D.V. Read Online Free Page B

stance—it was up, up, up , and so was she. The Edwardian influence in England lasted long afterEdward’s death and blossomed like a cherry orchard in the best sun. Each period casts a long, long shadow. That’s my period, if you really want to know. You might think it was my mother’s period, but it’s mine. One’s period is when one is very young.
    Actually, when I was brought to America from France in 1914, I didn’t know any English. But what was worse, I didn’t hear it. I was the most frustrated little girl. I was sent first to my grandmother’s house in Southampton, Long Island, in the month of April (which is an odd month to go there, but never mind; it was never explained to me then, and I have no way of finding out now). Then the war broke out and we were stuck. And I still couldn’t speak English.
    My family moved from Long Island to a tiny little house on East Seventy-ninth Street, one door off Park Avenue. My sister had a floor with her nurse and I had a floor with my nurse. All I cared about was horses. I never had a doll. I only had horses—these little toy horses I kept in little stalls along one side of my room. I’d stroke them and talk to them in a curious language of my own. I can’t remember much of it except that chickens were “uddeluddels” and elephants were “eggapatties.” I talked to them all night. The awful thing was that I adored my horses so much I’d get up in the middle of the night to see that they had water; then the glue on their manes and their tails would run. The room always smelled of glue, which is like dead fish.
    My grandmother had a huge farm horse in the country outside of Katonah, New York, who wasn’t used a great deal. He just stood in his stall. After lunch I’d run off, get on the horse. I had to use steps because he was enormous , and I’d sit there all afternoon, perfectly happy. It would get hot, the flies would buzz…occasionally he’d swat his tail because the flies were bothering him, and I’d just sit there. That’s all I wanted—just to be with the steam and the smell of that divine horse. Horses smell much better than people—I can tell you that .
    I was almost intuitive about horses. I can remember standing on the corner of Seventy-ninth Street and Park Avenue. I’d suddenly say, “Horse, horse, horse!”—and a horse would come around the corner! Naturally, my fixation was practically over by then, but I could smell the oats and the hay coming around the corner. Because there’s quite a steep slope there on the corner, many horses slipped, broke their legs in the snow and ice, and had to be shot. And of course it killed me. Children, you know, are so tragically dramatic. The death of a horse to me was something so terrible— because I didn’t give a damn about anything else. Don’t forget, I still couldn’t speak any intelligible language.
    I certainly didn’t give a damn about school. I was sent to the Brearley School. It’s one time in my life I’ve always regretted—fighting my way through the place…. And those goddamn gongs! Everyone knew where to go when the gong went off except me, but I didn’t know whom to ask. I didn’t know anybody, I didn’t know anything—I couldn’t speak . By this time, stuttering had started. You see, I wasn’t allowed to speak French. But you have to talk. You have to say, “I want some bread” or “I want some butter” or “I want to go to the…bathroom”—but I couldn’t say it!
    I can remember a teacher named Mrs. McKiver who always used to say, “If you can’t say it, you don’t know it.” You can imagine what that did to me.
    So this terrible stuttering began…several doctors were brought in. They said, “Mrs. Dalziel, either she speaks French or English, but right now she’s