Last night was another of those neverending nights of longing: lots of dreams that all, sooner or later, ended up in the little room in the castle with its beloved, knobbly bed; and many hours of lying awake, hands under my head, like that first night when I met you and you said “no” as if from a dizzy height (“André! We don’t even know each other!”); you even offered to bring me some milk to calm me down. Precious little devil!
I’ll be able to give you a call on Wednesday night after all; and I’ll see if I can phone on Thursday evening, too. Maybe you’ll be eating out somewhere, then? Here on this side, I’ll just have to go by the “law of simultaneity”, eat the bread and pour the wine and let you become flesh and blood from that.
Luckily the weekend was not quite the desert it so often is. I worked on Saturday – work-work-worked until late on Saturday night; Sunday morning a few friends dropped in; and in the afternoon I played chef for my evening guests. Two invitees: Frieda [le Grange], about whom you already know, and a young artist, head of the art school here – slightly effeminate but very sincere in his thinking. At least it gave me an opportunity to have some conversation, something I need very badly. (For chlorophyll one has to search both earth and air, says Eybers!)
To be with you, drink wine devoutly and with love, converse, genuinely communicating, to take a bath, kiss your leucodendron, fuck until we’re out of breath, and then finally just lie together quietly, deeply happy, chatting lazily, just being together, finding complete identification even in our sleep, van alleenzijn langzaam te genesen. Ach, du … du!
One of these days it will be like that again. Soon I’ll be with you. We’ll go stay somewhere, far from the madding crowd, just me and you, just the two of us. Drink Martinis. And laugh a lot. And be very much in love. The moment I hear from Koos I’ll let you know immediately.
I almost found myself having to review Rook en Oker for 60. In fact, it’s still a possibility. Bartho phoned to say I must send reviews of Man in die Middel [Man in the Middle] (Chris B.), Skepsels [Creatures] (Dolf v. N. [van Niekerk]) and Rook en Oker (Ingrid Jonker) “on the double”. Naturally, I was especilly excited about yours. But then I thought: your work deserves a discussion that no one dares think won’t be objective; you and I will know, and Bartho too, that I would never write anything about Rook en Oker that isn’t honest. But precisely because I attach so much value to it, all those “readers” who know about us will immediately think: this isn’t a review, it’s just a “write-up”. So I asked him if there wasn’t an alternative option. If not, I’ll do it anyway – and to hell with suspicious readers.
The “new” edition’s paper does indeed look quite beautiful; it’s now almost two times thicker than before! My own copy, though, was poorly bound, with an ugly fold across the cloth – but hopefully that’s an exception. And then, unbelievably, I found another two printing errors: the white space between the title and the first line on page three and page seven is quite a bit smaller than elsewhere. But it’s unlikely Bartho will yet again have it re-set! “Ordinary” readers are unlikely to notice it, either. I just hope, my love, that it sells many copies, quickly. And I hope the Dutch embassy is deeply impressed with it. (You must start making moves to get an identity card with a view to a passport!)
I’m making slow progress on Orgie. I’ve got as far as page twelve. In a day or two I’ll retype the part you haven’t seen yet and post it off. Gradually more and more possibilities, complexities and subtleties are beginning to emerge. Precisely because it’s our work, it has to be good. For that reason I’m in no hurry, and even when it’s done, I’m going to let it be for a good few months before sending it to Bartho. They asked for a fragment, at this stage, to publish in 60, but I want to keep it for just us until it comes out. The technique’s in any case such that one should rather not publish it piecemeal.
I’m also sending your “Ou Perd” [“Old Horse”] to Bartho! And a few of my own new poems that I sent you last week.
This letter has become rather lengthy after all! I must go now so I can catch the post. Today there should be one from you. There must be. Naughty, precious little cocoon who doesn’t ever write!
And for the 19th (and the 23rd!): my precious darling, I want this day and this year to be one of universal light, universal purity, a departure from drabness and tristesse.
Goodbye for now, my virginal woman, my free person who “pours drink like Bacchus / freely splashing the acanthus”: greetings with love, tenderness and many wishes; and with much longing. Arrange your beloved feathers, and also the little chick’s. And on the night of the 19th we will sleep, apart, together.
Your André.
Castella
Tuesday, 17 September 1963
My poor dearest neglected man!
It feels like an eternity since I last wrote to you – and every damned time I have a chance something happens or people arrive – it’s twelve o’clock already and I am terribly tired – thank you for your letter and the first part of Orgie – which I don’t completely understand but which I find exciting anyway – is that long dedication personal or is it going to be part of the story? Sunday morning walked to Chris and told him about it – on Saturday evening he had a performance and did the piece out of Pot-Pourri – you probably want to know about it – I half-expected him to come and fetch me but he must have decided against it and on Sunday morning he was very sorry, because apparently it had gone well; he says you really are a big man!
Darling André! I was so MAD when I couldn’t reach you tonight; and now I have to write in a hurry again because I’m going to scream from exhaustion – you see, my sister and I decided that Simone will now go to her instead of crèche; then I pay her, and then I go and see them every evening after work, or otherwise every second night and fetch her for weekends, because she is still exhausted from measles, and needs a lot of rest. Tonight I wanted to leave early so that I could come and write; my brother-in-law walked with me, and was on the point of leaving when Jan and Marjorie arrived; and then he began chatting! And now – now it is so late again and “I want to go to sleep”. But when we talk again (after the call on Thursday) we’ll be talking to one another, and seeing.
Friday evening I told Uys about us ever so vaguely – because everything upsets him so much (seems to me he is mostly afraid that I will “take” Jack “away” from him – although he says that’s rubbish!). But I had to scold him because I’d heard that he’d had an infantile conversation with Bill de Klerk about us – God! And during this conversation (between me and Uys) Jack went to sleep, with the Bible, and looked so bladdy defenceless; and I said to Uys, I feel sad about him, which he then conveyed to Jack and translated as “pity”, about which there was a little quarrel on Sunday – André, André! All I want is to be pure and clean and turned inwards, to live without explanations and just bring this tiny bit of softness and closeness to the people I love, that’s all that is left! And then to be left in peace!
Saturday afternoon on the bus to Clifton with the beautiful sunny sea on the side – terrible me so guilty and unpoetic, a despondent “we are all long since past grief” – “laat alles in sy donneg val” or “let God’s water run over God’s acre”. And think “love of the beloved brown eyes” and say: God, no! no! “Above all else, guard your heart.” Today’s reading. In other words, I must keep and save you and myself with you. Treasures, grace, purity. Because I feel despondent and tired. Because I love Jack and I love you, and I can see the end of everything; and I’m going overseas (but it seems that might also be derailed, because Piet would never give permission now to take Simone out of the country, and if I leave her with him it might be a mess when I get back). Sorry, this letter probably sounds desperate to you again, but actually it’s not – just too tired to think; to create order out of the chaos, and so, death of the poet.
But I know everything will become clear and pure again – let me count your moesies just one more time, my distant, dear stranger. Because dear you are, preci
ous and fine and bountiful; I miss you but cannot imagine at all that you will be here within a week. And maybe Friday. In three days. No, I simply can’t believe it. John Malherbe once asked with a worried scrunched-up face: “How do you feel?” and now I ask you, far away in your house with your garden, with your “significant love” and your amazing diligence. Dearest André! We’re alive! At the moment in angst, but thank God in the midst of or at the centre of this pitiless life, so delicate and intricate, but so real. And by the time you get my letter, you’ll almost be here, physical and true, and buttressed with love, with misfortune, with fear, with tenderness, with indulgence, with burdens, with joy, with purity, with dividedness. And then I’m going to count your moesies as a challenge to nothingness.
Thank you for you. Your dearest Cocoon. My dearest man,
Cocoon, cocoon, con.
PS: The “police spy” was arrested this morning for sabotage. God god god! Suspicion. And again suspicion – perhaps – forgive us – a ploy on the part of the police?
You, my little treasure, must sleep well, and as you once said, stay with me tonight. I call you by name; you are mine. We who always seek meaning (our sentence?) must perhaps try not to for a while, just remain soft. “Als een gele foto liggend in het water.” Glad to be alive; reality is beautiful.
Dearest man! Good night, and tomorrow, good morning, beautiful and attentive, desperately enchanted!
Your (very small),
Cocoon.
Grahamstown
Tuesday, 17 September 1963
Dearest,
Today I’m really writing no more than a rushed little note, because you should at least get a letter on your 29th birthday. All this scrambling and rushing all over the place just to get through the daily routine. You, in fact, experience this far more than I do. It still astounds me that you’ve been able to hold out so long, epecially at Citadel.
I had a really awful afternoon yesterday. I can remember only one other day that was quite this bad – when I rode over a frog in front of the garage, and was depressed about it for a week. Yesterday I had a hell of a fight with the gardener because he told me a bunch of lies – and then he offered me his “notice”. I’m fond of him and he’s fond of me and the garden needs him, so what now, dammit?
Watched Guy Butler’s Everyman last night – a very baroque, sensational version of Middle Age simplicity. I had to write a damn review for a PE newspaper, knowing that they’re going on tour and that a bad review could put at risk the R1 000 they’ve incurred in expenses. So I ended up fine-tuning the piece until one in the morning, trying to be honest without being mean.
This afternoon at five the Englishman with the double-barrelled surname’s coming around for a chat [Duval Smith] – the one who visited you. I’m looking forward to meeting him, just because – silly, I know – it’s a link to you. Otherwise I’d rather be working on the novella. We should in fact be writing it together: you scripting your parts, and me mine! It’s as far as page 15 now and I’m busy with your palm-reading at the Clifton Hotel and the prelude to that first night, “so safe and still …”
There was just one highlight yesterday: a gorgeous picture of Brigitte Bardot in Paris Match. Along with the discovery that she strikes me as beautiful because she has something of your lovely smile. In the photo at least.
I’m still waiting for the colour prints. The nightie photos came out badly – one of them almost okay, but nothing much to speak of. I’ll bring them with me, one of these fine days.
And now, child of mine, I wish you a happy birthday full of joy; be assured of the serenity of my love, the whole day long and always: while you’re doing your grey work; during lunch with Mrs Bouws (?); then, in the jam-packed bus; and finally in the little castle whose every little detail I can see before my eyes. When you go to sleep, with me, lie still and close your eyes and listen, and feel, knowing that – and how – I hail every part of you, with love, earnestness and play; and how, when I’m done with my greetings, I open you up softly and penetrate you very deeply, and stay there, and come, and leave you with secrets and tenderness and wonder, and a generous laugh of joy. Then I kiss your lovely eyes and you fall asleep, and the two of us are mystifyingly happy.
With love,
Your André.
I’ve enclosed a little cheque, as promised.
Grahamstown
Friday, 20 September 1963
Dearest lovely Cocoon,
I greet you from the splendid lazy warmth of this day, my sweet-faced cherub!
Thank you for your beautiful midnight letter.
Thank you for the joy of last night’s conversation, which was a discovery – after the frustration of Wednesday night’s call.
So, you were very tired, lazy and sleepy this morning? Did you go to bed very late last night?
And, this weekend, you’re going to do some pleasant child-minding with your two lovely little girls?
I’m sending you a few pages of Orgie – many of them are in an elementary state and still need a lot of work: it’s just to keep you more-or-less up to date with the novella’s progress. I’m also sending a “guide” to the references, and a short summary of the whole “story”, because you wouldn’t otherwise find much unity in it, especially reading it piecemeal over a long period. After this morning’s letter I’m especially eager to get back to it, but I must first complete Bartho’s Simenon before getting back to you; there are also a whole lot of other little tasks to be done.
And then Friday week I’ll be there! As I said last night, I should arrive by six. The two of us can either go somewhere, or stay over for the night and disappear on Saturday. Let’s see how the “spirit takes us”.
Meanwhile I’m sending you the colour pictures, which finally arrived this morning. I had only the best six printed, because they cost almost R1 a piece and the others aren’t worth the price. Maybe we can take a few nice black-and-white “proofs” this time!
That damn Uys! It’s a great pity, and it’s upsetting that he – of all people – should behave in this manner. What did he actually tell Bill (and therefore: the whole world plus all of Johannesburg)? And what did you say to him about us?
Does your shirt fit? The underpants are surely much too big for your little bum. Now you’ve got a fly, too – not an “inessential” one like that first night in your lovely, spotless little white pyjamas.
This has been a mad week, what with going out to see Everyman, Alec Guinness’s Last Holiday and also The Bridge on the River Kwai, plus the huge amount of time that the BBC came and wasted here. My heaps of marking have rudely stacked up, and I’ll have to work like a slave during my few days of holiday. But then I’ll be coming down to rest with you over the weekend before digging into the proofs (the worst work in the world … as if you don’t know!).
This afternoon I’d have loved to make a leisurely tape for you, but now I’ve got an honours seminar from three to five, and after that I won’t be alone any more, because then the servant will be gone and I’ll have to take over with Anton.
I won’t be able to phone next week, because it’s holidays and Estelle won’t be working at night. But our arrangements are all settled and of course I’ll still write. You too, please! Beloved, neglectful little thing who is always forgiven for everything so easily, and so readily.
Last night I slept with you. Longing, longing and more longing. But we can start counting the days now. Strange that I’ve chosen my time in this way (if one can talk about “choosing”, that is): if you follow the pattern of the past five months, then your cycle begins again on the 25th. Don’t get sick this time! I love you, my own, my Ingrid, my you,
Your André.
Castella
Monday, 23 September 1963
Darling my André,
To congratulate you on your success in the Netherlands, bravo! And on top of this, I am going to brag about you over there. To say thank you for your letter and the beautiful colour photos and the second part of the love
ly, reckless, fateful Orgie – “I” just want some more dignity! Did I really express all that fury during our palm-reading?
And thank you for the two telegrams, my generous darling! My 2nd birthday quiet, with a mad Simone-visit and children’s stories, with my brother-in-law saying, “You know why your ol’ man won’t come here? Because if he had to come he would come in here bleeding and on his knees …” Oh, God! And thank you, darling, darling, for your review of Rook en Oker; of course I do feel that you are prejudiced; you can take out that bit about “Anglicisms” because they’re there as an indicator of the times, and are no more “inferior” than a quote from the French or whatever; in this respect we Afrikaners really have to stop feeling inferior to the English! Uys thinks it’s a kind review (we’re great pals now!); but he thinks you should rather take one or two poems and give a sober analysis of them instead of trying to give an overview within the space available to you. Maybe … maybe.
Rainy night last night; party Saturday evening; sleep Friday evening. Thursday (the first birthday) was a delight! And child, the photos, especially the one of you; transported me back to you – your darling smile and dimples. I just want to say good night. “To the sadness at the source of your valiant joy”, to the moesies and the hands and the come come, hell! Goodnight, “who has said night …”
Till Friday, with pure tenderness and love,
Cocoon.
Monday night, 23 September 1963
Dearest, lovable, beloved Cocoon,
So, did you have your second birthday today? This must have been such a wonderful thing in your childhood. Childhood? Isn’t one always a child?! My own, my own guapa (before you get suspicious, that’s Spanish for “cute thing”).
If I could just talk like you – and I really want to – then tonight I’d have to say: I am absolutely the happiest.
Because:
Now, in just four nights’ time, I won’t be sleeping alone. In just four nights I’ll be with the most divine, precious person I know.
Flame in the Snow Page 21