A LETTER FROM HOME
201
I said:
"la,
it's the truth." And he got all happy and safe,
while I thought of those poems whirling around for ever, or until
the next rainstorm, around the blue sky with the dust and the bits
of shining grass.
And I said: "Anyway, at the best only perhaps a thousand, or
perhaps two thousand people would understand that beautiful
boekie.
Try
to look at it that way, Hans, it might make you feel better."
By this time he looked fine, he was smiling and cheered up.
Right.
We got up and dusted each other off, and I took him home to
Esther. I asked him to let me take the poems we'd rescued back to
publish in
Onwards,
but he got desperate again and said: "No, no,
do you want to kill me? Do you want them to kill me? You're my
friend, Martin, you can't do that."
So I told Esther that she had a great man in her charge,
through whom Heaven itself spoke, and she was right to take such
care of him. But she merely nodded her queenly
white-doeked
head
and said: "Goodbye, Master du Preez, and may God be with you."
So I came home to Kapstaad.
A week ago I got a letter from Hans, but I didn't see at once
it was from him, it was in ordinary writing, like yours or mine, but
rather unformed and wild, and it said: "I am leaving this place.
They know me now. They look at me. I'm going North to the river.
Don't tell Esther.
lou vriend,
Johannes Potgieter."
Right.
lou vriend,
Martin du Preez
