I am happy, and I love you. Sleep sweetly tonight, my darling, and don’t let your naked little chick get cold!
Love, love,
André.
Castella
Wessels Street
Green Point
Sunday, 2 June 1963
My dearest André,
In about a quarter of an hour you will phone – I am here in my little cubicle, where, last night after your phone call, I also tried to write to you. Why are you sad? Ag, when you are not happy, I am not happy! Just look at Simone, how happy she is – she’s singing in the bath next door – I forbade her to say nigger, so now she sings: Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch the niggerball by his toe …
And now you called, and I was “quiet” – as I told you, I wrote you a hell of a long letter last night after your call: I quote: “Will it help if I give you up?” No, my precious André, and maybe I am also a “part of your development, and I will accept that also, should the time for that come …”
In the kitchen, four children are trying to fix my leaking tap – everything here is so homely, and Mrs Oxley is really kind: brought me a tray with tea yesterday morning, she’s Catholic and next Sunday Simone and I are going to Mass with her, which I have no particular reason or need for. In any case, Simone should also go.
It gets dark quickly now, and at this time, around seven o’clock, it is so quiet, and of course we can’t hear the sea. It’s like a real house on its own and Marjorie [Wallace] is very impressed with it, they all promise to come and help me paint it, and moan about the Terrible Child [Uys Krige?], much to their enjoyment, and I just let myself be lulled and scolded – “as if nothing moved him”.
Precious child, I miss you so much and I wish I could give you more support at this time – but I dare not influence you – I feel so powerless! I am glad you’ve decided to tell Estelle tomorrow, it’s better than living with this tension and, in the long run, also more fair. Just remember that I am with you and will stay with you, that you will and must trust me – and trust in the ultimate moral right that you owe yourself (and others). I will go MAD if Lena [Oelofse] doesn’t come this evening. She should have been here at five o’clock and was supposed to stay over: and I can’t go and phone her until Simone is asleep – Mrs Oxley’s telephone is for you alone (!).
But now we must be happy – and that is an order. Your poem in tonight’s call was beautiful, really polished. My beautiful, tender man. Tomorrow our books are going on display and on Wednesday they’re putting our photos in the APB’s window together – I suppose one just mustn’t be afraid! And that brings us again to faith and grace – in your last (changeably moody) letter, you ask: what if one doesn’t believe in grace? You, my dearest god-graced! Graced in all your generosity and compassion, graced in the depth and intensity of your experiences, graced in your ability to love, graced as an artist! And that’s why I told you at the fire (the big fire of Saturday evening, sleepy man): You are a precious human being. And not just to me.
I told you that Marjorie was here when your beautiful flowers (which light up the whole house) arrived, and when Mrs Oxley came to tell me about the telephone call at six o’clock – Jan told me: “You’ve fucked up André’s life.” Just like that. Do you understand? What should I answer? Maybe. How must I know? (And maybe it is just as possible that I can make his life). Because everything is uncertain and how can we know what only the wind knows, child? Melancholy, child, melancholy, I tell you. Just come and hide away here in my little flat, and let the world carry on talking, and if the flat becomes too oppressive, we’ll walk up the mountain hand in hand, and if that could happen, can anything still be so dreadful?
Simone and Heloïse and all the secrets are asleep – I am alone here and it is quiet. Even the old leaking tap that kept me company is quiet, now that the children have fixed it. But do you know what? Darling, on the 28th we’re going to have a hell of a party for you with wine and cigarettes and friends, and us in the morning with a soundless dawn! I have always thought that the best line W.E.G. Louw ever managed is, “die wrede dag breek buite deur die vensters aan” and this takes me back immediately to the Friday morning, when you tried to wake me at around 5:30, and I didn’t want to wake up, but just sleep in the abundant twilight of you – of which I was indeed, and so thoroughly, aware! And all our tender honeymoon days in Franschhoek. To the citizenry: This you cannot give me, but This you can so easily take away …
Thank you for your beautiful red autumn leaf, and will you wear your autumn jersey when you come? What colour is it, exactly? Don’t you know I’m visually attuned? I meant to ask you over the telephone. And I look forward to your tape recording – do you want to make me go completely crazy when I hear you say you’re going to do this now?
Darling, my dearest, my André, there are so many ways that we can make contact, through and over and above and near the Sahara! You must believe in me. Do you know that no one ever has? You must love me. Do you know that no one has ever loved me? That’s why I feel so unworthy, and that’s why I am sometimes so quiet.
And before I write even one more revealing word, I’m going to stop, and phone Lena, and phone Chris to bring my radio, and make contact with the lovely harbour here outside my door: “herinnering, o pragtige skip …”
Your Ingrid.
PS: Do you still remember little chick?
Your Ingrid
Or Ingrid Jon. Jo. Citadel Press.
And I do love you, my André, be a good child now and happy – and be a big strong man and stern: “Jy is rein, jy is nog reiner as ekself.”
Monday, 3 June 1963
HAD TO LEAVE URGENTLY 1:30 SORRY AND UPSET DARLING GOOD LUCK TONIGHT LOVE = INGRID
Monday, 3 June 1963
My overwhelming Darling,
Do you realise that I’ve just – about 1½ hours ago, listened to your tape, shall I now begin at the beginning? After your telephone call at around 2:30, was it? I carried on working, far calmer, and then, at five o’clock, went to the display where I immediately looked around for your book – congratulations, dearest! – and riffled through it, turned it over, took the dust cover off and bent it and folded it and held it until I could feel the curious-amused eyes of the whole gathering on me, I welcomed them and poured myself a hell of a tot of sherry and drank to it – felt Jack [Cope] standing beside me (oh he’d organised everything for my own appearance and spoken to all the newspapers), I just looked up into those broad plains of his eyes and without a word (perhaps dramatic!) left just before the opening.
The first and the best bus would take me to Claude and Erik – Erik, my liefsteling, to play your tape. I fetched Simone, then the tape, then went off to them, but they received me a little unsympathetically – after which I – with Simonetta in hand – took a bus to Clifton – other friends with a machine – they were out, but their twelve-year-old son put the tape on and gave me these headphones – and then I listened to you. Beloved precious man – must I admit that I – after the day’s tension and suddenly so much love – simply and unavoidably began to cry, so that I played the second part five times, moved by the [?] and everything and your wonderful threat: and now I’m going to sleep with you … And best of all you really don’t belong to me, but to everyone (I’ll never be allowed to keep you for myself, child!). And now, at home, Simone asleep – and tomorrow I must immediately investigate a machine like this – I’ve arranged to record a tape for you on Saturday morning – and if I have a thing like this here then of course it will never again be quiet and alone!
I’m thinking (of course) about you so much this evening and wondering how things are going there, with all the heavy solemnity. I know so well how it is and I wish I could hold your hand: “Hande wat mekaar vasvat het geen gewig nie / Tussen oë wat na mekaar kyk loop die lig oor.” “Lord I am not worthy, / Lord I am not worthy, / but speak the Word only.” That’s how you sometimes make me feel, darling, great generous human – I am a humble little instrument in the vast com
plex of your poetic truth, but at least I am there! And I will stay here, for all your beautiful feeling – oh, child! Let me rather “answer” your letters from today.
Of course I know Louise Conradie – quite well, actually – and her taciturn husband – what did your friend say, and did she comfort you? I’m glad you could speak to her – Chris confused me last night – he is very kind and honest, but maybe, still, a vote of no confidence in me, or maybe just in man. Oh my André, will it ever come right? Or are we just dreaming now again of Heloïse and Deirdre? I don’t want fairy tales any more, I want to recognise the “light and life” in one go!
The Hansel and Gretel lines are from Elisabeth Eybers – Neerslag, darling. Do you not know it? I’m writing so ugly and untidily because I’m in a great hurry because I’m completely overflowing emotionally and now I can’t say quickly enough and correctly enough everything I want to say and then what about all the impressions and dawnings and detours and hesitations of human intuition too?
Do you really think secrets aren’t “washed out” that easily? I wonder! And now you’re the one who’s wrong again – you collect so many secrets every day that I’ll never be able to keep up! You know that!
No, I don’t have Tristia – but now I’m going to tick you off – you mustn’t spend so much of your precious time-money on me – except for the tapes! And a tape-thing like this you just have to buy for me – I’ll send you the bill! Now, with so much unsaid, I’m going to sleep – if I can sleep, I ecstatic, with you.
Ingrid.
So, what all happened last night? Just have faith, do you hear, my dearest André. I must hurry to post this letter.
Grahamstown
Wednesday morning, 5 June 1963
Ingrid-my-own-girl,
I’ve been wanting to write since yesterday morning, but every time something gets in the way; and when I do sit down to write, words fail me. You surely know the gripping lines from Tristia:
ons dor papiere kom en vra woorde:
daar sal geen woorde gegee word, nooit,
behalwe die ongevraagdes …
But you will surely also want to know how things went on Monday evening (and the whole of yesterday, and this morning); and what my “motives” were for this morning’s long telegram.
The last first: amid all the bitter, heavy things here, I simply knew that I had to find a way to see you next week, just so that everything can be settled (“The soul weighs up in the dark against a feather …”!) There’s no sense in postponing, in prevaricating any longer, in waiting. It’s not right for any of us.
Luckily, classes end on Saturday for the exams and Rob immediately – so nice of him – agreed that I could go away and stay for as long as I need to, provided I return on Monday the 17th. I’m departing from here on Saturday afternoon and will hopefully arrive at your place on Sunday at about lunchtime. It would be lovely if you could get leave, as we’ll of course have the car again to make a getaway, if necessary.
Given that I’ll be with you again so soon, it’s actually unnecessary for me to say too much about what’s going on here, behind the scenes. Just briefly, so you know how everything started and then developed, and so you don’t feel unnecessarily agitated:
When I told Estelle on Monday night, she said: “I know. I suspected it from the very first time you got back.” She was very calm – although she had tears in her eyes. At one stage she simply said: “Don’t think that because I’m talking matter-of-factly this is easy for me.” Eventually she lay her hand on my knee and said: “Despite all of this, I love you no less.”
Yesterday we concentrated on practical implications – everything that would have to be considered if it came to divorce. Especially regarding Anton. I know how badly a boy, a child, needs his father. (Is this not the single biggest absence in your own life?)
Oh God, darling, it’s so awful to hurt those who are defenceless. I can hardly tell you how much your quiet, understanding love – and your lack of haste – has helped me at this time.
And by loving me you have also made yourself so vulnerable. Is it not in fact an ironic commentary on human limitations that we may not love two people equally? In a cynical moment, Estelle said: “Be a good businessman. Make sure you profit from this transaction.” But with human unpredictability, things don’t work that way.
Despite all this, there was at least some consolation yesterday: Bartho sent me a provisional copy of Sempre. (I’ll bring it along for you to see.) It looks good, I think – do you? That’s apart from the fact that the dust cover’s inside flaps would have looked better in white; and, typographically, the epigraph’s been placed very poorly. Also, some mysterious printing errors crept in. But overall it’s quite neat. I can’t wait to see Rook en Oker! Did it at least arrive in time for the exhibition? I spent the whole of Monday afternoon worrying about it.
I’ve somehow still got to translate 60 pages from the archaeology book this week, and finish off the Huisgenoot article on Rome. But if this doesn’t work I’ll bring some of the work with me so I can do it at your place; that’s if you don’t get time off.
The prints of our photographs arrived. I include one that I think is lovely (it was cut from a full-length nude study – those are being printed by Hilda Brinkman, who took photos of me a while ago); the others don’t look too great but I’ll bring them with me. I’m holding thumbs that the colour prints will arrive this week. I’m expecting nice ones, too.
I don’t want to sit and write any longer. I long for you – “Oh my honeyed and holy / skin and hair and down”! Just four days, then we can resume the glorious dialogue, be happy. Whatever else happens in the big wide world: we have this.
And yet – even though I don’t want to sit and write one-dimensionally – I also don’t want to say goodbye and stop talking to you! But my thoughts and my memories, longing and bright love, will continue talking long after this page and this letter. In the meantime, just read the Song of Songs.
With all my love,
Your André.
Wednesday, 5 June 1963
My dearest little house,
I almost said “outhouse”, but that would be open to misinterpretation. I feel so crazy and happy today. It’s for that reason you’re getting another little note, despite the fact that I posted you a separate letter earlier – which you must please read first in case you were going to start with this one.
Actually, I have only a few minutes before taking my car to the garage for a service prior to this weekend’s long, lovely trip; I also have to prepare for an honours class in about an hour’s time. But first, darling, let me just say thank you for the most beautiful letter I have ever received. Everything in this grey day suddenly began to radiate with light, certainty and love.
In addition, the colour pictures have just arrived – and they’re gorgeous; you’re gorgeous. I’ll bring my projector so you can view them in the proper manner.
And so Jan said: “You’ve gone and fucked up André’s life”? You should’ve replied: “But fucking is so nice!”
Your little house – because it’s really not a “flat” – sounds like such a happy place. And next week we’re going to break it in properly, make it feel nice and friendly.
Have you had a chance to listen to my tape yet? I hope you can do so without interruption. (Maybe it was disappointing anyway – a real Transvaal microphone voice?)
I received your letter during teatime, which is why I’m still walking around doing nothing (I haven’t had a class since then). I sat and read it in my office, with its high bright window and small panes, revealing an occasional autumn leaf whirling around. Everything is so immeasurably and deceptively beautiful.
And in case I haven’t yet said it: did you know – I love you? “Ik heb u lief, als dromen in den nacht … Als alles, wat héél ver is en héél schoon.” When I think of you (all the time), it is with a great sense of certainty, because I can believe so completely in you, because you are so honest and open in y
our love, giving as well as taking, because together we can become so much more than just you and me alone (and I’m not talking about olive branches here!). Nothing quite as precious as you has ever occurred in my life.
Little child, generous person, lovable you: only a few more days.
With love (which “makes radiant all unbeautiful things” – a kind of Mass all on its own),
Your André.
Friday, 7 June 1963
HOLDING BACK TAPE RECORDING AND LETTER STOP WAITING FOR YOU SUNDAY STOP HAVE LEAVE STOP ANSWER LOVE = INGRID
Grahamstown,
Monday night, 17 June 1963
Darling little thing,
I’m sitting here in the literal and figurative cold, trying through writing to heal myself of my loneliness and longing. It’s best to think about now, about what’s going on here on the page and inside of me – and I should also think about our week – because if I try looking ahead, into the darkness, courage forsakes me, and all else besides.
Ever since I watched your small, still, red-and-brown figure disappear behind me so sadly (thinking at first the windscreen was unclear, until I realised my eyes were shedding tears!), much has occurred. The first stretch of road was hell – all the beach traffic on its way home after the blissful day’s sea and sun; it was so bad I had to crawl along at 25 m.p.h. After that it went better, except I discovered one of the headlights was more or less dead after our first (!) bump on Saturday night’s memorable venture. I wanted to stay over at Great Brak River, on the other side of Mossel Bay, but the hotel was dark and shut up (perhaps for the winter). So I pushed through to Plettenberg Bay, arriving there at 11 pm. I didn’t sleep all that well – too much longing, too much wishing you could break in the lovely bed with me, drank too much, too tired, the works. Left again at seven this morning (while you were still sleeping next to your little girl?), arriving back here at eleven-thirty.
Flame in the Snow Page 9
