And do not forget me.
I am glad you like “Us”. Chris says it’s “loaded”. It came fairly spontaneously; from an instinctive feeling, a day or two before the “little death”.
My generous-hearted love, somewhere within myself I do believe and hope and wait for you, it’s probably something one cannot, praise God, argue away.
As always,
Cocoon.
Grahamstown
Friday night, 16 August 1963
My serene little thing,
Thank you – thank you – for yesterday’s dear, austere letter in reply to my emotional outburst of the other day! All the more because it must be just as hard for you in these times to think so soberly, and so neatly. Your letter was therefore actually the seal on a gradual coming-to-rest that had been occurring in me since my earlier letter. Strange how one lives through everything in a rhythmic, cyclical manner. I know very well that disquiet and resistance will take over again one of these days. But I’m grateful for the few days of quiet in which our “little pentecostal flame” can burn without too much flickering or smoke. Everything’s glowing, like autumn leaves that burn from the inside out. And it’s a strange time, this restless month: blossoms appearing everywhere like little girls in communion clothes; the empty wind rattling loose panes, and branches scratching the rooftops; dust blowing in one’s eyes. (And here, not even an ocean!)
I posted a copy of Caesar to you today. More for the gesture than the content – although I think the content is quite neat.
Got an abhorrent review of Sempre in yesterday’s Vaderland. By one Mrs R. [Roswitha] Schutte who was first R. Geggus (she wrote Die Wit in die Poësie [The White Space in Poetry]). Commissioned by A.P. Grové. It was so bad that Chris Barnard drove to Pretoria to confront Grové about it. But Grové replied that the review was “wholly substantiated” and therefore it had to be published as is. The kind of review that takes shots at me about my use of language because I use a word like “swabbish” – and in the same paragraph she uses the word “digressies” [Anglicised solecism for “digression”]!!! But you see, the Schuttes [Roswitha and H.J. Schutte] are angry because Lobola is uncalvinistic … Oh God, the little cliques and circles and gears – and nuts. I sat down and wrote a nasty letter to Grové; but then tore it up and threw it away, deciding, quite serenely: if one writes, this is the risk one takes upon oneself, after all. Why start a campaign now? Let this text be our morning vigil today: lift up your eyes to the hills. So why worry?
Thank you for the MS, which I will probably receive soon. I wish I were there so that I could position you neatly across my lap and slap that lovely bikini-white backside of yours into a fiery red. But then, while doing so, I would, like the man in the joke, have no choice but to say: “Fuck the rugby –” and turn my attention to more delicious things.
Over here, nothing happens. Except for my own impulsivity which, a few days ago, made me feel incredibly low. In a moment of rebellion and raging resistance – it was still during my “black period” – I asked Rob: “Has anyone been appointed as secretary for next year yet?”
“No,” he said. “Do you have someone in mind?”
I should have pretended innocence. But I said – as soberly as possible: “Apparently Ingrid Jonker’s interested.”
God, girlie. I knew immediately that he knew – with a painful kind of knowing; that he feels disappointed and hurt, and totally at a loss. He just let his head drop, remained quiet for a while, and then said, with his dear, vulnerable, embarrassed little smile: “Well …” And then again: “Well …” And eventually: “No, we haven’t appointed anyone yet.”
And after this he seems to have mentioned the matter to Johan Smuts (senior lecturer; language studies) – because now he refuses to greet me, walking away whenever I approach. It’s so unpleasant when one has to work together this closely. Rob would never reproach anyone. Or say anything. It’s just that I was stupid enough to ask the unnecessary thing. But, my darling, I was becoming so desperate; I no longer know what to do or which way to turn.
And so one learns quietly to seal oneself, tighten the bolts wherever the wind’s coming in, make oneself impenetrable, like Moses in his basket of rushes, or Noah in his ark … and when will the dove fly off again and return with a leaf, when will a spirit hover over the waters once more, when will everything be new again, virginal, pure? Will we ever find serenity, little child …?
Just for a year? Six months? Darling, my Cocoon, my Ingrid: only a day, a night. Only an hour. Only now.
No, little flame: burn meekly, burn quietly; we deserve, God knows, but little – we human beings – and yet we’ve had a lot, and still have much. “No, candle, don’t cry, candle … Candle, you’ve burnt down. But I – I still am.”
Something that allows me to end on a lighter note (how acrobatic the human spirit is!): somebody phoned me yesterday to ask where a certain quotation comes from (“I call out to you like the crested guinea-fowl in the long grass calls his mate …” or something like that). It sounded familiar to me, but I unfortunately I couldn’t help, and said goodbye. Today she comes and tells me – with quite a big smile on her face – that she tracked it down.
“So?” I asked. “Where?”
“Lobola vir die Lewe,” she said.
Write again, love-lovelier-loveliest. Make a tape. Send me Simone’s little voice, too. (Do you have any idea how much I miss her? And our little castle. And you. Ach du … du … God, NO! No: I am very well behaved. Quiet and tranquil. Believe me. Maybe then I’ll believe it myself, along with you.)
Crazy. And yet also happy. And so in love with you, so taken up with you, so spent inside you. I hope you learn something from this letter. Five pages to say: I-love-you.
A kiss for the little chick (you’ll first have to give your hand the kiss and convey it further from there). And one for the leucodendron,
Your André.
Castella
Monday, 19 August 1963
My dearest moesie-man,
Congratulations on Caesar! And now of course I’ll have to read it again to know what my moesie-man wrote and be half in wonderment at his words! Thanks, darling, it looks beautiful – significant that they are publishing you this winter in the colours of mourning, these diabolical publishers! To tell you the truth, I completely forgot about Caesar, and when I got the letter this morning, I thought you were referring to the play that I would receive now (why?). And of course by that I don’t mean I still haven’t forgiven you the “sins of your youth” – but I just found it strange! Thank you, darling, who writes so many strange things, it fascinates me greatly – my eyes must have looked enormous to Anne when this new book arrived this afternoon; it lay there on my “desk”, to be handled, it lay in a workman’s hands and everyone joined in the conversation and looked inquisitively at the print and the binding, and probably also peeped at the inscription. As long as they don’t utter the word “Cocoon”, I am at peace with it, as my ouma would say.
Glad you are so relieved (!) that I am not coming to Grahamstown or at least have no plans in the meantime to take that post with Rob that is still vacant. Very decent of him to say that they don’t have anyone yet. He is civilised. And probably often wants to die in stifling South Africa. This image of him and his commentary stayed with me all day: why do you think he was disappointed? Or was he just sad because he doesn’t want you to be unhappy and alone (which means without me) …?
You said my letter was sober. Rebellion? My mom once wrote to me when she was very ill (I was about seven): “Mommy is no longer human, just one great longing.” I really think there is more longing in me than anything else: but what does our Elizabeth Eiers [Elisabeth Eybers] say: “verlange word aanvaarding, langsaamaan.” But no, God! I suppose I’ve learnt this to some degree, but not completely yet; hopefully I won’t ever, it’s fatal. In this case. Darling André.
Tonight a man, a Peter Deval-Smith [Duval Smith] of the BBC, is coming to meet me and to do a record
ing. Pity you aren’t here; you’d probably mean more to him than I do! The programme’s name is “Living under Pressure” and he got his insights from David Lytton’s programme “Portrait of an Afrikaner”. So now I am already mutinous and don’t actually know what to say to him. I am a workman, I eat my bread and drink my wine and keep my heart clean of sin.
And yes, the work. Because a workman is what I am, and fortunately that doesn’t yet include the masses; but still, I do this workman’s work, and the longer I do it the more it contributes to a feeling of waste and sterility, the more I become conscious of my “calling” as a woman and a poet, the more it becomes “like a lamb to the slaughter …” But perhaps, in this whole futile circular process, I’ll become a human. Which is to say then I will be able to write.
But now bath and dress and entertain the BBC. Wouldn’t it be lovely to lie here drunk when they arrive? To frighten a notary with a cut lily. Lovely man, thank you for your being near and your letter and book and messages. The ones you send wordlessly. {And I don’t mean that it is “wonderfully quiet”.}
And tell that student who asked you about the line in Lobola to leave you alone! This sad heart still has the ability to flicker up in a passion of jealousy and/or protection. And still, that you are mine, I do not comprehend …!
Do you know what Anne’s fiancé said to a “pushy” girl: “Are you made from my rib? No? Then fuck off now!” I do so love the religious values of “our coloureds”. (My ouma also always draws the comparison in her letters. What I wanted to say is, I am of you.)
Till later,
Cocoon Cocoon Cocoon Cocoon.
I just thought that I am not in hell going to take a bath, or get dressed, or get ready for the BBC: and to think I worried this afternoon that I don’t have any brandy for them! In any case, I have to give Peter Oxley’s pen back to him; he gave it to me and I’m sure he’ll soon want to do homework.
Goodnight, my beautiful man: man, it’s nice! I miss you. I have an uncontrollable urge to come and sleep with you, my purified person: by the way, how does one do without it? It’s soo loong! I mean this BREAK. What on earth is going on? Or are you really being good? I believe you. But what’s happening?
Treasure, my treasure! How far is Johannesburg from Grahamstown? Or is it in fact just as far as you are from me? I have a desire to go and live there, because here – I hardly see my old friends, and Uys is cross with me – your (lovely) piece about him gave him occasion to rail at Jack – but later said he was wrong. Apparently.
You’ve got a cheek though to always tell me that I am speckled:
toe kies my broer
die spikkelkoei vir hom
…
O waar sal ek skuil
teen die stippels wat pik?
“Ballade [Sprokie] van die Spikkelkoei”. [“Ballad of the Speckled Cow”]. Opperman. Look it up. And why haven’t you told me how many moesies you have?
Darling person. I love you so much. Dearest my André my P. Brink.
And on Sunday I told Jack I never never want to go to Sea Girt again because I no longer want to be a half-guest in a half-house … and now?
Went and lay in the Gardens today and smoked a long cigarette under the surprised eyes of my brothers-in-suffering. Went for a meal at the Charcoal Inn on Saturday evening. Dreamt of you. Very lovely child, together we will go and meet a new memory / Together we will speak a tender language.
Darling old André. Write soon, and come to me,
Cocoon.
PS: And now: I almost forgot the most important thing. I want to come to PE for a weekend. It won’t be so terribly expensive. I will tell no one except the trusted person with whom I will leave Simone. And then you must send me travel money. You’ve got lots now from Sempre, haven’t you!
Love,
Ingrid.
Sometimes I feel so scared that I’ll forget, like in Hans Anderson’s [?] poem, I have to see you complete and whole again, and when you’re with me, darling my André, I don’t want to look at you, do you still remember?
For a weekend like that I could simply stay away on the Monday. There’s a long weekend in Sept.; but WORKERS don’t have that day free; I’ll take it. Do you think we can RISK it? I actually think we can. Tell me if it’s not “serene” enough. And tell me quickly. Neat and tidy. Oh, woe.
The BBC is now literally on my doorstep.
BYE. Goodbye my mine.
I.J.
My André, people gone now, it’s twelve o’clock. Also gave them your address; but so far no interview – am still a little suspicious of their motives – they also want to try and see Opperman and Van Wyk – all the “ondergetekendes”. Spoke to Uys on the phone. His “rant” came down to this: 1. He likes the piece you wrote about him very much.
2. Must say more about the translation, the quality. 3. He was the first one in Afrikaans who used free verse. 4. Talk about his English work.
He actually sounds sweet again.
My little treasure, still wanted to say sorry about [Johan] Smuts. Don’t take too much notice of it. Probably just jealous or worse. You’ll just have to ignore him. And stay, stay loving me.
Your Cocoon.
Grahamstown
Wednesday, 21 August 1963
My dearest little playmate,
Thank you for this morning’s tape after the long silence that had filled me with such doubt and uncertainty. For me, the weekend especially, Sunday in particular, was full of premonition and suspicion. An almost uncanny feeling of commitment coming under threat. Was I right?
Meanwhile, you ask me for advice from within your own uncertainty:
What could I give to you,
I who am so poor?
Must I give of my sorrow
And of my darkness?
What you say about the tape that never got sent: the sense of doubt about whether there’s any point in continuing with “acts of communication” [“communicatie te treffen”]. I don’t know. There are so many possible angles from which to view the matter. My own considered feeling, and my only point of clarity, is this: we made our decision – it was bitter, but responsible. At this stage, it doesn’t look as if there can be any more for us, together, than yearning and hope. Bodily, we will perhaps be able to love each other, on occasion, if I can steal an hour or a day and come to you, two or three times a year – if we’re lucky. We therefore can’t count on fulfilment – or, at least: continuous fulfilment – in that area, no matter how much we need it. (And I for one have a terrible need for such physical fulfilment, for expression and discharge, especially now.) But: is there not very much that we can still give each other, in the face of, and despite, these meagre little facts – in our love, fully, as people? Must one, because living together is impossible, also withhold all possibility of rich and precious contact? I don’t believe so. It might be the case that, in the long run, it won’t be as strong a need as it is now. But we decide on this every day, and with each letter: now, for now. And right now I need you very much. All of you; but while I cannot or may not have everything, I at least want that which is in fact possible.
I must be reasonable and acknowledge that, in maintaining this attitude, I am being selfish: that such contact is likely, more than anything, to harm you? (And yet I don’t believe it – or don’t want to, or can’t.) Therefore: speaking for myself, if I had to decide, believe, then the contact – along with the necessary hurt in every letter about what “could have been” or “should be” – is a fulfilment and a mercy, time and time again, and something to be thankful for. I would therefore like to continue, because it does not, in the final instance, seem futile. But you also have to decide. And I would have to abide by whatever you decide, because I love you in a way no person has ever before loved.
I cannot visit in September, because I dare not come alone again – and Estelle is working. I was on the point of coming down next weekend! Koos Human phoned to say they’re now enthusiastic about the revised Ambassadeur. However, he apparen
tly deems it necessary to have an interview about certain things, and the question arose whether he should fly up here to see me, or I to see him in the Cape, urgently. I tried to figure out a way, but if I do come I’d only be able to be there on Sunday and Monday morning, and I’d have to sleep over at friends, too, with their entire family around my ears. We’d therefore have just Sunday from about ten to about five in the afternoon. It’s not impossible that I might still suddenly decide to come, after all, but it’s not looking very practicable. If only you knew how I yearn for you these days!
You ask so insistently how things are going here at home. It’s very hard to diagnose. In my last letter I said things had become more tranquil. Things are fairly neutral on the surface, with exceptions like yesterday, which was one of those mad days. Even friendly and polite. There is no prospect of any deeper contact. Estelle is being quite obliging at the moment; seeking conciliation. But not so long ago – as I told you at the time – she said: “It gives me the creeps when you touch me.” And that’s what I now feel.
If I were to calculate the prospects, I would say this: we will continue, like Jan and Marjorie, to live without any sex-life. Some days I can accept this. Frequently, I feel dejected and have no idea what might yet happen. Why must one be prudish? I have a very deep – and enormous! – need for sex. I work and write at such a prodigious pace that it completely exhausts me spiritually and then creates a physical need that can only be allayed by a complete sexual experience. Must – and can – one “unlearn” this, too? I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. I simply long for you, with everything, and for everything.
By the way, you shouldn’t get the idea from my last tape that I feel resentful towards Anton! If it weren’t for him, I’d have done away with myself a long time ago. I am devoted to my son. The only thing that sometimes gets me fuming is the fact that he is forced upon me for half the day when I have to work. At least now the servant stays on in the afternoons and I have to babysit only three nights a week. (Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, from 7:30 to 10:00, if you ever want to phone! Number 905. But I’ll be calling you tonight in any event …)
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