Lili Page 15

  And for hours she would lie there and ponder over this often-recurring question. She felt as if he had deprived her of her will. She observed how he sought to evoke her feminine impulses by being alternately mild and stern. Had he not deliberately provoked an eruption of all the primitive instincts of her womanhood? She felt the transformation proceeding with every new day. It was a new life. It was a new youth. It was her own youth that was seeking to liberate itself. And she lay there, believing.

  XIV

  Spring, the great miracle-worker, also came to Lili’s assistance. Yet she must still pass many days chained to the bed, in the white sick-room. But with each new day her life became healthier. The pains departed. Everything took a normal course. The Professor was satisfied. She was still utterly exhausted. And hence it came about that she lay as if in a coma, and she spent most of the day absorbed in herself and dreaming. The world outside did not trouble her. She was hardly aware of it. Newspapers and books which were brought to her she left untouched. She had only one wish: that nothing should ever be different, that she could always remain here, in the peace of the Women’s Clinic. And when the thought sometimes occurred to her that the day would come when she would have to go forth into the world outside, beyond the park wall of this large, quiet house, she was assailed by overwhelming fear. Thus she developed a desire to remain here as a nurse, to build up her strength in order to be able to help other women once she was well. Now and then she broached the matter to Grete or to the Matron, or the other nurses, who merely nodded. Once she asked Grete if she might not speak to the Professor about it. Grete thought she might. But immediately a fresh fear welled up in her. “If he should say no! Perhaps I shall not be strong enough. Perhaps he will tell me that he did not save me for this …”

  And Grete had no answer.

  During many long nights Lili’s fear of life outside sought refuge in another peaceful thought. Could she not enter a convent, become a nun? She fell into reveries of remote, secluded convents somewhere in Italy, Spain, or South Germany. No one should know there whence she had come and what a destiny had been hers. No one … She would weep for hours for fear of the life outside, of this life which seemed to her like an enemy. There her secret would be rudely unveiled, and she would be regarded as a phenomenon. Her fate would be the subject of vulgar gossip; she would be stared at, and she would not be left in peace. And the healthier her body became, the more vivid became her fear of her future among people. Yet she no longer dared to speak about it to others.

  At length the morning came when she was allowed to leave the sick-room for the first time. Lying back in a bathchair she was pushed into the warm, sunny April morning, into the middle of a soft green garden. It was her first untrammelled, happy day. She was like a newborn baby. All her senses were fresh and full of wonder. She saw every insect which fluttered in the blue sunny air and every flapping of wings from tree to tree. The scent of the little yellow, pink-and-white spring flowers of the hedges and borders held a new message for her. And with attentive eyes she regarded a magnolia tree holding up its large, glistening buds to the sunny air. Upon a branch sat two young birds huddled closely together. Lili closed her eyes. A soft wind played about the white birch trees. The spring soil smelt sweet and warm. The birds twittered.

  To keep her eyes shut, only to listen, only to smell. More than this she could not do. In this posture the Professor found her. “You look very happy,” he said, and patted her hand.

  “My life is your work,” she reflected. “And I should so much like to thank you for the first spring day of my life, because you were merciful to me. I believe I am the happiest creature in the world.” But all this remained unspoken; she felt it only in her heart.

  “You look happy,” said the Professor, and she merely answered:

  “Yes, Professor.”

  Many happy spring days came, and at last the day also came when she could be lifted out of the invalid’s chair and walk a few steps in the garden on Grete’s arm. Everything was as before, and yet everything seemed so changed, she thought. And on all the paths she saw again young, pregnant women, like blue crocuses, as she thought, smiling.

  One morning, before she had strolled out into the park, Grete and the Matron came into her room and handed her a sealed letter, which had come from Berlin. She opened the letter, and a profound emotion overwhelmed her. A few weeks before, the Professor had told her that he would assist her to confront the world for what she was, a woman. He had promised her to write to the Danish Embassy in Berlin. Now she took from the envelope a passport, her own passport with her own photograph, and upon the passport was written the name which she had chosen out of gratitude to the city where she had found peace and life itself: Lili Elbe.

  She sank into the chair and said very softly: “Leave me alone now for a little while.” Grete and the Matron understood and went out. For a long time Lili remained sitting very quietly on the chair. She then went softly and diffidently into the park, and sat on a seat which was flooded by sunshine. This little booklet, her passport, she held like a valuable present in both hands. It was the last day but one of April. In two days it would be the first of May. Andreas had kept his promise. He was dead, and she was alive – Lili Elbe.

  So the Professor found her. He sat down beside her. Not a word was said. The next morning he came again, and his voice was softer than usual. His rather stern face beamed with benevolence. He held her hands and spoke many hopeful words to her. Lili knew that in a few hours he would depart, and be away for several weeks. She pulled herself together and tried to thank him for all he had been to her. But she could not utter a word. When he had gone she felt utterly lost. Only one thing gave her consolation: that she was allowed to remain in this asylum which he had given her, and that she might here await his return.

  He was leaving for the South.

  A few days later everything had become lonely and empty. Easter was over and Grete was saying good-bye. She was obliged to return to Paris for some time. It was a Monday morning. The car which was to take Grete to the station stopped on the drive in front of the hospital. Lili went with her to the vehicle. It was the first time that Lili had ventured into the world without, beyond the park wall. When Lili returned alone through the park, it was some time before she realized where she was going.

  XV

  Letters passed from Lili to Grete in Paris and from Grete back to Lili. The whole city was bathed in spring. The patients spent many hours on the banks of the broad stream which Lili had seen for the first time a few weeks before when she came from Berlin. How the world and her life had changed since that day! Lili mentioned this in every letter she wrote. They were mostly cheerful letters, breathing serenity and the blitheness of spring. And the letters which Lili received from Paris brought none but joyous news and many cordial wishes. Grete often conveyed greetings from Elena and Ernesto. From Claude came treasured words. Hardly a day passed without bringing a message from friends to Lili. And hardly a day passed but that Lili wrote happy, confident words to her friends.

  Days and weeks went by quietly, without Lili asking a question.

  All her burdens seemed to have slipped away. If she could only stay here always! Never go away from here! That was her daily prayer. And so she forgot her fear. She felt invulnerable against all adversity. She was like a piece of ground that was cleared for the first time. And when of a night, at first shyly and then with increasing confidence, she contemplated her body, she experienced a sweet secret joy. For she saw all her members either swelling or tightening, and how miracle after miracle was working in her. And in these nocturnal hours, quite alone with herself and her joy, she could stand in front of the mirror and gaze at the picture of her young woman’s body. It gleamed back at her immaculate from the silvery sheen of the mirror. Yet she dared not confide in any creature upon earth the happiness which she felt in these silent hours. Not even in her letters.

  “6th May, 1930.

  “Dearest Grete,

 
; “How changed is everything here in the private ward! Formerly the days were passed eventfully enough, or in the expectation of events, and now nothing happens any longer. On the day of your departure the Matron was called to Berlin on family business. During her absence – which will probably last a week or more – her place is taken by Sister Margaret.

  “Every day sees the departure of women who are cured. And fresh patients come. There are now, three of us in the private ward, and we are sunning ourselves outside in the garden, in invalid chairs on the lawn. There is a fair little lady, still very young, whom I like very much. She looks most attractive. We smile at each other now and then from a distance. But that is all up to now. I do not like the garden any longer. You have gone. And the Professor has gone. What shall I tell you? I don’t know. An oppressive silence reigns here now. Even in my room I walk about softly, as if I feared to disturb the silence. Everything seems to be wrapped in the magic sleep of the fairy tale.”

  “8th May.

  “Thanks for your letter. It was such a distraction. I am glad that you have fallen into the way of your work again.

  “I have made the acquaintance of the little fair lady. When one of the doctors was passing yesterday – we were lying in our chairs out in the garden – we suddenly looked at each other and smiled. So it began. And then we started chatting. It transpired that she is half a Dane, her mother coming from Denmark. She said: ‘I guessed at once that you are a Dane, from your long slender legs, just like mine. They are the Northern speciality. I inherited my legs from my mother.’ And then she proudly showed me ‘her Northern speciality’. How glad I am to have once more a person with whom I can converse! The nurses have nick-named her Mrs Teddybear, on account of her woollen cloak, which she always wears in the garden. Then she said: ‘I think we have the same figure. We could certainly wear the same clothes and shoes.’ I think so too. Unfortunately she is not yet allowed to go for a walk, otherwise we should have gone into the town together. She has to undergo an after-treatment, which will take some time. The third lady, Mrs Teddybear told me, is an opera singer from North Germany. She is supposed to have undergone a difficult operation.

  “I read newspapers, which tell me what the weather is like with you in Paris and on the Riviera, where the Professor now is. Have you given Claude my greetings?”

  “9th May.

  “Everything here is still wrapped in magic slumber. We hear nothing of the Professor. Nobody knows when the Matron will return. Early this morning a fourth lady joined us in the garden, a young woman who has just had a child.

  “Mrs Teddybear and I have become close friends in the meantime. She has poured out to me her little overcharged heart. She and her husband are not on good terms. She hears almost nothing from him. Yesterday she showed me in her room a portrait of her husband. I believe she is very sad. The poor thing! She is scarcely twenty years old. Suddenly she asked after – my husband! I had to pull myself together, for I must not betray myself. And so I merely hinted that matters were much worse with me, so bad that I could not speak about them. Then she did not ask any further questions. She only looked at me very sadly. Her eyes glistened with tears. And I was in no better case. And then we smiled again.

  “I am so glad that she has given me her confidence. She is the first woman to pour out her heart to me in my woman’s existence.

  “We are now inseparable. With the nurses I stroll about the garden. In the evenings we walk through the streets a little, to look at the passers-by. Yesterday afternoon I went with Sister Frieda as far as the Elbe. Then we adjourned to a little café and ate cakes. My first proper walk.”

  In the Women’s Clinic, Dresden, 1930

  “10th May.

  “Today I am able to tell you something amusing. The young lady who had a baby has a dear old mother who comes daily and always stays a long time. Yesterday in the garden she nodded to me in a friendly fashion, and this morning, as I was lying in the invalid’s chair, she came to me, gave me her hand, and asked sympathetically: ‘How are you, little woman? I suppose you too have had a baby?’ I was embarrassed. But that lasted only a moment. Then I said evasively that I had undergone two operations. Probably the old lady did not hear very well, or misunderstood my answer. I had spoken very softly. And do you know what she answered? ‘Two babies?’ No, that is really too much for you!’ I had to keep a straight face. If the Professor had heard that!

  “If Mrs Teddybear asks me, what shall I say? It is no joke to be in my shoes.”

  “11th May.

  “The head doctor has a delightful little ape, with whom he often strolls in the garden. It is the dearest little creature. I want to ask him if he cannot take it with him when he makes his round of visits. He is very amiable. I have got quite accustomed to him. He told me this morning that I was now looking very robust. I feel quite well in myself. How happy that made me! I should like to look really pretty when the Professor returns. Half his holiday has now expired. You will soon meet him in Paris.

  “I am now going for a short walk with the opera singer. Yesterday we made each other’s acquaintance. She speaks French quite well.”

  “12th May.

  “Yesterday I exerted myself rather too much during the walk with the opera singer. We had again gone to the Elbe. The weather was glorious. She told me about her operation. Then we talked about the Professor. She said: ‘You can have no idea how much I envy you. You will be allowed to remain in the clinic a long time, but my stay is nearly up. It is so very lovely and peaceful here. Unfortunately I am very cowardly, as I am afraid of pain. I would rather die than be operated upon again. I admire your serenity. Your operations must have been very serious, and yet you are expecting still another …’ “I had to smile cordially and even a little proudly. I said: ‘Ah, one gets accustomed to everything.’ You ought to have seen her horrified eyes!

  “And so we went on chatting without noticing that we had forgotten to turn back. I had become very tired. The singer simply had to drag me along. At length we got back to the clinic. I was exhausted. In future I will be more careful.

  “Then I must tell you about a conversation I had yesterday with a friend of Teddybear. She was a pretty, elegant, and interesting woman, only somewhat – learned. She is a doctor here in Dresden. No doubt Mrs Teddybear had told her something about myself. We chatted in a very animated fashion about unimportant things. I laughed a good deal. I affected a superficial and careless demeanour. That was all very well in its way; but I had provoked the doctor’s displeasure. Suddenly she said: ‘You are one hundred per cent woman.’ That sounded very sympathetic. ‘How do you make that out?’ I inquired with a smile. ‘You are very coquettish and your head is full of nonsense. I believe you would like the lords of creation to tyrannize over you. But perhaps you achieve more by your methods than we modern women. What we have to fight for you achieve in a twinkling by means of a few tears. You seem to me like a female type of a vanished age.’ I laughed saucily. ‘And may I ask what this vanished female type is like? I am extremely curious to know.’ The lady doctor looked at me a moment before answering very scornfully: ‘Women like you are best suited for a – harem.’ What do you say to this psychoanalytical diagnosis? When you see Claude, you must tell him. The Professor too. I laughed till I cried.

  “Teddybearkins has given me an exact description of her operation. In her room she showed me the scars it had left. She also inquired about mine. I had to pretend to be downright stupid, as if I did not know why I had been operated upon at all. Dearest, dearest Grete, and yet it is so lovely to be a woman here among women, to be a female creature exactly like all the others …”

  “14th May.

  “Dearest of all.

  “Yesterday the head doctor visited me with his little ape. It immediately installed itself on my table. Some salad had remained over from lunch, and this was given the little animal. How well-mannered it was, to be sure! His master was very proud. After the meal it washed its paws in a little bowl which I pushed
towards it. I had to laugh heartily, and I can do so now without feeling any pain. Isn’t that fine? This is a sure sign that everything is healed up. The head doctor then said that I was now so well that I could recuperate in some sanatorium. I declined emphatically. ‘The Professor wants to operate on me again!’ He looked serious for a moment. ‘All right,’ he then said, and smiled; ‘but that will only be a minor operation.’ Well, I said nothing, but thought the more. I know these minor operations.

  “I am so excited over your letter. Perhaps you know when the Professor returns. Here no one knows anything. The nurses think that the Matron will be back tomorrow. Teddybearkins is now permitted to take walks. She is coming for me in an hour’s time, and then we will take a stroll through the clinic.”

  “15th May.

  “So the Professor will be in Paris in a few days’ time? Then he will pay Elena a visit. What things have happened since January, since Elena’s last conversation with the Professor! Then she was with him in the company of Andreas. It hardly bears thinking of. I am trembling all over. Isn’t life wonderful? I have become so credulous, so credulous … and so grateful … and so full of hope.