{Your letter was inside Tristia with its lovely inscription. I’m not going to say thank you again. I was happy. Babs.}
Potchefstroom
Sunday afternoon, 30 June 1963
Dearest child,
In the background I can hear scintillating Beethoven – but the rest of the family’s gathered there and I have therefore withdrawn to the bedroom; I had to dig out a space for myself among the nappies and books and baby bottles and all the other essential mess that accumulates around one. Also had to switch the light on, even though it’s just four o’clock – it’s cold and miserable outside. The kind of day I’d like to spend lying with you on “our” bumpy little bed with the buttons that keep digging into my back; with a volume of poetry in hand and a bottle of red wine next to the bed; also: a pack of cigarettes (ash on the chair and floor); tangled clothes on the bed opposite; a bit of sun peeping through the gaudy curtain – and every now and again my big cold foot on your tummy.
One simply has to escape sometimes – more so in these sterile circumstances, aggravated by a flu-like cold. And Anton’s just ill. Last night I went and slept in a different room with him, the poor little thing. “Sleep” turned out to be more of a wish than a reality. (To sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream ...!)
Thank you, darling, for your unexpected phone call yesterday. It’s a mercy I wasn’t home at twelve-thirty, otherwise the call would have been within earshot of everyone and you wouldn’t have understood why I was being so businesslike! But as it turned out, it was a ray of sunlight. Most precious you, I would so love to be with you to help you fight off the tristesse. What I don’t understand is why Jack had to write – or is he temporarily away from the Cape?
There is so little I can do, from a distance, to help and comfort you effectively. But maybe it’ll lift your spirits to hear I’ve decided definitely to come to the Cape – in about two weeks’ time. Probably for no more than five days; and it looks like the rest of the family will be coming, too – but they’ll be staying with friends. Let’s rather not upset ourselves at this stage about problems. What matters is that I’m coming; that I’m going to be with you in your homely little castle – and that it’s all just around the corner. I think we’ll be leaving for Johannesburg this coming Saturday to spend the weekend there; then, by about Tuesday (the 9th) we’ll be back in Grahamstown. And hopefully Friday (the 12th) I’ll be knocking on your door, and coming in, and in.
That bladdy old Mouse/Rat [Maish Levin] went and dragged out a whole bottom-drawer of lies for all the world to see – the nonsense that APB declined Lobola, and that I supposedly said: “They want to make an example of me.” I’ve now finally decided: from now on I say nothing but “No comment” to this bugger. And I sent a strong letter of protest to the [Sunday] Times itself. I’m really sick and tired of this kind of lying. And he’s incapable of using your name without tacking on the tail of your father. The only small bit of satisfaction in the whole business was that we got to be quite close to each other in print! (Next time, let’s hope, both our photos will be there, below a big black headline about who’s going to be whose future son-in-law!)
I spend a lot of time looking at the Hout Bay pictures. I’ll be sending them soon – if you promise to send me the others! A few beautiful ones. Otherwise, always, Rook en Oker –
Thus, from page to page,
I find you many times in many terms.
Hopefully I’ll be in Johannesburg on Tuesday and Wednesday as well – mainly to visit Bartho and company, and to discuss Die Ambassadeur with Van Wyk Louw (did I tell you? – he said he wanted to “work through” the whole MS with me). Maybe I’ll pick up some inspiration there; the last few days have been full of that old doubt and near-despair, all over again: will I ever get anything written that can stand wonderfully free out in the sun and be good without any reservations? Am I able to write something that’s worth the effort? Everything I commit to paper looks so worthless, so ephemeral. And I’m so tired, my girl, so sick and tired of the idea of “scandal success” that’s begun to cleave to everything I do. That damn Chris [Barnard] went and soiled even Sempre with the smell of a pit-latrine.
Everything keeps coming back to the same yearning: to get away, somewhere (but away from what?) – everything’s so vague! – just a place where I can be with you in complete honesty and purity and vulnerability. But each time some vile “drel” gets dragged along, as one of the Tristia poems puts it. Everywhere, disillusionment, limitation, the Sartrean hell (“other people”) that stands in one’s way and taints one.
Child, darling, now you can see everything I seek from you! Luckily I have the certainty (with “proof”!) that such light and grace does in fact reside in you.
Don’t concern yourself too much with my reams of self-accusation. One sometimes needs this kind of “dark time” and much of the time – as now – the cause is merely physical: a thick head and a sore throat!
I follow you (during these idle days) continuously on your neat little daily round: go to work, eat, work, fetch Simone, go home. I try looking over your shoulder as you proofread, and if no one’s looking, I kiss you softly on one of your ear lobes, or lightly touch one of your lovely little breasts. At night I help you feed Simone and put her to bed; I eat asparagus (and boiled eggs) with you; finally I put you to bed. And when you sleep … oh, the moment you fall asleep, then …! You wouldn’t know, my sweet-faced cherub.
Wait for me; lovely, smooth little animal, with eyes like a long journey from silence and wild regions:
My girl I appoint you with an appointment …
And I charge you that you be patient and
perfect till I come
Till then I salute you with a significant look
that you do not forget me.
With love, and love, and love,
André.
Monday morning.
My angel-devil girl,
This is just to say thank you for the letter I’ve just received, before going off to post yours. I’m so happy to hear about Jan and company’s “decent” attitude; especially now that Chris is away, you’ll need them. That bladdywell Bill and Ena [W.A. de Klerk and his wife Ena] (“we” are allowed a little gossip). I must write to the man now in any case about the Judas-gift he gave me that memorable evening (his pretentious little drama). I wish I could get hold of the book for review – one could “go to town” on it: it’s been a long time since I’ve read such a putrid piece of work. In fact: naively childlike. Anyway, concerning the matter he wants to hear more about, I won’t say a single word. Not even to berate him. He can do his own guessing from now on.
Dearest, please go to Koos and have a look at our photos. And let me know how they came out. I must still send you Windell’s book. In fact, I must post everyone’s books: the parcels have already been made up, but I keep forgetting to buy string so I can secure them.
Take care of yourself, little child, my lazy leopard. Keep yourself tightly shut – until I say “Open, Sesame!” again.
Yesterday’s dark mood has gone; the sun’s shining weakly; and later I’ll be making you a tape.
With all my love,
Once more (and always) yours.
Castella
Tuesday, 2 July 1963
Dearest little treasure,
Opperman probably knew what he was talking about all those years ago when he said, “Met die jare word die kamer / Daagliks onherbergsamer”. Heavens, how one’s associations jump around, it’s absurd, writing this down I’m thinking of Aunt Gertie’s “volume of poetry” – why? “Buite agter ’n miershoop lê / die maer lyk van Eugène Marais” and I remember that I left this green monster behind somewhere – took it out of the Press this afternoon, determined to get it to Maskew Miller – then bumped into a friend and had a bite with him – so it’s probably still lying around in a café somewhere. If her immortal work were lost …!
But I started off with the room that’s becoming so inhospitable. I’ll go through hell un
til something happens. In the past five days I haven’t actually spoken to a single person – acquaintances and such perhaps, hurried, somewhere or other, for, at most, half an hour or so. Because even when I called you on Saturday, friends had just arrived – I was using their open house, when they came in I went to the bathroom and lay down to chat, and then left them a bit of money after the usual unavoidable this, that and the other. And with a friend today also just skated on the surface – he asked me straight out whether he could come and sleep with me tonight – not that he’s ever managed this – but I enjoyed leading him up the garden path by telling him I’ve been promised to the divine De Lima – wonderful poet “who is currently in SA” …!!!
Darling, thank you for your despondent letter – with the secrets! – God, child, what are we going to do? I am in the same mood this evening – I just don’t feel up to this abandonment … naturally, and most importantly, not abandoned by you, but this longing for direct human contact – and I don’t mean sexual again, do you hear! And the long weekend lies ahead – one idea, one word.
Posted off your MS – (so far) made a few notes, which I will send along with the rest – have already said, utterly gripped, in parts a sluggish pace through Paris – WATCH AND PRAY. As a whole, impressive in the true sense of the word. Nicolette – lovely now – I’ve completely absorbed into myself, and eagerly look forward to the revelation of herself, which must be the big revelation, so far, from the outside, she is beautifully and meaningfully perceived. I find I’m in a hurry now to get to her. And in a way also to the ambassador, but there’s still a fair bit about him in the pages ahead. My criticism will not of course be literary, but rather human. What I am looking for is development (nice in Die Ambassadeur), unfolding, and, finally, revelation. With Erika I don’t fully chime (see your marriage); feel she must write in a far more motivated way from Italy, like this – maybe knows about Nicolette, female intuition perhaps more than knowledge; Nicolette also her ideal or something like that … connection. So far, she is right and is necessarily at her core an isolated lonely figure but must eventually join the whole: to write is to lie, in poetry more so than in prose. Your lie of God I don’t understand. Man has, after all, inherited mortality. But I am so bladdy proud of you. In the APB window they’ve made a bit of a change – you’re now right in the middle, with your ugly photo, and a whole lot of books around you. See they cut us horribly in the Sunday Times. I said a lot more, about your translations too, of course, about which I phoned three times. Probably keeping it for next Sunday. Darling, darling, I can’t write to you tonight: just want to say hello to you because you said Wednesday is the last day I should post anything. Hope you got the tape sorted out, glad you’re leaving Potch … phone to let me know where you are, and André, come TO CAPE TOWN. I need you.
Love and love,
Ingrid.
PS: Last night finally made use of the “permission” and longed even more. I.
PPS: Also cried. IJJ.
Cape Cultural Circle: Please answer this immediately, should have asked ages ago – they want to know whether you will be here on Monday 23 September and whether you would kindly address them in English. Topic: Novel and Taboo or any topic you prefer. Pretty please, darling – let me have dates for your visit in September in any case, for other programmes too. As usual, I forgot to ask you three weeks ago. The secretary of the group is here now – they really are very nice.
Love – be good – keep well: permission – that’s for Friday night.
Your Ingrid.
Potchefstroom
Thursday, 4 July 1963
Oh my lovely little girl,
Just to isolate myself for a few minutes with you is a mercy in itself; it’s become all but impossible to have any time alone. Anton is so ill he spends most of the time niggling, and there’re a hundred and one little trifles that keep one busy. I’ve also got a good old flu-cold myself that’s made my voice disappear almost completely. Etcetera, ad nauseam.
But despite all this I don’t feel depressed this morning. How could I? For two days now I’ve been looking forward to the chance to write again. Not that I have all that much to say – it’s just the fact of conversing on paper.
Meanwhile – and this, naturally, is why I didn’t write yesterday or the day before – I’ve been to Johannesburg, twice. Had wonderful conversations with my old friend Naas (Steenkamp), who will strike you as a fascinating person and has in fact given me the sharpest commentary yet on Die Ambassadeur. (And guess what, by the way? You win, I think: the title’s going to be Die Ongedurige Kind!) I gave Naas just the slightest sense of what’s going on between me and you. He sighed – because he knows from his own parents how hellish this kind of thing can be – and said nothing. He would never offer an opinion “out of turn”. It’s precisely for this reason that one can talk openly wih him. I hope to get a chance to do that this weekend.
Otherwise I spent quite a bit of time chatting to Chris Barnard and Bartho. Bill of course wrote to Bartho immediately after the party to pass on his gossip – bladdy old shrew! But: to my surprise I find these people a lot more discreet, more kindly disposed than the Cape Clique. Their point of departure is: “that’s your business”. Chris especially spoke with an open heart – because, I think (among other reasons), things between him and Annette aren’t going all that well (or am I gossiping, now, too?!); and this time we really “found” each other. For the first time, Bartho and I also managed to reach out to one other (we were helped, maybe, by a few brandies!) – and that was an experience to be thankful for. He’s a lovely person.
By the way: Rook en Oker was delayed yet again when the works manager at the printers died of a sudden heart attack. But they’re swearing high and low they’ll have the book ready by the end of the week; with delivery hopefully before the end of next week, my poor lovely little girl. (I have already ordered five copies to give to friends!)
Yesterday I finally met Van Wyk Louw: a soft, lovable, shortish person with sharp, teasing eyes. We spent an hour and a half talking about Die Ambassadeur. I think I know quite well now what I want to change in the MS. The big issue, however, is whether I can get it all done in time for publication this year. I don’t want to work in an overhasty manner – I’ve done enough of that in the past! – but I do still want to have it out this year. (I’m naturally also awaiting your opinion!)
And that’s about all the “news” I have; life here remains frustratingly monotonous. The path that you know so well, and so bitterly: more and more arguments between me and Estelle; and, even worse: more and more silences, concentrating increasingly on the unavoidable bits of dialogue only, and sleeping separately – even separate bedrooms most of the time (the “reason” being so we can take turns with Anton at night) …
I went and chatted to an advocate friend about the whole process of divorce (told him I needed the information for a novella! – and then suddenly realised that I might indeed, at a later stage, take something from this information. Or is it terrible and heartless that one can be so objective about one’s own life and suffering that one always remains aware of “literary possibilities”? Perhaps. And yet it’s also a kind of mercy, because it helps you orientate yourself continuously in relation to what’s going on, so that you’re always trying to look and live more deeply than merely on the surface. If you were to allow yourself simply to get lost in the daily chaos, you would lose your greatest claim to being human. Even if you experienced everything under the surface as meaningless, that experience too would necessarily be meaningful. Paradox! But unavoidable).
To return to the matter at hand: he explained that there doesn’t have to be any physical “leaving” of one another for a divorce to be granted. Also, that everything can be completed within three months after the first summons; and that it costs about R110 to R120, which is not too bad.
My darling, my indispensable thing, thank you for your beautiful letter yesterday. You must try and be patient with our little girl’
s “sulking”! I know, it drives me mad, too. But apprently it’s best simply to ignore them. And she’s a lovable child, after all. (It’s not just Jack who loves her!)
And –! Monday I finally succeeded in getting your tape to play. What happened was that you recorded it on tracks three and four instead of one and two, and all the machines we managed to find here play only on one and two. But then we tracked down a good one – and I sat listening to your voice with great delight. (It was not a radio voice.) Actually it gave me much clarity and new insight: especially what you said about finding the balance between that which is transient (about which I’m so sensitive) and that which is lasting (which is an irrational thing); and in the midst of everything here looking so gloomy, it was “just right”; so true (“singular and old”) that everything in the mosaic began to take shape again.
I’ll try to make a tape for you tomorrow. And send you some money for another one – and for the phone call last Saturday. I don’t want you to have to spend your precious pennies on these things, too.
The wind is blowing outside – such a tedious, nagging, August wind, blowing the dry leaves up and down; the air is grey; the dead tips of the palm-tree fronds are shivering disconsolately, and an old newspaper is fluttering on the lawn. But around the corner, somewhere, a bird continues to sing (whence would he have lost his way in this cold weather?). So, sing your serenity into me – that will make everything worth the effort. A few poems are rumbling inside me. It could still take quite a while – this kind of thing is so unpredictable. But I know they’re on their way, at least. Also, is “Towenaar” finished yet, since you say you’re going to include it for HAUM? I want to see it – and hear it on tape. In the course of a letter, in the midst of other things, I’m not able to say thank you or even tell you how I feel about it. It has to be said with more than words – when I come to you. I can no longer wait. This will now probably be a little later than I’d last thought: from about the 17th until, probably, the Monday after that. (It will at least make the shift after September a little shorter!)
Flame in the Snow Page 12
