“If sooner or later I should succumb physically, I am quite reconciled. I shall at least have known what it is to live.
“My will to live! On this account I have steeled my strength in recent months, and often forced myself to do many things which Andreas once did or perhaps did – yet I was often displeased when I found that I had done the thing in question not only as well as, but better than, Andreas. I was often vexed to discover this fact, for it reminded me of the virile qualities associated with Andreas.
“Recently, before my departure for Dresden, I looked over all the photographs which had been taken of me in the Women’s Clinic a year ago. What a childishly simple and effeminate expression all the pictures of that time reveal! How imploring and helpless the glance! Then I looked in the mirror to see what I am like now. My face has become smoother, and healthier, and fresher, the whole body more taut and feminine. But my eyes have a self-conscious expression. I am not pleased as this; life has hardened me.
“Now I have returned once more. Here, where the strong will of another stands between me and the outside world, as my protector and defender, I can cast off the assumed sternness of my character. It is not really sternness, but a very fragile shell around a completely defenceless creature.
“Here you have, dear friend, the explanation of my character, of my endeavour and my deepest longing; all that I desire is nothing less than the last fulfilment of a real woman; to be protected from life by the sterner being, the husband. I think death would be more welcome to me than, for instance, a life as an artist, even as a great and fêted artist on my own account. For I do not want to be an artist, but a woman. Hence I must shut all artistic creation out of my life – you will remember I insisted on this during our last conversation – because I cannot continue the work of the virile artist who was Andreas.
“And in contrast to Andreas, who had to create the works of art from inner compulsion, my own life feels deflected from everything that constitutes art. Do I make myself clear? It is not with my brain, not with my eyes, not with my hands that I want to be creative, but with my heart and with my blood. The fervent longing in my woman’s life is to become the mother of a child. Whether this wish can be fulfilled or not, the fact that I can openly acknowledge this desire from the fullness of a pure woman’s heart is an infinite happiness for me. The fact that I may experience this happiness justifies everything that has happened to me here in Dresden.
“And because it is so, dear friend, the Confessions which I have placed in your hands must end on the note that expresses my strongest craving: ‘I want so much to become a mother.’
“Now you will understand me and now you will be able to teach others to understand me.
“In two days I shall probably be operated upon. It is to be the last time. So it is well that I have poured out all my heart to you today.”
“16th June.
“Now I am just as insignificant as I was last year.
“I believe I am to be operated upon tomorrow. I am not afraid of the pain. I should like to stay here for good. I am sitting outside in the garden. Now and then I am seized by a vague anxiety. Then I stroll through the grounds between the fir trees. What need have I to be anxious? I know that everything will turn out well. Of course I shan’t die … that would, indeed, be treachery of life. Write to me … that comforts me. Perhaps the book will appear while I am lying here.”
“I7th July.
“I am so weak. How is the book getting on?”
“18th July.
“Today it is a month since I was operated upon … progress is being maintained … and my mind is no longer dwelling upon the subject of death. Last night I dreamed that a friend took me in his arms and carried me off, and I was happy. I have gone through so much, but so much is expected of me. Now I know that I am like all women.”
“19th July.
‘My friend Iven Person of the Theatre Royal, Copenhagen (the only one of Andreas’ friends to extend his friendship to me), and his wife Ebba, came to see me yesterday. It was delightful. I wept for joy. They were so good to me. Iven said that when he was back in Copenhagen he would arrange a lecture for me; the most eminent artists were to take part in it. I was to have all the proceeds. Iven kept saying, ‘Don’t worry, Lili. Everything will turn out well. All you have to do is to get better.’ Iven is so strong and he has a heart that feels for others. And both of them said that I had grown prettier. Much to my delight.
“Should I write a preface to the book, to explain why, when speaking of Andreas, I always use the third person, as in a novel? But, my dear friend, what other form of narrative could I have chosen? I could not relate the story of Andreas’ life in the first person. Nor could I employ the third person when speaking of my own life and experiences, after Andreas had vanished. I was too close to everything. Hence, I often found it repugnant to speak of myself as of a third person. How lucky I was to secure the long narrative which Andreas dictated to Niels in Berlin before the first operation!
“Yes, if I had been able to wait before completing the book, as you always advised me, I could perhaps have recorded everything in a better, and stronger, and more direct style. You say that the people who read my book will want to know something about the nature and progress of the operations.
“Ought I to say that when Andreas was taking part in Iven’s ballet in Paris, he suddenly started to menstruate, without knowing it, just like a woman, that these discharges then recurred at regular intervals, and that their character was first perceived by Werner Kreutz. Ought I to say that the first operation in Berlin was the castration of Andreas, that immediately afterwards his voice changed into mine and his handwriting into mine, but that Andreas’ blood was already my blood before the first operation, full of excretions of my ovaries?”
“Shall I relate that a creature who was not yet I, but a castrated man, a being who was neither man nor woman, entered the Women’s Clinic in the spring of last year? Ought I to say that the male organ was then removed, the body opened and my ovaries found, which, however, had been stunted by the wrong treatment in Paris? Ought I to say that then I, Lili, was supplied with fresh ovaries from a woman of twenty-six, which ‘normalized’ my whole being and its functions, that henceforth I was and am a woman like other women, and that I have now returned to Dresden for the last operation to effect a natural outlet from the womb. “Oh, dear friend, more than this I cannot write. I can discuss all this with you, as I proved in Copenhagen. You know full well how I have striven in order to find the simplest and smoothest language for my ‘Confessions’. I am indeed no writer. And this book, which arose out of diary entries and descriptive extracts and letters, I had to write in such a short time, between late autumn and early spring, between two very serious operations, as if between two battles. To be sure, I hope through this book to be able to provide for my material existence.
Can I be reproached for that?”
“No! And then I am writing all this in order to render an account of myself and my helper. That he, having read and approved the German text thereof, is satisfied with my narrative, is my greatest joy and deepest satisfaction. I could not give more than a picture of the soul, a human document, a ‘confession’, as you call my narrative. And if many chapters read like a novel, you and, above all, my helper, and Grete, and Claude, you all know that it is no romance, but nothing less than the strictly veracious life-story of a creature seeking clarity and peace and rest, and who wants to remain with her friend as his companion.
“I should like to give you a little present. Hence I am sending you Andreas’ book, Le Livre des Vikings, which he published in 1924, in conjunction with Ch Gyuot, at L’Edition d’Art H. Piazza, Paris. You are to keep it as a memento. Look at the first page! Andreas has written on it: ‘To my dear father – from Andreas, Paris 21.2.1924.
And underneath I have written: ‘To my friend … Lili Elbe, Copenhagen, 5th June, 1931.’ On the 5th June I was with you for the last time. The following day I left for Dr
esden. When shall I be with you again?
“7th August.
“I was talking to the Professor today about my book, and what he said about it gave me keen pleasure. Next week he is going on his vacation. Just think of it, they have not yet allowed me to get up. But it cannot be long now before I am on my feet again. I think there should be a foreword to the book stating: ‘This book deals with my life and my transformation; it is written by a creature who is still weak and impotent’ …”
“13th August.
“The Professor has left for his holiday. My condition brings me to despair. I cannot see that I am making any progress, but there are moments when I am so tired that I almost wish I could die; but I have not received permission to do this, as I know the Professor will not have it.”
“15th August.
“I cannot write about my last operation – it was an abyss of suffering. It is well that Grete does not know. I am still so weak; but in September I shall return to Copenhagen. I must put my papers in order, for Claude’s sake.”
“17th August.
“I don’t want to bother you with my troubles, but it is now two months since the strict Professor has kept me in bed. It was a terrible time, and I am so unutterably tired of it. I do not expect to return to Copenhagen before the end of September.”
Grave of Lili Elbe: Lili Elbe born in Denmark died in Dresden
“22nd August.
“I am so tired, I am constantly tired, and I am still lying in bed. Almost every day I receive flowers from Grete … she is happy. If I had the strength, I would write and tell her that I am progressing. She would come to me; but that I don’t want. I am so lonely and so weak. But when I am most dejected, a letter comes from Claude; he is waiting for me – dear, dear Claude.”
*
The shadows were closing round Lili Elbe. She wrote one more letter at the beginning of September. It was addressed to her sister.
“Now I know that death is near. Last night I dreamt about Mother. She took me in her arms and called me Lili … and Father was also there …”
On the 12th September Lili’s brother was summoned to Dresden by telegraph. She was no longer able to speak. She could only whisper. But her eyes were shining when her brother was with her. She wrote her last words on a card. She gave the card to her faithful nurse in the Women’s Clinic, “Au revoir, sister.” Then she fell asleep and did not wake again. Paralysis of the heart put an end to her short young woman’s life, which was so excruciating and yet so wonderful. Her dearest wish was to be allowed to rest in the cemetery near the Women’s Hospital, and on the 15th September, 1931, her wish was fulfilled.
When Lili Elbe was with her German friend for the last time, on the 5th June, 1931, the day before her last journey to Dresden, she opened a book. It was the first volume of Hans Jager’s shattering confessions, Sick Love. Lili read for a while. Suddenly she paused, handed her friend the book, pointed to a passage, and said:
“If I should not return, may it be appropriate to conclude my book with these words from Hans Jager.”
With a trembling voice Lili Elbe read the passage:
“‘When I myself am no longer here, I want my sad book of love to be my legacy, a testimony that I once lived. I imagine that this book will be read, read as few books are, by all who are unhappy in love, into whose hands it shall fall year after year, and I feel as if I could shake them all by the hand. And I have such an unspeakable longing; it is in fact the only longing that I have, to say farewell to all – oh, none can realize what ultimate peace this would be for me.’”
First published in United Kingdom in 1933 by Jarrolds Publishers London
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2015 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Based on an edition published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by Blue Boat Ltd.
Blue Boat and Canelo would like to thank David Bambury, Gillian Burrows, Helen Coulton and Sally Green
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781910859261
The publishers have made extensive efforts to locate any existing copyright holders of the original works. Any legitimate rights holder is welcome to contact the publisher.
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