There where I thought no more documents about Cavafy existed, one was waiting for me in Amsterdam. I came to the Dutch city for a panel on Constantine Cavafy: A New Biography (co-written with Peter Jeffreys).  Before the event Maria Boletsi, Marilena Laskaridis Chair of Modern Greek at the University of Amsterdam, introduced me to Peter Delpeut, a Dutch writer and cinematographer, who had just published a novel about Cavafy in Dutch, Om wie wij zijn [Because of Who We Are].  Over coffee, Delpeut spoke of a letter, published on 25 July 1952, by G. Destunis, a Greek doctor from Cephalonia, to the editor of the German literary periodical Neue Literarische Welt. Destunis, then professor of medicine in Berlin, recounted warmly about meeting Cavafy in a sanatorium of Kifissia, Athens, where the poet had been convalescing after his throat surgery in the summer of 1932.

The occasion of Destunis’s letter was the publication a month earlier in the very same periodical of an article on Cavafy, along with the translation of two poems, ‘Thermopylae’ and ‘Waiting for the Barbarians’ by the German classicist and translator Helmut von den Steinen (1890-1956). Von den Steinen went to publish Cavafy’s complete poetry in German the following year, a project he pursued since the mid-1930s, as shown by two letters he had written to Rika Sengopoulos, Cavafy’s literary heir.

Reading Destunis’s letter was an unexpected revelation because this is a rare description of Cavafy’s stay in the sanatorium. And it shows him frail and slight but also humane and radiant. The picture drawn by Destunis of the convalescent poet corresponds to the one we offer in the biography—a person diminished by the cancer diagnosis, tracheotomy, and slow decline. The self-assured, arrogant poet, who sacrificed love to achieve world renown and who mobilised his followers to promote his career, gradually had given way to the fragile human being in the sanatorium.

That he was vain to the end was no surprise. Nor was I shocked to read that he continued to compare himself to the poet Kostis Palamas. Cavafy, after all, was so dedicated to his craft that he continued to work on a poem until his last breath. By rejecting Palamas’s grandiloquence and grandiosity, he praised his own restrained style before Destunis. I do not know what he meant by “despite the mighty Nile.” Could he have implied that, although he confronted the monumentality of ancient Egypt and the grandeur of the Nile River, he remained plain and austere in his expression? Perhaps he wanted to emphasise one last time his stance against romanticism and nationalism.

I could not find much information about Destunis. I imagine that he was probably a Greek doctor who had immigrated to Germany. The bibliographic and journal entries identify him as a professor of Psychology. I also assume that he is the author of Einführung in die medizinische Psychologie [Introduction to Medical Psychology] which was published in 1955 by Gruyter.

He achieved professional prominence in Berlin. But for me he remains the young assistant who gave us this little gem, a portrait of Cavafy in the sanatorium interacting with others and maintaining his sense of humour. Although racked by pain and made eventually mute, Cavafy’s inner flame illuminated those around him. 

I’m grateful to Peter Delpeut for sending me a copy of this letter, and to Maria Boletsi for taking me to the ‘Cavafy Archive’ of G. H. Blanken, Cavafy’s first translator in Dutch, held in the Special Collections of the Allard Pierson at the University of Amsterdam.

 

Letters to the Editor

A Physician Remembers Constantine Cavafy

After reading Helmut von den Steinen’s illuminating article on the modern Greek poet Constantine Cavafy, published in your newspaper on 25^th June, I would like to share a few personal memories of the man as I came to know him.

The poet was suffering from cancer of the larynx. Since the disease had advanced and a major operation was impossible, he underwent a tracheotomy in 1932. A breathing tube was inserted, which allowed him to breathe but which limited his speech severely. He could speak only in a faint whisper, and even that required effort. Often, he relied on pencil and paper, for extended conversations quickly tired him. Because of his condition, he had to spend some time at a sanatorium in the lovely Athenian suburb of Kifisia which was called “Renaissance” and where I worked as a young, assistant doctor. It was there that I came to know Cavafy both as a patient and as a human being.

He was a slight man, and the illness had reduced his weight considerably. Yet his alertness, his energy, and his mobility did not suffer much in the summer of 1932. His dark eyes showed kindness and humanity and reflected an inner light of spirituality. He knew how to control himself, how to hide and bear his pain. And he remained simple and modest, as he had always been. He took careful pride in his appearance— even with a touch of vanity, which was unsurprising since almost all Athenian writers and intellectuals came to visit him daily. He had many friends. Few of them were women, which is understandable, since female figures are almost entirely absent from his work.

His poetry avoids overt pathos, yet is all the more suggestive, esoteric, and rational, often mystical. In one of our conversations, he drew a comparison between himself and the other great modern Greek poet, Kostis Palamas: “Palamas is grand, colourful, rich,” he said, “while I am simple and plain—despite the mighty Nile!”

He often walked alone through the large garden of the sanatorium and would sit on a bench by himself for a long time. Since his illness had rendered him almost entirely mute, his contact with the outer world became more difficult. But the spirit continued to burn with the same intensity within the sick poet. And his gentleness and humanity did not abandon him even at the very end.

Prof. Dr. G. Destunis
Berlin NO 55, Kollwitzstr. 10

 

Note: I appreciate the help of Lucia Mann and Ben Folit-Weinberg in this translation.