October 2, 1876
Dearest Victoria,
I find myself writing to you in what little time I salvage to pen my thoughts. That is not to say that I am persistently occupied by work-related matters. In fact, I must admit that my time is primarily wont to be spent gazing upon God’s impressions of Monets and Renoirs among several of my other contemporaries, who, objectively, are far greater than I. But, before I delve into my personal occupations, I must of course inquire after your own state, as that is of much importance to me. Have you been caring after your health? I am afraid you must take the utmost care of yourself lest the malady that plagued you so long hastens in return. I would be unable to live with myself if you were struck by another prolonged ailment, my dear. If you so desire, I urge you to retrieve the miraculous beet soup recipe from my mother; I have found it most comforting in my own sickness.
As for the art, I truly find, my darling Victoria, that God’s impressions are things of alluring beauty. Where before I was averse to poetry, I am now beholden to it wherever I cast my gaze (fear not, I speak only of the beauty of nature and not that of the female form). I believe that France has awakened something rather extraordinary within myself. I had held steadfast to my doubts prior to the voyage that I would come upon nothing but mental destitution and shattered inspiration but, in four quick weeks, I have seen many a time how my doubts have been misplaced. To an aspiring impressionist, New York was a cesspool of industry and, in contrast, it is truly refreshing to be in Paris a century after the greatest revolution of the recent times, surrounded by the art I have so dearly come to cherish. I shall now describe to you my favorite work of Monet’s such that you may understand in what it is that I choose to immerse and devote myself.
The brilliant Claude Monet, with whom I have not quite yet had the pleasure of acquainting myself, painted a most moving piece last year. Granted, the same could be said for nearly every work of his, but this, this Poppy Field as I believe he chose to title it, is something else entirely. Picture yourself, if you will, standing in the center of an expanse of open land, marked occasionally by short, thin trees. Poppies sprout up all around you, in hues of the most ethereal reds and violets and blues. Now imagine, my Victoria, that you are wearing your favorite white gown and standing under a tree, watching as Samuel and Caroline frolic among the flowers. The sky is a magnificent blend of blues, spotted here and there by hearty, pillow-like clouds and the air is warm and sweet in your lungs. The wind plants a kiss on your cheek as it blows a leaf from the tree down and lodges it into your hat. Perhaps there is nothing profound to be found within the painting itself save for the fact that it reminds me of you and of the children, who I have also missed immensely, but that in itself is plenty reason to render it utterly profound.
My own art has been inspired by such momentous works as well by the art of God himself. Though I have not yet experienced much palpable success, I continue to work tirelessly to produce paintings in attempts of capturing the beauty with which I am faced every day. I have not found myself in too much trouble of late, although, admittedly, an artist’s mind is constantly troubled in one manner or another. Anyway, I must return to my work now, my dear. Kiss Samuel and Caroline for me and tell mother that I love her, although I plan on writing to her within the week. I send you all my warmest regards,
Your Loving Husband,
Jonathan
