1
My dear Theo,
It’s with some reluctance that I write to you, not having done it for so long, and that for many a
reason.
It is possible that I wouldn’t have written to you even now, were it not that I feel obliged, compe
—lled, to do so.
I heard in Etten that you had sent me 50 francs. Well, I’ve accepted them. With reluctance, of cour
—se, with a feeling of some despondency, of course, but I am in some sort of impasse or mess. What
else can I do? And so I am writing to thank you.
2
As you may know, I am back in the Borinage. Father said he would prefer me to stay somewhere near Et
—ten, but I refused and I believe I was right to do so. To the family, I have, willy-nilly, become
a more or less objectionable and shady sort of character. How then could I then be of any use to any
—one? And so I am inclined to think the best and most sensible solution all round would be for me to
go away and to keep my distance, to cease to be, as it were.
I should be very happy if you could see in me something more than a kind of idler. For there is a gr
—eat difference between one idler and another idler. There is someone who is an idler out of lazine
—ss and lack of character, owing to the baseness of his nature. If you like, you may take me for one
of those.
3
Then there is the other kind of idler, the idler despite himself, who is inwardly consumed by a
great longing for action who does nothing because his hands are tied, because he is, so to speak,
imprisoned somewhere, because he lacks what he needs to be productive, because disastrous circums
—tances have brought him forcibly to this end.
Such a one does not always know what he can do, but he nevertheless instinctively feels, I am good
for something! My existence is not without reason! I know that I could be a quite a different person
!
How can I be of use, how can I be of service? There is something inside me, but what can it be?
4
He is quite another idler. If you like you may take me for one of those.
And people are often unable to do anything, imprisoned as they are in I don't know what kind of terr
—ible, terrible, oh such terrible cage.
I do know that there is a release, the belated release. A justly or unjustly ruined reputation, pove
—rty, disastrous circumstances, misfortune, they all turn you into a prisoner. You cannot always te
—ll what keeps you confined, what immures you, what seems to bury you, and yet you can feel those
elusive bars, railings, walls.
5
Is all this illusion, imagination? I don't think so. And then one asks: My God! Will it be for long
, will it be forever, will it be for eternity?
Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being bro
—thers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without the
—se one stays dead. But whenever affection is revived, there life revives.
Moreover, the prison is sometimes called prejudice, misunderstanding, fatal ignorance of one thing
or another, suspicion, false modesty.
And if I could ever do something for you, be useful to you in some way, know that I am at your servi
—ce. Since I’ve accepted what you gave me, you could equally ask me for something if I could be of
service to you in some way or another; it would make me happy and I would consider it a sign of trus
—t.
For today, I shake your hand, thanking you again for the kindness you’ve shown me.
Yours truly,
Vincent