26 July 1882, The Hague. Vincent van Gogh

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By going quietly on with my work I have every hope of eventually getting an entirely new circle of acquaintances to compensate for the loss of the sympathy of , Tersteeg and others; but I will make no step toward it, not the least – it must come from the work itself.

What has happened to me with Tersteeg is not at all unusual; everybody meets with such things in life. One cannot tell exactly where the fault lies. But with Tersteeg it is an old trouble. I am now almost certain that long ago he said things about me which contributed not a little toward putting me in a bad light. But I need not mind that – what could harm me before cannot harm me now.

When you come to the studio, you will see for yourself that it really is absurd when he says, “Oh! Your will never amount to anything.” However, it is hard to contradict such a remark, for as soon as one does, one is called conceited, and they mention the greatest artists and say, “He fancies he’s like them.”

But I repeat, everyone who works with love and intelligence finds a kind of armour against the opinion of other people in the very sincerity of his love for nature and art. Nature is also severe and, so to speak, hard; but she never deceives and always helps us on.

So I do not count my falling into disgrace with Tersteeg, or whomever, a misfortune; though I am sorry about it, that cannot be the real cause of misfortune. If I had no love for nature or my work, then I should indeed be misfortunate. The worse I get along with people, the more I learn to have faith in nature and to concentrate on her.

All those things make me feel brighter and fresher – you will see that I am not afraid of a bright green or a soft blue, and the thousands of different greys, for there is scarcely any colour that is not grey: red- grey, yellow-grey, greengrey, blue-grey. This is the substance of the whole colour scheme.

When I returned to that fish drying barn, a wonderfully bright fresh green of turnips or rapes had sprouted in those baskets full of sand in the foreground which serve to prevent the sand from drifting off the dunes. Two months ago everything was bare except the grass in the little garden, and now this rough, wild, luxuriant growth forms a very pretty effect in contrast to the bareness of the rest.

I hope you will like this , the distant horizon, the view across the roofs of the village with the little church , and the dunes – it was all so fine. I can’t tell you what great pleasure I had making it. So do come soon. I think you will approve of the change of studio when you see that it gives me an infinitely better opportunity to work – more distance, better light, more room.

Last night I received a parcel from home. Among other things there was a sort of spring coat, which comes in very handy. I thought it very kind of them. And there was tobacco in it, and cigars, and cake and some underwear. In short, quite a parcel. Wasn’t that nice of them? I appreciate it perhaps more for the kind thought than for anything else.

I also had a letter from Van Rappard.

I am confoundedly pleased that the fellow is so absorbed in his English wood engravings. It is true I encouraged him in the beginning, but now he no longer needs any encouragement, he is almost as enthusiastic about it as I. When you come, I will show you a few which you will not soon forget after you have seen them. And there are things among them quite different from ’s style, for instance, though he certainly is also one of the main ones. I mean things remarkable for their reality and style, like Albrecht Durer’s, and yet at the same time with much local colour and chiaroscuro. One does not see these things often now, for one has to look for them in magazines of ten and fifteen years ago, for instance, at the time of the war of ’70 – ’71.

[“Bleaching ground ” JH 163 was included in the letter]

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