Litnet

Mary Renault (photo credit: Philip de Vos)

The British-born South African author Mary Renault died in 1983. Nonetheless, nearly four decades after her death, her books keep selling internationally. One wonders how many other authors are so fortunate. Receipts for her often substantial royalties (left to St Hugh’s College, Oxford) still regularly arrive for the executor of her estate in Cape Town. Why, then, is she hardly known in the country from where she wrote hit after hit, best-sellers that have been translated into some 20 languages and that have sold millions of copies in English alone?

Renault wrote 16 books, often historical fiction set in ancient Greece and with a homosexual (today queer) theme. Renault (pronounced ren-olt) will probably be best remembered for her Alexander trilogy series, starting with Fire from heaven (1969), followed by The Persian boy (1972) and ending with Funeral games (1981).

Of the last of these, the New York Review of Books wrote: “Renault’s best historical novel yet. Every detail has solid historical testimony to support it.”

Book cover: provided

Her work was considered outrageous at the time, specifically in homophobic England. Irony abounds, as it is in South Africa where she and her partner, Julie Mullard, found solace. It is here where she could sit for hours every day and work, first at their house on Glen Beach in Camps Bay, and later up against the hill in Atholl Road, also in Camps Bay.

Julie protected Mary from the outside world, and saw to it that she could live and work in peace. She shielded Mary from many things, such as at the time when she was diagnosed with cancer. Julie kept this from Mary, so that she could continue working. This said, Julie by no stretch of the imagination was a slave to Mary, or overshadowed. She was a fiery woman with a strong voice, of petite build, but with a presence that filled a room. Julie also wrote plays and acted in radio dramas. She certainly did not sit around the whole day watching Mary at work.

Incidentally, Mary’s real name was Eileen Mary Challans. Both of them started their working lives during the 1930s as nurses at the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford, where they met. They remained a couple for 48 years, until Mary died.

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An aside: this article is not an academic analysis of Mary’s work, but rather some vignettes around her, and broadly a personal history I have with Julie Mullard and some of the people who formed part of their inner circle.

I often think of Mary, who died when I was still at school, but who recently featured again when one of their last friends with whom one could reminisce about the couple, died.

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An aside: this article is not an academic analysis of Mary’s work, but rather some vignettes around her, and broadly a personal history I have with Julie Mullard and some of the people who formed part of their inner circle.

I often think of Mary, who died when I was still at school, but who recently featured again when one of their last friends with whom one could reminisce about the couple, died. Owen Murray was a top ballet dancer and one of their best friends. He lived well into his eighties, and with his death a chapter has closed on an entire group of friends. Both the women were part of the general art scene in Cape Town and chose their friends carefully, as they did not want groupies to waste Mary’s time when she should be writing. They often attended ballet, theatre, classical musical concerts and art exhibitions.

Their inner circle consisted of, inter alia, Owen’s life partner, David Poole, who was also a renowned ballet dancer, choreographer, teacher and company director. The interesting thing about Poole – whom I often met as a young man – apart from his intellect, was that he was a “coloured man” according to apartheid classification. Everybody knew this, but it was never mentioned. They also lived in Camps Bay, an all-white area at the time, and often wined and dined with Mary and Julie. Both Owen and David were celebrities in the world of dance, and when they arrived at opening nights as members of the audience, crowds would flock to them.

Another great friend was actor Michael Atkinson, a man who at one stage during the height of his career could have been considered as one of the country’s greatest thespians. Director Roy Sargeant was part of this circle, as was writer Stephen Gray. I spoke to Stephen about Mary two weeks before he died, his memory clear about his friendship with her. In a review that he wrote in the Mail & Guardian about her biography by David Sweetman, Stephen writes:

South Africa managed only one CNA Award for her, in 1962 for The bull from the sea. Although she lived to the age of 78, no one thought of an honorary degree.

Greece, by contrast, made her an honorary citizen and refused to let her pay for her second and last holiday there.

He also recalled a conversation in the eighties with Nadine Gordimer, who was critical of Mary. She felt that she did not write about what was happening in a country that was burning. Nadine was wrong, as Mary was outspoken against apartheid and joined the Black Sash. Mary did not want to pass herself off as a heroine. Yet, she was driving her own politics, giving a voice to closeted gay men.

Once, in the New Yorker magazine, author Daniel Mendelsohn wrote about his fascination with Mary and her books. He had started corresponding with her, and writes:

[She] had two discrete and enthusiastic audiences; although I didn’t know it at the time, they neatly mirrored my twin obsessions. The first, and larger, consisted of admirers of her historical fiction. The second consisted of gay men ....

Reading Renault’s books, I felt a shock of recognition. The silent watching of other boys, the endless strategizing about how to get their attention, the fantasies of finding a boy to love, and be loved by, “best”: all this was agonizingly familiar.

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Reading Renault’s books, I felt a shock of recognition. The silent watching of other boys, the endless strategizing about how to get their attention, the fantasies of finding a boy to love, and be loved by, “best”: all this was agonizingly familiar.

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When I met Julie in the late eighties, she told me about all the letters Mary received from closeted gay men around the world, many of them married. When Julie retired to move to Nazareth House in Vredehoek, she hired a paper shredder, and it took her days to shred thousands of letters from fans all over the world, many with dark secrets.

Before she moved out of her house, Julie invited me and her lawyer, my then partner Graham, as well as his father, Dr John Sonnenberg, to come and take any of Mary’s books that we wanted. Dr Sonnenberg had also been their doctor from the moment they set foot in Cape Town, and he had a long relationship with both of them. He, too, has died, cutting off yet another channel to Mary’s and Julie’s past lives. The bookshelves were packed with the most exotic hardcover reference books on every topic imaginable, as well as beautifully preserved copies of the old classics. There was also a large section on books by black writers from Africa and America.

When Julie moved out of their house, she broke down emotionally. Her life was left behind, an era gone. She wanted to die, and told Graham and his father this every time they went to visit. She suffered from wild panic attacks and was most probably bipolar, as she had battled mental illness during her life, with terrible mood swings.

Toward the end, it became intense and she wanted out. She prayed, she begged to die, yet nothing happened. For five long years, she lay there hoping that each day would be the last. And then the day arrived, and she was free to go.

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And now, with the recent death of Owen Murray, one of her last friends, it certainly is the end. But is it not time that we revive Mary Renault in South Africa? When President Kennedy was once asked who his favourite author was, he replied, "Mary Renault."

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And now, with the recent death of Owen Murray, one of her last friends, it certainly is the end. But is it not time that we revive Mary Renault in South Africa? When President Kennedy was once asked who his favourite author was, he replied, "Mary Renault."

Or is she perhaps a too old, forgotten lesbian remnant whom we will simply erase from history? The local English literary establishment should be ashamed that an Afrikaner has to remind you about a forgotten treasure.

Also read:

"Do you remember still?"– some unknown juvenilia of Vincent Swart