In early 1960, at the behest of the Sunday Times, Rebecca West undertook a three-month tour of South Africa. Below, West—just beginning her stay in South Africa—writes home to her husband Henry Andrews, detailing her impressions of the country and relating her meeting with fellow writer Nadine Gordimer, who complained to her about “the people [in London] who set themselves up as patrons of the South African Anti-Apartheid.”
TO HENRY ANDREWS
January, 1960
My dear Ric,
The journey from Nairobi to South Africa was veiled with clouds, through which I dropped to a first-class row. The plane was held on the runway till the M.O. [medical officer] came and saw our vaccination papers and there was then handed to me a letter from Sarah Gertrude Millin saying that she and an Afrikanders friend were there to meet me and save me from the abominable Mr. Wilson, who was a fool and an ass and a villain, who had practiced nameless abominations to her. With knocking knees I went through the Immigration and Customs, and emerged on the other side to find the inoffensive Mr. Wilson and a colleague cowering before the furious eyes of Mrs. Millin, while an elegant woman (the leader of Afrikaans society, the wife of a German, a gold man) was looking as if she had nothing to do with any of us. Mrs. Millin had no need to snatch me from Wilson and his friend, they fled, we went off in the Afrikaaner’s car, and drove through the charming country—Johannesburg consists of suburbs scattered on a delightful plain, with open parks every here, and there, and the mine dumps, which are some of them like white shale-heaps, some like Egyptian temples, all gleaming white. The flowers should be magnificent—but are beaten down by the perpetual thunderstorms—during the three days I have been here we have had four. Presently Mrs. Millin quite suddenly began grossly insulting me, implying I was a fool to have come here and why did I come for the Anglo-American—I said I hadn’t and she said I shouldn’t talk such nonsense. Then she went on to tell me of threatening telephone calls she had, from someone called Johnny and Johnny’s friends. We arrived at the hotel where the local Sunday Times man had taken me quite a nice room (though shabby and old-fashioned) and she raised cain about the aspect, it looked west, that is apparently a bad thing. By this time I was nearly weeping with despair, as things seemed to have got into a rut; but the Afrikaner woman finally withdrew her. There were some lovely flowers, notably from Arthur Aiken. I went to bed, but had to get up, there was a rush of telephone calls from newspapers. I had dinner downstairs—there is absolutely no question of leaving my hotel. Never after dark, except in a known taxi or a friend’s car. When the telephone calls had made me realise I would have no rest I went out and shopped for some typewriting paper and a book or two, and the woman said to me, “You are from abroad, you musn’t carry your bag like that”—I was carrying it by the strap—“carry it under your arm. I really mean it. Twice I have carried my bag as you are doing, and twice I have come to because I felt it was so light and a passer-by had deftly opened it and emptied it.” She told me not to go out at night. And when after dinner I lean out of the window and look down on the streets, there is never a white person man or woman walking—only natives. The Bantu is a most odd-looking cuss, quite unlike the American Negro and it appears none of the American Negroes were taken from these parts.
The next day I had a Press Conference with a big heavy amusing man called Peter O’Malley—who turned out to be the son of Ann Bridge—and some other people, including a radio woman who took a tape-record[ing] of a conversation with me and made the most extravagant success because she leaned over me and said, “Now tell me, Dame Sybil, why have you come to South Africa?” This caused general joy, and I went into quite a good imitation of Dame Sybil, I thought, and the tape was lovingly preserved. This has put me on a most pleasant footing with the newspaper people. There is also a most charming Public Relations woman at the hotel, who could not be more helpful—and coped with the situation that arose when I took my case off my Olivetti. The Comet trip had not been without deleterious effect, my coat and skirt is covered with a curious oil spray in patches, I can’t think how this happened, it is all down one side and shoulder-blade—and the projecting handle of the Olivetti which switches from line to line, I don’t know its name, was broken clean through. The P. R. O. [public relations office] woman sent it out to the Olivetti business and they sent it back repaired within two hours. It is fantastic how quickly everything gets done here—your dress is pressed in half an hour. On the other hand everybody, everybody, everybody is full of bitterness about the political situation.
I had lunch on the Friday with Mr. Wilson who discussed his offence against Mrs. Millin—I haven’t told you what it was, he had cut and altered a radio script she had written about Smuts in the year 1941—with suitable levity, and two Anglo-American men, Lloyd Williams and a charming man called Francis Gerrard, who was a great friend of Marie Belloc Lowndes. They spoke of things they could show me in the mines, and they also talked most sweetly and sensibly of the situation created by Mrs. Millin telling everybody that I had been hired by them to come out and write about them! Then in the afternoon I saw Nadine Gordimer, who was delightful, had heard the rumor, looked at my Sunday Times card, and said she would tell everybody she had seen it, and told me that when she returned from England Sarah Millin had rung her up and abused her for her presumption in going to lunch with us! I then had a quiet dinner and went to bed, and this morning Wilson rang up and told me that he was giving a party for me tomorrow—Sunday. I am going out to lunch with de Guingand, who rang me up earlier, and the Wilsons are fetching me, and taking me to their house where I am to sort out my notes of what happened with de Guingand, and to rest, and then there is to be a cocktail party, at which I am to meet Harry Oppenhiemer and Hugh Vyvyan-Smith, and some people in charge of Native Affairs. It is very funny how things work out here. De Guingand is starting this South African Foundation and had Montgomery here; and he stands for Tube Investments. It is quite obvious that the Anglo-American think him a silly tactless fellow and their feelings about Montgomery are undisguised. But Nadine Gordimer and the journalists think of de Guingand and the Anglo-Americans as buddies. Nadine Gordimer was, by the way, extremely funny about her experiences in London. She had met all the people who set themselves up as patrons of the South African Anti-Apartheid and couldn’t abide them—her pet abomination being Canon Collins, which as her publisher is Victor was not too easy.
I am dining with Arthur Aiken on Monday night, lunching with the editor of the Rand Mail on Tuesday, having a party with Nadine Gordimer on Friday, dining with Robert Barlow’s chief, John Baxter, on Saturday. The interstices will be filled with going to see things. I doubt if I will get through with all I have to do before the end of January. But everybody tells me the Cape is so marvelous that I won’t prolong my stay unless I have to.
I cannot tell you how unlike anywhere else this place is. Nobody of any importance lives in the centre of the town. This hotel is surrounded by blocks of flats (some remarkably strange in architecture and apt to break into corrugated iron at any moment) but nobody of any importance lives in them—they are the homes of office-workers and white-collared workers on a fairly high grade—the rich people all live in the suburbs. And suburby suburbs Like the Tiarks house at Chislehurst, as non-puss, and with garden suburb touches about them. The curious thing is this business of not going out at night. It is of course terribly limiting, by this time I would have been into several small restaurants, were this any other town. There are [?] of foreign restaurants about, I couldn’t get to them if I wanted to, and I don’t know if it would be proper to use them. I went into a Bantu shop to buy fruit (which was of excellent quality) and the assistants greeted me with consternation, and when I told one of the journalists he was amazed that I should have done this, he said. “But when you saw what it was didn’t you know you ought to walk straight out?”
All very odd. I must now go and have tea with Sarah Millin, which will, I hope, be the end of my acquaintance with her here, as she is going to tend the sickbed of a brother who has had a coronary thrombosis in Swaziland, which I must own sounds rather funny.
Confidence of Viennese waiter in hotel—the Afrikaanders keep on pushing Germans at him, they don’t understand it isn’t the British he hates, but the Germans.
Much love to everybody, and much love to Ric.
I meant to send picture postcards to the household, but everything is shut, I had forgotten it was Saturday in my disturbed life.
Rac.
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