Amsterdam, May, 1877

‘Not a day without a line’; by writing, reading, working, and practicing daily, perseverance will lead me to a good end.

I have a lot of work to do, but still I have the firm hope to succeed. But it will take time; it is what everybody says, and not only Corot: ‘It took only forty years of hard work and of thought and attention.’ For the work of men such as Father and Uncle Stricker, a great deal of study is needed, just as for painting.

But sometimes a man says to himself: How shall I ever arrive! At night I am tired and I cannot get up as early as I wish. My head is sometimes heavy and often It burns and my thoughts are confused – to get used to and persevere in simple regular study after all those emotional years is not easy.

When I think of the past—when I think of the future of almost invincible difficulties, of much and difficult work, which I do not like, which I, or rather my evil self, would like to shirk; when I think the eyes of so many are fixed on me—who will know where the fault is if I do not succeed, who will not make me trivial reproaches? But as they are well tired and trained in everything that is right and virtuous, they will say, as it were by the expression of their faces: We have helped you and have been a light unto you; have you tried honestly? What is now our reward and the fruit of our labour? See! When I think of all this, of sorrow, of disappointment, of the fear of failure, of disgrace—then I have the longing—I wish I were far away from everything !

And yet I go on, but prudently and hoping to have the strength of resisting those things, so that I shall know what to answer to those reproaches that threaten me, and believing that notwithstanding everything that seems against me, I yet shall reach the aim I am striving for, and if God wills it shall find favour in the eyes of those that will come after me.

There is written: ‘Lift up the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees,’ and when the disciples had worked all night and had not caught any fish, they were told: ‘Go out into the deep and cast your nets again into the sea.’

If we are tired, isn’t it then because we have already walked a long way, and if it is true that man has his battle to fight on earth, is not then the feeling of weariness and the burning of the head a sign that we have been struggling? If I had only given all my strength to it before, yes, I should have been father now.

This morning I saw in church a little old woman, probably the one who provides the footstoves, who reminded me so much of that etching by Rembrandt, a woman who has been reading the Bible and has fallen asleep with her head in her hand. Ch. Bianc writes so beautifully and with so much feeling about it, and I think Michelet also in his ‘il n’y a point de vieille femme’ (Women are never old). The poem by de Genestet, ‘The end of her path in life is lonely,’ also reminds me of it.

Do you think we too shall be at the evening of our life before we know it? If we feel the days are flying past us faster and faster, it sometimes does me good to believe so, and to remember that ‘Man proposes and God disposes.’

A Jewish bookseller who procures me the Latin and Greek books I want has a large number of prints which I can choose from very cheaply. I have taken some for my little room to give it the right atmosphere, for that is necessary to get new thoughts and new ideas.

Yesterday at Stricker’s they asked me to tell about London and Paris and when I do so, I see it all again before me; I love so many things over there, and oh! it was so wherever I have lived; how I feel it when I walk through the streets of The Hague, or for instance in Zundert. All that past time can be of help in my work at present. When I occupy a small place in that large Dutch Protestant Church those recollections will furnish many a topic for sermons.

I walked along the Buitenkant and the sand banks near the railroad. I cannot describe to you how beautiful it was there in the twilight. Rembrandt, Michel, and others have sometimes painted it, the ground dark, the sky still lit by the glow of the setting sun, the row of houses and steeples against it, lights in the windows everywhere, and the whole mirrored in the water. And the people and the carriages like little black figures.

Already I have begun to study the Bible, but only at night when the day’s work is done, or early in the morning—after all that is the principal thing, though it is my duty to devote myself to the other study and I am doing so. Only if I could, I should like to skip a few years, my boy.

When we are working at a difficult task and strive after a good thing, we are fighting a righteous battle, the direct reward of which is that we are kept from much evil. As we advance in life it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties the inmost strength of the heart is developed. Indeed, life is a battle; we have to defend and protect ourselves, and with a cheerful and brave spirit we must plan and calculate in order to make progress.

Know one thing—we both must try and live through the time between now and the age of thirty years, and beware of sin. We are put in the rank and file of life; well, we must fight a good battle and we must become men, that we are not yet, either of us—there is something greater in the future, my conscience tells me so; we are not what other people are.

When I was standing beside the corpse of Aerssen, the calmness and dignity and solemn silence of death contrasted with the activities of living people to such an extent that we all felt the truth of what his daughter said in her simplicity: ‘He is freed from the burden of life, which we have to carry on still.’ And yet we are so much attached to the old life, because with our despondent moods we have our happy moments, when heart and soul rejoice as does the lark that cannot help but sing in the morning, even though the soul sometimes stinks within us and is full of fears. And the memories of all we have love remain and come back to us in the evening of our life. They are not dead but they sleep, and it is well to gather treasure of them.

This morning at a quarter to five there was a terrible thunderstorm here. I have been looking out over the whole yard and dock; the poplars and elderberry and other bushes were bowed down by the heavy storm, and the rain poured down on the piles of wood and on the docks of the ships. But very soon the sun broke through the clouds, the ground and the beams in the yard were drenched, in the pools the sky was reflected quite golden from the rising sun, and very shortly after I saw the first gang of workmen come through the gates of the yard. It is a curious sight, that long line of black figures, large and small, first in the narrow street, where the sun just peeps in, and afterwards in the yard. There are about three thousand of them; the sound of their footsteps is like the roaring of the sea.

On Dicker’s Island there are also many shipyards. When I go there I look at them attentively: he who must learn to work must watch the workers, especially if he has a little study just among the workshops. How many subjects for pictures the artists could fine here on the wharf!

When I am writing I instinctively make a little drawing, now and then. This morning, Elijah in the desert, with the stormy sky, and in the foreground a few thorn bushes; it is nothing special, but I can see it all so vividly before me, and I think that at such moments I could speak with enthusiasm.

I am very busy making a summary of the history of the Reformation; the history of those days is quite stimulating and attractive. I think if one reads attentively a few books such as those of Motley, of Dickens, of Gruson, and on the Crusades, one gets involuntarily a good and simple view of history in general.

Mendes has given me hope that at the end of three months we shall have accomplished what he had planned we should, if everything went well; but Greek lessons in the heart of Amsterdam, in the heart of the Jewish quarter, on a very close and sultry summer afternoon, with the feeling that many examinations await you, arranged by very learned and cunning professors—I can tell you they make one fell more oppressed than Brabant cornfields, that are beautiful on such a day.

From home I heard that you had a bill from Doctor Coster to the amount of forty guilders; that is a big sum. If only I could help you a little, but you know that I possess neither gold nor silver. By all kinds of devices I must often try to get money for the collections in church—for instance, by changing stamps for pennies to a tobacco shop—but, my boy, by struggling we can keep up.

I have such a craving for thousands of things, and if I had money I should perhaps soon spend it on books, and other things, which I can very well do without, and which would divert my attention for them strictly necessary studies. Even now, it is not always easy to fight against distractions, and if I had money it would be worse still.

And there may come a time in which we can spend our money better than on the best books—when we shall perhaps have a household of our own, and others to care for and to think about.

Mendes told me last week about a very interesting part of the city, namely, the outskirts that extend from the Leidsche Poort, near the Vondel Park, to the Dutch railroad station. It is full of mills and sawmills, workmen’s cottages with little gardens, also old houses, everything; it is very populous, and the quarter is cut through by many small canals and waterways full of boats and all kinds of picturesque bridges. It must be a splendid thing to be a clergyman in such a quarter.

How I should love to show you several things here in the Jewish quarter and in other places! I often think of de Groux; there are interiors with wood-choppers, carpenters, grocers’ shops, forges, druggists, which would have delighted him.

Uncle Jan intends to go to Helvoirt for a week, on the first of September. I hope to profit by it by staying up later in the sitting-room to write. Now I can sit in my bedroom, but there the temptation is too strong to go to rest when it gets late, and in my little study there is no gas.

I am copying the whole of the ‘Imitation of Jesus Christ’ from a French edition which I borrowed from Uncle Cor. It means much work, but I know no better way to study it. That book is sublime, and he who wrote it must have been a man after God’s own heart; a few days ago I got an irresistible longing for it, perhaps because I look so often at that lithograph after Ruyperez.

This week Mendes is out of town. So having some leisure I could carry out an old plan to go and see the etchings by Rembrandt in the Trippenhuis. How would a man like Father, who so often goes long distances evening the night with a lantern, to visit a sick or dying man, to speak with him about one whose word is a light even in the night of suffering and agony—how would he feel about the etchings by Rembrandt; for instance, ‘The Flight to Egypt in the Night’?

I finally found the house in the Breestraat where Rembrandt lived.

I do not know why, but the whole week I have been thinking of that picture and the etching after it, ‘A Young Citizen of the Year V,’ by Jules Goupil. It was hanging in my room in London. It has been a remarkable feature in art and will continue to have a great influence on many people.

The many pictures abou the days of the French Revolution, ‘The Girondins,’ and ‘Last Victims of the Terror,’ and ‘Marie Antoinette’ by Delaroche, what a beautiful unity they form, together with books such as those of Michelet, Carlyle, and also Dickens’s ‘Tale of Two Cities.’ In all of them there is something of the Spirit of the Resurrection and the Life—that lives through it seems dead, for it is not dead but it sleepeth.

I should like to read a great deal, but I may not, though in fact I need not long for it so much, for all things are found in the word of Christ. I cling to the church for aid, and to the bookshops; whenever possible I invent some errand to go there.

Well, the dark days before Christmas are already in sight, and back of them lies Christmas, like the kindly light of the houses back of the rocks and the water that beats against them on a dark night.

I keep my work together, all in order to help me to pass the examinations; I consult Mendes in everything and arrange my studies according to what he has done, for I should like to do it in the same way. The study of Latin and Greek is very difficult, but still it makes me feel happy, and I am doing what I longed to do. I may not sit up so late in the evening any more, Uncle has strictly forbidden it, still I keep in mind what is written under the etching by Rembrandt, ‘In the middle of the night the light diffuses its radiance,’ and I keep a small gaslight burning low all night. I often lie looking at it, planning my work for the next day.

I went to Uncle Stricker and had a long talk when him and Aunt, for Mendes had been to see them a few days ago. (One must not talk too lightly about genius, even though one believes there is more of it in the world than many suppose, but a very remarkable person Mendes certainly is and I shall always be grateful for being in contact with him.) I am glad to say he did not make an unfavourable report about me, but Uncle asked me if I did not find the work very difficult, and I had to acknowledge that I did indeed, and that I tried my best in every possible way to keep manfully on. He told me to keep good courage. I do hope Father will be satisfied with what I have done.

But now still remains that terrible algebra and mathematics; after Christmas it is necessary that I have lessons in those also. I have been looking for a teacher in algebra and have found one, a cousin of Mendes, Teixeira de Mattos, teacher at the Jewish pauper school. He gives me hope that we shall be ready for examinations about October of next year. If I should pass the examinations, I shall have done it quicker than I expected, for when I began they told me two years would be necessary for the first four subjects.

And now I am studying; though it may coast a little more, it must be done well; it is a race and a fight for my life, no more and no less. Whoever gets through this course of study and perseveres in it to the end will not forget it as long as he lives, and to have done this will be something to treasure. Everybody who wants to reach a social position must go through a time of great difficulties and exertion; the success may depend on trifles. If one says or writes a word amiss at an examination, that may be the cause of failure. May God give me the wisdom which I need and grant me what I so fervently desire: to finish my studies as quickly as possible and be ordained, so that I can perform the practical duties of a clergyman.

Yesterday I was at the early morning service and heard a sermon about ‘I shall forever be at strife with man,’ how after a time of disappointment and grief there can come a time in life when our dearest longings and wishes may be fulfilled. Shall you ever hear me preach in some little church?

***

So another year has passed by, in which many things have happened for me, and I look back on it with thankfulness. When I think over the time I spent at Braat’s and the months of study here, upon the whole they are really two good things.

Twilight is falling, ‘blessed twilight,’ Dickens called it, and indeed he was right. Blessed twilight, especially when two or three are together in harmony of mind and like scribes bring forth old and new things from their treasure. Rembrandt knew that, for from the rich treasure of his heart he brought forth among other things that drawing in sepia, charcoal, ink, representing the house in Bethany.

And the view from my window on the yard is simply wonderful, with that little avenue of poplars, whose slender forms with their thin branches stand out so delicately against the grey evening sky, and then the old building of the warehouse in the water, which is as quiet as ‘the waters of the old pool,’ mentioned in the Book of Isaiah; the walls of that warehouse down at the waterside are quite green and weatherbeaten. Then farther down is the little garden and the fence around it with the rosebushes, and everywhere in the yard the black figures of the workmen, and also the little dog.

It does one good to feel that one has still a brother, who lives and walks on this earth; when one has many things to think of, and many things to do, one sometimes gets the feeling: Where am I? What am I doing? Where am I going?—and one’s brain reels, but then such a well-known voice as yours, or rather a well-known handwriting, makes one feel again firm ground under one’s feet.

Father has been here, and I was so glad he came. The most pleasant recollection of his visit is of a morning we spent together in my little room, correcting some work and talking over several things. You can imagine the days flew by, and when I had seen him off at the station and had looked after the train as long as it was in sight, even the smoke of it, then came home to my room and saw Father’s chair still standing near the little table on which the books and copybooks of the day before were still lying, though I know that we shall see each other again pretty soon, I cried like a child.

For Saint Nicholas, Mendes gave me the works of Claudius, a good and serious book. I had sent him ‘Thomas Kempensis: de Imatatione Christi,’ and on the fly-leaf I wrote: ‘In him there is neither Jew nor Greek, nor servant nor master, nor man nor wife, but Christ is all and in all.’

This week I had a conversation with him about ‘the man who hates not his own life,cannot be my disciple.’ Mendes asserted that the expression was too strong, but I declared that it was the simple truth. And does not Kempis say the same when he speaks about knowing oneself and hating oneself? When we look at others, who have done more than we, and are better than we, we begin very soon to hate our own life. Look at Thomas à Kempis, who wrote his little book with a simplicity and a sincerity unequalled by any other writer, or in another sphere look at the work of Millet or Jules Dupré’s ‘The Large Oaks’—that is the thing.

Uncle Cor asked me today if I did not like ‘Phryne’ by Gérôme, and I told him that I should rather see a homely woman by Israëls or Millet, or an old woman by Eduard Frère; for of what use is such a beautiful body as that of Phryne? The animals have it too, perhaps even more tan men, but te soul, as it lives in the people painted by israëls or Millet, or Frère, that is what animals never have; and is not life given us to become richer in spirit, even though the outward appearance may suffer from it? For the figure by Gérôme I feel very little sympathy, for I discover in it no sign of spirituality, and a pair of hands that show they have worked are more beautiful than those of his figure.

And greater still is the difference between such a beautiful girl and such a man as Parker, or Thomas à Kempis, or those Meissonier painted, and as little as one can serve two masters can one love two such different things and have sympathy for both. And then Uncle Cor asked me if I should feel no attraction for a beautiful woman or girl, but I told him I should feel more attraction for and should rather come in contact with, one who was ugly, or old, or poor, or in some way unhappy, but who through experience and sorrow had gained a mind and a soul.

Last Sunday I spent with Uncle Jan. it was a very pleasant day for me. I had got up very early, and I went to the French church in the morning, where a clergyman from the neighbourhood of Lyon preached; he came to collect money for an evangelical mission. His sermon consisted chiefly of stories from the life of the working people in the factory there, and though he spoke with an effort, still his words were effective, as they came from the heart, and only such are powerful enough to touch other hearts.

Father has advised me to try to make some acquaintances. The last two mornings I got up very early to work on a sketch of the map of Paul’s travels intending to give it to the Reverend Gagnebin, as I wanted to put some emphasis on my visit to him if possible, as he is a learned man who perhaps can give me some good advice later on if he sees that my intentions are serious. I want to do such things now and then, for it certainly is very doubtful if I ever shall succeed, I mean shall ever pass all the examinations. If one begins earlier it is so much easier. It is true I can work longer, and can concentrate better, and things that many others care for have no attraction for me, but after all the work costs me greater effort. And even in case I fail I want to leave my mark here and there behind me.

The once was a man who went to church one day and asked ‘Can it be that my zeal has deceived me, that I have taken the wrong road, and have not planned it well? Oh! if I might be freed from this uncertainty, and might have the firm conviction that I shall conquer and succeed in the end!’ And then a voice answered him: ‘And if you knew that for certain, what should you do then?—Act now as if you knew it for certain, and you will not be confounded.’ Then the man went forth on his way, believing, and he went back to his work, no longer doubting or wavering.

So I must push onward, for to stand still or to go back is out of the question, this would make things more difficult still, and in the end there would be the necessity of beginning all over again.

There are so many, many things one has to know, and though they try to reassure me, it constantly gies me a very anxious feeling, and there is no remedy for it but to set to work again, since it is clearly my duty to do this, cost what it may.

We have talked a good deal about our duty, and how we could attain the right goal, and we came to the conclusion that in the first place our aim must be to find a steady position and a profession to which we can entirely devote ourselves. It is wise to do so, for life is but short and time passes quickly; if one is master of one thing and understands one thing well, one has at the same time insight into and understanding of many things.

One must especially have the end in mind and the victory one would gain after a whole life of work, and effort is better than one that is gained earlier. Whoever lives sincerely and encounters much trouble and disappointment, but is not bowed down by them, is worth more than one who has always sailed before the wind and has only known relative prosperity. One must never trust the occasion when one is without difficulties.

As to me I must become a good clergyman, who has something to say that is right and may be of use in the world, and perhaps it is better that I have a relatively long time of preparation and am strongly confirmed in a staunch conviction before I am called to speak to others about it. . . If only we try to live sincerely, it will go well with us, even though we are certain to experience real sorrow and great disappointments, and also will probably commit great faults and do wrong things, but it certainly is true that it is better to be high-spirited, even though one makes more mistakes, than to be narrow-minded and all too prudent. It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done!

If one keeps on loving faithfully what is really worth loving, and does not waste one’s love on insignificant and unworthy and meaningless things, one will get more light by and by and grow stronger. Sometimes it is well to go into the world and converse with people, and at times one is obliged to do so, but he who would prefer to be quietly alone with his work, and who wants but very few friends, will go safest through the world and among people. And even in the most refined circles and with the best surroundings and circumstances, one must keep something of the original character of an anchorite, for otherwise one has no root in oneself; one must never let the fire go out in one’s soul, but keep it burning. And whoever chooses poverty for himself and loves it possesses a great treasure, and will always clearly hear the voice of his conscience; he who hears and obeys that voice, which is the best gift of God, finds at last a friend in it, and is never alone.

I am a little curious to hear your first impressions of Paris. It is true that first impressions often change, for we know too well that though there may be a bright dawn, there is also a dark midnight and a burning and oppressive heat at noon. But just as the morning hour is a blessed hour, so it is with the first impressions: they keep their worth even though they pass, for sometimes they prove to have been right after all, and one comes back to them.

When one walks through the streets towards Montmartre in the morning, one sees many a workshop and little room that reminds one of ‘Un Tonnelier,’ and it is good at times to see such simple things. One sees so many people who for different reasons have deviated from all that is natural and so have lost their real and inward life, and also many who live in miser and in horror, for in the evening one sees all kinds of black figures wandering around, of men as well as of women, in whom the terror of the night is personified, and whose misery one must range among the things that have no name in any language.

Today I stepped in at Uncle Cor’s. He told me that Daubigny is dead. I can tell you I was sorry to hear it, just as when I heard that Brion had died (his ‘Benedicte’ hangs in my room); for the work of such men, if well understood, touches more deeply than one is aware of. It must be a good thing to die conscious of having performed some real good, and to know that by this work one will live, at least in the memory of some, and will have left a good example to those that come after. A work that is good—it may not be eternal, but the thought expressed in it is, and the work itself will certainly remain in existence for a long, long time; and if afterwards others arise, they can do no better than follow in the footsteps of such predecessors and do their work in the same way.