
not of earth, but seemed of heaven beyond.

CHAPTER II
The beginning
AT last, as a stream overcomes all obstacles and
finds its true course to the ocean, so the genius
of Van Gogh found its medium of expression. The
young man began to paint.
He showed his family sketches he had done of the
miners. These were not many, for his time had been
too full of other work. But it was a beginning, and what
he drew was alive: a miner in front of his hut, which
resembled greatly the low huts in Brabant, with the
extremely high straw- thatched roofs; old and over
grown with moss and evergreen, as full of color as a
mosaic ; a miner and his wife haggard, with arms and
legs which seemed too long, because of their thinness,
the clothing worn, worn the faces, each carrying a heavy
sack of coal upon the back. With long strides they were
walking homeward, along a path not made of earth,
but of coal dust; everything poor, cold, and dirty.
From a well-known firm brushes and paints were
ordered, and a few months later he left for Antwerp, to
attend the art school. It must have been in February
or March that he went.
One Sunday afternoon the end of May saw him back
most unexpectedly. His sisters seated by the window
with their embroidery saw him running up the path
that led to the house, dressed in a workingman's blouse,

THE BEGINNING 27
such as the Flemish cattlemen wear, the felt hat pulled
deep down over his forehead, a big easel strapped to his
back. He wished to stay with his parents, and the vil
lage offered many subjects for him to work at. It was
not the picturesque part of Brabant, and the inhabit
ants were not friendly toward artists and did not meet
them halfway, as is so necessary to enable them to do
their best work.
One can acknowledge without fear his work at this
period as uncouth and faulty, excepting his flowers.
Whether they belong to his early or late period, they
always bear the quality of their own special character,
and for a long time they were his own special pictures.
"Plants radiant with life in tender, quivering form,
shy as silken butterflies." So have Vincent's flowers
been described. But in his heart he rather chose Words
worth's words, —
"To me the deepest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
The parents of the painter were bombarded with
questions from well-meaning friends and relatives.
Alas, in our state of society, though it surely is not
a pleasing custom, each one presumes to have the right
to pass judgment upon a fellow-being, and feels called
upon to offer advice, especially with the bringing-up
of children. " If that were my son, or my daughter, I
would" — and then follows exactly the opposite of
what the parents had deemed or chosen as the wisest
measure.

28 VINCENT VAN GOGH
" If I were as wealthy as these people, I would surely
or I would surely not, etc.," — and then follows some
thing which again contradicts itself. And so in this case
a hundred tongues let themselves be heard, each with
a different opinion, and every one was, of course, con
vinced that to follow his special advice would be the
best for Vincent.
It would never do for a young man of twenty-eight
not to support himself. He ought to be treated differ
ently. He should be made to dress better, to go among
people instead of shunning them, to behave like others
(as if it were not a privilege to be one's self andjiot like
every one else). His father should be more severe, and
if that did not help, send him to an institution, etc.,
etc. This was the form the good advice took. As if
the parents had not suffered sufficiently to find them
selves robbed of all their fond hopes, besides the ever
growing financial difficulties which were pressing upon
them. The technique of their son demanded much paint,
and paint is expensive. To add to their disappointment,
they in no way admired his work. What they liked he
scorned, and what satisfied him was in their eyes bad
taste. His intercourse with them at this time was not
of the easiest.
Around Christmas-time he silently disappeared and
in no happy frame of mind, leaving the parents full of
sorrow and uncertainty as to where he had gone. They
believed he had returned to England, when they re
ceived word from him that he had decided to work in
The Hague. He had visited his Cousin Mauve, who

FLOWERS

ww E- w> o

, ss

WoaJ Ua

THE BEGINNING 29
offered to let him work in his studio, and his Cousin
Ariette, — Mauve's wife,; — whom he later presented
with his "Apple Blossoms," gave him a warm welcome
in their home.
Now he 'could feel himself grow. The art school at
The Hague, whose members he knew personally,
gripped him: Mauve, through his tender and poetic
interpretation of small beech lanes, stretches of heather
plains, with the shepherd and his sheep, the only living
features in the quiet of the landscape, whose serenity
they never disturbed; fields and beech hedges, which
kept the autumn's red-brown leaves until the breaking
of the spring, whose approach one felt in the picture,
— how carefully he had studied Nature !
The pictures of Maris, with their fresh dexterity
and sureness of the first brush stroke, interested him;
also Gabriel, de Bock, and Pozzenbeck, and the master
of all, Israels. With quiet sureness he absorbed the best
as was his wont, never becoming an imitator, but al
ways holding himself aloof. When Mauve advised him
to draw after a plaster cast, and arranged a figure for
him in his studio with artificial light, he threw it down,
in spite of the danger of breaking it, and disappeared
from the studio.
Naturally this incident destroyed the friendship, for
Mauve, who was nervous and excitable, could not
tolerate such behavior. Vincent could never see any
thing but the humorous side, and as often as he would
tell it, he would laugh over it, as a street gamin does
over a successful joke. Strange as it may seem, it never

30 VINCENT VAN GOGH
lessened his admiration for Mauve. He feared every in
fluence that might force itself upon him and cause him
to become an imitator or to lean on others; he did not
wish to follow a school.
"Honesty toward one's self is the supreme law for
a painter, and alone brings to full fruition the- inspira
tion he holds. In contrast, haste and dishonesty to
ward one's self end in self-seeking." This, Mr. Plaes-
schart said in the "Groene Amsterdamer" of February
27, 1910.
These artists stood together; he stood alone — alone
in his work.
In the autumn of 1908, at the Paris exhibition, — so
an eye-witness relates, — there were people who stood
speechless with admiration before his work, while
others, shrugging their shoulders, would exclaim, turn
ing, " C'est un fou."
Long before the artist had a name, the painter
Gabriel asked a lady, in whose company he acciden
tally saw one of Vincent's paintings, ' ' And what do you
think of his art?" She, who was no painter, did not
venture to express an opinion, and so answered, " I am
glad that you call it art, Mr. Gabriel "; whereupon the
master laughed good-naturedly.
That his pictures were scorned by the art dealers,
and, therefore, could find no market, did not disturb
him at all. That a well-known art critic refused to ac
cept one of his flower pieces, simply on the condition

THE BEGINNING 31

that it should be hung in his collection, caused him to
laugh. His art carried him on eagle wings, above the
pettiness of this world, and had any one wished to re
proach him with the thought that at his age he was
not even self-supporting, he would surely have an
swered, as did He whose life is above all, when his par
ents reproached him for remaining behind among the
doctors and learned men, a boy of twelve, "Do you
not know that I must be about my Father's business? "
"lis vivent, les yeux tournes vers le dedans," to
quote from Taine's "History of English Literature."
Genius must develop by overcoming hard obstacles
through its power of love for its work, otherwise it will
always remain like a diamond hidden in the quartz
which surrounds it and which prevents the sun's rays
from reflecting back its beauty.
Did the young man have the opportunity of observing
the untiring work of the miner; did he recall with what
energy the reapers swung their sickles through the rye,
or their scythes through the high grass during the long
summer evenings when a coming storm on the horizon
drove the men to redouble their energy in gathering
in the crop before the storm broke forth? Now had his
time arrived for work.
At night he would study books on water-color and
perspective. During the day he visited museums or
studios, drew from models, or copied a whole series of
French cartoons, which were very instructive, because
of the lifelike qualities of the figures done in simple

32 VINCENT VAN GOGH
outline, which bespoke a mastery of linework which
more than repaid the trouble of copying. These studies
inspired him to do a series of his own, from models.
They are not the least noteworthy of the work, espe
cially one, a woman. The picture is all the more tell
ing because of its great simplicity. Spare, and aged be
fore her time, the head with the thin, straight hair, bent
low over the scrawny knees, there she sits bare and
lonely; with characteristic lettering the deep-mean
ing word "Sorrow" was placed on the margin. This
picture needs special mention, for it always recalls to
my mind the little poem of Josef Cohen: —
"Through all the centuries down,
There stands in a lonely alley
Lonely a woman.
Her garments speak of joy,
Her eyes tell of sorrow."
Especially this: —
" Out of the canal-like streets
Weeping arises,
The weeping of fearing women
Through all the centuries down."
Surely she was a picture of misery, this woman who
was the mother of five fatherless children, forsaken by
all, and now earning her livelihood for herself and her
children in posing as a model.
Our friend — who had no judgment where suffering
was concerned, who suffered with those who suffered,
and tried to relieve them as best he could; who could

SORROW

Cl 'Taps? ....

%-' T.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

THE BEGINNING 33
never realize that he really had nothing to give, for
everything that he could give in the way of clothing
or money belonged to another, — offered a roof to this
woman and her children. She had told him her tale
of misery, the old, old story of the fall, with or with
out blame, as one wishes to take it, without ever
being able to regain her footing ; how she was helpless
before her fate; how she did not know where to turn;
how she had nothing to eat, and no medicine for the
little ones when they were ill, and always, always alone
— alone with her sorrow. The painter expressed in this
picture her story of shame and repentance. The head,
with the thin, straight hair, bent low over her spare
knees. Sorrow !
The money which was meant for food and lodging,
for material and study, naturally could not meet the
needs of this helpless family. But who would have
thought of trying to keep seven with what was meant
for one?
After a while the father, hearing of all this, came
personally to see how the matter stood. The landlord
had already decided to eject him for nonpayment of
rent, and the taxes also were overdue.
Half-starved, he consented, as he did at the Borinage,
to return home with his father, who always knew how
to care for him most tenderly, as he had keen sympathy
for the strangeness of this son. Had he treated him
otherwise, what would have become of him or his art?
The woman refused all further offers of help. She

34 VINCENT VAN GOGH
preferred the Bohemian life as a model, and desired to
earn her living for herself and her children in the old
way. The place where our painter followed his father was
in another part of Brabant, a weavers' section, full of
strange poetry; the houses lower, the farms broader
than in the other section; the people friendly, plain,
workers, farmers, gardeners, and weavers, the last
known by their pale, unhealthy faces, since weaving is a
harmful trade. In their quiet way they are accustomed
to pay most attention to the colors, and to listen to
the tick-tack of their looms. Hard-beaten clay is the
flooring on which the loom stands. Seldom does one
now find the old looms with the carving and the dates
of past centuries, where the old oak has blackened, as
in the choir stalls of a cathedral. Through a narrow side
window the light falls into the low room, with the
smoked beams and the dark loom, on the dirty gray
figure of the weaver and his white, nervous, never-
resting fingers. If one wanders through the village, un
der the avenue of nut trees, with their heavy foliage,
one understands how it was that the peasant poet Burns
was aroused to song by the rhythmic tick-tack of the
looms. Sunday evening, shortly before vespers, one could
see the weaver, with his sack containing the week's
spinning upon his back, wending his way to the mod
ern-built house and shop of the merchant, where was

FIELDS NEAR ARLES

A WOMAN OF ARLES

THE BEGINNING 35
measured the linen, which is chiefly used by the royal
household; and where another sack carefully weighed,
containing the threads of the coming week's work, is
given in exchange.
Lonely, dreamy figures; alone, or in pairs; seldom
in groups; one sees them going along the bare fields in
winter where the short green winter corn stands, or in
summer, through the waving cornfields, their slow step
homesick for the long-looked-for Sunday rest.
For an artist, this was indeed a large field of work.
Early in the morning one could see the painter busy at
the well behind his parents' cottage, placing his can
vas on a stretcher, which a neighboring carpenter had
made for him quickly and at small cost; spraying his
canvas, or his finished black-and-white drawings, to
prevent them from rubbing. Masterly were these char
coal and crayon drawings, which Vincent himself
loved to praise. It seemed to him as if during this period
he lived his life threefold. An hour meant to him as
much as three, according to his achievements. He was
indifferent to the distance, or to what he had to carry,
if only he could reach his goal. He sought his work
where he was sure to find it. No one denied him; all
doors were open to him when he wished to paint an
interior. Indifferent to convention or form, a stranger to cus
tom, so that one felt a stranger to him, he was yet be
loved by the poor and simple people and those whom
Nature had ill-treated. Towards them he showed a
simplicity which took away all semblance of presump-

36 VINCENT VAN GOGH
tion. He paid his models well ; according to the custom
of painters, per hour; and if a child in a high chair sat
for him, or an old man in a chimney-corner, he never
left without a sweet or an apple for the one, or tobacco
for the other, wherewith to while away the time.
Indifferent to appearance, dressed in a blue blouse, the
garb of the Flemish peasant, with hair cropped close,
a straggly, red-brown beard, eyes ofttimes inflamed
from staring at objects in the sun, one would never have
taken him to be older than his brothers and sisters, with
whom he seldom came in contact. This was not because
of any antipathy on either side, but rather the result of
their various ways of life. He shared the family meals
in a strange fashion. Seated in a corner of the room, his
plate on his knee, he would be absorbed in studying
a newly painted canvas which stood facing him on a
chair. With one hand he would shade his half-closed
eyes, while eating with the other. He cut his own
bread in thick, heavy slices, which since a child he had
preferred eating dry. He also preferred to pour out his
own tea or coffee. Deep in his work, he was hardly
conscious of what he ate; conscious only of the absorb
ing problem of how to contrast one color with another
or how to balance them. In my opinion in his color lies
the great secret of the strong individuality of his art.
Did the name of some writer penetrate through this
concentration, he would instantly become alert and
take part in the conversation, telling how this or that
work had been born because of such and such a per
sonal experience.

THE BEGINNING 37
He would also compare living authors with the great
masters of the past, and would often quote the well-
known passage, "All people and all human experiences
are at all times the same." His favorite writings were
those of Dickens, Carlyle, Beecher-Stowe, Jan Van
Beers, Thomas a Kempis, and Solomon's Proverbs.
His listeners were only too ready to give him the
floor, he who knew so well of what he was talking. And
yet his strangeness always remained a sorrow to his
parents. Had he been as others, he would never have
had that strange big quality in his work which he has
left behind.
Art was his first and only love. Friends, in the real
sense of the word, he hardly possessed. His relation
ship with Van Rappard came nearest to it. They had
met in Antwerp; though Van Rappard continued his
studies longer, he occasionally visited Vincent in his
home. Van Rappard was a great admirer of his at a time
when no one else was. He spoke even then of him as a
"tremendous colorist." In the choice of subjects they
were singularly alike in taste: groups of wornout work
men in low, ill-ventilated rooms, in which, through a
side window, the light streamed; or a picture showing
how the hard lot of the workers was lightened through
some unexpected happiness. Similar subjects are met
with in both their works. Together they painted in
Brabant, and during Vincent's stay at The Hague,
they spent some time working together at Drente.

38 VINCENT VAN GOGH
While our friend spread his wings to conquer new
worlds, Van Rappard remained in the conventional
form of the art of his day.
With the exception of this friendship, Vincent had
none. In spite of his admiration for the works of
Scheffer, Mauve, and others, his inner life they never
shared. Unswervingly sure were his steps along the
path he had chosen, as Christian on his journey to the
Heavenly City.
In the dwelling of the verger of the Catholic church
he had his studio, a large, spacious room, which had
formerly served as a prayer and knitting school. Sev
eral canvases stood against the wall, as he always was
working at more than one at the same time. Charcoal
drawings were put up; also a number of figure-stud
ies taken from the series he had done in The Hague,
and enriched with added figures of his own. Among
others, the drawing of the woman with the inscription
"Sorrow." In a corner of the studio stood an old tree, which had
been felled by the storm. It had been cut down and
placed in a box filled with earth. The crown carried a
collection of birds' nests, which Vincent, in his jaunts
through the woods, had gathered after the birds had
left. There hung the cone-shaped nest of the Zaum-
koenig, the moss nest of the faik, the simple housing
of the sparrow, star, and Krammetsvogel, and a nest
belonging to the nightingale, which showed less skill
than the others ; also the snow-white, woolly nest of the

MOTHER AND CHILD

VAN GOGH S BEDROOM IN ARLES

THE BEGINNING 39
Wiel Waal, braided out of reeds and lined with soft
white down feathers; while in the fork of the tree was
the strange little nest of the stream swallow, made out
of grass with a flooring of clay; and last of all a pair of
nests of those who build low on the ground. He wanted
much the nest of the small Bartsch Fisher, which is
chiefly made of fish-bones, but it was almost impossible
to find one, although he and his younger brother, a
school-boy, equally interested in the collection, tried
hard to secure one. The collection was a great bond
between them. He was far more interested in hearing
his brother tell about the life and habits of the birds,
and wandering through the woods in search of such
trophies, than in his studies.
Acurious incident happened one Sunday in February.
A heavy forest fire was raging among the pines that
stretched along for miles skirting the railroad. A spark
from a passing engine had started the fire, and the trees,
made unusually dry through a prolonged north gale,
burnt like tinder. After the worst of the fire had been
conquered, the brothers met most unexpectedly among
the smouldering pines. Coming from opposite direc
tions, they had run through the woods and met.
Neither could tell why the desire had overcome him,
but there they were ; the practical, healthy boy, a com
ing engineer, who seldom read, who only studied be
cause he had to, who was even too lazy to work with
his hands, and the painter, untiring, who never was
idle, who was absorbed by great problems of color
and of art, who was single-minded in his devotion to it,

40 VINCENT VAN GOGH
— here they met, both filled with the one desire to run
through the burning forest.
In early spring, when the February fog lingers over
the trees and roofs, making them hardly discernible,
lending a charm to the entire landscape, wood auctions
are held throughout the villages of Brabant, which
often lend themselves as entrancing subjects for a pic
ture: wood gathered into piles of loose bundles, enticing
to the eyes of the baker; rounded beech blocks, with the
light and dark yellow circles at the plane, and stacks of
uneven oak. The peasants, running back and forth
in their blue blouses and white scrubbed wooden shoes,
stand forth clearly from the gray brown of the village
streets containing these woodpiles, and the bare trees
rising up so straight along the edge of the common.
Something of this kind met Vincent's eyes early one
morning. Horrors! He had no colors; they had all been
used, and the new lot had not yet arrived. One minute
for consideration — then, quickly taking some water-
color paper, and gathering from his mother's kitchen
some bluing and coffee grounds, he set forth. Eleven
o'clock saw him with his sketch complete, containing
all the colors the subject offered, the blue and brown,
the many varied neutral tints. In spite of the limited
material he had mastered his subject; the impression
of the foggy village street was there with the woodpiles
and the wrangling farmers; everything was rendered
in a masterly fashion.
" In spite of the beauty of the landscape of Brabant, he

THE BEGINNING 41
soon felt that she could hold him no longer. His eyes
longed for the glowing colors, for the sea of flowers of
the South — flowers of all varieties, growing between
gorgeous weeds that vied with each other.
His thoughts often carried him back to Paris, for he
felt that his eyes had missed much of her beauty at
the time he was there. To be able to return to her, to
work and to paint, — for that he longed. How much
had become clear to his vision since that visit! He had
to break with his old technique to reach the brilliancy
of color at which he now aimed. From now on one
differentiates between his Dutch and French periods.
The sudden death of the father, who had been suffer
ing from heart disease without any one's knowledge,
caused the younger brother to return from Paris. The
devotion, as well as admiration, which he gave his
older brother went hand in hand with the latter's de
velopment in his art. Though no artist, Theodor yet
possessed the sensibilities of one, which is more than
the superficial commonplaces of many a so-called artist
who produces pictures. He valued his brother at his
real worth. Never for one moment did he doubt the
future of Vincent's art.
In spite of the short time that Theodor had held
the position for which his brother had shown so little
taste, he was called in for consultation, because of
his tact, when an important sale was to be made, or to
act as guide to well-known people when they desired
to see the museums. Notwithstanding his great mod
esty, he was able to give valuable information with

42 VINCENT VAN GOGH
regard to a painter or a picture, and to help his visitor
to a better discernment. He was too honest towards his
ideals in art not to feel hurt at the moodiness of Fashion,
as well as the bad taste she often displayed, honoring
the commonplace and pretentious, instead of the beau
tiful. However, he knew how to handle those with
whom he had to deal, and to awaken within them a
desire for the best in such a manner that they always
thought it was their own choice, and had recognized
it of their own accord. "What can I do," he wrote in
despair to his sister, who had his complete confidence,
"when some one demands a picture, as happened the
other day, where the-sun and moon must appear simul
taneously? I let it be painted, for the taste of such peo
ple has sunk too low."
Another time he wrote enthusiastically of an old
gentleman from Provence, who had come to Paris to
complete the collection in his gallery. Theodor was
chosen to assist him. He had learned much through
this meeting, and the old gentleman had been kindness
itself. No wonder that the admiration he honestly felt for
Vincent's work aroused in him a desire to have others
see and admire it. But it was impossible, especially at
this time; for though the younger brother received all
that the older one produced, he could not succeed in
selling one of them — not even the best. Goupil had
scorned them, and his was the last word to be said in the
Art World of Paris. The only thing left to do was to ex
change them for the works of other painters. That was

Wmm
THE GARDEN

THE PINE TREES

THE BEGINNING 43
an exchange commission which the artists had among
themselves, but after all it only meant a small portion
of the pictures. The largest number had to bide their
time. It was a great disappointment and sorrow for the
younger brother, who always worked for the older one.
Besides he knew only too well what it meant to live on
a small income, for he had taken his father's burden
upon his own shoulders, and now, after his death, met
all of Vincent's expenses for further study. On his re
turn he took him to Paris, where they both were lost to
Art. Shakespeare says, "The best poems are those which
are never written. " The same can be said about pic
tures, which are often better seen than many a painter
can paint. As regards art, the two brothers were one.
Both admired the masters of The Hague, — Mauve,
Maris, Israels, Mesdag, and also others in certain of
their works, but especially dear to their hearts was the
French school — Corot, and the fine lyric painter, Millet.
" Est ce qu'il n'y a pas une communaut& de nature
entre tous les yivants de ce monde," Taine says in
his "English Literature."
Free as he was from following any one, true as he was
to himself alone, yet the spirit of Millet left a strong
impression upon him. One can see it in his "Aardap-
peleeters" in Brabant: the same religious spirit which
one finds in the "Angelus" of Millet, and in his
"Sower." The former of these is of a man and a
woman, who on their return from work bend their
heads in reverence at the ringing of the vesper bells.

44 VINCENT VAN GOGH

"It is easier for me to die than to live. Dying is
hard, but living still harder," were the words Vincent
had said at^the death-bed of his father. Hard had been
these months before the sudden death of the parent.
He had worked unceasingly. The overtaxing of his
strength made him sleepless, and one could hear him
for hours walking up and down before he found his
much-needed rest.
He had to relinquish his studio, for the room was
wanted for other purposes. An old laundry in the cellar
of his home was put at his disposal, which barely met his
needs. The family life, in which he never took part, but
with which he came in greater contact since the change,
depressed him. Differences of opinion caused him at
times to make caustic remarks, which were accepted
very differently by various members of his family.
Everywhere there were things to disturb him, to agi
tate him. Irritation, especially, was shown in a draw
ing he made at this time, which shows the rear of the
family dwelling, with the flower garden. Instead of the
old-fashioned house, with the adjoining building sag
ging a little to one side, and the well-cared-for garden,
he made a goblinlike place standing in the midst of wild
grass, a few trees bent to one side, furiously whipped by
the wind. Some figures also are seen; one cannot tell
what they are, or what they do. Masterly is the draw
ing, very fine in its black and white, as a lithograph : the
whole atmosphere ghostlike and eerie. His own spirit
of unrest and driven haste forces itself upon one, filling
one with evil foreboding.

CHAPTER III
FRANCE ONCE MORE
VINCENT went away, and no one saw him again
— his mother, nor his sisters, nor his younger
brother, who was still a boy.
I am told that letters will be published shortly; they
will be like voices from the grave, and may reveal more
than these pages, with their meager memories. But
those few memories are so dear; they have left so deep
a mark on the author, that she needs only to write them
down, with gladness in her heart for the sake of truth.
The letters will speak especially of the life in the
South. After staying awhile with his brother in Paris Vin
cent began to long for the land of colors and song —
for Provence. There the colors would be aglow and
would be imprisoned by him upon the canvas ; as in the
flower of our old Dutch school a few knew how to im
prison both flowers and fruit.
Now and then he would send a picture to Holland,
to keep his family in touch with his work. The letters
Theodor wrote home sounded more and more hopeful,
for he, being more connoisseur than dealer, read future
fame in the works of his brother, who was the object of
all his concern, his love, his never-ending devotion and
sympathy. Always did one have to care for Vincent, who was

46 VINCENT VAN GOGH
totally blind to everyday needs, who had to be spared
all strain if he was to accomplish that which he had
set himself to do. His father had cared for him with
never-ending tenderness, and this same care his brother
now gave him. Theodor was married, and later father
of a son who bore the name of Vincent, but his brother
always held the same place in his heart.
Vincent's works were continually declared unsalable.
The temptation to turn his back on the commercial art
world, as Vincent desired, Theodor withstood. His was
too practical a nature. One advance was made, how
ever. A small art dealer, whose shop was only the width
of a window, who was friend and protector, as far as
was in his power, of many a poor, nameless beginner,
offered to exhibit at least one picture every now and
then. But to show Vincent's work without causing a
stir, that was impossible.
So it came to pass that his pictures began to be seen
and reviewed — that at least was a beginning. But
the glimmering fire of his genius, that showed itself
outwardly in its burst of color, was devouring him
inwardly and undermining his physical condition.
Through untiring work his nervous system became un
strung, especially the overwrought sight. Painting in
the blinding sun, and at twilight, were more than his
eyes could stand.
Now and then epileptic attacks would show them
selves. Long before their appearance, they would tor
ment him through difficulty in breathing, an oppres
sion which is described in a letter and which demanded

SKETCH AT LES SAINTES MARIES

THE CYPRESSES

FRANCE ONCE MORE 47

weeks of enforced rest. What must such enforced rest
not have meant to a spirit of his activity!
These physical disturbances brought with them at
times a mental depression which nothing could dispel.
And the terrible part was that these attacks increased
rather than diminished. Again and again he had to go
to the hospital at Aries for treatment. While there he
painted a beautiful picture — the rear and garden of
the hospital. Now that I mention it, I wish I might have
it before me, as many another, which are constantly be
ing exhibited in various European cities. Among them is
surely the "Provence Herdsman," and another known
as "La Berceuse."
While he was lying in the ward of the hospital after
one of his sad attacks, an old man of strange appear
ance was brought to the neighboring section. His exte
rior reminded the painter of a picture of one of the pa
triarchal fathers, as painted by an old Flemish master.
Over eighty was this old herdsman, who had tended
his flock since childhood, along the southern plains. He
had always lived in the open without a hut, and his
covering had been the skin of some wild animal. His
bed had been the flowering heather, his food the milk
from his herd and some dried fruits, which the village
folk sometimes brought to him and which had to last
a good while. His life had run its course. Hardly dis
tinguishable were the years, as one season followed an
other, as a day silently steals into dusk, which loses
Itself again in night; a life of even tenor — clear as a
starlit night, "pur comrae un ciel etoile."

48 VINCENT VAN GOGH
Overcome by a frost of unusual severity for that sec
tion of the country, he was found stiff — half dead, one
morning. One thought one saw signs of life, and the
people who came from the town to carry the milk back
from the meadows took the old man to Aries, where he
was taken to the hospital to be revived. The doctors
feared it was only a question of hours, since the frost
had attacked the region of the heart. When he revived,
he told them the story of his life, and was grateful for
the good bed and shelter which should have been his
long ago. No wonder that his face left so deep an im
pression upon the painter that he was forced to trans
fer it to canvas.
The counter-piece to this picture is "La Berceuse."
It is the picture of a woman who lives in the ancient
folklore of the Provence sailors, who hums to the fisher
man the old songs his mother sang at his cradle, when
the storm grows too mighty for his boat, and death
beckons relentlessly from the sea. Then the fisherman
hears from the lips of La Berceuse the cradle-songs of
long ago — so the legend runs.

LA BERCEUSE

DR. GACHET

CHAPTER IV
THE END
THE continued recurrence of Vincent's ill-health
filled the younger brother with alarm.' What
would be the end of all these terrible attacks? His fears
were not unfounded. Once already had he been called
to the South in great haste, and had discovered his
brother in such a critical condition at the hospital that
showed his fears were not without cause. How hard
was the uncertainty for him who could so ill be spared
from the office, and who never knew when these
depressions would conquer his brother; he, who
cared for him with a tenderness a mother gives her
sick child. "Greater love hath no man than to give
his life for his brother." Such was the love he gave
Vincent. He decided to arrange, if possible, to have him
nearer Paris. In a small village on the Sa6ne he knew
of a physician, a man more artist than doctor, under
whose care his brother should be placed. As far as his
large practice permitted him, he was to keep an eye
on the artist when these sad attacks showed their first
symptoms. As Vincent's father had known when to suggest
new plans, so his brother knew, too, and chose his op
portunity, when the artist was feeling weak and ill, to

50 VINCENT VAN GOGHj
persuade him to follow him to this new place. It was
a lovely spot, this last home he was to know, and he
arrived with the spring.
Its beauty was less brilliant than in the South,
but Nature appeared at the height of her entrancing
charm. A rolling country, full of flowering gardens,
interspersed with woodland ; a cottage overgrown with
roses; here and there a Roman tower, or an old wall,
an old abbey or church built of sandstone; such was the
lovely peaceful French landscape.
Once more he was filled with a desire to work and
to paint. He took mahlstick, palette, and a bundle
of brushes and began work. Before the first picture
was finished, he started a second, a third, in his studio.
To the places he had found while tramping in
search for subjects he now took his easel, and began
working under the blazing sun. He produced as the
summer did in all its layishness. In this land of flow
ers, his flower studies reached their full height, and
he painted his sunflowers.

THE END 51

"Darest thou now, O soul,
Walk out with me toward the unknown region
Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow ?
"Then we burst forth, we float,
In Time and Space, O soul, prepared for them,
Equal, equipt at last, O joy, O fruit of all them to fulfil, O
soul!"1
Science had foretold it. The old trouble forced its
return. Following upon the strain of work, faintness,
that horror of all painters, threatened him. To him
spasms, fear, and despair were one and the same —
a despair which caused him to fear life more than
death. His brother was on his way to join his young fam
ily, consisting of wife and child, in Holland, where they
had gone to spend the summer vacation. Fortunately,
some work had detained him a week longer in Paris.
A telegram from his friend the doctor advised his im
mediate coming to Auvers. He instinctively felt the
condition in which he would find his brother. Mechan
ically he ordered his affairs and hurried to the station,
throwing himself into the next train, where he spent
the few hours of the journey half paralyzed by fear. He
arrived in time. As if to reward him for all his love, his
tender care, his self-sacrifice, it was given him to close
the eyes of him he had loved so intensely, as one can
1 Walt Whitman.

52 VINCENT VAN GOGH
only love one for whom the whole heart hungers, where
every breath, heartbeat, and thought is not for self, but
for the other.
His brother was still living when he arrived. The
morning of the same day Vincent had left the house, as
was his wont, carrying with him all that he thought he
needed for his work. It was a scorching day in July.
His innkeeper, who knew of his illness, became worried
when towards three he had not come back, for he gen
erally returned for dinner, bringing one canvas, to set
out with another, according to the hour and light of
the day. They found him senseless, but living, and
carried him home. Dying was easier for him than
living, and he went halfway to meet the Great Reaper
— Death.
The doctor came and, himself deeply affected, did
all that could be done, telegraphed his brother and re
mained at the bedside.
A letter out of the past, worn and yellow with age,
which Theodor Van Gogh wrote his sister, will speak
with his own voice'above the quiet of the grave: —
"... They say it is well that he is at rest. I hesitate
to say so. I feel rather it is one of the crudest tragedies
of life. He is to be counted among the martyrs who
died smiling. . . .
"He had no desire to live, and he was content, be
cause he had fought unflinchingly for his conviction,
which he had tested with the best and noblest who had
gone before him. A test is his love for his father, his

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THE END 53

love for the Gospel, for the poor and miserable, for the
Masters in literature and art. In his last letter, dated
four days before his death, he writes: ' I try just as hard
as certain other painters do, whom I have loved and
honored.' "One must acknowledge that he was a great artist;
to be a great man often goes hand in hand. Time will
bring the honor due him, and many a one will grieve
to think he died so young. He himself desired to die.
While I was sitting by him, trying to persuade him
that we would heal him, and that we hoped he would be
saved from further attacks, he answered: 'La tristesse
durerat toujours.' I felt I understood what he wished
to say.
"Shortly afterward he was seized with another at
tack, and the next minute closed his eyes.
"The people in that lovely village held him in high
esteem. From all sides one heard how beloved he was,
and many followed him to the grave. There a stone will
speak his name to the passer-by.
"I have decided to organize an exhibition of his
works in Paris within the next few months. I wish
you could see a collection of his pictures. One has to
see them together to understand them truly. I presume
they will write about him. If I succeed in getting a
room, the exhibition is to be in October, when the
Parisians are back in town. . . .
... "He will not be forgotten."
August 5, 1890.

54 VINCENT VAN GOGH
How truly has been fulfilled the prophecy with which
the letter closes! Much has been written, much that
is not true. A place of honor has been given his pictures
in the museums of the principal cities of the Nether
lands. Many eyes, abroad as well as at home, that did
not appreciate him during his lifetime, are turned to
wards his work.
Influenced by an understanding of art, as well as a
commercial spirit, but above all by piety, it has been
the tactful hand of a woman (Frau Cohen-Goschalk,
widow of Theodor Van Gogh) that has broken the
path that has brought recognition for Vincent's work,
and beaten down the high walls of stiff convention,
which in the beginning condemned his art.
Since the day, more than twenty years ago, that the
remains of the artist were carried to their last resting-
place, in that land of color and sunshine, countless
European cities have held exhibitions of his pictures,
which were reviewed in foreign and home papers ac
cording to their insight and belief.
Buried in flowers, amongst others his sunflower,
which he loved so well, stood the bier in the middle of
the studio. His brother, attended by a group of artists,
who had come down from Paris for the services, car
ried him to the grave. There the brother, overcome
with sorrow, lost consciousness. " It was as if the bro
ther called his brother from the grave," wrote Bernard,
painter and writer, friend and admirer of the one, and
friend of the family of the other. Thus he describes in
an article the unutterable sorrow through which the

THE END 55

brother was passing, an article which will surely appear
in the volume of letters to be published, which glows
with the genius of the one in the recognition of the
other. Concerning these personal recollections, may they
be as said the prophet Isaiah: "They will not return
empty-handed, but will do that which is pleasing unto
me. It was a long time before I could comprehend Vin
cent Van Gogh's art, but at last my eyes were opened.
That may be the cause of the totally different judg
ments one heard in the Autumn Exhibition of 1908,
where some could not tear themselves away, while
others, shrugging their shoulders, declared him insane.
Though these judgments differed to such a marked ex
tent, yet must all acknowledge his strength, daring,
and boldness of knowledge, shown in the deliberate
choice of the balance of color — must acknowledge that
his pictures are the work of a man who labored during
the heat of the day, until night came, when he could
labor no more.
To prove the clearness and simplicity of his vision,
to show that the art of description held even pace with
his whole development, to prove in what measure he
had mastered the French language, this little bit of
prose follows, which my brother sent me: —
"II y a 25 ans environ, qu'un homme de Granville
partit pour L'Angleterre. Apres la mort_de son pere

56 VINCENT VAN GOGH
ses freres se disputaient l'heritage, et tctchaient sour-
tout de lui soustraire sa part. Las de se quereller, il
leur abandonna sa part et partit pauvre pour Londres,
ou il obtint une place de maitre de Frangais a une
ecole. II avait 30 ans lorsqu'il se maria avec une An-
glaise bien plus jeune que lui; il eut 1' enfant, une
fille. "Apres avoir ktk marie 7 ou 8 ans, sa maladie de
poitrine s'agravit.
"Un de ses amis lui demanda alors s'il avait encore
quelque desir, a quoi il repondit, qu'avant de mourir il
aimerait a revoir son pays.
"Son ami lui paya les frais du voyage.
"II partit done, malade jusqu'a la mort, avec sa
femme et sa fille de 6 ans pour Granville. La il loua une
chambre a des pauvres gens demeurant pres de la mer.
"Le soir il se faisait porter sur la greVe et regardait
.le soleil se coucher dans la mer. Un soir, voyant qu'il
6tait pres de mourir, les gens avertissent sa femme
qu'il 6tait temps s'envoyer chercher le cure pour qu'il
donnat l'extr&me onction au malade.
"Sa femme qui etait protestante s'y opposa, mais il
dit, 'Laissez les faire.'
"Le curearriva done et le malade se confessa devant
tous les gens de la maison.
"Alors tous les assistants ont pleure en entendant
cette vie juste et pure.
"Apres il voulut qu'on' le laissat seul avec sa femme;
quand iis furent seuls il l'embrassa et dit, ' Je t'ai aimee.'
Alors il mourut . . .

THE END 57

"II aimait la France, la Bretagne surtout, et la na
ture, et il voyait Dieu ; c'est a cause de cela que je vous
raconte la vie de cet etranger sur la terre, qui cependant
en fut un des vrais citoyens." {Signed, Vincent Van Gogh.)
(Almost 25 years ago, a man from Granville journeyed
to England. After the death of his father, his brothers
fought over the inheritance, and especially strove to
keep his share from him. As he wearied of the fight,
he gave them his share and journeyed to London in
poverty, where he found a position as teacher of French
in a school. He was thirty when he married an English
girl, who was much younger than he. He had one
child, a daughter.
After being married seven or eight years, his con
sumption grew worse. One of his friends asked him if he
had any desire, whereupon he answered, he would like
to see his own country before he died. His friend met
his expenses. He traveled in a dying condition to Gran
ville, accompanied by his wife and little six-year-old
daughter. There he rented a room at the house of some
poor people living by the sea.
In the evening he was wont to be carried to the
shore, where he watched the setting sun. One evening,
the people who noticed how near he was to dying ad
vised the wife that it was time to call a priest to give
him the last sacrament.
His wife, a Protestant, objected, but he said, "Let
it be." The Priest came, and the sick man made his

58 VINCENT VAN GOGH
confession before all the people of the house. All who
were present wept when they heard of his pure and
righteous life. Thereupon, he asked to be left alone
with his wife. When they were alone, he embraced her,
and said, "I loved you"; then he died.
He loved France, especially Brittany, and Nature,
and he beheld God. That is why I have told you of the
life of the "stranger of this world," who, nevertheless,
was one of her truest citizens.) (Signed, Vincent Van Gogh.)

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CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A