And what’s the matter with this bladdy Uncle Wyk? He’s been getting far too cheeky, Tristia or no Tristia.
Thank you for Sestiger: the title is wrong: it’s: PLANT VIR MY ’N BOOM ANDRÉ! You can see here of course that so far I have only looked at my own poem! And the witticisms at the back.
Tonight is a tiny spot of silence, praise god, in between the hubbub of the day. An evening for reflection and Walt Whitman and thinking about you. I’m seeing Orgie through all the stages of publication and even blush a bit when other people look at it. The cover is lovely: you don’t have to worry at all – but you’ve probably received it by now?
And now I am waiting sedately for you.
Till then, my Prince, all love, in anticipation, of everything,
Your Cocoon.
Grahamstown
Thursday morning, 4 March 1965
Loveliest darling,
Thank you for your clarifying voice yesterday; if it hadn’t been your voice, I’d have been totally taken aback, because when the exchange told me Maish was going to phone at five-thirty, I just knew you’d be on the other end of the line.
You’re so close and warm and alive; at night you sleep snugly against me on the small divan in my study; and in the afternoons you walk with me in the bush of surprises.
I’ve been feeling such dazzling respect for you lately. I lie on my little bed at night and think – about your love, your thoughtfulness, the manner in which you pour everything into your love. It makes me feel almost overwhelmed, unworthy of so much beauty, such vulnerability.
My darling, was it hard to make a decision about the painter [Herman van Nazareth]? I had no specific suspicions, of course; but still, I “knew” someone was trying to take you away from me. Ag God, I want you so badly. I want so badly to see you happy. I dare not be selfish. But how can it be otherwise when it comes to you?
I’m sending you another little cheque to fill a small gap; things will be better from August onwards, when I get royalties for Bakkies [en Sy Maats] [Bakkies and His Friends] and Orgie.
Our little moesie-girl – sometimes it’s difficult to wake up and suddenly realise: No, she hasn’t arrived. I’ll just have to dedicate Die Meisie to Nicolette, Deirdre and Andrea. (You can imagine how people will try to guess!)
Ag, this Pretoria thunder makes my head feel confused. And Maish is also driving me crazy, phoning me every other minute. (He’s phoning again on Friday – tell him you’re coming along, again. Sorry, dammit, I’ve just realised you’ll only be getting this letter on Saturday!)
Right now I’m translating Alice in Wonderland; surprisingly enough, the poems are working out quite well. But on Monday I want to start working on the novel. And then, in just 23 days, I’ll be with you; it’s so close now. Then we can celebrate our book. Thank you also for your inspiration with the cover. I’m getting my copy today and can’t wait to see you with your little horns.
If people have anything akin to a “mating season” – then mine is right now. I’m really “on heat”! Sorry! But it’s appalling. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you when I get there. Just make sure the flat’s immediately available!
And, along with this lust, my love has become so very tender; because you’re more precious and wonderful and exquisite than ever.
Live in light, my darling. I’m sending you four kisses: one for your beloved mouth, one for each nipple, and one for your beloved gooseberry.
With endless love,
Your André.
[incomplete letter]
Grahamstown
Thursday night, 11 March 1965
Dearest Kontjie,
I long for you. But tonight in three weeks’ time I’ll be in your arms. And therefore I’m happy. You should’ve been with me today: I didn’t have classes, so I drove to the coast early this morning and stayed there the whole, long, holy day: it’s a beach with miles and miles of sand and dunes; with a slight breeze all the time, and not a living soul in sight – so I roamed around the whole day in primitive nudity, running across dunes, cavorting in the water – and getting badly burnt, everywhere, without a single bit of protected white. (Not even R. Schutte would have been able to criticise me!)
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could come and visit me here? Roam around in the bush and live primitively in sun and sea, just us! In fact, from the 26th I’ll be all alone here.
I actually need to start working on the novel tomorrow, but I’m feeling lazy. And especially: it’s been just mine for so long now that that it’s going to be a heavy struggle to
204 Bonne Esperance
Beach Road
Three Anchor Bay
Thursday, 11 March 1965
Liefsteling,
Thank you for the very handy R10 cheque and the letter, and the moan-letter of Monday morning early before you received my speed-post one. I know – I left you in silence and it’s terrible – by now you should have received my other letter though. WHERE were you on Friday afternoon? I had to endure Maish’s company and wait for the phone call and then you were out and I was in a state of rebellion! Monday morning and surprised by the report in the Slimes – huge hell at work, I almost lost my wretched little post because they saw me on Friday in the company of the newspaper people. There was a phone call from Johannesburg (headquarters) and talk about stopping the printing of Orgie. But John [Malherbe] reassured them very diplomatically and I can see daily how he is progressing. Was at John’s on Tuesday – he has TWINS and everything now peaceful and quiet again. He himself told the Sunday Times that Citadel is printing – but that they mustn’t let the cat out of the bag. But all that’s nothing at all – just work news.
You ask so many questions, darling. In your last letter whether it was DIFFICULT to decide: just one thing, I neither WANT to nor CAN I struggle on alone forever. That is difficult. You talk so lightly about going to France – WHAT will become of me? Can you see my heart is rebelling? The humiliating financial struggle too – my landlady is contantly asking for the rent, and if she arrives here this evening I’m giving notice! And the Grey Pit – and everything – on top of it all I had to subject myself to a dental inspection. I’m not even as scared of Jack as I am of the dentist – no, there is nothing worse than the shiny chair with the headrest! (Jack, by the way, went to Johannesburg today, without saying goodbye, because I don’t want to see him any more.) No, my pet, the post (for me) in Johannesburg is not available. But this flat has been far too expensive ever since I got fired from the Divisional Council – and I will have to move again. Far away, maybe to one of those little old houses in Wynberg. My maid is pregnant (nearly nine months) and when she’s had her baby they’ll throw her out of that room I found for her in Mouille Point – that’s for sure – so I will have to get a house with a servant’s quarters. If I can just see light this year, then next year I can send Simone to boarding school and move into a single room.
Do you see, my silly man, in the real world it is dark; and that I may now live only from day to day; “step by step, oh lord”. Today’s reading. And with all these really old problems I didn’t want to come to you – but now, like [?], I have to COMPLAIN. And André, 1 April is too late, child! 26 March, as the date was set earlier, suits me. As far as I can see it today, you must stick to our meeting of 26 March. It is just right. And Die Meisie must be dedicated to DEIRDRE.
There is a possibility – just a possibility – that Laurens van der Post will take me back to England later this year. And that I will apply for a bursary for Belgium. I went to see Prof. Malherbe, he is on the board, and was enthusiastic about IJ. Of course, it’s all vague; and darling, not even impossible that we, with me far gone, will meet in Paris!
Or is it?
O Star of France
Miserable! Yet for thy errors, vanities, sins, I will not now rebuke thee;
Thy unexampled woes and pangs have quell’d them all,
And left thee sacred.
In that amid thy many faults, thou e
ver aimedst highly
…
In that thou couldst not, wouldst not, wear the usual chains,
O star! O ship of France, beat back and baffled long!
Bear up, O smitten orb! O ship continue on!
…
Again thy star, O France – fair, lustrous star,
In heavenly peace, clearer, more bright than ever,
Shall rise immortal.
(Walt Whitman)
(Simone just said to Anne: “Mummy is busy with a writing competition.” Anne: “Seems to me André is meeting his match tonight.”)
Orgie: I’m glad you like the cover so much. I think it’s beautiful. I’ve hidden the first galleys and I’ll smuggle them out of the factory. (They’re already yellow.)
Time to say goodbye: and liefsteling mine, much love and light and hope; I’ll phone you shortly from Maish’s. Even better: I’ll try to pay my telephone account, then you can call me again.
Come on the 26th, whatever happens, or may happen; I feel her knocking in you at me.
Darling,
Cocoon.
PS: Answer with a little tape? IJ.
Grahamstown
Monday morning, 15 March 1965
Quiet, beloved child,
Such a Blue Monday feeling, unilluminated by your voice or your hands. And thanks to my consistent attempts – I have quite a knack for persistence! – I know that your phone account hasn’t been paid. Unless it’s been taken off the hook so the Painter won’t be disturbed. I’m absolutely the most jealous person on earth.
I just can’t get working. On the one hand there’s all the anticipation for Orgie; also, it’s murderously hot; third, I’m having sleepless nights with Anton. Because Estelle just doesn’t wake up, even when she’s lying right next to him – so each time I’ve got to get up and leave the study to lend a hand. Whooping cough or something at the moment.
But my soul is healthy, whole, and full of love; as summer slowly tilts into autumn, I feel I have in fact achieved something, that I can believe in something and be secure in that knowledge, my little Namaqualand daisy.
I’m counting off the days quietly, like petals (“She loves me – she loves me not”!?), waiting patiently for the time ahead. I’ve made all kinds of smart plans with my lecture schedule so I’ll be able to leave on Wednesday the 31st – but only after finishing my morning classes. I’ll thus be in your sleeping arms by midnight; or an hour or so before.
That’s if you still want me; and if your silence betokens hope and not aloofness.
Tell me, tell me, tell me where your love lies!
John says – you probably know this already – that he’s inviting mainly press people to his party, but also Uys and Jan and that crowd; it goes without saying that you’ll be coming with me. Sorry that social things will have to intervene, and that I’ll have to go to St’bosch on the Friday, too, but we are going to have an island of happiness for ourselves, too, unclouded, quiet, and without any seaweed-tangles.
Do you still get out into the sun? Are you tanned and beautiful? (Are you still able to pull up your zips?!) Is your hair growing? Is the little tortoise lonely?
What’s going on with you? It’s such an awful silence this, and at times quite terrifying. I lie awake many nights thinking about you, about your happiness, your everything. I feel longing and worry and love.
Write. Write everything. And believe in your wholeness.
With love and tenderness,
André, yours.
Thursday, 25 March 1965
CONGRATULATIONS ON ORGIE LIEFSTELING STOP THANK YOU CHEQUE LETTER TREASURE STOP WHEN ARE YOU COMING COME MINE = COCOON
204 Bonne Esperance
Tuesday evening, April 1965
My liefsteling,
Just a goodnight kiss and a little bit very happy about our few days together. I am very close to you, and I love you very much.
Was on the beach all day today and am absolutely the most burnt. Tonight Roger took me to France Hotel [?] to fetch Simone. She’s sleeping nicely here with me again – tomorrow school starts – the search for a maid continues – but now I am going to sleep with you.
How are things with you, all alone there, are you also missing me? How’s it going with Die Meisie? Don’t overexert yourself. About eating I don’t have to scold you but in heaven’s name sleep enough and well.
Between all the rushing around and the goings-on here I have almost finished The Blood of Others which I bought on Monday (Simone de Beauvoir). You must read it if you don’t know it.
Good night, my treasure, you are actually sleeping here on the little mound.
Yours, always,
Cocoon.
Wednesday night, April 1965
My dearest André,
It was an endless day – the heat wave continues. I found a maid, a beautiful little black mother with glasses and a round affectionate face. I am beginning to feel embarrassed that I always have such luck. Her “madam” is away on holiday for a month. My Anne had her baby, a little girl. I want to give her a name myself, but don’t want to part with Deirdre or Andrea, or Nicolette. You really must dedicate Die Meisie to them. Will you my darling?
I also finished reading The Blood of Others today and parts of it over and over and am suffering a little from a lump in the throat, and am missing you. Listen:
I let you go off alone through the festive streets, I set off on my way, thinking that I too was still alone, and, after my fashion, nursing a vague regret. As if all the kisses which I did not give you had not bound us to each other as surely as the most ardent embraces, as surely as the kisses which I shall give no more, as the words which I shall no more say to you and which bind me to you for ever … There is no salvation. Not even the intoxication of despair and blind resolve, since you are there, on that bed, in the fierce light of your own death.
(So bladdy simple!)
That good which saves each man from all the others and from myself – Freedom – then my passion will not have been in vain. You have not given me peace; but why should I desire peace? You have given me the courage to accept for ever the risk and the anguish, to bear my crimes and my guilt …
If you haven’t yet read it I’ll send you a copy. Let me know, okay? And tomorrow I’m going to buy the wool in the most beautiful white and black you’ve ever seen. Remember, send me your measurements urgently and don’t be shy, fatty!
I saw your publicity in Die Landstem – quite good, for them!
Tomorrow I am going back to the Grey Pit, to give notice. Of course I still need time to find a job – I don’t think Johan Cilliers’s one will come off. But one never knows. Most of all, don’t worry, I still have a little money to get by.
Darling, you didn’t sign the Van Ostaijens. Did I ever thank you properly? By the way, did you perhaps take the others? I’ve just given the bookshelf a quick glance, but I still have a suitcase full of books.
I am well-behaved and busy and introverted. You must work well and sleep well and be happy. I hope this letter reaches you before you go to Potchefstroom.
Love, love and a kiss for every bright moesie. Come and dream with me, you hear?
Your Cocoon.
204 Bonne Esperance
Beach Road
Three Anchor Bay. Sunday. Two-year-existence.
18 April 1965
Liefsteling André,
Don’t get a fright that I’m typing to you, but as I type I sometimes think better and I’ve just got this rattletrap and I’m practising. Two birds with one stone. Thank you for your rushed letter before you left for Potchefstroom and for the telegram on the way to Johannesburg and for the telegram yesterday to commemorate our two-year-long existence. I don’t know how long you’re staying in Potch and I hope this letter reaches you. When are you going to write, you little hell. How was Johannesburg and did you go and visit my rival? What does Van Wyk say? In your letter you said you were going to stay with them. They have a swimming pool, don’t they? And did Uncl
e Wyk sit in his leather armchair and talk literature?
And how are you spending Easter? It’s the one long weekend I cannot bear. One’s never certain of the weather, so you don’t make appointments. On top of it all Jan and them have gone camping and took my artist [Herman van Nazareth] with them and left me behind! Don’t worry, darling, he’s not actually mine, you hear, though he is trying very hard to marry me. But you’re not allowed to tell anyone, because he’s quite sensitive and this steadfast refusal of mine is probably not very flattering. He’s made this triptych now – The Child – The Poem (in my handwriting on a canvas the same size) – and The Poet – which he wants to exhibit together in July and later in Belgium. And while I’m talking about rivals like this, I must tell you that Jack managed to see me again on the strength of Charles Eglington and [Christopher] Hope who are visiting him at the moment. I popped in there yesterday evening (wearing your pretty satin dress) and apparently I am now being appointed to the editorial board of Contrast. I gave notice at the Grey Pit last Monday and start selling Contrast on Wednesday and loans and advertisements [?]. I don’t know how it will go but it is, in any case, worthwhile. In the meantime, I’m looking for a permanent post. Damn Johan Cilliers just upped and left for Johannesburg and I hear he’s appointed Desmond Windell in his absence. He could at least have let me know. He says Orgie is very nice – typographically – but he hasn’t read it yet. What do others say?
I’m working on a short story called “Die Pop” [“The Doll”], but it’s so sad that on this blue day I can’t see my way clear to continuing. Other than that, I’m devouring books and keeping my heart pure of sin. Do you know what, 28 days like clockwork on Wednesday. And Anne’s baby is so cute. But oh God, my darling, I’m beginning to feel I am long past grief. “Ik heb in het gras mijn wapens gelegd / en mijn wapens gaan geuren als gras.” And perhaps today especially we should remember that two years ago we had no thought other than the fire of our loins. The following Monday I walked into Freda’s office and said: I slept with André Brink. I cut your photo out of Pot-Pourri and put it in my diary. Tell me the old tale again.
Flame in the Snow Page 44