Child, do you know what? That bladdy Maggie threw the sponge away. I was quite upset about it. She probably thinks I’m mad to go on about something like that. And you know what else? My tape recorder is working again – and this week I’m going to make you a recording of Éluard poems. Thank you for you, darling! So, have you been walking around with this dagger of memory the whole time? And are you in the study now and how did it all work out? Write to me about it. And when are you going to Potch? Can I send you some money?
It’s cool here, was a beautiful weekend for going up the mountain, but my pals are all so lazy, and I can’t go alone. So Simone has gone; and next Friday I follow her.
Bambi said she saw you at the Sea Point Pavilion – having tea. She said you were wearing your rust-brown shirt – remember, you wore it often last time, my beautiful thing. She says you were sitting looking at the sea. But she wasn’t certain it was you. Was it?
I’ve only now read Eric van Dyk’s stupid little piece about Die Ambassadeur in the Argus – I’m including it in case you haven’t seen it. He is the stupidest I have ever come across in a daily – and he’s been writing for them for years. Everything on the same six-year-old intellectual level.
Listened to your last tape again. Listened again to your “Groet in Bruin”. Perhaps in a forlorn effort to bring you into the flat. Everything looks so uncertain and vague – like the harbour in the thick mist outside – and here – the silence. “I no longer want to sleep alone.” And this:
Ek het die mag om te bestaan sonder noodlot
Tussen ryp en dou tussen vergetelheid en teenwoordigheid
…
Koelte warmte hulle raak my nie
Ek sal die beeld van myself wat jy my bied
Laat voortreis deur jou begeertes heen
My gelaat het net een ster
…
Ek bly in my eie blare
Ek bly my eie spieël
Ek meng sneeu met vuur
My klippers het my soetheid
En my seisoen is ewig.
Dear, beloved lonely André. It must be terrible to live there like that without communication. Patience! I think of you constantly “like a lamb looking for me”. (That’s from my “drama”, do you still remember?) (How dare Eric van Dyk use your beautiful sensitive face next to his piece of banality …!) This “thinking” of someone – it’s actually funny, because “think” isn’t the right word, it’s mostly just a vague presence. You say you’re doing nothing, I’m glad you’re doing nothing, but then you must REST and relax, and go and play tennis or something. You MUSTN’T work so much – I know the translation – and it is indeed a big job – must use up a lot of energy – but apart from that you must do nothing, can’t you understand that you are tired?
Apart from your work and translations and writing – there’s all the other emotional stuff – here as well as there. And it’s been like that all year. “Now you must sleep, my tender, beloved child …”
With tenderness, with longing,
With love,
Cocoon.
Castella (untidy)
Wessels Street (windy)
Cape Town (empty)
Tuesday, 9 December 1963 (sick)
Dearest little-old heart,
Thank you for your letter of a moment ago – if you hadn’t annoyed me in it, I probably wouldn’t have written again tonight! Horrible child with an ugly jersey! In the telephone call I didn’t “accuse” you at all – all I said (that I can remember) is that it is out of a feeling of lovelessness that one commits suicide. And that you must have felt that way that Tuesday. I know, after all. And I often feel that way, you or no you, Simone or no Simone. But it passes again. I didn’t mean that you were feeling specifically loveless towards me, and this you surely feel at times, otherwise you wouldn’t be human! And of course I also wanted to scold you about that, because that letter upset me so much more than all that other “misery” in the previous one which was tormenting you so! Because you are PRECIOUS. What else did I say, André? I’m sorry about it in any case, but didn’t actually mean anything, otherwise I would have remembered it exactly. (And on top of that maybe THOUGHT UP.) But Thursday was a TERRIBLE day at the grey pit, and then Bambi came for a drink and I was too tired to eat. See? So I told the old lot that I’ll stay on a while, in case I don’t get that money. That in itself would make me jobless for a week. Everything went fairly well today and we were given (as a favour) a fictional work to read about a decomposing body.
What makes me despondent at the moment is purely and simply physical. Everything infected, sore-ish: the sensitive membranes: eyes, mouth, bladder, ears, the canal. God knows why. Headache. Fever. Nothing too bad. Just there. This started creeping up on me yesterday. I just wish it would get a little worse, then I won’t have to go to work tomorrow.
You people in the North really dawdle.
Child! Darling! What’s going to happen? How are things with your precious little soul? (Read S.)
I was lying on the beach yesterday and I said to Uys: “I have a secret.”
His eyes swivelled away from the sea in a wide arc – I wish you could have seen the display then! Later on he even threatened me. “André?” “No.” “Jack?” “No.” “Jan?” “No.” “Then why do you look so happy if it has nothing to do with you?” Etc. Etc. But I didn’t tell him. Mean! (Commentary on my feeling for others, hey?) But it was absolutely worthwhile. Oh yes, and he wants to know which five Afrikaans books you regard as best. Prose. And except for your own.
Dearest darling, I am not accusing you of anything. You are human. Just with MORE of everything. And like me.
Love, darling,
Cocoon.
PS: I am afraid of Frieda. I.
PPS: Your medicine – “The Mixture – One tablespoon every four hours. SP. 30. 55c. Brink 91 – 95 High St Grahamstown” – it says here. It makes me miss you desperately. I.
{PS: Why do you now always write to Castella? IJ.
Finale: I’ve just re-read my letter with great delight. We should have gone to the 191 tonight. But right now my eyes are really red!}
Grahamstown
Wednesday, 11 December 1963
My darling,
I just hope this letter gets to you before you go off to Upington. (Are you going by train?) You’re likely to feel very neglected this week; especially now, when you’ll be experiencing the inevitable reaction to giving up your job, I should have been more attentive, instead of curling up into my own ball of misery. (Do you know where the word “ellende” [“misery”] comes from? Ali landi, cf. “alien land” in English; thus a kind of outcast-in-strange-lands …)
It was, and is, “most kak” here. Daily strife, growing distance, stiffness, desolation, guilt, responsibility for Anton, and my longing for you, my need for you. This morning it led to a long, honest conversation without any euphemisms, emotion or evasion. The question, on both sides, was whether there was any sense in staying together simply for the sake of keeping things the way they are. And the inevitable answer, also mutual, was No. At the moment the sticking point is whether Anton’s future should weigh most heavily; also: what will, and can, that future be? But, believe me, my darling, I know this holiday – terrible as it’s going to be – will result in a crystallisation. Please just trust me in the fullness of love, and stay true yourself. In you my entire happiness rests.
What a year this has been. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this ex-hausted. It brought the greatest, most complete happiness and enchantment I have ever known, but also the worst hell; it was my most creative year ever, and also the most sterile. Still, I wouldn’t want it any other way. “Misschien zullen wij nu beter kunnen leven en volkomener.” One grows sadder and wiser.
Bartho and company were here on Sunday night, dog-tired but in high spirits, and the conversation was wonderful. He is excited about Orgie, and it seems they’re going to enjoy the experimentation with typography.
The Paul Kruger biography has ap
peared. To my surprise, Bartho said it’s brilliant. Rob hasn’t received his copy yet, but I’ll check with him regularly and let you know the moment I hear anything. I’ll be holding thumbs hard for Rook en Oker. Apparently there’s no second publication on its way, it’s just the biography. Bartho says he’d be happier if a prose work or poetry got the prize rather than something like biography. When I saw him, he hadn’t yet seen Rob and therefore didn’t know about Rook en Oker.
The prize, by the way, will be awarded only in March, although the winner will of course know what’s what before the time. The award will apparently be made just after the CNA Prize. If a miracle occurs and the two of us make the “grand slam”, we might be able to arrange things so we’re both in Jhb for the prizes at the same time. Dream, dream … But I don’t hold out much hope with the current prize committee, even though I’m convinced Dolosse is nowhere near Opperman’s best work. We shall see. It’s just such a long time to wait.
Everyone’s left for the holidays and Grahamstown feels quite abandoned. I’m working like a mule on Die Ambassadeur’s translation, but it’s very slow going. The result, though, will hopefully be good. If it ever became a bestseller overseas, we could emigrate to a place like France or Spain or Italy and buy ourselves a little fisherman’s cottage (or a small Medieval castle, like Durrell?) and then live with our band of children, happily ever after.
What would we humans do if we couldn’t dream? Where would I run away to if I didn’t have you? [Anton] Chekhov wrote: “He who is afraid of loneliness should not marry.” It’s true, now. But “until eternity, thank God for you”.
Be good, my little child, my Cocoon, be bright and whole. Wait for me in purity. I’m coming.
I love you dazzlingly,
Your André.
Grahamstown
Friday, 13 December 1963
Beloved, indispensable Cocoon,
I’m tired, my girl. These days I have to work non-stop until eleven at night or even later, and then, on days like today, when Anton’s teething makes him fretful and he wants to get up at five, Estelle says she’s “tired” (from reading Femina?). Then I have to jump out of bed and look after him until the servant comes in at nine.
But I don’t want to complain today. I have used your red jersey to protect myself from the world, as I do nearly every day, isolated here in my study. I am complete, and I’m with you. Today I feel especially close to you. Do you have any idea how much your beautiful letters mean to me? Any notion of the extent to which I live in gratitude for you every day? Do you understand, my lovely, beloved one, how much I love you, and that my love is growing bigger, more mature, more tender and passionate by the minute?
Today you’re embarking on the long journey to Upington. Try not to get too tired. Enjoy it and be happy. Are you still feeling ill? How are all the parts that were feeling sore? A kiss for each: the little nose and the cheeky ears and the sweet, naughty mouth, and the deep, enchanting little cocoon, all of it. I was very worried about you; it all sounds so wretched, and you need to be healthy.
How did you manage to get your things from the hotel? With Bartho’s advance? You should have given them hell about the lost clothes. I’m happy about the books. And where is the swallow’s nest picture? Will you send it to me? Immediately?
Thank you for the Argus clipping, which indeed I hadn’t yet seen. Quite a shock. “Disgusting.” It makes one feel so despondent when they take a thing apart like this – undoubtedly with good intentions! – reducing it to repulsive pettiness. “The secretary flirts, among others, with the ambassador’s wife. He, in turn, flirts …” God! And: “The ambassador can do no better than catch him out on ‘undiplomatic behaviour’ …” God Almighty, he didn’t even read what’s written there. Why do such things still upset one so much? It’s undignified.
In the meantime, I’m translating. Finishing off the “Chronicle” section today. (Do you see how much still lies ahead? I want to have it finished before New Year’s Eve, otherwise I’ll be in a tight situation with my impossibly heavy workload during the so-called “vacation” (dark gallows humour).) The friend I’m giving it to, Ron Ayling (actually, his wife, Janet – she was the first “model” for Nicolette’s outer form – without her knowing it) said yesterday: Can’t I go a little faster? They can’t wait to receive each day’s batch of pages – so much so that they’re fighting to read it first! You once observed, and with such accuracy, that our ridiculous little egos so desperately need this kind of vanity!
My own, my one, mine, unnameable, irremovably mine – how divinely happy I feel about this year, a year that grafted you onto my life, that taught what it means to be human (with growth pains and birth pains, but also with ecstasy and with heartfelt gratitude). “I can’t summarise it, neither a lifetime nor a conversation …” But my year, our year, nevertheless has a magic formula, an “Open Sesame” that revealed the treasure in the cave (the location of the treasure remains a secret!): and the formula consists of two sweet words: Ingrid Jonker. Strange, strange, my child. Previously this name simply represented two neutral words on the white cover of a slim little volume of poetry, and sometimes a tiny headline in the Sunday Times. And if I thought about it, it called up the image of a “lady” – civilised and rebellious – of about 35 or so, wearing glasses, and with longish feet.
And then: (listen, child, listen) then a young girl arrived in Jan’s living room carrying with her the scent of paint and food; she was small; everything about her was small. Her hair was long, light-coloured; she was wearing a bright yellow blouse and green slacks, with beautiful feet in gold sandals. She had soft, neglected hands, one of them coolly enveloped in my own for just a second, and a nonchalant voice and questioning, lovely, slightly displeased eyes; and a very prominent little mound. We (supposedly) read a letter together at the table. And we began talking about poems (!). I was offered a glass of milk to calm me down. I lay awake all night long, just thinking. The next night, she was sleeping alongside me. One night later, she slept with me. God, my little thing – “I’ll make the babbling gossip of the air cry out: Ingrid!” I am mad with love, and soothed. As long as you’re there I can, like a daisy, “say something in reply, believe something, know something”.
Remember, after receiving this letter, to write to me at c/o The Magistrate, Potchefstroom. I’ll try to phone you from there, probably in the afternoon (a Saturday, possibly, if you’re still working) – I’ll telegraph you in good time with details. If I phone on the afternoon of Christmas day, which number should I use?
I received a long letter from Christie [Roode], terribly self-reproachful. I can’t understand how, in the heat of the moment, he could have been so rash with the telegram, how he thought he might be able to assist in “solving” a human “problem” with a “diagnosis”. It sounds like he understands a little more, now, about living “in irony”.
What remains is faith, hope, and love – these three things. But the greatest of them all is love.
I beseech you to be happy and quiet and patient. I’m coming: a groom to a girl with a lamp that runneth over with oil.
Love and happiness,
André.
We were both born on a Wednesday. Children of woe.
Study, Grahamstown
Monday, 16 December 1963
DAY OF THE COVENANT
Little pixie, Cocoon, darling – Ingrid,
I won’t keep you in a state of unnecessary tension but rather give you the main news immediately. I’ve just come off the phone with Rob. He says he’s quickly read through the Kruger biography, “doesn’t yet want to give a final judgement”, but adds that it doesn’t seem to him like “the kind of book that one awards a prize”; as far as he’s concerned, it won’t even be considered. And yes, Ernst van Heerden is overseas, so the final decision lies with Rob and Opperman. But insofar as it’s humanly possible to be certain, it looks as if our “very young poet”, my precious little chick, is going to be on the receiving end of R2 000.
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br /> Go to the bathroom now before you finish reading, otherwise you might wet your nice little white panties. (Or are you wearing the blue ones?)
Thank you again for Saturday night’s call from so far away, which surprised me even though I had a hunch you might call. I would very much have wanted to be there to test the hotel out with you. And now – 10.45 am – you’re probably lying and sleeping after the long night-drive? This afternoon it’ll be the sea, and the sun on your smooth, tanned body (“as brown as the baked earth near Siena –”).
Your call had certain consequences over here. Estelle apparently got wind it was you – I think she heard me calling you “my precious” – and while at first she remained distant and stiff, she later went for a walk – and then returned with a new “tactic”: loving affection, “pretend nothing happened”, and cooking a “stylish” meal. God, this is actually more nerve-wracking than everything else.
And now, my angel: make a booking for us at the Van Riebeeck for the weekend of Friday afternoon the 17th January till Monday morning the 20th. Do it right away, otherwise they may not have room. I’ll be in the Cape a few days earlier and we’ll have seen each other, but the weekend must be ours, alone. It should be just “right” – although with your overseas plans it might not be quite “right”?
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