Dagbreek went and made a vulgar little sensation out of my statement. Abraham de Vries’s commentary strikes me as especially acrimonious and unnecessary. I’m going to have a falling out with him, soon. The trouble is he’s going to take over Chris B.’s post if Chris goes overseas – and then he’ll be in a position of power sufficient to squeeze the rest of us to death. Making the most of their talents!
I phoned Koos again yesterday about the cover – they’ve apparently not changed it very much at all – and he said Uys may be coming with him on Sunday on the trip to Natal and then they’ll be sleeping over here with us. In that case he’ll no doubt have a lot to say to you when he gets back. But I’m still looking forward to having him here.
The charge against Lobola has been withdrawn. I’m sorry it didn’t go ahead. I so badly wanted to remove the taint from the book – and have a lovely little fight. (Not for the sake of pleasing Rosa Nepgen!)
Ag, all this news. What does it matter, in the end? I love you, most lovely one, I want to be with you again, be enraptured with you, unquestioning, happy, serene and stormy. We’ll enjoy the sun and the sea, be boisterous and reckless. The sun’s shining brightly here again after a few miserable, sad little days of drizzle that made my sinus condition unbearable.
To be with you – “to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream”! My delightful, still one, my busy little bee, my constant, inconstant little whirlwind. Come blow through me again, blow away the dust, blow it all clean and bright.
Love, my love: clothe yourself in light and wait for me, sweet and exuberant and happy. We’ll be celebrating Mass with the bread and wine of our bodies and our blood; we’re going to live beautifully and perilously, like poetry, and we will be unstoppably happy.
With a heart full of love, shamelessly romantic,
André.
Grahamstown
Thursday, 31 October 1963
My ravishing, absolute woman,
Thank you for this morning’s heartfelt letter about the Dagbreek matter – De Vries and Barnard. Bright, bright child, you are so wonderfully pure in your loyalty. I still think Chris’s intention was good (or am I very naive?) but Abraham’s motives grieve me – the self-satisfied fool. I made my statement for Dagbreek because I believed that they – like the BBC? like the Sunday Times? like any print media, mass-media – “used” me; and I wanted to make sure people understood what my loyalty actually meant. As I said in the statement, “honesty about the truth that doesn’t change its character depending on whether one is inside or outside the country”. Naturally, I also wanted to get across that I’m not just a convenient, hysterical slanderer, an “enemy”. (An enemy of that which is half-hearted and false and wrong, but not of the idea of SA – that’s bigger than people or governments.) It would be just as impure to see blindly. The problem, I now know, is that one must never try to make subtle distinctions for the masses. They function only in black and white. And, as my mother wrote yesterday in a dear letter: “Never try to explain, because your friends understand you in any case, while your enemies never will.”
But darling, I am upset by what you say about the Sunday Times: my edition has nothing in it of that nature, and I know Chris Barnard’s also didn’t – I phoned him to ask. This means that only certain editions carried this news (about the BBC matter). Keep yours, please. I’m angry with them. (The Dagbreek statement, which appeared the week before last, also didn’t appear in every edition – they all had the front-page story, but not my statement on page 6.)
Ag, it’s a load of crap, all of it.
Pure: let us remain pure. (“Even beauty endures in the dirt”.) And live high and handsome and humanely: I don’t mean we should be “chilly” and “elevated”, but live at full throttle: high, and biotic, warm, earthy. We are a mixture of “a little water, clay, and prophetic breath”, remember!
Thank you for our lovely conversation last night. And for the deliciousness afterwards – a little forestaste of what’s coming in a week’s time, lovely, lovely; hell, man!
I’m working like a madman on Malherbe’s Peoples of Africa – started yesterday afternoon and I’m already halfway; I’ll be done by Sunday. Then I’ll see if I can re-type Orgie for you. I feel good in my heart about this novella. I think it carries both light and darkness, the abyss and the coming of clarity; it has the subdued sadness that I wanted. It was born of the two of us, except that the roles have been reversed: you the father and I the mother! (Like the silly joke about the innocent girl who didn’t want her boyfriend to lie on top of her – after he’d taken off her clothes – because her mother said she should not allow it: if she did, she said, “my mother would end up dealing with the matter”; but she was quite willing to come and lie on top of him – because then his mother would end up having to deal with it!)
I’m reading [Arthur] Rimbaud – Une Saison en Enfer (A Season in Hell) – and am very taken with the work. And Gerhart Hauptmann’s Heretic of Soana, which is less striking, perhaps because it’s a translation.
It’s as hot as hell here. During the day I chase a naked Anton all over the lawn with a hosepipe. I should try to get a bit of a tan before I come down, otherwise I’ll look far too much like a country bumpkin when we get to Gordon’s Bay. Not so, my brown girlie? And I must say farewell again, though now in hues of brown. Bring your red bikini along, too. I want to see you with your nice short hair (but not dyed!) and your lovely slovenly red nails, and your leucodendron, your laugh and your shy, naughty eyes, your provocative full breasts, and your little high mound into which I can disappear so deeply, so completely. Oh delicious, lovely one, always mine, pure and happy and lovely; clothe your loneliness in my love and wait in delight.
Love love,
André.
Castella
Thursday night, 31 October 1963
My dearest man,
A clean castle – Maggie mercifully came in – and the groceries – two dresses I altered at my sister’s for the wonderful summer that is close at hand – because it is indeed close at hand – where I always feel everything first; and a summer that I will carry in my hands – precious warm-time after the long winter; another two pretty dresses back from the dry cleaners; the shiny (pretty satiny) yellow one you haven’t seen me in yet – so you see for yourself how the Lord guides! Thank you for your telephone conversation last night; these conversations are terribly funny; we immediately tell all the news that we’ve already written or are about (even worse) to write; at a feverish pace so that the – I almost said the announcer – because there is something so public about these conversations – the Oxleys – although they understand little Afrikaans – are hanging around – and I am sure that the exchange is also listening in, bored stiff; and everything one says sounds so “boring” (Preller) and not at all like you feel – God! – then we get cut off and feel vaguely alarmed – still – I need our telephone and wonder of wonders, am again laughing because I can hear the pomegranates laughing!
Liefsteling, only a week, because today is done – then I can break open the pomegranates in my hands – take, eat, this is my flesh and blood! Haven’t received confirmation from the Van Riebeeck [Hotel] yet (that vile filth piles up everywhere, (V.R.)); probably tomorrow. The manager there sounds highly civilised. Don’t think there’ll be the same mess there was at Cederwood. Jan and Marjorie invited me for a meal there tonight; they’re having an evening about [Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of] Virginia Woolf – apparently Chris [?] sent the script – but I preferred to go see a little child-face. I’m afraid of Virginia Woolf … Jan’s book hasn’t appeared here yet; did you receive a copy? But at my sister’s all the little faces were disobedient and she was upset; thank God I can rest now for a while here with you! Did I tell you that after our week I’ll be taking Simone back; my little anchor is “worried” about me and I am also not whole without her.
Wonder what you’re doing now; probably writing to me too; because you “neglected” me on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday
of course – that wasn’t serious; or no, you’re busy with exam papers, my poor lecturer-doctor-man! What’s your thesis about? I am really jealous of Koos and Uys who are moving to your little town – excuse me immediately, horrible suspicious: He will influence you against me – only protection really: shock about the attitude of all those months and now he will see you with your house and everything … “Oh! We have to trust each other again in some essentials!”
I am looking forward so much to our few days, so:
overhandig mij brekend
je peilloze bloem, je kus
als een dar dolzinnig dijf ik
op het aquarel van de dorst
…
hoor dan met uw handen haast dan uw hartslag
ik ben een donkere droom in de zon
(Lucebert)
And dearest mine, you’ll just have to wear the jersey, hot or cold … and you’ll be surprised at how the wind can blow in Gordon’s Bay – I’ll go and show you my old school – the place has many walks – I lay so low this week that “no one will miss me at the dance or the dish”.
I’m burning to see Orgie. You must immediately send whatever’s finished; it’s lying in pieces here in a special file; and I even began a scrapbook for you – mad! – but my own lamentation isn’t really progressing; maybe just that terrible five o’clock in the afternoon when you leave …
Why did you ask so half-anxiously how things are going at work? Or was that part of the rush of the phone conversation – it’s all terribly dead normal; news there: I’m getting holiday money in February – your money dream and the island – I dreamt I was in England; landscape and climate enchanting; you weren’t there, just old English gentlemen with walking sticks and umbrellas; but the dream had such atmosphere of reality … You must in any case not worry about my work; I fit in well and “everyone likes me very much”, as Jannie Gildenhuys would say – Chris says he’ll also be here during our time – then we’ll go and have a meal together; this work actually takes up little time because I don’t have to work on Saturdays, and after five working days I don’t have to think of it again! And it’s lovely to see the clean little castle with all the food and soap and to know: I worked and paid for it …! Small, essential vanities …!
Dearest my André. This is really not a letter; it’s the last week and I am waiting for you, my precious groom: “The only thing that matters is being together.” Bring me some nice books to read, because I’ll die if I have to steal all the hotel’s Feminas and things again. And there’s only one joy bigger (MUCH bigger) than lying in bed with you reading.
’Night, my angel.
Love and love,
Only yours,
Cocoon.
{PS: My hair really and truly is still the same colour! Okay!}
Grahamstown
Saturday, 2 November 1963
Precious poetry-hungry, poesy-hungry child,
Nine in the morning: are you still asleep there in your enchantingly untidy little castle, my Sleeping Beauty, or are you up already and fiddling around; or maybe lying on the beach, with your tan and white bathing costume, freckled shoulders and short hair? Next week this time we’ll be lying together – in bed or on the beach? Delicous, delicous. “I miss you and I love you: therefore I am.”
There is some bad news, too: Koos sent a telegram to say Die Ambassadeur will be delivered a week later than expected – the 14th at the latest. But I decided I can’t change my plans yet again, so I’ll be coming down as arranged on the 8th. And if necessary I’ll stay a day or two longer – until Thursday or, at the latest, until Friday. Happy?
Thank you for yesterday’s lovely letter. You are forbidden ever again to walk alone across the sportsfields in the dark. That’s an order.
Your consternation on the phone about the fact that Uys might come and stay here amused me (he’s no longer coming). Darling, strange child: why would you think anything Uys or whoever might say could influence me, hmm? You’ll start me thinking that your “quiet braai on the beach with Jack” was more than just enjoyable! I’m just teasing, so don’t worry. My dearest love, I believe all your lies …
We’re going to play delectably this time. Play seriously, play playfully. And the sun’s going to be ours. You are eternally mine.
The marking has begun. So far it’s not all that bad. In one essay yesterday I found this gem: “The poet stands head and toes above his contemporaries.” (Some toes they must be! Worse than Ampie’s!) Otherwise I’m translating myself into the ground. I’ll be finishing John Malherbe’s book today, and I’ll ask him to post the cheque to your address so we can have money to f… around with. I translated the book in three days! Now I just have to type out an article for 60, continue typing up Orgie for you, mark scripts … and come, come, come (hell!).
Cocoony-kontjie o’ mine: this is not a note. It’s a little letter. And it comes to you with exuberant love and laughter and longing, with a kiss upon your earlobe, and a soft touch on your little, big round breasts that announce your arrival to the world so fully and provocatively.
Love; and a command (verse for today): Be of good cheer with me,
Your André.
Grahamstown
Sunday night, 3 November 1963
Child, most beloved, most delightful,
It’s the kind of night – cool and still, after last night’s passionately wild thunderstorm – I’d like to be with you, swollen and satisfied, inside your little cocoon, physically and spiritually taken up in the poetry of being together, aware of the mercy of it all –
… om van Hom
die skaduwee net van Sy genade
oor ons te laat passeer, om te verkry dat
(het Hy nie gesê ons moet bid, geloof,
soos in ’n mosterdsaad nie?) dat Hy
wat as allenige die Beskouing kan gee,
daardie opperste mededeelsaamheid
van Hom ook aan ons enkelde siele
in Sy genade gaan bewaarheid.
It was a quiet day today. All day I wanted to write, but I was lazy this morning, reading newspapers; and this afternoon I slept. Tonight Frieda was here. Estelle kept bringing the conversation round to curtains and clothes and the library – work stuff – while I wanted to be liberated precisely from the fuss of the everyday; so I stretched myself out on the divan, shut myself off despite the conversation, and pleasantly took residence in you. It was the same all last night, when I dreamt about you and our coming week – unserious, satisfied dreams about small things, restfulness and fulfilment. Cocoon, my own, you are near to me and I live in nearness to you. On some days I worry that I – that we – are looking forward too much to the 8th and the days after that; I’m afraid something might come up on the cusp of the visit and prevent it from happening. But surely no such thing is possible? Also, Koos did not arrive here today, and so there was no discussion (something I was worried about!) where it might’ve emerged that he knows about my accommodation in the Cape. (By the way, I am now – officially – going to be staying with John [J.C.] Kannemeyer! Inter alia because he doesn’t have a telephone.)
I finished off John’s translation yesterday; today I typed out the article for 60 – I’m sending you a copy – and tomorrow I’ll begin typing up Orgie for you.
To my surprise, Grové – in a chilly little letter! – accepted my parody of R. Schutte for Standpunte. You will be glad, too, now that you have also suffered her inefficiency and up-her-own-arse attitude.
Darling love, have you seen in the most recent Sarie Marais how wonderfully enthusiastic Audrey Blignault is about Sempre? (With that old photo of me from my matric year next to her piece.) I’ve suddenly shed my suspicions about her. Maybe Die Ambassadeur does have a small chance of getting the prize after all …!
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
And then Friday!
(Uys would say: “Oh Ingrid, oh name, oh longing.”)
What might today’s Times and
Dagbreek have to say, this time around …? I don’t give a damn. It’s water under the bridge now. I love you – what else matters?
My sweet little cherub, my pretty flea – tonight I want to sit and come up with crazily lovely names for you, and be happy with you. I’m feeling a little mad. And very happy.
I’m living chastely and saving up my secrets.
I love you,
André.
Castella
Tuesday evening, 5 November 1963
My dearest André darling,
You really kept your word – to write to me before you come down – opened my path into the wilderness! Thank you for your letters; I’m now alone for the first time since Friday, except of course for sleep! – and still had to go to Simone last evening. This week I must see her as often as possible otherwise she’s going to feel terribly neglected this coming weekend. She grumbles about wanting to come home – I am so glad I’ll be able to discuss her with you when you’re here – next year of course it’s school, and I don’t know if I should put her into a boarding school – poor little thing – etc. etc. By the way, I haven’t heard another word from Piet. Dear man, I phoned Human & Rousseau myself and asked after Die Ambassadeur – and they told me there’s a delay with the dust cover and that they’ll make sure in any case that you can leave here with a couple of copies.
Flame in the Snow Page 26
