“He gave me a new German translation of the Bible. The first volume. The Book of the Beginning, was the title, and I read in it many times the words:
“And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
“Is it presumptuous of me, whenever I think of my beginning, always to hear these words, the music of this verse, sounding in my ears?
*
“I often give the loose leaves of my diary to my German friend to read. I ask him to tell me whenever I am obscure, and then a word from him encourages me to proceed. He understands my strange feeling about building this bridge in the dark.
“Grete has returned from Italy. She is radiantly happy, and I rejoice in her happiness.
“She is now living with me, as we need no longer be afraid of going out together. I am not nervous any more. No one takes any notice of me in the streets.
“We talked through many long nights. We talked nearly always of the life that was now coming for her and for me. She was also able to help me out of the difficulties which I encountered so often when writing down my confessions. She always knew the answer.
“She talked a lot about Feruzzi. They wanted to marry without delay, and Grete said that her home would then always be my home. Feruzzi knew everything and said that he would always be my friend and protector. And Grete declared that we were so closely bound together that she could not imagine herself away from me for long.
“She kept speaking to me in this strain. Then she would say laughingly that I was not only her sister, but also her big grown-up daughter. I had to promise her that I would go to her and Feruzzi soon after their marriage. Feruzzi, too, would welcome me like a grown-up daughter. How happy these words made me!”
A well-known Copenhagen art dealer, who was an old friend of Grete and Andreas and one of the few who had welcomed Lili, suggested that he should arrange an exhibition of the pictures which Andreas had left.
With the assistance of Grete he brought the whole collection of forty pictures from Paris to Copenhagen, and also many of Grete’s pictures.
But Lili, who had arranged the exhibition together with Grete, was advised in no circumstances to show herself at the opening of the exhibition. The strictest secrecy was observed towards the newspapers as to the character of the exhibition. To avoid gossip, it was given out that the main object of the exhibition was to raise funds, through the sale of Andreas’ latest pictures, to defray the cost of his long illness in a German hospital.
Invitations were despatched to the grand opening of the exhibition.
This exhibition was not calculated to excite surprise, as Andreas and Grete had exhibited in Copenhagen nearly every year, and, in fact, in the salons of this friendly art dealer.
A strange feeling of suppressed curiosity pervaded the atmosphere on the opening day. The most intimate friends of the artist were, of course, initiated into the secret. But many others, who also made their appearance on this occasion, had heard of the rumours that had long been current in Copenhagen. And all these rumours, however frequently they had been contradicted, cropped up again phantom-like. Nobody ventured to buy a single picture.
Lili’s resources melted away. She was depressed at the thought that she might be compelled to accept assistance from her relatives, however gladly they would have offered it to her. A suggestion was made that she should consent to the publication of the autobiographical sketches, her “life’s confession”, which she had not yet completed; but she rejected this proposal with something like horror.
An acquaintance then hit upon the absurd idea that Lili should impersonate Andreas and give the lie to all the rumours by making her appearance at the exhibition in this manner.
Grete was no less horrified at this idea than Lili. Then a friend who was on the staff of a leading Copenhagen newspaper came to Lili’s assistance.
She had long been wanting to write a descriptive article dealing with Lili’s metamorphosis. Lili had hitherto vetoed the suggestion. But now, the friend explained, the time had arrived when the public ought to learn the real truth. Such a well-known artist as Andreas simply could not just disappear like that. Consequently, it was only natural that the most fantastic rumours should be circulating in Copenhagen, especially as Andreas had so mysteriously disappeared from existence for nearly a year. And now she was resolved to relate in her newspaper the manner in which a gifted German surgeon had transformed the mortally ill Andreas Sparre into a glowing young woman, into Lili Elbe. The achievement of the German surgeon must be broadcasted to the world. It must not be allowed to remain a secret. It must be divulged one day, and now was the appropriate time.
With a heavy heart, persuaded by Grete and all her friends, Lili at length consented.
The next day, the beginning of March 1931, the article appeared and cleared the Copenhagen atmosphere. Like lightning the news flashed through the world press. Everywhere in Europe and America this extraordinary human fate was discussed. But despite the fact that Lili had now become a world celebrity, and the newspapers in all languages broadcasted her portrait everywhere, she went about Copenhagen more peaceably than ever. Her constant fear, that people would shout her name after her in the street, did not materialize.
With the exception of the few who knew her, no one imagined for an instant that the young lady who strolled almost daily along the “Strög”, and differed in no respect from other ladies, was the legendary Lili Elbe. A few days after the publication of the first article about her, she happened to be standing among a group of people in front of the entrance of a publishing house, where an illustrated article about her had just appeared in a weekly magazine, in order to buy a copy of this periodical. Then she sat down in a tram and read her own story just like many of the others who were sitting in the car. Nobody took any notice of her, although she was wearing the same coat and the same hat as in the photographs which illustrated the article.
After this “success” she was quite reassured and henceforth had various amusing experiences.
She went daily to Andreas’ exhibition, which was now thronged by people who hoped to catch a glimpse of Lili Elbe. And nearly all the pictures were sold, without a single one of the visitors having recognized her.
Once an old lady even came up to her and whispered: “Tell me, miss, don’t you think that the lady over there with the large feet and the necktie, who looks like a man, is Lili Elbe?”
“Yes,” answered Lili, “most decidedly that is she.” Another day, when she was sitting in a manicure saloon, a Swedish lady entered and exclaimed:
“Have you heard the story of Lili Elbe? Do you really believe there is anything in it?”
Everybody in the saloon explained that however fantastic it all sounded, it was perfectly true. Only Lili, who had for weeks been one of the regular attendants at the saloon, played the part of the sceptic.
“This article is, of course, exaggerated,” she observed dryly. Whereupon all the ladies agreed that all newspapers exaggerated something terribly.”
*
Lili’s state of health improved considerably. Her nerves were soothed. Now she need no longer hide herself from people.
Her legitimation papers were now in order. By royal sanction she was permitted to use her name without challenge. The exhibition had been a success, and she herself received many proofs of sympathy, especially from women. Women whom she did not know in the least sent her letters full of comprehension and enthusiasm. Flowers were sent her by unknown admirers. Various doctors offered to attend her without payment so long as she remained in Copenhagen and to supervise her state of health.
“People are making me a heroine,” she said to her friends. She breathed again and began to enjoy life.
*
And a few weeks later Grete could again leave for the South with an easy conscience, to celebrate her marriage with Feruzzi.
XXI
During these short weeks wh
ich she spent with Grete in Copenhagen, Lili knew for the first time what it was like to be in the company of a woman who was in love. And now, when Grete had left her alone, Lili felt a secret sorrow, a restrained grief, almost a feeling of envy – but no, it could not be envy, for she knew that no one more deeply wished Grete to be happy than she.
At length it dawned upon her that what was affecting her so painfully was a void in her life, something unfulfilled that in all probability never could be fulfilled.
All this she felt vaguely, and yet she feared to give a name to this new thing that was stirring within her.
Spring was now advancing. The garden of the house in which her attic was situated was quivering with tender green: Lili felt her body thriving. But she also felt how this mysterious craving within her for something to which she could give no name became ever more insistent.
She began to work more and more strenuously, as if she had no time to lose. All through the night she would fill pages as she wrote down her confessions. She allowed herself only a few hours’ sleep. In the daytime she would play the piano or sit sewing new clothes, or lend a hand with the work of the house. Her evenings she spent talking with relatives and friends. She often visited her German friend, taking to him fresh sheets of her manuscript, although she felt increasingly reluctant to discuss with him what she had written.
“Put it all in order,” she would often say, “and do not read it until I have left Copenhagen.”
She had arranged with Grete that when the summer came she would join her and Feruzzi in the South.
*
“The doctor whom I regularly visit said to me today: ‘When I saw you first, I thought you were a pitiful, degenerate, unfortunate creature, but now that I have been able to observe you quietly I can see that you are a healthy and vigorous woman.’
“I cannot tell you how happy these words made me. “In the evening I told my German friend what the doctor said, and the former observed:
“Now it will soon be time for you to paint again.’ “I stared at him horrified.
“‘Again?’ I said. ‘Do realize that I have never yet painted, and that I do not yet know whether I shall ever be able to start painting.’
“He looked at me sternly. For the first time I saw a doubt in his eyes. He said:
“‘The healthier you become, the more surely will every talent that resided in Andreas come to life in you – what was immortal in him, the divine spark, his artistic genius. And if you are not yet able to acknowledge the truth of this creative impulse which is slumbering within you, which must find an outlet somehow, you are at least in a position to teach others, especially young people who have a distinct talent for painting.’
“He had risen to his feet and was pacing the room in a state of excitement.
“‘I have read your confession, page for page, as you know, and I perceive something like timidity peeping out of avowal. You are a woman. Sometimes you are afraid of saying the last thing, for the last thing is the completely naked and the brutal. But all truth, in fact, is brutal. Much of it is even shameless, and there are very few people who can understand and endure the most intimate and perfect shame, that is the shame of shamelessness.’
“Then I took up his word: ‘Do you mean that I am not candid enough?’
“He took my hand, slipped my arm in his, and walked with me slowly up and down his room.
“‘Lili, you have described yourself as a bridge-builder, who is building a bridge from the solid bank of today. And you said yourself that you did not know whether the other bank was the past or the future.’
“Then he lapsed into silence.
“We were both standing in front of the window of his room, whence could be seen the harbour, and across a sea of roofs the sparkling water of the sound.
“We had both fallen silent. Then he resumed:
“‘This bridge, Lili, will go much farther into the past that you have any suspicion of today. In fact, across that abyss which separates man from woman. That is the remarkable thing about your fate, the unique thing that slumbers within you, namely, the emotional bond between the two sexes. This presentiment in your blood, which now pulsates through a woman’s heart as it formerly pulsated through the heart of a man, rises now and again through the mists of ambiguity into a penetrating insight. And you have transferred this intuition to the pages of your confession in a scrappy sort of way and perhaps expressed it in inadequate and tentative words. And frequently your words only hint at the thing, frequently you are silent, probably out of suppressed shame. This new country, Lili, this new country of the soul, is lying dormant within you, and whether you like it not, it will go on expanding.’
“Then he was silent.
“I hid in the darkest corner of his room and shut my eyes. He had not seen that I was weeping. I went home quite alone. On another occasion I asked him if he would send me as a pupil his daughter, a sixteen-year-old who had been attending the local art school for a few months.”
XXII
The next morning Lili received a letter from Claude Lejeune.
“My dear little Lili,
“I will do no more than tell you that I have to be in Copenhagen on business within the next few days. I shall be there next week.
“In haste,
“Your Claude.”
For a whole week Lili and Claude were together from morning to night. She showed him the city and its extensive environs, and the whole atmosphere was redolent of spring.
She was happy. The best friend of her youth had at last joined her again.
He told her the latest news from Paris, and all the memories of the many, many happy hours which they had both spent there and in the South of France revived in her until her whole memory, as if awakened from darkness, now seemed to her like an iridescent firmament.
“Do you remember this – do you remember that?” asked Claude, who could hardly wait for an answer and went on talking.
And Lili said to everything: “Yes, yes,” and her eyes were shining with delight.
But now and again she had a strange and secret feeling of something new and different stirring in her, and she did not know what it was.
*
“Claude and I were sitting this evening in a restaurant, when he suddenly said:
“‘Look here, Lili, I must take you home now. It is very late, and I am afraid that I shall be compromising you.’
“I was obliged to laugh loudly. Such words I had never before heard from Claude’s mouth.
“But when I looked at him I felt that he was quite serious in what he said, so I was obedient and rose to my feet. “When we were seated side by side in the taxi, I said to him:
“‘Claude, you look so solemn. Are you no longer as happy as you used to be when you were with me in Paris and on the Loire?’
“Claude seized my hand and answered:
“‘Perhaps you are right. During these few days I have in fact observed something new in you, something which I did not notice at the time when, if I may so express it, you were not yet born. Now you are a healthy creature, but so defenceless. You are an adult woman, but you often seem to me like a child. You ought to have somebody who would be both a mother and a husband. In a few days I must be off again, and I find it very painful to leave you here all alone, exposed to all dangers, as people in Copenhagen, where everybody knew Andreas, regard you, whether you admit it or not, as a phenomenon, even when they are good to you. You cannot, in fact, run away from your past.’
“Claude looked at me long and earnestly. I asked him: “‘What am I to do, then?’
“‘You must go away from here.’ “I nodded.
“‘It is my intention to do so. Grete is expecting me in Italy in June. But before going there I want to go to Dresden once more, to the Women’s Clinic, to spend a few summer days or weeks there, as I did last year.’
“Claude shook his head.
“‘What plans, what plans, Lili! Nothing but long journeys. And quite alon
e. It is indeed very nice of Grete and her husband to want to have you with them, but don’t forget they are a newly married pair. Have happy people, who have neglected their happiness so long, room for a third person?’
“And then Claude was silent again, until he suddenly said:
“‘I must tell you that in the course of a few days I shall be transferred from Paris to Turkey, and I must start on my journey within a week at least.’ Claude had for a number of years been a consular official.
“He gazed at me with his large, open, kind eyes and asked:
“‘Will you come with me, Lili?’
“The question came so suddenly that I looked at him incredulously. ‘Do you really want me with you?’
“Claude said seriously: ‘My little Lili, can you doubt it?
Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?’
“Quite involuntarily, as if I had not spoken myself, I said: ‘Yes, oh, yes, Claude.’ And I still heard my words ringing in my ear. They were uttered without agitation, as softly as a schoolgirl speaks.
“And consequently I did not even remark Claude’s agitation when he suddenly took both my hands and kissed them. Only when Claude pressed me to him and kissed me on the mouth did I realize what he and I had said, and an unaccountable feeling flooded me, something which I had never perceived before, something so blissful, yet frightening.
“And suddenly I heard, as if coming from afar, the words which Werner Kreutz had spoken to me the last time I had seen him: ‘Go out and flutter your wings and glide into life. Enjoy your maiden’s youth.’
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