The Lydia Steptoe Stories by Djuna Barnes

Author:Djuna Barnes [Djuna Barnes]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571354672
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2019-03-25T04:00:00+00:00

August eighteenth:

Today I walked about the outhouses and went down to examine the pump. I saw Elda coming around from the lilac bushes, smiling out of her large ox-eyes, the two braids falling down, one in front and one in back, and she was singing and walking slow.

She stopped a step or two away from me and said nothing for a minute, and then she asked me if I would like to go to the woods with her to gather wild flowers, and I said no, and she answered, “No?” in the same way I said it, only it sounded more hopeful.

She put her arm around me and said “No?” again, and I felt all disintegrated then she said, “Wouldn’t you like to be a brave boy and go with me to protect me from the water snakes?”

Then that made me think of my father, and how safe it was for a long way all around him, when he held his gun that way in his hands, and patted it or cocked it, or just swung it down beside his leg with a careless air, and I said suddenly that I would go if I had a gun, but that I would not go otherwise.

She laughed and said, “Very well, I know where there is a beauty, and if you’ll go with me I’ll get it for you, but you must not tell, because you are your mother’s darling and hope, and,” she added suddenly, leaning down and looking into my face, “you are the link that binds them together, forever and ever.” And I said I guessed so, and I felt all hot and excited and fearless.

She went away then to the house, and I stood by the trough dipping my hand in, so anyone seeing me would think me careless and occupied and would not question me.

The stable boy went by. “Growing up, kid?” he said, but I did not answer him. Presently she came out of the house carrying a basket on her arm. She came up to me and I looked in it and there lay one of father’s South American pistols—one he had used when he was in charge of one of the more important of the canals; the pistol with the dull, dangerous, smoldering look of passion. And then we walked toward the woods saying nothing. Presently she gave me the pistol. “Now remember, be careful, and shoot only if there is danger.”

She went on ahead of me, singing under her breath, the two braids thrown back where I could see them, going down, down beyond the place for braids.

Presently she began turning the moss over with a stick and picking up things, green and damp and pretty, but nameless. The swamp water was black and thick. She went nearer and nearer, holding her blue dress up about her ankles, stepping over the black, wet stones—her feet kept sinking in, and she moved them softly and quickly. The skunk-cabbages were standing up out of the swamp angrily, all colored a boastful green.

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