with strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automation,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing …
…
Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.
8.Juta’s made a lovely window for you with the review and the photo. I wrote to you about it a while ago.
9.Be still, my dear heart. I haven’t changed. And “hierdie las van reën wil ek nie sien nie / Op die water van jou voorkop / Op die water sonder bodem van ons eenheid”. Write soon – any bladdy thing – but write! Go and enquire about my letters. I wouldn’t like it if those tender things were lying around at Rhodes University. I also don’t want anyone to know that we fought. They’ll say it’s my fault (!). If anyone had to read how sorry I am, how much I love you, they’ll think I’m chasing after you.
10.Come here just one more time and run to the kitchen to tell me: “Do you know what? I had a John Collins today!” Let me again put the radio on to provide a banal background to our unseemly squabble. And then let me sleep with you, allow me to forgive and be forgiven. André.
Cocoon.
Grahamstown
Monday morning, 2 December 1963
Dearest little devil,
This morning I received a surprising letter from one Mr Prinsloo who addresses me as “darling” and signs his name as “Cocoon”. He asked me a whole lot of silly questions, but as he didn’t supply a full address, I’ll send my answers to you – then you can pass them on the next time he spends a night there:
1.Why do I say, in the past tense, that nothing has changed about the preciousness of what “existed before” –
a)Because the preciousness of what exists now cannot be taken away by something that happened in the past (our “evening”).
b)Because it might have seemed, that night, as if we were “breaking down” everything that existed before – but now it’s quite obvious that it didn’t change anything – it just made everything more intense and profound. (Often a whole past is changed by its future; but our past – like our present – can be disavowed by nothing.)
2.You don’t understand French. But what I wrote wasn’t in French, it was Italian, from Quasimodo, a poem that I read to you in Italian. It means: “Misschien blijft het hart ons over …” Don’t mind me while you blush a deep pink of embarrassment.
3.Who is Koos Meyer?
I don’t know. I wrote about Jack Meyer, head of the Centre for Arts here, Frieda’s friend; 34 years old, very dear and kind, slightly effeminate; when he saw the picture of you, he said he remembers you with longer hair, last December at the sea.
4.That’s it with the questions.
5.Dear-dear-darling, little goddess, it’s fucked-up amazing how much I love you this morning. If only we could be back at Steenbras River Mouth right now …
Your voice last night was a mercy, yet again, a blessing that made me wonderfully positive again and full of happiness about you. Today I just want to do crazy things. I’m so ecstatically happy about the probability of your prize. But please keep it a secret! (“A woman’s idea of keeping a secret is refusing to reveal who told it to her”!) You must get a bursary, too, and go overseas; and if Die Ambassadeur perhaps wins the CNA Prize, then I’ll see if I can come over for a holiday and show you Paris; we’d walk around where no one knows us and the nights belong only to us. Rob says he and Opperman and Ernst [van Heerden] all said Die Ambassadeur would have won the prize if APB had published it. But I’m glad the book’s with Koos – because I’ve been wanting you to get the prize all this time, not out of charity but on merit. Yours is not an insignificant little voice. Rob says some of the poems in Rook en Oker are “great”.
I’m holding thumbs for a job with Cilliers. You’ve had enough of your current hell. Oh, be happy, and free. In February you must come and visit here.
Bartho says he’s not in a hurry for the Colette, so now I can finish translating Die Ambassadeur first. The first 30 pages have been completed and checked; I handed them over to a well-attuned English friend for critical revision. I’ll have it typed up bit by bit, as it emerges. I’d like to have a completed manuscript by the end of January. Koos will act as my agent overseas; he’s already entered into agreements with publishers in England and America. (I mean: general agreements, not specifically for Die Ambassadeur.) He also had my contract worded in such a way that I get 75% of the translation income and not just the usual 50%.
The fact that Colette has to wait is a bit disastrous financially because I’m so terribly broke I don’t even know how I’m going to get to Potch. But I’ve sold a plot there and should get something from that – not a lot, because I still have to pay a R500 debt I owe my mother.
But now I have new hope for the future. I feel I’m living again. I felt extremely close to you all day yesterday; then, last night I was able to talk to you – make contact with you so enjoyably – and sleep with you afterwards. (Did you … with me …?)
Congratulations, again, on Rook en Oker’s deserved – and, hopeful – success. Let me smother you with kisses: your happy eyes and your little curl; your naughty ears; your enchanting mouth and the playful tip of your tongue; your soft throat and your speckled brown shoulders; your full, gorgeous breasts and those provocative nipples; your long soft back; your little buttocks and your tummy; your unbelievable thighs; your dearest calves; your hands and feet; and your beloved leucodendron. Then, let me kiss your little mound and that deep, living love-stamp until I hear your breath, feel your stomach moving – and I continue kissing until you say “hell!”, clamping your legs in ecstasy such that I can no longer gain entry.
That’s how much I love you. And even more, every day more.
Always, jubilantly yours,
André.
Castella
Tuesday night, 3 December 1963
Dearest my André,
Thank you for yesterday’s two letters and the really dynamic 2nd part of Orgie. Review yes, but later. It’s too late now; 11:30. Thank you for your telegram for Simonetta, her big wish for her birthday was for a BACKPACK, which I found at Garlicks. And thank you for your call on Sunday with the unbelievable news: alas! so all was not in vain! But I must say that was the last thing I expected. God is a god of surprises.
News here: Lots. Saw Johan Cilliers this evening at 7:30 at the Café Royal, but he was befuddled and I am aware that I’ll just have to stay at the Press for the time being … at least it’s not so long any more … Will write you later in more detail about the interview; now just saying good night, little treasure, every night it’s so late with people and appointments and Manet [Simone] and obligations. Also saw Dudley [D’Ewes] (Molteno Trust) this evening; bought a beautiful expensive dress; yellow; sunlightdress, sweet. I am half asleep; you ask so many questions in yesterday’s letter; but I’ll answer comprehensively tomorrow evening. One thing I am more than upset about is your pessimism on Tuesday and the gun and all that. No, my darling – you must never think that way, things always get better sooner than one expects; and you don’t know me yet, my spirit is just in-des-truct-ible.
Rob. Rob. Rob knows.
Liefsteling; I am so terribly tired. Just know that I think of you constantly – and you are with me more than ever before.
’Night to your precious red head,
And to your beautiful tooth,
And to your long hands,
And to all the moesies,
And to your beautiful papie,
And to your tenderness,
And to your protection,
And to your loneliness,
And to your purity,
And to your humaneness,
And to all your little laughs.
Love is what I feel for you; your sleepy girl and your
Cocoon.
Grahamstown,
Wednesday, 4 December 1963
Most b
eloved Cocoon,
I don’t know what the red number at the top of this page means; it’s the first sheet from a new ream of paper.
I have a few minutes before my honours class begins, so I’m writing to say hello and send my love. And I’m sending you a funny piece of “evidence” with this letter.
Here it is:
That, my little pixie, is a thorn, a Gordon’s Bay thorn that came out of my big toe last night. Now you can see a) that I wasn’t complaining for no reason, and b) that Gordon’s Bay wasn’t just a dream!
Here on this side, things are somewhere between Scylla and Charybdis. Fortunately I’m feeling positive and happy about you; and for that reason, all the more disillusioned about the emptiness here. It’s starting to look as if I’ll be moving to the study soon, bedding and all. I’ve been so terribly negative; can’t do anything and don’t want to, either; I feel as if I have no energy, quite vegetative in fact. I want to live in the way I learnt to live with you. Things are coming to a head. I have no idea what might still happen in this holiday period. You’ll have to keep carrying me with your love, and keep trusting me; and be good.
The translation of Die Ambassadeur has now reached page 50 or thereabouts. Heavy work, but also enjoyable. And now at least I’m catching all the printing errors (god, there’re a lot of them!).
I’m reading Offerland [Land of Sacrifice] [F.A. Venter]!!!
Enjoy the wedding this weekend and send me a photo of our little Simone-flowergirl as soon as you can.
I miss and love you; I believe and I trust, and I’m happy, in full certainty about you in this uncertain world.
With everything,
André.
Castella
Wednesday night, 4 December 1963
My dearest André,
When I got home from Simone a moment ago (it’s ten o’clock) your letter was lying here; the one in reply to Mr Prinsloo; had to rush up quickly to borrow Mrs Oxley’s pen, and since I did some gardening on Saturday and gave her some roses yesterday, she is very friendly again. But all my little plants are dying in the heat; will definitely have to wake up at seven o’clock tomorrow to water them – heavens, the responsibilities. My whole life is taken up with fulfilling obligations.
Dearest treasure, I still can’t believe that about the APB; but why do you say “probability” in one spot. The other two books that are due will surely not be something? I’ll die if I don’t get them now. Only Chris and Jack know – those two will definitely say NOTHING, or even imply in the slightest way – of that I can assure you. You still speak about visiting there in February. Where, exactly? At your home? And will I still be in SA then? Because I leave as soon as I get it. I hope you get the CNA, which you ought to get, there is surely a possibility that the committee won’t just automatically give it to Opperman. God is a god of surprises. Chris and Jack received the news with much excitement and emotion. And one of my first thoughts was: so then it wasn’t all for nothing … and the Pastor is just lying. And I will have to go to Johannesburg? I’ve got a lovely yellow-and-white dress with a pleated skirt, which I’ll wear. It’s an expensive dress, too.
News, news. Met Johan Cilliers at half past seven yesterday evening; he had a few fantastic stories that I’d rather not write down; the work – SA Litho, is apparently “giving” him an office, he “may” use their typists – those would be my duties too if I go and work there – Hey, hey. Sandberg “resigned”. The rest of the staff “can’t come to Cape Town”. I think the company’s had it. And so – the grey – in the meantime – Paris – Holland – London – Rome. And that’s that.
Saw Molteno Trust’s Dudley Dewes [D’Ewes] yesterday evening at nine. He says it would help a lot if I had another bursary too or something like that – the Molteno is a “rounding up” bursary. And so I had to just keep quiet. But he was kind, even though like a priest. Wrote to Braaksma and also to the Brits. And now wait wait wait. When will the APB thing be made public? At work of course I now constantly feel the need to say “Fuck you, sir” or to stay away.
Thank you for your beautiful lovely letters. You ask some questions.
Jack’s going to the farm tomorrow.
No, I am not sad. I bought him some biltong.
Don’t think he is sad either.
He is kind towards me, just wants to be with me, walks quietly around in the garden, is a bit of a pig if you phone or when I talk about you, treats me like a million Rand.
On Friday night I have to accompany Simone to Upington (Oh god!) and next Friday again; the wedding is on the 14th. Two weekends. Joys of motherhood.
André, André, do speak to Rob. He is sympathetically disposed towards you. I think he’d like it if you spoke to him. I know it.
And BE CAREFUL of women.
I can’t bear it that you have to be away. This letter writing. “De daad is proza, maar de klacht, de traan is poëzie.” And the writer? Piet Paaltjens. Letter-writing. It embarrasses me. God! You should have been here this evening – the castle is wonderfully homely, but so empty. My mother had a cricket for company at night. I’ll have to get myself something like that too.
Saw Lena today. She says W. says it’s “unbearable” at home, but she says she is often there and it’s not unbearable at all.
Beloved red pyjamas with horns. What will you do when I am overseas?
The last part of Orgie, I think (very tentatively) is better than the first – affecting, but where is the greeting, “hail tristesse”, at the end? I was giving it a quick read-through on Monday evening, when I was again held up by guests. Now I am (like [Louis] Hiemstra) going through the whole thing carefully and systematically, with notes. I’m thinking and half feeling my way around everything. Thank you for your thoughtful notes. I’m not so stupid!
I’m glad you are now happy again. Sunday (at the beach) I went through everything so carefully, details, also the horrible ones, but there was an intense “atmosphere” of presence – as W.E.G. Louw would say.
Uys was SICK. He told everyone (in detail) how many times and also how he threw up. But he’s better again now. Jan and Marjorie have gone on holiday. Chris sends loving regards; he’s writing to you – the lazy thing! Hiemstra says you’re a “fantastic person”. He says it so inquisitively and then looks at me, so sweet.
And you, read Éluard page 184. (Revelations …). And you, lovely and preciously fierce you, my André Phillipus Brink (did you see your review of Caesar in Die Burger?).
André Brink, I carefully draw a cross on your forehead, André Brink, I call you by your name, you I love with a love broader than the Limpopo (or does that sound funny??).
Good night, sweet prince.
In happy love,
Your Cocoon.
{PS: My ear is sore. IJ}
Grahamstown
Saturday morning, 7 December 1963
My Cocoon,
My rebellious but compliant, restful but passionate, laughing but despondent, unemployed but hardworking collection of paradoxes; my angel and succubus, virgin and bitch: hello!
Salutations from the morning, with its fragrance of soft rain and gleam of a pale sun.
“The ups and downs of love”! – after our phone conversation the night before last I felt depressed and dispirited. It was one of those hide-and-seek routines (“Oh, where are you, where are you?”). Mischievous little thing, with all your accusations, grudges, and provocations. And the damned intrusive exchange operators at the end.
But yesterday morning your dear, sleepy letter arrived here, and I could hear your drowsy voice and guess at the lazy movements of your hands and your body as you surrendered to rest, to the little bed at the window.
(Are there still so many flies early in the morning?
Are you still so beautiful?
Are you still as wonderful as ever, girlie?
Is the castle still a little refuge?)
I’m glad that you’re finally free – or will be in a day or two – of the monotonous job. But I�
��m concerned about your itinerant condition, my splendidly rich, dirt-poor little wanderer. Let me know if you need material help, whether a lot or a little.
I’m feeling calm and whole this morning. I’ve been lurching from pillar to post in the last while. And I’m no longer enjoying translating Die Ambassadeur. I need to find something else to whet my appetite. I have a huge amount of work to do during the holidays, not least preparing for two honours courses (literary theory, and modern Dutch prose); these are courses I didn’t ever take myself. The prose especially is taxing – these people all produced such long novels, and wrote so much!
My plan is to leave here for Potch on the 19th. You can therefore send letters to me at this address until Monday morning the 16th.
Tonight there’s a dinner at Frieda’s place; a whole bunch of people getting together for one last time before we all go our different ways. Should I give her your address? She’s leaving for the Cape on Monday and she’ll be there for a month. I wish I could also come to you that soon, for Christmas.
Will you be at Anne’s wedding tonight? And how will you get there? Oh, damn! I’ve just realised it’s next Saturday. (Why did they have their wedding invitations printed in English?)
I’m looking forward to Bartho and company tomorrow night; I want to show him Orgie. The “salutation” at the end will be there. And please send me a complete list of your objections, because it’s our story, and it mustn’t be half-baked.
Hopefully I’ll write again this weekend. Just know that I love you. I know you’re feeling restless about not having work right now, but I’m very much with you, a huge bit; and I love you and everything that’s in you, for your name – Ingrid, pure, beautiful; Cocoon, deep, penetrable, safe, of the future –
Your André.
Sunday night, 8 December 1963
My dearest treasure, dear god, have I had people!
It seems everyone likes Castella very much – yesterday one of Uys’s cousins was here from two till ten and I couldn’t get to anything. Don’t worry, jealous, he doesn’t appeal to me at all! At least he helped me move my stuff from the hotel; unfortunately the clothes are just GONE, but I could at least save some of my books. Thank you for your Thursday evening surprise – I told you, didn’t I, it was a mess at work, I sent them ten complaints and didn’t go to work on Friday. So maybe things will be better tomorrow. It is truly fantastic that they really think they’ll succeed in making a THING of me. I haven’t yet been able to get hold of Johan [Cilliers] (who called) – maybe I should accept his proposal; for the time being … because everything here is becoming more uncertain and temporary for me now, since the big possibility of going overseas has sunk in. Marking time. It’d really be a great experience. And I want to make it all worthwhile – it’s a responsibility. I may not disappoint anyone – and must simply read and write a lot – with the grace of God.
Flame in the Snow Page 29
