With a little patience my work can be good

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 24 March 1882

Well, I'm getting on all right and feel that I am making progress. I must go on drawing for a year or at least a few months more until my hand has become quite firm, and my eye steady; and then I don't see any obstacle to my becoming quite productive in things that will sell. It is only reasonable for me to want these few months' time. I cannot go quicker than that, for I should produce bad work, and that isn't necessary: with a little patience my work can be good. . . .

I should like to know since when they can force or try to force an artist to change either his technique or his point of view. I think it very impertinent to attempt such a thing, especially for a man like Tersteeg, who pretends to stand on “good form.” Theo, if you can send me some money, do, the sooner you send it, the sooner I shall be relieved of the worry.

Letter 183
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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Impossible things which discourage

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 24 March 1882

I have been working very hard lately, and am busy from morning till night. First, the little drawings for C.M. They are finished, and I have sent them to him. I had hoped he would pay me at once, and since he has not, I am afraid he will forget it, and when will he send it now??? I continue to make such little views of the city almost every day, and have the knack now.

I wish Tersteeg or others who pretend to be friendly or to want to help me would ask for things that I can make, instead of asking for impossible things which discourage instead of encourage me. Enfin, que soit. But I had expected C.M. to pay me at once. The drawings were certainly no worse than the specimen which he saw, and I had trouble enough making them, perhaps more than 30 guilders' worth. If people understood that nothing is nothing, and that days without a penny in my pocket are very hard and difficult, I think they would not begrudge me the little money I get from you which keeps me afloat in these hard times, not unnerve me by reproaches for taking it from you.

Don't I deserve my bread if I work hard? Or am I not worthy of the means which enable me to work? I only wish, brother, that you would come here soon and see for yourself whether I'm cheating you or not.

Letter 183
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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Painting seems like a battle

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 14-18 March 1882

Theo, on Sunday I went round to De Bock's again - I don't know why, but every time I go and see him I get the same feeling: the fellow's too weak, he'll never make good - unless he changes, unless - unless - I see something weary, something blasé, something insincere in him that oppresses me, there is something consumptive about the atmosphere in his house.

And yet - it doesn't hit you in the eye - and there are probably few among his acquaintances who think of him as I do.

Well, anyway, he does do things that are nice sometimes, or at least not without charm and grace, but, iIs that enough? So much is demanded nowadays that painting seems like a campaign, a military campaign, a battle or a war.

Letter 182
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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There is nothing more solid than a handicraft

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 14-18 March 1882

You mustn’t imagine that I have overlooked the change in your financial circumstances which a change of career would entail. But what makes me mention this matter to you at all is that although I find myself in financial difficulties, I nevertheless have the feeling that there is nothing more solid than a ‘handicraft’ in the literal sense of working with one's hands. If you became a painter, one of the things that would surprise you is that painting and everything connected with it is quite hard work in physical terms. Leaving aside the mental exertion, the hard thought, it demands considerable physical effort, and that day after day.

Letter 182
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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Those who are serious at heart

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 14-18 March 1882

When, pressed for money, I forgot myself for a moment and thought, I'll try to produce something with a particular appeal, the result was dreadful, I couldn't do it. And Mauve rightly became angry with me and said, that's not how to do it, tear that stuff up. A first I found that hard to do, but later I did cut them up. Then when I began to draw more seriously, Tersteeg took exception and became angry - and overlooked the good things in my drawings and asked straight out for ones that were 'saleable'.

Well, you can see immediately from this that there is a difference between Mauve and Tersteeg. Mauve appears more and more serious the more one thinks about him, but is Tersteeg going to be able to pass this test? I hope so, but doubt if he will stand up to it as well as M. And how about those who are serious at heart, although they often have something disagreeable about them? One gets to like them and to feel at home with them - one quickly gets bored with those who are not serious enough.

Letter 182
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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The men of the day are men of just one day

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 14-18 March 1882

You will no doubt tell me, the moment may well arrive when one regrets having become a painter. And what could I then reply on my own behalf? They who have such regrets are those who neglect solid study in the beginning and who race hurry-scurry to be top of the heap. Well, the men of the day are men of just one day, but whoever has enough faith and love to take pleasure in precisely what others find dull, namely the study of anatomy, perspective and proportion, will stay the course and mature slowly but surely.

Letter 182
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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You would be a free man no longer

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 14-18 March 1882

Theo, I am definitely not a landscape painter, when I do landscapes there will always be something of the figure in them. However, it seems to me a very good thing that there are also people who are essentially landscape painters. And - the thought that you might be just such a person - without knowing it - greatly preoccupies me. I am just as preoccupied with the antithesis, namely whether you, Theo, are really cut out to be a dealer.

If I had to prove the thesis, I might perhaps try to do so by indirect reduction. However that may be, do think it over. I don't need to tell you to consider carefully before you begin to paint, but perhaps you won't take it amiss if I add: Theo, until now you were free to do as you please but should you ever come to an arrangement with Messrs. Goupil & Cie and promise to stay on in their business for the rest of your life, then you would be a free man no longer. And - it seems quite possible to me that there may come a moment in life when one regrets having committed oneself in that way.

Letter 182
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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One small corner in which a human heart still beats

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 14-18 March 1882

When I wrote, “remain something better than Tersteeg”, and when I intimated that I do not hold art dealers in general in high esteem - it's true, I could well have kept those things to myself, but now that my silence is broken and I have spoken - well then, that is how I will speak. . . .

I used to think he was the sort of person who put on the air of a man of means, of an homme du monde, I don't know how to put it in one word, I'm sure you'll take my meaning, and who hid a great deal of feeling and a warm heart behind that iron mask. But I found his armour enormously thick, so thick that I cannot make up my mind for sure whether the man is made of solid metal, be it steel or silver, or whether deep, deep down inside the iron there is one small corner in which a human heart still beats. If there is no heart in him, then my affection for him has truly run its course, making way for a “What are you doing to me? You are getting on my nerves.” So that in six months or a year he will either leave me utterly cold, or, or I will perhaps have found a way of getting on better with His Hon. Meanwhile - he is still His Hon. to me. Those are not the terms in which one thinks of somebody for whom one feels warm sympathy. “His Hon.” expresses something trite. Enough, suffit.

Letter 182
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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Now you know my innermost thoughts

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 14-18 March 1882

You must have found it odd to see a reference in my last letter to something I have never mentioned before, and a reference made, moreover, in a rather peremptory tone, something like: Theo, throw the whole lot overboard and become a painter, there is a famous landscape painter inside you.

These words might well have escaped me at the moment when my passions were aroused. But that doesn't alter the fact that it happens like that with other things that I allow to slip out in spite of myself sometimes, once I've got in a passion or have been aroused in some way or other. In other words, what I say at such times is what I've been bottling up for a long time and then blurt out, sometimes quite bluntly. But although in a calmer mood I would put it better, or keep it to myself, the fact is that, especially in a calm mood, I am most decidedly of that particular opinion.

Now it is out, and out it must stay, I have said it at last in spite of myself - inadvertently - in short, bluntly - but now you know my innermost thoughts.

Letter 182
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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“One must put one's hide into art”

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

And another thing touched me - very, very deeply. I had told the model not to come today - I didn't say why, but nevertheless the poor woman came, and I protested. “Yes, but I have not come to pose - I just came to see if you had something for dinner.” She had brought me a dish of beans and potatoes. There are things that make life worth living after all. The following words in Sensier's Millet appealed to me, and touched me very much, sayings of Millet's:

“ Art is a fight - one must put one's hide into art.”

“The thing to do is to work like a lot of Negroes: I would rather say nothing than express myself feebly.”

It was only yesterday that I read this last saying of Millet's, but I felt the same thing before; that's why I sometimes like to scratch what I want to express with a hard carpenter's pencil or a pen instead of with a soft brush. Take care, Tersteeg, take care, you are decidedly wrong.

Letter 180
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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One must be wide-awake to fight against so many difficulties

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Do send me some money soon, if possible. I wish Tersteeg had to live for a week on what I have to spend, and had to do what I have to do. Then he would see that it is not a question of dreaming and brooding, or of taking narcotics, but that one must be wide-awake to fight against so many difficulties. Neither is it easy to find models and get them to sit for me. This discourages most painters. Especially when one must save on food, drink, and clothes to pay them.

Well, Tersteeg is Tersteeg, and I am I.

But let me tell you that I am not opposed or hostile to him, but I must make him understand that he judges me too superficially, and - and I believe that he will change his opinion; I fervently hope so, for it grieves and worries me when there is an unfriendly feeling between us.

Letter 180
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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In due time we shall reap, if we faint not

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Believe me, in art matters the saying, “Honesty is the best policy,” is true; rather more trouble on a serious study than a kind of chic to flatter the public. Sometimes in moments of worry I have longed for some of that chic, but thinking it over I say, No, let me be true to myself, and express severe, rough but true things in a rough manner. I shall not run after the art lovers or dealers; let whoever wants to come to me. In due time we shall reap, if we faint not!

Letter 180
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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That hand will learn to do what my head wishes

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Since Tersteeg's visit I made a drawing of a boy from the orphanage, blacking shoes. It may be this is done by a hand that does not quite obey my will, but still the boy's type is there. And though my hand may be unruly, that hand will learn to do what my head wishes. So I have made a sketch of the studio with the stove, the chimney, easel, footstool, table, etc., of course not quite saleable at present, but very useful for practicing perspective.

Letter 180
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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That would be forcing watercolors in a hothouse

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

He must see now, once and for all, that I take things seriously and will not let myself be forced to produce work that does not show my own character. My own character has begun to show especially in my last drawings and studies, which Tersteeg condemned.

Perhaps, perhaps I could succeed even now in making a watercolor that would sell if one tried very hard. But that would be forcing watercolors in a hothouse. Tersteeg and you must wait for the natural season, and that is not here yet.

He spoke English when he was here because of the model. I said to him, In due time you will have your watercolors, but not now - they are not due yet, take your time. And that is all I have to say. Enough of it.

Letter 180
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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In art one cannot have too much patience

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

If I make serious studies after the model, it is much more practical than his practical talks about what is saleable or unsaleable; I do not need so much instruction on that as he supposes, having been in the business of selling pictures and drawings myself. So I would rather lose his friendship than give in to him in this matter.

Though there are moments when I feel overwhelmed by care, I am still calm, and my calmness is founded on my serious method of work and on earnest reflection. Though I have moments of passion aggravated by my temperament, yet I am calm, as he who has been acquainted with me so long knows quite well. Even now he said to me, “You have too much patience.”

That's not right - in art one cannot have too much patience - it's out of all proportion. Perhaps in my case Mr. Tersteeg has too little patience.

Letter 180
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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He has considered me a kind of incompetent dreamer

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Perhaps you will think what I wrote you about Tersteeg rather harsh. But I cannot take it back. He must be told straight out, or else it doesn't penetrate his armor. For years he has considered me a kind of incompetent dreamer; he still does; and even says of my drawing, “That is a kind of narcotic which you take in order not to feel the pain not being able to make watercolors causes you.”

Well, that's a very fine idea, but it is thoughtless, superficial and not to the point; the main reason for my not being able to make watercolors is that I must draw even more seriously, paying greater attention to proportions and perspective.

Enough of that. I don't deserve his reproaches, and if my drawings don't amuse him, then it doesn't amuse me to show them to him.

He condemns my drawings, which have a great deal of good in them, and I did not expect this of him.

Letter 180
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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A good sermon on resignation

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

There is a Mauve, the large picture of the fishing smack drawn up to the dunes; it is a masterpiece.

I never heard a good sermon on resignation, nor can I imagine a good one, except that picture by Mauve and the work of Millet.

That is the resignation - the real kind, not that of the clergymen. Those nags, those poor, ill-treated old nags, black, white and brown; they are standing there, patient, submissive, willing, resigned and quiet. They have still to draw the heavy boat up the last bit of the way - the job is almost finished. Stop a moment. They are panting, they are covered with sweat, but they do not murmur, they do not protest, they do not complain, not about anything. They got over that long ago, years and years ago. They are resigned to living and working somewhat longer, but if they have to go to the knacker tomorrow, well, so be it, they are ready. I find such a mighty, deep, practical, silent philosophy in this picture - it seems to say, “Knowing how to suffer without complaining, that is the only practical thing, it is the great science, the lesson to learn, the solution of the problem of life.” I think this picture by Mauve would be one of the rare pictures before which Millet would remain standing a long time, and mutter to himself, “It has the heart of that painter.”

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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The loneliness, the understanding

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Israëls', “An Old Man” (if he were not a fisherman, it might be Thomas Carlyle, the author of the French Revolution and Oliver Cromwell, for he decidedly has a head characteristic of Carlyle) is sitting in a corner near the hearth, on which a small piece of peat is faintly glowing in the twilight. For it is a dark little cottage where that old man sits, an old cottage with a small white-curtained window. His dog, which has grown old with him, sits beside his chair - those two old friends look at each other, they look into each other's eyes, the dog and the man. And meanwhile the old man takes his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and lights his pipe in the twilight. That is all - the twilight, the silence, the loneliness of those two old friends, the man and the dog, the understanding between those two, the meditation of the old man - what he is thinking of, I do not know, I cannot tell, but it must be a deep, long thought, something, but I do not know what; it comes rising from a past long ago - perhaps that thought gives the expression to his face, an expression melancholy, contented, submissive, something that reminds one of Longfellow's famous poem with the refrain: But the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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The problem is not to let yourself be bound

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Theo, do not become materialistic like Tersteeg. The problem is, Theo, my brother, not to let yourself be bound, no matter by what, especially not by a golden chain.

Quoiqu'il en soit, to be an artist is sounder; the money difficulty especially is very bad, but I repeat, as a landscape painter you would overcome it sometime also. But if you once start, you are bound to overtake me, for figure drawing is more complicated, advances more slowly.

You understand I am completely serious.

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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You can if you want to, boy

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Oh, Theo, why don't you give up the whole thing and become a painter? You can if you want to, boy; I sometimes suspect you of concealing a famous landscape painter within yourself. Entre nous soit dit, I think you would draw birch trees wonderfully, and the furrows in the field or a field of stubble, and paint snow and the sky . . . .

Won't you think about the idea that there is a famous landscape painter hidden inside you? We both must become painters, court et bon, we will earn our crust anyhow. For drawing the figure one must be more or less of a drudge or a beast of burden, more homme de peine. There's a long, long thought for you - old boy.

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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It was pure, holy, wonderful, beautiful

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

Tomorrow morning I will go out to find a subject for C. M.'s drawings. This evening I was at Pulchri. Tableaux vivants and a kind of farce by Tony Offermans. I did not stay for the farce because I do not like them and I cannot stand the close air of a crowded hall, but I wanted to see the tableaux, especially as there was one after an etching which I had given to Mauve, “The Stable at Bethlehem” by Nicolaes Maes (the other was Rembrandt's “Isaac Blessing Jacob,” with a splendid Rebecca looking on to see if her trick will succeed). The Nicolaes Maes was very good in tone and colour, but the expression was not worth anything. The expression was decidedly wrong. Once I saw this in reality, not of course the birth of Christ, but the birth of a calf. And I remember exactly how the expression was. There was a little girl in the stable that night - in the Borinage - a little brown peasant girl with a white nightcap: she had tears of compassion in her eyes for the poor cow when the poor thing was in throes and was having great trouble. It was pure, holy, wonderful, beautiful, like a Correggio, a Millet, an Israëls.

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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My “soup ticket”

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

C. M.'s order is like a ray of hope to me.

I will do my best on these little drawings and try to put some character into them. At all events you will see them, and I think, boy, that there is more of that kind of business to be done. One can find buyers for small drawings at 5 fr. With some practice I can make one every day. And look here, if they turn out well, they will provide me with a crust of bread and a guilder for the model every day. Summertime with the long days is approaching; I make my “soup ticket” - meaning the bread and model drawing - either in the morning or in the evening, and in the daytime I study seriously from the model. C. M. is one buyer whom I found myself; perhaps you will succeed in finding a second, and perhaps Tersteeg, when he has got over his fit of reproaches, may find a third, and then we'll be in business.

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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This is business

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

I got out my portfolio with smaller studies and sketches. He did not say anything until we came to a little drawing which I once sketched at twelve o'clock at night while strolling around with Breitner, the Paddemoes (that Jewish quarter near the New Church) as seen from the Peat Market. Next morning I had worked on it again with my pen. . . .

“Could you make some more of these views of the city?” asked C. M.

“Yes, I make them for a change sometimes when I am tired from working with the model . . . .”

“Then make twelve for me.”

“Yes,” said I, “but this is business, so we must fix a price at once. I have set the price for a small drawing of this size, either in pencil or pen, at 2.50 guilders - do you think that unreasonable?”

“No,” he said, “but if they turn out well, I will ask you to make twelve more of Amsterdam, and then I shall fix the price myself, so that you will get a little more for them.”

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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The inner struggle of his own private life

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

When by chance I mentioned De Groux's name in speaking about expression, C. M. said abruptly, “But do you not know that in private life De Groux has a bad reputation?”

As you can imagine, C. M. touched a delicate point there, and ventured on slippery ground. I could not stand to hear this said of honest father De Groux. So I replied, “It has always seemed to me that when an artist shows his work to the public, he has the right to keep the inner struggle of his own private life to himself (which is directly and inevitably connected with the peculiar difficulties involved in producing a work of art), unless he wants to confide them to a very intimate friend. I repeat, it is very improper for a critic to dig up a man's private life when his work is above reproach. . . .”

(To any other but C. M. I would have expressed myself more briefly and strongly by saying, An artist's work and his private life are like a woman in childbirth and her baby. You may look at the child, but you may not lift her chemise to see if it is bloodstained. That would be very indelicate on the occasion of a post-partum visit.)

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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Earn bread, or deserve bread?

Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, c. 11 March 1882

C. M. seems to have spoken with Tersteeg before he came to see me, at least he began by saying the same things about “earning my bread.” My reply came on the spur of the moment, quick, and I believe this is exactly what I said, “Earn bread - how do you mean? Earn bread, or deserve bread? Not to deserve one's bread - that is, to be unworthy of it - is certainly a crime, for every honest man is worthy of his bread; but unluckily, not being able to earn it, though deserving it, is a misfortune, and a great misfortune. So if you say to me, “You are unworthy of your bread,” you insult me. But if you make the rather just remark that I do not always earn it - for sometimes I have none - well, that may be true, but what's the use of making the remark? It does not get me any further if that's all you say.”

So then C. M. didn't talk about “earning bread” any more.

Letter 181
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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“Things that don't sell”

The substance of what Mauve has said up to now is, “Vincent, when you draw, you are a painter.”

And therefore I have worked, and worked hard, on drawing, on proportion, on perspective, for weeks and weeks; Tersteeg doesn't fully appreciate this and only talks about “things that don't sell.” . . .

I would rather go without dinner for six months and save in that way than occasionally receive 10 guilders from Tersteeg accompanied by his reproaches.

I should like to know what painters would say to his argument, “Work less from the model because it is cheaper,” when after a long search one has found models who are not too expensive.

Working without a model is the ruin of a painter of the figure.

To Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 5-9 March 1882, Letter 179
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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“You started too late”

When I asked Tersteeg some days ago for 10 guilders, he gave them to me, but accompanied by so many reproaches - I might almost say insults - that I could hardly control myself, though I did. I would have thrown the 10 guilders in his face if the money had been for myself, but I had to pay the model, a poor sick woman whom I cannot keep waiting. So I kept quiet. . . .

He would have the right to reproach me if I did not work, but it is unjust to someone who toils patiently, hard, and continuously on a difficult work, to make reproaches like this:

“Of one thing I am sure, you are no artist.”

“One objection which has great weight with me is that you started too late.”

“You must earn your own living.” . . .

To Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 5-9 March 1882, Letter 179
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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I'm seeing a little bit of light now

It's gratifying, isn't it, Theo, when there's a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm seeing a little bit of light now. It's gratifying to draw a human being, something alive - it may be damned difficult, but it's wonderful anyway. . . .

It may be true that I don't have the knack of getting on with people who are sticklers for etiquette, but on the other hand perhaps I get on better with poor or common folk, and what I lose on the one hand I gain on the other. Sometimes I just leave it at that and think: after all, it's right and proper that I should live like an artist in the surroundings I'm sensitive to and am trying to express. Honni soit qui mal y pense.

To Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 3 March 1882, Letter 178
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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Working without a model is quite wrong, at least for me

For the rest I'm going to run after people less and less, dealers or painters, it doesn't matter who they are. The only people I shall run after will be models, since I'm sure that working without a model is quite wrong, at least for me....

Here we are at the beginning of another month, and although it's not yet a month since you sent me something, I would ask you to be kind enough to send me some more soon, if you can. It doesn't have to be 100 frs. all at once, but just a little to be going on with between now and when you can send the rest....

It grieves me sometimes when I realize I'm going to have to keep a model waiting, because they need it so badly. So far I have been paying them, but next week I shan't be able to. But I'll be able to get a model anyway, either the old woman or the younger one or the child.

To Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 3 March 1882, Letter 178
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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I simply must sell something

But I simply must sell something. If I could afford to, I would keep everything that I am doing now for myself, since if I could just keep it for a year, I feel sure I would get more for it. . . .

The reason I should like to keep them is simply this. When I draw individual figures, it is always with a view to a composition with more figures, for instance a 3rd-class waiting room, or a pawnshop, or an interior. But the larger compositions must mature gradually, and for a drawing with, let's say, 3 seamstresses, one might have to draw 90 seamstresses. Voilà l'affaire.

To Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 3 March 1882, Letter 178
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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I consider the deal a good one

Since I received your letter and the money, I have had a model every day and am now up to my ears in work.

I've a new model now, though I had done a hasty drawing of her once before. Or rather, there is more than one model, for I have already had 3 individuals from the same family, a woman of about 45 who is just like a figure by Ed. Frère, and her daughter, about 30, and a younger child of 10 or 12. They are poor people and, I must say, splendidly willing. I only managed to get them to agree to pose with some difficulty and on condition that I promise them regular work. Well, that was exactly what I wanted so badly myself, so I consider the deal a good one....

You needn't worry too much about the money because I reached an agreement with them at the beginning. I promised that I would give them a guilder a day as soon as I sold something. And that I shall make up then for paying too little now.

To Theo van Gogh, from The Hague, 3 March 1882, Letter 178
Translation courtesy of Robert Harrison.
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