Today I received your good news that you are at last a father, that the most critical time is over for Jo, and finally that the little boy is well. That has done me more good and given me more pleasure than I can put into words. Bravo--and how pleased Mother is going to be. The day before yesterday I received a fairly long and very contented letter from her too. Anyhow, here it is, the thing I have so much desired for such a long time. No need to tell you that I have often thought of you these days, and it touch me very much that Jo had the kindness to write to me the very night before. She was so brave and calm in her danger, it moved me very deeply. Well, it contributes a great deal to helping me forget the last days when I was ill; at such times I don't know where I am and my mind wanders.

I was extremely surprised at the article on my pictures which you sent me. I needn't tell you that I hope to go on thinking that I do not paint like that, but I do see in it how I ought to paint. For the article is very right as far as indicating the gap to be filled, and I think that the writer really wrote it more to guide, not only me, but the other impressionists as well, and even partly to make the breach at a good place. So he proposed an ideal collective ego to the others quite as much as to me; he simply tells me that there is something good, if you like, here and there in my work, which is at the same time so imperfect; and that is the comforting part of it which I appreciate and for which I hope to be grateful. Only it must be understood that my back is not broad enough to carry such an undertaking, and in concentrating the article on me, there's no need to tell you how immersed in flattery I feel, and in my opinion it is as exaggerated as what a certain article by Isaäcson said about you, namely that at present the artists had given up squabbling and that an important movement was silently being launched in the little shop on the Boulevard Montmartre. I admit that it is difficult to say what one wants, to express one's ideas differently--in the same way as you cannot paint things as you see them--and so I do not mean to criticize Isaäcson's or any other critic's daring, but as far as we are concerned, really, we are posing a bit for the model, and indeed that is a duty and a bit of one's job like any other. So if some sort or reputation comes to you and me, the thing is to try to keep some sort of calm and, if possible, clarity of mind.

Why not say what he said of my sunflowers, with far more grounds, of those magnificent and perfect hollyhocks of Quost's, and his yellow irises, and those splendid peonies of Jeannin's? And you will foresee, as I do, that such praise must have its opposite, the other side of the medal. But I am glad and grateful for the article, or rather "le cœur à l'aise," as the song in the Revue has it, since one may need it, one may really need a medal. Besides, an article like that has its own merit as a critical work of art; as such I think it is to be respected, and the writer must heighten the tones, sythetize his conclusions, etc. But from the beginning you must beware of putting your young family too much into artistic surroundings. Old Goupil managed his household pretty well even in the Parisian thorns and thistles, and I expect you will think of him many a time. Things have changed so, the cold pride would be startling today, but his power to resist so many storms, that was really something.

proposed, very vaguely it is true, to found a studio in his name, he, De Haan and I, but he said that he is insisting on going through with his Tonkin project, and seems to have cooled off greatly, I do not exactly know why, about continuing to paint. And he is just the sort to be off to Tonkin in earnest, he has a sort of need to expand, and he finds--and there's some truth in it--the artistic life paltry. With his experience of travel, what can I say to him?

But I hope he feels that you and I are indeed his friends, without counting on us too much, which indeed he in no way does. He writes with much reserve, more gravely than last year. I have just written a note to Russell once more, to remind him a little of , for I know that Russell as a man has much gravity and strength. and Russell are countrymen at heart; not uncouth, but with a certain innate sweetness of far-off fields, probably more so than you or I, that is how they look to me. It is necessary--I admit--sometimes to believe in it a little in order to see it.

If for my part I wanted to go on--let's call it translating certain pages of Millet, then, to prevent anyone from being able, not to criticize me, which wouldn't matter, but to make it awkward for me or to hinder me by pretending that it is just copying--then I need someone among the artists like Russell or to carry this thing through and make a serious job of it.

I have scruples of conscience about doing the things by Millet which you sent me, for instance, and which seemed to me perfectly chosen, and I took the pile of photographs and unhesitantly sent them to Russell, so that I shall not see them again until I have made up my mind. I do not want to do it until I have heard a little of your own opinion, and other people's too, on the ones you will soon be getting.

Without that I should have scruples of conscience, a fear lest it should be plagiarizing. And not now, but in a few months' time, I shall try to get a candid opinion from Russell himself on the usefulness of the thing. In any case Russell is quick-tempered, he gets angry, he says something true, and that is what I sometimes need. You know I think the "Virgin" so dazzling. I have not dared to look at her. All at once I felt a "not yet." My illness makes me very sensitive now, and for the moment I do not feel capable of continuing these "translations" when it concerns such masterpieces. I am stopping at the "Sower," which I am working on, and which is not coming off as I should wish. Being ill, however, I have thought a lot abut continuing this work and when I do it, I do it calmly, as you will soon see when I send the five or six finished canvases.

I hope that M. Lauzet will come, I very much wish to make his acquaintance. I have confidence in his opinion when he says it is Provence, there he touches on the difficulty, and like the other one he indicates a thing to be done rather than a thing already done. Landscapes with cypresses! Ah, it would not be easy. Aurier feels it too when he says that even black is a colour, and as for their appearance--I am thinking about it, but don't dare go further, and I say with the cautious Isaäcson--I do not yet feel that we have got to that. You need a certain dose of inspiration, a ray from on high, that is not in ourselves, in order to do beautiful things. When I had done those sunflowers, I looked for the contrast and yet the equivalent, and I said--It is the cypress.

I will say no more--I am a little worried about a friend who it appears is still ill, and whom I should like to go and see; it is the one whose portrait I did in yellow and black, and she had changed so much. It is the nervous attacks and complications of a premature climacteric, altogether very painful. Last time she was like an old grandfather, I promised to return within a fortnight, and was taken ill again myself.

Anyway, the good news you have sent me and this article and lots of things have made me feel quite well personally today. I am sorry too that M. Salles did not find you. I thank Wil once more for her kind letter. I should have liked to answer today, but I am putting it off to several days from now; tell her that Mother has written me another long letter from Amsterdam. How happy she will be, and Wil too.

Meanwhile I remain with you in thought, though I am finishing my letter. May Jo long remain for us what she is. Now as for the little boy, why don't you call him Theo in memory of our father, it would certainly give a great deal of pleasure to me.

A handshake.

Ever yours,

Vincent