“Visual sketch”? God! Eyes are becoming ever more important for artists. The most modern French novelists are above all concerned with eyes. For me, one of the nicest compliments on Lobola was when someone said it was overwhelmingly visual. And it’s one of the purest qualities of your work.
Padmini – that’s your name. It’s a Lotus girl. Or, if you will: it’s one of your names because naturally you should have many. Do you know the lovely start to Lolita? –
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three stops down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
And, whether you like it or not, your “central” name, for me, is “Ingrid”. Because, in the irrational manner of such things, I have always felt it to be a most beautiful name; it has a certain strangeness to it, a sense of distance that invites one always to want to find out more.
I’ll rather send this letter to Uys – because if it arrives there on Saturday, you’ll only get it on Monday. And then, soon after, I’ll also be arriving. As I’ve already said, I ask for nothing, demand nothing, set no conditions. I simply want to be with you. Because, little Padmini, I love you.
André.
Grahamstown
Thursday morning, 16 May 1963
Deeply loved Ingrid-Babsie-Jo!
It’s the crack of dawn and I’m sitting here writing to you. I.e. not yet nine o’clock. In fact, I sat myself down last night already to do so, but the thought of words on paper gave me cold feet after our quarter-hour on the phone. Thank you, my little child. (And then I still forgot to ask you who the “dunce” in your telegram refers to!)
I’m sorry you’re somewhat overwhelmed by people until you move in, tomorrow, with the ancients. I hope you don’t end up sleeping uncomfortably. You work so hard that you should at least get some rest at night.
I think I’ll just send the money in cash so you won’t have to deal with the problems of depositing and cashing a cheque etc. Don’t pay the old padrona the whole week’s fee (unless of course she insists on it) – just give her a deposit. Because if we do decide on a different course of action, as both of us more or less agreed last night – from Wednesday through to the weekend – it won’t be necessary to commit ourselves in advance. Before you get me wrong (!): I have nothing against the boarding house but if you have the day off on Thursday, it might be a lovely little escape for us if I could find us a place somewhere in St’bosch – or near the sea, outside Cape Town itself. Then I could bring you back in time for work on Friday and drop Simone (the French would say: Sisi) at her nursery school. If the weather’s good we must drive around, just for the hell of it, and get you some fresh air for a change. Ag man, I’m so looking forward to seeing you.
For this reason I’m sorry that you’ve now been burdened with worries about me – re gossip etc. Don’t let it upset you. God, my dear thing, there’s nothing that restricts one as much as other people’s opinions. I promise to be discreet. But I never want you to think we have no choice but to spend our time together like furtive crooks. Our lasting moment is too pure and valuable for that.
A weak little winter sun has made an appearance today but it’s still very cold. You must come with me, one day, and get a taste of Paris’s crystal-clear, brittle winter air. I’m glad you’re finding Pot-Pourri pleasant company – even if it means lying awake at night to read. One of my friends, who was reading it in hospital a while ago, had to stop because one of his stitches apparently popped out. (Now maybe your judgement of Die Koffer [The Suitcase], the one-hander based on ’n Reël Is ’n Reël [A Rule Is a Rule], will be less damning.)
Please regard this as just another of my “notes” – I have to dash off to the bank now if I want to get to Rob’s in time for feedback on my book; then, two classes – and only after that, breakfast. And finish typing the remaining half of a St’bosch lecture. Also, work on translating that book; it now seems I won’t be able to finish it off this week. And finish reading [Alain] Robbe-Grillet’s Voyeur (magnificent piece of work). Never a dull moment. But as you can see: not the kind of life in which much “happens” – except in one’s inner reactions, and these are subjective; to remain healthy, they need external nourishment. For this reason you mean what you do to me; and that’s why my little Cape escape is like an intake of air, a chunk of life that’s more than mere “existence”.
Till Sunday, darling,
André.
Grahamstown,
Monday, 27 May 1963
My darling little thing,
Dare I think about the fact that – and in what way – I was still with you yesterday afternoon this time (three-thirty)? Although I have “proof” enough (!), it makes no difference to the ache of longing. The drive yesterday afternoon wasn’t too bad, I was full of your presence and I couldn’t really believe I was “on my way”. This fact only hit me – very suddenly – when I arrived in Albertina last night at eight and discovered I was the only guest in the hotel. It wasn’t a Franschhoek kind of quiet – where there were at least some crickets outside, and your voice, or your deliciously sweet breathing in the crook of my arm; this was the absence of sound or life, pure and simple. There was only one solution – switch off the lights at nine and go to sleep. (Didn’t even take a bath, as I was reluctant to rid myself of your secrets.) And you? Did you sit and translate? Answer Simone’s questions? Skip supper and then get hungry for chocolate or bananas? Or was Chris there? I hope so.
This morning I hit the road at six. Despite the long sleep, I became so drowsy that for a while I had to stop every ten or twenty miles and do a quick jog or swing my arms around, just to shake off the tiredness and the sleepiness. But even so I was home by one. And then, with great dedication, I opened the Beckett and transplanted your beautiful little curl, along with the other strands of hair, into your big American book.
(My dearest, dearest thing, I can never say thank you enough for this book, not only because it’s so lovely in its own right but even more so because I know just how much it meant to you. It is the most precious gift I have ever received.)
I don’t yet want to begin “processing” our week together. At the moment I just want to feel completely happy, irrational, with everything still unsorted in my subconscious – words, sensory impressions, the look in your eyes, the movements of your delightful little body, your voice, promises, little games, tears, and all manner of “secrets”. This much I have never had. (Poor old Jan Cilliers [Jan F.E. Celliers] … he will never know what hit him.)
My god, girl, the two poems I brought back with me yesterday are among the very best in Rook en Oker. I’ve only just booked a call to Bartho to find out exactly when our books are appearing. I should have come to visit in early June after all – then we could have thrown a big party in your neat little flat.
And talking of that: as I arrived home I encountered a letter from the Akademie with news that, at first glance, took me by surprise. They’ve decided not to make the prize-giving coincide with the AGM, and so I no longer “have to” come to St’bosch on 29 June. But I quickly decided I would come down in any case – because by then I’ll have to finalise things with Koos [Human] about the MS. Perhaps the visit will be a week or so later than we first thought, but in that case there’s a good chance I might be able to stay a few days longer. Okay, loveliest being?
(Damn! The exchange just phoned to say the call will only come through at five-thirty, and by then Bartho’s no longer in his office. I’ll try again tomorrow.)
And now, will you have to deal with buses and things again from today on? Did you eventually find a nanny for Simone? Please take good care of our girl. She’s a cute little thing.
Lovely little tortoise, my head’s bursting. I must go take some pills and sit do
wn so I can think about you. And about a time when we can be together; prise ourselves loose from constant bondage to time and haste; be peaceful – both of us writing, reading, conversing, or just being together in the many wonderful ways that will be open to us.
I’m sending you the only photo I have available. Looks a little sad, but beggars can’t be choosers. Hopefully I’ll be able to get the other ones within a week or two. Meanwhile, I await the little swallow’s nest and anything else you can dig up. The past week’s shots must first go off to Port Elizabeth for developing – but I’ll be sending some of them before too long. The one or two “personal” pictures among them I’ll develop myself, along with Christie [Roode], when I go to Potch in two or three weeks’ time. I should get the colour photos back in about two weeks.
Meanwhile … you probably know the enchanting letter that Mellors writes at the end of Lady Chatterley’s Lover:
You can’t insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. So I believe in the little flame between us. For me now, it’s the only thing in the world … It’s my Pentecost, the forked flame between me and you … And if I can’t put my arms round you, yet I’ve got something of you. We fucked a flame into being. But it’s a delicate thing, and takes patience and the long pause.
So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking. I love being chaste now. And when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. But not now, not yet! Now is the time to be chaste, it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul.
Thank you, thank you, darling. For your fire and your quiet, your restlessness and your rest, for your maturity and for the child that lives inside you.
I’m sending a little kiss for my naked little purse.
And I love you.
André.
Monday, 27 May 1963
My André,
I had a genuine longing this afternoon to walk in the Gardens, as all good (female) Afrikaans writers have done before. Went and lay flat on my back on one of the lawns in the winter sun and I can’t describe to you the feeling of happiness, consciousness and revelation that possessed me – as if for 28 (?) years I was kept small and bright and intact against all the attacks and all the compromises I had to ward off – that there was a meaning in it (maybe temporary? But still!) and that I am so glad now – the feeling that a virginal bride should have! And I thought about your generosity and I really would not have been surprised if you were next to me and asked me for a cigarette. Unfortunately neither a person nor life itself is that simple … Thank you for your telegram, my love … Anne nodded approvingly when she read over my shoulder … “Saved by grace …” So where did you sleep and was it horrible? What time did you arrive in the Athens of the North?
The doctor visited yesterday afternoon – Simone is in tip-top health and I could take her to school (my/our landlady, by the way, is very kind and was accommodating when I told her Simone was sick, etc.). Funny, hey? She almost died laughing. Then she said she would look after Simone. It ended up not being necessary – we left in the drab dawn – laughing and stumbling – and the old “dame” at the school said this afternoon I only have to pay for one week – so I paid for her for 1½.
Simone told the people here in the small sitting room: Fee fo … fum … I smell the blood of an Englishman … They asked her whether she knows what an Englishman is and she said: “Yes, Jack [Cope] …” This child!
So, Chris came yesterday afternoon – we sat in the sitting room and had tea with all the old people: then went and bought a chocolate cake on this dreary day; sliced some of it and ate but I couldn’t tell him … didn’t want to … maybe later. He sends his regards. We chatted about you and later I read your lecture again and also some of Die Ambassadeur. Had a bath, slept … for ten solid hours.
I pick up not a book and see not a thing, but everything speaks to me even for e.g. “die huis waar Hans en Grietjie by die heks / voorloping argloos en luilekker woon”. But I miss you, blindly too.
Love darling,
I.
Good night. Just got back from Jan and company – do the thing you dream – he, especially, hints and teases – also as if I am a man-eater – but friendly, actually – hot from running, had to go back in my blue pyjamas (with a jersey over them) to fetch my coat, which I’d left behind.
… die bloed gestort op ons mooiste oomblikke,
Die bloed van die vrygewigheid,
Dra jou met verrukking.
…
ek het jou lief om te sing
Van die geheim waar die liefde my skep en homself bevry.
Jy is rein, jy is nog reiner as ekself.
I get out of the unholy bath and now all the “secrets” are definitely gone!
I.
Grahamstown
Wednesday, 29 May 1963
Dearest darling,
The sun is soundlessly lovely and clear today; autumn leaves aflame everywhere. I’m sending you one of them. But in the midst of all this quiet I feel lost, aware of the very different space and stillness in which you and I spent time together. Following our week I’ve begun to look at everything in my “normal” life with X-ray vision – and often feel compelled to admit, à la Hamlet: “How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me the uses of this world.” Or, otherwise, in [Walt] Whitman’s words (and these of course come from your book, now my only source of daily alleviation):
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
(That’s where I placed your fragrant curls of hair!)
I should actually return to Die Ambassadeur and start revising, but I’m so tired of working on it, and on top of it all I’m having to work like crazy to catch up with last week’s lectures, mark a whole pile of essays, and complete articles on Rome and Paris for Die Huisgenoot – along with the never-ending translation work.
I phoned Bartho yesterday. It would seem our books have been delayed yet again (naturally). But they’re apparently working overtime to get copies ready for the typographic exhibition in the Cape that begins this coming Monday (3 June). Will you go have a look? The rest of the print run should be ready a week or ten days later.
I haven’t written any more poems, it’s still “too deep for tears”. But there’s a lot on the brew that should start emerging one of these days. In the meantime I selected about six or so of the old ones, reworked them here and there, and sent them all off to Standpunte under the joint heading “For Ingrid”.
I can’t articulate any longer. The best I can do is to go lie on my back on the grass, look at the sun, and rest assured in the knowledge of you. Know how involved we have become with one another, and: know that I wanted to become involved, and still do, as you said with such faultless honesty. I live in a kind of daily agony – which is also lucidity, also ecstasy: a time in which I need your love and trust more than anything else. Nothing is simple, but everything’s clear. (You: my singular flame that separates light from dark so inexorably; poet. Me, working in prose, having to seek out my authentic formulations more slowly, more carefully.)
In the past I used to think, as I said that night at the foot of the big fire, that the unquestioning state I initially set up as an ideal was actually a kind of lasting, eventual condition. Now I know that – because we are in the first instance people – we also have to live the words, beyond mere acceptance. Perhaps people need “grace” for that. But what if you don’t believe in “grace”? Then, inevitably, the only consolation I dare all
ow myself is loving and being loved.
My precious, precious thing: through all the waiting of these days, and the necessary learning of patience, for both of us – though neither of us is at all very patient! – we must simply continue believing, continue trusting, keep on loving. I hope I’m not asking too much in any of these areas.
Meanwhile, my exquisite darling, I’m already comforting myself with the thought of returning to you in four weeks’ time. We’ll isolate ourselves splendidly from the world, read a lot, go for walks, in good weather and on rainy days, and sleep, sleep, sleep.
A well-meaning colleague phoned me, supposedly to wish me happy birthday, and then boringly began speculating about “everything that could happen in a year … you might even become a father again.” And I smiled quietly into the mouthpiece, thinking, with as much “hearty enjoyment” as Jan F.E. Celliers’s piggie: Dear bourgeois people, if you only knew …!
Have you talked to Chris yet? And? Was Uys nasty to you? I wish I could always be there to protect you from the bile, so you could hide away safely in my arms and your gorgeous eyes would stay happy.
I’m sending this letter to your flat – or to Jan (I’ll decide when I write the address) – because otherwise you’ll only get it on Monday.
Please write back soon, little tortoise. It’s miserable existing without any letters from you!
Before I forget: I include a small “commentary” on the few sections of the book based on Dante. So you can evaluate the perspective better. Don’t hesitate to be candid. Koos and company have already disabused me about the book! Whatever you say, will be meaningful to me.
I must return to my marking. I’ll have to take care that I don’t write “with love” under each essay instead of the more usual, cutting commentary.
Flame in the Snow Page 7
