Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
My darling André, if there’s anything I still believe in, then it is your purity and singularity. And that’s actually fully sufficient. About Estelle’s not-knowing – I still think the same – I would certainly know … because I really don’t believe you’re a good actor. Every writer has a little touch of it – but in general they’re pretty clumsy in practice. Still – maybe – you’re right. Another person’s ways are a mystery to me …
Walked home quickly to come and write to you – I now walk there and back over the beautiful hill behind here – in the morning, especially, it’s lovely. (Oh yes, ray of light yesterday afternoon – apart from your letter – did you see the portrait of Brigitte on the front page of Huisgenoot?) Evenings, mostly: reading Stroomgebied – about every third poem has something, an image or thought, or atmosphere, or everything. And I want to talk to you about everything. Have you for instance read this lovely little thing by Hetty van Waalwijk: “Poesje”:
Geef mij terug
alles wat ik had
mijn tien talenten
mijn geluk en mijn onschuld en mijn witte poesje
en mijn revolwer en mijn groene wereld
en vooral mijn pop
die pop met het domme poppengezicht – en geef me dan ook mijn duikelaartje
en mijn witte poesje
en mijn schommel tussen die perebomen
perebomen waar appels aan kwamen en kersen
en aardbeien
bomen vol aardbeien
en al mijn boeken en mijn kleren
en al die mensen waar ik van hield
en mijn grootmoeders die liedjies met me zangen
liedjies over kleine witte poesjes
met witte pootjes
en witte nageltjes
maar die kan je nooit zien … en mijn hockeystick en mijn raket
en mijn witte poesje
heel klein en heel wit
het mag bij me in bed slapen
en ik zal het elke dag borselen
en verszorgen en eten en drinken geven
het mag drinken aan mijn eijen borst
het kleine witte poesje dat ik nooit gehab heb
This Dutch tenderness, or maybe fifties-generation tenderness?
My dearest André, I would so much love to read and experience everything with you; and I have so much to learn from you. Why can’t you just come and live here always, in the little house I drew – I am so often there with you! And that gives me a brilliant idea. Tomorrow I’ll place an advert in the newspaper – then we’ll go and stay in a place like that for the time that you are here. Somewhere in the Malay Quarter … or I’ll ask Chris to take me there, and find out whether there isn’t a pretty, clean little place like that which is currently vacant …? It would be wonderful! If we have to find a place like the Cederwood again, I’m not staying. Although, the Sunday evening there – and especially the walk – stays with me as something absolutely unique. Especially a “belonging” to you – which has nothing to do with our husbanded and wifed – why? This here, my darling, is going to be our best being here.
I know you now. And I know you as: loving, lavish, friendly, tender, impatient, passionate, teasing, precious, refined. All I want in addition to that is a pretty pretty dress, and I’ll wait till you are here so that we can choose one together. This time it’s going to be summer, summer, summer, and you must remember to bring your new bathing suit and especially the red pyjamas, and also the striped pyjamas – and then of course there’ll be Die Ambassadeur with the most beautiful dedication – and your photos – shall I lend my big one to Nasionale Boekhandel? – in the windows. By then I’ll be suntanned and my hair will be nicely cut. On condition that you won’t have had yours cut or cut it yourself for two weeks. I know it’s a helluva sacrifice, but I want it to be long. And then the other “visitor” won’t be here in my house of love. Because I love you and if you carry on talking, because I can hear your beloved voice and your little laugh, I’m going to phone you right away.
Your darling, darling,
Cocoon.
PS: It’s too early to phone (seven o’clock). From when till when may I do so? Probably not before eight. Wanted to include a nice poem, but my eye’s been caught by a Lucebert, which for my sensibilities is a little obscene: “In de diepte en onder zwijgzaamheid / trekken toekomstige handen naar / het werk aan waters en aan de wortel.”
Better, darling: “Hoor dan uw handen, haast dan uw hartslag / Ik ben een donkere droom in de zon.”
Ingrid Jonker.
Andrew: L. Andreas, Fr. André, It. Andrea, Sp. Andres, Ger. D. Andreas, Rus. Andrei, Gr. Ανδρέας, from ανδρεπής “manly”. The name of the first disciple called by Jesus, the brother of Simon Peter, and patron saint of Scotland and Russia.
Nicola, Nicolette: – from Nicolas – “the people”, St Nicholas, Bishop of Myra c. 300, is regarded as the patron saint of children, sailors and wolves, and was much venerated in both Eastern and Western Churches.
Deirdre (f), the name of the heroine of The Sons of Usnach, one of the Three Sorrowful Tales of Erin, the subject of many plays and poems by modern Fr. poets.
Ingrid (f), an O Norse name of which the first element is from the hero-name Ingri and the second rida “ride”(!). Ingirith is found in England in the 13th c. “blonde, clean”.
{PS: And then I forgot to tell you how much I enjoyed your satirical piece! Bravo! And for that arrangement with the Swedish newspaper and your Ward – thank you.}
Grahamstown
Friday, 18 October 1963
My delicious, always-new Cocoon,
Ever since receiving your tender, enchanting letter this morning, I’ve been wanting to write, but I first had to make notes about “the novel in the twentieth century”, and then go through this afternoon’s lecture on Tristia. After that, Anton came running into my study, chasing a blowfly, and we started playing together. He has a smell all of his own: a mixture of earth, warm grass, strawberries, Marmite and pee.
Thank you for the superb letter. If the result is a letter of this quality, it’s almost worth the long wait. Divine little fire of my loins, whose glow reaches the furthest corners. “Ik heb u lief als droomen in de nacht.” And I want to weave myself permanently into your dream cocoon. Thank you also for the dream house, with its three small beds in a row, the table and desks arranged so prettily next to each other, and the seclusion of our huge bed. You’ve forgotten just two practical things: the big bath, and the toilet. Especially you, who runs barefoot into the rain every 2½ minutes to empty your minuscule little bladder!
Last night’s chat was lovely, you with your beloved, sleepy voice that woke up ever so slowly; then I could hop back with you to your castle – sleeping beauty – and get into the rumpled bed with you, languid and warm and full of the fragrance of your mystical girl-ness. And sleep in you, and then sleep with you, with your warm little bum against my tummy, and everything pleasantly moist.
Child, child I am happy about you, happy to be at your side, happy to be with you. I’m working so wonderfully on our Orgie. In yesterday’s piece I wrote a litany for the lost child. It goes like this:
li
ta
nie
kyrie eleison
lam
tie
tie
dam
tie
tie
doe
doe
my
lief
ste
tjie
It’s wonderful to go mad (but responsibly mad!) with typography. All the more reason why I shouldn’t be overhasty … even though it could mean R2 000! But you’re right, my darling, of course, it must get finished now and then go and incubate in a dark drawer; and ripen; and then be revised mercile
ssly – but with love. I’m now on page 33. Today I’m resting a little (thus: resting from this project, doing other things instead) so that I can get everything set for the next episode (the first evening and the first night).
I’ve been steeping myself in Eliot and reading Cees Nooteboom (young Romantic poet from Holland). And perhaps after that, finally, I’ll read Anna Karenina.
Is your tape recorder working again?
I’m happy the court case is over. But I want to hear the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about the “contempt” business. Surely you know by now how inquisitive I am?
This afternoon you’re all going to Bellville together. I hope you enjoy the weekend, my child of light. Give Simone a kiss from me. I’m glad that perverted bastard has been caught. Has she shaken the whole business off? I was so upset, so angry and disturbed.
It seems Jan’s book [Mens-alleen] appeared yesterday; I’m likely to get my copy from Bartho on Monday. I’m looking foward to it.
Koos sent a telegram to say he’ll be sending the dust cover on Tuesday’s flight. Hold thumbs!
My own mine, just in case you want to punish me once more with silence: this one is a letter!
Never mind, I’m not angry. I have seen your frantic life at close quarters and I understand if you’re too tired or busy. Meanwhile, I love you continuously –
Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you
Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you
and the leaves to rustle for you, do my
words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.
With love, my Kontjie, my always-mine,
Your André.
PS: 1.Send my regards to Maggie, and tell her the white sheets will soon be laid down on the honeymoon bed (three weeks today the white Volksie will be whizzing along the open road –!).
2.Thank you for the picture of Anne and her “shock” about the“Bar”. With everything else, your grey job has at least some splashes of sun!
3.Love.
4.Love.
5.LOVE.
Grahamstown
Sunday night, 20 October 1963
Beloved as the earth,
This evening, actually after midnight six months ago, you became mine for the first time; we explored, discovered and came to know each other’s bodies in your little room, in the half-light falling through the window, from twelve-thirty to two and from four to five-thirty. Then, momentarily, there was no past, no history, no future – “the still point of the turning world”.
… Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
And now? Now the little centre in the dam has become a circle that includes everything, getting larger, more lovely, more precious, inescapable.
Child, mine, my gorgeous, my lovely. This weekend has been one of singularly acute longing, love, yearning and awareness. It was almost like walking into a magic circle where all wonders are possible, where the ground has been consecrated, where a Bush burns and burns and burns.
I dealt with the yearning by working on Orgie; I’m on page 44 now, just finished the “first night”. It’s occupying all my senses and intuition. (Do you realise that “sintuie” and “intuïsie” are made up of precisely the same letters? I’ve just disovered this now, for the first time. Material for a poem with subtle development from the outside in … right into the heart of the cocoon!)
Had supper with Frieda last night. There were some other very dear people there as well – and stimulating, satisfying conversation. However, throughout the evening I was also – in the midst of all the talk – in a world of my own that was sweet rather than unpleasant: a “smile in my calm heaven still”, as if I wanted to say, all the while: I know something that you don’t; I am in love with someone, a woman, a child whose feet make gentle contact with the earth, “and where you are, there must always be joy”. It was a kind of thumbing the nose at “ordinary” life, as if I were sitting in an ordinary room though looking out of a window onto a landscape of dazzling light and water. The host, a woman, a young artist (married, so don’t worry!) was wearing the same fragrance as you. (There, however, the similarity ended – it was just a little stimulus for my imagination and memory. That unique scent of yours, of smoke and sun and sea, of melancholy and happiness – that remains unrepeatable.)
Cocoon: I have never loved you as much as I do now. And it’s multiplying the way germs do! I have to count the days – 19 – the way I did when I was small: three weeks before my birthday, I’d put 21 stones in my wardrobe, tossing one out every day. (Some days, out of pure eagerness, I chucked two away – but this didn’t change anything!) I think I also had Nicolette play this game. Can’t quite remember.
I’m sending you another little cheque, since I got R9 from Bartho for a manuscript assessment. It’s just to help keep you alive! I have to get a move on with translating the second Simenon, so we can have some money to fuck around with when I come on the 8th!
Did your weekend turn out to be pleasant? Are you perhaps also sitting and writing to me right now? Or are you too tired and lazy – or maybe still with Simone?
I’m feeling a little anxious about a report that Dagbreek was supposed to run today about the interviews with Duval Smith. They got wind of it and phoned me yesterday, so I gave them the entire statement, just as I’d given it to him. They must just not go and give it a sensational twist as if I, and we, meant it in a traitorous manner. I still believe in “loyal resistance” (although, God knows, there’s almost nothing one dares be loyal to in this country!).
My tender, open, anemone darling: stay lovely, good and beautiful, and wait with patience and impatience, because I’m coming. Verse for today: Behold, the bridegroom cometh.
With all my love,
André.
Castella
Monday, 21 October 1963
Darling my André,
About two hours after the telephone call which couldn’t really go smoothly because old Muis [Levin] was in and out of the office, and the Dagbreek-slant. But thank you for your darling voice and laugh and for Anton’s in the background. At first I thought the phone call would also come to grief because it rang and rang and Muis doesn’t know how to manage the switchboard. These newspapermen – big human rats.
I so badly want to hear your tape (BBC) again, and I wonder what they’ll make of my conversation. And I wonder who went and informed about the programme – surely one has the right to speak intelligently about censorship …? But what the hell! I am so sick of the incessant intimidation, the whole situation in the country; and the newspapers, which are no platform for anyone because they always twist everything to fit in with their party politics; the recruitment to get someone into whatever kraal – sick, sick and tired and gatvol now … what does Jan say again, liefsteling?
I’ve loaned Lobolo out. I miss it. It is so you; but then, thank God, I still have Die Ambassadeur and all the others, but especially Die Ambassadeur of course. Our Ambassadeur, which will be ready at the end of the month – I really live to see it. (Afterword: Jack, oh God, is dedicating his latest book – as far as I last heard – to me.) I also find that touching – Saturday on the beach (my friend and Simone and I went to 3rd beach) and I, despite my intentions, walked over to 2nd – curious too – but Jack’s godchild, who is or was in love with him, was there – no, my André, I don’t think this friendship can erode any more – I will of course miss him terribly – in my loneliness he was, in his way, and in spite of everything, a pillar of strength – it’ll be uphill and a challenge, but here or there, the bright light of you and your love waits – and then always the reunion – that wonder in which everything is rediscovered. And I am not far away.
We will remain lovely and free, this time even more than usual, because now the slight feeling o
f guilt towards Jack and the fear, I am no longer “responsible” for him – he’s allowed me to cut myself off from him. Oh, it probably sounds terribly complicated, but you’ll understand. Words on paper. Telephone. Really rather inadequate, moesie-man?
And thank you for your lovely letter from Saturday and today’s which is a letter. But I know know know how despondent or helpless one can feel before such a white (paper).
My friend is here; asks whether I’ve not finished writing yet – there’s still so much to say, the court case – I’ll tell you when you get here, it’s such a long story; haven’t seen Jan’s book yet; the tape recorder not fixed yet – magtig! it’s one of my main “contacts”.
Oh, so Rob doesn’t think that Rook en Oker deserves the prize? He is of course quite correct; but what does he think of Mens-alleen? Or of Small’s? And I hope your cover design is okay. (Dust cover Willie Jordaan.) Chris and I will be eating out on Wednesday evening; but if you’re going to phone then we’ll go afterwards. He’s terribly busy with exam papers, that hell lies ahead for you now too.
My friend told me an inexplicable story about an African preacher on the Parade; he spits so much on everyone when he preaches that they stand around him in a wide circle and he shouts: “‘He who sitteth, shall be damned!’ says the Lord. Oh yes! ‘You can LIE, you can STAND, but if you SIT, you will go to hell,’ says GOD!” (What on earth …?) A lame old African then went and sat in the middle of the circle, took his shoes off, spat on his feet; the preacher says to him, dead normal: “Listen, man, you mustn’t sit here, this is a preaching place this,” and then, “He who sitteth, shall be DAMNED!” God, child, we must go and listen on Saturday the 9th. Maybe our love-madness sounds like this to the Bill de Klerks …
I miss you and I am completely dependent on you. And you are the most won-der-ful thing that has ever happened to me. I will make you feel good … joke. Be good, always mine. The reading for today: Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it spring the issues of life.
Flame in the Snow Page 24