by Daphne
 

Saturday, May 12, 1906

They have decided to send me to live with my Aunt Enid in Baltimore. She is my father’s older sister but we scarcely know her. I suppose my dear mother and father have nowhere else to turn. The surprising thing is that I am greatly relieved. Although I am determined to endure and overcome this tribulation with God’s help, I cannot continue as I have so far. I now seem so girlish in my outward form that my onetime chums are embarrassed to keep up their acquaintance with me. I can scarcely stand to look at my own image in the looking glass!

As for Finney Baker and that pack of baboons that he commands — without perceiving why, in the past year I have become their daily sport. Of all the boys in Perkinstown, only Billy Barkell holds back from taunting me. Hearing that I was going away, he came to our house yesterday. Billy swore that he would always be my friend — he would never forget our our “scientific experiments” and “pirate expeditions” and swims at the reservoir. He hoped that this thing which has so changed me me will not last, and we shall be able to resume the manly pursuits we have shared so happily these many years. When I parted with Billy, I again thought I wanted to die.

It is true, I have thought of killing myself, although it is the greatest sin. They tell us at church that there is a divine plan in which we all play our part. But what God would create one a male in his parts, and then inflict on that half-ripened boy a form that every day became more unmistakably female?

My teacher, Mr. Truscott, has been a true friend. Having observed the signs of my distress, he took it unto himself to speak to my parents. I think there can be few teachers so sympathetic to the torments that are visited on youths who in some essential respect are unlike their peers.

Dismissing the others one day some months ago, Mr. Truscott kept me after class, and bade me tell why my mathematics exercises suffered so. I had been at the top of the class, he said, and now at my present rate of decline seemed destined to plumb the bottom. Miserably, I acknowledged the truth of his observation. Again Mr. Truscott asked me why I did not summon up the fortitude and intellect that he felt sure was still within me.

Then, without calculation on my part, I broke into such an unquenchable fit of weeping that it astonished us both. At length, still sobbing, my head laid for comfort instinctively upon his manly breast, I confided my worst and most horrid nightmares. I told him that I could no longer endure the taunts and teasing of my schoolmates.

I shudder to imagine what another might have thought had we been observed on that afternoon. Tenderly, Mr. Truscott held me close to him until the fit had passed. He took my shaking hands in his own firm grip, and, looking directly into not just my eyes, but through them into my very soul, he told me that this terror I felt would surely pass. My body’s treason was not the consequence of any inherent fault of my own, he said. Science has learned that in human experience, there is a much greater range of emotion, intellect and outward semblance than is commonly believed. By a chance combination of these elements, I have been caused to suffer the greatest distress but, Mr. Truscott said, this affliction would not kill me. It was his confident belief that I would emerge the stronger for it, were I to rely on the assistance of those who loved me.

Finding words that I could never bring to cross my own lips, at an early opportunity Mr. Truscott specified to my parents my affliction and its consequences in my social relations and mental state. Perhaps this moral and physical distress would prove transient, he said; if it did not, it was doubly urgent that I be removed from my school and town for some time, that I might in comparative tranquillity adjust to the changes that fate has strangely visited on my body and my emotions.

Thus it is that I am now approaching the City of Baltimore in a second class railway coach. My parents have taken to heart Mr. Truscott’s earnest recommendation that I should be withdrawn, at least temporarily, from our local school. To my astonishment, his intervention prompted heartfelt expressions of concern and affection from my mother and even my father. Condensing many words between us into few, suffice it to say that in their view, I was their child. They knew I was good and decent and they would not be shaken in that belief unless by my own acts the contrary supposition was made manifest. Even then, they said, they would bear me the affection that parents naturally feel for their children.

Much moved, for my parents are commonly the most reticent of mortals, I have resolved to support their high estimation of my character. Indeed, I have begun to hope again that my affliction might prove transient, and perhaps even in some yet unperceived way be a test from which I may grow stronger and better.

Now the train is arriving at Baltimore, ten minutes late. On the platform I see an erect, impatient-looking woman dressed in black. It must be Aunt Enid, to whose care I have been commended.

May 14 (Monday). I am sure that my Aunt Enid loathes me. Our relations are brittle at best. She will not regard me directly, addresses me with scarcely a hint of warmth, and seems preoccupied by terrible thoughts she does not wish to impart. She is at least 50, a wealthy widow. I wonder why she agreed that I should come to live here with her.

May 15. In my Aunt’s household there are myself, my Aunt Enid, and five servants: Cook, Moira the upstairs maid, Peggy the parlor maid, and a Negro couple, Beulah and Gideon, who are washerwoman and coachman respectively. I don’t know how to behave around so many servants. Moira is especially pleasant and helpful.

My uncle perished long ago in a wild storm at sea, but that is not my aunt’s great tragedy. The sorrow on which she broods is the loss of her daughter and only child, my cousin Evelyn, by scarlet fever in her infancy, scarce months after my uncle’s own death fourteen years ago. I have learned this from Cook.

May 16. My breasts hurt again, and are sensibly swollen. I have also great difficulty with my trousers which are ever so tight about my hips. What shall I do? I have been here at my Aunt’s nearly a week and, as she has scarce directed a word at me, I remain at a loss as to how to conduct myself to win her favor. Surely the reason for my removal to her care has been imparted to my Aunt. I have resolved to write my father or Mr. Truscott, or both.

Thursday, May 17. The mystery of my Aunt’s unkind behavior has suddenly come clear. This evening, after I had helped Cook clear the supper table, Aunt Enid bade me sit next to her so that she might impart to me some important matters regarding our relationship. She said that an unwonted but persistent agitation had overcome her as she anticipated my arrival. She had thought her discomfort would pass, but it had instead intensified once I had been installed in her home. What I had most certainly taken for ill-will, she said, was her dread that she would be incompetent to discharge the responsibility laid upon her.

She knew little of the mental and moral development of a youth, Aunt Enid said, and almost nothing of his physical development. What she did know terrified her; it had been imparted to her that although I had seemed to be a normal boy, the perverse physical development of my body beginning early in my thirteenth year had engendered most troubling concerns. At wit’s end, my parents had sent me away into her care, but, said my Aunt Enid, considering her own lack of capability in these matters, how then could she possibly do right by me?

Much moved, I replied that I was indeed sensible of the great burden that my arrival must place on my Aunt’s settled circumstances. I would endeavor, I said, to be as worthy and dutiful a nephew as she might wish. As to my affliction, to which she had referred, it troubled me most of all. I was, it must be said, horrified by the strange changes in my physical aspect; I hoped for her understanding and support. For the present, I said, I hoped only to continue my education as well as I might, and trust in God’s mercy.

Aunt Enid replied that I was a brave lad, and that she would help me deal with my affliction as best she might. By my frank appreciation of my circumstance and hers, I had helped her to see clearly her own duty, she concluded, and wished me a good night.

Friday, May 18. I slept very well after the conversation with Aunt Enid related above. When I arose, I found that she had already left the house on a shopping expedition. I have passed the morning reading Mr. Dickens' Great Expectations. Immersing myself in Pip’s travails, I am able to forget my own, however briefly.

Monday, May 21. An extraordinary several days have passed, of which I shall now endeavor to set down an account in some detail, for I fear that if I do not, my mind may in time become so muddled that no clear account is possible.

On Saturday, Aunt Enid did not return home until tea-time, followed by a deliveryman who brought a mountain of parcels. I observed that these were from several large stores specializing in fine garments for ladies. Apropos, I remarked to my Aunt that our conversation the forenight must have restored her spirits equally as much as they had buoyed my own.
“Ah, yes, Edward,” replied my Aunt. “I have embarked us on a course that, if we hold to it, will bring us safely to a good result. You will see presently.”

What on earth does she mean, I wondered.

“Edward,” my Aunt continued, tea now being finished, “now you must bathe yourself. Cook has already heated water, so there is no reason to delay your bath.”

Of course, I am accustomed to regular bathing, it being the foundation of good hygiene. At home my older brothers and I, as a rule, bathed after supper on Saturday nights in anticipation of church services the next day. This however was my Aunt’s house, and as it was my duty to accommodate to her preferences, I did so most agreeably.

Cook had indeed heated a great quantity of water, and I luxuriated in it, soaking for fully a quarter of an hour before soaping and washing over every inch of my body. Then I arose from the bath, rinsed, and dried myself with a thick towel.

Regarding myself in the tall looking-glass, I saw a slim youth of about fourteen years. I knew well from summers past, long days swimming at the reservoir in Perkinstown, that it was not the body of a normal boy of fourteen that I beheld. Yet, for some reason, perhaps the torpor induced by the warmth of my bath, or perhaps because my Aunt and I had seemingly found a more comfortable relationship between us, I was sensibly less agitated than usual by the swelling of my breasts, the broadening of my hips, and — candor requires that I add this — the so far negligible development of my male parts.

This inspection completed, I turned to dress. To my consternation, the shirt and trousers that I had carefully folded over the back of a chair were gone. In their place, was an embroidered nightgown of white cotton, unmistakably that of a woman, and just as unmistakably left there for my own use!

Wrapping my towel about me and opening the door of the bath-room a few inches, I called to my Aunt. I was blushingly conscious both of the ridiculous situation in which I found myself and that (however desperately I sought to deepen my voice) a mere girlish whimper was all that I could produce. “Aunt Enid,” I said when she came near, “I know that my garments are ill-fitting and perhaps also in want of cleaning, but even so, I would much, much prefer them to this gown that has been left in their place.”

“Edward, you will surely indulge me in this and certain other amendments that I believe best calculated to ensure your happiness during your stay here. I will not argue the matter with you naked behind this door. Be so good as to dress yourself, not neglecting the robe and slippers that have been set out for you in your room. When you are presentable, come to my bed-room and I will endeavor to relieve the confusion that you doubtless feel at this moment.”

‘Confusion’ indeed! The sensation I felt as my Aunt firmly pulled shut the door was closer to mortification. Was it possible that she meant for me to dispense with the garments that signify my membership among the manly half of society? Already the treason of my body had caused me to become the butt of my schoolmates’ cruel teasing. I resolved to take a firm position with my Aunt. I simply could not bear the torment that must ensue if in addition I were observed to be attired in clothes more appropriate to a young woman than to a person of the male sex. I picked up the gown, which was soft and sweet-smelling. The scent reminded me of my mother’s bed on mornings long ago. . . .

An instant later, I regained my faculties. I would not, could not wear this garment, however much my Aunt desired it! Wrapping the towel more tightly between my chest and knees, I ran from the bath-room to the safety of my bed-room. Attaining this sanctuary, I bolted the door. Disdaining the beribboned robe laid out on my bed, I flung open the wardrobe. But — where in Heaven’s name were my clothes!

Half an hour later, I knocked at Aunt Enid’s door. Deprived of my own garments, I had at last put on the items chosen for me. I was angry, and at the same time discomfited to realize that they fit me far better than my usual nightshirt.

“Please come in, Edward, and forgive me,” said my Aunt, indicating a settee. It was the first time that I had been in her bedroom. Aunt Enid took an adjacent chair. Rather awkwardly, she touched my knee, then drew back and began:

“I have been rough with you, my dear. You know that your parents have entrusted your welfare to me, and this is a charge that I will carry out as well as I am able. What may be less evident, even now, is that I am truly sensible of the almost unthinkable anxiety that circumstances have inflicted upon you. After much reflection and a bit of prayer, I have concluded that one course alone may offer some relief, and that . . . that is for you to adopt the dress and manner of a young woman.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but my Aunt stilled me and rushed forward herself. “I expect you must think my proposal bizarre to an extreme, but please hear me out. I do not doubt that within you there burns a spirit that is masculine, or that you possess in abundance all those virtues that commonly distinguish the male sex. Nor do I doubt that within a few years, you may grow into a manly young gentleman. -- Presently, however, your outward appearance is wholly deceiving; the casual observer would see not an awkward young man, but instead a far more attractive girl on the verge of maidenhood. You know. . . we know . . . that while this contradiction persists you will be the butt of taunts and beatings at the hands of other boys. Am I not right?”

Miserably, I nodded.

“Here then is my plan,” said my Aunt. “It may be deficient in some respects, but it is the best I can devise. Today, in addition to visiting several shops during the forenoon, I also met my dear friend Edith Hamilton at luncheon. She is Headmistress of the Bryn Mawr School. I acquainted her with the nature of your affliction, explaining that while it persists, the rudeness of a masculine environment renders you unable to profit from continued study. I told my friend that this is a great tragedy, for I have observed that you have an uncommon aptitude for higher education.”

Perceiving the direction of my Aunt’s discourse, I struggled for words. “But, Aunt, surely you did not. . . I mean you would not think. . .” I stammered.

“Indeed I did,” Aunt Enid answered. “I put it to Miss Hamilton that you should be encouraged to develop your intellect to the fullest extent. I asked her to assist in the mitigation of your misfortune by allowing your admission to classes at Bryn Mawr beginning in the Fall term.”

“It is hardly thinkable that she would agree to your proposal,” I ventured.

“Yes, and Miss Hamilton thought for rather a long time. She asked me many questions but at last, I think largely because of the trust and affection she feels for me, she gave it her conditional consent.”

“Now, this is what I propose to you,” said Aunt Enid. “I say ‘propose’ because although I can of course require you to obey me, my plan is sure to fail without your willing and active support. I have 'brought you to water,' but now I ask you to 'drink' it of your own free will."
Neither Evelyn nor Edward would so lie! She says that then skips a day.
It has grown late, and I am very weary. Tomorrow I shall recount in detail all that my Aunt has desired of me. Let me break off here by merely recording that I have agreed to her plan.

May 23 (Wednesday). I am writing this entry in the dayroom of Aunt Enid’s townhouse. Outside the window, azaleas and lilacs present a cheerful appearance which I endeavor to emulate in my own manner. But, however tranquil I may seem, my appearance masks turbulent and confused feelings, of which more later. I am dressed in the fashion of a girl of fourteen, and only the shortness of my hair and, I am sure, the awkwardness of my gestures would betray to a visitor to this pleasant room that I was perhaps not what I seem to be. Nor does it seem entirely queer.

Aunt Enid has required of me that I shall adopt in all respects the dress and manners of the gentler sex, insofar as I am able, and she, aided by her maid, Moira, has undertaken to tutor me in ladylike graces. Our morning lessons are spent on toilette and costume, our afternoons on deportment, and our evening activities are intended to acquaint me with feminine pastimes. I am knitting a scarf — that is, I have started and undone it now three times. Aunt Enid would have me play the piano as well. I believe I have convinced her that I am already too old to learn to play an instrument, particularly that instrument, with any degree of facility.

The household staff have been sworn to support my transformation. Cook, Buelah her washerwoman and Gideon her coachman have served my Aunt for many years. Peggy, who was the parlor maid, has just been promoted “upstairs” — she will serve Aunt while Moira is given charge of me. Peggy’s sister Kate has replaced her downstairs. Both are “second generation”; their late mother was Aunt’s lady’s maid even before she was married to Mr. Westcott. All of them would probably believe the moon to be made of marzipan if she so bade them. Aunt Enid has imparted to the servants nothing less than what I too must accept as the truth — that I was mistakenly thought to be a boy.

This morning, Cook just smiled and gave me a hug. As for Moira — she is bright and bold, and takes this as a most amusing game, I think!

Now, here is another amazing thing. I am to enter Bryn Mawr School with documents that identify me as my aunt’s own daughter. (Aunt Enid’s only child, Evelyn, was born in 1893, six months before me, but was taken by the scarlet fever only two years later.)

Friday, May 25. The dressmaker has departed with over twenty dollars in her purse. Aunt Enid said she was well-pleased with the shirts, skirts, waists and jacket the woman has cut and sewn for me, and paid her generously.

People who have always worn skirts and petticoats probably think nothing of them, but I must confess that to me this feminine drapery seems both intimidating and somewhat thrilling. Aunt Enid says that I am fortunate to live in a time when corsets are being abandoned — at least by the young — in favor of more “active” fashions. She has not put her own corset and stays aside, of course, but she was adamant that a young woman with a lithe and willowy figure (by which she meant me) has no need to be “encased like a sausage.”

So here I am, already dressed for supper. It is a relief to have clothes that fit me! Moira has helped me dress, else I would be still in a hopeless muddle of undergarments. My skirt and jacket are simply cut, “as befits a schoolgirl,” Aunt says. I rather like my high-collared, starched white shirt. It is softened by a satin bow at the neck, and I must say that up to my neck, at least, I look as though I might have just stepped from a drawing by Mr. Charles Dana Gibson.

The resemblance I fancy I see in the mirror to a fashionable young woman is of course completely undone by the absence of maidenly tresses. Moira has done her best to arrange my curls fetchingly. She has cunningly woven in a ribbon into my hair that is the shade of my waist, but no artifice can disguise the fact that the longest hairs on my head are but six or seven inches long!

Ah, Diary! I am called for dinner.

May 27. I have decided to read Anne of Green Gables, to see why all the girls so adore the book.

May 28. Anne is clever, nauseatingly charming and far too predictable. Give me Mr. Dickens any day! Cook is making risotto. It is a kind of rice that is simmered forever in broth, a favorite of my aunt’s. It seems Cook arrived from Bologna in Italy at nearly the same time that my Aunt returned here a widow.

May 30. There was a grand Decoration Day parade this morning on Pratt Street. Setting me a challenge, Aunt bade me go out to see it. Moira helped me choose my costume — a white middy blouse with a blue collar, short blue skirt, black hose and low boots, and a “boater” straw hat with a matching blue ribbon. She came along to buoy me up should my courage fail. We rode the C&P trolley to downtown. Downtown has almost totally been rebuilt since the great fire only two years ago. The buildings are quite grand, especially the department stores. As it was a midweek holiday, the crowd in an exhuberant mood. It was great fun to be part of it! With all the noise and excitement of at least a dozen brass bands, I doubt anyone paid me or even Moira (who is indeed buxom) the slightest attention!

The bandsmen strutted by in their uniforms, blaring away on marches by Mr. Sousa. The greatest cheers were given to a few venerable veterans of the Civil War, some in gray uniforms and more in blue, and now too old to march. They were in carriages, attended by members of the City Council and young women with patriotic sashes and ribboned hats. Veterans of our liberation of Cuba and the Philippines from Spain marched past making loud huzzahs. There were also detachments from the Naval Academy in Annapolis, the Boy Scouts, Elks and Woodsmen, and patriotic associations from several city wards. Caught up in the festive mood, Moira and I waved our flags as wildly as anyone!

Sunday, June 3. Aunt Enid has been invited to a garden party this afternoon, and is determined that I should accompany her. I am filled by dread. I will not be able to hide in a crowd today! She assures me that people will be kind if they notice anything odd at all. I am sure they will laugh at me behind my back, perhaps to my face as well.

At least I need not be embarrassed by the shortness of my hair. Yesterday while Moira and I were at the grand parade, my generous aunt purchased me a beautiful fall. It is exactly the color of my own hair, auburn. The fall is nearly twenty inches long, locks as full and rich, I think, as adorn any girl in Baltimore. It saddens me to imagine what adversity has forced some poor woman to part with these glorious tresses. Discreetly clipped and pinned into my own hair, the fall is impossible of detection.

I asked Aunt if I might wear it up. Moira put me up to it. She is a minx! My aunt firmly replied that at fourteen, I am still far too young for that. Perhaps, she said, when I am seventeen. Will I still be wearing a girl’s dresses then? It causes me to wonder. Women have much to commend them, in particular a kind sympathy that is rarely found in a man. Without their tender care, guidance and example, it is doubtful that boys would become civilized at all. And yet, I am used to my freedom. Even boyish adventures — roving over hill and stream, competing in sports -- are a form of testing and toughening that develops manly character.

Should I then bid adieu to all that? Oh, I hope not; whatever it is I may be, I crave adventure!

Sunday Night, still June 3. Oh, Diary, the garden party was so much fun!

Aunt and I compromised. She conceded that I might wear my new hairpiece in a braid, a lovely thick auburn braid that reached to my back. It is strange how that favor calmed me. I must say that it caused me to anticipate the event with positive pleasure.

People may think it strange, perhaps, that I have so readily ceded my trousers, but I think it not so strange. In the first place, my trousers no longer fit me, nor do my shirts or undergarments. Even if they did, my features are hardly manly. And to admit the truth, Diary, as long as I can remember, I have thought of manly as something I am expected to be, like my father and brothers, not what I truly am.

Today, I actually felt girlish. I wore a new afternoon dress. Well, all my dresses are new, aren’t they? But this nainsook cotton one I like especially. It is mostly white, with blue embroidery at the collar, cuffs and hems. The neckline is low and square, the dress is all of one piece, and its hem falls just below my knees. With it, Aunt allowed me to wear silk hose and court shoes with a tiny heel.

I observed myself in the mirror and it was just as Moira insisted: I seemed unmistakably a girl, at least as far as externals matter. It occurred to me that acting out my role, I would be clumsy and tongue-tied. I said as much to Moira.

“Don’t worry a bit about that, Miss Evelyn. Just smile when people talk to you; look right at them and smile and nod when they say something. Curtsey to the old people. They’ll think you are ever so intelligent.”

Whether my Aunt’s friends thought I was intelligent, they didn’t say. She introduced me as her niece from the Pennsylvania hills, come to Baltimore to enter high school, which was true enough and excused my awkwardness. I curtseyed a lot.

After a while, a boy rescued me from the old people. He introduced himself as Martin Tolliver. “Oh,” I blurted out, “the preacher’s son!” Aunt Enid is a member of the Unitarian Church, where the Reverend Joseph Tolliver is pastor.

“Yes, I am,” the boy smiled. “And everything they say about preachers’ sons is true. Would you like to look at the Japanese goldfish in the pond over there with me?”

Martin is sixteen and full of enthusiasms, including doing magic tricks, and the Baltimore Orioles base ball club, and playing tennis. He is not so very handsome, however — all of his parts seem to be of odd sizes, and his ears stick out. I had to laugh when he retrieved first a penny and then a nickel from my ear. He promised to teach me how to play at tennis.

I asked Martin if he would give me the penny. Regarding me quizzically, he complied. I tossed the penny into the goldfish pond. “There,” I said, “now you cannot go back on your offer. When is my first tennis lesson?”

Monday, June 4. My aunt declared at breakfast today that I am a social success. “You were bobbing up and down so, clutching your straw hat like a life preserver, that I was reminded of one of those yo-yo toys. But everyone thought you were charming.” Thank you so much, Aunt Enid!

Is Martin going to invite me to play tennis?

Saturday, June 9. Diary, I’m sorry. It’s harder to keep up. So many new things are happening to me now. Like tennis. Martin fixed it up. He arranged for me to become a junior member of the Baltimore Lawn Tennis Club. It is in Druid Hill Park, not far away from Aunt’s house on Eutaw Place. Now that school is over for the summer, we play every day, a dozen or more of us, boys and girls and me. It is so nice to have friends again. I don’t think anyone suspects that I am . . . what I am. Oh, Diary, I hope not!

Martin is so sweet. Really, I get goose bumps when he even notices me. We are going together to a base ball game next week.

Tuesday, June 12 (late). Oh, Diary, I’ve been to the ball game with Martin. Our Orioles beat New York in the end, which pleased Martin infinitely. I was amused to deflate him just a little bit, however. The Yankees scored in their half of the fourth inning. Then the Orioles were at bat, and the famous Willie Keeler had advanced to third. George Jones was at bat with one out. “Watch, Evelyn! Jones will knock one hard, I’ll bet,” said Martin.

“Look,” I answered, “the infielders are playing too far back. All Jones must do is bunt toward first base, and Keeler is home safe with the tying run.”

Martin smiled at me indulgently. An instant later, Jones laid down a perfect squeeze bunt. There was a cloud of dust at home; Keeler was safe, Jones perched on first, and Martin’s superior manly knowledge confounded. He looked at me with new respect. “When I was still a kid, I used to play base ball with the boys,” I admitted. “I did.”

June 13. Both Cook and Moira are sure that Martin wants to be my beau. I am much too young for a beau. If I were fond of a boy, I should be compelled by decency to confess that my parts are not normal, and I cannot imagine how I could do that. I will not even think of a beau until I have completed high school. There are so many other things I must do first!

June 14 (Thursday). Mother has written, sending me a lot of ”news” but little real information. The winter wheat was abundant, she says, the corn is well-started and the pigs and chickens are multiplying; my next older brother is engaged to be married and Ellen, the wife of my first brother, has just made me an uncle for the third time. Mother hopes I am fine and enjoying the company of Aunt Enid. Dutifully I have written back, sending my letter yesterday, signing it Edward, of course. Aunt Enid cautions that I should not tell my parents that she has persuaded me to present myself as a girl, not yet at least.

I would have wanted to know if Mother and Father miss me, but since she does not touch on that, neither do I. I report that Aunt is most generous, that I will start high school in the autumn, and that I hope to see her and Father soon, in Baltimore if not at home.

I have terrible dreams, nightmares. I see in them my mother, my father, but they do not recognize the poor girl who calls to them. My former teacher, Mr. Truscott, glides or maybe slithers toward me, whispering that everyone believes Edward is dead.

Last night, I woke up crying uncontrollably, and then an irresistable need drew me to my aunt’s room. She was still awake, reading. I paused, my face streaked with tears. “What is it, child? Come, climb into my bed with me.”

Thus bidden, I crawled into my aunt’s bed. She pulled me to her. Enfolded by her arms, I felt immediately comforted. I began to whimper. Then I bawled, shedding tears as though a dam had broken. I felt terrible because Aunt Enid was so kind; that only made me cry more.

Oh, what was to become of me, I gasped out. My aunt had given me refuge and opened her purse and yet I . . . was a frightful, ungrateful person. My tears would not abate. I was so ashamed, I confessed, when I regarded my body — ashamed to be such a strange creature, neither boy nor girl. Notwithstanding the evidence of my swelling breasts and my hips, I could not be called a girl. Other evidence proclaimed me male.

“In my heart and mind, I know I am really still Edward Tucker, not Evelyn Tucker,” I said, sobbing, “Why is Edward Tucker being punished by God? What did he do to deserve this agony? Why must Edward pretend to be a girl? I simply cannot go on,” I told my aunt. I am afraid of the strange thoughts that race through my head. I am afraid, afraid of being found out. If someone caught me out to be a boy, I think I would rather die.

I said I had dreamed I was on exhibit at Mr. Barnum’s Museum in New York City.

I did not tell my aunt that once or twice I have contemplated making an end to my life. Instead, I said to her that I knew I was much out of line, I must seem ungrateful, but now I wished to abandon her experiment. I could no longer sustain this unnatural masquerade. Someone would find me out, and worse than in Perkinstown, I would be the butt of everyone’s jokes. I begged my aunt to call it off. I would rather be a poor sort of boy than a well-bred girl . . . . that was my considered judgment.

For another moment, exactly and quietly, Aunt Enid rubbed my back and shoulders. Then she spoke, as though she too had been lying awake thinking, far too often, since I had come into her life. “Yes, I can imagine the terror you feel. About what you know and do not know. Evelyn . . . it scares me too.”

That was when I realized that I love my aunt. She continued that she had spoken of my situation to her friend Adolph Meyer at Johns Hopkins University. He had taken a friendly interest, my aunt said, and hoped I would allow him to examine me. I might meet Dr. Meyer and his colleagues presenting myself however I wished, Aunt said. They were brilliant people who sought, through the study and propagation of mental hygiene, to help people cope with the horrors of their inner lives.

Wednesday, June 20. Today, less than a week after my midnight talk with Aunt Endi, we took an electric streetcar from Madison Park to the university, changing at North Street. Hopkins is not so far off; in fact many students board in our neighborhood. I was thrilled by the campus. It is full of huge green trees and handsome Georgian brick buildings. A few summer students (some women as well as men!) were hastening to their classes. None gave me so much as a second look, thank Heaven!

We found the Medical School and were directed to Dr. Meyer’s offices. I was surprised that a man so eminent was in fact still quite young, and rather handsome, too. Dr. Meyer greeted us kindly, introduced his assistants, inquired after my aunt’s health, and then turned his full attention to me.

“From what your aunt has imparted to me, Evelyn, circumstances have conspired to put your mind into a fragile state — is that right?”

I nodded, blushing, and he continued. “We have learned that the origin of mental illnesses lies in the interaction between biology and life history events. It has also been shown that many disorders of thought can be cured, or relieved simply by providing the victim with a better understanding of the cause of his or her distress.”

“You need to know because you are men of science,” I replied. “It is your work. I must know because my life depends on it.

“Will you examine me now?”

“Not today, I think. Today I propose that you tell us your life story. Charlotte and Reuben here will assist me by taking careful notes.”

I resolved to share everything, even my innermost thoughts, with these kind people. Prompted now and then by questions, I spoke for over an hour. Dr. Meyer and his younger colleagues seemed interested in the smallest details. I confessed to turbulent emotions, confused dreams, disgust with my body, dread of what might lie ahead. This time, however, I did not break into tears. I felt a rush of relief that my aunt and these kind people would listen as though what I knew, and what I did not know, was terribly important.

I finished telling my “life story,” and gazed expectantly at Dr. Meyer. Instead, it was Dr. Charlotte Clathrop who spoke.

“Perhaps the most important thing we can tell you now, Evelyn, is that you are not unique. Your condition is rare, to be sure, but it has been known throughout human history. In ancient times, you would have been regarded as sacred — marked by the gods.

“Do you know the myth of Hermaphroditis?”

“Uh, yes. . . . Oh, gosh! Of course, that’s why those bullies called me a morphodite!” Why hadn’t I figured that out?

“Hermaphroditis was created with both male and female chemistry, just as you seem to have been,” Dr. Clathrop continued. ‘In modern times, science has recorded the stories of dozens of people not unlike you. By allowing us to work with you, Evelyn, you will help us understand and find better ways of helping others — the many others of indeterminate sexuality who live solitary, desperate lives. Will you do that?”

My bosom was tight with emotion. I could only whisper. “Oh, yes, yes!”

July 3. I awoke on Sunday morning, two days ago, to find a beautiful woman sharing my bed. The first rays of the sun were lighting the ceiling so it must have been about half past five when the soft murmuring of another soul intruded on my own dreams. “Oh,” she said. “No, you cannot be certain of that, Richard. Anyway, I don’t want. . . don’t want. . . .”

Amazed, I awoke. I resisted the impulse to cry out myself. Instead, raising myself on an elbow, I studied my importunate companion as she struggled without success to complete her dream sentence.

Chestnut curls fell about the young woman’s head and shoulders. She cradled a pillow as though a lover. Her lips were full but her figure still somewhat girlish, half hidden by the folds of a sheet. She wore, as did I, a muslin nightgown trimmed with lace. Detecting the scent of tobacco on her breath and a touch of color lingering on her lips, I took her for twenty or more.

Just then, my companion sat up suddenly in bed. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh my God, what an awful dream!”

“You are safe here,” I answered. “Whoever you are.”

“Oh, I’m Fiona Rawlings,” the young woman replied, sitting up and shaking the cobwebs from her head. “You must be as surprised to find me here as I was amazed to find you last night in ‘my’ bed.”

I agreed to the probable truth of Miss Rawlings’ statement. “My name’s Evelyn Tucker,” I added. “I guess you are a friend of my Aunt Enid.”

“Oh, I call her ‘Aunt,’ too, though there’s no blood relation. She’s my Godmother.

“Mummy and Daddy and my younger brothers have gone to Europe for the summer. My older brother Ted is bunking at the Ariel rowing club. So of course when I reached Baltimore last night, I preferred Aunt Enid’s to our musty old wreck of a townhouse.

“It was very late, everyone was already asleep, so I let myself in with my key and went straight to my room, dead tired! And here I found you” she added, and waited until I should explain myself.

“Aunt has taken me in, uh, only recently,” I explained. “She has been most generous, an unwarranted kindness, in fact, that I must strive to repay.”

“You are quite a pretty child. I think that alone must endear you to Aunt Enid,” she said. As I endeavored to construe her meaning, my companion wrapped an arm across my shoulder, turned my head, and kissed me full on the lips!

I was startled, though I found Fiona’s gesture not a bit unpleasant. I have never been kissed before, Diary. I think I should like to be kissed on the lips often, but preferably by boys. That is how I interpret the pleasant sensation I felt as I slid away from Fiona’s embrace and off the bed.

We washed and dressed, making small talk only. I alerted Moira, who passed the word to Cook, who set an additional place and saw to it that Aunt Enid was informed of the midnight arrival of her goddaughter. Then came, in the conservatory where Aunt regularly takes breakfast in the summer, a full explanation.

Fiona has been a regular guest at my aunt’s, hence her own key. She
is majoring in Anthropology at Smith College in Amherst, Massachusetts, and was on her way to North Carolina to join one of her professors. Both women are to spend the summer photographing the people of the Great Smokey Mountains — Cherokees, Negroes, a strange race called Melungeons, Whites — and recording their life histories. I think myself that the two of them will be truly the oddest thing in those hills.

Aunt Enid declared Fiona’s summer work absolutely necessary and not a moment too late. “How can we help?” she asked, and proceeded to write a substantial cheque to Fiona “for support of scholarly investigation.”

The Fourth of July, 1906. The United States is 130 years old today, Diary. Fiona and I are to celebrate by going down to the Ariel Rowing Club. We will be guests at a “clambake” organized by her brother Ted and his chums. At 9 pm, there will be a grand fireworks show over Fort McHenry. We’ll watch it from the Club’s launch. Imagine that, Diary! I’ll actually see those “bombs bursting in air” that we sang about in school back in Perkinstown!

Monday evening, July 9. Dr. Reuben Crawford has telephoned Aunt Enid. He has inquired if I would assist him in his therapeutic research. What on earth does he mean, I ask. My aunt is not quite sure herself. It seems that Dr. Crawford has a new patient, the mirror opposite of me. He thinks we could help one another.

I have agreed to help.

Thursday, July 12. This morning I met Dorothy Downey at Dr. Crawford’s office. She is wonderfully feminine, but she is male withal. Dorothy is just fifteen, and doomed to grow a beard, grow long and bony — in fact, her transformation has begun and this has brought her to Hopkins.

Miss Downey’s history is marvellous and yet, if Dr. Crawford is to be believed, not entirely rare. Her father ran off when she was still a babe. To make ends meet, her mother bravely opened a school for little girls. She is a gifted teacher and the school has prospered.

Years passed, yet little Dorothy was not breeched. She knew that she was a boy, and asked her Mama why. “Because,” she was told, “it would scare the other little girls. Be brave, and help Mama.’

The Dorothy I saw was every inch a female. In her oyster shirtwaist and plaid skirt, her heeled boots and a fetching chapeau, auburn locks twisted in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder, Dorothy seemed far more at ease in her femininity than I shall ever be.

“I am a victim, but in the end, I am forced to admit, a willing and culpable victim. I would happily stay a girl.”

And there, Diary, is the amazing contradiction. I would happily stay a boy but am forced to become female. Dorothy would happily remain a girl but must become male. It flashed through my mind that we should exchange souls, if only we knew how.

I am nothing if not forward in my speech. As our meeting ended, I asked Dr. Crawford for what he hoped by bringing Dorothy and me together. He said that he hoped only that we might become friends, that through our friendship we might be of comfort to each other.

We will both continue to meet with Dr. Crawford regularly for therapeutic sessions, he said. From time to time, we would also be examined by Dr. Charlotte Clathrop, who is a medical doctor. No fee will be charged provided we are of assistance to the Hopkins research staff.

It being lunchtime, I thanked Dr. Reuben Crawford and suggested to Dorothy that we seek nourishment at a restaurant nearby. She agreed without hesitation. So it was that as we lingered there over sorbets, I found myself listening to a story even stranger than my own.

“Mine is a horror story, not entirely of my mother’s conscious making,” explained Dorothy. “She took the path of least effort. It was easier for her to keep me in skirts, and promote me to be her teaching assistant, than for her to treat me as a son -- at least until now.

“I don’t know the least thing about being a boy. I like everything about being a girl. Perhaps that is silly, but I do not wish to have to prove that I am fearless and strong, ready to hazard all rather than be judged unmanly. I desire instead to cultivate domestic virtues — to make a home that is a comfortable retreat for a good man and a sanctuary for his children. Is that so wrong, Evelyn? Is it my fault for wanting that so?”

It was only at that point that I realized Dr. Crawford had not referred to my own situation. Was Dorothy aware, I inquired, that I too was a ‘victim’ of sexual ambiguity?

“Well,” Dorothy replied, “I guessed. I supposed there must have been a reason. Are you really a boy . . . beneath?”

I explained that I had been reared as a boy but recently it has appeared that I am in fact a hermaphrodite, neither fully one nor the other.

“Ooh,” said Dorothy. “What will you do?”

I confessed that I had no plan but to appear to be as much of the sex I most seemed to be, and that I doubted my ability to take up the role into which I had been cast.

“Don’t worry, silly! I can teach you all you need to know,” exclaimed my companion. “That must be why Dr. Crawford has put us together. But . . . you must teach me to be a boy. Won’t you?”

And just then, Diary, I was possessed of a wonderful inspiration. At least, I believe it wonderful, though some may think it evil.

I reached across the table, and took Dorothy’s hands between mine. “We shall be the best of friends,” I proposed. “When you visit me, you shall continue to be the lovely Dorothy Downey — at least so far as artifice shall allow — and I think no one shall be the wiser. And when I visit you, now that you must endeavor to live as a boy, I shall encourage you by appearing as my former self, Edward Tucker, hoping also to give no alarm to the assumptions of the naturally credulous. In that way, we both shall test the boundaries of the new lives we must perforce live.”

“Oh, Evelyn!” said Dorothy, squeezing my hands in her excitement, “we shall have such fun!”

Well, Diary, I certainly hope so.

July 23. Martin has at last returned from a visit to his cousins. I am so glad, Diary. It has been wretchedly hot and I have been bored. He came by this afternoon riding on a tandem bicycle, quite dapper in a boater, an elegant striped shirt, gray linen trousers and spats! His shirt was open at the collar because of the heat. Before I could compliment him on his appearance, Martin inquired of me if I perhaps knew someone who wished to bicycle in search of a cup of ice cream.

“I do indeed, sir,” I replied, and bade Martin wait in the relative cool of our back parlor while I ran to change my costume. For bicycling, I have a split skirt with ever so many pleats -- Aunt Enid thinks of everything! In no time we were on our way to Doebreiner’s Creamery. Everyone says Doebreiner’s has the best ice cream in all of Baltimore. I am sure it is so by the evidence of our chocolate milk shakes.

Martin has set his cap on entering Cornell University. It is in Ithaca, New York, where he has just visited his cousins. He was mightily impressed by the facilities of the university and by the enthusiasm of students he while met there. He witnessed an aeroplane flight demonstrated by Mr. Orville Wright, who circled over the Cornell campus for fifteen minutes! If he is admitted to Cornell, Martin says, he will study engineering and learn to build aeroplanes.

Saturday, July 28. My aunt is a very interesting person. That’s not just my opinion. It seems that everyone believes so. It is quite hard to believe that she is my father’s older sister.

Yesterday was another horribly hot day. In quest of a breeze, I joined Cook on the back porch. There, in response to my questions, Cook told me how Aunt Enid came to be a grand lady of Baltimore.

Despairing of accomodating her stepmother’s demands on her, Aunt Enid left home when only 16. (I can imagine this; Grandmother is a difficult person!)

She found her way to Baltimore where by luck she was engaged as the private secretary to a wealthy young woman. Subsequently, they travelled to Europe, where my aunt caught the eye of an elderly nobleman. They were married, after a few years he died, and she returned to Baltimore in 1885 as a wealthy widow!

Of course, Aunt Enid was besieged by suitors, and from them she chose a Mr. Westcott, by whom she had a daughter, Evelyn. Now came the great tragedy of my aunt’s life: her husband was lost in a shipwreck and scarce three months later, her baby was carried off by the fever. That was long ago, yet still my aunt wears black — more, says Cook, for the child than the husband.

Several afternoons and evenings every month, except for August, my aunt’s house fills with people — doctors, lawyers, and professors, occasional travellers from New York or Philadelphia or Boston, educated Negroes, YMCA people, a few radical politicians, missionaries, ladies who communicate with spirits, 7th Day Adventists and Jews — only the German sort, of course — social workers, preachers, authors, socialists but no anarchists — my aunt draws the line at anarchists — and now me. At first I was just a fly on the wall, but discerning lately that what I say makes about as much sense as what anyone else says, or at least is regarded as such, I am become quite bold.

1 August (Wednesday). Aunt Enid and I have had a “talk.” I spoke of the difficulty of coming to terms with a change from being a boy to appearing and behaving at all times as a girl — it was not simply a matter of changing one’s clothes — and that as Aunt might readily apprehend, it would be helpful to have the support of people my own age.

She remarked immediately that I had said people, not girls. I explained that Dr. Reuben Crawford had acquainted me with another young person afflicted by sexual ambiguity, a person whom I desired to visit from time to time, and to have visit us as well. And in this wise, I added: that I should visit my friend in the guise of Edward Tucker, and that my friend should call at our house in Madison Park as Dorothy Downey.

Aunt Enid was silent for a few minutes. I cultivated maidenly patience, and reflected on the numbers of gears that doubtless were spinning furiously within her head.

“Evelyn,” she finally said, “I have come to love you, not the least because I see in you a noble soul, a soul able to rise above the slavery of sex roles and perhaps able to lead others into an era where we may all — men as well as women — be judged by our abilities and achievements, and not by our sexual apparatus.

“To find your destiny, of course you must exercise your spirit. Dorothy will be most welcome in our house. I trust that Edward will be welcome in . . . Arthur’s, . . . is that right?”

Yes, it was, I nodded.

4 August. I am writing this on the steamboat President Garfield, enroute to Chestertown, Maryland. Every August for many years, Aunt Enid has passed two weeks with her dear friend and onetime employer, Mary Campbell Cooper, and her family. My advent changes things not a whit. Moira is on the deck below, keeping an eye on our steamer trunk.

Most of the merry throng that crowded our vessel have disembarked at Betterton, bound for its beach and distractions. Betterton is on the south side of the Sassafras River, just a few miles downstream from the Campbell family “farm.” Aunt has just pointed out Mrs. Cooper and several of her children, who are waiting for us at the pier with a driver and a wagon drawn by a pair of fine-looking horses.

9 August. After five days, at last a letter from Martin. If it were not for him being there, I don’t think I should miss steamy hot old Baltimore at all! Martin has little to say, but it gives me a reason to write back. I fill several pages reporting what great fun I have been having with the younger Campbells and Coopers. Just to tease Martin, I mention Frank Campbell several times, though I think Frank (who has a devilish smile and is deadly at charades) has scarcely noticed me. I have gone riding twice already with Flora Cooper, who is the youngest of Mrs. Campbell Cooper’s five, and with her cousin Sally Campbell. It is such fun to be back on horseback again. They were amused by my countrified way of riding (I tucked up my skirts and used a man’s saddle) and have undertaken to teach me how to “sit a horse” properly. I’ve made them confess that “country” or not, I am the better rider! Tomorrow we shall all go fishing at Rock Hall.

August 17. All good things must end, Diary. Aunt and I will return to Baltimore tomorrow. Chestertown has survived a great storm that blew for a day and a night and knocked down many trees and smashed some boats. In its aftermath, the heat has abated. While the rain came down in great sheets outside, Flora and Sally and I tried on each others’ frocks and talked such a great deal about nothing at all. They could not help noticing the fall that is woven into my hair, and asked me about it. Forced to improvise, I said the first thing that came into my head — that I had been desperately unhappy where I lived before I came to Aunt Enid’s. One day, in a fit of despair, I said, I had chopped my locks off with a pair of scissors.

My woeful story elicited much sympathy. I expect it was Sally who spread it around — in any event, it was Sally’s mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Campbell, who questioned me further and then advised that I forego the artifice in favor of a boyish look! “Wear short curls while your true hair grows in,” she said. “It will render you interesting.” I don’t know, Diary. Mrs. Campbell has not been fourteen for a very long time.

Both Sally and Flora have attended Bryn Mawr School for years and years. They assure me I shall be happy there. Of course it is easy to be happy if your mother or aunt is among the founders of the school and you take your membership in Baltimore’s elite as a matter of course, whereas I — despite the many kindnesses the Campbells and Coopers have shown me — I expect I shall be thought a great rube and bumpkin!

Evening, August 18. Back in Baltimore, and exhausted! Martin was waiting at the pier with flowers. He claims to have missed me, but I know that he has plenty of girl friends.

28 August (Tuesday). After hearing me hold forth at one of Aunt Enid’s soirees, her friend Miss Hamilton has decreed that I shall begin in the 10th Grade at Bryn Mawr School, not the 9th. She visited my aunt yesterday to impart this fact. I can’t for the life of me remember what I said to impress Miss Hamilton, unless it was maintaining that women would no doubt make better surgeons than men, if skill at butchering and sewing were to give a clue.

I am dreading school. It begins in ten days’ time. I am sure that I shall be a freak no matter how hard Aunt has tried to teach me deportment and feminine graces. I love to read, I laugh much too loudly, argue too forcefully — and it is at least half my Aunt’s own fault; see the example she sets me!

September 22, 1906. School begun two weeks ago for both Arthur and me. He is at Boys’ Latin School on Brevard Street, the same school as Martin, but is only a freshman, whereas Martin is a lofty senior. I have asked Martin to keep a friendly eye out for Arthur. I am in the 10th grade at Bryn Mawr School. Miss Hamilton is determined that I shall not fail in any respect. She has literally commanded me to turn out to compete in field hockey, to join the Drama Club, and to sign up for the most challenging courses, as though these would be easy for a boy who has just emerged from the hills of Pennsylvania!

Field hockey is such fun, a lot of running and banging with sticks. I had never played it before but it comes to me far more readily than to the other girls, perhaps because I have played team sports for so many years and my competitors were boys.

Sally Campbell is also a sophomore, and has been very kind to me. Her cousin Flora is a freshman.

My courses are a mixed bag — history is easy, biology and English literature challenging, and I am hopeless at home economics! Why can’t I sew a straight line? And Algebra is such a horror! I can't work out the solution to a quadratic equation. Why did Miss Hamilton insist on it? But Diary, I shall not give up!

October 6, 1906 (Sunday night). Miss Dorothy Downey visited us this weekend. She arrived by streetcar in the guise of Mr. Arthur Downey. By pre-arrangement, Moira greeted him at the door and whisked him into a transformation chamber, from which Dorothy some moments later emerged. I greeted my friend with an enthusiastic embrace and, in fact, we shared tears of happiness that we might be together again.

I soon learned that it is not well with my friend Arthur. He is hazed at school by other boys who find him, well, not manly enough. Martin can only help so far. Arthur says he is bucking up. Yet, . . . it is so evident that Dorothy is who he — no, she — really is. She is the one person my age with whom I can share all my thoughts.

Aunt met Dorothy at teatime and proclaimed herself enchanted. We must all go to the theater this very evening, she decided, and sent our coachman, Gideon, in quest of tickets to Mr. Shaw’s new comedy, Pygmalion.

Gideon returned in due course with the tickets and so there was a frenzy of preparation. Neither Dorothy nor I had ever been to the theater at night nor, were the truth to be freely confessed, had we dresses long enough to suit the occasion. We barricaded ourselves in my rooms and endeavored to improvise, sending Moira forth to ransack Aunt’s closets for longer skirts we could possibly wear with my still maidenly selection of tailored waists and jackets.

When we at last emerged, Aunt told us we should not have bothered to affect such a grown-up appearance, for it had become quite ordinary for younger girls to attend the theatre if properly chaperoned. But, she added with a wink, Dorothy and I seemed quite a la mode. . . .

And, oh, Diary, what a wonderful play Pygmalion is! Mr. Shaw’s point is that any transformation is possible if we only have the brains and pluck to rise above the foolish prejudices of polite society. Both Dorothy and I shall endeavor to do so. Indeed, I must, oh, I must.

October 8. School is going better than I could have imagined. I have been selected to the first varsity hockey squad, which is a great honor for a sophomore.

October 13 (Saturday). Moira has asked if she might have a few pairs of boots and slippers that I have outgrown. “Whatever for, Moira?” I asked. “Surely they will not fit you, either. Why, you are still taller than I.”

“Yes, Miss — they are not for my use, but for my brother’s,” replied Moira. “Harry has become uncommonly bad of late, and my Mum is resolved to do something about it.”

“Whatever do you mean, Moira,” I cried, suppressing a slight tremor of . . . was it anticipation?

“He has always been one to call attention to himself. Now Harry is twelve, and has taken up bullying the smaller boys at school and showing disrespect to his teachers, or so they report. He steers well clear of me, because he knows I’ll cuff him if I must, but he taunts my younger sisters something awful, especially when they are good.”

“But. . . what will your mother do?”

“She’ll put him in dresses for a while, she will. He’s to wear girls’ undergarments all the time, and as soon as school is over, Harry is to return home and exchange his boys’ clothes for dresses and a pinafore. Sundays, it will be dresses all day, including to Mass, my mum says.”

I gasped, imagining the horror young Harry must doubtless feel to be unmanned. My situation had not permitted of choice, for my own body had betrayed me. Even so, I had spent many miserable days, countless sleepless, tearful nights, before it was clear in my mind that I should become the best girl I could. I said as much to Moira.

“Harry’s case is different, Miss. He’ll know that as soon as he learns to behave, he’ll be permitted to go back to being a boy — a proper boy. And after, as long as he is under my Mum’s sway, Harry must fear that any misbehaviour will mean another spell in skirts.”

I still could not believe my ears. “Surely, Moira, your father won’t permit Harry to receive such treatment?”

“Oh, yes, Miss! My Da doesn’t go up against my mum much anyway, not about the rearing of the children to be sure, and he’s quite in favor of teaching Harry some proper respect for women. The same was done to him, you see, by our Nannie, and Da says it turned him right around. That’s how my mum learned about it, from Nannie, er, Da’s mum.”

“Then I must help, I suppose. You may take the green slippers, and those boots I wore when I first came here, and — Moira, will you wish some of these dresses that are now too short for me to wear?”

Now Moira has gone off with two carpetbags full of my outgrown clothes, Diary, and I have sworn her to give me frequent reports of Harry’s “training.”

Tuesday, October 30, 1906 — Tomorrow is All Hallow’s Eve, Diary, what a fine day to go roving once again as a boy! I have found a cap that will contain my curls, and ready-made trousers, a shirt and jacket from the dry goods stores on Tremont Street. Boots, too — big ones, with hob nails.

November 1. I have been caught out — as a girl! Last night I contrived to go roving with Martin and Frank Campbell and some others of Martin’s friends. Of course they were all in on the joke, and affected to treat me as one of their chums. We tied scarves and kerchiefs over our faces and stopped at a number of houses to demand “treats.” Old Mrs. Meacham saw through my disguise immediately. “Who is that pretty child, Martin?” she demanded to know. “It is obvious that she is an imposter -- not one of you lot!”

I confessed to the truth of Mrs. Meacham’s charge with a curtsey, and begged to know how she had detected me as counterfeit.

“I have known this gang of ruffians all their lives,” she said. “See how they push and shove each other around. Whereas they are taking great care not to bump or jostle you, my dear,” she explained triumphantly!

November 5. I may have been detected by Mrs. Meacham’s sixth sense, but I still can fool everyone else. Arthur, on the other hand, is making rather a hash of it in his efforts to live as a boy. Seriously, he cannot walk without swaying, nor look a man directly in the eye without blushing! I took him down to the harbor. It was a lovely Indian’s summer day. We rented a boat and fishing poles, and I set to teaching Arthur to row. Rowing is not so hard — you just dip the oars so, and pull, and lift, drop back and pull again — but try as he might, Arthur had the greatest difficulty. Despairing of ever getting a line in the water, I relieved him at the oars and propelled our craft straight to the place I had chosen near the end of a derelict wharf.

Diary, would you be surprised to learn that Arthur was also unable to bait a hook? Or to boat the fish that insisted on taking his bait, not mine? Or that scarce an hour had past before he was sharing, with tears drizzling his cheeks, the misery he felt as he forced himself to enter Boys’ Latin School each day. “I don’t think I can do it, Evelyn, no matter how hard I try.”

Gently, I reminded Arthur that at least for today, I was his chum, Edward, not Evelyn.

“No, no, no!” he wailed. “Not my chum. My girl friend, perhaps, or my beau even, but not my chum! Boys are such pigs!” Arthur gasped for breath. Recovering somewhat his composure, he continued “not you, of course. You aren’t really a boy, though you wish you were. I am not a girl except in my head and my mother’s head. Oh God, why has this happened to me?

“Evelyn? You know what? Sometimes I wish I were dead.”

Before I bade him goodbye that afternoon, I made Arthur promise to visit Dr. Crawford without delay, and to spare no details of the hazing he suffered daily at Boys’ Latin. I do believe it helps to talk things out with someone who listens and understands.

November 7. I wish Mother would write!

November 8. Moira is as good as her word. She brings regular reports of her young brother’s improvement through petticoat training. He has progressed so far, she says, that they (for she has been her mother’s keen confederate) calculate that they must allow Harry before long to regain his breeches lest he be permanently unmanned.

I confessed a desire to see this paragon of femininity with my own eyes. “Done,” said Moira. Come with Miss Dorothy to Carroll Park on Sunday afternoon at two, and you will meet me and my sweet sister Henrietta there.”

November 11, 1906. We were in luck! A fine Indian summer day! I met ”Dorothy Downey” at on McCulloh Street and we took the trolley to the southwest part of our city, near the Baltimore and Ohio railway yards. It is where the majority of the Irish live.

However great a rogue and bully young Harry O’Dwyer may have been to his sixth grade classmates, there was no evidence of such in the winsome colleen who kept Moira and her beau company yesterday in Carroll Park. Dressed in a childish frock and velveteen cloak, short, silky curls held in place by a jaunty velvet ribbon, and cradling a china doll, Henrietta seemed closer to eight than eleven.

Moira’s beau seemed quite pleased when, with a wink to Moira, Dorothy and I invited Henrietta to join us for iced cream. In moments we were at an ice cream parlor.

“Oh, Misses, this is wonderful, I do so love pistachio iced cream, and so does my little girl Mollie (here she caused her doll to curtsey), don’t you Mollie? I had been wishing for iced cream but had made up my mind that I should not get it; that boy Evan (Henrietta meant Moira’s beau) has hardly two nickels to rub together; I do wonder what Moira sees in him ‘cept, of course, he’s devilish handsome and funny.”

Was this the cloddish boy of which Moira had complained? I had to find out.

“Harry, dear, we know your secret. Moira is my friend and confidante. Tell us, is it frills and frocks that have caused this wondrous change in you?”

Harry squirmed in his seat, and searched the ceiling as if perhaps the answer was written there. “Mollie and I talk about it,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I feel better when I don’t havta pretend to be what I don’t like to be.”

“What’s that, uh, Henrietta, dear?”

“Well, like I havta fight because I’m a man, not do girl things, and keep my little sister away from boys like me.”

“Boys like you?”

“Well, misses, boys like I was. I understand now why nobody didn’t like me. It’s better in school already. Mum says that if my grades are good this term, I don’t have to wear dresses no more.

“Will that please you, Henrietta?”

The child thought for a moment. “Y’know, miss, I don’t know. Maybe sometimes I’ll want to be a little bit bad, so’s I don’t forget.”

We returned to find Moira sitting quite close to Evan. I think I saw stars in the eyes of both. “Oh, Miss Evelyn! Whatever shall I do? Evan wishes me to marry him!”

Henrietta tugged at my sleeve until I bent an ear to hear. “Y’see. I told you so!”

Diary, human nature is such a various thing!

Tuesday, November 13. Mother has received my recent letter, full of chat about school, and apologized that she was not able to reply immediately. All have been busy with the harvest.

Again I have told her everything — that my life’s path has turned decidedly for the better – and nothing at all. They retain their illusion of me in trousers!.

Mother writes back that our crops were abundant this year, both the field crops and the apples. The fine weather continued through the end of October. Father and my oldest brother Jeff have the farm work well in hand. Mother wishes my father would slow down a bit. My second brother Eben and his wife are expecting a baby, or perhaps twins, in January. Mother has put up jar after jar of fruits and will send me and Aunt Enid a large sample before Christmas. Oh, and she and Father miss me. . . .

November 21. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Yesterday was the great match against St. Timothy’s. Their girls’ hockey team was unbeaten — until yesterday. I scored two goals. Photographs of me and of Clarice Brown who so staunchly defended our goal are on display in the entry of the school, next to the challenge cup we have captured for the year. I am counted an heroine for Bryn Mawr School, and I must confess, Diary, that it is quite grand!

If I had known Martin Tolliver was watching the end of the match, I am sure I should not have played well. He is so handsome that thinking he likes me at all just turns me to jelly! Martin had been on his way home to the parsonage, he told me afterward, when he heard the huzzahs from within the school gates and guessed immediately that a match was underway. He had not joined the crowd of spectators for more than a few minutes when I scored my second goal, the one that put Bryn Mawr ahead to stay.

Martin has asked me to a tea dance that is being organized by some friends of his mother during the holidays. That is, he will arrange to have my name on the list of girls to be invited! Oh, Diary, I dance so badly!

December 1. No! No! No! I cannot believe it. No, yes I can, but it is the most horrible thing imaginable. Arthur Downey is in the hospital. Dr. Crawford broke the news to me when I answered his urgent summons yesterday. He did not want me to hear by chance, he said. Arthur has . . . severed . . . his male member. The damage cannot be repaired. He has lost a great deal of blood and it will be some time before he is, well, well. If ever, I suppose.

Dr. Crawford asked me how I conceived of Arthur’s nature. I answered truthfully that it is not at all easy to think of him as Arthur, his is so much the nature of a Dorothy. Dr. Crawford said that was his view too.

Surgery will be necessary, so that Arthur can pass water easily. Perhaps, said Dr. Crawford, the surgeons would also remove the rest of Arthur’s male parts, the gonads. If their influence is thus checked, Dr. Crawford says, Arthur’s female side — Dorothy — will dominate. He — or should I anticipate by saying she, Diary? — will make the decision when she is strong enough.

Self-mutilation is said to be a great sin, Diary, and a rash and desperate act. Yet, curiously, I am happy for my poor friend who has been so very troubled by the catastrophe — as she conceived it — of her manhood. She has escaped death and the terrors that were for “Arthur” worse than death itself.

December 09. Arthur will be “O.K.” but not as “Arthur.” The wound is healing nicely. My friend has been moved to the women’s ward, which pleases “Dorothy” no end.

December 16, 1906. What fun I’ve had at Christy Hodgson’s tea dance party, dear Diary! It was Martin’s doing; I’m sure the Hodgsons were totally unaware of my existence until he whispered in his aunt Hodgson’s ear. They have a great house, called Bellemeade, and it was beautifully decorated for the holiday, with ever so many candles and mirrors and evergreen boughs. Nearly all of the boys were from Martin’s school, Boys’ Latin. Many of the girls, including Christy, Martin’s cousin, were students at St. Timothy’s, which is Bryn Mawr’s arch rival. They welcomed me cordially out of friendship for Martin, however. He, gallant as always, took special care to introduce me to each of his friends and to make sure my dance card was full.

I had a new dress that Aunt had gotten up for me especially for the tea dance. It is slim in the new style, with a squared neckline, a high waist and “kimono sleeves” to the elbow, in the most luscious rose georgette fabric. Aunt insisted that the hem fall just a few inches below my knees, however. I was disappointed, for I’d imagined myself with my hair up and a gown that nearly swept the floor.

Aunt Enid had Gideon drive me to Bellemeade. It would not do to ride the streetcar at dusk in a cape and dancing pumps, she said. As soon as I’d arrived at the Hodgsons’ I knew Aunt was right — the gown I’d wished for would have been way too old for me, and out of place — nor did any of the girls put up their hair.

A room had been consecrated to us “young ladies” where we could freshen up and eye each other out of the sight of the boys. There was much teasing going on, for most of the girls were classmates, and oohing and aahing over each others’ finery. Also present was Stella Sampson who was also from Bryn Mawr School. Though I had considered her a bit of a prig, Stella complimented me sincerely and I was no less honest in my appreciation of her own gown. I enjoyed the sensation of being one of this friendly and high-spirited group, secure in the knowledge that to all appearance and, I hope, manner, I was as feminine as any of its members. And to think, Diary, seven months ago, I was still the most miserable boy on Earth!

Martin was quite the handsomest of the boys! And I am sure he was the most gallant and the best dancer! Thank heavens for my practice with Moira! Perhaps I decieve myself, but I felt light as a feather when Martin danced with me. We even tried to dance a polka. I kept mixing up the steps dreadfully and at last was overcome by giggles. There was nothing to do but abandon the attempt to polka and seek out the punch bowl. That gave me a chance to thank Martin most sincerely for arranging that I should be included in Miss Hodgson’s party. He replied, with just a little bit of a blush, that he was most happy for my friendship, and hoped that he should continue to merit it. I could not think what else to say or do, so I took his hand in both of mine for an instant — a friendly squeeze that he returned. It was most affecting, Diary! I feel as though Martin and I have an understanding now.

December 22, 1906. Aunt’s house is piled high with presents. Mama has written; oh, how I miss her! I will glue her letter in right here.

Dear Edward, your father and I had been hoping you would be able to return home for a visit during the Christmas holidays, but understand that schoolwork and other obligations make that difficult for you. We miss our little boy a great deal. Of course you are no longer a little boy, are you? I imagine you have grown six inches since we saw you last!

Thank you for the embroidered towels. They are very handsome by the washstand, and someday soon I shall venture to dry my hands on one. Your father is most happy with his large tin of pipe tobacco, and everyone here has enjoyed the pecans and dried fruits your Aunt sent with your package. We send our love. Please thank your Aunt and commend us to her. Fondly, Mama.

December 25. I have never been away from my family at Christmas. What a miserable feeling it is! I suppose I am unkind to my dear, generous Aunt to think so, but Diary, I yearn for the cruder comforts of our home in Perkinstown. The warmth of the kitchen, where my mother reigns. I can smell her apple pies now if I close my eyes and remember hard. Snow on the hills, ice on the lake — breaking the ice so the livestock can drink, milking the cows with Father. The vast starry sky and the quietness of a winter night. I would love to see my little nieces — they must be crawling by now — and to sit by the fire as Mother reads to us all.

What would they make of me now, Diary? A pampered girl, who wants for nothing but their embrace! I’m sure my manly brothers, Jeff and Eben would recoil from me, dismayed, perhaps disgusted. Mother has always been my confidante, and may understand, but could Father, who never ceased urging me to “buck up, be brave and strong”? Oh, Diary, they have had such hopes for me. I was to have been the first of the Tuckers ever to attend college, to have a profession, to make them proud. In that at least, perhaps I may not disappoint them.

Tuesday, January 01, 1907. A whole new year, Diary, and how oddly it has begun. I do not know what to think about Fiona. But NO, I won't even write about it yet.

January 04. Dr. Charlotte Clathrop has sent a note asking me to allow her a complete physical examination. It is for science. I stopped by to meet her at her laboratory on the Hopkins campus on my way home from school. I agreed on condition that she shares all she learns about me, or surmises. She says I should call her Tottie from now on.

January 12 (Saturday) It was not so terribly bad, Diary. I am devilish healthy, Tottie (Dr. Charlotte) says, just ambiguous in my physical development. “What should I take that to mean,” I asked — “is it something I have some control over?” Seemingly not. My role is to lick my lolly and let others do the worrying for me.

“That will not do!”, I told Tottie in no uncertain terms

January 14 (Monday) I visited Dorothy yesterday after church service. She is still convalescing at home. I wrote to Mrs. Downey expressing a desire to call on my friend, and she invited me to come to their home for Sunday luncheon. I had never been there before. It is not very grand, an apartment on the third floor above Mrs. Downey’s school.

Mrs. Downey struck me as positively vaporous as well as a terrible cook. She served us week-old cake and a stew that must have been assembled from whatever was lying around the kitchen that morning. It is absolutely frightening to imagine her as a mother. Seemingly, it is enough for her to believe a thing to make it so, hence Dorothy rather than Arthur. She has persuaded herself that Dorothy has suffered an accident as a consequence of attempting boyish games.

Dorothy, on the other hand, is in high spirits. She has resolved to have an orchotomy — the surgical removal of her testicles. At Dr. Crawford’s request, a Dr. Olsen will perform the surgery. Dorothy is sure they would have refused it had she not taken a knife in her own hands to destroy her male member. I tremble just thinking of that!

January 19 (evening). Fiona came by this afternoon. She will leave tomorrow for the Spring term at Smith College. Fiona was dressed very like an Amazon, I thought — high boots, a quite dashing green tweed cloak, a cloche hat over short chestnut curls. My heart pounded to see her again.

Fiona said she wished to apologize for overly familiar behavior on New Year’s Eve. I said I had not given it a second thought, which is untrue. (In fact, I have thought often of those ardent confidences. I believe that only the secret that I concealed deterred me from yielding further to her advances.)

Fiona continued that she did not beg my forgiveness for being attracted to me. I was singularly beautiful, she said with a bit of a stammer, and for reasons that perhaps God only knew, Fiona found men entirely uninteresting. Women on the other hand engendered in her strong feelings of sympathy. No, Fiona was only embarrassed, I gathered, that she had sought intimacy with such a young woman as I.

At fourteen, Fiona said, no one knows their own mind. Hence it was insupportable that she had sought to seduce my affections.

I could not let Fiona’s cavalier equation of youth and poor judgment pass uncountered. “Au contraire,” said I, taking her hands between my own. “You were perhaps rendered indiscreet by the champagne, whereas my only indulgence was about one dozen too many oysters! The fact was, I was flattered by your intentions. I consider you quite the most dazzling creature I know.”

Impulsively, I pulled my friend toward my bedroom. We entered, I closed the door, and dared Fiona to prove that in fact I am too young to love.

January 20. For avoidance of doubt, Diary, I shall record here that notwithstanding many sweet kisses, my secret is still safe.

Wednesday, February 6. It has been terribly cold, Diary. The Baltimore Sun says this is the most wicked winter since 1888. My classes have been stopped for a week because of the snow and ice. Even so, Aunt Enid and I braved today’s blizzard for a meeting at Johns Hopkins Hospital. Dr. Charlotte Clathrop — Tottie — had taken my demands to heart. She arranged this meeting to explain my condition, and most importantly, my choices, to me and my aunt.

Presiding again was the eminent Dr. Adolph Meyer, Aunt’s great friend, the founder of the Hopkins Institute of Mental Hygiene. Dr. Reuben Crawford was present also; he took me aside to whisper that Dorothy is recovering well from her recent surgery. Having had an ebulliant note myself from Dorothy yesterday, I knew this already, but I thanked Dr. Crawford just the same. He reeked of antiseptic solution.

The meeting was organized by Tottie, and with Dr. Meyer’s evident consent, she took command. She has just been promoted to be an assistant professor. Tottie is an expert on internal secretions. Have I mentioned that already, Diary?

Internal secretions are those emanations from our various glands that regulate the functions of our bodies. Normally they work in concert, but not always. Everyone knows now that a malfunction of the thyroid gland or the pituitary (not so long ago thought insignificant!) can have grave consequences. Another set of glands regulates sexual development. Gross indica of maleness or femininity are largely the province of the male and female genitals — the testes and the ovaries, explained Tottie. Secondary sexual characteristics like a beard or lack of it, breasts, widened hips or hard muscles are governed by the secretions both of these glands and others, for example the adrenal glands and the “corpus luteum.” These secretions have been the object of Dr. Tottie’s research since 1902!

My friend confirmed what the mirror has already told me — that I present as a boyish, late-developing girl. I have but tiny breasts, my hips remain narrow, worst of all, the harbingers of a beard are sprouting randomly on my face. Tottie said that it is because I have an insufficiency of certain secretions. She surmised that if my nature is allowed to run its course, I will reach adulthood as someone neither obviously male nor obviously female.

Tottie was quick to add that this is not, emphatically not, a tragedy. Dr. Reuben Crawford chimed in here too. It would only be, he offered, a tragedy if I thought it so, like Dorothy Downey. Reuben started awkwardly to propose that people, by and large perceive as true what is presented to them as true. This was a psychological finding beyond dispute, so that by careful cultivation of feminine traits. . . .

Perhaps I was supposed to listen patiently, Diary, but I could not. I rose standing to my full five feet two inches. I must admit that I glared at them both. “Is that all you have to offer me?” said I in a tone so cold that it astonishes me in retrospect. “Assurance that with proper mental hygiene I can get used to being a freak for the rest of my life?”

There was a long thirty seconds of silence before Tottie answered. “Actually, no. You could be our human guinea pig, instead. Please sit down and I will explain.”

I sat. I was quivering with anticipation. Was it obvious to the others, I wonder.

“I have had some remarkable successes inducing secondary female traits in laboratory animals by injecting them with a refined extract of the urine of pregnant sows,” she said. “We — my laboratory assistant and I — we don’t yet understand the biological mechanism in its entirety, nor have we isolated the secretions that act in this instance, but the cause and effect is beyond doubt.

“I consider the procedure safe. If you and your aunt so wish it, Evelyn, you and Dorothy Downey shall become the first human subjects of this experiment.”

I know I ought to have deferred to my aunt, but I could not resist. “Yes!” I cried. “I do so wish!”

February 9th. The blizzard has eased, and it is Saturday. I braved the drifts to present myself at Tottie’s laboratory quite early in the day. She introduced me to her lab assistant, an intelligent-looking Negro man of perhaps thirty-five. “Here is the real genius of my laboratory,” Tottie said. “Balthasar is infinitely patient and methodical. I would not suggest this procedure to you or your Aunt had he not tested it so carefully on lesser mammals.”

The black man nodded respectfully and inquired if I wished to inspect some of the specimens. I replied that I did. He showed me three guinea pigs, a terrier and a chicken. Each, he said, had been born male. They were castrated at the first sign of adult development, and then injected with small doses of the extract obtained from the urine of pregnant sows. I confessed that I could hardly tell the sexes of guinea pigs or dogs apart, except in the grossest way. The chicken was most evidently a hen. So too, Balthasar assured me, were the other specimens. They were behaviorally indistinguishable from females of their species.

Tottie asked me again if I wished to proceed, knowing that the procedure is experimental. I replied that I most certainly did, and gave her my aunt’s letter of permission. Then she took my temperature and carefully recorded my weight and height, and measured my hips, waist and bosom. Balthazar meanwhile had filled a syringe with a dark amber fluid, which Tottie then injected into my calf muscle. It was painful; I could not help but wince when she plunged in the stainless steel needle. Tottie said she had begun with one ounce of the extract. She will increase the dose if there are no adverse reactions. We agreed that I should return at weekly intervals for the injections.

February 17. We have lost the basketball trophy to St. Timothy’s. The whole school is in a funk, especially Sally. She and Stella Sampson were the only hope (our team is relatively weak this year) and both were “off” yesterday afternoon.

February 22. There was no school today, it being the anniversary of President Washington’s birth, so I have written long letters to Mama and Fiona. I considered writing also to Billy Barkell, but could not think what to say to my former chum.

Sunday, February 24. Moira’s wedding is set for April 13, not a Friday of course but a Saturday! I have agreed to be a bridesmaid! There will be three of us. Moira’s married cousin, Bridget, will be the senior bridesmaid. Tricked out as his sweet alter-ego, Henrietta, young Henry will be the junior bridesmaid! It was Henry’s own idea, Moira swears. She had but wished aloud that she knew a girl who could serve when he volunteered for the role. Besotted with love, Evan has not objected.

March 6. I sense that the weekly injections are exerting an influence over my physical and mental state. Some days I feel quite giddy. The rhythm of classes, hockey practice, rehearsals for our class theatrical (in which, quite literally, I will carry a spear and speak only in chorus!) steadies me. My breasts are swelling again, and they hurt! I am sensibly wider at the hips as well.

The midyear grades have been posted. I am third in among the sophomores behind Mary Alice Webb and Beatrice Cohen.

March 9 (Saturday). I met Martin by chance today while running an errand to the florist’s for Aunt Enid. I invited him to the theatrical. Martin invited me in turn to a tea dance at the tennis club on Friday, March 15. I think he has grown another two inches since Christmas!

March 16. Oh, diary, how splendid Martin would be for a beau! I doubt it crosses his mind. I am just a convenient, sisterly friend to him, I am sure. At the tea dance today, Martin took care that I had plenty of boys to dance with. They were nice boys, but all I could think to do was twist and crane my neck to see with whom he chose to dance whilst I was parked with his chums!

I wore a pretty tea gown, white georgette with cap sleeves and a sky blue georgette velvet sash. Aunt allowed me to wear my new court shoes with two inch French heels. I thought I should wobble, but I did not, in fact it seemed that I danced a bit more gracefully at that elevation! There were a few girls who wore their hair in a twist — I shall tell Aunt. Though she continues to insist that I am too young to put up my hair, my skirt had three layers and the bottom one came to within six inches of the floor!

Fiona has not written. I am sad but I will not sulk!

March 22. Moira and I and the other bridesmaids will be fitted for their frocks tomorrow. Aunt seems amused that I shall be part of our upstairs maid’s wedding party.

Evening, March 23. We shall all have to be careful that young Henrietta does not upstage us all, even his sister the bride!

Moira will wear white, of course. She has ordered made a flowing satin gown trimmed with lace. With it, Moira will wear a handmade lace veil that was her grandmother’s, and carry a bouquet of daisies and shamrocks. We bridesmaids are all to wear pale yellow linen frocks with puffed sleeves, emerald green satin sashes and broad brimmed hats. Henrietta’s frock has a shorter skirt, of course, and a stiff petticoat after the Irish fashion. In white stockings and low-heeled strapped shoes, his straw colored curls gathered by an emerald ribbon, Henrietta is quite a charming colleen. Though I know he is all boy, his manners are now so fine that it is impossible not to think him a well-bred little girl.

March 31, 1907. Time is flying by so fast, Diary. It is nearly a year since I left Perkinstown, Pennsylvania, since I last saw the careworn faces of my mother and father. I know I should miss them more. I suppose I ought also to long for the familiar company of my older brothers but — am I horribly wicked, Diary? The truth is, I dread a reunion.

It is not only that the miserable, awkward boy they know as Edward has disappeared forever, his place taken by a happy schoolgirl. That I should have become Evelyn would perhaps be easier for my parents to comprehend than that my mind is now filled with questions, thoughts and aspirations that would hardly occur to the yeomanry of Perkinstown. And, though I have been a reasonably dutiful correspondent to my mother, I have not ventured upon either subject with them.

Be that as it may, my parents have written my aunt to say that they plan to visit. Aunt has replied, insisting that they must stay in our home. It is all quite formal, for my aunt and my father have neither met nor hardly communicated for about thirty years. Mother and Father will arrive on the train from Harrisburg on Friday evening. I have been in a perfect funk. Aunt tells me I must “buck up.”

Why must they come now? I have an examination in math the following week. Hockey practice has begun again, and that takes time, too. And then, I’ve had to cancel my place in an outing to Annapolis. The Japanese cherry trees along the Severn River will be at the height of their bloom, and Martin will be in the company of a number of girls far prettier than I.

I know my parents’ visit will be terrible, and on top of that, I shall fail my math examination because I cannot concentrate on my work.

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April 7, 1907 (Sunday afternoon)

Mother and Father have come and gone. It was not half so bad as I had feared. In fact, we are all better off now that I have shared my secret with them.

Last Friday was a miserably wet and gloomy day. It was already growing dark when I returned home from school. As I let myself into the house, I could hear voices from the parlor. My father was indeed aroused! Again I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Aunt Enid for proposing to receive my parents first, to explain my present circumstances before I should have to appear before them. But, had our plan gone astray? Their voices carried to the hall. . . .

“An abomination! ‘The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God’’— Deuteronomy Chapter 22 verse 5. That’s what it is, Enid, no matter what reasons you offer. It was not your business to undo God’s work!”

“Frank, I know you aren’t a fool, nor do I think you believe everything written down in the Old Testament or else you’d be growing a full beard and refusing to eat pig meat. Fate, or God, or whatever, dealt your Edward a nasty blow — the genitalia of a man and the internal secretions of a woman. So, which would you rather see — dressed, not buck naked, of course — a tortured, womanly man, or a confident, womanly woman? Of greater importance, would you rather have a child who can develop all her talents and be of some service to her fellow men, or a child so desperately out of place that suicide is constantly in ‘his’ mind?”

By some trick of acoustics, every word uttered in the parlor, every sigh breathed, seemingly even every thought one dares imagine, resounds in Aunt’s dim, chestnut-paneled hallway. I took off my dripping cloak, and hung it on the peg ready by the door. I regarded myself in the mirror that hangs where the hallway meets the staircase.

The staircase is on the right. On the left is the double parlor where my Aunt was entertaining my parents. Proceeding further, the hallway gives onto the large room Aunt calls her “salon” and through it, then, ultimately, to the dining room and kitchen. From which direction Moira appeared for an instant to blow me a kiss. . . .

In the hall mirror, I could see a girl of nearly fifteen, a girl on the verge of womanhood. I was wearing my Bryn Mawr School uniform: a white blouse, a loosely belted grey shift dress with the school crest, dark hose, black ankle boots. But it was not my clothes, nor was it the ribbon in my hair nor the auburn curls now long enough to wave about my neck that gave me the appearance of a true woman. It was the swelling of my bosom, the broadening of my hips and softening of my features that made me so.

It is less than three months since I began receiving weekly injections at Tottie’s laboratory, and already the effect of the ‘hormones’ is profound. I would not, could not possibly look back.

So what is the worst that can happen, I asked myself bravely. Perhaps they’ll never want to see me again. If I must, I can handle that. Or could I? Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed open the door and faced my mother and my father with my most sincere and hopeful smile.

“Oh! Oh my heavens! I never . . . .” My mother, at a total loss for words, rose and flew at me and I her till we clutched at each other like nothing less than a pair of magnets, or a mother and daughter who had been separated overlong.

At length we became aware of my father, who with my aunt had also risen and who was hovering uncertainly nearby.

“Frank, tell her you love her. Tell Evelyn she is your own dear daughter,” commanded my mother. I felt my heart stop, skip beats, pound inside my chest. No matter what I had thought, I could not bear it if my father judged against me.

“Child, are you content with yourself as you now are?” my father asked.

“Yes, Father. As content as I can imagine being. And so happy to see you and Mother again. . . .” Words failed me then. I felt my lips quiver, my eyes fill with tears, the confidence that had borne me into the parlor ebb. Silently, I awaited my father’s judgment.

Father has always been everything I imagined a man should be. I recall thinking, as a child, that I should someday grow up to be like him — strong, steady, of few words but ever present, the pillar from which the entire household depends. What had he hoped of me?

I was, of course, his last child, and indulged not only by my mother. He had been fond of me, at times tender and never so severe as he had been with my so much older brothers. He had never beaten me. Was he now ready to accept me as his daughter?

“Child, I just don’t know,” my father said. “I’ll have to pray on it.” He did not touch me. We stood awkwardly regarding each other, my father and I. My mother had a hand on my shoulder, another on Father’s elbow, as though striving through the language of her body to unite us.

My aunt, meanwhile, invoked supper. “Come Frank, Arabella. You’ve had a long trip and are tired. Let us eat a little, enjoy each other’s company after so many years, and then rest.”

Cook is no fool. She didn’t serve up crabs or oysters or other fancy Baltimore fare. It was chicken and dumplings for supper and for breakfast, ham and eggs, with grits optional.

Moira made sure my parents were comfortable without making them uncomfortable by giving too much attention. She must have said some nice things about me.

On Saturday morning, my father was willing to meet my eye. My courage returning, I was able to meet his. “Shall we go for a walk then today? The forsythia are in full bloom, promising a wonderful spring!”

My mother begged off. She was going to show Cook how to bake a squash pie, she said. So it was that my father and I trudged off to Druid Park together but still alone.

“I love you, Father,” I said. I hadn’t planned that declaration, it just erupted. I said I had been as surprised to find myself a woman as he had been. It was something that happened, the only difference being that I was, in Baltimore, literally surrounded by the best medical expertise in the United States,

We were looking at the huge Japanese carp in Boat Lake, fish of an incredible shining mix of colors — gold, black, white and red! “Every one different,” I said. “Not one knowing why, any more than I do.”

“I know, child. Give me time.” My father squeezed my hand.

“Father, I’m Evelyn. Not ‘child.’”

“I’m working at it,” he told me.

This noon, Aunt Enid and I saw my mother and father off at the Lackawanna Railroad station. My mother embraced me, covered me with kisses, told me she’d see that I was welcomed back to Perkinsville or else!

My father held my arm for a minute or two, staring into my eyes as if searching for something to say. Evidently, he couldn’t find the words he wanted. As Father mounted the steps into the railway car, I reproached myself that I had not said all I wished to say, either, though I’d come close. I’d said I loved him. I hadn’t said why, that he is my ideal of a man.

April 10. Three days until Moira’s wedding. Aunt has given Moira ten days off with pay, beginning today. A temporary girl has been sent around by an agency. She’s not half so smart, or a tenth as much fun as our Moira.

April 13, past bedtime. It was a beautiful wedding, Diary. I danced and danced. The party will last all night, someone said. As I left, having promised to meet my aunt’s coachman Gideon outside at ten-thirty, the young people were still jigging and waltzing, whilst the older ones — all the O’Dwyers and Duffys, the Hallorans and O’Tooles — were sipping Irish whiskey or tea and watching misty-eyed. Moira and Evan O’Toole are a most handsome couple. They too have left the party, very tired and a bit tipsy, I think, from toasting each guest.

Henrietta I saw sprawled asleep amidst a pile of coats in a bedroom. She -- er, he, in his bridesmaid’s regalia -- has been a great favorite with the crowd. At one point, Henrietta sang “Rose of Tralee.” As he began that sweet tune, a hush fell over the room that persisted even as the last notes died away; it was so quiet that everyone heard Father Brendan talking to himself. “Oi, such a shame, such a splendid lass he is!” There was general and affectionate laughter. Our Henrietta seized the moment to curtsey to one and all!

April 15. Father and Mother are not to be the only visitors from Perkinsville. Today I have received a letter from my old teacher, Mr. Lucian Truscott. He will be visiting Baltimore on a legal matter, and hopes to see me.

I have replied that of course I will be pleased if Mr. Truscott were to call at Aunt Enid’s, but, I warned him, he would find me amazingly changed.

April 20. Wonderful news! Martin has been admitted to the Cornell University College of Engineering, subject only to his getting at least a “B” in the Calculus. He says nothing will stop him from earning an “A”!

April 21, Sunday evening. Mr. Truscott has visited me and my aunt. He was not surprised to find me thus, having talked with my mother a week ago. “But, of course, in your mind you remain a boy withal?” he insisted. I replied firmly in the negative. What had begun as a device to put the world at ease with me had become second nature. Mr. Truscott seemed disappointed.

Why does everyone want to kiss me? First Fiona, now Mr. Truscott. His attentions were not half so agreeable as Fiona’s. Though he is a man, he is at least 30 years of age! I insisted that Mr. Truscott reconsider his apparent ardor. He was upset and did not stay for dinner. It was not my fault, but I worry that he may vent his displeasure by telling stories about me.

What should I do, Diary? My life is so full now. There do not seem to be enough hours in the day to meet the expectations of my teachers and friends, to spend a few precious minutes with my Aunt or dear Moira, let alone to send a few lines to Martin or some other person who has paid a bit of attention to me. Diary, you are my refuge and release; I will write in you those things that I cannot confide to another soul.

For example, Dorothy Downey is to enter Bryn Mawr in September. She will be in tenth, a year behind me. Aunt waited only for confirmation that Dr. Clathrop’s injections are having their intended effect on Dorothy before she proposed her admission as a scholarship student. I am so proud that Miss Hamilton did not even blink on hearing Aunt Enid’s suggestion. I am sure it had nothing — well, little — to do with my aunt’s generous donations to the school. Anyway, Dorothy will do well at Bryn Mawr, I think, now that she is free to be “herself.” Her agony was not from want of intellect but from want of love and understanding.

Dr. Reuben Crawford has spent many hours talking with Dorothy and with me, sorting out the multiple strands that make up our personalities. He says that who we are is a mixture of nature and nurture. For example, if he is not of a nature to be so trained, no number of years in petticoats can extinguish the “boy” in a person. Similarly, a child who is by nature gentle and nurturing will instinctively cleave to its mother and will protect his siblings against surprises and dangers.

Most children, Tottie says, seem to be at once a bit of maidenly timidity and boyish adventure, girlish modesty and male roguery; the balance is determined by chance and circumstance. In Dorothy’s case, circumstance exerted an irresistable influence on a child eager for his mother’s approval and unsure of his own manliness. As an adolescent, Dorothy was doomed to terrible inner conflicts. . . .

April 28. Dorothy and I both were seen by Tottie yesterday morning. She professes herself satisfied by the development of our bodies. In truth, Diary, Dorothy and I are amazed beyond our fondest hopes. Tottie and Balthasar have proposed to increase our weekly dose of “hormone” extract. For that, I’ve agreed to submit to that horrid needle early every Wednesday on my way to school and again on Saturday. Dorothy is responding more vigorously and so will get injections at five day intervals.

May 5. Yesterday was my 15th birthday. That used to seem so old! With Aunt’s permission, I invited my girl friends to Dobreiners. We had a private room on the top floor. All of us gobbled cakes and iced cream like absolute swine! From the sophomores were Stella Sampson, Ginnie Montgomery, Sally Campbell and Trudy Welch. I included Flora Cooper also; though she is but a freshman she is Sally’s cousin, my friend, and will be Dorothy’s classmate in September. Dorothy charmed them all. She has a knack for saying just what girls want to hear but sounding sincere. I on the other hand say exactly what I think; it is a wonder anyone likes me!

Dear Mama left behind a mezzotint of my brothers and me in front of our farmhouse as a birthday present. I remember the photograph; Mama has had it colored. In the photograph, I am nearly six and have just been breeched. We are all so solemn, except for my dog Barney who would not hold still and is a blur!

May 11 (Saturday). Martin came by this morning on a tandem bicycle. It needed another peddler, he insisted, and I had been chosen. I laughed and excused myself to change into a split skirt that Aunt had her seamstress make for me not long ago, just for such an occasion. Martin and I cycled to Calvert Street for phosphates — he had cherry and I of course chocolate. Martin has excellent leg muscles, I think.

Wednesday, May 15, 1907 Oh, dear Diary! Today is a year to the day that I fetched up at Aunt’s house, drooping and despondent. Had anyone told me that today I should be full of the joy of living, quite as happy as any girl in the world — I should have laughed (had I been capable of laughing then).

We are the champions of Baltimore! Yes, today our Bryn Mawrtyrs defeated the Baltimore Ladies’ Hockey Club. Soundly, too — 6 to 3 — and that wins us the Cup. I was not the heroine of the match; Beatrice McKenzie was, and therein lies today’s story. Beatrice is a senior and our captain. She’ll be graduated in another three weeks. Up to now, she’s hardly paid me any notice, or so I thought. After the match, however, as Clarice and I and a few other sophomores were changing back into our school clothes, laughing, joking, celebrating our victory and the end of our glorious year, I realized suddenly that Beatrice herself was standing next to me.

“Can I speak with you privately for a moment?” she said.

Of course, I practically fainted to be so honored, but managed to point to a corner where the benches were empty of anyone who might want to listen in to whatever our team captain should choose to impart.

“I found you rather odd at first,” Beatrice said. “Coming from nowhere, very awkward, almost mannish, and awfully good at field hockey for someone who claimed no prior knowledge of the game. But . . . you have made your place here, and won our hearts. Of all the underclass girls, you are the top player and the natural leader. None of the juniors can hold a candle to you, so I’ve been sent to ask — will you agree to captain the team next year?”

Diary, I thought for a long moment. I imagined being captain. To keep from floating away, I bit my lower lip, I was so happy. And then I said what I truly believe. “You must not. You must give the captaincy to Clarice Brown. She is the rock of our defense. Of all the juniors, she is the one who must be chosen. And I and the other underclass girls will loyally support Clarice.”

What strange, almost swooning pleasure it gave me to refuse an honor I do covet — not for now, but when it is my turn. “Well, that’s that, then,” said Beatrice, leaving me to huddle again with Coach and her senior mates. Moments later, she was summoning us all. “Girls, please, your attention! Our year is ended, and it is time to pass the torch. I apologize that it has taken so long. We’ve been earnestly debating who among you is most deserving of the captaincy.”

“Now I can announce our decision, confident you all will agree.”

“The Bryn Mawr School Hockey Team will be led in 1907-08 by goalkeeper Clarice Brown. . . (scattered applause) and right forward Evelyn Tucker (a few more scattered claps), co-captains! (Sustained, sincere applause!)

“Clarice, Evelyn, come forward!” I was propelled toward Beatrice by my mates. So was Clarice. She took us each by a hand and lifted them skyward. “Girls, I give you your new captains!”

I would never have guessed, Diary, that I could be such a happy girl. I’ve had the help of some wonderful people — my dear Aunt Enid first of all, and Doctors Tottie Clathrop and Reuben Crawford. Dear Moira has taught me so much about being a woman. Miss Hamilton dared to admit me to Bryn Mawr and today she confided to me her satisfaction (I am to be awarded the sophomore biology prize!). My dear mother and father have embraced me for what I truly am — a young woman with some accidental male parts. I have a stack of chums and a very special friend, who was waiting at the gate when I emerged on my way home this evening.

Martin congratulated me then. He looked around to be sure that no one was watching, and kissed me — on the lips! He said that he loves me. We are both too young for either of us to make promises, Martin said — and besides he will be far away at Cornell University for the next four years. Even so, he cannot deny his feeling. Nothing makes him happier than to be with me, he said. And Diary, I told Martin that my sentiments are exactly the same! And kissed him back!

Note to readers: If Evelyn’s Diary is welcomed by the attentive public, several more chapters will follow in due course. My two favorite BC authors, Jan S. and Justme, were generous with their counsel, comments and corrections as the story was being written; if discontinuities and anachronisms remain in Evelyn’s Diary, I am the one to blame. Hugs, Daphne.

 

by Daphne
  © 01.2008 by Daphne Laprov

June 26, 1907. School is out until September, and I am employed five mornings each week in Dr. Tottie Clathrop’s laboratory. When I told her I had won the Bryn Mawr School Biology Prize, she proposed immediately that I assist Balthasar. He is the colored man who prepares the extract on which Dorothy and I and many others now depend. Tottie is not just being kind, Diary. The extract that has been so efficacious for me and Dorothy is now in huge demand. Tottie has several other patients, also who are, she says, young people of “indeterminate sexuality.” The extract has helped these unfortunates as well. She and Balthasar are also supplying doses to physicians in Linthicum, Frederick and at Sinai Hospital right here in Baltimore.

Balthasar is hard-pressed to meet the need. He is up at five every morning to make his collections, and arrives on his wagon at the laboratory at eight a.m. with the raw material well iced. Then it is my job to help him with the distillations, precipitations and titrations, which take us to midday. Balthasar is absolutely meticulous. I must have the vessels and glass tubes spotless! Of course he is right.

Dr. Tottie, meanwhile, is in quest of the chemicals at the heart of the secretions. She says it is like sorting through a haystack in search of the shadow of a needle. That’s what organic chemistry is, Diary. There is a whole lot of guesswork but ultimately it is trial and error. Tottie has tested her distillations on battalions of adolescent guinea pigs but without results (yet) to rival the extract Balthasar derives from the urine of his pregnant sows.

Tottie is preparing a monograph for the Journal of Internal Secretions on her progress toward uncovering the secrets of the hormones that govern our sexual natures.

June 27. Aunt Enid says I may sail to Tangier Island and St. Mary’s Town with my friend Martin Tolliver, his cousin Christy Hodgson and their families! We will leave Baltimore on the morning of the 4th on the Hodgsons’ schooner for five whole days!

June 30. Fiona is back, the wretch! After months of no word, she has suddenly reappeared to announce that she is through with anthropology. Now she has set her cap on being a poet, but not a boring one, she says. There is no money in poetry if one does not write like Mr. Kipling or Mr. Tennyson, Aunt replies. I heard them arguing. Aunt Enid is Fiona’s godmother. She told Fiona that she should take care to have a saleable skill, so that she need not rely on a man. I could not hear Fiona’s reply, but I am sure it was she who slammed the door!

July 1. And now Fiona is gone! She slipped into my bedroom and my bed early this morning to tell me that she was leaving Baltimore in search of “authentic experiences.” Fiona will summer in Cape Cod, Massachusetts with her friend Edna Vincent Saint-something and some other radical poets. Fiona is so goofy with love for this “Vincent,” she hardly cared to ask how I am. Well, I am fine and I don’t need her approval anyway. Besides, I cannot understand the poems she has left me — they wander all around like bad dreams.

July 3. On the boat besides Martin and Christy, there will be Martin’s little brother Stephen Tolliver and Christy’s brother Mark Hodgson, and of course the adults. I do not know whether to count Christy’s sister Eleanor as an adult or not. She is 22, and works at Lawrence House.

Noon, the 4th of July. The sun was rising red and hot as we went aboard the “Best Revenge” this morning. There is a steady northwest breeze, and already we have left Annapolis behind. Mr. Hodgson is very much in command. He is not one to leave the sailing to the professional crew. Martin and Mark are his eager servitors.

July 5. We have sailed through the night. About 9:00 p.m., we witnessed fireworks above Easton, on the Eastern Shore. This morning, we hove to just long enough to buy a bushel of the best Chincoteagues from an oysterboat. Mr. Hodgson aims to drop anchor at Tangier Island by dinnertime.

I have been talking with Eleanor Hodgson about the Quaker faith. Living its precepts is not for the faint-hearted, I think. At Lawrence House, which is in Southwest Baltimore in a much more dismal neighborhood than my maid Moira’s, Eleanor works six days a week, ten or twelve hours a day, helping the poor people. Eleanor says that if we are fortunate, we are duty-bound to work for the betterment of others. Poverty, she believes, is not the fault of the poor but of a system that thrives on cheap labor.

At first impression, I thought Eleanor quite plain, at least in contrast to her younger sister Christy. As she spoke about her work, however, an inner glow lit her up so that I was reminded of Raphael’s “Madonna of the Candelabras” at the Walthers Art Museum.

July 6, noon. I don’t know which I like better, raw oysters or steamed blue crabs. Christy favors crabs, the soft-shelled kind especially, but she agreed we would starve to death if we tried to live merely on crabmeat, it is so tedious to extract from the shell.

At last Martin has tired of knots and sails and is paying some attention to me. Too much attention, in fact. Last night he was drinking. I know it. It was on his breath and Mark’s when they came back on board. His father noticed immediately and has reproached him severely. What is it about boys that they think they can absolutely ignore you, absorbed in their tacking and belaying, and then you are supposed to swoon when they cease, temporarily, to be savages?

Amazing to think that one of them might have been me! I doubt I’d have gotten so much fun out of it. . . .

July 6, evening. We are nearing St. Mary’s, Maryland. It is a pretty town. There are hundreds of boats in the harbor. Martin has apologized to me ever so humbly, and I have decided to forgive him. Dr. Tolliver has not forgiven Martin; there will be a price to pay!

July 7. We attended Sunday services at the Quaker Meeting in St. Mary’s before setting sail for Baltimore. Unless the breeze freshens, we may not arrive there until midday tomorrow. Meanwhile, the shoe has dropped. Martin and Mark will do penance by volunteering at Lawrence House for the rest of the summer. They are asking Eleanor Hodgson all sorts of questions.

July 9. We arrived at the Baltimore Boat Club dock just before nine yesterday. Within an hour, I was back at my aunt’s house in Madison Park, luxuriating in gallons of fresh, hot water and scented soap. Aunt Enid arrived from her friend Miss Hamilton’s in time for luncheon. My benefactor was full of news.

Miss Hamilton’s sister Alice has come from Chicago for a visit. She is an expert on illnesses caused by factory work. “Dr. Alice,” Aunt speculates, has come to make the acquaintance of our headmistress’s lately acquired companion. She doubtless wishes to satisfy herself that Miss Reid is worthy of her sister.

Also, my German teacher, Fraulein Schneider, is to be married. She insists she will not therefore resign her position! Good for her! Perhaps she will become pregnant; what a sensation that would be!

I told my aunt that there was a note in the post from my friend Dorothy Downey, who invited me to visit overnight later this week. Aunt Enid agreed that I might go directly to Dorothy’s house on Federal Hill after finishing my work at Dr. Tottie’s lab on Friday, and I might stay there until Saturday evening, or until Sunday afternoon if I were enjoying myself.

I am sure Dorothy and I shall have a splendid time. She is, after all, Diary, the only one of my chums from whom I have no secrets, and who has none from me.

July 10. Martin stopped here enroute to Lawrence House, dragging a portmanteau. I will only see him on Sundays from now on. Perhaps it is just as well. We are much too fond of each other, yet I can never give him true happiness.

Sunday evening, July 14 (Bastille Day). The Sun this evening says that the French celebrate their national day in a frenzy of dancing and feasting. I suppose it is nowhere so hot and sticky in Paris as it has been in Baltimore this weekend. Dorothy’s neighborhood has got but the slightest of breezes from off the Bay. We took refuge on the sleeping porch, a screened room on the third floor. It is beyond easy reach of Mrs. Downey, whose arthritis deters her from climbing stairs. The “bed” is simply a large mattress upon the floor, made up with cotton sheets. With electric fans on either side, and a large pitcher of iced lemon tea to quench our thirst, stripped to our drawers and chemises, Dorothy and I lay down together and exchanged confidences.

I told her that I am giving up all claims on Martin when he leaves for university late in August. Though I am sure I will remain very fond of my dear and thoughtful friend, love and marriage are not in the cards for Evelyn T. Westcott. Tottie and Balthasar can do only relative miracles. They cannot make me a real woman. As much as I try not to think of them, I have these boy bits between my legs.

Dorothy asked shyly if she might see my bits. It seems that she has never seen another boy naked, not even a baby.

Kneeling, I slipped down my drawers. Why did I blush? It was only Dorothy, who no longer has any bits at all, neither boy nor girl. Dorothy, with whom I have sworn to have no secrets. . . .

“O,” she said, “they are not so big as mine were.”

“No,” I agreed. “They are barely more than a child’s. Were it otherwise, Tottie says, I should need an operation to stop the rush of male secretions.”

“An orchotomy, like mine?”

“Tottie has proposed it, and more. She says that Dr. Olsen could rearrange things so that I should appear to be all girl, but. . . .”

“But? Surely you are not afraid?” Dorothy regarded me gravely. I recalled how in a fit of crazed, desperate courage, she had severed her own male member.

“It is so final,” I said after a moment of reflection. “I suppose I shall never go back to being a boy, but . . . well, that’s how it is. Yes, . . . I am afraid.”

Seemingly on impulse, Dorothy flung off her own drawers. “Evelyn, dear heart, let me show you what Dr. Olsen has done for me.”

I had expected to see a stub, Diary, perhaps an angry red stump, yet there was scarcely a hint of a scar visible through the blonde fur that covered Dorothy’s nether region. “Look,” she said, spreading the area with her hands. “What you see there is the remains of the bag of skin that contained my testicles. Dr. Olsen has turned it and refashioned it so that it resembles a woman’s parts.”

I recalled vaguely that Dorothy had undergone a second operation at about the time my maid, Moira, was married.

“You see, he has tacked it down ever so cleverly,” Dorothy continued, taking my fingers and guiding them to her most private place. “Right there is where I pass water.”

Perhaps I am lacking in empathy —- I was taken aback by Dorothy’s ardor. She seemed such a missionary! Whatever I choose to have done with my own parts will be to make me happier, not Dorothy. Gently, I withdrew my hand from her two and pulled up my drawers. My expression must have communicated my distress, for Dorothy was instantly apologetic.

“Evelyn, oh, I am so sorry! I did not mean to upset you. It is just, you know, I have no one else to help me work things out.”

By “no one,” Dorothy referred of course to her mother, who seems to be in a state of perpetual self-delusion. Mrs. Downey simply refuses to admit that she has ever had a son. I wonder at the thought processes of someone who would keep her little boy in dresses until his fifteenth year. No wonder my friend Dorothy was driven to madness herself.

“Dorothy, do you ever regret . . . what you did?” I asked.

“Mostly, I just wonder at what has happened to me” my friend said after a moment’s reflection. “I would never have made a proper boy. I think Mother knew that instinctively.

“Even so, I wouldn’t have nicked Clifford if I’d seen any other way out.”

“Clifford?” I repeated even as I figured out Dorothy’s meaning.

“Oh, . . .you called it Clifford?”

“Yes — I supposed that if I gave it a name, it was not-me. Evie, I wasn’t so smart. Just desperate. In a way, I killed my friend.”

Dorothy had repositioned; she was kneading a pillow between her legs. I was very conscious that she remained knickerless, but could not think what to say, if anything. Sensing my bewilderment, she finished her thought: “I could do this all day with absolutely no result. In Clifford’s murder, I sacrificed all sensation.”

Again, I was lost for words. “O” was the best I could summon.

“Evelyn, may I touch you . . . there?” asked Dorothy, indicating the place that denied all my artifice to the contrary. My friend did not wait for an answer, but instead took my undergrown member in her hand and proceeded to stroke it so that it soon grew stiff however much I willed it otherwise.

Confused, my eyes searched Dorothy’s for an answer. She released my male bit and snuggled next to me, her lips just inches away, her breath on my ear. The hardness continued below; I sensed it had something to do with Dorothy.

“You are able to know a kind of happiness that I no longer can,” she whispered. “Do not believe otherwise.”

Instinctively, I enfolded Dorothy in my own arms and kissed away her tears. We held each other tenderly until, exhausted by the surge of our emotions, we both fell to sleep.

. . . Hours later, the gentle tugging of a hand on our bare feet awakened me and Dorothy. It was the Downey’s colored maid, sent to tell us it was time to rise and dress for supper. Indeed, the setting sun already cast its ruddy light over the rooftops of Federal Hill, reflected off the new concrete and glass towers of Baltimore’s downtown and sent long shadows from the vessels moored in the Inner Harbor. I hurried to put myself in a fit state to wait upon my hostess, Dorothy’s mother.

Mrs. Downey had not impressed me in previous meetings, Diary, nor would she on this occasion. We found her garbed? festooned? decked out like an Arab before a large, clouded glass orb. We should be peering into the future tonight, I guessed.

It was not the future, however, but the past from which Lutetia Downey sought truth and justice. I was enlisted in her enterprise, which was nothing less than tracking down Dorothy’s father with the aid of the crystal ball. Mrs. Downey conceived that my eyes might see what hers and Dorothy’s had so far missed — the whereabouts of the absconded husband or, better yet, of the inheritance with which Edgar Downey had absconded.

At her invitation, I searched diligently within the cloudy ball. I thought of murmuring something facetious, but held my tongue. This woman evidenced absolute belief in the ball’s powers.

From Dorothy’s account, I knew Mrs. Downey was nearly desperate with worry over the family’s depleted resources. Without Doro’s help, she had been unable to continue the kindergarten. I forced myself to stare further into the orb’s swirling mists, emptying my mind of conscious thought until, suddenly, I spoke: “the Far East! A place . . . like China!”

“Go on, child! What do you see?”

“Just trees, . . . thousands of trees planted in rows.”

“That could be anywhere,” challenged Dorothy’s mother.

“I hear . . . gongs and . . . I smell . . . it must be incense.”

In fact, I have only the vaguest memory of this. I write it down in entirity as Dorothy recounted it later. Mrs. Downey is certain I have given her a clue. She is greatly pleased. What she will do with this “revelation” I cannot imagine!

August 19 (Monday). Five whole weeks have passed, Diary! I have neglected you, but there is not so much to write. With Dr. Tottie’s permission, I have accompanied Aunt Enid for three splendid weeks visiting the Cooper and Campbell families on the Eastern Shore, her summer custom for many years. We left Moira behind this year, taking Patsy instead to help out. Moira is carrying a child and needs her rest!

I have learned to sit a horse side-saddle, to catch blue crabs on a hook baited with a chicken neck, and I have produced and directed a hugely successful theatrical evening starring all of the Cooper and Campbell cousins! Sally and Flora and I have grown close. Flora again promised to look after Dorothy when she enters Bryn Mawr School next month.

And, Diary, with Patsy’s help I managed to inject Balthasar’s extract twice into my thigh without maiming or infecting myself. We transported the precious fluid to Chestertown tightly packed in ice, together with syringes and antiseptic, that I might not miss a dose.

Aunt’s coachman was waiting at the wharf when the President Garfield moored at Fell’s Point. So was Martin! He had eleven urchins in tow. They are members of the Lawrence House Boys’ Club. Martin had organized a trip for them to the Inner Harbor. He said that children in the tenements know hardly anything of the world even a few blocks away. We promised to meet on Sunday after church. Then Martin led his little troop off for a ferryboat ride while Gideon drove Aunt and me home to Madison Park.

Tomorrow morning, I will return to work at Tottie’s laboratory.

August 26 (Sunday evening). Dear Martin and I were together in Druid Park all afternoon. We rented a rowboat. After a lovely paddle, we cooled off with chocolate phosphates. We talked and talked. Martin leaves Baltimore tomorrow and will arrive in Ithaca, New York, on the following day. It seems such a long way to go for college, with Johns Hopkins only a trolley ride away. But Martin has set his cap on becoming an engineer, and there is no better school for that than Cornell University.

I teased Martin about the female students — I have heard Cornell has many. He said that hardly any girls aspire to be engineers, and in any event, he would be so attentive to his books that he should not notice them. But, Martin added, he will not fail to write to me often.

Turning serious, I did what I must, Diary. It was impossible to look Martin in the eyes as I told him we must not be so fond of each other. I stared through the glass top of the café table at the lime green toes of my new kidskin boots and his manly bluchers facing them. It seems so unfair. I could tell Martin the truth, that I love him with all my heart but that — despite all outward semblance and now manners, too, I think — I am not the girl he imagines me to be!

“You are going off on a great adventure,” I added softly. “I will think of you often, and rejoice in the triumphs that surely you will gain. But I release you from any obligation you may feel toward me.”

Martin cleared his throat to speak, but I silenced him by putting a finger to his lips. “Be patient a bit more, my dear. This is hard for me to say. I am still very young, hardly fifteen, and must have my own adventures. I am ambitious, too. Because you are my friend, I am sure you will understand. . . .”

Martin did not understand, of course. He protested vehemently that “of all the beautiful girls” he knew, I alone had had a mind to match my beauty. I gathered that he admired my wit and curiousity. Martin said he knew I was young, he too was young — we were both far too young to make plans. But could we not plan to make plans someday? Would I not accept the simple truth that for him, no one else will do?

I began to cry, and as I fumbled for my handkerchief, Martin supplied his own. I told Martin that I am fond of him, fonder than he might guess, and deeply flattered by his attentions. “Oh, dear heart, that sounds so stupidly theatrical,” I sniffled. “But it is true. You will always be my first love, perhaps my only love. But I cannot promise! Nor will I allow you to.”

What a hurt, betrayed puppy my Martin seemed then. I too am truly wretched, sad to send him away, sadder to inflict pain. But I can do nothing else, can I, Diary?

Friday, August 30. School begins again on Monday. Today being my last day of work at Tottie’s laboratory, she invited me to luncheon afterward at the Faculty Club. She is making some progress toward isolating the secretions that flow copiously from the corpus luteum during pregnancy. Tottie asked if she might refer to my situation and the result of its treatment with Balthasar’s extract in her monograph for the Journal of Internal Secretions. She would not identify me, of course. Tentatively, I have agreed, but it is my Aunt Enid’s opinion that controls. Tottie will now ask her permission.

Tuesday, September 3. Clarice and I have our work cut out for us. This year’s batch of would-be hockeyists is none too promising. Flora Cooper is the best of them.

I am going to love Chemistry, I think, or maybe it is just Dr. Prochnik I will love for taking Tottie’s note about my lab skills to heart. He agrees that I shall get advanced work, with the proviso that I can handle it and keep my mathematics grades high as well. There is no use learning science without math, he said.

En route to my desk this evening, I peeped in at Aunt’s soirée. A couple of dozen people were conversing earnestly. There was a sharp-faced young woman I’d never seen before, rather severely dressed, conversing with Eleanor Hodgson. Our eyes locked, and hers pulled me into the double-parlor.

I approached and greeted Eleanor, whom I had not seen since the cruise to Tangier Island, She introduced her companion. Edith Hooker is not one for small talk.

“You are Evelyn Westcott, then?” was how she greeted me. It was as though she had come to inspect me, and as it turned out, that was exactly her intention. Having established that I was in fact the niece of my Aunt Enid, Mrs. Hooker informed me that she counted on me to organize a meeting at school on the subject of womens’ suffrage.

I replied that she should not count heavily. Most of the Bryn Mawr girls cared not a fig about voting, and even those that did might have a difficult time with their parents. They sent their daughters to school to be taught, not to take part in political rallies.

“You are content, then, to second-class status for all your lives? To letting the men think and do for you?”

“No,” I protested, “but that will soon be settled, or if it is not, we will deal with it later on. Now please excuse me, I have a large number of math problems to solve.”

“Try this kind of math,” Mrs. Hooker fired back. “There are 90 million Americans. 21 million are women over the age of 20. Of that number, less than one million women, all in Western states, are allowed to vote to decide who will become President or sit in the legislatures. Here in Maryland, we have no political rights whatsoever, and economic rights only by the suffrance of our husbands, fathers and brothers! That situation will not change until and unless people like you get angry and join the movement!”

Eleanor intervened. “Dear Edith, you are much too intense! Evelyn is still but a girl, not yet a truant to our cause. She must be wooed, not admonished!

“And you, Evelyn dear. Edith and her husband are just returned from Europe, all fired up to reform American society. She is correct that suffrage is a matter that compels the attention of all women.

“Some of my friends are meeting to hear Edith at Bellemeade on Saturday afternoon a week from now. Christy has invited many of her classmates from St. Tim’s. Won’t you come to listen? Do come, and bring your mates from school.”

I could not say no to Eleanor, Diary.

September 15. I have heaps of homework! School seems so much more serious now that I am a junior. But before I begin reading, I must set down a few words about yesterday’s meeting. I recruited Dorothy for it, of course, and Sally Campbell and Mary Alice Webb. Beatrice Cohen also wished to attend, but could not because it was a Saturday.

Altogether, there must have been over one hundred girls and women and a scattering of men who gathered at Bellemeade in the grand room where Martin and I had danced last Christmas. As Eleanor had promised, there were some of Christy’s friends from St. Timothy’s, and a few also had come in from Oldfields School. But most were from Hopkins and other colleges, young teachers or, like Eleanor, people doing social work.

Edith Hooker, again grimly serious, was the star attraction. She and her husband, Dr. Donald Hooker (very handsome!) have just returned from study of progressive social movements in Germany and England. They have concluded that women will not win their rights in America unless we adopt more active methods. Gentle persuasion has been tried for nearly sixty years, they said, with hardly anything to show for it.

There was a great deal of discussion. Everyone who spoke was so articulate! We girls could only listen, enthralled by the swirl of ideas.

Of course we have agreed to organize a meeting at Bryn Mawr. I shall do it, too (if I am not thrown out of school first for neglecting my lessons!)

September 26. Thank God for hockey practice! I was so angry this afternoon that I think I should have gone off like a volcano had I not been able to spend 90 minutes smashing the ball. I am still seething! How can Miss Hamilton be so difficult? She is a fine, educated woman.

We formed up a committee, that is I and Mary Alice were deputized to obtain Miss Hamilton’s agreement. With Mary Alice’s consent, I recruited Beatrice as well. We also took the precaution of consulting Miss Blume, who coaches debate and teaches Latin and is a pet of Miss Hamilton’s.

This morning the headmistress granted us audience, listened for two minutes until Mary Alice got to the point, and then interrupted her sharply. “For excellent reasons,” she explained without stating them, Bryn Mawr School had positively shunned political debate. Politics were divisive and disruptive, pitting classmates against one another. We girls should concentrate for now on laying down a foundation of learning and mutual support, developing our capacity for thoughtful analysis and reflection.

I knew that Miss Hamilton’s heart was not entirely in what she said. Miss Blume had assured us that our headmistress is an ardent supporter of the suffrage cause. If the head ranted so, it was for another reason, and it was useless for us to argue with her at that moment. I rose, therefore, and thanked her for her time.

I shall ask Aunt Enid what we should do.

September 28. I knocked on my Aunt’s bedroom door yesternight and asked if I might ask her opinion in confidence. She bade me enter and join her.

I climbed aboard my aunt’s capacious bed and told her about my promise to Eleanor Hodgson and our meeting with the Headmistress. Aunt Enid shook her head as though she had both apprehended and feared Miss Hamilton’s reply. “Edith has two passions,” she said. “Attic Greek and the survival of Bryn Mawr School. With regard to the former, there is no scholar in America, man or woman, who surpasses her. With regard to the latter, Edith is too often rendered weak by fear of antagonizing wealthy parents.

“Evelyn, my dear, I am highly pleased that you show such spirit. Here is one parent — or rather, guardian, of course — who is also antagonized by Miss Hamilton’s timidity.

“I have some influence with the trustees of the school and I believe I shall exercise it. Allow me a few days’ time.”

I suppose, Diary, that my mouth was gaping open at this point. I had hoped Aunt Enid would be sympathetic. I had not dreamed she would pick up our fallen banner and charge the fortress!

“You know, Evelyn,” said my Aunt, “we are made of the same stuff. I must tell you a story, . . . but not tonight, it is already past midnight.”

October 6. My aunt’s history is so amazing, Diary! I am writing down her words of yesterday evening exactly as I remember them!

“I am a self-made woman,” Aunt Enid said, ‘though it all happened so long ago that Baltimore society chooses to overlook it. I was still sixteen when I accepted Captain Bonner’s precipitous offer of marriage.

“I was desperate to escape the farm and your grandfather’s new wife. I am sorry, dear, but your grandmother and I did not get along. How could we? Anyway, Bonner was a rogue; he already had a wife and a child in Cincinnati, but that did not stop me from believing his lies for a time.

“When the truth of the matter came clear, I packed up my bag early one morning and left him alone with his bottle.

“What was I to do? At seventeen, I was a fallen woman, all alone in the big city. I would not, could not, go home. I sat on a bench near the railway station to think about my situation, grew weary of thinking about it, and picked up a newspaper that someone had read and abandoned.

“I read in the newspaper that the celebrated feminist, Mrs Victoria Woodhull, would speak that day in Baltimore. I was drawn irresistably to her lecture. It was to be at the Atheneum — you know the place that the Great Fire missed, near Central Square? I wanted so much to hear Miss Woodhull that I did not mind the rowdies who had stationed themselves outside the hall in order to heckle decent women. I saw a lady that they’d intimidated; she was wavering on the sidewalk, not sure whether to advance or run. She’d sent off her carriage, and, sensing her helplessness, a rough sort of men were gathering about her like buzzards.

“I suppose if I’d stopped to think, I would have been afraid. Instead, I just pushed forward and offered the lady my arm. ‘You boys get back now,’ I said, ‘or my husband Police Sergeant Shaunnessy is going to have more than words with you, I think.’

“Amazingly, the crowd of men parted, and the young lady and I entered the hall. ‘I can hardly find the words to thank you, Mrs. Shaunnessy,’ she said. ‘But, perhaps, um -- won’t you join me and some friends in my box?’

“I accepted her kind offer. She introduced herself as Mary Elizabeth Garrett, the same lady whom you met some months ago at my soirée. Once we were comfortable in her box seats, I confessed to her and her friends that Sergeant Shaunnessy was a happy improvisation, I was merely Enid Tucker from York, Pennsylvania, out of luck and out of work.

“Of course, I was watching Miss Garrett’s reaction as I said this, and she seemed indeed impressed. And then the gas lights were dimmed and we all turned to watch as Victoria Woodhull strode to the lectern. Yes, she strode,” Aunt Enid repeated, catching a hint of disbelief in my eyes. “Not like a man. Like a strong, self-confident woman.

“You were aware, Evelyn, that Mrs Woodhull was then a candidate for President? No? It is a strange paradox that the Constitution of the United States permits a woman to run for Federal office, but not to cast a vote for any candidate. Of course she had no hope of victory, but what a fine opportunity it was to rally women to demand their natural rights!

“I was entranced. It seemed to me that Ms Woodhull was saying everything that was in my heart but that I had not yet thought out. When she finished speaking, I leapt to my feet applauding her, as did most of the house.

“At last Ms Woodhull took a final bow, the clapping subsided, and I turned to thank my hostess. She would not let me leave. “Stay for a moment. I think you need work. I have need of a secretary. Shall we try each other out?’

“Oh, Miss!” I burst out. “I should like nothing better!”

My aunt related how she became first Miss Garrett‘s secretary, and in time, also her friend and companion; how they had toured in Europe together as though they were sisters. In Switzerland, they met a certain Baron Charles-Yves de Houphouet de Bligny. Though sixty-eight years of age and twice a widower, the baron had fallen madly in love, or perhaps in lust, for my aunt, who was then in the radiant bloom of youth. Impulsively, he proposed a May-September marriage. My aunt only seemingly as reckless said “yes,” for she had already learned, she said, to calculate and plan ahead.

In the event, in 1885, the baron passed away, and in 1886 Aunt Enid returned to Baltimore a well-to-do widow. The Baron’s family had been so eager to be rid of my aunt that they did not contest her right to one-third of his estate. She bought the house on Eutaw Place where we now live, and resolved to occupy herself by supporting radical causes — feminism and women’s suffrage especially.

Now with independent means, Aunt Enid was besieged by marriagable men, and she was not then as inclined as she is at present to refuse their attentions. In due course, she accepted the proposal of Mr. Joseph Westcott. Soon thereafter, she was not only Mrs Enid Tucker de Bligny Westcott, but also carrying the child of the latter gentleman. To which she gave birth in the following year. Never, Cook swears, was a mother so proud and doting of her little Evelyn. But then, dear Diary, disaster struck not once but twice. No sooner was Joseph Westcott dead of a shipwreck than little Evelyn was carried off by scarlet fever!

Oh, did I fail to mention it, Diary? Mary Elizabeth Garrett is the principal founder of Bryn Mawr School!

October 17. We have beaten Oldfields handily today. That augers well for the Thanksgiving match with St. Tim’s. Flora was a rock. Cannot write much more because I have a very great deal of homework. (So, it seems, does dear Martin.)

October 19. Another letter from Martin in Ithaca, NY, the first in ten days! He is almost giddy about Cornell University. He related how the entering class of engineering students were convened in a large lecture room. “Look to your left, and then to your right,” the Dean told them. “Only one of you will graduate as a Cornell engineer.”

Martin has taken his Dean’s warning to heart and has immersed himself in his books. He will not lark about or join a fraternity, he says, until he is sure he is “a stayer.” I worry that my brave lad is stealing time just to write to me, and have assured him that one letter a week is sufficient proof of our friendship!

Tottie told me this morning that she has finished her article and sent it in to the editors of the Journal of Internal Secretions.

Tuesday, October 22. Miss Hamilton called me, Beatrice and Mary Alice to her office today. Aunt Enid has been busy on our behalf. Mrs. Edith Houghton Hooker will be invited to speak at school in the spring term, Miss Hamilton said, provided that we girls prepare ourselves properly. Under Miss Blume’s tutelage, our Debate Club is to immerse itself in the pros and cons of suffrage for women!

So now, Diary — as if my life were not already too full — I must become a debater!

Halloween. I cannot resist dressing up. I have again gone trick or treating disguised as a boy of sorts, well, as a page boy. I wore tights and an emerald velvet cap and doublet that Moira and I stitched up. No attempt this year to seem truly mannish. I was what in truth I am, ambiguous (and passably attractive!).

November 3. Jehosephat! We are to practice debate and I am assigned the anti-suffrage side along with Sally Campbell. Well, we shall do it up brown! All the reasons why woman’s constitution renders her incapable of deliberative judgment, whereas man (when his mind has not been entirely captured by liquor or lust) is the sole creature God has chosen to entrust with the duty of rational choice. . . .

November 15. What a splendid week this has been, Diary. Hockey practice has been a pleasure. The girls are forming up into a rather formidable team, strong on defense but also dangerous when there’s a chance on the goal. The most fun tho by far was our practice debate. Over 40 girls showed up though it was after regular hours to cheer us on. Or hiss us on in my case and Sally’s. With show of deepest reverence for the nonsense we quoted, we spouted forth a veritable litany of anti-suffrage reasoning.

We noted, for example, the evils inherent in co-education, quoting the London Globe: "The result of taking second place to girls at school is that the boy feels a sense of inferiority that he is never afterward able entirely to shake off."

Sally reasoned out that there is, in truth, no need for women to vote. It will not change anything, she argued, because the great majority of women will simply vote as their husbands do. Other women may simply “vote” without considering the merits of the candidates for office, but as these uninformed votes are likely to be cast randomly, they will cancel each other. Of course the votes of those few women who take a genuine interest in public affairs will be thoughtfully cast, but the price — the great number of votes that other women will cast emotionally or without thought, if they will not listen to their husbands — O, that price is just too high!

Warming to her theme, Sally predicted that candidates would be elected to high office according to their sex appeal rather than their ability to discern and act upon the public interest. Gales of laughter greated her prediction that the people of the United States would someday put a moving picture actor in the White House!

Elly Hochner, speaking for womens’ suffrage, demolished Sally’s argument. Buffoons and charlatans are already regularly elected to public office by men, said she, and allowing women the franchise could not possibly worsen the result!

My turn came. With utmost gravity, I discussed the character and temperament of women. I reminded that the Almighty had designed the sexes differently because he had different roles for them in mind. Quoting Scripture appropriately, I opined that no decent woman would want to forsake the kitchen, garden and nursery for the rough and tumble of politics or the sharp dealings of law and commerce. Were she forced by circumstance to work, it was evident that woman is better suited for the nurturing and healing arts — the schoolroom and the infirmary, not the marketplace or, perish the thought, the fortress!

Why did I go on so on this theme, I asked rhetorically. The answer was patently clear: agitation for giving the vote to women is but the thin wedge of a conspiracy to dethrone and debase Woman! Yes, the suffragists make some rational arguments and are in general, well-behaved ladies, but they are the unwitting tools of sinister forces that would reduce womankind to the status of political and economical animals — like men — rather than preserve them as the guardians and transmitters of a higher morality and consciousness.

Nearly overcome by an impulse to collapse in giggles, I rested my case. What fun we’d had — and guess what, Diary? Sally and I were voted the debating prize!

November 21. We have been humbled by St. Timothy’s, six goals to one! Christy Hodgson and her chums played havoc with our defense, and bombarded poor Clarice in the goal! It was not a great hockey day for me, either. My passing was off, we just could not execute our combinations, and so were not much of an offensive threat. It is a great letdown for all. I dread going to school tomorrow.

Thanksgiving Day, 1907. We have had a lovely feast. At my suggestion, my benefactor, Aunt Enid, invited our Dr. Tottie to Thanksgiving dinner. She also pursuaded the head of the Hopkins Institute of Mental Hygiene, Dr. August Meyer, to join us. Dr. Meyer is Aunt’s old friend and Tottie’s mentor.

In anticipation of the great meal, I donned an apron to help Cook in the kitchen this morning. She is originally from the north of Italy, with an accent to prove it. As might be expected, Cook has her own ideas about the preparation of a roasted turkey. She stuffed it with a mixture of chestnuts, brown rice, oysters and wild mushrooms, all seasoned with a bit of brandy. There was in addition a potage of crabmeat and potted asparagus, a spinach quiche, baby sweet potatoes, succotash, pickled beets — oh, it all smelled so lovely as dinnertime approached and our guests arrived!

There was, however, one dark bit of news. Tottie’s monograph has been returned! This I learned at the end of our meal. As the last of the wine was being poured, I innocently asked if she had had word from the editors at the Journal of Internal Secretions. Tottie flushed and begged to leave the table for a moment.

I understood immediately that I had blundered, but why?

Dr. Meyer rescued the situation. He explained that Tottie’s research with extracts from the organs that determine sexual development was acknowledged to be of a high scientific order but . . . it seems that the editors have profound objections to the administration of these extracts to “human subjects.” (They mean me and Dorothy, Diary, and other young people whose lives would be absolutely miserable without the sympathetic care of Dr. Charlotte Clathrop.)

The JIS attitude is medieval poppycock, declared Dr. Meyer. Cuba would still be rife with yellow fever if Walter Reed and his men had not bravely tested on themselves his theory that the fever is transmitted by the bites of mosquitos. Pasteur seized the first opportunity to test his rabies vaccine on a boy who would otherwise have suffered a horrible death. Why should not Tottie, under well-monitored conditions, bring relief to young people tormented by the perverse development of their sexual constitutions?

Dr. Meyer has taken personal charge of seeing the monograph published. Forget the JIS, he admonished Tottie. He will see to it that it is published in the New England Journal of Medicine!

November 29. Martin Tolliver is home for two days. My dear friend arrived last night from Philadelphia, where Cornell’s eleven has prevailed over the University of Pennsylvania in their annual Thanksgiving Day contest. He came ‘round this morning as soon as was decent to apologize, he claimed, for the recent irregularity of his letters. Martin has gained another inch, to five feet six, and certainly has added several pounds. He has let his hair grow down to his collar, and looks quite the college boy in his high necked sweater, wool cap and maroon scarf!

Aunt Enid joined me in oohing and ahhing over Martin, and then discreetly excused herself. Martin proposed a walk. I donned my cloak and a fur-lined hat and gloves against the cold — a cold wave has arrived along with Martin — and we strode briskly along the sidewalk of Eutaw Place. The trees have dropped almost all their leaves — first the elms and now the chestnuts. The sun strove vainly to warm an immense and cloudless azure sky.

Oh, Diary, I was so happy to hold on to Martin’s arm, and match my steps to his. Yet, though it was pure joy to see him again, I needs must force restraint upon myself.

I teased Martin, of course. How the women students’ heads must turn when he passed by, I said, and how they must plot to attract his friendship. “Nothing of the sort,” he replied. “A freshman is the lowliest of the low, and there are three times as many men as women at the university. The co-eds do not even deign to speak to us Frosh! It is just as well — we are heaped with work and freshman engineers who do not tend to their assignments are soon gone. . . .”

We talked of many other things, Diary. I queried Martin’s views on womens’ suffrage. Finding them hardly formed, I proselytized my poor friend relentlessly. At length, arriving again near Aunt’s doorstep, Martin said he would throw himself into the cause if only I would pledge my affection again. I replied I would take no bribes. Taking my hands in his, Martin attempted a kiss. Smiling, I dodged. Interposing an index finger between his lips and my cheek, I whispered “farewell,” and slipped inside the door. My dear one turned and trudged down the steps and turned toward home. Unbidden, my tears began to flow.

Moira found me weeping uncontrollably on the upstairs landing. I had no idea how long I had been thus when she led me to my bed and sought to comfort me. I would not be consoled. At last, I fell into a deep sleep, not awakening until mid-afternoon.

December 3. Martin departed to Ithaca, NY without calling to say goodbye. It is just as well. I do not think I would have been able to maintain my composure if I had seen him again.

Mother writes that Billy Barkell has been nominated for a place in the next intake at the Naval Academy. It is considered quite an honor, especially in places like Perkinstown and Williamsport, reports Mother, so of course Billy will attend the Academy beginning next summer. Billy! What a great coincidence! I have not written my childhood chum since shortly after I arrived at Aunt Enid’s eighteen months ago. What could I tell him — that I am no longer presenting myself as Edward but rather as a schoolgirl named Evelyn? I allowed several of Billy’s letters to lay unanswered, and then at length they stopped coming. What shall I do now if he seeks me out here?

December 7. Tearful goodbyes today. Moira, great with child and loaded down with presents, has taken leave. Patsy will assist me for the duration, while supervising a cousin who may inherit her downstairs duties.

Saturday, December 26. The wagon from Lawrence House has just carried away our boxes of food and tins of cakes for the less fortunate, and now I have an hour to bring you up to date, Diary. I was sad, yesterday, thinking of home, and wondering if I shall ever dare go there again. Perkinstown is such a small place, Diary. I could not just sneak in and out. There are always neighbor ladies visiting Mother, or farmers from up and down the road stopping by to chat with Eben and Father about the price of hogs or the improved seeds they’ll plant next year. In Perkinstown, if I am remembered at all, it is as a strange, shy boy, a daydreamer and booklover. The boys who used to taunt and tease me for my girlishness — do they remember and regret their rough behavior? My old teacher, Mr. Truscott, and perhaps Billy Barkell might be happy to see me again, I suppose, but in general, no, Diary, I do not think Perkinstown is ready for Miss Evelyn Westcott Tucker.

Dear Mother has sent me a quilt made in the Pennsylvania Dutch fashion, a patchwork of scraps of rescued fabric. Some I recognize as pieces of my former dress: jackets and shirts and trousers, lovingly cut into triangles and rectangles, then sewn by my mother’s own hands into this splendid, warm quilt. Really, it is too beautiful to use! I wish my presents for her and Father were a fraction as nice. I am a terrible seamstress; in fact, I owe it to Patsy and Moira that the satin camisole I sewed for Mother is wearable at all. She will report, predictably, that it is the most wonderful gift, and that Father is delighted by his new burl pipe and pouch.

I have sent a photograph also. Many weeks ago, Aunt made me appointments for Dorothy and me at the studio of Mr. Charles Iverson. When with Moira’s help, we were dressed and coiffed to satisfaction, we went together for the “shoot.” Mr. Iverson himself took ever so many pictures, and sent the proofs round to Aunt. They were not nearly so horrid as I expected. Aunt insisted on selecting the very worst, I think, for herself: me staring directly at the lens, chin up, pop-eyes! She says I seem intelligent; what I see is a prissy goose of a schoolgirl. I liked much better a three-quarter angle “photo” that Mr. Iverson took in softer focus. Aunt Enid allowed me to have an enlargement printed for my parents and some smaller prints made for friends. If Martin ever visits, I shall give him one.

On my dresser, there is another photograph in a gilt frame — one of me and Dorothy together. Doro claims when she looks at “our” photograph (she of course has a copy, too) she can see an aura surrounding us both. My chum grows increasingly mystical.

December 31, 1907. Another year is ending. There have been a great many parties and dances this holiday season. It is splendid to be young, the beneficiary of wealth, and thought to be reasonably attractive. No doubt, as dear Eleanor Hodgson insists, wealth confers on us an obligation to minister to the less fortunate. But oh, Diary, it also brings so many pleasant things!

Now that it is known that I have kept poor Martin at a distance, other boys do not hesitate to strut their charms before me like so many peacocks! I smile, I bat my eyes and listen admiringly to their chatter. I wear lovely frocks and I dance and dance — but I do not succumb. And why is that? It is because none of them, not Tom Shoesmith nor Dick Smithers nor even Rodney Llewellen or Mark Hodgkins is half the boy that Martin is.

Martin for his part continues to write beseechingly. He apologizes that he is unable to visit this Christmas season because the Tollivers have all removed to Elmira and Ithaca, New York, to pass the holidays with relatives there. I write back with more than a little mischief in my words. Viewed one way, he may think that (as is true) I continue to bear for him the greatest affection. Yet, viewed another way, there is nothing to give him hope except Mr. Iverson’s photograph. If only I could encourage my dear, handsome and, he avers in each letter, ever-loyal friend!

Fiona Rawlings is back. She has not come deliberately to tantalize me, but she might as well have. Aunt had all the Rawlings and the Downeys to 719 Eutaw Place two nights ago. While the old people sat by the fire and gossiped, Ted Rawlings devoted his attentions to my dreamy chum, Dorothy. He aspires to be an artist, and desires to paint her in the Art Nouveau style, he says. She thinks that is a capital idea and is imagining how to present herself as a Greek goddess. (I suggested she pose as Hermaphroditis instead; all Doro did was glare at me when I said so.)

With Dorothy and Ted so engrossed, I had Fiona all to myself, and was intent on extracting at the least an admission that she had missed me. Poetry no longer interests her, she said (i.e., she and “Vincent” have parted). The thought of graduation from Smith College next year paralyzes her — she will either have to find suitable employment or there will be no shield against her mother’s incessant drumming for the few marriagable men who may be content with a minimal dowry and an overly-educated wife.

I am sure today that Fiona’s dilemma is real, Diary, but on this night I cared only for her attention and affection. I leaned close and whispered as much in her ear. Fiona drew back, and on her face I read uncertainty. “I am fifteen and one-half already,” I told her. “How long must I wait until you kiss me again?”

“Your attraction toward me, then, it is really genuine?” she asked. “I had thought it simply delight that I had noticed you. I warn you, Evelyn, love between women gives back nothing but disappointment.”

“I do not care a fig,” I said. “Come!”

There is a powder room off the hallway opposite the grand parlor. That is where I led Fiona, closed the door and bolted it shut. “Now,” I demanded, “kiss me as a lover should.” My beautiful friend did not hesitate. Pulling me to her, she ground her hips to mine and kissed me deeply. Instinctively, I unbuttoned Fiona’s taille. Her nipples stood erect. This excited me the more. I knelt slightly to kiss them through the gauzy chemise. Nearly swooning, I was dimly aware of my little soldier standing to attention and — Oh, sweet Jesus! — of Fiona’s hand under my raised skirt!

What could I do but draw back, pushing her hand away from my most private place? I knew she would hate my deception, Diary, but I could not let Fiona learn that I am half boy any more than I can allow my dear Martin to plumb that secret.

“Fiona, please, let us only kiss now,” I implored her even as my loins caught fire.

“You are just a child, still, then,” replied she. “You fear to learn what pleasures love can bring you.” Fiona hiked up her skirt, and guided my hand to a place between her thighs. “Do you feel this? Do you see what you can do just by teasing me?”

My friend pressed on my hand so that my fingers enfolded pulsing flesh. I apprehended that she wished me to knead her there, and as I did so, Fiona bit me on the shoulder and thrashed about. Her face was flushed, her breaths gasps, her pelvis thrusting against my fist. Then there was a gushing in the region she had bade me fondle, warm, wet and sticky. Fiona’s eyes were closed, and on her lips a beatific smile.

I disentangled myself, wet a small towel, and sponged Fiona’s face. “Some day,” she murmured, “when you are ready, I shall teach you how glorious it is.”

Little did Fiona know, nor dared I tell her, that within my own loins a tiny volcano had itself just erupted.

January 3, 1908. I arrived a quarter-hour before I was expected at Tottie’s laboratory this morning. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in and settled down to wait until she or Balthasar could inject me with the fluid extract that surpresses my “masculine” secretions and encourages the “feminine” ones. Hardly a moment later, I became aware of raised voices from the office within, a conversation that has revealed Tottie’s position to be quite precarious.

“I have gone out on a limb for you, Charlotte. You must at least agree to modify the passages the Journal has questioned!” That was Dr. Meyer’s voice.

“Let them show me where I am wrong, then!” (Dear Tottie.)

“It is not a question of right or wrong, but of what will pass at the present time! ” (Dr. Meyer, sounding exasperated.)

“No — I will not take back one word of it. Do you know how many are suffering needlessly? They must know there is true hope, mustn’t they, Doctor?” (Tottie, of course.)

“I believe that your personal misfortunes have colored your judgment in this instance, my dear young colleague. Be content with small victories and at length you shall win your war, Charlotte. Insist on surrender and they will have your head instead.”

“Then ‘they’ are a pack of ignoramuses. I know I shall be published at last. Do not throw in the towel, Doctor.” (Again Tottie’s voice, high and strained.)

“I wish that I had only your reputation to consider,” I heard Dr. Meyer reply. “Good day, Charlotte.”

As Meyer left Tottie’s office and marched grimly through the laboratory, I shrank into my bench, feigning neither to have heard nor been interested in the conversation so audible and terrifying.

Balthasar arrived a moment later, and gave me my weekly injection in Tottie’s place. We were both uncomfortably aware of the audible sniffling from her office. Balthasar was impassive. He had concluded, evidently, that a Negro man could be of no help in this situation. But what about me and Dorothy? Should we also ‘play dumb’ with Tottie? No, of course not. Tomorrow is Saturday, and we shall visit her to learn the truth!

January 4. The New England Journal of Medicine — said to be the most prestigious, judicious and at the same time liberal of the American journals — has also refused to publish the monograph as Tottie submitted it! I cannot for the life of me understand why this matter of redefining one’s sexual presentation is viewed so gravely. It is as if Tottie’s helping me and Dorothy has shaken the very foundations of Western “civilization.” It is as if we would prefer to be miserable or — as might easily have been the outcome in Dorothy’s case — we prefer to be dead. Tottie acknowledged that she is much shaken. We did what little we could do, Diary — we told Tottie we love her.

January 9. I am weighed down with schoolwork, heaps of reading and revising to do before end-of-term tests. Had the most horrible dream last night: was totally surprised by a German exam, all the passages were way beyond my capacity to parse. I left my bed — it was 4:30 — and began to pore over my books again.

January 22. The Baltimore American is on to something. One of their reporters came unbidden to our house, and boldly asked Aunt Enid if he might meet me. My aunt did not ask why (though she now knows, of course), but simply bade the young man depart immediately. This must mean that they have found out my story.

January 24. The American has got the text of Tottie’s paper and is making a great hoo-ha about it. Patsy has brought us a copy of today’s edition. It has published excerpts selectively, out of context and calculated to show Tottie in the most villainous light. Her synopsis of my treatment (“the Case of E”) is printed in entirity on an inside page, complete with a grotesque “artist’s representation” of how I should appear. Aunt is seething. It is all so stupid; I don’t know whether to laugh or cry!

January 25. Things are much worse than we feared. Newspaper reporters have come to Baltimore in dozens from other cities. Except for the rash young man from the American, the press have left Dorothy and me alone; Aunt Enid says it is because they know what happens to reporters who subject young ‘victims’ to unauthorized disclosure. A gang of them are, however, keeping vigil around Hastings Hall, the Hopkins Mental Hygiene building, literally laying siege to Tottie.

Aunt has questioned me why, if I am not identified in Tottie’s monograph, the reporter came to our house and asked for me by name. I replied truthfully that I do not know.

January 27. I am sure I botched my German exam. Fraulein Schneider (now Mrs. Oskar Schmidt, of course) is with child. It was only with difficulty could I desist from staring at her midriff during the oral part of the test. Chemistry was a breeze. Literature is tomorrow, followed on Wednesday by American history. Worried sick about Tottie, I cannot concentrate!

January 28. Why do they not teach us in school — let alone in church -- how deeply depraved and cruel humans can be in their zeal to chastise true saints? There are crude cartoons in the American. I cannot admit to having seen them, for Aunt will not allow the American in her house even to wrap the garbage. I have picked up copies left behind on the trolley, however, hoping to understand. The American would have it that Dr. Tottie is guilty of offering sexual identity on demand, a notion which, if permitted, will destroy the foundations of the Republic even faster than women’s suffrage. The streetcorner evangelists have warmed to the theme — I lingered for a moment to hear one declare that Tottie has dared to undo God’s work, and that has surely destined her to eternal hellfire.

The Sun, which is Baltimore’s more serious newspaper, at first ignored the matter altogether. Recently Mr. H. L. Mencken has skewered the American’s preposterous claims in several of his columns for the Sun. Not the least fazed by Mencken’s sarcasm, the American today called on the Maryland Legislature to investigate what perverse notions are being indulged at Hopkins under the name of science and on its readers to contemplate the consequences of educating women! I long to go to Tottie to hug her, to tell her she is not alone, that she is much loved — but I am forbidden to do so least I be recognized and my secret revealed. I have written to her of course. It is so unfair!

February 1, 1908. Yesterday, Johns Hopkins announced that it will close down Tottie’s laboratory on the advice of Dr. August Meyer! I told Aunt at supper that Meyer is as great a hypocrite as was Pontius Pilate, and related what I overheard in Tottie’s laboratory scarce a week ago. That was all it took to spur her into action. She has set out to grab Dr. Meyer’s beard and shake the truth out of him.

February 3. Some much-needed good news! Moira has given birth to a baby boy yesterday (Sunday). Both are well!

The exam and semester grades have been posted. I have not done so badly as I feared, but I have slipped to third in the junior class behind both Beatrice and Mary-Alice.

February 5. The Headmistress summoned me and Dorothy at noon today. A great friend of my aunt’s, Miss Hamilton is the only one at school who knows our particular circumstances. She enquired of our emotional states, and we acknowledged great turmoil. Dorothy said it is all she can do to calm her mother whilst her own heart is filled with dread. I said I am not so concerned for myself as I am angered by Tottie’s public crucifixion.

Miss Hamilton wished to assure us, she said, that Bryn Mawr School will do all in its power to shelter us, and requested in turn that we conduct ourselves as calmly and circumspectly as we are able. She was not surprised to have learned that our grades have slipped (Doro’s more than mine, Diary) but, she said, she is confident that we will recover the lost ground. Miss Hamilton added that not for a moment has she regretted her decision to admit us to the school. At this, Dorothy fumbled for a handkerchief to staunch tears, while I, close to tears myself, thanked Miss Hamilton for her kindness.

February 9. I have not had an injection in 10 days now. How long until the natural opposition of male secretions perplexes my body and mind?

Aunt Enid has spoken to her old friend, Dr. Meyer, and is clearly troubled. She will tell me why when she is ready, I suppose. After publishing several self-congratulatory articles, including a scurrilous account of Tottie’s eviction from the laboratory, the Baltimore American has now, seemingly, has lost interest in the story. Its reporters are instead pursuing rumors that our Mayor has recently become father to a mulatto baby.

February 10. After school yesterday, at last Dorothy and I have had the truth from my Aunt, and it is quite alarming. There has been, she said, a scandalous tragedy. She had feared as much.

Did we recall, Aunt asked us, Tottie’s decision last summer to cut back our weekly dosage of the extract by half? We did; I said I had worried then that its efficacy might be much reduced.

The mechanisms by which the secretions present in the urine of pregnant sows act upon human bodies and minds have yet to be deciphered, Diary. That is the object of Tottie’s research. The effect is well demonstrated, however. My own transformation from awkward, girlish boy to, for all normally visible intents and purposes, a confident young woman in the full bloom of her youth is ample testimony to that. I am but one example; Dorothy, though eunuchoid, is another; and there are a dozen more of us, “cases” summarized in Tottie’s monograph.

A month ago, my aunt continued, Dr. Meyer received a letter from a haberdasher in Catonsville who requested an urgent interview. An appointment was fixed for the following Thursday at Meyer’s office. On that day, Mr. Herbert Coxnell and his wife accused Tottie to Dr. Meyer of complicity in the death in July of last year of their only child, 13 year-old Benjamin Coxnell! The burden of their argument, which was stated with considerable emotion, was that two months after regular administrations of Balthasar’s extract were begun, young Benjamin had fallen ill and died in the same week.

The Coxnells provided Dr. Meyer a copy of the coroner’s report. Autopsy had revealed grossly enlarged and distended kidneys. The verdict was “kidney malfunction of unknown etiology” — a conclusion the coroner had reached, stated Mr. Coxnell as his wife wept softly into a handkerchief, only because, at Tottie’s earnest prayer, they had witheld information of Benjamin’s injections! Recently, however, suffering sharp pangs of grief and guilt, Mr. and Mrs. Coxnell had decided that the circumstances of Benjamin’s death must be made clear to the University.

Dr. Meyer thought it prudent then to summon one of the University’s attorneys to assist him, my Aunt continued, and so they recessed. Resuming the meeting half an hour later (Mrs. Coxnell having recovered in the meantime), Meyer ascertained the facts of Benjamin’s treatment by Tottie. His was, Diary, a story hardly different than mine, and perhaps more harsh. Young Benjamin’s life had been rendered miserable by the treason of his body; his loving parents in desperation had turned to Dr. Charlotte Clathrop, of whom they had learned from their family physician. After a mental and physical examination, Tottie had agreed to treat Benjamin with Balthasar’s extract.

Aunt says the situation seems extremely grave for Dr. Tottie. At the least, she supposed, Tottie has suppressed evidence — not only from the coroner, but also from her monograph. Dr. Meyer, as a scientist, regards the latter omission to be the graver. The evidence linking young Benjamin’s sudden death to the administration of the extract is only circumstantial. The omission of relevant data from a report of clinical research is, on the other hand, considered extremely palpable and unforgiveable.

p.s., February 11. Shortly after their interview with Dr. Meyer, my aunt also said, the Coxnells demanded that the University shut down Tottie’s laboratory and see to it that she ceases to treat her other cases. They had got a lawyer. If the University did not comply by the end of January, they threatened to bring a lawsuit. Aunt Enid said that is why the University has placed Tottie “on administrative leave, pending clarifications.” She has been locked out of her own laboratory!

February 15. Hoped to see Tottie somehow this weekend, but she is not to be found. I have chaperoned Doro to the Rawlings’ barn of a house, where Ted sketched her for over an hour. His studio is in an upstairs room; it is bright but a bit dank. Ted asked to sketch me, too, but I declined the honor. It is Dorothy who interests him. While he sketched, I studied Ted’s paintings. He has some talent but no direction as yet. His twin inspirations, it seems, are Mr. Sargent, the famous society painter, and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley, the fantastical illustrator.

Mrs. Rawlings kindly brought us cookies and tea, and stayed to share them with us. She reports that Fiona has a new passion — the educational theories of an Italian woman, Maria Montessori. As soon as she is graduated from Smith, said Mrs. Rawlings, Fiona is off to Rome to study with her.

It is agreed that Ted will “do” Dorothy in oils.

February 16. Visited Moira. Her baby, young Desmond O’Toole, is lovely, full of life, and soiled his diaper as soon as he was given me to hold. Saw her brother Henry, too. My erstwhile partner in Moira’s bridal party is now very much the fine young gentleman, and a devoted uncle! To think he was once well on his way to becoming a ruffian! Henry was nicely groomed and well-spoken; from his fine leather boots to his tailored linen shirt and high celluloid collar, “a splendid advertisment for petticoat discipline,” Moira said. Henry blushed, but cheerfully acknowledged the truth of his sister’s remark.

My visit with Moira cheered me up a little, but I am very worried for Tottie. She has not answered any of my notes since Johns Hopkins’ craven decision to close her laboratory.

February 20. I am miserably worried that Tottie has dropped out of sight. Bryn Mawr has squeaked out a basket-ball victory over St. Timothy’s. All the girls are elated, but I can barely manage a weak smile for our champions. It’s not just Tottie for whom I fear; I tremble also for Evelyn Tucker Westcott.

February 22. Another troubling dream last night. They come non-stop these days. This one featured Mr. Truscott, my teacher in Perkinstown who I thought my benefactor. Mother wrote that he has been dismissed mid-term for “impermissible conduct.” After his overwrought declarations to me here last spring, I can imagine why. What would move a man, I wonder, to direct his amorous attentions toward girls or — calling my situation what it is: a boy-girl (which Mr. Truscott well knew, Diary!) — who are hardly fledged?

And what of me, Diary? My emotions and affections churn round and round. Is it right to love both my gentle, manly Martin and also Fiona, who only has to winkle her nose at me to evoke a surge of passion in my breast? And — could either of them love me if they truly knew me?

They may know me for what I am very soon, I fear. All of Aunt Enid’s money cannot save me or Dorothy if the injections are not resumed. It has been nearly a month since my last one.

March 4, 1908. Am I growing facial hair or do I just imagine it? We have tried desperately to contact Tottie; Doro’s and my letters are unanswered. I have telephoned Dr. Reuben Crawford, the psychiatrist and, I believe, Tottie’s friend. He claimed to have no precise knowledge of her whereabouts. I begged Dr. Crawford to tell Tottie of my urgent desire to meet her should she contact him.

Saturday night, March 7. Today at last there was at a letter from Tottie. It was no longer than was necessary to fix a rendezvous: “Go for a walk at Druid Park on Saturday. You will find me waiting at the gazebo behind the lake at 3 pm. Come alone, or with Dorothy — but none other! Take care, affectionately, CC”

Saturday! That could only mean today. I examined the postmark: Wednesday. Why had Tottie’s letter been delayed? I checked my watch — it was already two p.m., too late to summon Dorothy even if there were a telephone instrument in her house. I must go alone. In case of need, I stuffed bills into my purse — nearly $200, mostly gifts from Aunt Enid, plus a bit I had saved from my work for Tottie last summer. . . .

Patches of snow dotted the frozen expanse of Druid Park today, snow the weak sun sought in vain to melt. I ran from the trolley stop, fearful of being late until I spied Tottie lingering by the old gazebo, bundled against the cold in a sort of military greatcoat.

Tottie was never one for small talk. She studied me for an instant, satisfied herself that my hooded cloak, boots and muff were sufficient protection against the chill, and proposed that we walk about the lake as we talked. She had much to say, she said, and must say it precisely.

The story Tottie told me was never before heard by a living soul.

“Evelyn, you are very dear to me,” she began, “almost like a little sister. I am going to tell you things you must know, and ask of you, Dorothy and your aunt a great favor.”

I nodded, silently acknowledging my obligation to grant the favor, whatever it might be.

“You must have wondered why I have pursued this research — instead, perhaps, of seeking like Carruthers to unlock the secrets of the pancreas, or Endicott the parathyroid gland. It is because of . . . my brother, Cecil.

“We were like twins, scarcely a year apart in age, and when we were small, we often played at ‘dressing up.’ He would don my garments, I his, and we would have a jolly time of it. For me, it was a game, and so too, I thought, for Cecil.

“Then, one day almost ten years ago, my brother was found dead, hanging by a rope from a rafter, clad in my mother’s clothes and corset. He had been expelled from Virginia Military Institute for inattention to his studies. He left no note, only this grotesque testimony to his despair. Later, I learned that he had been the butt of much hazing. His life had become unbearable, as mine is now . . . .”

Hearing this morbid sentiment, I begged Tottie to trust that things must get better. “There is always dark before the dawn,” I said. “That is a cliché, but I am sure it is true. How could things get worse?”

“My parents blamed me,” she continued, “conceiving that I had encouraged Cecil to play the girl in our childish games. We became estranged. Over their protests, I then applied a small inheritance to tuition at the medical school here. I was determined to save others from the fate that overturned my brother.”

“Finding Balthasar was a stroke of fortune. He is the true genius. He conceived that the hormone we seek might be similarly produced by pigs, that it might be present in their urine. My only contribution was to suggest that it might be more powerfully present at ovulation, or when pregnancy began. It was, as you know, the latter instance that has proved the source of the powerful extract on which first you and your friend Dorothy, and now many others, depend for their happiness.”

Shuddering, I acknowledged my horror of life without Balthasar’s extract. Mental images of myself as a grotesque melange of sexual characteristics came unbidden — as they so often have these weeks.

“I must absent myself for a while, and thus I must beg of you and your kind aunt a great favor, a service to others like you.”

“Tell me,” I said, “and if it is possible, . . . I shall honor your request.”

“Balthasar has agreed to continue his work,” she continued, “but he needs have protection. Those vile enough to bring down a woman would not think twice before destroying a Negro. Will you allow him to set up a lab in your house for the production of the extract?”

Confident of Aunt Enid’s response, I nodded yes. We had arrived at the trolley barn; the car that Tottie intended to board was about to depart. “You will not regret this,” she said, mounting the step. “Trust me.”

“You are not afraid, Tottie?”

“I am terrified, but there is nothing else to do,” she said, handing me a small bag. “Farewell”

The car left, and I looked inside the bag. It contained a vial of the amber fluid, and syringes. . . .

March 12. My savior, Dr. Charlotte Clathrop, my friend, Tottie — is dead! It is in the newspaper today. She had not gone abroad, as I fondly imagined, but instead returned to her parents’ home in Lynchburg, Virginia. On Wednesday morning, March 11, she was found hanged in the attic. . . .

She was killed! Oh, yes, technically, she was slain by her own hand — but she was hounded to her death, Diary! My God, I do not know what to think. How can this world be so evil?

March 13. Though I wanted nothing so much as to bury myself in my own room today, Dorothy and I must go to school, and behave as though nothing in particular has gone wrong. When I returned home after hockey practice, Patsy bade me seek out Aunt Enid in her rooms. I found her there with Dorothy, who had stopped in enroute home. Both wore the most mournful expressions.

“Oh, Evelyn, at last!” exclaimed Doro. “We have had a letter from Tottie from beyond the grave!”

Dorothy is somewhat given to melodrama, but this was the absolute truth. Today is Friday; the letter was postmarked Tuesday, from Richmond, Virginia.

“I am writing from the train,” Tottie wrote to my aunt, “much moved by Evelyn’s promise to protect my friend Balthasar and facilitate his work. I hope that her pledge will also meet with your approval. The happiness of a dozen young people in addition to Dorothy and Evelyn depend on it. Evelyn can fill in the details.”

“Yes, Evelyn — do please fill in the details” commanded my aunt, for I had so far not found the courage to confide them to her.

Now I related the particulars of my meeting in the park with Tottie, maintaining my composure as best I could and not doing it well at all. I regretted that I had not spoken to Aunt Enid at once; I was overwhelmed by Tottie’s goodness; it struck me then that the request Tottie had made of me and my aunt might be beyond her capacity to grant. You can imagine that my narrative was a matter of fits and spurts, punctuated by tears, wails and sniffles.

Suffice it to say, Diary, my Aunt Enid is a brick. She has agreed that Balthasar may re-establish his laboratory in the cellar of 719 Eutaw Place. He will continue to supply the extract to all of Tottie’s patients. Those in that circle who can afford to pay shall do so. The supply for the rest my aunt will support; it is “a matter of Christian decency and common sense,” she says. But, until the science has been rendered clear, she adds, no more patients will be accepted.

March 21, 1908. I was reading in the rear parlor, awaiting Balthasar’s arrival, when I heard voices from the kitchen. He had entered by the rear door, and was escorted by Cook to the parlor. “Balthasar,” I said sternly, “you are a learned man and my friend. From now on, you will enter this house by the front door, like all my friends!”

“Thank you, Miss Evelyn,” he replied. “I’m most appreciative of your intention. But it won’t do for us, you see? The newspapers are on to me. If they see me here, they’ll be on to you, too.

“Now, I think you are overdue for your injection.”

When that business was concluded, my Aunt joined us, and we planned the speedy removal of all Balthasar’s equipment and records to a room in the basement. The room was Cook’s former quarters; Cook has had to move to an apartment under the roof, but has taken her four-story promotion with good humor. The cellar room is not nearly so large as the laboratory at Hopkins, of course, nor is it bright, but it is dry and clean, with an attached lavatory, and ready access to the back courtyard. It will do “just fine,” says Balthasar.

March 30, 1908. Moira visited yesterday, with infant Desmond on her hip. He is allowing her to sleep through most nights already. Moira came to tell Aunt and me that she wishes to resign her position. It is not just the young lad that claims her attention, but her own mother’s needs as well. I am conflicted; Moira Halloran O’Toole was my friend, confidante and advisor as well as my lady’s maid. Aunt agreed to take Moira’s cousin Pegeen into our house in her stead. I was given my choice of Pegeen, sight unseen but well-praised by Moira, or Patsy, our downstairs maid. After some thought, I chose Pegeen.

Resolved: Now that we are no longer bound to be “Miss Evelyn” and her maid, Moira and I shall become even better friends!

April 6. Clarice and I have called out the hockey girls to resume training. The field is soggy and the wind blusters, but we can delay no longer if we are to avenge our defeat in November by St. Tim’s.

April 8. Balthasar is set up in the cellar at Eutaw Place. After consulting both my aunt and Balthasar, Dorothy and I have invited all of Tottie’s former clients, 14 in all, to meet with us on April 19 to consider “common concerns.” Dorothy has secured us the use of a room at the YWCA on Franklin Street.

April 14. The date of Edith Hooker’s talk at Bryn Mawn has been fixed. She will speak on “Suffrage and the Rising Generation” to an assembly of the Upper School, all 110 of us, on Thursday afternoon, May 7. I know I should be busy organizing this never-happened-before event at Bryn Mawr, but it is beyond me right now. Beatrice, thank God, is getting things properly prepared with Sally’s help.

April 17. A glorious afternoon! Revenge is sweet. Playing on our home field, cheered on by our mates, we have demolished St. Tim’s, 9-3!

April 19. Eleven of us, “Charlotte’s kids,” have met together yesterday noon. All of us appeared as girls. The oldest was twenty; there was only one younger than me, Rachel, a winsome Hebress from East Baltimore. Of the missing three, one wishes to continue receiving the extract; two do not. The eleven of us have pieced together our stories, and the story of the unfortunate Benjamin Coxnell.

Some of our guests made rather tall and muscular girls, but none were, I think, implausibly masculine in appearance. It is palpable that the earlier that administrations of Balthasar’s extract are begun, the better effect it has. We have pledged to keep absolute secrecy, Diary. Everyone present testified that Tottie’s intervention has given her back a happiness that was lost, or on the verge of being lost. We swore to be true to one another and to Tottie’s memory.

We have formed a society, and named it for Tottie. Someone joked that inasmuch as we are all to some extent imposters, we should call not call it the Daughters of Charlotte but rather the Charlatan Club! Dorothy is its Secretary/Chairman. We shall meet at least once a year on a date near the anniversary of dear Tottie’s death.

April 28. Doro and I have been downtown to what is billed as “a debut exhibition by Baltimore’s finest young artists.” Actually, they are just Ted Rawlings and a few of his friends. The boys have hired an empty store, improved the electric lighting, and hung their paintings on bare walls.

Directly on the far wall as one enters the “gallery,” there is a spectacular full-length portrait in greys and golds of a young woman. Her back is toward the viewer, she is in deshabillé and, though her face was shadowed, I knew immediately that it was Dorothy! So, of course, did she, the wretch! She confessed that Ted has painted her half a dozen times now — and indeed, he has hung several other oils which, if not recognisable likenesses of Dorothy, perfectly evoke her sylphlike limbs, hips and breasts. Had I ten dollars to spare, I think I might have bought one. Against my will, almost, I found myself admitting the power of Ted’s work and appreciating the tender discretion evident in these anonymous representations of his model and muse.

May 1, 1908. I have been choking back sobs all morning, ever since I picked up this morning’s Sun from the table by the door. It has scooped its rival. On its front page today is another report of what both papers now refer to as “the Hopkins Sex-Change Scandal.” From courthouse sources, one of the Sun’s reporters learned that Hopkins in January was put under a court order to produce Tottie’s records of her “cases.” With this information in hand, he travelled to Lynchburg, Virginia, Tottie’s home town, confronted the police there, and secured their admission that a copy of the same court order was found in Tottie’s travelling case.

She killed herself rather than expose us all!

Related “stories” in the Sun report Hopkins’ reaction and speculate as to the whereabouts of the records. The Hopkins account is the usual bluster and obfuscation. The university spokesman would have people believe that Charlotte Clathrop was a rogue researcher whose unprincipled experimentation, had it been known sooner, would have been promptly stopped. I have lost all respect for Johns Hopkins University. It is one of those whited sepulchres that Christ denounced: a nice façade and a stinking interior. I will never study there!

As for the records of Tottie’s research, they will not be found. Tottie and Balthasar removed them just in time, and they now rest securely in a chest by my bed.

May 5. A letter arrived from Martin yesterday — the letter I have been dreading though I could hardly hope otherwise after the way I have refused his advances. Martin mentions that he has made the acquaintance of a young woman from Elmira College, a school for women not far from Cornell. She will be his guest for the Spring Weekend parties and fetes at the University. Martin underlines not once but twice that even so, he remains much attached to me.

Tant pis, Diary. There is nothing I can do! If he is so “attached” to me, Martin could have come home to Baltimore at Spring Break instead of spending a week working on the Cornell Aeronautics Club’s experimental aircraft!

May 7th. Edith Hooker, barely 30 years of age but already the acknowledged leader of the Maryland state suffrage movement, held the girls of Bryn Mawk in her palm today. I knew Mrs. Hooker to be incapable of jokes or small talk, and feared she would lose our 7th and 8th graders entirely. Not so — even the younger ones are quick to see that if women do not have the vote, we shall not be regarded seriously no matter how we strive. All of us hung on Mrs. Hooker’s every word. She reviewed the history of women’s quest for equality going back two centuries. Now, in our own lifetimes, the goal will be, must be reached! Mrs. Hooker climaxed with an urgent appeal that every student at Bryn Mawr join a great Flag Day march for suffrage a month from now.

May 15. Bryn Mawr 7, Baltimore Ladies 6! Once again the city championship is ours by a narrow margin. Our backfielders gave Clarice no support in the goal — fortunately, the Ladies’ defense was even more wobbly. I had two goals and an assist.

In the locker room after the game, there were moving testimonials to Clarice Brown and the other seniors, who will never take the field as Martyrs again. I have been re-elected co-captain. Flora will be the other captain. I led the whole team to Dobreiners Ice Cream Parlor still in uniform, mud and sweat and all, for a belated — and I must admit, rather raucous — celebration of my 16th birthday in one of their private rooms.

May 25. Isabel Armstrong from the senior class, Sally Campbell and I convened our volunteers for the Great Suffrage March today and we practiced parading six abreast around the sports field. Trudy Otis has found us a great drum on wheels!

June 9. Today is Dorothy’s 17th birthday, and also the day of my German exam. Frau Schmidt, who has just given birth, has sent word via her substitute that I will be awarded the German prize this year. Beatrice can have the mathematics and science prizes; she has earned them while I wallowed in grief for Tottie. Doro has become a great poet. Since the sophomore class theatrical, her tour de farce, she is everyone’s choice for the creative writing honors.

Far more important than prizes, Miss Hamilton has agreed that I may have independent study in biology and chemistry next year with Miss Weidemeyer and Dr. Prochnik if, she says, I do all the reading for English Literature this summer and pass that examination when school resumes. Oh, I shall, Diary, I shall! I am determined to pick up Tottie’s fallen baton and continue the race if I am able.

June 14, 1908. Eutaw Place is quite lovely today. It is the last of spring, I think. The scent of lilacs is everywhere, the elms and chestnuts in the medial park provide a delicious shade, and there is hardly a house I can see that is not sporting red, white and blue bunting or our grand old starry flag.

The Suffrage March will form up near the car barn at the foot of Druid Hill Avenue, At two p.m., the formations will begin to move south past Lexington Market and thence east on Lombard Street to the base of the Shot Tower in Market Place. There, both the Hookers and invited speakers from the movements in Philadelphia and New York will address our throng.

June 15. We girls from Bryn Mawr were a formidable contingent, more than fifty of us, and were placed third in the procession. None of our teachers marched with us, a pity, but I know that many wished to! Also at Miss Hamilton’s earnest request, we did not carry the school flag, but with our banner, “Mawrters for Democracy,” those who watched the parade had no trouble discerning our cohort’s provenance. The crowds along the curb were not so great and were fairly evenly divided between supporters and hecklers until we neared the Shot Tower. Then in the last few blocks they were four or five people deep, largely men and — my courage began to fail me! — many were apparently intoxicated. My brave girls burst into song, like the contingents fore and aft, to drown out the hecklers. Stepping smartly to Sally’s booming alto cadences, we marched into the square. In due course the rest of the parade arrived behind us. 5000 women and perhaps 500 men strong, we filled the space.

I shall not relate Edith Hooker’s familiar sentiments or even those of her handsome husband. The truly memorable speech was delivered by an intense young woman from Philadelphia, Alice Paul. Hers was a stirring appeal, Diary, at times emotional and at times just relentlessly logical, that left most of us Bryn Mawr girls swooning with delight! I felt sure that if any candidate for the Presidency or for the Governorship of Maryland, or any others seeking public office were to hear it, he would immediately declare for womens’ suffrage. Our political masters were, however, conspicuous by their absence today — shame on them!

At half past four, the assemblage pledged its allegiance to the Flag, a minister called on the Creator to bless our cause and on the Baltimore Police to keep order, and the rally was adjourned. We girls headed for the trolleys, joining friends from St. Tim’s and the small group from Oldfields for mutual protection. The Sun this morning has called our parade an “impressive testimony to American women’s reasonable aspiration.”

June 17. The school year has ended. The weather continued fine, if overly warm, for the graduation ceremonies. Swarms of adoring parents, bored siblings, aunts, uncles and grandparents have turned out to fete the Bryn Mawr Class of ‘08. We Juniors have most obligingly catered to the Seniors’ whims, knowing that next year it will be our turn to demand the same tribute to our — what, Diary? What is the accomplishment? What is the point of all this education, the best that Baltimore offers its daughters? For some, the point of the ceremonies is just to acknowledge that they have made it through to graduation, I think. Some of the seniors have set their cap on being splendid mothers and wives. Others wish to see what they can accomplish in a world where men have made the rules. None, I think, are set on breaking the rules. Well, I am. It is the least I can do to honor the soul of my dear Dr. Tottie Clathrop.

Author’s note: This section of Evelyn Tucker Westcott’s diary is a great deal better for the kind assistance given by those expert and generous advisors, Jan S. and Riottgirrl.

 © 01.2008 by Daphne Laprov
by Daphne

June 24, 1908. ‘William R. Barkell, Esq.’ it said on his freshly-printed calling card. Billy Barkell, my boyhood friend, arrived from Perkinstown two days ago. He is on the way to the Naval Academy where he’ll be trained as an officer. En route, Billy called on me at my aunt’s house on Eutaw Place yesterday. He has grown tall. Though rather more handsome than I had expected, and extremely muscular now, Billy was manifestly ill at ease. He would not admit that I was the cause of his agitation, but I knew better. Let me imagine what he thought:

“He, well, uh, no, she, is indeed feminine, just like Mrs. Tucker said . . . and she’s pretty, too — that’s a surprise. . . but I know Edward used to be a boy! How many times did we go swimming together? Hundreds? She is smiling at me. Indulgently, I suppose, for old times’ sake. Is it possible that she thinks I’m attractive? Why am I feeling aroused? Edward was a boy! Does this Evelyn still have a willie? She’s a city girl now and real smart. Always was smart, a lot smarter than me. Maybe I’m going to be a Midshipman, but heck, I’m still just a hick from the Pennsylvania hills.”

I was not just being indulgent. I was very happy to resume my friendship with Billy. I smiled, I told him, only because I was imagining how he might look in a few days time, shaven of his lovely locks and stuffed into a uniform, being cruelly marched under the hot sun of an Annapolis drilling ground.

Billy is among the very few who know that a quirk of fate has caused me to possess the genital organs of both sexes. By the good fortune of being the ward of a wealthy woman and beneficiary of the progress of modern science, I now seem to the world to be fully female. I must trust Billy to guard my secret. That precludes our being more than friends. To impress that point, I took his hand in mine.

“Billy,” I said, “I want you to promise me. Do you remember you said you’d always be true? My happiness depends on that, my dear friend. My true self is what you see here now, not what you remember.”

He replied, not eloquently but sincerely, that “that is all right by me.” After another fifteen minutes of reminiscence, we exchanged farewells. Billy will not have another holiday for six months. That is all right by him, too. Billy is determined to make a success of his naval career.

The Glorious 4th, 1908. At half-past seven, Martin Tolliver arrived to escort me to Druid Park to observe the fireworks. We could watch from the rooftop of my house and see them better, but there we would be chaperoned. At the park, we could buy ice cream cones and melt into the crowd. O, that’s an awful pun, or whatever it was! Anyway, it was not intended.

Martin has returned from college only this week. I was happy to feel his strong arms around me again, and to ooh and ahh as the rockets burst above our heads. I wanted to be with my manly Martin as long as he did not scare me by becoming familiar. I can not bear for him to know my secret. The thought itself gives me chills.

Well, Martin was a gentleman — he always is — but also one who did not hide his wish that I should invite greater familiarity, which I dare not, Diary! Oh, God — why can I not be all girl?

Martin has volunteered to work with the youngsters at Lawrence House again this summer. As for me, I must consecrate July to William Shakespeare and August to the rest of the British pantheon. Miss Hamilton has promised I may take an extra science course when school resumes if I have mastered the English Literature syllabus. Thus I shall not be able to accompany Aunt to the Campbells’ in Chestertown for three weeks as in past summers. However, I am going to Perkinstown for a visit, Diary! It is my first trip home in over two years!

I will take the Pennsylvania Railroad express as far as Williamsport; there Father or Eben will meet me and whisk me away to Perkinstown. Mother, meanwhile, has persuaded her great friend, the editor of the Courier, to help us unwrite the past. A clever article will report that Miss Tucker has returned to Perkinstown for a visit after two years away at school, very much refined and no longer the tomboy so fondly remembered. That is the story my family will swear to, Diary — that I have always been a girl! Mother wagers that all her friends (they are legion) will choose to remember it that way.

July 26. I am back in Baltimore after two weeks on my parents’ farm and here it is beastly hot. I think we shall have a lightning and thunder storm tonight. Perkinstown was just as my Mother had planned. Oh, I caught a few perplexed stares at church, but they were stilled by Rev. Watkins’ “judge not lest ye be judged” sermon. He, too, had been persuaded by Mother to join her conspiracy. After the service, a tangle of girls and young women surrounded me to admire my Baltimore finery.

For my coming out in Perkinstown society (for that was what it was) I wore a double-layered gossamer dress with short puffed sleeves and a broad-brimmed hat, clockworked silk hose, and low-heeled court shoes. I’d gathered tiny rosebuds from the farmhouse fence that morning, which Mother had fixed to the hatband and used to make a garniture for my dress. Feeling quite the country maiden, I carried a handbag, more like a little basket, woven of the same straw as my hat.

I fancy that half a dozen of the young ladies went home from church to throw out their corsets forever (as well every woman should!)

What can I say about Mother and Father? They are dear, sweet people, but I have already left them both behind. Our conversations are affectionate but shallow, as though we neither of us can truly inhabit the other’s mental space. Father still cannot bear to call me “daughter.” They were sad when I related the awful events of last February and March, but the truth is that they did not understand when I called Dr. Tottie Clathrop a ‘martyr.’

Mother and Father worry that Aunt Enid will not chaperone me sufficiently; apropos, Father recalled Aunt’s sudden flight with Captain Bonner forty years ago!

I doubt I could have borne an existence bounded by crops, cows, kitchen and church, harvest fairs and at best, Williamsport Girls’ High School and after that a teaching certificate. My brothers have a broader horizon than my parents; they read books and attend improvement meetings, but they are no less tongue-tied. Perhaps it is the sight of me and their imaginations that turns them into dunces. I was in truth a bit relieved as the date of my return came near.

Of all the Perkinstown Tuckers, I will only miss talking with Eben’s wife. She has a mind, and with it she might have flown far.

Ruth is into scientific ways of doing things. She has a shelf of well-thumbed manuals on pretty much everything from chicken raising to child-raising. Ruth completed high school, and would have gone on to the teachers’ college, she said, had not Eben turned her head “every which way.” Ruth is thrilled by my big brother, and he is absolutely infatuated with her. Their second child is due in November, exactly 30 months after my nephew Eugene. Two and one-half years, Ruth says, is the ideal interval — it permits the mother to recover her health and figure, yet allows the resultant children to share the joys of growing up together. She read that in one of her books, and it seems perfectly sensible. “But how, how do you determine things so precisely,” I asked. “We watch the days” said Ruth, handing me yet another text. This little pamphlet is very explicit; fascinated, I have read it from cover to cover without stopping. Contraception is not so hard, it seems, if the male partner is willing to cooperate. The woman is only fertile a few days each month. One can schedule the intimate moments, or a sheath can encompass the male member (like a sausage, I suppose!)

I expressed my appreciation on returning the booklet to Ruth the following day. She gave me a somewhat sheepish grin and said she was happy to oblige me. She wondered, Ruth said hesitantly, did the book shed any light on my own “peculiar situation?” I was not expecting such a question and yet, on an instant’s reflection, it was entirely healthy — the kind of question one ought to be able to ask, and to answer. So I did: “unfortunately not. It seems most unlikely that I shall be able to have babies. Though I may seem entirely a girl, beneath my silks and satins I am the oddest melange of things.”

One thing led to another, and soon I was showing Ruth my boy bits and she was allowing me to ask of her questions I had been pondering for a long time about sensation and whether intercourse is fundamentally pleasant or not for the female partner. In Ruth’s experience, after a bit of fumbling to get the posture right, it was a great pleasure, but that was not the testimony of all her friends, she said. The husband’s sympathy is of critical importance; if he is rough and insistent, “lovemaking” will be a horror, whereas if he is gentle and patient like her Eben, Ruth said with conviction, there is no greater joy. What could I do, Diary? I congratulated my sister-in-law.

July 30. Deadly weary of too much reading, I have spent the morning down in the basement laboratory with Balthasar. Sharing his familiar company is a nice respite. I cannot abide Boswell’s hero-worship of Dr. Johnson. I was happy to lend Balthasar a hand cleaning the glassware.

Just recalling the dreadful events of the spring, I feel close to Balthasar. Dr. Tottie Clathrop, God rest her soul, relied on him implicitly. And yet I did not even know his full name! Well, I have asked him. It is Balthasar Bishop. He has always lived in Baltimore. His father was always a free Negro, a bricklayer, and his mother was an ex-slave. He the second of three surviving siblings (B’s brother Caspar and sister Hannah Cooper live on the Eastern Shore; another brother [Melchior] was carried off by the measles when a boy). Balthasar, his wife and children live hardly a mile away from Aunt Enid and me. I had imagined him to be no more than thirty years old (he is 37) and — I wonder why? — had not given thought until now to the rest of these details.

While we bottled the refined extract on which I and the rest of “Tottie’s girls” depend, Balthasar quizzed me on details of Tottie’s death. He had not been sure it was a suicide, or why Johns Hopkins University had behaved so badly. I told him that the university administration, and especially Dr. Meyer, were scoundrels. Balthasar said that squares with his own impression.

Balthasar has invited me to have Sunday dinner at his home in Druid Heights. I will go, of course. I pray that Aunt will not protest.

August 2. Balthasar sent Caesar, his oldest child and a young man of few words, to see that I should arrive safely and on time at his house. It is a charming row house on Brunt Street near McMeechen, not 10 blocks from our own. Mrs. Bishop greeted me straightaway from the kitchen. She is a large woman, very dark but with fine features, and insistent that I address her as Portia.

Presently the younger children tumbled in, herded by Caesar. All were still in their Sunday best — Ruby’s and Pearl’s starched frocks yet immaculate, little Calvin’s smudged here and there with dirt. Ruby had no sooner been sent off with Calvin to clean him up than Balthasar entered. With him was a light-complexioned girl of about my age. He introduced her as his niece, Alexandra Cooper.

Once we were settled in the Bishops’ parlor, Miss Cooper and Mrs Bishop excused themselves, leaving me with Balthasar and the children. I was an object of fascination for the pigtailed little girls. Pearl shyly asked if she might touch my hair. Both she and her sister quizzed me as children might — what were my favorite books (Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, I lied), had I ever been to the moving pictures, did I like iced-cream, did my Aunt have a motor-car? — while their father clucked indulgently.

Dinner was announced. A ham butt arrived in the dining room sliced and decorated by sweet potatoes; arrayed alongside were steamed greens, pickles and salads and a jug of iced tea. The food was served round. Mrs. Bishop relaxed visibly when I pronounced it splendid (which indeed it was)! Balthasar told Miss Cooper and Caesar not to be shy, but as neither obeyed his order, he proceeded to tell me more about them both himself.

Caesar Bishop is eighteen. Next month he will enter Howard University, in Washington DC. He has excelled in mathematics. Balthasar has high hopes for him.

Alexandra Cooper is just sixteen, very nearly my age. Her passion is the piano. Her family lives on the Eastern Shore; she has come to Baltimore to attend the colored high school. Perhaps, Balthasar ventured shyly, Alexandra will be allowed to study music at the Peabody Institute when she is graduated from Frederick Douglass.

We ate, we talked. When I was sure I could eat no more, the remains of dinner were cleared from the table only to be replaced by two monstrous pies. Nor could I resist a slice of each — heavenly apple and scrumptious pecan!

I was allowed to don an apron and assist with the clean-up. It made me feel less like a guest and more like a friend, and I said so. Soon Alexandra and I were rattling on about lots of things. Did I like to sing, she asked. She had some new music that she wished to try if the Bishops’ piano was in tune.

“I have the voice of a crow,” I replied. Alexandra would not believe it, and soon she was running me up and down the scales. “You could be trained,” she said kindly. “Come, let’s try these songs!”

The first piece, a lied of some sort, was full of skips and trills and way beyond me. “Please, let us try something American,” I begged. "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" — how would that do?

“Here it is — this will be perfect for us” said Alexandra, offering another sheet of music. It was, it said, "I Love You So," from a new operetta, "The Merry Widow." I regarded the notes doubtfully. “Like this,” offered my new friend, and played a couple of lines on the upright.

“O, like that? Well, I suppose I must try it,” I answered, and I did, and we fell into a nice harmony. Alexandra’s voice enfolded mine and covered up its myriad faults. As though I were dancing with my dear Martin, I simply let her lead and enjoyed the experience.

“Alex” and I parted with pledges to meet again. I had fun today, Diary. These are nice people.

August 7. I have taken a break from Swift and Pope. Though when school begins I am obliged to recall their masterpieces in detail or else take a course in English Lit, today I wanted to attend a base-ball game. I went to cheer on the Lawrence House nine that my Martin coaches. All summer he has been drilling “his boys” in the fundamentals of our national sport. He has had some success. They have won several games.

Martin’s proteges made a brave show as the game began, pushing across a run with two walks, a scratch single and a passed ball. That was their high water mark, however, for their opponent was the redoubtable junior nine from St. Mary’s Industrial School. Pitching for St. Mary’s was a giant of a boy. It is hard to believe that George H. Ruth owns but 13 years. Recovering from opening wildness, he struck out one Lawrence House boy after another and then, when it came St. Mary’s turn to bat, young George smote the ball mightily.

The game having ended at last with our boys on the short end of a 19-1 decision, Martin brought the coach of the St. Mary’s team to meet me. Brother Matthias is a great friend of my chum Moira O’Dwyer. They grew up in the same parish. He said George Ruth has great talent but is a pack of trouble nonetheless.

August 10. Determined to make a better friend of Balthasar, I volunteered again today to assist in the laboratory. He was happy, I think, to have my assistance — but evasive when I crowded him with questions about his work. I have been scheming, Diary; I want to go abroad! I want to visit Europe while I am young and my Aunt Enid is still vigorous. That will not do if I must depend on deliveries of the extract packed in ice once a week.

B. confirmed that he has nearly rendered the extract into a form that can give the desired effect when ingested. I had suspected as much — why else did he need a wall-full of guinea pigs in cages? Yet it is not so simple. He has not yet produced a fluid that is stable at ordinary temperatures. Something still eludes my friend. He has broken down the procedure into many steps — one combination will work, he is sure!

I told Balthasar that School has promised me independent study in chemistry. If he would allow it, I wished to design a project that helped his work. I was hoping for an immediate and ardent affirmative, Diary. Though Balthasar did not brush my offer aside, seemingly it troubled him.

It was nearing noon. He must give my proposal some thought, said he. “Come back at ten on Friday,” he declared, “and we shall see.”

Friday, August 14. I came to Balthasar’s lab as bidden. He was there, with his twenty-four guinea pigs and innumberable white rats and with two others — my new friend Alexandra Cooper and my chum Dorothy Downey.

“I have asked you all here that I might confess,” said Balthasar. “In a certain instance, I have deceived Dr. Clathrop, and I would not deceive you as well, for your well-being depends on what I shall explain.

“In the spring of last year, seeing the amazing effect of the elixir on you, Evelyn, and you, Dorothy, I was emboldened to offer it as well to my nephew, Artemus. I was very fond of him, and he was indeed a very troubled boy.

“There came a day that I proposed to Dr. Clathrop that Artemus be included among those she treated. I supposed from words that had passed between us that she would not be stopped by the fact that Artemus was a colored boy, and in that respect, I was correct. Yet she would not agree. It would not do, she said, ‘at least not yet, to treat youths who are physically normal.’

“That ruled out Artemus. His internal secretions and his body were as normal as you please. It was his mind that was not right. He just didn’t make a proper boy. Every night, Artemus was crying himself to sleep, afraid to face another day of school. For as long as his parents could remember, he’d been insisting he was really a girl. Now he was fourteen. We could see that he was about to go crazy.

“Well, I began dosing Artemus with the extract, too, not telling Miss Tottie. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, I reckoned. It was working, too. You can probably guess already what came next — yes, an orchotomy, to heighten the effect of the extract. And then last winter, Artemus enrolled at the Colored Girls’ High School.”

Dorothy still had not connected all the dots when I burst into delighted laughter. “O, Balthasar, this is too wonderful! Alexandra, let me hug you!” Yes, Diary, my new friend is also one of us. . . .

Dorothy, too, is delighted. We do not anticipate trouble with any of the rest of “Tottie’s kids,” and if anyone does object, we will strangle her protest at its birth. Balthasar will allow me to assist his research insofar as I am able.

August 23. Martin has made me cry again. It is not Martin’s fault but mine own, or rather my own body’s. I would not allow him to kiss me. It is bad enough just being next to him, holding his hand or arm. I am sensibly aroused, and that is not to be. He places me on a pedestal, as though it is my goodness that causes me to draw back. Hell and damnation! It is the perversity of my anatomy that is the cause. I cannot bear to lose him, as I must if he were to learn my secret. Yet neither can I stand to deceive him! Oh, Diary, what on earth can I do? I have promised him there is no other boy. Now he is going back to his nasty university for another year. There is no girl waiting for Martin there, he swears. My competitor is the Cornell Aeronautics Club!

August 29. Dorothy visited me today. She says we absolutely must convene the Daughters of Charlotte again. All summer, Doro has been corresponding zealously to sustain the morale of our small band. We are not so many, Tottie’s former patients, nor has she left us entirely adrift, but some of the group are seriously troubled, she says. We must help one another. That includes Alexandra Cooper.

Doro wants me to host a meeting at Aunt’s house. I am of two minds about this, Diary. The consequences of exposure are one thing for Dorothy, who is legally male and whose medical history could be unearthed by any reporter with patience — and another for me, who has assumed the legal identity of Evelyn Westcott, my Aunt Enid’s own daughter, grievously lost to her in infancy.

August 30. Aunt Enid says we must do what we must. Dorothy is sending out a typewritten notice to all the “girls,” bidding them reunite at Eutaw Place on Saturday, September 13. Aunt and I shall host luncheon. Balthasar will be the guest of honor.

September 14. Again I am overwhelmed by my good fortune, Diary. Several of our sisterhood lead miserable, marginal lives. As one by one we told our stories yesterday, our need for mutual support was manifest. Neither Margaret nor Julia can bear any longer to remain at home; Aunt has offered them assistance so they might share satisfactory accomodation while continuing their educations here in the city. Rachel’s very conservative uncles — both rabbis, I think — pray for her constantly. She is sustained, she says, by her parents’ good sense and the support of her physician, Dr. Nathan Weiss. Ingrid is Scandinavian, tall, very blonde and prone, she says, to terrible dreams. Eilidh has a twelve year-old brother whose manner is, she says, becoming more feminine than even her own; she asks if she might share her ration of Balthasar’s elixir with him? Maeve, quite broad of beam, confessed to being troubled by an attraction to other women; sometimes this causes her such distress that she refuses Balthasar’s potion. Sylvia claims to be perfectly content, and terribly grateful that Balthasar has continued Tottie’s work; Helen said much the same, but without conviction, I think.

Cecily sent word that she would attend our meeting but in the event did not; Dorothy has made a note to track her down. Jane Ellen is ill. After renewing vows of absolute confidentiality, we have all exchanged addresses and filled out sheets with a medical history and the names of our doctors and other people we trust.

I introduced Alexandra all round, and then at Dorothy’s invitation, Balthasar recounted his association with Dr. Tottie. Tottie had seen his keen interest, he said, and encouraged him to work with her as a colleague rather than as a servant. It was a kindness that perhaps could only be appreciated in full by a Negro.

Balthasar confided to the rest of the girls what Doro, Alexandra and I knew: he and Tottie had been nearing a refinement of the elixir that would enable it to be taken orally as lozenges, rather than by injection. These pills are intended to be stable at room temperature. If effective, they will free us of our tether to the precincts of Baltimore. Balthasar has continued this work, he said, thanks to the kind provision of Aunt Enid and with my assistance. He has begun tests on small mammals.

At luncheon and after, the walls of shyness came tumbling down; there was vivacious and intimate chatter amongst our group. I sought out the little Jewess, Rachel, and plied her with questions about Dr. Weiss. Tottie had spoken of him with the greatest esteem and now, she being lost to us, I hoped he would accept me as a patient. Rachel has taken on my commission.

September 24, 1908. Invitations came last week from my dear friend and former maid, Moira. She says Dorothy and I must join her at the vaudeville “for a special treat.” Of course we accepted. Arriving at the Gaiety Theatre, we found my friend and many of her large family seated just right of center in the loge. “What’s the treat? You must tell us!” I demanded of Moira.

“Shh,” was all she replied, pointing to the stage where amid a sort of throbbing music that I took to be Levantine, the curtain was being pulled back to reveal a sumptuous hareem. Upon a mound of pillows in the center was the sultan, bejeweled, befeathered and besatined, drawing languidly upon a hookah, surrounded by women in deshabillé of various degrees. His Omnipotency, I knew from the advertising placards, was none other than the celebrated Ella Shields. Rising with a slight bow to the audience, she began to declaim in a low contralto the delights of the decadent East. As she prowled among the “ladies” of the hareem, I found myself sensibly agitated by the dissonance of the spectacle. I knew that the women were all men or boys, and the Sultan, Miss Shields, is justly famous as an impersonator of men.

My little rod stiffened, forcing me to sit just so that it would not be noticed.

A gasp arose from the O’Tooles and Hallorans as one of the “girls” flung himself, singing, at the feet of the Sultan to crave a boon. Where had I heard that pure, high voice before? Had it been singing “Danny Boy”?

Moira dug her elbow into my rib cage. “Well, what do you think? Brilliant, isn’t he?”

An incandescent bulb flashed on in my brain. “It’s Henrietta, isn’t it? Oh, how absolutely wicked!”

I really ought to have figured it out, Diary. Dorothy and I were utterly charmed by Henrietta, who reappeared several times more in the course of the evening. Variously, he was a beribboned “daughter” to Miss Shields in a domestic comedy skit, a blackfaced minstrel wench, and, in the last number but one, a charming ingenue in a duet with a gallant young “soldier.” I wish that I could wear a gown with Henrietta’s panache! Or sing half as well!

The crowd was on its feet at the end of the show. Of course, the greatest applause was for Miss Shields, who concluded the program with her signature song, “Bertie from Baltimore.” Our Henrietta, however, was a most respectable second in the favor of the crowd. I congratulated Moira.

“Harry’s done nothing but practice for months,” Moira replied. “He’s determined not to be a railway worker, and this is his chance, he says.”

September 30. Today I made a friend of Winifred Clem, the English ‘visiting student’ at Bryn Mawr School. Winifred’s father is a professor of botany who is teaching for a year at Hopkins. My new chum is preparing for university, and, with Miss Hamilton’s permission, will take classes as though she were a member of our senior class.

Sally said Winifred, who is in her American history and English literature classes, already knows more about both subjects than all the rest of the girls put together. Of course, I sought out this phenom myself to recruit her for our Debate Club.

She is not much to look at, Diary. Winifred peers out at the world through very thick lenses encased in dark tortoiseshell rims; this evidently is what causes her to hold her head at a birdlike angle. She spends not a lot of time on her toilette, either, I think. Oh, Winifred is quite clean, her boots are shined and her hair is brushed, but that is about as far as it goes.

Today, she was at a table alone in the lunchroom with a book. “May I join you,” I asked. “I think you normally dine with Mary Alice, but. . . .”

“Oh, yes, of course! Mary Alice has stayed home with tummy flu, I don’t doubt. She was complaining when we parted yesterday.

“You are the famous Evelyn Westcott, I think, and I’m Win. Pleased to meet you! What do you think of Mrs. Humpfry Ward?”

“Oh, dear, what am I famous for,” I asked, stalling for time while I tried to think of something brilliant to say about Mrs. Humpfry Ward, whoever she is. Anything!

“You were pointed out to me as the titan of the hockey squad. I am a total dud myself, have asthma on top of being nearly blind, so I am envious of athletes.

“But, look here, Evelyn! Mrs. Ward has gotten 37,000 signatures on this “Manifesto” against votes for women. She is quoted as saying that ‘the deciding power of the parliamentary vote should be left to men, whose physical force is ultimately responsible for the conduct of the state.’ Might makes right! Ooh, just wouldn’t that get Christabel wound up!”

I clucked at Mrs. Humpfry Ward’s pronouncement and waited for enlightenment.

“Christabel’s my cousin, and a lawyer. She and her mother, my Aunt Emmaline, have founded the Women’s Social and Political Union and are terrorizing all our politicians. I can’t wait to go back home and participate in a riot for the suffrage!”

“Surely you exaggerate,” I ventured.

“Not at all. Christabel has quite persuaded me. Unless we women force the men to confront the issues, we shall be put off until Doomsday. Gradualism and prayer have done the Cause no good at all!”

Winifred is the ‘real McCoy,’ Diary. By the time she finished telling me about the WSPU’s campaign, I believed her fully capable of chaining herself to the rail at the House of Commons.

She has agreed to partner with me in the debate with St. Tim’s. I immediately sought out Miss Blume. We have been searching for a proper topic, and now I had it: “Resolved, men will never grant women the suffrage until they are compelled to.”

October 2. Diary, I have perhaps found a clue to the chemical composition of Balthasar’s extract. Dr. Prochnik has been tutoring me in the properties of the organic molecules. For lab work, we are determining their molecular weights. After I had produced the expected results from analysis of a number of well-studied substances, I proposed to him that I should attempt analysis of animal urine. Herr Schneider expressed doubt that anything of consequence could eventuate, but relented when I assured him that I have a reliable source of the fresh product.

Urine is a complex fluid. Urea is of course its dominant component, but there many other waste products in the broth! The answer to my search, I venture, lies in determining how the urine of pregnant sows differs from the urine of sows that have not been impregnated.

October 4 (Sunday). I have lived in Baltimore already almost two and one-half years, and yet until today I have not ventured into the eastern part of the City. It is not that I am prejudiced against immigrants — at least I don’t think so. I am simply out of my element there. Coming to Baltimore from Perkinstown, Pa. was already a huge alteration in my native environment. Finding my way through neighborhoods where the language of the street is not English but rather Italian, Polish or Yiddish is yet another huge leap for me. But this noon, there I was.

Ironic, isn’t it, Diary? The streets of East Baltimore are redolent of spices that I have never tasted, they resound with tongues I cannot understand, yet the streets bear names like Wolfe, Broadway, Milton and Highland. In the center of this ethnic broth is the Johns Hopkins Hospital. Scarce a stone’s throw distant are the offices of Doctor Nathan Weiss on Washington Street.

Invoking the names of both Tottie Clathrop and my new friend Rachel Klimintz, I had written Dr. Weiss for an appointment. He replied at once in the affirmative, and bade me come today at one, after his regular Sunday hours, that we might become tolerably well acquainted.

I arrived on the hour, and entered Dr. Weiss’s office whilst a lady clad entirely in black scuttled out. Soon I was sizing up Weiss, and he me. Having decided that my interlocutor was perfectly “O.K.” by my standards, I found myself imagining what he saw. (I find I do this more and more, Diary!)

“Hmm. Rather typical American type, I think. Raised as a boy, she says. Well, she doesn’t look a bit of it now, though it must have scrambled her brains. Rachel says this Evelyn is “top drawer.” Coming from Rachel, that means a lot.”

“Do you miss Tottie,” Dr. Weiss asked, abruptly interrupting my reverie.

“Oh, dear God, yes I do!” I blurted out. “Yes — we can hardly do without her!”

“But, there is Balthasar Bishop. . . “ he prompted.

There is indeed Balthasar,” I replied. “And I trust him with all my heart, but we cannot put the weight on his shoulders alone.”

“What do you wish of me, then?”

“I have intimated that to you already, sir,” I replied, maintaining my composure as best I could. “I have need of a sympathetic physician. I am not the only one. If you are resolved to assist us to live as best we can under the circumstances, we shall all be extremely grateful to you.”

“Hmm, yes — would you be so kind as to disrobe? I would like to examine you, and then, I expect, I shall have to ask you a great many more questions.”

Dr. Nathan Weiss absented himself for several moments while I removed my boots, hose, jacket, waist, skirt and petticoat. Clad only in my chemise and drawers, I awaited his return.

“Those must come off, too” said he.

I did as Dr. Weiss bade me, revealing the preposterous apparatus with which I was born — features that had persuaded my parents to raise me as a boy as long as that premise could be sustained.

“Hmm” said he again, having drawn a sample of my blood and directed me to contribute also a sample of my urine. “I imagine that you yourself are incontrovertable proof that Balthasar’s Extract does work.” I nodded in the affirmative, and related the almost miraculous effect that it evidenced.

“I have been transformed beyond my own imagination and perhaps also yours,” I replied. “Here is a copy of the charts that Tottie kept. Within a few months, my breasts and hips attained the dimensions expected of a girl my age, my voice ceased from breaking, and it was only by diligent application that I maintained my strength and skills as a hockeyist for the Bryn Mawr squad. And let me say, Doctor — all those changes were a great relief!”

“I would be remiss” he answered, “if I did not ask you if, withal, you have . . . uh . . . feelings of a sexual nature?”

Many girls, I suppose, would be loath to admit to such feelings, but fortified by my conversations with my sister-in-law Ruth, I was resolved to regard these as normal. Even so, I blushed when queried by Rachel’s friend and doctor, my own physician-presumptive.

The flush subsided, and I answered Dr. Weiss as best I could. “Yes, I do. Sometimes unbidden, my male part stiffens and jerks. At other times, it is the proximity and kindness of a friend that quickens its interest.”

“And, Evelyn . . . when this happens, is the object of the interest . . . male or female?

I suppose I blushed once again, but there was no reason to lie. “Sometimes one, and sometimes the other,” I said. “I wonder what I should feel.”

Doctor Weiss examined my parts and then bade me dress. A lot of conversation came next. He told me that there is no explaining ‘feelings’ and I should not feel odd either way. We talked not just about me, but about all of Tottie’s Daughters. (Thus far, he only knows Rachel and me.)

Boldly, I put to Dr. Weiss the question that had brought me to his office: “Will you,” I said, “serve as physician to all of us? We do not need you as our counselor in matters of mental hygiene beyond such limits as make you comfortable. We need you, rather, as one who can hold our secrets and see to our physical needs. You must understand, sir, that several of us are unable to visit an ordinary physician!”

He brooded for a moment before answering in the affirmative. “Yes, I will do it. My niece Rachel has already been persuasive; to that you now add the weight of your own advice. Send the girls to me. I will merit their confidence. They can pay me as they are able. And you, young lady — go home! You are in perfect health!”

October 10. Halloween falls on a Saturday night this year. Aunt Enid has agreed that I may have a party.

October 12 (Columbus Day). Eureka! I have spent all day in the Chemistry Laboratory at school. Because it was a holiday, I could work undisturbed (except for Dr. Prochnik, who kindly came by to let me in and, as darkness was falling, to lock me out). The elusive substance, I am sure of it now after several repetitions, has a molecular weight of about 240; that would make it a glycol molecule. I have brought home a very small quantity well-packed in ice. It is most of the amount I have been able to concentrate. Balthasar and I will try it on some of his guinea pigs.

October 14. To be sure of a sufficient number of boys for the Halloween party, I have enlisted several of the girls as organizers. Our theme will be “Arabian Nights.” Clandestine copies of Lady Isabella Bird’s memoires and of Sir Richard Burton’s scandalous tales are being passed around. The girls are mining them for ideas. Aunt Enid has invited her friend, Mr. Wilkinson, to advise us. He is the head of the Oriental Department at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington.

October 17. Met Doro downtown to shop for things for our costumes. I have bought a splendid scimitar at a theatrical supplies shop. I proposed that she also dress as a Musselman knight, but Dorothy absolutely refuses to play the man. She has bought yards of gauzey fabric and tiny bells. I have thought long about inviting my friend Alexandra to the party . . . but concluded that it would be too awkward, and probably uncomfortable for her.

October 20. Miss Blume has met the debate coach at St. Tim’s. They have agreed to our challenge. The combat is fixed for November 11 at Latin. Each side will field five pairs of debaters.

November 1. Heavens, Diary! What a party!

Mr. Wilkinson arrived in mid-afternoon with three turbaned musicians borrowed from the Imperial Turkish Embassy. Their music was splendid — from their oudhs and sakhbuts they produced all kinds of exotic rhythms and scales, and a few Viennese waltzes as well.

Aunt’s house was full of my friends. The table was piled high with figs and dates. Some of the guests were more successful than others in their disguises. Ted Rawlings came as the hind end of a camel; his goofy friend Peter was the head! Tho Flora Cooper was a most charming Christian slave girl, Christy was quite out of her usual character as a belly dancer. Doro at the last moment abandoned her harem girl getup and appeared in blackface as — well, as her idea of — an Ethopian eunuch! Aunt Enid and Mr. Wilkinson portrayed missionaries to us benighted heathen.

I am smitten with Sally’s brother, Frank Campbell. He swashbuckled in about eight o’clock, fitted out as a Moorish corsair. Frank has returned this summer from the Rocky Mountains, where he worked as a cow-boy for the experience of it. He has acquired ropy muscles and he affects a “now there, ma’am, you hang on a little” sort of drawl that I cannot resist. Frank is back in school at St. John’s College. I reminded him that we met at his parents’ farm in Chestertown two summers ago.

“Yes,” he recalled. “You were a funny little thing — witty and awkward at the same time. I am not surprised that you have grown into a beauty.”

November 4, 1908. Oh, sweet Jesus, Diary! That walrus Taft has won the Presidency in a landslide. He is from the conservative side of the Republican Party. Why did I think William Jennings Bryan had a chance to win the election, when no one but men are allowed to vote?

Better news from Mother. She writes that I now have both a nephew, two year-old Eugene Tucker, and a niece, new baby Julia. I have sent congratulations to Ruth and Eben.

November 5. It seems I have powers as a medium. Upon my declaration in a trance two summers ago that Dorothy’s errant father was somewhere in the jungles of Asia, Mrs. Downey sent enquiries to lawyers in all of the principal ports there. Recently, she has had a reply from a M. Constant DuCroix, Esq., in Saigon, which is the principal city of French Indo-China. It seems that an American, Rufus Downey, is one of the colony’s greats — a rubber baron, in fact. (That explains the rows and rows of trees I saw in the crystal ball, Diary!)

M. DuCroix reported that the said Mr. Downey arrived fourteen years earlier, and is now in failing health. If Mrs. Downey intends legal action, he added, she would be well-advised to act promptly.

Dorothy’s mother is resolved to travel immediately to Saigon to press her claim. No arguments can convince her otherwise. Her marriage to Dorothy’s father was never legally terminated. Under French law, his legitimate children are heir to three-fourths of his wealth. Mrs. Downey has put herself under the protection of a Scottish gentleman, Major MacKenzie, who with his family is en route to Singapore. They will leave Baltimore for San Francisco on Monday by rail, and there will take passage on a ship to Hong Kong.

Dorothy has confided that her mother has mortgaged their house to get money for the long trip. Doro is to stay with me and Aunt Enid! That last bit delights me no end, she is like a sister, but of course we both fear for her mother’s safe passage.

November 10. Final practice today for the debate with St. Timothy’s. Each side will field four teams of two -- two teams to argue “pro,” and two “con.” I thank God that Win and I will argue for militancy; we could not put our hearts into the opposite view.

November 13. We have out-jawed St. Tim’s, 3-1. My partner Win was simply brilliant. Beatrice and one of the ‘10’s, Cecily Harper, even managed to win a match arguing “con” -- I cannot imagine how! There was a reporter present from the Sun.

November 15. A marvellous article is in today’s Sun about the great debate. Concluded we girls are all so articulate and well-informed, men have nothing to fear if women like us vote. . . .

November 18. We have been challenged by Boy’s Latin. They propose to meet us in February to debate that “Resolved, the vote is not what women really want.” Maybe the boys are trying to shock us. Well, Miss Blume has allowed us to accept their impertinent challenge.

November 22. I met Mrs. Tolliver by chance at the bootmaker’s yesterday. She consoled me on loss on Friday to St. Tim’s in field hockey. “It was a hard-fought game,” I replied stoically. “This time they were the better team.”

Martin, is piled high with schoolwork at Cornell, said his mother; we shall not see him this Thanksgiving holiday or even at Christmas. All the other Tollivers will again travel to Ithaca, New York for the holidays. Mrs. Tolliver promised to carry a small present to Martin from me.

November 23. On a postcard of a San Francisco cable car, Mrs. Downey reports her embarkation on the SS Galatea on November 16.

November 28, 1908. It is exactly a year since Tottie dined with us at Eutaw Place. Doro and I asked Aunt Enid please not to make an event of Thanksgiving this year; we should be miserable throughout, recalling dear Tottie. Confessing that her own sentiments were much the same, Aunt agreed that we shall pass the holiday in quiet contemplation rather than in feasting.

December 3, 1908. Henry Halloran is home for Christmas after touring with Ella
Shields and her company for eight weeks. They have been as far west as St. Louis, Missouri. I’ve insisted he come with Moira to call at Aunt’s — but as his alter ego, Miss Henrietta, of course!

December 7. Aunt Enid is cross that I have invited Moira and “Henrietta” to call at Eutaw Place. It is because Moira was in service here, and her sister and cousin still are on our household staff. Such things are simply not done, said Aunt.

I replied that Moira is my dear friend, and her brother a charming young fellow with rare talents (on which I did not elaborate)! If Aunt did not wish to receive them personally, so be it — but I desired with all my heart that she would allow me to welcome my friends to 1319 Eutaw Place.

My aunt yielded with just a bit of her accustomed grace. It is settled, then. Moira and the baby and “Henrietta” and a friend will come to tea next Saturday afternoon. I have invited Dorothy, too. Cook has promised sorbet and her sinfully rich tiramisu cake.

Aunt has relented — after hearing of Harry’s special talents, she says she will join us “for a while.”

December 12 (after supper). Oh, Diary, what fun! We are all simply entranced by “Henrietta!” There being four in all — Moira, her baby, “Henrietta” and a friend — they came by cab.

Defended from the chill only by scarves, Doro and I ran down to the sidewalk to meet Moira and Henrietta as they arrived. I regarded the assured young woman who had accompanied “Henrietta” as she tipped the coachman. Could it be that she also was an “actress”?

She joined us then, and Moira spoke. “May I introduce Miss Thornton, Harry’s governess? It is a strict condition of Miss Ella’s that he shall be under her supervision while travelling with the show. Miss Thornton sees to it that he doesn’t fall behind in schoolwork and, of course, that he is safe from harm in other ways.”

Ah, she was all woman, then! Miss Thornton nodded politely, and expressed pleasure at being included in our party.

I introduced Dorothy, we all exclaimed over the excellence of the day and went inside to the parlor. There the ladies removed their coats and hats, Aunt Enid joined us, and introductions were made all over again.

Aunt bade us sit, and immediately seized command of the conversation. “So — you are the gifted young man I’ve been hearing of, are you?” she said, regarding “Henrietta.”

“Yes, ma’am. I am Henry Halloran. Professionally, I’m known as Henrietta Hawkins. Thank you for allowing me to call on . . . er, at Eutaw Place.”

The illusion, if that’s what it was, Diary, is complete. Harry’s afternoon dress was a shade of green — olive, perhaps — that set off his coloring extraordinarily well. He wore an embroidered waist with puffed sleeves, a seven gored skirt and gray kid blucher boots. Befitting his tender years — he is barely 15 -- there was only a lace handkerchief pinned to the waist by way of garniture. . .

This is silly! From now on I shall omit the quotation marks and male pronouns. When Harry is Henrietta, she is all girl — no less than my dear friend Dorothy!

Yet. . . it was not only the clothes. Aunt Enid had expected some genre of burlesque, I suppose, not the elegant and well-spoken creature who sat demurely on the edge of her chair. Henrietta’s smile, the timbre of her voice and the tilt of her head were the epitome of maidenly charm; she made me feel positively clumsy!

I was reminded of the hugely comical scene in Mr. Shaw’s play, Pygmalion, when the flower girl Eliza Doolittle, after weeks of coaching by Professor Higgins, has tea with the snobbish Mrs. Eynsford-Hill and her friends, and absolutely charms all the ladies. It was hard not to giggle, Diary! My aunt’s jaw was hanging wide open as Henrietta explained that “Miss Ella has quite taken me under her wing. She says that with diligent application, I shall become every bit as proficient an illusionist as she. I intend to do my best.”

The show is going to England! Miss Ella Shields has just signed a contract for three months’ of engagements at music halls in London and other cities. They will sail from New York on the 22nd of January . . . Harry, Miss Thornton and all.

December 15. Henrietta has returned a charming note of thanks for Aunt’s hospitality. With it, she has forwarded an invitation. The Ella Shields troupe wishes the honor of our presence at a holiday masquerade ball on December 29. All the guests are requested to come attired as members of the sex they are not. To my astonishment, Aunt says ‘of course’ she will allow me and Doro to go — and she will accompany us!

I love disguises. Who shall I be? To be the sex I am not? But in truth, my sex is ambiguous, once my petticoats are stripped away. The logic of it is that I should go as a boy whose true sex is equally obscure. Perhaps Shakespeare’s Rosalind, in her disguse as Ganymede?

Dorothy will go as poor Oscar Wilde. I wish I’d thought of that!

December 16. What a brazen hussy I am! I have picked up the telephone and invited Frank Campbell to escort me to the Shields troupe masquerade. He agreed immediately. O, he will make a splendid Calamity Jane or Annie Oakley!

December 19. The Daughters of Charlotte will meet for holiday cheer this afternoon at Doebreiners Ice Cream Parlor. Dorothy is a diligent Secretary; she will not take “no” for an answer, and has secured pledges from all. Though it is on a Saturday, Rachel has promised that she will “slip out somehow.” For the first time, all thirteen of us will meet as one.

December 20. I have just been to Balthasar’s house, carrying presents for the children. That was only a pretext — Alexandra did not appear for our party yesterday; I was worried. Now I know the reason, and have the taste of ashes in my mouth. My colored friend was turned away at Doebreiners’ door! I ought to have foreseen a problem. What a dolt I am!

Alexandra said she was not surprised; such things are common. She supposed that had I told Doebreiners she had been engaged to entertain us as a musician, she might have allowed her to join us upstairs. That is something to remember, I suppose. Well, we shall not go there again — or anywhere else where my friend may be humiliated.

Christmas Day, 1908. Snow has been falling since yesterday noon. It is heaped high on the sidewalks and streets and we cannot possibly go out today. No matter, Dorothy, Aunt and I are snug and warm, and have passed the morning exchanging and opening presents.

Dorothy of course is terribly lonesome for her mother. There have been no letters yet from the far side of the world, only a telegram reporting Mrs. Downey’s safe arrival in Hong Kong on December 8.

December 27. The lovely snow has turned to brown mush already; such are Baltimore winters. Both Frank Campbell and Ted Rawlings have tramped through it today to 1319 Eutaw Place to be transformed into belles for the masquerade ball. With Pegeen’s expert help on the sewing machine, we have altered dresses and petticoats to encompass and disguise their male dimensions. The fall I wore when I first came to Baltimore is a perfect match for Ted’s hair. Frank must make do with a wig that he has found at the Campbells — it does not suit him, but he is not of a mind to spend twenty dollars on one that does.

By teatime, we had made marvellous progress. Conceiving that they required training in deportment, Dorothy and I required our beaus to wait upon Aunt in their new finery (minus shoes, for we have none that will fit their big feet). “Aunt Enid,” I said with a bow (for I had dressed as Ganymede), “it is our honor to present the Misses Griselda and Portulaca, the stepsisters of Princess Cinderella.” Ted executed a sort of curtsey; Frank was not so successful, and collapsed suddenly in a heap of organdy silk.

Once “Oscar” (Dorothy) and I had perched the “young ladies” on chairs and taught them to hold their teacups with elbows in and pinky prettily extended, Aunt enquired if they did not feel rather silly thus attired. Frank confessed that he had suppressed an urge to flee at one or two instances earlier in the afternoon, but now had come to enjoy the “game.” Ted pronounced himself quite at ease, and delighted to have the company of Masters Oliver and Ganymede. He confessed that he had always thought it a bit unfair that the girls should have all the pretty clothes.

December 28. With my maid Patsy's help, Pegeen has finished all the costumes, including Aunt’s. Dorothy and I have just returned from a shopping expedition. We found shoes that will fit Ted nicely and add two inches to his height. Frank’s feet are hopelessly large; he shall have to make do with his opera pumps; it is just as well, he already towers over me!

December 30. What a splendid party it was! The boys came to Eutaw Place to dress, and when we were all encostumed (Aunt Enid brilliant — and perfectly lecherous — as Benjamin Franklin), Gideon drove us all in the brougham to the Belvedere Hotel on Chase Street. The ballroom was already filling with the oddest miscellany of creatures — bearded and mustachioed “ladies,” long-haired men, beings who seemed in their choice of raiment to fit neither category, or either, or both. Compared to their guests, the sixteen members of the Shields troupe seemed to be quite normal.

As soon as he was freed of the receiving line, young Harry Halloran joined us, fairly bursting with excitement. He was gotten up in a silk brocade kimono and black Japanese wig. “Hello, Evi, Dorothy, how swell you are; O, it’s Mr. Benjamin Franklin, isn’t it? Is that really you, Mrs. Westcott? Who are these lovely ladies? How do you like me as Cho-Cho-san? Oh, and may I present his Excellency the Lord High Executioner?”

Lord Koko, garbed in a black kimono and hung with swords, was none other than the renowned impersonatrice Miss Ella Shields herself. Wooden clogs raised her to an imperious height. Our hostess greeted us warmly, then swept Aunt Enid away to meet other guests of her age.

I cannot fathom how “Henrietta” plays the girl so perfectly. In her manner, she is far more feminine than I will ever be. Frank and Ted simply gawked at her as she complimented them on their gowns.

“Lt. Pinkerton” wandered near, saw “Cho-cho” engrossed in conversation with us, scowled at me and “Oscar,” and turned on his heel. Harry could not suppress a giggle. “She is madly jealous — though I’ve given her no encouragement. Silly goose!”

“It is remarkable,” Frank said to me much later that night, after we had danced ourselves weary, “how oddly unsexed I feel in this dress and undergarments. Yet you seem to think nothing of strutting the boy in your velvet suit and cap. And whereas every glance in the mirror reveals me an imposter and clown (and I am happy at that!), you make a manly lad, Fauntleroy’s own mother’s dream. How do you do it?”

“O,” I said, squeezing his arm, “perhaps I am just a better actor than you, dear Portulaca. I was something of a tomboy as a child. And no artifice can hide those cowboy muscles of yours.”

December 31. Another year is gone! Aunt Enid and I have had a long talk about my future. I confessed my desire to study medicine. “I should like nothing more than to continue the work that Dr. Tottie began,” I said. “If you will finance my studies, I shall make it my first duty to pay you back when I am able.”

“O, tut, child! Why should you pay me back” my aunt exclaimed. “I have more money than I can ever spend — perhaps more than I can give away — why should I not spend it on one so deserving as you?

I began to sniffle with happiness.

“Evelyn, I mean what I said. You are the daughter I thought lost forever. How long since you came to live with me — two and one half years? You were such a sad, sweet boy then. I took a great risk, the risk of freeing you from your masculine fetters, and how you have bloomed, my dear! In spirit, in strength of character, you are everything I wished for in my own child.”

I soaked my handkerchief, blotting up the tears that streamed down my cheeks. How fortunate I am! If only I can live up to my Aunt’s expectations.

“Aunt Enid,” I said when I had recovered my composure, “God willing, I shall not fail you. May I ask another favor, a special favor?” She nodded. “You recall Alexandra Cooper, don’t you? She is a terribly gifted musician. Can you help her to study at the Peabody Conservatory?”

Sunday, January 3rd. Frank Campbell telephoned yesterday. He was about to return to college, he said, and wished to see me first. Amused by his preemptory summons, I accepted his offer to lunch at a steakhouse not far from our house. Frank was at the Ox and Flagon already when I arrived, having come directly from church, and offered me a taste from the stein he nestled in his hairy paw. “This is excellent dark beer; would you like some?” I chose a glass of white wine instead. That set the scene: we were two grown-up people with minds of our own — notwithstanding that I am still 16 and he is barely 20.

Frank thanked me for accepting his abrupt invitation. He should have sent a thank you note after the Masquerade, he said. That event had made an impression on him, in fact, he’d been brooding about it, no, brooding about me and my friends and himself. He’d felt odd, twitchy, the entire evening in his dress and wig, and he assumed that was the normal way to feel. Yet I had seemed fully at ease, perhaps a bit extroverted actually in my guise as Rosalind in disguise as the boy, Ganymede. Well, girls are different. But then, Henry Halloran was entirely comfortable and convincing as his alter ego, Henrietta. Frank understood that, he said. Harry has found a way to fascinate women; there is no doubt about his real sex and that is the wonder of his acting skill.

Frank paused that we might order our meal. I chose oysters Rockefeller, and he a porterhouse steak and chips. Did I want another glass of wine? I did not. Might he have another beer? Yes (what else could I say?).

Dorothy, Frank continued, is so female that she could not even be convincing as Oscar Wilde. That left Ted. Ted Rawlings and Frank had been close ever since they could remember; best friends at school and in summer holidays as well. After graduation from Latin, Frank had gone west and Ted begun painting. People said he had talent, which is swell, if true. But, Frank asked me, had I noticed how greatly his chum Ted seemed to enjoy dressing up as a girl?

I confessed that I’d perhaps noticed that, but I had been charmed by Frank’s awkwardness far more than I had remarked anything about Ted. He was, I pointed out, Dorothy’s beau.

“Speaking of awkward, Sally says you were the clumsiest girl she’d ever seen when you first came to Bryn Mawr.” Frank made a statement but I read it as a question, as I was supposed to.

“I was fresh from the backwoods of Pennsylvania. Fortunately, I was a demon with a hockey stick. Your sister and a few others were kind to me, too.”

“She says you are now a cinch for ‘Best Girl.’”

“We shall see. I have a talent for getting tangled up. It’s Sally who deserves the prize.”

The entrees came; we applied ourselves to them silently for a few moments till Frank spoke again. “To tell the truth, Evelyn, I am very attracted to you.”

“For my part,” I replied truthfully, “I am attracted yet apprehensive. You are a great deal older than I.”

“I take it that I may call on you then? There is no understanding between you and Martin Tolliver?”

“O, Martin is a good friend, no more than that. Yes, I shall be happy if you call. My aunt likes you, and I trust you shall not disappoint her.”

January 7, 1909. Dorothy has had a letter at last from her mother. Mrs. Downey was seasick for days, but much improved by the time of the SS Galatea’s arrival in Hong Kong. (The crossing took exactly three weeks, with a stop in Yokohama, Japan. She had embarked from San Francisco on November 16 under the protection of Major MacKenzie.) Mrs. Downey would continue to Saigon unescorted on the morrow (December 10) she said, on the Messageries Maritimes steamer Alsace.

January 15, 1909. With Aunt Enid’s knowledge and Miss Thornton’s consent, “Henrietta Hawkins” and I spent an afternoon together inspecting the paintings from Europe recently hung at the Art Museum. I had much to discuss, and “Etta” (I am bade address her so) was also in the mood to share confidences. So we lingered long in the café there over tea and cakes.

Henrietta was again splendidly turned out in a rather old-fashioned style. Miss Thornton and Miss Ella insist that she wear a corset, Etta says, to mold her body against its nature into a feminine form. The effect on my 14 year-old friend is stunning: Henrietta seems innocent and full of feminine allure at the same time. So winsome is she that she rivets the attention of everyone who shares the same space. Mine included, I must confess.

I had sought Etta’s company because — after giving the matter much thought — I wished my friend to know of Balthasar’s extract. Without it, Etta is doomed to grow tall, her voice to deepen, her shoulders to broaden. I had taken care to confide in Balthasar, who also reflected hard on the matter. We had concluded that I should take Henrietta into our confidence.

I explained the nature of the elixir, and how I came to know of it. My voice broke uncontrollably as I spoke of poor Tottie! Recovering, I asked Etta if, were she to be assured of a regular supply of the Balthasar’s extract, would she not wish to share its miraculous benefit?

I had expected Henrietta to be astounded by my confidences. Instead she shyly confessed that Moira had intimated the same to her, and for much the same reason — that is, she had encouraged Etta to ask me to secure for her a supply of the extract that stifles male development and, evidently by omission, allows an ample measure of female semblitude.

“Evelyn, dear friend, do not be angry with me,” Henrietta said softly. “You offer something rare, and I love you for your kindness. And yet — I shall refuse. Not because I am afraid, or ungrateful, but because my art does not permit it.

“The audience expects artifice, not alteration. Just as Ella Shields, every inch and breath a female, is able to persuade those watching her to suspend belief and thrill to her apparent manliness, so I aspire to achieve in the opposite quarter. If I can, I shall be, on the stage at least, a woman through art and not by chemistry.”

So that is it, Diary. Etta and the rest of the Shields company will leave for England on the Carpathia in scarce two weeks’ time. When I see her again, I think she will have either won her gamble or have nobly failed.

January 18. Another letter from Dorothy’s mother. She arrived in Saigon, French Indo-China, on December 14. She writes that it is a city of about 300,000 people. The great majority are of course Asians: Chinese, Indians and “Annamites.” She says the Annamites, who are the indigenous race, are very polite, work all the time and live in the most crowded conditions. The land is rich and the market is well supplied with all kinds of fresh food. Very few of the natives are wealthy, but they are by and large scrupulously clean and seem well-fed. Even so, the native quarters are deemed very unhealthy for white people.

There is a European community of perhaps 25,000 souls, also counting the Asian women who have married Frenchmen and their children, and it has all the amenities of civilization, even an opera house! Mrs. Downey considers that the Saigon Central Post Office would do credit to Baltimore. She has taken a room at the Majestic Hotel, a six story edifice with excellent plumbing and electric lifts. From her balcony, she has a fine view of a broad, muddy river and the busy quai below.

She has met M. DuCroix, the lawyer. Together they have reviewed her papers. DuCroix expresses confidence that Mrs. Downey’s claim on behalf of Dorothy to most of her husband’s estate will stand up in the colony’s Tribunal de Grand Instance; he pronounced her papers “complete and conclusive.” M. DuCroix has communicated the same to Mr. Downey’s solicitors. A meeting has been arranged for a few days’ hence — that is (or was) to be on December 19. It is understood that Mr. Downey is gravely ill.

January 22. Today the Ella Shields troupe sailed from New York for Liverpool. Aunt and I arranged for a good luck bouquet to be waiting in Henrietta’s stateroom. Our talented young friend telegraphed his thanks.

January 25. Today there was another letter from Dorothy’s mother, posted from Saigon on December 22. She writes that she has been suffering some intestinal distress; it is said to be a “rite de passage” for newcomers to the colony. There is good news — the solicitors have agreed that Edgar Downey was and remains the legal husband of Lutetia Downey and father of Dorothy. Further, they agree in principle that in the event of Downey’s death, Mrs. Downey is entitled to one-quarter of it. The rest will be shared equally by Dorothy and Downey’s three children by an Annamite woman. As Downey is counted among the richest men of the colony, it seems that Dorothy’s fortune is made!

January 30. I have been giving Alexandra some German lessons. She is determined that the words of the lieder she sings shall be pronounced as Herr Shubert intended. It is not a matter of learning to speak the language, only of singing it properly. Aunt Enid, who has a far better ear than I, declares that Alexandra's voice is of rare quality.

February 2. Diary! My aunt has made the most marvellous plan! As I had hoped, we shall go together to Europe after my graduation from Bryn Mawr. She has wanted to visit old friends in Paris and Vienna; this seems an excellent time to do so. O, there is nothing better to motivate me to throw myself into German for the rest of the year! Command of German is essential for anyone serious about science and medicine.

Perhaps we shall also travel in Italy — and I shall see Fiona again.

February 9. Mrs. Downey has met her husband, Dorothy’s father. He has a villa in the European quarter of Saigon, she writes. It is spacious, set in grounds that are a well-tended jungle of exotic flowers and vines and shaded by tall trees. Edgar Downey received her with his consort and two daughters.

He is gaunt, she says, and in pain despite calibrated doses of morphine. He sat propped up in a chair, unable to rise to greet her but perfectly lucid throughout their meeting. Speaking with difficulty, Downey begged her forgiveness that he had left her in want and with child eighteen years past. “It was an inexcusable act, yet God rewarded me with great wealth before punishing me with this wasting sickness. My riches are of no use to me now, but I can at least die happy that you, Dorothy, and my wife and children here are well-provided for.”

“Mr. Downey’s remorse was so manifest,” Dorothy’s mother wrote, “that against my intention, I forgave him then and there.”

She pronounces herself charmed by his present wife and daughters. (There is a son as well; his name is Etienne and he has been sent to France to prepare for university.) “I cannot pronounce her name at all properly — it is something like Bik—Nock — so we have agreed that I shall call her “Little Sister.” She and her daughters know little English, and I have no French, of course, so we communicate mainly by gestures sometimes supplemented by drawings! The girls are Sophie, 12, and Madeline, 10; they attend the school for French girls here.

Dorothy has sent back a letter to her half-sisters written in her best Bryn Mawr French, and another to her father.

February 13. Yesterday, Miss Blume announced the selections for our debate with Boys Latin. It will be held on March 9. Winifred Clem and I are paired again but must argue “con.” Why on earth did we accept this proposition? Are Win and I supposed to argue that women don’t want the vote? Or that we want the vote and much more?

February 14. It is not that I doubted that someday man would fly, Diary, just that I never imagined someone close to me would escape the tug of gravity — and now Martin writes that the machine that will bear him skyward is nearly complete. Martin describes this pastiche of wires and cloth as though he were singing the praises of a lover. I imagine the machine waiting patiently in a moonlit barn for a masculine impulse that will send it into the heavens. After the ice melts, Martin and his mates will take it to Hammondsport, a town 40 miles and two long lakes away from Ithaca. There they will send this aircraft aloft under the guidance of a Mr. Glenn Curtiss.

February 19. Dorothy’s father has passed on. He never received her letter, of course. “Mr. Downey’s last days were relatively free of pain,” her mother writes. “The end being inevitable, his doctors assisted him there by greater and greater doses of morphine. I had moved into the house, fancying that I could relieve Bik-Nok of some work, and indeed these past weeks we have indeed become like ‘sisters’,” sharing our bedside vigil.

“Mr. Downey passed away on January 21, the eve of the native ‘new year,’ which follows the cycles of the moon, while drumming and firecrackers resounded from the streets. I understand it is the “Year of the Rooster.” Now, while other families are visiting and feasting, we are dressed all in white, the color of mourning here, waiting until Downey may be decently buried. He insisted on the native rites. There is a man who plays incessantly on a horn that makes a noise very much like a bagpipe; to my ears it is tuneless. Since early this morning, there has been a parade of friends and family (hers) who light joss sticks and pay their last respects, and then sit with us and feast. I am accorded the respect due to an ‘elder wife.’

“I expect, my dear Dorothy,” continues Mrs. D, “that this intimacy may seem very bizarre to you, and in truth it has surprised me. I can not escape thinking that perhaps it is the Annamites, and not we Americans or the French who lord it over all here, who are the wiser and more civilized race.”

February 20. Diary, I am growing alarmingly fond of Frank Campbell. Annapolis is not so far away. Though I fear he neglects his schoolwork, Frank has come up to Baltimore nearly every weekend. We have been to the moving pictures, the vaudeville and once at my insistence to the Peabody for chamber music followed by iced cream. We have taken a long wintery walk up Druid Hill. I have permitted him to put his arm about my waist and kiss my cheek.

Frank is entirely the gentleman, and yet he excites me as Martin cannot. Perhaps it is because Martin seems to think of me almost by accident, when he is not thinking of aeroplanes or designing suspension bridges. When Frank is with me, it seems that I am all that matters to him. I have told him that I have high ambitions and am not at all ripe for plucking; that seems not to faze him one whit.

Martin is still very dear. I mailed him a package of handkerchiefs I have monogrammed — not too badly! They should reach Ithaca in time for his 19th birthday.

February 22 (Washington's Birthday). Dr. Prochnik allowed me to use the laboratory all day again this holiday. He is intrigued by my research (which he imagines has no immediate application). I have ten adolescent male guinea pigs at school. Referring to certain prior work by Steinach, an Austrian researcher, I have been feeding the purified extract to six of the guinea pigs, three of which I castrated. All six have developed female characteristics and behaviors. Physically, the six developed the nipples and mammary glands of females, and behaviorally, the six all presented the lordosis response when stroked, just like a female in estrus. The controls show no anatomical or behavioral changes.

February 23. I have been trying to think up a name for the substance. Gynol, perhaps? Or perhaps a word combining "estrus" with "diol," as the substance is a diol that induces behavior mimicking estrus. Estradiol? No, I like Gynol.

February 24. Yes, Martin confirms it. Curtiss is the aviator who won the Scientific American Trophy last summer.

February 28. My dear old Aunt will not yield to my entreaties. She is still set against buying an automobile. In her opinion, the trolley serves us (me) excellently for daily needs, and there is always Gideon and the brougham or the landau when the occasion requires it.

Doro is getting along very well with Ted Rawlings. He is teaching her to paint. They spend many hours together at his studio in the Rawlings house. She says he has made no untoward advances — that is fine with her.

March 5. Frank has been sent home from St. John’s College! He and the Dean have concluded that the classics are not for him. He cannot guess what to do now. Frank’s father wants him to join him and his uncle at the textile mill. Mr. Campbell’s health is failing rapidly, so Frank can hardly refuse him.

March 10. The Great Debate.

“Make no mistake. We want the vote and we want it now. The vote is the key — without it, women are condemned to a permanent inferiority.” That was me in our opening statement.

“Women’s moral superiority will vanish if they have the vote. Accept that God has given men and women different natures, and do not debase yours by seeking to be like men.” Bruce Somebody — skinny, with a big adam’s apple bobbing up and down!

“If you do not give us the vote, we shall wrest it from you. In doing so, women will discover their real strength. Of course we want equality of incomes, property rights, the right to divorce and to custody of our children. All that will follow naturally.” That was Win.

“Open the gates of suffrage, and what else may follow? Anarchy in social relations, no doubt.” A prig named Arthur Somerset.

“The notion that — other than certain biological facts — there is an essential difference between men and women is a fraud perpetrated by men to justify their domination of women inside and outside of marriage.” (Win, a bit shrill, perhaps, but right of course!)

“A recipe for confusion of sexual and moral roles and the disintegration of the social order!” (Arthur again.)

“Standards will fall to the lowest common denominator — the standards of the field hand or the immigrant masses.” (Bruce — could he believe this nonsense? Evidently yes, for he went on to apprehend mongrelization of the races and reversion to a primitive state, all because women might vote!)

“Let’s face it. You males are right. The argument about suffrage is in fact an argument about sex.” (Me -- I was improvising; a thought had suddenly come clear to me.) “As long as men can pretend that because of our sex — and the giddy, flighty things that it does to our brains — women should be denied the vote, the longer we can be denied also the right to compete with you and the right to govern our own bodies.”

“Had you awarded us the ballot with good grace, now it would not loom so large a test. Your dogged resistance confirms our suspicion that it is not to protect us but to contain us that you refuse us the vote.” (Me, again)

We’d won hands down; Win and I were sure of it. Our jury decided otherwise — Win and I were too strident, they said, unladylike! We had ourselves confessed that behind the campaign for the suffrage there lurked an ulterior motive. . . .
And, in a way, the jury was right. It is all about sex. To quote Elizabeth Elmy: “It is the fear of men that women will cease to be any longer their sexual slaves either in or out of marriage that is at the root of the whole opposition to our just claim. No doubt their fear is justified, for that is precisely what we do mean.”
I remember, when I was was a boy and still thought I should grow up to be a man — it was scarce three years ago — that to be a girl was to be an inherently lesser being, a being requiring management, a mere assistant and enabler, neither leader nor creator. Well, that’s a myth too many women have believed. That’s not the kind of woman I’m going to be.

March 12, 1909. It is the anniversary of Tottie’s cruel death. Dorothy and I have been quietly miserable all day long. The Daughters of Charlotte (or “Tottie’s Kids”) will meet again tomorrow at the YWCA in her honor.

March 14. By the testimony of the girls, our arrangement with Dr. Weiss is working well. All but two or three of us have now visited him. When feasible, he has communicated with their regular doctors. Dr. Weiss has treated several girls for serious complaints. Jane Ellen’s cough is appreciably better. Helen has not been well; we all urged her to consult Dr. Weiss and she has agreed. At breakfast this morning, I conveyed to Aunt Enid everyone’s gratitude for her generosity — she has given Dr. Weiss a substantial sum on account to cover medical costs that are beyond the means of any of the girls.

I reported that we have tested a dried and purer form of the extract successfully on the guinea pigs. It is stable at temperatures up to 120 degrees Farenheit. Since the beginning of February, Alexandra and I have been taking a lozenge daily in lieu of the monthly injections. If all goes well, the lozenges will be available to all of Tottie’s Girls by June.

Eilidh renewed her plea on account of her brother. The boy is miserable, she says. He absolutely refuses to go to school; neither blandishments nor threats can move him from his conviction that “God meant for me to be a girl.” Eilidh had no sooner spoken than half a dozen of us were crying, and testifying to our own torture before Balthasar’s extract and Tottie’s understanding had freed us to “be our real selves.”

I thought it my duty to remind the girls that Tottie would not treat males who had no physical abnormalities; her mission, she insisted, was to undo past mistakes in the assignment of gender and help young people “fit into their true sex.”

“What about me, then,” asked Dorothy. She was Tottie’s one exception, but only because she had taken a kitchen knife to her male member. I felt duty-bound to remind Doro of that fact.

Alexandra Cooper’s voice broke the silence that followed. “I, uh, maybe most of you know already that unlike the rest of you, Dr. Tottie did not choose me. My uncle Balthasar did. He saw me suffering, just like Sister Eilidh’s brother is suffering. He saw that every day for me was like Jesus hanging on the cross, and at last he couldn’t stand it any longer and cut me down.

“Everybody knows that the stuff my uncle makes tastes terrible, but it works. Physically, I was a normal boy; now I look and I feel 100% girl. I think you should make an exception for — what’s he call himself, Eilidh? — Alicia’s case.”

We women are creatures of sentiment, Diary. Eilidh said her parents hoped for our favorable judgment. A unanimous vote followed. Provided that Dr. Weiss examines the boy and discovers no physical or mental hygiene reason to deny treatment to “Alicia,” Balthasar is authorized to provide a double dose of the extract to Eilidh’s household.

March 23. Dorothy’s mother has found a packet to Manila. There she will board a steamship for Panama, cross the isthmus by rail, and in Panama City, seek a ship bound for Baltimore or Philadelphia. She posted a last letter before leaving Saigon on February 22. There has been a partial division of the estate; the great bulk of it will not become liquid until sale of the Downey plantations is completed. There are some 2900 acres of prime rubber trees, tended by nearly six hundred Annamite workers. M. DuCroix will see to the protection of the Downeys’ interest (for a hefty fee, I should imagine!). Dorothy’s mother is expected to dock in New York very soon. Were it not for school, I imagine Dorothy would be on the train to meet her! They who have never been apart have now been separated for nearly four months.

March 28. Yesterday a letter from Henrietta! She has lapped me, the minx! Her letter is 100% Etta; I shall copy it in verbatim:

Writing from Manchester, tour has been great success and will be extended to include Edinboro, Glasgow and a second fortnight in London. I am being starved and must exercise my voice to the point of strain daily to keep command of the upper registers. But I adore it — O, Evi, how swell it is when we have done excerpts from Pinafore (I am the captain’s daughter, Nell, of course, and Miss Ella is the Captain) and a great roar of approval rises from the audience!

My room has been filled with the gifts of admirers, flowers every night and more than once a brooch or necklace. There is speculation in the papers — am I or am I not?

And O, Evi, a most marvelous thing — it is scandalous, really, but as you already know everything about me, I shall tell you. If it is disagreeable, tell me and I shall be more discreet in the future.

We at last had a holiday at the end of our London run, a whole week of idlness beckoned, when I received an invitation, transmitted properly care of Miss Ella, from a Mr. Smythe to join him and his family at their country home. The invitation was accepted for me and my governess, Miss Thornton. On the appointed day, as a brougham waited outside our hotel, it was apparent that Miss T was in no shape to travel. She had been felled by a sudden flu. What to do? — the Smythes awaited below, I wanted desperately to go — when Mrs. Smythe herself appeared at our suite and undertook my protection.

It was like in the novels: big house, servants, etc. I was housed in the wing adjacent to Jonathan, who pressed his attentions until I had no alternative but to speak to his parents. I was immediately reassigned to the girls’ quarters, to share a suite surrounding the former nursery with Sophy, 15 and Olivia, 16. Both are English roses their parents are grooming for a match to some young lordling or other.

Dinner ended, we retired to our rooms and gratefully stripped to our chemises. Corsets really are tedious. At once S&O demanded proof of my sex. . . .at length I satisfied them with a brief glimpse that excited ahhs.

Shortly after midnight, I became aware of a scratching at my door. It was Olivia, who initiated me into the delights of intimate relations. Scance half an hour after Olivia left me with happy dreams, it was Sophy who demanded her turn. Understand me, Evi — I did not corrupt these girls. They corrupted me, and how lovely it is. Miss T would kill me, I think!

We shall be home again in May.

April 6. Flora and I have called out the girls for practice. No one needs to be reminded that we have lost the field hockey trophy to St. Tim’s. All are resolved to practice hard three afternoons a week that we may regain it!

April 8. At last Doro’s mother is returned to Baltimore after an heroic journey of more than 20,000 miles to restore her fortunes and especially Dorothy’s. Mrs. D. has rested these last few days’ at my Aunt’s, rehearsing the details of her adventure. One might be tempted to think her embellishing the story unless one had seen the small gold bars that she removed last night from the hem of her skirt, or seen the photographs she has brought back of Dorothy’s half-brother and half-sisters. They are fine-featured children who resemble Dorothy considerably notwithstanding their swarthier complexions and jet black hair.

April 12. I had thought Dorothy’s mother the giddiest of women. I see I have underestimated her. Perhaps it was constant awareness of the “wolf at the door” that caused her to behave so erratically. Now a telegram advises that their fortune is secure. The rubber estate has been sold and 43,000 dollars have been sent here by bank transfer. Mrs. Downey is so resolved to buy a certain house on Bolton Street, not two blocks away from Aunt, that she has offered as much as was asked.

Well, it is decided. My grades are such that I shall neither catch Mary Alice (let alone Beatrice) nor sink back a whit if I miss a week of school. Trudy Welch’s situation is no different, so I with Aunt Enid’s permission and she with her parents’ have accepted the invitations of my dear Martin Tolliver and his friend Tom Armstrong to be their guests at Cornell University.

I am told, informally and by whom I will not say except that she has participated already, that Cornell’s ‘Spring Weekend’ is a veritable bacchanale. I suppose we shall be in safe hands, however. Martin informs that for at least two days of the four, Trudy and I shall be guests of the Curtiss Aeroplane Works in Hammondsport, NY.

April 17. O, Diary, a most startling thing! I was at Dorothy’s house on Federal Hill this afternoon, helping her sort out things in anticipation of the Downeys’ move “uptown.” Returning home late, I chose to change trolleys at Druid Hill Avenue; it is a rough section, but I stood to gain a full ten minutes. Well, while I waited in the dusk for the uptown car, I heard a voice I knew instantly: it was Frank Campbell, speaking familiarly to a companion. Something stayed me from stepping out to greet him. His companion was a woman, I discerned, not especially young and definitely not respectable! It was all “Dearie” this and “Luv” that! I know I ought not have eavesdropped, but in fact I was trapped there — I could not help but overhear!

As the trolley approached, Frank gave the woman an envelope. “But when will you visit me again, dear Harold?” she asked him. He did not answer, only pressed her arm and ascended the car. I hesitated, bit my lip and followed him aboard.

Frank had taken the last empty seat. Of course, he rose and offered it to me, expressing pleasure at our chance encounter. I did not accept. My face, I am sure, betrayed my distress, for Frank’s smile vanished. “Frank Rawlings,” I whispered — perhaps hissed is a better verb — “I am greatly disillusioned. I shall not wish to see you again.”

Frank, gentleman enough to know the consequence of being caught red-handed, did not protest my reproach. Fortuitously, the trolley squealed to a stop at Dolphin Street. Red-faced, mumbling “sorry, sorry indeed,” he bolted from the car.

What now? Frank is charming but obviously a rogue. No, I shall not meet him again. I have heard too many stories of the diseases men contact when they frequent the demi-monde.

April 18. Flowers delivered with Frank's card. Not a word of explanation.

April 28. Alexandra Cooper sang at one of my aunt’s soirees last night, accompanying herself on the piano. She sang two of those lieder, a solo from Cavalleria Rusticana, and a gospel song as well. By arrangement, Mr. Endicott was present. Aunt Enid's friend is the arbiter of Baltimore’s musical taste — well, one of them — and the head of the admissions committee at the Peabody.

My task as the evening ended was to prevent Mr. Endicott from leaving with the other guests. Presently my aunt joined us and pressed the case for Alex’s admission. Yes, he agreed, she is unusally gifted for a Negro. Yes, the conservatory has scholarship funds for gifted students. But no, he maintained, my friend could not be allowed to matriculate at the Peabody Conservatory. Negros have a talent for mimicry and an extraordinary sense of rhythm, he said, but that can never make up for their inherent primitivism. It would not be fair to Alexandra to thrust her into situations that demanded more perseverence and artistic sensibility than she could ever command. For such good and proper reasons, the Peabody did not have places for colored persons; it was a matter of well-established policy, as Mrs. Westcott doubtless knew.

My dear Aunt Enid was furious, or seemed so though Endicott’s answer could not have been a surprise. “Then do this,” she hissed. “Recommend her to Oberlin. If they do not have ready money, I shall make them a donation.”

Endicott assented, and scuttled out the door. I thanked my aunt for her generosity to my friend. “It is all the same,” she said. “Once she has been accepted at Oberlin Conservatory, I shall simply stop my annual contribution to the Peabody. They won’t get another cent from me until they disestablish that odious ‘policy.’”

May 5. Well, Trudy and I are well-launched on our journey. Though she has been my classmate for two years and the mainstay of the basket-ball squad, I think I have only got to know her today. Trudy is a buxom, jolly girl, somewhat scatter-brained but awfully kind withal.

With only one change of trains, we will arrive this evening in Hammondsport. Martin and his friend Tom are there already. Tomorrow morning, they will test the machine they have built.

Yesterday was my 17th birthday. Aunt has given me a silver and amethyst brooch that was her mother's. I am wearing it now.

May 5, bis. The train was of course late. The boys were waiting at the station with Tom’s motorcar. My, it is good to see my Martin again! Trudy is pleased by her first sight of Tom. Mrs. Curtiss has put up Trudy and me comfortably in an upstairs room. Mr. Curtiss is downstairs, his diagrams spread on the dining table, enwreathed by cigar smoke and adoring undergraduates.

May 6. This morning we all trooped out to the Curtiss Works on the shore of Lake Keuka. There were several aircraft available for our inspection, including the “June Bug” which has won Mr. Curtiss the Scientific American Trophy. However, the center of attention today, of course, was the Cornell machine.

Eight or nine young men had come from the Cornell Engineering College altogether. The craft they have been working on all winter is not much bigger than a rowboat. It has just room for a pilot. Three flights were planned: Tom was to fly first, then another boy, and last of all my Martin.

On the dubious grounds that we had travelled the greatest distance for the event, Trudy and I were chosen to christen the “Butterfly.” We could not smash a bottle on it, of course, so we sprinkled its propeller with New York State champagne.

The control system of the Butterfly is of a new design. Martin says that achieving precise control of an aircraft is the great challenge at present. The design of the wing to provide “lift” is well understood, and powerful, lightweight gasoline engines have been developed by Mr. Curtiss. Guiding the craft is another matter. The person flying an airplane must control its movement precisely in three dimensions by pulling on wires to adjust “flaps.”

Tom Armstrong climbed aboard, started the engine, checked the controls, aimed the Butterfly into the wind and pulled out the throttle. Notwithstanding popping noises, the machine gathered speed. As it did, Trudy clenched my arm in a death grip. It neared the edge of the lake, Tom pulled back on the control wheel, and with a few yards to spare the diminutive craft was aloft! A great cheer went up from the Cornell boys.

Martin ran over to me and Trudy. “Look, it is responding perfectly,” he said, handing me a set of binoculars. Indeed, the Butterfly was dancing and darting in the air like its namesake! I gave my friend a hug and told him he must be very happy. He confessed that he was indeed, and added that only one thing could make him happier. I was at a loss to reply — though I am not surprised by Martin’s declarations of loyal affection, what can I answer him, Diary? At that moment, I was spared the necessity of a reply. A great shout went up — Tom Armstrong’s craft had dived suddenly, a few hundred yards from shore. Through Martin’s binoculars, I saw Tom pulling hard on the wheel, pulling the Butterfly almost level only a few feet above the water, then watching it slip inexorably to the right until a wing touched the water and the craft spun around hard. Scant seconds later, boats were alongside, pulling Tom from the lake and securing floats to the Butterfly.

“Tom is hurt,” I said to Trudy, handing her the binoculars.

They brought Tom ashore with utmost care. He was ruefully regarding his left leg, which was bent out at an odd angle, and cracking jokes as we awaited the ambulance. Visibly distressed, Trudy sponged Tom’s brow and commanded someone to fetch a blanket. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he told her. “It’s just some bruises. We’ll be dancing on Saturday.”

The ambulance came and clattered off to the hospital. Trudy and I donned our dusters and followed with Martin in Tom’s automobile. When we arrived, Tom was already in the emergency room. From time to time the door opened, and we could hear him remonstrating with someone. Then all was quiet for an hour. At length, a doctor came out to speak to Mr. Curtiss.

“I’ve given the boy a shot of morphine to quiet him down and set the bone. They are putting him in a cast now. A rib is cracked, too, I think. Lucky it wasn’t worse. You fellows are crazy, Glenn.”

“Well, Hiram, we’d hate to see a fine emergency room like yours go unused. When can you discharge Tom?”

“I ought to keep him for a few days, but he insists he has an important obligation back in Ithaca. We’ll let him out tomorrow, I guess, if he isn’t worse.”

Friday evening, May 7. We are at last in Ithaca, NY. The sun was setting behind us as we arrived after rocketing 40 miles in Tom Armstrong’s Stanley Steamer automobile. My Martin drove it, of course, me next to him in an ankle length duster, cap, goggles and scarf, Trudy and Tom in back — he on pillows and very manfully enduring what must have been a great deal of pain, she adoringly stroking his cheek or chuffing his hair from time to time. Except for a brief, bouncy stretch above a town called Homer, the road was surprisingly firm. Only once was it necessary to change a tire.

Martin says he has urged his father to invest in Stanley Company shares. He is sure that within another twenty years, half the homes in America will have “steamers” in their stables.

Martin has delivered Trudy and me with his Aunt Polly and Uncle Spencer Richardson, kind people who live in the city below the Cornell campus, and has taken Tom off to bed. We are missing a dance tonight on account of Tom’s mishap, but we shall get an early start tomorrow!

Sunday. It is hard to write in this train, it jiggles so. O, we have had fun, Diary. The Cornell campus is splendid. I think I have seen it all. It is full of stately elms, and bordered on either side by deep gorges with streams at the bottom. Martin says they, like the long, deep lakes in this region, were carved by glaciers thousands of years ago. There are two score of handsome academic buildings atop the hill. The library is adorned by a bell tower with a marvellous carillon; at noon its peals resound for half an hour to the ends of the campus. Scattered about the edges of the campus are the dormitories and fraternity houses where the students live.

Martin belongs to one of the fraternities, Kappa Upsilon. If he did not, he should not have a social life, he said. Well, it was a nice enough place, and his “brothers” seemed well-behaved. Women are allowed within the “house” only on festive “weekends” like this one — there are three each year. After a jolly dinner, Martin and I walked to another “house” a hundred yards away. We were resigned to passing up a band concert to spend the evening instead with Tom and Trudy. As we arrived at Sigma Kappa Phi, however, there emerged from its great hall a litter borne by twelve stalwart lads, with Tom and Trudy atop it.

“What ho! Martin! Evelyn! Follow us! Onward, lads!” cried Martin’s plaster-cased chum. And so we did get to the concert, Diary, and when it was ended, to a gala dance. Two orchestras from New York City, one at either end of the huge new drill hall, took turns playing waltzes, tangos and rags. You know I liked it, Diary. I have learned a new step called the maxixe which leaves one quite breathless. Martin took care that I had plenty of partners from among his engineer friends and fraternity brothers, while Tom, seated in state atop his litter, directed his bearers one by one to wait on Trudy.

Last night, I slept as one dead, and was barely revived when Martin came round at eight. We could hardly skip Sunday services — he being a preacher’s son — but he knew a chapel where they raced through them in forty-five minutes. That left us time to see the Cornell Redmen win a hard-fought clash with the lacrosse team from Dartmouth College, and then to have a late lunch at Kappa Upsilon before we, and so many other boys with their dates, headed for the railroad station.

Trudy is thoroughly smitten. I literally had to pry her apart from her Tom when our train arrived. And I, Diary — what am I to do? Martin says he loves me, and will not desist from doing so. He is resolved that some day I must surrender!

May 14. While I was away at Cornell University last week, the girls put the finishing touches on our Decoration Day plan. We do not dare meet all together or at school for fear of giving it away; in fact, most of the girls know only that there will be a “manifestation” for womens’ suffrage — details to follow. I had not guessed that either Ellie Hochner or Sally Campbell would emerge as hellions, but they are as resolute as Winifred Clem, and so are Beatrice Cohen and Mary Alice Webb. Trudy and I could not seem less determined, of course, and we have all brought along many of the younger girls. There will be at least sixty of us.

May 20. We have revenged ourselves on St. Tim's, 4-2. Flora Cooper was brilliant!

May 31, 2 am. I am writing this in jail! I have just sent away my Aunt’s lawyer. I told Mr. Briggs that posting bail would render our manifestation meaningless; its whole point is to win publicity for the Cause by showing how brave we girls are, and how foolish are the elected men who direct the police.

Jail is not so bad, though it is a long while between trips to the WC. Eighteen of us from Bryn Mawr were snared by the forces of law and order. We are six to a cell, and the object of sympathy and curiosity to the other women here. They themselves have been brought in since early evening in ones and twos for, they say, such sins as “disorderly conduct” (crowned her husband with a frying pan when he tried to beat her) and “public lewdness” (chased a man down the street when he failed to compensate her for an evening’s company). We have taught them to sing with us — “Shout the Revolution” rings out spontaneously from all the cells. I am sure the reporters camped in the great hall of the Downtown Jail can hear us well.

O, our business yesterday morning was a perfect lark! At about 11 a.m., we girls were mingled unobtrusively among the crowd spread along three blocks of Pratt Street. Our wagon was parked on Liberty Street, which is but a block long here and runs uphill of Pratt. Trudy was stationed on the far side of Howard watching for the right moment. Perhaps half the floats and bands and marching societies had passed by Trudy before she gave the signal. In just a few seconds, girls up and down the street donned their sashes and formed up in the gap that had opened behind a brass band from Towson. The wagon was wheeled out, pins were pulled, and it was instantly draped with Suffrage for Women Now banners. Twenty-four girls in white dresses took up the traces. The rest were in two lines on either side, whilst Dorothy and I, Winifred and Beatrice and Ellie formed ourselves into a tableau atop the wagon.

It is a strange thing that once such a formation as a parade has begun to move, it does not readily cease to do so. We were swept along in the momentum of the march as far as Light Street before the marshals succeeded in halting the section that contained us. A troop of police on horses moved in. They were intent on cutting us out as one might remove a dead flower from a bouquet. It was not so easy. Our girls stood their ground or, if moved aside temporarily by the passage of a horse, reformed immediately. The fellows in the bands before us and behind us joined the game, spreading out with seeming innocence to make it harder for the police to maneuver, and striking up “Shout the Revolution.”

Tipped off by Mary Alice, reporters and a photographer managed to reach the scene just as the carnage began. The police had resolved to extract us from the parade by force. The representatives of the press had an excellent view of the guardians of law and order dragging me and my chums forcibly off the wagon, handcuffing us and other girls, loading us into a couple of trucks with grated windows and doors, and hauling us off to the Downtown Jail.

I can hardly wait to see this morning’s newspapers!

May 31, noon. Well, I am freed, at home (and forbidden to return to school until further notice). A halftone photo is on the front page of the American, which I have brought home for all the staff to see. It is possible to make out my face and Winifred’s as we are pulled down by the police. Aunt Enid will not speak to me.

My aunt is of the gradualist tendency — the line of thought that in fifty years of effort has won women the vote in Colorado, Utah and Idaho (a step up from polygamy, I will admit) and a handful of towns. She cannot help being a person of her generation, a generation that has won much for the Cause in other ways. Regrettably, she can not believe that our caper yesterday has hastened the day we shall vote!

I am commanded by a note from my Aunt to read and reflect on the editorial in this morning’s Sun. The editorial is written by a man, of course -- Baltimore’s conservative daily newspaper would not have a woman sit on its editorial board. The Sun reminds that it supports, nay has long supported, the eventual expansion of the suffrage to include women. It is surprised that young women who have benefited in every way from the best education Baltimore could give them would then behave so impulsively. Their brash disruption of a solemn occasion (the parade, Diary) opines the Sun, could not but raise questions about their readiness to engage in mature deliberation about the governance of the city, state or nation.

I have written back to Aunt Enid, apologizing sincerely that I have distressed her and quoting some lines from Mr. H. L. Mencken, the Sun’s columnist. Mr. Mencken is amused that it required two platoons of police troopers on horseback to rout sixty-five unarmed girls. He concludes that the police and the troglodytes who deploy them know that they were challenged by a cause that increases daily in its urgency. “On a day dedicated to those who have sacrificed for American liberty, young girls have dare to reach out and call for their own Liberty.” "This day is about the losses and sacrifices of war; what do women give to wars, except their sons and husbands and theirselves as nurses and their lives as victims, but we are talking about important things. How dare they interfere?. . . "No harm, except to the reputation of the mounted police brigade that harassed the young women" Mr. Mencken points out that the public’s property remains intact, nor, indeed, was the annual procession sensibly delayed by our irruption. No one was hurt except some of us girls, and none grievously — O, but of course the manly pride of the police troopers must have been hurt! Mencken concludes that in this instance, we have co-opted the press as a megaphone. It is his pleasure to assist. By reminding the public of young women’s aspirations in no uncertain way, we have advanced the day of our triumph.

In case Aunt Enid finds Mr. Mencken unpersuasive, I have placed in the same envelope the American’s photograph of me and Beatrice being dragged from atop the tableau. The caption describes us as “heroines.”

evening. By a typewritten letter delivered to our homes, Miss Hamilton has summoned all of us miscreants (and our parents and guardians) to a mass meeting tomorrow morning in the school field house.

June 1. Outside it was pouring. The field house stank of wet clothing. Miss Hamilton vented her displeasure for, it seemed, enternity. By our reckless behavior, she said, we girls have discredited Bryn Mawr School. (I think she means we have threatened its standing with wealthy donors!) We have betrayed the trust she put in us. Miss Hamilton has issued a statement condemning the disruption of the parade, she said, and had a copy delivered to the Mayor and to the Sun. She has telegraphed Miss Jane Addams to excuse her from the pending Graduation exercises.

Miss Hamilton said she was duty bound to report that Miss Addams has counseled forgiveness. It is characteristic of her great friend's magnanimity, she said, that JA has telegraphed back to inform that she would not dream of missing our Graduation exercises.

Even so, said Miss Hamilton, there must be consequences. All participants in "the riot" (her words!) are disqualified from participation in school activities for the
year. We senior girls who were arrested — obviously the ringleaders — are disqualified from the annual prize-giving! I shall not be best all-round girl after all. Even so, I don't regret our "rioting" a bit.

June 3. We have had to forfeit our match with the Baltimore Ladies Hockey Club. The exhibit of Dorothy's paintings that was to have been a highlight of the Graduation exercises has been cancelled. Trudy whispered to me that Miss Hamilton had determined to award the "Best Girl" prize to Ginnie Montgomery, but that Ginnie refused it. She told the Headmistress that she should have been with the rest of us on Pratt Street had not illness intervened. I confess Ginnie has a lot more character than I supposed. No prizes will be given this year. Well, I still don't regret our manifestation!

June 4. We (me, Doro, Sally and Trudy) are off to Annapolis early tomorrow morning! I had resigned myself to missing Plebe Weekend, but Aunt Enid has forgiven me just in time.

She did not disagree with the object of our action, Aunt has told me; only that it was reckless and dangerous. She has already lost one daughter, and cannot bear the thought of losing another.

June 6. My chum Billy Barkell has become quite a man. We have had considerable occasion to resume our friendship, and I believe he finds that as pleasing as do I.

The train disgorged the four of us Bryn Mawr girls and a few hundred others yesterday into a veritable sea of expectant midshipmen. Truth be told, I sensed we girls floated on a wave of male desire! (Ooh! Bad puns!)

Billy found us directly, with three friends in tow; these were immediately paired off with my own chums, and they escorted us to our “quarters” to refresh ourselves.

Leaving aside the military discipline that from time to time asserts itself, the boys at the Naval Academy are not so different from those at Cornell University, not in their notion of a good time. We sailed about on boats and did a great deal of dancing. The general opinion, as Sally, Doro, Trudy and I head home to Baltimore, is of time well spent. Sally professes herself “in love” with the naval cadet from New Orleans that was her weekend beau, while Doro is much taken with a Jason Somebody from Camden, Maine.

I . . . I am plotting how I can spend more time with Billy. In the first place, I find him quite attractive, if still a bit wooden. In the second — and this is something we talked of before we fell into an embrace in a secluded nook — we have between us no secrets of the most intimate kind. I cannot say that of any other man my age, Diary.

Billy reminded me that it was he, . . . that we were together when he first discovered his manhood. . . and I answered truthfully that when my own efforts at self-gratification failed, that same day had revealed to me that my manhood was doubtful. Does that sound as though it was a tender and intimate moment, Diary? Well, having confided as much, I sensed an irresistable attraction to Billy and he to me. Not in some silly romantic sense, but more, I should think, as would-be explorers of the empire of sensuality.

We shall meet again soon, Billy and I.

June 9, Doro's Birthday. Went to her house to deliver a present but found she had gone to the Rawlings again. Had a cup of tea with Mrs. Downey, who grilled me about Ted.

June 10, Graduation Day. What was supposed to be the crowning event of our lifetimes (up to now) has left a odd taste. There was a huge crowd, including reporters from as far away as Boston, not because of us girls, of course, but because Miss Addams was to speak.

We marched in, wearing our long white dresses and carrying our bouquets with our heads hung — yes, in remorse. Even though we believed we had done no wrong, we had felt the sting of Miss Hamilton's censure. Not until we reached our seats did we notice the table holding the prizes and know there had been a change of heart.

Though she had berated us unmercifully ten days earlier, the Headmistress was on this occasion strikingly subdued. She rambled for several minutes about the importance of loyalty, good sense and resistance to selfish impulses, and about responding with integrity to the challenges of the times. Most of us girls, and I think many of the parents too, just squirmed impatiently in our chairs. Knowing how intensely Miss Hamilton cares for the survival of Bryn Mawr School, I have almost forgiven her cowardice.

Miss Jane Addams was finally introduced. The most celebrated woman in America, the founder of Hull House (which is the model for Lawrence House here in Baltimore), is frail. She came forward hunched over like a very old lady, but I know her to not yet be fifty. She has a direct gaze. Her voice is strong but soft; it carried all the way to the back rows. The entire time Miss Addams spoke I thought her eyes and each word were directed at me, Diary. I am sure she spoke with our Memorial Day manifestation in her mind.

Miss Addams told us to rejoice in our accomplishments because they showed our strength. She knew, she said, that many of us had overcome hardships to get to this place. (Was she really looking straight at me?) But then she reminded that the opportunities were not of our own making; others had helped us.

Every time during childhood that we had asked for a treat or for dessert, Miss Addams said, many, many American children had been asking if there was to be dinner or supper or breakfast that day. She said that even our talents and our strength had been granted to us, not won.

Each Bryn Mawr girl, she said, might choose to squander the excellent education we had received at our School. Many young women of means chose to finish school and go on to live a life of ornamental uselessness. The record of the Class of 1909 indicated that we are of sterner stuff, she said. We are roused by inequity, offended by degradation, incensed by undeserved poverty, and resolved to improve the world we have inherited.

And make no mistake, said Miss Addams, it cries out for improvement.

The vote is but one means to an end: the transformation of the modern world. If the moral force of women is properly and relentless applied, Miss Addams declared, wars will end. Poverty, ignorance, injustice, prejudice and religious bigotry will join slavery and serfdom in the dustbin of history.

She did not doubt that many men, probably most men, are well-intentioned, said Miss Addams. But too many years of self-appointed command of the affairs of the planet has turned men into cynics about human nature. They do not comprehend, they do not imagine, that science and technology have given humankind unprecedented power — the power, should we wish to do so, to feed every child, to provide medical care for every mother and a decent home for every family. Women must light the way.

In a hundred years there might not be any hungry people in the world or at least not in our country, Miss Addams predicted, due to the advances in science she had seen in her life and which seem likely to continue. However, this will never happen if those with the most blessings see them as granting greater privilege, rather than a sacred duty. Each of us can be proud of what we have done so far with our ability, she said, but we must always remember that ability gives us responsibilities toward those not given the same gifts.

The preceding evening, Miss Jane Addams confided, she had sat with her friends Miss Edith Hamilton, Dr. Alice Hamilton, Mrs. Enid Westcott, Mary Garrett Cooper and others to take account of the Bryn Mawr School’s mission. Gradually a sense of the meeting had emerged, as the Quakers might say. It was that Bryn Mawr School and its students are duty-bound to bear witness to social wrongs, and among these, the continued denial of the vote to half the citizens of our country. Viewed in that light, the manifestation of May 30 — though it might be deemed impetuous and could have put many girls in harm’s way — could not be condemned.

Consistent with that conclusion, Miss Addams said, Miss Hamilton had agreed to reverse her decision about prize-giving! O my good Lord, Diary, my heart practically flipped in my throat! I had steeled myself against regret. I had repeated over and over that it did not matter, and yet it did. I did so want to be Best Girl, and that is how it has turned out after all!

June 12. Well, Diary, two days ago I was fired up with idealism, and I still am burning, really. But saving the world can wait a little. Today, O, I am wicked! First of all, I have deceived my Aunt Enid. She believed I was gone to the Coopers’ cottage on the Patapsco River for a graduation party. Gladly would I have been there, too, all else being equal. As it was, Dorothy made excuses for me while I got myself downtown to a barely respectable hotel. No, to tell the truth, not respectable at all — the staff kindly avoided eye contact as I crossed the lobby and entered the elevator. “The seventh floor, please,” I told the operator, and she, too, pretended no interest in my errand. I knocked on a door, it was opened by Billy, and I was nearly knocked over by a rush of male scent.

Billy is passing through Baltimore on his way home to Perkinstown. By the time his holiday there ends, Aunt Enid and I will be aboard the Mauretania, enroute to Europe for nearly a year. And so, Billy and I made a pact but gave no promises. We had agreed to explore this matter of “sex” as friends, in a sense picking up where we left off.

He was eager, so eager that at first I sought to pleasure Billy however I might. He was already half-undressed; I assisted him to disrobe completely, and he in turn assisted me. In no time afterward, it seemed, I had brought him to the point of an irresistable discharge, which event within a few moments returned Billy to a state where he could calmly listen to my own plan for this afternoon.

“I have no experience of physical sex, nothing beyond a kiss on the lips,” I said. “For some time, I have been aware that God has given me a different set of equipment. How different I am not yet sure, nor do I care so much to know that as to know what it may be good for. Your assignment, Mr. Midshipman, is to assist me in an inventory of my physical accoutrements and their uses. You are to proceed slowly; you will take care to explore every crevice, hollow, hill and promontory. Do you understand?”

Billy signified with a broad smile his readiness for this assignment.

Ah, how well he did his duty! The book that Ruth gave me hinted that there are countless ways that two people can give pleasure to each other. Billy and I discovered many today; I should like to think there are yet many more!

Resting entangled together halfway through the afternoon, I asked Billy if he thought it odd to be thus with me. “No,” he answered, and I think truthfully, “as it is not a matter of our marrying and having children, I do not suppose it matters how your particular organs are arranged, so long as we both find pleasure.

“I cannot say for sure, however — I suppose it does matter to me that you seem in important respects to be entirely a very lovely girl.”

I suppose Billy might have said more, had I not stifled his speech with kisses then.

June 15, 1909. Such a strange and powerful dream I have had, Diary! I dreamt of a great parade. There were thousands of people, marching and celebrating — but it was not for the suffrage. No, I knew by their strange garb and throbbing music that this parade was far in the future. There were men and women, men and men, women and women arm in arm, all making a mighty racket. More than a few of the marchers seemed something other than men or women. There were whites, blacks and every shade in-between, young people and old. What did they want? I strained to read the writing on their placards and to make out their chant. Then, as I sat up in bed, awakened in a cold sweat, I understood that the throng was marching for sexual freedom — the right of each human being to express his — or her — inner self, free of artificial categories, social norms and legal prescriptions.

June 17. Aunt Enid has bought our steamer tickets. We sail for Liverpool from New York on July 29 on the Mauretania! It has just captured the Blue Riband. We shall cross the Atlantic Ocean in barely five days!

Like the first two chapters of Evelyn's Diary, this one also was wonderfully improved by my friend and editor, Jan S. My medical and scientific advisor once again was the awesomely knowledgable Riottgrrl. Daphne

 © 01.2008 by Daphne Laprov

Balthasar's Extract - Part IV   Evelyn Westcott's Turn of the Century Diary It was an age of new things — the automobile, the aero- plane, social consciousness, moving pictures, mental hygiene and ragtime. Women were dumping the corset and demanding the vote, kicking over the pedestals upon which Victorian Sensibility had placed them. A time of creativity and experimentation in the natural sciences, of rapidly growing comprehension of how 'internal secretions' regulated human physiology. Our heroine, Evelyn Westcott, born Edward Tucker, is now seventeen and in the full bloom of youth. She and her friends are awakening to social injustice and sensual pleasures, spreading their wings, setting forth to conquer the widening world.

---

Part IV
The Story So Far
Evelyn Westcott is not your average turn-of-the-20th-century girl. She didn't want to be a woman, but when Edward's body betrayed him, he had no other sensible choice. Fortunately, rich & sophisticated Aunt Enid was able to sort everything out. Within a few months after Edward arrived in Baltimore, he was making a game go of it as Evi Westcott, a sophomore at the elite Bryn Mawr School.

In Evi's day, the mystery of hormones was only beginning to be unravelled. Our fortunate heroine becomes the patient of the brilliant young researcher, Eleanor "Tottie" Clathrop and her assistant, Balthasar Bishop. When a tragedy claims Tottie, Evelyn carries on her work with Balthasar's help. She is the ringleader of 'Tottie's girls.' The gender-dysphoric group includes her dear friends Dorothy Downey and, later, Rachel Klimintz and Alexandra Bishop.

Evi is brilliantly popular at school. She develops an interest in serious things: scientific research (into hormones, of course), women's suffrage and (like all youngsters) sex. Friendships develop and multiply. The men in Evi's life include a boy scoutish aeronaut, a female impersonator, an artist (and secret cross-dresser), a sexy midshipman and a cad. She's also strangely attracted to a racy poetess.

As Part IV opens, Evelyn has survived a night in jail, been graduated from Bryn Mawr, lost her virginity, and is about to make 'the Grand Tour' of Europe with Aunt Enid.

Part IV of Evi's story, like all the other parts, was made far better through the kind advice of BCTS friends -- Jan S., RiotGrrl and Edyen in particular this time. btw, I expect there will be three or four more chapters and then this story will climax and END, and I shall go back to living in the 21st Century.. Hugs, Daphne
 

June 18. I slipped into the Science Building today to dismantle my laboratory. It is scarcely a week since we girls of the class of ’09 were graduated from Bryn Mawr School. Now they are shutting down the school for the summer, and I must bid adieu to my dear little guinea pigs.

As I chloroformed them one by one, I thanked each for its contribution to our understanding of the internal secretions that make some of us humans men and some of us women. “And some of us,” I did not add, “neither/nor” or, perhaps, even "both."

It is just in this last year, Diary, that I have come to realize how strange is this condition of mine — or ours, I suppose, if one counts Rachel and some others of ‘Tottie’s Girls.’ Tottie called us ‘intersexed,’ which I suppose is as good a term as any, and I suppose as well that objectively there is nothing unnatural but simply rare about being neither one sex nor the other. The problem begins with this business of expectations. Society does not admit of ambiguity. Science may, but Society does not!! One must be either one or the other, and convincingly so, else one’s life becomes a living hell by puberty if not before.

I endured such a hell (there is no other word that would do it justice) by the accident of my parents assuming (and not looking too closely, certainly) that if my external genitalia seemed to be like those of a boy, there could be no reason to doubt that I was indeed such. Nor, looking back on my childhood, can I identify moments when I was clearly not a boy, though perhaps not so boyish a boy as my father might have wished. I loved to read and daydream, and I enjoyed helping my mother in the kitchen equally as much as I did love a tramp over the hills with my big brothers or helping my father to midwife when one of our cows dropped a calf.

It was only through the kindness and compassion of my aunt, I reflected as I dispatched the last of the guinea pigs, that I had safely weathered the trauma of my puberty. Just after I passed my 13th birthday, I had became the target of relentless baiting by the boys of my own age in Perkinstown, Pa. And why, indeed? Because though my male parts changed not one whit — in fact, they had seemed relatively to shrink — my breast buds sprouted, my hips began to widen and my voice clung stubbornly to the soprano register! Aunt Enid had provided me refuge.

I was cleaning up — emptying the cages and such — when a rap at the door of the laboratory announced a visitor. I recognized her at once; it was our Headmistress’s sister, Dr. Alice Hamilton, the picture of health and good sense in a cotton twill walking dress, lace collar, low-heeled boots and broad brimmed hat.

“You are Evelyn Westcott, I think” said she. “Yes, ma’am,” demurely replied I.

“This is indeed fortunate. I have been meaning to telephone or write to you all week, but — no matter! — how pleasant it is to meet you here now!”

Ordinary mortals often speak like that, Diary, but I really was confounded to hear such words from the lips of a demigoddess. For that is what Dr. Alice is — a graduate of German universities, Miss Jane Addams’ indispensable assistant and counselor at Hull House, and a great expert on industrial diseases.

For the next hour and more, Dr. Alice Hamilton grilled me about my little guinea pigs, the chemicals I have fed them, the surgery I performed, and the changes these provoked. She did not ask my reasons for doing this research nor mention its possible usefulness with regard to humans. From her expression, however, I believe she must know something of my own history.

Though Dr. Alice gave no hint of what she thought beyond an occasional "Hmmmm," at length she smiled and asked my plans. When I told her I was to travel in Europe next year with my Aunt Enid and would attempt there to secure my foundation in German, she said that was an excellent idea. I should take some scientific courses, too, she said. To assist me, she would give me letters to her old Docktorvater in Munich and to some of her correspondents.

I confessed that it troubles me that my work did not seem to help the poor as hers and Miss Addams' did. Dr. Alice Hamilton laughed and told me I was very wrong to think that. In her opinion my explorations will help many who now suffer, and that will help all mankind. (Need I say I nearly fainted to hear such encouraging words? My heart is still pounding!)

June 21. My faithful beau, Martin Tolliver, though back to Baltimore for a brief visit, is already keen to return to Mr. Glenn Curtiss’s aeronautical works at Hammondsport, New York. I told Martin that I had heard on reliable authority (his mother, whom I met at the greengrocer’s a fortnight ago) that he stands first or second in his class at the Cornell College of Engineering. Martin blushed but did not deny it. Mr. Curtiss has invited Martin to accompany him and the Curtiss Works’ new machine, the Golden Flyer, to France as second engineer. There is to be a great competition, une Grande Semaine de l’Aviation, at Reims, with prizes for fastest, highest, furthest, and so on. Martin says they are sure to win some trophies for the Stars and Stripes.

Martin and I spent this morning battering tennis balls about, and winning twice at mixed doubles. Afterward, we lunched at the club. With all the time in the world today, we reminisced. It was dear Martin who took me under his wing when I first came to Baltimore, Diary — surely you remember? I was such a nervous thing, then, kitted out as a girl at my aunt’s behest but scarcely believing myself one. If Martin is to be relied upon, however, it has never crossed his mind that I am anything less than 100% female or, for him, the only one worth considering as his life’s companion. No matter how often I explain to Martin that he should not count on such a thing, that we are yet young, that I too have ambitions, it is like grains of sand pelting the pyramids. He is not worn down. My Martin smiles and points out that we have endured two years already and he likes me more than ever. I confessed that I had greatly enjoyed my visit to Ithaca two months ago. Were I to choose a man, I told him, surely it would be a one with a character no less noble than Martin’s.

Having reached such an awkward impasse, our conversation turned by mutual consent to Europe. I promised that I would ask — nay, beseech — Aunt Enid to take us to Reims to watch the great air show.

June 26, Saturday. Aunt Enid is preparing for our trip to Europe in earnest. We will take only one steamer trunk and one valise each, so it is necessary to choose very carefully the items we will pack. Of course we will add more clothes once we are on the other side of the Atlantic. I can hardly wait to shop in Paris!

Pegeen is as excited as I. All the Moriaritys and Hallorans are giving her advice on how she should act and what she should do whilst in the great cities of Europe. Wisely, she checks everything she is told with Aunt Enid and her cousin Harry. It is because Pegeen has such sense, I think, that Aunt chose her to accompany us and serve us both as lady’s maid.

Patsy, our downstairs maid, will keep 1319 Eutaw Place in readiness for our return next spring or summer. Balthasar Bishop will continue to use the laboratory in the basement for the refinement of his extract. (I suppose it might be called “our extract” now. My work with the guinea pigs has allowed him to produce a more concentrated elixir in both liquid and pill form. We call it “Gynol.” Dorothy Downey, Alexandra Cooper and I have taken the improved elixir for several months. It is at least as effective, and certainly less painful than injections. Dorothy reports that she no longer suffers the headaches that regularly followed an injection of the original extract, which is wonderful news.)

O, and Cook, who has been in my aunt’s service for 27 years, will return home to Bellagio in Italy for a visit, or possibly for good. She has her third class steamer ticket to Genoa in hand, a gift from Aunt Enid.

June 29. I went this morning for a medical check-up at Dr. Nathan Weiss’s dispensary. He poked and prodded me, peered into my cavities, osculated and palpitated and had me produce donations of urine, blood and mucus for his laboratory assistant. After half an hour of this, Dr. Weiss bade me dress and join him in his office. It is a tiny place, barely a closet. He dusted off a chair that I might have a place to sit.

“You appear to be, as before, in robust good health,” he said. “Now tell me about your emotional and mental state. Does anything trouble you?”

I replied, truthfully, that I seemed to be about as well as was possible under the circumstances. With my Aunt Enid’s kind support, I had found emotional balance as a girl, or now, I supposed I might say, a woman. Occasionally I had strange dreams, but perceived them to be no stranger than others’. Dr. Weiss seemed interested, so I recalled for him my ‘parade’ dream. I have had it thrice now — images of thousands of people, throbbing music, a fantastic city landscape — all these strange people marching, as I understood it, for ‘sexual freedom.’

He made some notes and then — pausing to say that if I found any of his questions distasteful I should not answer them — asked if ‘sexual freedom’ had a definite meaning for me.

I have very quickly come to trust this young man, Diary. Rachel of course adores her uncle, who championed her cause against her other uncle, the rabbi. Dr. Weiss has taken quite good care of several of Tottie’s Girls. Dorothy relies on him implicitly for assistance in caring for the health and mental hygiene of us all.

I replied that there seemed to be rather a large gap between the principle of sexual choice and its practicality, Diary. One cannot simply switch one’s sexual identity as though one were changing a hat. Nor are ordinary men and women, in the future any more than now, likely to tolerate one who is neither/nor.

“I quite agree with you,” Dr. Weiss answered, “but that was not exactly what I meant by my question. Perhaps I should state it more directly. Have you been sexually ‘active’ or do you intend to be in the near future?

I confessed that I had been unable to restrain my curiosity to the point of sharing a long and enjoyable afternoon in a hotel room with a boy my age. I had been relieved to find that I could be both aroused and fulfilled.

Dr. Weiss then inquired, ever so gently, if I should want surgical intervention to give my genitals an appearance appropriate to the sex I present to the world. That is a matter I have long pondered, Diary. I replied that having confirmed that my organs do function in their own way, I should not want any alteration that would sabotage the pleasure they could give me . . . unless, perhaps, it should render me capable of bearing children. I understood that to be a vain hope; Dr. Weiss confirmed it with a wan smile and a shake of his head.

O, and Dr. Weiss says we may start providing Gynol to the rest of Tottie’s Girls.

June 30. A letter from Billy Barkell arrived this morning. Billy will never be much of a writer, but the thought is clear: he thinks of me constantly, he says, with the greatest affection, and selfishly wishes that I were not going to spend all of the next year in Europe. I wrote back in time for the afternoon post to assure him that when I return, I shall be more worldly wise, perhaps, but no less eager to resume our acquaintance.

There was a postcard from ‘Henrietta’ as well. The Ella Shields troupe will return to Baltimore on the 2nd of July. Fresh from their success in England, they have been playing to packed halls in Boston, Providence, and New Haven.

July 1. Dr. Weiss and I discussed another matter, Diary, which I have neglected to report. He is acquainted with some doctors in Vienna — fellow students at the medical university there — who are becoming well-known for their treatment of people with mental disorders linked to sexual dysfunctions and abnormalities. He believed that their research could profit from taking the history of one such as me. He proposed to write his friend Dr. Rank, and describe me as a promising researcher who through force of character and intelligence has overcome a particularly difficult circumstance.

I corrected Dr. Weiss — it was mainly a matter of my good fortune, I said, to have had the help of my compassionate — and wealthy -- aunt and other understanding adults, plus the timely care of my late dear friend, Dr. Tottie Clathrop.

He acknowledged the pertinence of my remarks; that led to my explaining my recent research on ‘Gynol,’ and his proposal that whilst in Vienna, I should also call on the very same Dr. Steinach whose work had given me some clues. Letters of introduction to both Rank and Steinach will be in their hands by the time we arrive in Vienna in September!

July 3. Harry ‘Henrietta’ Halloran has returned not a moment too late. I have a great favor to ask him concerning Dorothy Downey. My dear friend is in an absolute swivet as she contemplates her pending appointment at the French Embassy in Washington. She must go there so that the papers relating to her inheritance can be ‘notarized.’ Without such official confirmation, she cannot receive the monies left to her by father, the late rubber baron of Cochin China (and I understand, Diary, that it is a fabulous sum)!

What Dorothy dreads, of course, is that she must appear as the young man, Arthur Downey. That is the name on her birth certificate and in her father’s will. Yet, never but for a brief and tragic interval has Dorothy worn trousers nor ever wished to; now she conceives that however she may present herself, her disguise will be instantly penetrated by the perceptive French diplomats.

July 4 — I rang Harry at the Shields’ troupe’s hotel this morning to propose he join us for an early dinner, followed by the fireworks at Druid Park. “Wonderful,” he replied, “how should I come?”

“O, by trolley, I suppose,” I answered, not taking his meaning.

“No, you goose . . . . Shall I come as Harry or as Etta?”

“I hope you don’t mind appearing as Harry. I’ll need an escort. Ted won’t do at all for three ladies. He’s much too wrapped up in Dorothy. O, and there’s a service you can do us.”

Always a gentleman at heart, Harry replied that he would be delighted to oblige, whatever my command.

“Harry, I need your help with Dorothy. She must present herself at the Embassy of France on Wednesday in the guise of a lad. The poor girl is paralyzed by even the thought!” Quickly, I filled in the details of Doro’s predicament.

“Aha!” I could imagine Harry smiling. “Fear not! We shall transform her, I believe.”

Harry arrived at 1319 Eutaw Place promptly at seven. He was the complete young gentleman in a seersucker cotton suit, a four-in-hand cravat and Arrow shirt, set off by spats and a Panama hat. “Great news!” he announced. “Miss Ella has agreed to assist in the gentrification of Miss Downey.”

By “Miss Ella,” Harry meant Ella Shields, his mentor, the celebrated male impersonator and impresario. “Come to her suite at the Greville Plaza Hotel at eight-thirty tomorrow,” he proposed to Dorothy — “you and Evelyn. We shall make a man of you, at least for a day.”

“It will never succeed,” moaned Dorothy in reply.

“Au contraire, darling!” answered Harry in a voice that I immediately recognized as Henrietta’s, though now more contralto than soprano. “It is entirely a matter of attitude. We shall give you confidence and you shall triumph.”

Later. We secured a good vantage on Calvert Hill for the firework show. With tomorrow’s engagement in mind, I insisted on an early bedtime for Doro and me. Yet now here I sit at my desk, excited, unable to sleep.

I have learnt two surprising things about Ted Rawlings, the first of them whispered by Dorothy. He knows that she is not a girl but rather — by consequence of her own desperate, terrible act nearly three years ago — a girlish eunuchoid. That, she swears, distresses him not in the least. Second, Ted is absolutely fascinated by Harry Halloran. It is a fact still lost on Dorothy, but I could not fail to observe the slight withholding of his breath whenever Harry addresses him, or the way Ted’s painterly eyes study Harry’s every move.

July 5 (Monday morning). Dorothy and I arrived five minutes before the appointed time at the Greville Plaza Hotel and found Harry — no, Henrietta — awaiting us in the lobby. If before Miss Henrietta Hawkins had been winsome and charming, after six months of stardom in the music halls of England she could only be described as strikingly beautiful. She was dressed and plumed to the height of fashion. Etta has grown at least two inches since the winter, and uses her height to advantage. She commands the room.

By an electric elevator, presently we gained Miss Ella’s suite and were shown in. No sooner had we removed our hats when we were greeted by her male persona, Baltimore Bertie. “Hello, hello! So glad to see ya!” Her — O, I should say his — voice boomed. “Come in, my dears! You are all so lovely! Dorothy, let me look at ya. Yes — please stand, walk over t’the winda, turn around and walk back ta me.”

My friend complied, and shortly Miss Shields pronounced that we should certainly “bring it off,” and have great fun to boot. She outlined her plan.

For the rest of the morning, ‘Baltimore Bertie’ trained Dorothy how to move about like a man, to address the world as a man would and indeed, she insisted, to see the world as a man. At her behest, Doro and I had stripped to our chemises and knickers, and donned a sort of pantelet and slippers.

For me, this was refresher training. I had been a boy till my 14th year — it was only a matter of slipping back into old ways, or so I fancied. Miss Ella told us to talk and joke with each other as boys would. After observing us for five minutes or so, and making some notes, Miss Ella soon relieved me of the notion that I was more manly than Dorothy. “Evelyn, I’m amazed. You mince about like a nance and talk like you were brought up in a convent. Harry says you were raised a boy. Were you much abused by the other boys?”

I nodded, my cheeks burning. The true story was too complicated to share. “I’m not surprised,” Miss Ella said.

“Look here,” she said, addressing us both. “A woman just borrows space. A man owns it. Like this.” She stood easily, arms akimbo, legs and boots also striking a proprietary stance. “Men. . . take up space. They are nurtured to think of it as their natural right, a right they must be instantly prepared to defend. I imagine it must (as Mr. Toynbee suggests) go back to the very dawn of time.”

“Like this?” I asked, coming in close and staring insolently at “Bertie.” She straightened herself, narrowed the distance between us further, and returned the glare. “Exactly,” she breathed. “Would you make something of it?”

“Or like this?” I continued, striking an imperious pose like Henrietta’s in the hotel lobby, the sort that would (if I were not dressed in a mere camisole and pantalettes) reduce a predator to panting supplication. “Yeah, that would work OK too,” said Bertie.

It was funny . . . even more amusing when Doro proved she was a quick study. Dorothy is not so much womanly as she is etheral, sexless, yet under Miss Ella’s tutelage she soon ceased to float. She took possession of the space she occupied as if by right. Instead of drawing back in a defensive crouch, Dorothy leant forward. She swaggered across the floor. She projected her spirit outwards as our tutor required, not remarking where or what it bumped against.

“Lovely,” concluded Miss Ella as the clock struck noon. “I think you have the idea. Now let’s attack our midday meal without restraint, as gentlemen will.”

While we were eating, Henrietta returned with a porter who wheeled in a rack of garments suitable for young blades and a tailor with a tape and chalk. Etta bade the tailor take Dorothy’s measurements exactly. “It is for our show,” he explained. “Miss Downey is new to the troupe, she makes her debut next week, so by tomorrow afternoon you must clothe her exactly in the guise of a sporting young man.”

“Now choose your costumes for the afternoon,” Miss Ella bade us as the tailor left, indicating the rack. “Whatever you wish, as long as it suits you.”

A quarter of an hour after, she regarded us through her monocle. “Master Arthur Downey” had found an assortment of clothes that suited him well, I thought, and I the same.

“It’s time for your haircut,” she said to Arthur.

“What!” shrieked back my friend, throwing up her arms protectively.

“Of course you shall have your hair cut short,” declared Miss Shields. “There’s no other course that guarantees success. With the money you will inherit, you can buy the best wigs in Baltimore!”

Now, Diary, Dorothy’s tresses were not so long. It is not yet three years that they were sacrificed so that she might matriculate at Boys’ Latin — an ill-fated plan that led to the tragic act to which I have referred. Her chestnut locks had at last regained a length and luxuriance in which she might rejoice. I grimaced as the barber attacked them with his shears. Doro held herself rigid, biting her lip as tears streamed down her cheeks.

July 6. We have practiced again, and I have begun to believe Dorothy will pull it off. Her beau Ted attended today, solicitous of Doro but also — it was terribly obvious — extremely interested when Miss Ella spoke of what in the eyes of the world made men men and women only women.

“To convince the crowd,” repeated ‘Baltimore Bertie,’ trapping Doro and me in a manly hug, “ya’ gotta have attitude. From the inside, ya’ get it? If ya’ think yer a poser — so will all the world. Ya convince yerself yer the real thing — ain’t nobody’s gonna doubt ya’.”

July 8. Aboard the Pennsylvania Flyer. Dorothy and Ted, Alexandra Cooper, Sally Campbell and some others of my friends have just seen Aunt Enid and me and our steamer trunks away for New York City. We will arrive in time for an early dinner, a good night’s rest at the Bellevue Hotel, and our embarkation aboard the Mauretania in the morning.

O, and Dorothy has carried it off! It was all over in twenty minutes, she said. Yesterday, with her mother and Ted Rawlings as an escort, Arthur/Dorothy reported to the Juridical Unit of the Consular Section of the French Embassy in Washington. She presented her birth certificate, which a clerk checked for — well, whatever it is they check. Then she and her mother were ushered into a cluttered little office, where a French diplomat with soup stains on his vest and (though it was morning) wine on his breath asked her if, perchance, M. Arthur spoke French. Doro replied by seizing the the hand of the fonctionnaire and, shaking it effusively, offered him a torrent of semi-grammatical pleasantries. Recoiling and taking refuge in English, he asked her please to sit.

Deuxieme Secretaire Pascal Levigne (for such was his name and title) presented Doro with forms that, taking her maleness for granted (for so it indeed must have appeared to him at that instant), accorded her the right to an inheritance of two hundred thousand-plus dollars. ‘Arthur’ signed. With scarcely another glance at the dapper youth who sat before him, M. Levigne signed and stamped. She pumped his arm vigorously and then, papers in hand, she, Ted and her mother fled to Union Station by motor cab. They arrived in Baltimore shortly before two, “all the time with the sensation that the Embassy must have already detected my ruse and sent a squad of gendarmes after us,” said Dorothy. Proceeding directly to the Maryland Trust Bank, “Arthur” presented the documents, a telegram was sent to New York, and by four p.m., the transfer of the funds had been effected!

She found me after tea yesterday packing the last of my things for our Grand Tour. I was happy of Dorothy’s news, and happier yet of her declaration that henceforth she would assume responsibility for half of the expenses of 3319 Eutaw Place’s cottage industry, the manufacture of Balthasar’s extract. I led her to my Aunt Enid’s rooms that the agreement might be general. My aunt has most handsomely been the underwriter of the enterprise till now; henceforth Balthasar will continue to use the cellar of 3319 as his laboratory but Dorothy will bear half the cost of producing the substance and its distribution to we ‘girls’ who depend on it. At my recommendation, moreover, Balthasar’s stipend will be increased.

Doro is about to begin her last year at Bryn Mawr. Beyond that she is torn. Perhaps Dorothy will go on to take classes at the Maryland Institute; she has become a gifted painter and illustrator under Ted’s tutelage. Or, it seems equally possible, Dorothy will enroll in the social work program at Hopkins or Goucher College. Well, whichever she decides, she has already proven her mettle. No one — and certainly not I — could have been a more attentive and compassionate correspondent to Tottie’s thirteen daughters!

And poor Tottie! It is scarcely a year since my dear friend was hounded to her tragic death. In Tottie’s memory and for the welfare of us ‘girls,’ I am resolved to seek out the famous Dr. Steinach. From what I have read, he must be close already to deciphering the chemical clues that govern sexual development.

July 9. The Mauretania has weighed anchor; we are leaving the Statue of Liberty behind us at this moment. By happy coincidence, my classmate Winifred Clem and her father, Professor Cuthbert Clem, are also aboard this giant vessel. They are returning home to London after Prof. Clem’s sabbatical year at Johns Hopkins.

Just before our ship left the pier, I sent ashore a hastily penned letter to Dorothy. After a fitful sleep, I deemed it my duty to put her on guard. She should know Harry Halloran’s suspicions about Ted Rawlings — just in case Ted’s intentions may not be entirely true. Harry is sure that Dorothy’s beau takes great happiness in the act, or perhaps just in the idea, of wearing womens’ apparel. “For me,” Harry said, “it is an act and a craft that I enjoy perfecting. For Ted, I think it is a passion.”

July 10. Rupert Alistair FitzWilliam Roark entered my life this forenoon, and Winifred’s too. The gawky youth is an English baronet or something, who has been to Oxford with nothing much to show for it, and now to the United States, with nothing to show for that, either. He is despondent, for though he and his mother have scoured the East Coast as far inland as Pittsburgh and as far south as Charleston in search of an heiress, they have found none unable to resist the allure of his title which, in addition to a crumbling castle and a great many sheep, are all he has to offer.

Of all the several thousand possible courses of study, Rupert elected to master the Phoenician language whilst at Oxford. To prove it, he has recited, no, chanted a burial hymn from the 8th or 9th century before Christ. While he did so, I raised a quizzical eyebrow at Winifred Clem. Rupert’s is the sort of education which in Britain, she has told me, fits one for an appointment as a country cleric or perhaps a barrister’s living — neither of which, swears Rupert, interest him even slightly. I expected a positive sneer; instead my friend was regarding the young man with what could only be called ‘awe.’
Rupert had burst upon us like some sort of puppy that had accidentally slipped its leash (in this case, his mother’s fond gaze) and larruped over to see what lies beyond the bushes (in this case, Winifred and me, arranging ourselves on deck chairs with a small stack of books, steamer blankets and a vacuum bottle of tea). “Hallo,” says he, “what’s this? Not one but two comely maidens!”

I lifted my eyes from the orotund observations of Mr. Henry James to the earnest, pinkly aristocratic countenance of the source of this witty remark. “Are we acquainted,” I asked, knowing well that we were not.

“Ooh, damme, I am sorry, of course we are not, at least not yet, but please, fair Goddess, allow me, in the informality of the quarterdeck, to introduce myself, I am Rupert Roark and you and your studiously aloof friend there are, I hope, the remedy for what otherwise may be a most deadly passage.”

With that, this odd young man perched beside us and proceeded to relate the particulars already recorded. With little encouragement from us, he was at last beginning to run down when by some chance he mentioned Palestine. At that, Win perked up, and asked if the language of the Phoenicians was by any chance related to that of the Philistines of the Bible. “O, indeed they are,” Rupert cried, “as alike as French and Italian.”

“My mother,” Win said with a small sigh, “has done a great deal of excavating work at Askelon . . . .”

“My word! You don’t say? Then your mother must be Lady Violet Davyss, the celebrated archeologist; why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I just now did,” Winifred observed. “You know my mother, then?”

“I had the honour of making her acquaintance when she lectured at Brasenose. In fact, she imagined that my facility with Phoenician might assist in the decipherment of her Philistine shards. But Mother had other plans for me. . . .” Rupert finished with a helpless shrug.

The lady just mentioned was at that instant making insistent gestures toward Rupert from her own deck chair, to which I called his attention. “Oh, dear — she must want me to fetch her pills. May I hope to see you ever again?”

Whilst I bit my cheek to keep from laughing, having just imagined how the belles of Charleston must have reacted to Rupert’s declamation in Phoenician, Winifred answered demurely that it “would be a pleasure.” Winifred!

July 11. The Mauretania is indeed a city afloat. As it slices through the cold green waters of the North Atlantic, driven by Heaven knows how many horsepower transmitted through its four screw propellers from the great steam engines far below, we of the leisure class wander about its top decks, meet, eat, drink and dance in its salons, waited upon by hundreds of uniformed staff. For a week, we on the top decks form an accidental — and for reason of that randomness and in apprehension of the journey’s end, perhaps a bit more energetic — society of Europeans and Americans armed with that essential mark of modern gentility: the price of a first-class ticket. Peering over the rail at the decks below, we see the respectable folk on the second class deck, and far below, faces upturned straining for patches of air and light, those who have barely scraped together the coins for a passage in “steerage.”

Travel causes one to think, it is said; that may be its chiefest virtue.

I have been meditating on the arbitrary conventions of ‘society,’ and particularly on the restrictions that my embrace of femininity has put on my freedom in the general opinion of mankind.

- A proper young woman ought not go anywhere unless under the protection of a relative or married lady friend.

- She may not use the Underground for fear of catching her skirts in the moving stairway. Her clothing in fact seems designed to limit her freedom, or perhaps it has evolved that way because she is seen to have no need for clothing that permits her freedom of movement.

- Her professional ambitions are generally restricted to those occupations that spare her the rough and tumble of competition or overtaxing her brain. The latter organ is deemed capable of doing sums but not higher mathematics, of arranging a seven-course dinner party but not a contract. The proper young woman is these days permitted to type a letter or answer a telephone, but she may not give orders or decide destinies. She may lead the choir, for she is musical, but may not ascend the pulpit for she is not equipped for moral philosophy. She may nurse the sick but not perform surgery upon them. Her character is known to be ruled by her emotions; therefore she can neither vote nor lead a great enterprise.

- Married, she and all she brings to the union become the property of her husband, for him to arrange and dispose of as he sees fit.
That being the general opinion, I suppose I shall not be a proper young lady.

July 12. Strange are the ways of women, O Diary! Rupert has bewitched my pal Winifred and she, whose notion of toilette till now has been to scrub herself pink with Pears’ Soap and then brush her hair into submission, now wants to look “less frowdy.” Fortunately, the Mauretania is well-equipped with hairdressers and costumers. We spent the morning in a sort of spa. Win took my advice that she should make only incremental changes. Her hair has been cut and lightly dressed, her nails well-manicured, her eyebrows ever so subtly sculptured. The effect is really quite pleasant. I urged her to invest as well in some garments that show her figure to better advantage, and she returned from luncheon with her father all smiles. “Daddy’s given me  £50; let’s do it!”

It was past teatime when, at last, we had spent it all on combinations, dresses, shirts, jackets, skirts and of course several sets of silk undergarments, hose and shoes that the former Winifred would have thought much too frivolous indeed.

“Ooh, I can hardly wait for dinner! Will you help me dress? Will you, Evelyn?”

July 13. Winifred Clem is positively blooming! There is no other word for it. Rupert has been rendered helpless. She radiates confidence and basks in his devotion.

Professor Clem is bemused. We fell into conversation at the rail today. His daughter’s metamorphosis is an event he had hoped for but had no idea how to set in motion. Now he apprehends: the missing element was of course the admiration and constant attention of a young man.

Our conversation wandered to the ways that organisms adapt. No, it did not wander, Diary. I steered it there. Win’s father is an eminent botanist, and I wished to pick his brain. Adaptation is driven by mutation, a successful adaptation is a million-to-one event, and yet in the eons of time, the evolution of species has progressed by countless small steps.

“Consider,” Professor Clem said, “a group of rocky islands far from land. How many millions of years must pass before the action of sea, rain and salt, or the arrival of dust borne on the air, can fill a few small clefts with soil? How long until a passing bird or storm may deposit a few seeds there, seeds perhaps that find germination and growth just barely possible under the hostile conditions of this desert island? How many generations must then pass before the accumulation of organic matter and chance mutations enable the plant to adapt and thrive, positively thrive in that environment?”

I introduced the subject of human mutation. Could it be accelerated or even guided, I asked the learned scientist, now that we understood the mechanisms of evolution? He frowned, puzzled; I reminded him that a factor governing the success of mutations is happy accident — a circumstance of soil or climate for which the mutated organism is better adapted than its parent. Humans, unlike plants, are able to modify our circumstances, in effect to create a nurturing climate for our mutations.

“Alas,” Professor Clem answered after a moment of thought. “It is more likely that we should do the opposite. Mankind has been murdering its ‘unnatural’ offspring since history began. Consider the fate of ‘witches’ and ‘freaks.’”

July 14. Aunt Enid and I were breakfasting together in the solitude of our cabin when there arose in me such a regard for her! “I am not certain I know how to say this,” I ventured, “but I am most sensible of your kindness in allowing me to find my own way.”

For once I had surprised her, for my observation had been prompted not by our breakfast chatter but by my spontaneous recollection of a novel I have been reading. “Whatever do you mean, Evelyn?”

“That you do not try to marry me off, somehow.”

“Do you think that would be wise, in view of your. . . peculiar situation?” My aunt alluded to my plumbing, of course.

“That can be fixed in a fortnight. I thought you knew. Two different doctors have explained that to me.”

“And you have not assented?”

“Not at all,” I replied, “for they give no assurance that I shall retain those sensations that — elemental as they may be — give me much pleasure.” I regarded my aunt earnestly, hoping that she took my meaning, for I would be hard pressed to state it with greater clarity. It appeared that she did.

“I have thought it my duty,” Aunt Enid said with the appearance of choosing her words carefully, “to guard you from those who would divert you from the destiny you choose yourself, only that much. And I believe you will excel at whatever that may be.”
Tears came to my eyes; I could only grasp my aunt’s hand and press it to my lips.

July 14, bis. I thought I should finish several novels on this passage; as it is, we are but hours from Liverpool, I have managed but the one I mentioned, and it has irritated me no end. I wonder why Mr. Henry James must dwell so much on American girls whose wings are clipped, purses emptied, and hearts broken by European gentleman scoundrels. I certainly have no intention of succumbing like his Isabel Archer -- well, I have some advantages that she did not. For one thing, it is nearly 40 years since the tragedy that Mr. James imagined, and it is no longer thought odd for a woman of breeding to have a vocation. Nor have I wealth of my own, but only the kindness of my aunt, so I don’t count for much as prey. I’m not nearly so “interesting” as Mr. James made his Isabel to be, either, so I shall be safe, won’t I be, Diary? And that’s a good thing, for were I to be captured, I should have a devil of a time explaining the tangle of parts that pass for my sexual equipment!

July 15. So this is England! On the whole, I think I prefer Baltimore to Liverpool.

With a tearful embrace, I have seen Winifred off; she and her father departed on the afternoon express for London. Rupert conveniently secured seats for himself and his mother as well on the same train. Mrs. Roark, if she has not yet embraced Rupert’s fond feelings for Winifred, is at least civil to Professor Clem and his daughter. Rupert believes he will ere long wear down his mother’s grandiose ambitions.

July 19. We passed the last few days enjoying the bucholic hospitality of the Wiggins, cousins of Mr. Westcott, Aunt Enid’s long-deceased husband. They are gentlemen-farmers in Staffordshire. I went on long tramps with the children of the family. If the valley of the River Trent is typical, the English countryside is poetic in its perfection, a vista of neat farms, hedgerows, hummocks, woods and streams. What struck me most was its antiquity. People have been tilling these fields for over two thousand years! The parish church of Wombley on Trent was built in the 8th century. For an American, even one from our long-settled Eastern coast, such continuity with the past is intimidating.

And now we are in London, a sprawling metropolis of three million people!

July 20. My aunt’s liberality makes travelling in her company a pleasure. Her many acquaintances are on the whole interesting, but elderly; she knows that I should soon tire of nothing but their company. Thus she has seen that there are bills and coins in my purse and encouraged me to explore the gentler parts of London, bidding me however to “keep your wits about you and be back before teatime.”

Winifred is due at our hotel in half an hour. She is taking me to meet her cousin Christabel Pankhurst at the headquarters of the Womens’ Social and Political Union. Miss Pankhurst is its Organizing Secretary.

July 22. London is a blur of movement, color and incessant noise. I have seen the Crystal Palace and Saint James Park, Westminster Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London and the towers of Parliament. And there is so much more to see!
Miss Pankhurst, her mother and other stalwarts of the WSPU listened with great interest as Winifred related our caper in Baltimore not two months before, the invasion of the Memorial Day Parade by a floatful of Bryn Mawr girls bearing suffrage banners. Appreciative “ahs” greeted her account of our night in the jail.

For now at least, Win and I have declined Miss Pankhurst’s invitation to join one of her “riots.” She has been jailed countless times, Diary, for disrupting political meetings and ceremonies — it is the WSPU’s deliberate plan. They reason that the spectacle of ladies being hauled off roughly to incarceration will arouse the sympathy of the general public for womens’ suffrage.

July 23. We have descended on Harrod’s Department Store, Win and I. A night at the theatre beckons, escorted by Rupert Roark (come up to London from Cambridge) and his mate at Brasenose College, Toby Whyfford. We shall see a revival of The Importance of Being Earnest. I have bought Italian kid gloves that pass my elbows, clockworked silk stockings and an extravagant little tiara.

July 24. Leaving aside that my so-called escort drank too much wine at dinner, too much champagne at the intermission, and snored through the entire fourth act, the play was a great deal of fun. Oscar Wilde was a genius — as the scandal of his life recedes into the mists of the previous century, it is more and more being acknowledged.
When the play ended, though I argued for leaving Toby sprawled in his seat, Win and Rupert felt obliged to put him in a cab. So much for my chance of marrying a peer. Though Lord and Lady Whyfford — our hosts to a pre-theatre dinner — had been very pleasant, they did not bequeath sufficient brain or temperance to their son to make him interesting to me.

July 25. My aunt is tiring of London. Though she is impatient to move on, I insisted that we visit the Kew Gardens. There are huge greenhouses there, filled with tropical trees and flowering plants from the entire world. By presenting a note from Professor Clem, we were able to tour the Plant Breeding Laboratory. They are doing some remarkable things with orchids and cheritas. Cheritas are a cunning and extremely adaptable genus of flowering plants from the Asian archipelago. I had never seen them before.

July 26, Calais. We embarked from Victoria Station at 10 o’clock, reached Dover at half eleven, and crossed the Channel without incident. The cliffs are quite white, as advertised. In a few minutes Aunt Enid and I will board the express for Paris. Though she speaks not a word of French, Pegeen has our things quite well organized.

I myself constructed a few sentences (desiring to know, for example, where one should discover the lavatory of women) but they have not much impressed the Frenchmen to whom they were hopefully addressed. (That is to say I was answered in English.)

July 27. London impressed me, but Paris, O my heavens Diary, what can one say! Could there be a grander city anywhere? I am drunk on its beauty. We have spent most of the day touring the central arondissments by caléche. Aunt Enid had arranged a suite of rooms in the 16th, close to the Bois de Boulogne, so we started there while the day was still fresh. The “Bois” goes on and on; it is a great oasis full of lakes and dells and cozy little restaurants. It is far larger than our dear Druid Park back in Baltimore, and heaps more elegant. Then we went onward to the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Elysee and the Eiffel Tower! The Champs de Mars and L’Invalides, where Napoleon I lies at rest. Luncheon at the Tour d’Argent, followed by a lazy peregrination on foot through the Latin Quarter (St. Germain des Prá¨s was a disappointment) and the Ile de la Cité (gorgeous stained glass at St. Chapelle!), then homeward by coach via the Tuileries and the Faubourge St. Honoré. It is fourteen years since Aunt last saw Paris, and she was nearly as excited as I.

July 29. Yesterday Etienne Downey called on Aunt and me at our hotel. He is Dorothy Downey’s half-brother by her father’s liaison with an Annamese lady, exquisitely slim and light-boned, with straight, jet-black hair and dusky complexion — in short, he does not take after his father. Etienne resembles my chum Dorothy only in his high cheekbones and delicate features. For three years now, he has been enrolled at a lycée established near Paris for young men from the colonies. At first he was dreadfully homesick. Now he has nearly lost the habits of Annam, he confessed in exquisite French.

July 30. A telegram from Martin! Mr. Glenn Curtiss and he have arrived at Le Havre. The new aeroplane is safely off the boat. As time is short, the Curtiss team will bypass Paris. We will meet in Reims.

August 1. Paris is emptying. The entire population of the capital, it seems, leaves it during the month of August for their country homes and estates, abandoning this splendid city to waves of foreign tourists. Aunt Enid’s friends the Devinats and the Broussards are no exception to the rule. Mme Alexis Bezroukoff-LeBlanc, a Slavic lady of long residence in the 14th arondissment and my aunt’s special friend here, has delayed her own departure for Lorraine after exacting my aunt’s promise that we shall accompany her there in a few more days. That is a blessing for us, for Mme Alexis is a great familiar of establissements like Worth and Lanvin, where one can count on excellent taste and service. She has taken on the the renovation of my aunt’s wardrobe and the virtual creation of my own as her own special task and challenge. I have spent many days now in consultations, measurings and fittings. Soon I shall be splendidly equipped to waltz through the Viennese winter with ball gowns and tea gowns of chiffon, lace and yards of tulle. O, and an opera cloak; it is divine, a satin extravaganza fastened by silken frogs.

The couturiers pleaded that I should accept the corset, O, the lightest, slightest of these, they assured me, that I might be a la mode. And would not Mademoiselle consider one or two afternoon suits featuring the ‘hobble skirt’ that, they insisted, is now the choice of toute Paris? Gravely, I regarded their drawings and declined to be squeezed and shaped to resemble a pigeon on a pedestal. “Surely,” I said, “my curves are already ample.”

“Ah, oui, mademoiselle, but your waist — we can easily reduce it to 55 centimeters from its present 62 — would you not like that? Try this on, if you will.”

I stood my ground. “Non, je regrette — it is not for me. I shall diet instead.”

I have ordered, too, a selection of costumes appropriate for a serious student of medicine and German — five and seven-gored skirts that I can top with a severe woolen jacket of brown or gray or, if I am feeling more frivolous, an embroidered walking jacket of purple velvet heavily embroidered with dark red arabesques.

The evening gowns require that my breasts have some support; there is no getting around it, but there is a solution. An ingenious woman who doubtless shares my abhorrence of the corset has devised a garment of rubberized cloth called the bustiere, or brassiere. The effect is quite startling. I have bought two of them.

There are several high-waisted summer dresses also, light and airy, perfect for strolling or picking berries. I’ll wear them with a ribboned Leghorn hat and low-heeled shoes.
Aunt Enid and I have bought another steamer trunk. We are filling it with our acquisitions — a heap of silken lingerie, boots, shoes, scarves, purses, umbrellas — all the paraphenalia a woman must have ere she is equipped to step outside her house. It is the hats that pose the greatest problem; each requires its own box. Well, I shall limit myself to two chapeaux, a great one with fur and feathers, and another for my classes at the Akademie. That’s not counting my summer hats, of course -- the broad-brimmed Leghorn with the green ribbon and and the organdy bonnet.

August 2. I left Aunt’s and my cards at the Cone sisters’ apartment on Thursday, and this morning we have received their invitation to tea at half-past four. The Cones are Jewish ladies from Baltimore, elder cousins of my friend Rachel Klimintz.

August 3. Rachel told me her cousins are serious collectors of art, but I hardly expected the extraordinary paintings that populate their apartment on the rue Boileau. There is nothing like them at the Academy of Fine Arts or the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore. The young artists of Paris have declared war on artistic tradition. My aunt finds it all rather jarring, but I am fascinated by these modern experiments. They are painting feeling and mood. “Anyone can make a picture,” Edith Cone explained. “It only requires a camera, but representation is not art. It has no soul.”

This morning, hungry for more experience of “abstractions,” I donned a lightweight walking suit and sensible boots, twirled my parasol, and set off for the Petit Palais. It is 15 minutes, with one change, by Metro from our rooms on the rue de la Tour. A wing of the Palais is given over to an exhibition of the works of young artists and sculptors. Few were so avant-garde as the Cone sisters’ acquisitions, but it all burned with an iconoclastic spirit that excites me a good deal. My companion was a niece of the Cones. I did not like her. Particularly after I confessed my ambition of becoming a doctor, she patronized me. I imagine she believed keeping me company was a duty to be discharged to her aunts, and I could not possibly be “interesting.” Well, for my part, I found Gertrude Stein arrogant and unkempt, even though (as you know, Diary) I am a tolerant sort of girl.

August 5. We are packing for our sortie to the country home of the LeBlancs. She is eager to depart. “There is nothing to do now in Paris,” she complains. “The ballet, the Opera have taken their vacances, the city is filled with foreigners, tous le monde has left!”

We are to rendezvous at the LeBlanc estate with Mme Alexis’ sister-in-law, Madame Olivia Bezroukoff from Vienna, and her children.

Winifred Clem has written. All is well with Rupert but she and her cousin Christabel have had a rupture. Win judges Christabel a nasty snob and social climber. It seems that she and her mother refuse to admit women of small means or station to the WPSU, and this has forced a schism in the suffrage movement.

August 7. We are settled in the countryside for two weeks, not far from Epernay, which itself is not far from Reims. La Chauveliere is a huge farmhouse, a so-called ‘petit chateau’ with thick walls and tall, narrow windows to keep out brigands. Its name means literally the ‘Bat Cote.’ Parts of it date to the 15th Century. There is a family of falcons nesting under the eaves.

Besides the main house, there are several outbuildings that have been renovated as comfortable apartments. Madame Alexis has installed Aunt Enid, Pegeen and me in one of them.

August 10, Tuesday. Altogether at la Chauveliere there are Aunt Enid, Mme Alexis, her sister Mme Olivia, a kaleidoscopic assortment of husbands, children nieces and nephews, a runabout grandchild and me. The LeBlancs include Mme Alexis’ daughter Lucie and son-in-law Guillame, her sons Jean-Christophe and Nicholas, and her unmarried daughter Frieda. The Bezroukoffs are Austro-Hungarian; they have a vast estate somewhere near the Serbian border. Madame Olivia Bezroukoff, the sister of Mme Alexis, is recently widowed. With her are her children Lara, Sasha, little Adele and Raymond, the heir to the Bezroukoff fortune. The families have been summering together at La Chauveliere for years.

I have been having an exquisitely lazy time. Often I recline in a hammock watching the birds on their parental errands. Inevitably, and in two minutes or less, one of the Bezroukoffs or LeBlancs seizes the opportunity to practice English. I should be more patient with them, I suppose, but really it is my French that needs work though no one here seems to think there’s much point in my even trying! Raymond is especially persistent. It is a shame that he has no ‘ear’ for English. He and I end up joking and teasing in German.

We have been bicycling and berrypicking, fishing in the river and going to the village for sweet buns, paté, sausages and vegetables. Bread — long crisp baguettes, fat batards and round, dense pain de campagne — is delivered fresh every morning. M. Hubert LeBlanc, le Seigneur, has been flirting shamelessly with my aunt. In Paris he is Monsieur le Directeur of who knows how many companies; on holiday, he is a little boy that Mme Alexis regards indulgently, quite certain that Aunt Enid will grant him the simple pleasures of the chase but not of the kill.

Madame’s sons and nephews are cut from the same cloth — I am their quarry and I take my cue from my aunt. “A tramp over the hills — mais, oui! — but let us invite the pretty little cousins as well. Ah, yes, bring a blanket and some wine, but don’t forget the bread and cheese; we shall picque-nique five or six together. Ah, you imagined a tete-a-tete? We have hardly just met, alors! Later, perhaps. . . .”

Guilliame, Madame’s son-in-law and the resident manager, spent most of yesterday morning showing me the grapes. They are growing heavy with nectar; Guilliame must decide when to harvest each field. The longer he delays, the greater the chance that the grapes may be destroyed by a storm or soured by a virus; yet also the sweeter they will grow if neither tragedy should intervene.

Guilliame takes a bit of soil and rolls it between his fingers, tastes it. He studies the underside of the grape leaves, hefts the gravid bunches, squashes a berry, sniffs its odor, rolls it on his palate. I am his eager pupil. I venture that some day perhaps we shall succeed in growing fine wines in America. Guillame ridicules the thought. In that, he is regrettably French.

By eleven, it is quite warm and we are inspecting the last grapeyard. I admire Guilliame’s craftsmanship as he continues his methodical survey of the Pinot Blancs. Alas! I sense Guilliame is distracted; his scent is sharper and more acrid, it has darkened the underarms of his broadcloth shirt.

With no more warning than that, Guilliame turns, embraces me and clamps his lips to mine. I parry his assault by digging my nails into the flesh of his flanks. Still he persists; I have no choice but to plant my left boot and swing my right leg upward to maximum effect. The blow parts our lips, as I intended, but I am strangely concerned that I have hurt my host. He steps back, glares but says nothing. I take my handkerchief and wipe away some beads of sweat from Guilliame’s brow. “What would your sweet wife Lucie think?” I murmur.

In the evening Guilliame and I are partnered at whist and sweep all three tables. I sense that the force of our arousal (yes, Diary, I too was aroused, if you must know!) was displaced into this game of cards. And that’s what the conventions of society are, after all — an elaborate game of cards, with rules that well brought up people dare not break. They have their uses, when all’s said and done.

August 11. A boy has brought a telegram from the village. It is for me from Martin. He, Mr. Curtiss and others of the team will arrive at la Chauveliere before luncheon tomorrow.

August 12. The American flyers are the object of solicitous interest from the various Le Blancs and Bezroukoffs. It is well-known that France leads the world in aeronautics. Hasn’t Louis Bleriot just crossed the Channel to England in merely 38 minutes? Haven’t Henri Farmand and Louis Poulhan obliterated all speed and distance records?

The food is good, the wine better. The American contingent, all six of them, don’t mind being patronized.

I catch Martin’s eye. We leave the others toasting, and wander to the orchard on the western flank of the farm. Martin is again taller and I think more muscular. Each of my nerves is a-quiver. He is being a perfect gentleman, so much that I regret my former coldness to my oldest friend from Baltimore. (This is a feature of foreign travel, I think. The farther we go from home, the more attractive people from home become.)

I am still aroused by the thought of Guilliame, sweaty and scented by the chalky soil of his vineyards. I wish Martin had some of Guilliame’s physicality. Instead, he channels his youthful vigor into engineering, supplemented no doubt by frequent cold showers.
It occurs to me to take Martin’s hand in mine as we walk. Sparing me no details of the crew’s effort to tune the Golden Flyer to its most competitive edge, Martin fails to notice my brazen gesture. I consider pressing on to the next level, but no words escape my lips. Try as I might, alone with Martin in that fecund orchard, I cannot say to him “Kiss me. Kiss me, O my dear!” I am so well brought up — no, that’s not it; it is something about Martin — that I can only think it while feigning interest in the mechanics of the carburetor or the alignment of steering cables.

August 13. The Abbaye de Montriche — favored 150 years before by the Marquis de Sade — is quite near by our country refuge. I do wish, Diary, that Mme Alexis had not shared this information. In fact, she seemed quite intent on sharing it. De Sade, Madame has told me, went to the heart of things. He understood — says Madame -- that just as greed and fear are the mainsprings of our economic life, pain — whether inflicted or received — is the force that drives our sexual life. I have not myself sufficient experience to say Mme Alexis yea or nay, but I hope she is wrong.

Aunt Enid, from whom I sought comfort after that unnerving conversation with Madame, says I may refuse her invitations to explore the pleasures of pain. Mme Alexis made no secret of her fondness for the lash, whether blows are inflicted (she) or received (several of her nephews and their friends, I gather). I am invited to join an ‘evening’ tomorrow. Aunt was not surprised, she said (evidently she had seen hints of this tendency Mme Alexis many years before). It is a game they play here regularly, she believes, one that no longer amuses her. I should join only if I wished.

O, damn, Diary! What am I to do? My curiosity has got the better of me!

August 15. Mme Alexis was an altogether fearsome creature last night. Fearsome, that is, were her coup de theatre more than play. If one were serious about doing harm to an enemy, would one wish an audience? Yet there I was last night in the salle de la danse of her little chateau with several of the girls, there by invitation to see Madame humiliate the boys: my aunt’s godchild, Raymond Bezroukoff, his brother Sasha, and Madame’s own Jean-Christophe and Nicholas.

In the uniform of an officer of hussars, Madame cracked a whip above the heads of her nephews. They replied by curtseying, Raymond unfortunately not fast enough for Madame. She drew near; he trembled. She abused him — his dress was torn, it fitted ill, he was a most wretched specimen of humanity, she said, let alone of femininity. O, need I mention Diary, that Mme’s nephews had been dressed as maidens? Nor were they at all unattractive. It was evident that Raymond and his cousins had gone to some considerable trouble to satisfy Mme Alexis, but to no avail — she would not be satisfied. All of them must be tied in a humiliating posture by her assistants, their skirts raised so that their buttocks faced the lash, and whipped for their failure to satisfy Madame’s standards.

We girls gasped as our friends and cousins suffered the lash without hope of escape, bound as they were to the barre.

And then Mme Alexis addressed the gallery. She had noticed that some of us girls showed scant enthusiasm for the punishment of infractions. This was to her perplexing; she would put to us a problem. If we girls chose to remain passive, she would deal with each of the cousins at length, according each the punishment he deserved. Or, Madame offered, she would allow us to ransom each truant at the price of three strokes — she would be the judge — that we ourselves should deliver across his buttocks.

I was quivering with fear for the boys. The other girls were also agitated. Little Adele, in particular, could not resist sobs as she observed her cousin Nicholas. As befit his age, the lad was clad in a schoolgirl’s navy jumper and white chambray cotton blouse. His hair was tied back with a satin ribbon that matched his sash, his legs encased in silk hose and his feet shod in low patent pumps. Who, I wondered, had dressed Nicholas so prettily? Bent cruelly to the rail, the lad had stifled the sobs that sought to escape as the lash kissed his boyish buttocks.

The other boys’ dresses signalled the advancing age of each by the length of the hemline and the tightness of their corsets. Imagine, Diary — we girls rebelled against corsets years ago; I in fact have never worn one — yet here were four youths who could hardly breath, so tightly were they laced! As the breasts of the boys heaved, no doubt from the pain that had coursed upward from their tortured buttocks, we girls shared that grievous hurt vicariously.

“I will ransom Jean-Christophe,” sighed one of the girls. “Give me the whip.”

Whip in hand, she whispered to her cousin. He steeled himself, gripping the bar, as she raised the lash. There could be no saving of the blow — the girls knew, I sensed, that leniency would be counted against the victim. Whap! and whap! Jean-Christophe’s silk-clad limbs buckled, mascara ran in rivulets on his tender cheeks, yet not a sound escaped his rubied lips. Madame nodded; the boy was remanded to the care of the maiden whose strong arm had secured his freedom.

Save one, the rest of the boys were freed in the same way. As little Adele led off her sweet — and now slightly limping -- young Nicholas, and Frieda rescued Sasha, I was uncomfortably aware that of the petticoated youths, only Raymond remained bound to the barre, and only I remained in the gallery. “You may leave us, Evelyn,” said Mme Alexis. “I am aware that our custom is not to your American appetite.” Her words, delivered as though stating a scientific law, aroused my fury. “No, Madame — I will not let you abuse Raymond further. Give me the whip!”

She handed it over. I took it, approached the barre, and spoke to Raymond. “Hit me hard,” he replied. “I will explain later.”

What could I do? If I rebelled, we might both be punished. I raised the lash, then brought it down heavily upon Raymond’s corseted waist. He stifled a groan.

“That will not count. You must hit flesh. His buttocks or thighs!” Madame Alexis bade her assistant pull Raymond’s skirts above his head. “Three more . . . hard strokes!”
Tears coursed down my cheeks as I raised the lash again. One! — a welt arose immediately between the two angry red streaks that Madame had inflicted. Again! This stroke overlapped Madame’s, and my Raymond could not surpress a gasp.

Two more!” said Mme Alexis. I regarded her in surprise. “He is not to cry out,” she said. “If he so much as whimpers, he earns another stroke.”

‘My God,’ I thought. ‘Will this never end?’ I knelt to Raymond and whispered “Be brave, dear heart. Endure two strokes for me.” Tears welled in Raymond’s eyes; Imagining his tears to be of gratitude, I smote Raymond’s buttocks twice more — hard enough to satisfy Madame, yet not so hard that they forced another cry from Raymond.

“Enough,” she said. “Take him now and show him kindness. He will be abjectly grateful; it will amaze you.”

Raymond was released; the lad rose to standing position with difficulty. One of Madame’s servants fussed over his costume until, weakly, he pushed her away and sought my arm.
Raymond and I were led to a room not far from the scene of his whipping. A bath had been drawn, and the covers turned back on a commodious bed. Raymond hobbled beside me and had barely gained the door before he collapsed. “The corset,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can take it no longer.” My fingers flew to loosen the cruel stays as Raymond knelt on all fours upon the polished floor.

He righted himself, regarded me, and smoothed his skirts. “Ah, that is so much better. Thank you, my dear, for saving me from my monstress of an aunt. You must think us quite the oddest family?”

Gravely, I nodded. It was indeed strange. There was no mistaking that Raymond was a youth in a frock, tarted up to a fare-thee-well, and yet I found him attractive. In fact, I was growing decidedly damp between my loins. There is no arguing with such things.

“Odd, yes, but not incomprehensible,” I answered. “You have shared me your secret. Now I will share mine, knowing that you cannot possibly dare betray me.”

I undressed deliberately, arranging my dress on a hangar, folding my undergarments on a chair. Raymond sat dumbly on the floor. “Will you get out of those things or not?” I asked him. Still dumb, he hurried to comply.

“Trim the light,” I commanded. Raymond turned the valve until the gas just glowed. He gaped as though he had never seen breasts. I waited until our eyes had adjusted to the gloom, then dropped my petticoat and drawers.

Raymond did not run. I did not think he would. He simply gasped.

“Yes, I am neither man nor woman. I am something of both — and I am capable of giving pleasure and — most importantly — of receiving it.

“You will give me pleasure. I am sure you wish to do so. Now undress and come to bed!”

I fancy that I taught Raymond a great deal last night. Notwithstanding the influence of his aunt, or perhaps, perversely, because of it, Raymond is a sweet boy. He confessed that he — all of them, in fact, especially including the girls — have come to savor these evenings. Mme Alexis organizes them elaborately four times each year — one is the 30th of December, another — yesternight’s — on the evening before the Feast of the Assumption, one on the third Thursday of Lent, and the last near All Hallows’ Eve, I forget exactly when. This is only the second time Nicholas has been allowed to participate.

“Why the frocks?” I asked.

“O,” he said. “We have all been used to them, Jean-Christophe and Sasha and Nicholas and I, and Guilliame too before he was married. Here at La Chauveliere each summer, they have gone on immediately if we crossed our aunts and mamas or disobeyed our nannies, and so . . . .”

“And so, what?” I asked, already guessing his reply.

“And so, nothing arouses me more acutely than the pain of a corset and a lash. I wonder, indeed, if I shall ever be able to function without the stimulus of one or the other.”
“Your cousins and brother — is it the same for them?”

“For Jean-Christophe, yes. Perhaps Guilliame also. About Nicholas, it is hard to say; he is still very young and it is good that he has Adele for a friend. Sasha is different.”
“What do you mean?”

“Ask him yourself. Tell him I told you to.”

August 16. Sasha Bezroukoff is Raymond’s brother. Raymond, heir to the family’s estates in the Banat of Temesvar, is nineteen. Sasha is hardly sixteen. Their sister Lara is seventeen. Sasha has sad eyes with long eyelashes, thick brown hair that encases his sweet face like a casque, supple limbs and a fine, erect posture — it is as though he has long been accustomed to corsets.

Today, after the midday meal, Sasha and I rested in a gazebo. The barest of breezes carried to us the ripe scents of the French summer. Whilst bees, butterflies and dragonflies attended to their business, I drew from this odd boy his story. He claims always to have preferred the cozy comforts of the nursery or drawing room to the woods or the playing field. “My earliest memory: I was amusing myself happily under the piano while my mother played upon it. The sun was warm through the windows of the conservatory, the air heavy with Mama’s scent, her slippered feet working the pedals. It was then that I was unmistakably aware that I am, that my nature is . . . that of a girl. As long as I can remember, I have been a fearful sissy; it upset my soldier Father greatly, but he is dead now, killed in the fighting in Macedonia.

“Mama does not mind my lack of manliness at all, as long as Raymond plays that part. I cede it to him gladly. I know I shall be happier without a title, as long as I have an income and can live as decadently as I please in Vienna.”

Whereas for Sasha’s brother and his cousin Jean Christophe, to be dressed as girls and whipped is but an aid to their carnal pleasures, it — the imposture of femininity, at least — is Sasha’s greatest pleasure, for which he will gladly endure the lash.

“And as you wish to play the role of the daughter and sister, does it not bother you that daily you become more of a man?” I regarded Sasha intently; as I expected, there came to his eyelash a tear, and then another.

“I do not like to think of that, Evelyn, for there is no defense — is there? There are times that I lie awake crying, dreading the future — the thickening of my beard and roughening of my voice, the dozens of ways my body will impose its traitorous will.
“Well, then — I shall deal with it as I can when I must, and for the present, I shall savor the sweetness of youth.”

“I am sure you will find your way,” I murmured, at a loss for an intelligent reply.
“O, Evi,” Sasha burst out, seizing my hand. “Be my friend! I will show you Vienna! It is the most wonderful of cities; you will love it.”

August 19. We arose before six today; an early start was essential if we were to arrive near the ‘aerodrome’ before ten, when the speed trials were to begin. La Chauveliere is only 20 kilometers from Reims, the ancient capital of the Champagne region. According to the newspaper, a huge crowd has gathered there for La Grande Semaine de l’Aviation. Rooms simply cannot be had at any price. At stake today is a prize of $25,000 donated by Mr. Bennett, the publisher of the Paris Herald.

In Madame Alexis’ great four-in-hand landau were Aunt Enid and a Mr. Prescott, Lara, Sasha and I. Mr. Prescott is an Englishman who is spending a fortnight with his family in the village near la Chauveliere. A driver and a footman sat on the front bench and managed the team, while we five sat ensconced vis-á -vis in the spacious open body of the coach. Lara’s maid and our own Pegeen took the rumble seat behind us.

Emboldened by our intimate conversation of the previous noon, Sasha had determined to come en femme, and a pretty, lively girl he made. Like Lara and me, Sasha had chosen a cotton day dress. Seeming not to regard this as even a bit extraordinary, Lara fussed fondly over her brother’s hair ribbon. I commented on the absence of a corset. “I do not like them especially,” Sasha replied, “nor do I need one to feel I am feminine. It is my aunt who insists we wear the vile things at her ‘parties.’”

It had dawned on Mr. Prescott that I was related to Aunt Enid. “O, that’s your niece, you say? Blimey! She shprekens the Deutsch with those other girls like a regular Heinie!” (By tacit agreement, Lara, Sasha and I had abandoned French for German, in which I am much better able to keep up.) I bit my tongue; sometimes we women must make do with whatever male escort comes to hand.

The heat of the sun was soon felt; we put away our shawls and raised our parasols. At nine-fifteen, we were within half a mile of our goal. We stopped briefly to refresh ourselves at a teahouse while Mr. Prescott and the driver inquired of the best vantage point. It was decided that we should observe the speed competition from a small hill that gave an excellent view of the plain. Already, two dozen carriages were standing along a narrow road, and a hundred people or more had claimed stations along the crest of the hill.

As we climbed carefully to avoid damage to our skirts, we could see ripe fields of wheat and swelling sugar beets stretched out below us. To the north were visible the famous chalk slopes, heavy with grapevines. The aerodrome was easily visible through our binoculars half a kilometer distant, and beyond it, the city of Reims, dominated by its cathedral.

“Louis Bleriot’s the chap to beat,” Mr. Prescott announced. “Farman or Paulhan could give him a run; they’ve already won some prizes. Your American chap really hasn’t a chance, I’m afraid, but I’m sure the experience of competition will be salubrious. . . .”

Undeniably, our escort is a pompous ass. Aunt Enid gave Mr. Prescott a withering glare; I seconded it. He affected not to notice.

The first of the competitors made his ascent and headed north. It was a biplane, but not the Golden Flyer — I was quite sure of that by Martin’s description. I imagined Martin and Tom making last minute adjustments to the mechanical gear as Mr. Curtiss was harnessed into the driver’s seat. A second aeroplane took off, black and silver; it had barely cleared the treeline before the engine began to smoke. We held our collective breath until the pilot wrestled his craft back to the edge of the aerodrome and set it down — heavily but without accident, it appeared.

Then it was the Golden Flyer’s turn. There could be no mistake about it. The American standard bearer was a trim double-winger with rudders fore and aft. Through the binoculars, I could make out Mr. Curtiss at the controls. The Flyer lifted neatly off the runway, climbed swiftly and soon was but a shining speck on the horizon, hot in pursuit of the leader.

One by one, four others gained the sky. The second aeroplane — the one that crashed — had now burst into flames, but only after the pilot was well clear. Someone said that it was Paulhan’s craft.

We could see that the Golden Flyer had nearly breasted the first aeroplane as both craft made the second and final turn beyond the spire of a church only a kilometer or less distant. The last of the competitors — a Bleriot monoplane — had taken off as the Flyer overtook its rival and settled gracefully onto the aerodrome.

“Blimey!” said Mr. Prescott. “Only eight minutes around the course!”

There were still the craft that took off after the Flyer — within a moment or two, we perceived that only the monoplane had a chance of besting Mr. Curtiss. It passed our knoll within a few hundred meters; yes, it was the conqueror of the English Channel, the heroic Louis Bleriot himself. Cheers rose from the crowd, then turned to gasps as the monoplane sputtered and sank heavily just short of the aerodrome. We collectively held our breath — ah, Bleriot had escaped without injury.

Sweet victory! The Curtiss aeroplane has won the Gordon Bennett Cup — and $25,000 — for the United States! I am thrilled for Martin.

We did not return to La Chauveliere until well after sundown, for it was simply mandatory that we congratulate our American friends. When the landau could make no further headway, Sasha, Lara and I abandoned it and continued on foot toward a tent above which the Stars and Stripes waved triumphantly. Alas, the throng was too dense — I had nearly given up hope when Tom Armstrong saw me waving frantically and pushed his way through the crowd to us.

“Evelyn! O, this is wonderful! You saw it, did you?”

As, still gasping, I made introductions, he guided the three of us to the Curtiss’ tent. A celebration was in process that required the liberal spraying of champagne by each member of the Flyer’s team upon the others. After men in the crowd had carried him around the field on their shoulders, Mr. Curtiss had been presented with the huge cup and, on regaining the tent, was himself soaked by jets of the bubbly fluid.

Leaving Sasha and Lara to flirt with Tom, Martin and I stepped outside. “We may not see each other again for some time,” I said, stating the obvious.

“You have told me that you have your own ambitions, Evelyn — for that I have the greatest respect, of course, and yet. . . . Well, I’ll miss you a lot, I guess.”

“Darling, Martin, I am sure you will be a brilliant engineer, and I believe I shall be inclined to marry you if — here I took both his hands and drawing close, gazed directly into Martin’s hazel eyes — if you will but wait a few years, and allow me a career also.”
“Of course,” he answered. “It is settled then?”

Without waiting for my reply, Martin kissed me on the lips. I returned his kiss as firmly as a well-bred girl might in the midst of a throng.

I suppose that we have an understanding, now, Martin and I.

August 20. Entering the parlor of the main house in search of a book I’d left there, I found Aunt Enid and the sisters Bezroukoff in heated conversation. Of course, I hurried to make my retreat. “No, Evelyn, stay,” bade my aunt. “You will find this argument of interest, I think. Mme Alexis is expounding the merits of ‘petticoat discipline.’”

Not at all sure I would, I sat on a stool to listen.

“Surely you will admit, dear Enid, that men are fundamentally brutes?” — it was Madame Olivia who spoke.

“There are many of whom I have been fond,” answered my aunt, “men that I believe were never coerced into behaving properly and respectfully.”

“O, I shall grant you that most ‘gentlemen’ acquire a veneer of decency without coercion, but it is by no means genuine, in my view, nor does it touch them all,” offered Madame Alexis. “Too often one encounters men who are unpleasant in general and rude to women in particular. All of us — even Evelyn, I venture,” she said with a nod to me, “know men whose manner communicates their conviction that it is their right and duty to order us about, to manage our affairs as though we were simpletons, and — Evelyn, close your ears! — to take us roughly in bed whenever they wish.”

Madame Alexis regarded all of us, the sharp glance of a woman used to getting her way. As none of us made a move to demur, she continued. “I would not countenance or chance such a thing in my own household. For the sake of argument, I will concede that perhaps I was overzealous in Hubert’s case. He has always been a man of excellent character, but . . . it was only shortly after our marriage that I apprehended a danger, the beginnings of disregard, of his not taking me seriously. I would not endure that he should humiliate me.

“Was it not from then, dear Alexis, that Hubert habitually has worn a corset and the same silky undergarments we love?” asked Madame Olivia.

“Not quite then. I was pondering how I might assert command of our private life when Hubert presented me a golden opportunity. He returned to our rooms very late one night, disgustingly inebriated. The maid had gone off to visit her mother, so I had to tend to my drunken husband myself. Not wishing him in our bed, I led Hubert to a couch, bade him remove his coat and went to fetch a blanket.

“Returning then to the salon, I found him fumbling furtively with something. ‘What is that you have, Hubert? Give it to me!’ I demanded. He pretended not to hear, concealing the object, so I wrenched it from his hand.

“It was a pair of scarlet silk knickers of the sort favored by can-can dancers. Without an instant’s reflection, I slapped Hubert’s face. My husband passed out then and there. It was more from the liquor than from the force of my blow, I am sure. I left him sprawled across the divan and retired to our bedroom, where I sat in bed all night, turning these events over in my mind, fuming.”

“At six I roused Hubert by yanking off his blanket. The drink had quite worn off; he struggled to sit, grinning stupidly. Disgusted (for he stank), I waited for my spouse to apologize. Several minutes passed in silence before I realized that I could endure no more.

“’Up, you species of shit,’” I said. “‘Go and wash yourself. Shave well, and then don the clothing you will find waits for you.’”

“My husband shuffled off to his bath. I had thoughtfully drawn the tub. Once he had entered it, I arranged his penitential wardrobe.

“Hubert emerged scarcely ten minutes later, his nakedness barely disguised by a towel.
“’Where are the lovely garments I put out for you? Why have you failed to shave? Is it possible that you did . . . not . . . understand that the life that you knew . . . is over?’”

“’Please, Alexis,’” he whimpered, “’I can explain everything.’”

“’No,’” I replied. “’You have betrayed me.’”

“’O,’ he moaned. ‘Forgive me!’”

“How stupid he appeared, clutching a towel to his vital parts, an expression near to panic contorting his face.

“’We shall see,’ I said. ‘Now get back into the bathroom and put on the clothes I have chosen for you. Now!’”

“If Hubert had refused, then and there, I might have lost the game. Instead, he was the one to buckle.”

“Ten minutes later, my lawful spouse emerged again. He was this time dressed as I wished. Hubert had even, I was touched to see, attempted to arrange his hair.

“And so, my dears, I closed the trap. I led Hubert, in his full set of ladies’ undergarments, into our bedroom where I held back nothing. I gave him greater pleasure than ever before, than ever he could imagine. I left Hubert under no illusion; this happiness would endure, I said precisely, if he were to subject himself absolutely to me, and grant me carte blanche to raise our children according to my own methods.”

Mme Alexis sat preening herself like a fat tabby cat on the piano bench.

“Ah, Alexis, I never tire of hearing that story,” said Mme Olivia. “And now, ladies — afternoon tea awaits us.”

August 21. I have been brooding about Mme Alexis’ methods. Surely they are no less brutish than the behavior she deplores in men? Should I have objected? My aunt was uncomfortable, too, I think — yet she bade me stay. She almost encouraged me to sample the whipping “game,” too. It is too complicated for me to comprehend. In all other ways, Mme Alexis has been the most gracious of hostesses — and as I am still but a girl, may I presume to challenge her? O Diary, I don’t know what to think!

August 22. Tearful goodbyes all round today. Aunt Enid, Pegeen and I are off to Vienna. All our new clothes have been sent up from Paris, so there is no need to return there. After taking leave of Mme Alexis and Mme Olivia at La Chauveliere, we boarded the Orient Express at the station in Metz, waved off there by Raymond, Sasha, Lara and Jean-Christophe.

Aunt, who believes that travel is sufficient trouble that we should not have to endure it with strangers, had secured for us a private compartment in a Wagons-Lits car. We had been underway for perhaps an hour when we passed the German border and began to climb over low mountains toward Strasburg and the Rhein. We were now in the province wrested by Prussia from France nearly 40 years before. As my Aunt browsed magazines she had providently brought aboard, I examined the passing countryside, hoping to decipher whether Alsace was truly French or essentially German.

Aunt and I lunched simply in our cabin on soup and a cutlet, followed by cheese, a compote of pears, and excellent coffee. As the steward cleared away the wreckage of our meal, my aunt smiled wanly at me and asked if I had enjoyed these past weeks at La Chauveliere.

I replied guardedly. “It was a grand thrill to see the Golden Flyer win the cup, of course. The countryside, the village and farms about La Chauveliere are lovely at this season. It has been a pleasure to explore them with the other young people. . . .”
“Tell me what you really think.” My aunt does not beat about the bush.

“It is quite confusing,” I replied. “Mme Alexis and her methods disturb me a great deal. I hardly know what I think, about the whipping especially, and how she treats her husband. I am sure she is wrong to condemn all men as brutes. I think she takes too much pleasure from hurting the boys. I am troubled by the situation of Sasha as well. It is as though his mother and Madame Alexis have contrived to resex him.”

“Is that what he said?”

“O, no — quite the contrary! He claims to have ‘always known’ that he is ‘really a girl.’ Evidence that he is not — he is beginning to have a beard, for example — distresses Sasha a great deal.”

“You need not see Sasha or any of the Bezroukoffs in Vienna if it makes you uncomfortable,” said Aunt Enid.

“It is not that. It is because I could help Sasha. If he were to have a daily dose of Balthasar’s elixir. . . as you know, I have brought a large quantity . . . yet I doubt it would be wise. Sasha’s fondness for feminine imposture has not come normally, no matter what he says.”

Still August 22. Fortunately we had reserved a table in the first class dining car; it was already quite full when we arrived there for afternoon tea. As Aunt Enid and I were being seated, I heard a man, undeniably American by his accent, regretting that the oysters were not half so fresh or flavorsome as Chincoteagues. Of course I could not help but turn to the source of this remark. A delighted gasp escaped me as I saw who it was — Mr. William Hodgson, and with him Mrs. Hodgson and my chum Christy.

I had not seen Christy since the St. Tim’s hockey squad met ours in mortal combat in May — she had captained our rivals. We fell into each other’s arms with barely suppressed squeals of pleasure. My aunt is of course well-acquainted with the older Hodgsons. Thanks to the ingenuity of the stewards, we soon were able to share a larger table and exchange news from home. The Hodgsons left Baltimore two weeks behind us, enroute to Bayreuth, near Munich, for the festival directed there by Richard Wagner, the great German composer and conductor. Of course they stopped in Paris to shop. Christy and I complimented each other with perfect sincerity on the elegance of our new frocks and our radiant good health. Let the French think what they might, she too had refused to be corseted.

It is such a nice thing to find friends from home when you are far from there. The German countryside faded to black, dotted here and there by the glow of cottage windows, as we reminisced of our cruise two summers ago on the “Best Revenge” and of the epic battles between the teams of Bryn Mawr School and St. Timothy’s. Christy related that her sister Eleanor is now working with Miss Jane Addams at her famous institution in Chicago. Mark is doing well at Princeton. Mr. Hodgson hopes he will join him in directing the family’s business — the manufacture of sail-cloth, as I recall.

At length, a steward whispered something to Mr. Hodgson; he nodded, and said to us all “The train will arrive in Munich within half an hour, so we must bid you good night, and prepare to disembark.” There followed much embracing and promising to write; I told Christy that I would love her forever if she would send me but one page each month with news of home.

Monday, August 23. The Orient Express had gained the Danube by the time the first rays of the rising sun woke me. Aunt and I hastened to complete our toilettes; we should arrive in Vienna at eight-thirty, and she wished to have a leisurely breakfast first.

The steward came by to return our compartment to its daytime state as a sitting room and then brought tea and toast. Aunt Enid meanwhile sent Pegeen forward to find and watch our baggage lest any should be left aboard when the Orient Express stopped in Vienna. My aunt is a seasoned traveller; I am not. It occured to me that I should very likely have been daydreaming in my berth right up until a rap on the door announced our imminent arrival.

We had broken our fast and were ready to disembark, yet fully half an hour remained before we should be in Vienna. From the window of the Wagons-Lit coach, I watched tidy Austrian villages speed past. “The Hodgsons. How pleasant it was to encounter them by chance,” I murmured as Christy’s honest face floated into my thoughts. “They are the most decent of people.”

“Yes, I suppose they are,” replied my aunt. I noticed that she “supposed” it — she did not think it.

“You did not find it pleasant, then?”

“O, no — you mistake my meaning. Of course they are very decent people. I was wondering what you make of your aunt by comparison. Next to the Hodgsons, I sense myself ridiculously exotic.”

“Well, you are exotic by Baltimore standards. I would not have it any other way. Were you not exotic and daring and possessed of an imagination, I should still be Edward Tucker, the most miserable youth in Perkinstown, Pennsylvania, I am sure of it — instead of a fine young lady about to pass half a year in the capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”

“Madame Olivia Bezroukoff invited us to stay with her, Evelyn — an invitation extended the morning after she realized that I have no other heir. I think she hopes you may find my godson Raymond attractive. In any event, I have turned her down.”

“O” I said. I was relieved, but wondered might follow.

“I have arranged to take a suite of rooms in Vienna very near the Petersplatz that I learned of through the Devinats. Thereby we shall retain our freedom from obligations that might prove tiresome — or too exotic. It is a lovely neighborhood. You’ll find our flat very convenient to the Akademie.”

My aunt referred to the Goethe Akademie, an institution that claims remarkable success in teaching German to foreigners. I intend to register there on the morrow.

“How will you arrange our household? Will it be just you, me and Pegeen?”

“Of course not, Evelyn. We shall need a cook and a footman; both are easily hired.”

“And how shall you govern me? I should like,” I said experiencing the smallest of tremors “that you should trust me to manage myself appropriately.”

“I have already decided that,” Aunt Enid replied. “You may come and go mostly as you like. I have no intention of saddling you with a chaperone. Without freedom to explore, one cannot learn — as you just said — to manage oneself.”

Unable to restrain a broad grin, I leaned forward and hugged my Aunt’s knees. Our train was entering the Vienna Hofbann, slowing, hissing, sighing to a stop. “You are the most wonderful of aunts, the best of guardians. Thank you for my freedom. I hope I shall not disappoint you.”

“O, tut, child! When I arrived in Vienna thirty years ago with my dear friend and benefactor Mary Elizabeth Garrett, I was far less prepared to you. If the truth be said, I was a rank adventuress. You will be fine. You will experience things you cannot yet imagine. You have a fine head, and a compassionate heart to match. I trust you to use them both to best advantage.”

End of Part IV

(The Titanic Era Diary of Evelyn Westcott)

Evi Westcott (born Edward Tucker) is a turn-of-the-20th Century Alpha female, impatient with the roles polite society has assigned to women — including accidental women like herself — and in a hurry to set things straight. Evi is eighteen. Touring Europe with Auntie Enid, she’s learning about Life in its astonishing diversity and seeking the key to a safe future for herself and the rest of ‘Tottie’s Girls’ — the dozen gender-dsyphoric youth who like Evelyn depend for their happiness on a secure supply of ‘Balthasar’s extract.’

1911 is a fine time to be young. The world is full of new things — the automobile, the aeroplane, social consciousness, moving pictures, mental hygiene and ragtime. Women are dumping the corset and demanding the vote, kicking over the pedestals upon which Victorian Sensibility has placed them. It is a time of creativity and experimentation in the natural sciences, of rapidly growing comprehension of how ‘internal secretions’ regulated human physiology.

Join Evi as she and Aunt Enid arrive in Vienna — sophisticated, elegant and decadent to the core. Of, if you are new to this series, begin at the beginning (some 75,000 words ago) or go to the end of this chapter for a very short synopsis of the story so far.

August 23, still. Two minutes ahead of schedule, the Orient Express slid smoothly into Vienna’s cavernous Nordbahnhof. Herr Dinckeldorf, whose apartment Aunt Enid has engaged, waited on the platform to greet us. He sent us ahead in a cab, following with our maid Pegeen on a wagon with the baggage. All the way to 42 Brandstadtstrasse I could only gasp at the elegance of this city — indeed it rivals Paris — while Aunt Enid marvelled at the improvements since she left Vienna in 1886, twenty-four years ago.

As soon as we were in possession of our rooms — and they are quite grand, Diary, with tall windows that face south toward a cathedral — I hurried to pick up our mail. In the three weeks since we left Paris, they have been piling up for us at the American Express office.

Several dozen envelopes awaited my inquiry. Certain that Aunt Enid and Pegeen were no less eager for news of friends, I repressed an impulse to open my mail then and there, and hurried back to our apartment.

Two letters were from Dorothy Downey. Slicing them open, I felt a tremor of worry that she might have taken offense at the fears I expressed about her beau, Ted Rawlings. My dear friend was not in the least upset, she hastened to assure me. Dorothy knew my concern is motivated only by affection, she said. She has long been aware of Ted’s ‘kink’; her own example is not its cause. Only a week after Miss Ella’s masquerade ball — O, that was eight months ago — Ted confessed that he has been abstracting items of clothing from his mother’s and sister’s closets for years, and wearing these in secret. It gives him pleasure. Who is she to take offense, Dorothy asks. Ted, at least, can get pleasure from sex. . . . She has given him leave to dress as he likes in the privacy of their studio, and with practice and her tutelage, ‘Teddy’ no longer seems entirely odd when garbed in items of women’s clothing.

In her second letter, Dorothy reports that all is well at Balthasar’s ‘laboratory’ and shares wonderful news: Ted’s oil portrait, a la Mr. Sargeant, of “Miss Henrietta Halloran,” has won a first at the Charcoal Club’s annual show. Ted posed Harry in the salon of the Rawlings’ townhouse, beside a full-length mirror seen from an angle. Dressed to the height of fashion, ‘Henrietta’ gazes intently at a mask she holds in her hand. The reflection in the glass mirrors her exactly, except — the image is of Harry, Henrietta’s real self! Miss Ella has purchased the painting for $500! O, I cannot wait to see it!

August 25. I am enrolled at the Goá«the Akademie, where I will grapple with German at the “advanced intermediate” level for three hours a day. Classes begin on Monday.

August 31. As I feared, my foundation in German has serious structural weaknesses. Frau Schnickel has prescribed extra work each day to repair the pernicious effects of an American accent. So now, in addition to group classes from ten to twelve and two to three, I have an hour of an hour of private tutoring beginning at precisely 08:30!

I do enjoy my class. We are a diverse group: a Turk and a Greek, a Belgian couple, a Polish Jew from Russia, a Swedish musician and even a Japanese! Achmed the Turk and Sophia the Greek sit as far apart as possible and avoid addressing each other; otherwise after only two days, we are all aready becoming quite chummy.

The Japanese boy fascinates me. He is, slim, swarthy of course, exquisitely mannered, and clearly accustomed to Western dress — in these respects, Hiro reminds me of Dorothy’s Annamese half-brother, Etienne. He has come to Austria to study law.

“Why not English law,” I asked Hiro during a break in our morning class. My question triggered a passionate outpouring. The British aim to dominate the East, he said. Their ‘enlightened’ rule of the subcontinent has brought only misery to the mass of Indians; now they aim to encompass China as well. The Empire of Japan must prepare for an inevitable war with England, Hiro insisted, with Germany as its ally.

September 9. At the Brá¤unerhof Café, as we shared an unctuous sacher-torte, my dainty chum Sasha Bezroukoff described the Banat of Temesvar. “It is a backward, brutal place. If you were to visit, you would think it was 1410, not 1910! My father took us there when I was six or seven. Great-grandfather had returned to the Banat — to die, he said — and was on the point of realizing that ambition. I think he was the last of our family to feel any connection to the province. His own father was the hereditary Prince.

“O, Evi, the place was gruesome. The houses were dirty, even the beds were full of dust and I don’t know what. I remember that a lot of our peasants looked sick and could barely find the strength to doff their caps as father’s carriage passed by. Hardly anyone in the Banat understands German. The women struck me as uniformly ugly. There was no proper bread, just disgusting brown stuff that with a sort of goulash seemed to be the entire diet of the province.

“Nothing could persuade me to go there again!”

September 13. I am studying German all day long. Four hours of class, another four hours of homework. Achmed and Sophia have ceased to glower at each other, the Belgians have dropped out, Hiro is struggling. I have been to see the Registrar of the medical college at the university. I was told I may take classes there in the winter quarter if my German is good enough.

Evenings and Sundays I go for longish walks, sometimes with my aunt, and occasionally with friends from my language class. Vienna is a kaleidescope of treats for the eye and ear. Erik (the Swedish boy) and I have been to several concerts. He is devoted to Mozart and says he will play for me on his French horn. There are museums and art galleries everywhere in the First District, and magnificent churches. Once I saw Franz Ferdinand in a coach escorted by cavalry. The Archduke is popular; there was no end of cheering as he and his family passed by.

September 18. Letters have arrived from Martin, now back at Cornell University after the great triumph at the ‘Grande Semaine de l’Aviation.’ My Martin is studying to be an aeronautical engineer, not a poet. His letters are often tediously ‘mechanical,’ and so it is especially charming to hear him wax poetic on the subject of the future of aerial travel. In our own lifetimes, he says, we shall voyage from New York to London in the span of a single day upon ‘airborne Mauretanias.’

The science is already well enough understood that we can be confident of such a future, he insists. The shaped wing lifts the steel vessel, it is propelled forward with great force through the yielding air by three, four, six mighty turbines. Meanwhile, hundreds of passengers chat, read, dine, and watch the latest moving pictures in the comfort of a grand salon sailing ten thousand feet above the angry sea. The fantastic dreams of engineers!

At the end of a letter, Martin confesses his joy that we have reached an ‘understanding.’ I suppose I should be elated, too, Diary, and yet that feeling eludes me. I have asked Martin to keep our engagement a secret between us for now. Before all else, I must find the courage to tell Martin that I am not the girl he imagines I am.

Friday evening, September 24. An encounter of scarcely five minutes leaves me shuddering hours later.

Classes at the Akademie let out at precisely three-thirty. I knew my Aunt was taking tea today at Mrs. Blanchett’s, so I accepted the invitation of fellow-students to share a snack. At a café fronting on the Printzgarten, we ordered up cups of decadent, cream-crusted Viennese coffee and slices of Schwartzertorte. We were a decidedly mixed group. Having little in common but our youth, high spirits and heartfelt frustration with the German conditional subjunctive, we passed a merry hour. Then, as if apprehending a collective signal, my companions made excuses and hurried homeward in the fading light of a midwinter afternoon.

Gaining the street with the last of my new friends, I bade them good-bye and lingered to study some water colors on display at the curbside.

“Your work is rather good,” I murmured pleasantly to the intense young man whoI took to be their painter.

“Thank you,” he replied. “May I ask you — you knew your companions to be Jews?”

“O,” I replied, “it had not crossed my mind. Is it so important?”

The painter nodded. He was below medium height and terribly thin; possessed most remarkably, I remember, with a piercing stare.

“You are American, I think. Your accent gives you away. You Americans do not understand the question of racial purity as we do, though you should.”

“I would rather discuss your art, Herr, Herr . . . .

“Hitler,” he supplied. “The small ones are six crowns each, and the larger, ten.”

I purchased one of the smaller paintings: a rough cottage in a mountain fen, radiant in the soft light of a spring afternoon. How strange to think such a violent person could create a scene so lovely. It is signed quite boldly, ‘A. Hitler.’ What an upsetting little man he was, Diary.

September 28. Sasha and his needs are wearing me down. He knows my secrets, and that explains why I fascinate him. After our strange night at the LeBlanc’s country home, Sasha’s older brother Raymond betrayed my confidences. He told Sasha that I am possessed of the most miscellaneous sexual organs, knowledge that has quickened the boy’s interest to the boiling point. I have become his life raft. Sometimes it appears he is in love with me, and at other times I believe he is telling the truth when he says that I am the only one who understands what he is and what it means to be Sasha in Vienna in 1910.

I think Sasha is very much like my friends Rachel Klimintz and Alexandra Cooper — that is, he was a child born with the body of a boy but by some quirk bearing the mind of a girl. I suppose that’s very hard for the general run of humans to comprehend; they think you must be in both mind and body one or the other. By far the great majority of people are perfectly happy in the sex they are born into, and I suppose that assuming this to be a universal truth is easier for them.

As for the difficulties of being sexually conflicted in 1910 Vienna, I have little sympathy for poor Sasha. This is the most tolerant city on earth. I am sure of that. Insofar as I can perceive, Sasha may present himself — or herself — however he — or she — wishes with neither legal nor social sanction.

Yesterday I told Sasha that had he been born almost anywhere else since Christianity became the religion of Rome, and been moved to ‘express his true nature,’ he should have been tortured and executed with no compunction whatsoever, let alone sympathy. To drive home the point, I added that throughout most of the world, it is still no different. Some societies give the differently sexed a special status — thus the ‘berdache’ of America’s Plains Indians or the shamans of Siberia, the female roles consigned to men on the Japanese and Chinese stage, the sacerdotal status assigned to men who take the role of women at certain shrines in India, the British fondness for theatrical impersonators. Those are the exceptions, not the rule. The more ‘modern’ the civilization, the more strictly it insists on either/or in the general run of things, and the less it gives sympathetic consideration to those who may fall between the poles of sexual expression.

My young friend seems to take all this in without questioning. He is hardly 16; though I am scarcely two years older, Sasha regards me as a fount of knowledge. Perhaps I am — through the kindness and understanding of my aunt, I at least have safely crossed that great gulf between the world’s conception of ‘male’ and ‘female.’

Sasha came to me looking for validation of the thoughts that haunt him by day and direct his dreams at night. Instead, I challenged them, telling Sasha very directly that to choose to be a woman is to elect an inferior role, to circumscribe one’s horizons and live dependent on the good nature of a husband or of society in general. Very few women escape that fate. I shall escape it, but Sasha, I think, lacks such fortitude. “Ah, no!” he cried when I limned what one must do to be both female and free. “I should be pleased to have a friend, a lover and guardian to whom I can submit and devote myself, save that it be as a true wife or companion.”

Greatly dissatisfied by his weakness of character, I posited to Sasha that he was was very likely inverted, and should be quite well served if some man were to take him under his wing, so to speak, and teach him manliness. My young friend bit his lower lip; tears filled his eyes and his crestfallen expression said to me “you, too, Evelyn? I had thought you at least understood the difference.” A difference I do understand, of course. I cannot imagine making love for an evening with Sasha’s brother Raymond or an afternoon with Billy Barkell were I to come to either one as a man. It must be as a woman, and they must treat me as one.

“I do, my dear, I do,” I confessed, “and it is essential that you also understand who you are. Tell me, how do you know?”

“I, I have lain with men. Not many, but enough of them to be sure. Some were gentle, yet it made no difference. They despised women. They believed that I wished for petticoats and their protection only to gratify a sexual urge. It is, is not like that for me at all.”

“In that respect, my dear Sasha, you have gone beyond me. The men I have known regard me as female to the core.”

October 1. A Japanese ‘opera’ troupe has come to Vienna. It is touring the European capitals. All of the roles are played by men — like the English theatre in Shakespeare’s time, I suppose.

My chum from German class was our guest. Though Hiro has hardly a penny to spend on himself, he refused my invitation until I explained he might do us a service by explaining the action of the ‘Kabuki.’ It is reminiscent of Shakespeare — lots of intrigue and bloodshed! There was a Lady MacBeth-like character who was stunningly wicked. Hiro said the actors have trained since childhood. Their gestures and voices are highly mannered and the ‘kimonos’ worn by the actors are gorgeous beyond description. Though I knew the female roles were played by men and boys, their art deceived my senses perfectly.

October 5. Sasha proposes that I accompany him on an evening “out.” He means an evening among the demimonde. Certain that Aunt Enid would object, I have not consulted her. I have pretended instead that I shall spend this Friday night preparing for exams with a junior tutor at the Akademie, Madeleine Spielvogel. Madeleine promised to provide an alibi for me after extracting my pledge to do as much for her on another occasion.

October 8. Momo’s cannot be described; it must be experienced. I am told that there are at least at least a dozen “travesten kabaretten” within the Ringstrasse, but Momo’s is the one that the others aspire to be — the place where toute Vienne adores to play at sexual ambiguity and inversion. To tell the truth, I saw last night that neither Sasha nor I had gotten it ‘right.’ At first or even second glance, no one would take either of us for men or even boys. I expect that is an important distinction between those who are like us and the truly inverted. We dearly hope to be thought nothing but women, whereas those who think themselves male make a joke of impersonating women. Their clothes, gestures and props are exaggerated; they appear as caracatures of real women; and in fact I think many of them actually hate women.

Last evening, Sasha arrived to collect me at Madeline’s with a “lady” that he introduced to a credulous Mme Spielvogel as his aunt. Satisfied that the conventions were properly observed (and looking none too closely), Mme Spielvogel bade us and our chaperone good evening while Madeleine (who has not the slightest suspicion that I myself am anything less than perfectly female) doubled over behind her mother to suppress a fit of giggles.

A two crown note, discreetly tendered, gained us instant admission at Momo’s. Inside, “Aunt” was quickly whisked onto the dance floor by her admirer of long standing, a banker, I think she said. That left Sasha and me sipping champagne, watching the predators circle their prey from the safety of a shadowed corner. Several times gentlemen drew close enough to survey us both. I stared back, and they retreated. “Evelyn, you mustn’t . . . be so bold. It is not the sensation that they seek,” said my young friend.

“Very well,” I answered, relaxing onto the plush sofa we had chosen. “Show me how it is done.” I gave Sasha my undivided attention. He — or rather she, this evening — had chosen a slim gown that made the most of an ambiguous figure. Though she declined the corset, Sasha’s curves had been amplified. Her wig was indistinguishable from a head of real hair, scalloped and pinned high, exposing a graceful neck. I had no doubt that the emerald earrings and the brooch that hung on a necklace were indeed real; on inquiring if they were Lara’s jewels or Sasha’s mother’s, I learned they were “neither — they are the gift of an admirer. I see him now, over there. I believe you have scared him off.”

I did my best to appear inoffensive. Sasha withdrew a small mirror from her purse and adjusted a ringlet or two. Seconds later, two men approached our table and bowed.

Squeezing my hand beneath the cloth, Sasha beamed with delight at the younger of the two, and informed me that he was her dear friend Franz. That left the older for me, and not wishing to be boorish, I invited him to sit beside me. The gentleman was perceptably confused. Sasha he knew to be a boy — the most feminine of boys, but a boy withal — because Franz had said it was so. I, insofar as he could tell, seemed fully female and hence out as out of place at Momo’s as a Hindoo priest might be at a Baptist picnic.

Oskar (for that, he said, was his name) ordered another round of champagne and as soon as we had all drunk each others’ health, groped under the table for my leg. I took his wrist and returned his hand to his own lap. “I am not, I take it, your ‘type,’” he asked. “No,” I replied, “though for a man, you are not unattractive.”

“Ah, now I see,” said Oskar. “Franz was mistaken. Excuse me for a brief moment.”
I was left alone, Sasha having pulled Franz onto the dance floor when the orchestra struck up a fast waltz. I was mesmerized by the fantastic scene before me. I smiled to think how all these strange creatures might appear in the hard light of morning as they hurried to their school or workplace, or set about the social round that occupies the leisure class.

“Bitte, fraulein.” It was Oskar again. “May I present . . .”

The gentleman who accompanied Oskar was drop-dead gorgeous. Six feet tall, certainly, and immaculate in perfectly-tailored evening dress. A monocle glinted above his cheek, and a fragrant blossom adorned his lapel. Our eyes locked. “It is my honor to present,” Oskar began again, “my dear friend Catherine Strasser.”

“Call me Charles, or Kat if you’d rather” she said, offering me her ungloved hand, and then at my invitation taking the seat so recently occupied by Oskar (who took his leave immediately).

Americans in Europe have a reputation for speaking their minds. On this occasion, I lived up to it. “You are exquisitely elegant,” I said. “I think I should fall under your spell at the slightest provocation.”

Kat’s hand found my leg. I took her wrist and moved her hand directly to the valley between my thighs, wondering if she would sense the warmth rising therefrom.

“Let us not be precipitate,” she said. “Every courtship has a progression. Have you studied the mating dance of the preying mantis, for example?”

Meekly, I acknowledged that I had.

“Do you tango, Evelyn?”

I confessed that I did, but not well, I felt sure. Kat took my arm and led me to the dance floor.

I have danced, Diary, with boys I fancy — Martin and Billy in particular — and dozens of others. None have commanded me, thrilled me like Kat. For the first time, I recognized the tango for what it is, the most sensual of dances.

I was wound to a fever pitch when, at last, we regained our table. If Kat had proposed that we leave immediately, I should not have hesitated, but she was not a creature of impulse. Few predators are, I imagine. Instead, she chose to stalk me.

“Tell me, who are you?” [‘What are you?’ I knew she meant, and I was powerless to deceive her.]

“I was raised a boy, until I was 14 and it became evident that I was as much girl as boy. Subsequently, I have become certain that in my manner of thinking, I am mostly girl.”
“Has a woman ever made love to you?”

“One has tried. I was not ready then.”

“Are you ready now?”

“I should like to tango with you again, first.”

October 14. I dreamed that fantastic dream again last night. The parade went on forever, floats and bands and chanting marchers, but it was not a parade like the Easter Parade in Baltimore nor a solemn appeal for womens’ suffrage. It was more like a celebration, Diary, proud and defiant, and O, what a gay and vivid scene it was! I did not doubt that I dreamed a city of the future, something Mr. H. G. Wells might imagine — and a time when people who are ‘different’ in their sexuality had claimed their right to celebrate it. This time I recognized some of the marchers — Ted and Doro were there, and all of Miss Ella’s troupe riding on a fire engine, and Fiona and my new friend Kat arm in arm. And, atop a float, resplendent in a crimson gown and a tiara, waving and blowing kisses, poor Sasha, having the time of his life!

October 16. I have written to Doktor Reinhold Steinach, the famous specialist on internal secretions, asking if I might visit him in his laboratory to acquaint him with some work recently done in America. Diary, I shudder to put myself forward so, yet there is no other way. My friend Madeleine corrected my errors in German, so at least the renowned Doktor will not rate me for that.

October 24. I can fairly describe Kat’s house, for I have now been there several times — whenever she summons me, if the truth be out. It is what we could call a townhouse in Baltimore, and very near the Rupertskirche. When it was built, the only dwellings in Baltimore were wigwams. There are several elegant rooms that a maid keeps clear of dust, and a dozen more that have been sealed off, there being no one to inhabit them. Kat lives alone. She has the revenues from an estate somewhere near Krakow and neither siblings nor, since several years ago, parents.

I usually arrive direct from my classes, and remove my hat and coat. She takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. There is no small talk as we undress each other. As often as not, Kat is attired as a man. She prefers trousers though she is quite stunning in a well-cut woman’s suit. Soft fabrics, the ones I prefer, would not do for Kat.

She is amused by the tangle of bits that serve for my sexual parts, and has allowed me to demonstrate how she can give me great pleasure. She has taught me what pleases her also, knowledge likely to be of wide utility, I suspect, if expressed less forcefully.

Once, as I lay exhausted in Kat’s arms, she asked me “you know, don’t you, why I choose to be called Kat?”

“Your appetite is such that I am reminded of Catharine the Great of Russia. She kept a whole regiment of hand-picked hussars to service her. Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly right, my sweet Evelyn. Now remain perfectly still. I am going to lick all your parts and wind you up again, because I am not yet satisfied . . . not at all.”

October 25. Aunt Enid never ceases to amaze me, Diary. Gustav Klimt, Vienna’s artist-colossus, was once her lover! Last night as we enjoyed an evening before the fire, my aunt confessed that she intends to seek him out. “Such a huge appetite Gustav had for love, Evelyn. He was unknown and penniless then, the sort of young man a baroness might, um, sponsor. I never deluded myself that he was mine alone — if you credit the stories, he has lain with half the ladies of Vienna.

“What I wish to do is buy one of Gustav’s paintings for old times sake. Will you go with me to meet him?”

I agreed readily. I have seen — no, been hypnotized by -- Klimt’s decorations at the University Library. I want to meet this man.

October 28. I have an appointment to meet Dr. Steinach next Thursday afternoon at the Biological Institute. He wrote back that he found the paper I sent him ‘interesting.’

November 1. On Thursday, Madeleine Spielvogel tested me for forty-five minutes, the longest forty-five minutes of my life, I think, before she pronounced my German ‘good enough’ for University classes. Frau Schnickel has agreed and given me a certificate that says so. . . .

Madeleine and I celebrated my advancement last night at an English ‘pub’ near the Akademie. It being All Hallows Eve, I went there in my costume as Ganymede, the maiden in As You Like It who disguises herself as a boy. My costume fools no one, but it is attractive. It was Madeleine’s first experience of ‘Halloween’ as we Anglo-Saxons celebrate it; thus she essayed only a slightly risque gown and a domino mask. Within moments, Madeleine was into the swing of it. We returned home late and somewhat tipsy on one too many steins of Pilsner, escorted by some charming boys whose names I cannot recall.

November 4. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose, Diary, but I had hoped for more from Doktor Steinach. My interview went badly from the moment he realized that I was not, as he had imagined, a university researcher but a mere high school graduate — an abiturient. I had said as much in my letter, but he had not read it as such, I think.

I told Dr. Steinach that when an untimely accident had struck her down, Dr. Tottie Clathrop and her colleague, Balthasar Bishop, were on the verge of isolating the secretions that determine the development of female characteristics. Then I began to describe my experiments with the male guinea pigs. Their anomalous development after removal of their external genitalia and injections with Balthasar’s extract seemed to confirm Tottie’s conjecture, I started to say, when the famous researcher interrupted me. Rising from his desk, he said it was evident that first Tottie and Balthasar, and then Balthasar and I, had copied his work.

Well, I recoiled in shock, Diary. The famous Austrian researcher is not an imposing man, but I could not help shrinking into my chair as I saw him, red-faced, searching for the precise words that would drive home the extent of my impudence. How had I learned of his trail-blazing experiments, for which only now was the report being prepared for publication in Zentralblatt fá¼r Physiologie? How did I dare — a mere child, and a girl at that — dare to claim credit for tracing the linkage between secondary sexual functions and the secretions of the gonads?

What had I to lose? “Dr. Steinach,” I answered as soon as I might, and standing to face him, “you are wrong to bully me and you are wrong in your assumption. Our work has obviously proceeded along parallel lines. If anything, Dr. Clathrop’s results confirm and strengthen your own arguments; you should embrace them!”

For an instant, I thought him persuaded. Then he replied “Pfui, it is not so interesting, anyway. Why should anyone waste time making little girls out of little boys? It is a disgusting idea.

“Listen, Fraulein Vestcott, if you are serious about this research, enroll yourself in the University. I shall recommend you. After you have been properly trained for three or four years, I shall let you join my team. We are closing in on the secret of eternal virility! Imagine the glory, the accolades that shall be ours!”

I had thought, Diary, to share with this Doktor Steinach and his colleagues the ingenious method by which Balthasar now produced the extract on which I and Tottie’s other ‘girls’ depend for our physical well-being and indeed the preservation of our physiological and psychological equilibrium. I am sure that in Europe as in America, there are hundreds at least, probably thousands, of people whose happiness it might secure. It had seemed to me that if the Extract were to be manufactured in Europe under the imprimatur of a leading scientist, the way might be cleared for its general circulation in the United States as well. Listening to Doktor Steinach rave, however, I shelved that thought. Better that Balthasar should labor in the shadows than we should be subject to the whims of a megalomaniac!

November 6. I have registered to attend two courses of lectures at the University. One is an “introduction to psychological processes,” taught by Doktor Otto Rank; the other is on “childhood development,” the specialty of a Doktor Joachim Lubitz. Attempting a laboratory course is beyond me at this point, I think.

November 14. Herr Gustav Klimt’s studio reeks of the man’s sexuality. Did I mention that he paints only women? Men bore him, he says. Herr Klimt was at work when we arrived yesterday, sketching a half-draped girl of eighteen or twenty. The famous artist wore nothing but sandals and a long robe. (Beneath which, I have heard, he wears nothing at all!) When we arrived, he threw aside his paints and brushes to embrace my aunt as though they had parted as lovers not twenty-five years ago, but only yesterday.

We had tea — Aunt Enid, Herr Klimt and I. After some reminiscence and a once-over-lightly of the years since the Baron de Bligny died and my widowed aunt, now wealthy, returned to become a pillar of Baltimore society, she put the question: would the Meister sell her a painting?

“No,” he said, absolutely not. He would have to ask too much, and though no doubt my aunt could afford his price, she would think he did not cherish her memory. Herr Klimt wished to propose instead that . . . he give her a painting and in exchange, that I (yes, me!) allow him to sketch me in the nude.

My aunt did not reply at once; in fact, I apprehended that she was waiting for a sign from me. I suppose, Diary, that at that point I should have blushed. In fact, I was greatly charmed by the thought of achieving immortality through the simple act of posing for an hour. “I should like that . . . very much,” I said, “provided I may cover my hips.”

November 19. I sat for Herr Klimt today. Praise God his studio is well-heated! He sketched vigorously, covering four or five sheets. Then he laid aside his tools, handed me a robe, and sought to kiss me. I explained that as a matter of principle, it would not do to become intimate with a friend of my aunt. With evident reluctance, the Meister acknowledged that was so.

November 23. I returned from the University toward teatime today to find my Aunt entertaining a male visitor. He wore a splendid uniform and sat ramrod stiff on the edge of his chair. Their voices died as soon as my approach was heard; doubtless they had been engaged in intimate conversation.

“My dear, I present you Leá¼tnant-Kommander Já¶rgen Hauptmann of the Imperial German Navy. I have known Já¶rgen since he was a baby — in fact, I helped to raise him.”

“No, madam, ‘helped’ is far too modest a term. You were the only mother I have known,” added the visitor quickly in German. Turning to me, he regretted that he “had not English speaking.” A great smile brightened his face when I answered in his mother tongue.

“I have some more explaining to do, Evelyn. Já¶rgen is the son of my first husband, the Baron de Bligny. He was born not long before I met the Baron, the unexpected product of a tragic liaison that ended in the death of Já¶rgen’s mother from complications of childbirth. I think perhaps what charmed Charles most about me was that I took instantly to his tiny waif.

“Já¶rgen is . . . then . . . the same little boy whose likeness you have kept upon your dressing table all these years?” Often I had remarked on it — a miniature of a charming blonde child, still clad in the manner of the time in a dress and long ringlets but, I fancied, impatient to be breeched and shorn.

“Ah, yes. That is Já¶rgen at nine. Such a sweet little boy. I was so reluctant to see him sent off to school that I kept him in dresses overlong, I suppose. Friends admonished me; they said that it would make a weakling of him. As you see, they could not have been more wrong.”

“I do not harbor any regrets, Maman Enid. I remember that time as idyllic. Soon afterward, of course, Father died, my grandfather took me away, and you returned to America.

“I was sent off to the Naval Training School very soon thereafter,” Já¶rgen explained to me. “My mother’s parents preferred to keep the family’s scandal far from their sight.”

I regarded Leá¼tnant-Kommander Hauptmann with heightened interest. He must be, I calculated, thirty-four or thirty-five. So slim and erect that I would have thought him much younger were it not for a touch of gray at the temples.

“You are far from any ocean,” I remarked not at all cleverly, but I could think of nothing more profound, so agitated was my mind at that moment.

“Yes, I was regretting to your aunt that my wish for a post on one of our new battle cruisers has been refused; instead I have been sent to Vienna as assistant naval attache. Now, at least, there is a silver lining!”

“And what of your wife and children — surely you must be married?” I suppressed an involuntary tremor.

“No, Fraulein Evelyn, I have not yet had that good fortune. Perhaps that is why fate has sent me to Vienna.”

November 25. In the University, there is but a handful of women. We are barely tolerated, for our presence is believed to threaten the ability of the male students to concentrate upon their lessons. By common consent, we women attend lectures in drab costumes, self-segregate in a corner of the hall, and never pose questions. It is my impression that this experience makes us ever more fiercely intent on mastering the course material. I have never been so studious!

I have made a friend of one of the women in my course on early childhood development. Anna Freud is barely sixteen — not really a woman but a very precocious girl. Her father is the famous Doktor Sigmund Freud. Doubtless it is his influence that secured her permission to attend the lectures despite her tender age. Anna, tall, thin, blonde, with a high forehead and softly carved features, is fascinated by my ‘boldness.’ She attributes this to my being an American woman. She longs to travel in ‘the New World,’ she says, ‘where everything is possible.’ I have gently answered that she should not believe everything she reads in novels, especially the parts about the red-skinned savages.

“O, I do not read novels,” she replied. “There are ever so many other books. Besides, Papa would not allow it.”

November 29. I have begged off evening excursions with Sasha a number of times, pleading the pressure of my studies. We have met twice for coffee. On both occasions, Sasha arrived in womens’ costume. With his mother’s fond indulgence, Sasha almost always presents as a woman now, he says, and indeed he is stunning. I wish I could achieve such elegance!

Sasha claims to be living a wonderful life. He is at the cabarets every night. Even so, my young friend seems increasingly erratic and desperate. The lad is perceptibly taller and broader at the shoulders than he was only last summer; that is the source of his anguish. Sasha lacks my friend Henry Halloran’s quiet confidence that his art will prevail over the inevitable treason of his body.

Diary, should I share my store of ‘Gynol’ with Sasha? I have enough of the pills for at least another year. If Sasha takes them regularly, they surely will arrest his manly development as effectively as they have mine own. I expect he would seize on them as a drunkard clings to his bottle. And yet, Diary, dare I take Sasha’s life into my on hands? For that is what it is — once he is started on Balthasar’s elixir, I must ensure its supply. . . .

December 2. Aunt Enid was purring like a kitten when I returned to our rooms at teatime. On a low cabinet was propped a handsomely executed and perfectly boring landscape. With evident pride, she introduced it as the work of Herr Klimt. On a settee was a rolled sketch. Upon inspection, it proved to be one of the sketches he did of me! O, I like it! It is me, or more than me, as though I have been perfected.

December 3. For both of my university courses, I must write a paper. Anna, who is merely auditing Professor Lubitz’s lectures, has agreed to help me get the German grammar right. In return, I shall owe her English lessons.

I still read German much too slowly!

December 6. I have found the solution. I shall write two papers based on the same research. For Professor Rank, I will submit a paper on “Social Construction of Sexual Identity,” and for Professor Lubitz, “Learned Habits of Sexual Differention in Pre-Pubescent Children.”

December 9. Anna has brought me books and papers from her father’s library to aid my work.

December 11. Christmas is already in the air. The shops are decorated and filled with so many lovely things! I wonder if the packages that I mailed in September have arrived in Perkinstown and Baltimore?

December 16. Today, my young friend Anna seemed quite depressed. I prescribed the universal remedy, chocolate. At the Grienstendhal Café, we each had a huge piece of rehrá¼cken cake and coffee with whipped cream. Anna confessed that her ‘dear Papa’ is angry with her for lending materials from his library without his permission. He is especially upset that she took a book by Professor Krafft-Ebing of Humboldt University. I have promised to return that book, Psychopathia Sexualis, when our class meets again on Tuesday.

December 19. O Lord, I am so tired! I was up all night reading Psychopathia Sexualis. If only there were a machine that could make me pictures of its pages! So many of them bear on the subject of my papers. I have filled another copybook with notes!

There was no alternative — I had to telephone to the Freud home. I spoke to Anna, pleading for leave to keep the book for another week. Then I could hear scraps of a muffled conversation.

Anna spoke to me again. ‘Papa says you may keep the book until Thursday afternoon, at which time you must come with it for tea. Afterward, you and Papa will have a private consultation. If he is satisfied, you shall be allowed to keep it longer.’

So, Diary, on Thursday I shall meet the Great Man himself.

December 22. Herr Doktor Professor Sigmund Freud is quite the lord of his castle. Anna dotes on him, and he on her — perhaps too much, I suspect. I was quite hospitably received at the Freuds’ apartment. It is by a canal in the Second District, the quarter where most of Vienna’s Jewish population lives. After half an hour of polite chat over tea, Professor Freud invited me into his study, where he grilled me on my reasons for borrowing the Krafft-Ebing book and my relationship with Anna, all the time scribbling. I told him the truth, but I believe he heard only as he wished. I can imagine the notes he has made:

E, a 20 year-old hermaphrodite, habitually presenting as a woman, in excellent physical health and with the straightforward manner one associates with Americans. Now studying in Vienna. “Her” understanding of psychiatric science and command of German quite impressive. Expresses some nostalgia for her boyish past and is conflicted over what she said is an attraction to women. What could I say? I told E both feelings were quite normal and encouraged her to work them out when circumstances permit. E then confessed that ‘she’ has conceived an attachment to my own daughter, Anna. I thereupon insisted that ‘she’ leave immediately, and leave Krafft-Ebing’s book behind.

Subsequently, I bade Anna to keep well clear of “Miss” E.

Did Doktor Freud record as well, I wonder, the request I vainly made of him? In desperation, I confessed to him the hope that brought me to Vienna, hope that I might find a means to relieve the misery of boys and young men (like Sasha) who are desperately unhappy in their sex. I related my conversations with Dr. Steinach.

“Steinach,” said the eminent psychiatrist, “is a rogue and a quack. Stay well clear of him. As for sex chemicals, there is no need of them. We have only to expose faulty subconscious thoughts to cure young men of the delusion they are really women.” He proceeded to tell me of a cure he had recently effected on one “H.”

Heavens knows what impelled me to invoke my friendship with Anna as a reason why the eminent Doktor should assist my quest. His countenance reddened, then purpled; I realized instantly that I had trespassed on sacred ground. I had scarcely commented that she is a child who is at once naíve (without experience), yet profoundly sophisticated (in her theoretical understanding of human nature). This I meant as a compliment to her father’s tutelage. He however must have taken it as a reference to deeper feelings. If such there are, they are on Anna’s part — I could not pursue a sixteen year-old!

A moment later, Doktor Freud, imperiously waving the guiltless Anna aside, practically propelled me out the door of his apartment.

December 23. Anna has snuck out, on what pretext I can only guess. She wished to apologize for her father’s hostile behavior, she said. We wandered amongst the crowds on Ká¤rtnerstrasse and then Mariahilferstrasse, trying to understand. “I envy Christians,” she said, “Christmas is such a joyful holiday. Our Jewish holidays are soaked in sorrow. Perhaps if Papa were not a Jew he would not have such a strong objection to you. O, he does not, . . . he is not . . . religious, but he is full of prejudices. He absolutely hissed at me, ‘Anna, that . . . perssson’ (meaning you, just like that, Evi!) ‘is evil.’ As if you could ever be evil! He told me you are a hermaphrodite. I told him we have talked a lot about your research. I said I knew you have parts of both sexes and ‘so what?’ I asked. Papa only answered that it is best that I have nothing to do with you. I wonder what he might have said if you were a boy? Probably the same thing, I think. My father cannot abide competition for my affections, the poor silly dear. I must love him just the same. It will kill him if I do not.”

We had reached the doors of Saint Stephen’s, Vienna’s glorious Gothic cathedral. “If your father is certain that I shall corrupt you, than corrupt you I shall,” I murmured in Anna’s ear. “Come, my sweet — it is the Saint Matthew’s Passion they are about to perform within. Bach has written nothing finer. Perhaps he can transport me to a place that I shall forgive your father.”

In the event, not even J. S. Bach had that power. Anna was nervous; never before had she set foot within a church. Sensing her agitation, reading Anna’s mind perhaps, I led her outside as the choir launched into the magnificent Agnus Dei.

We found a darkened crevice in the Blautpfasse nearby. I wiped Anna’s tears with my kerchief. then searched her eyes. “It is, not you or that big church,” she said. “I am angry with Father, and doubly angry because I am sure I was recognized by one of his friends an hour ago on the Ká¤rtnerstrasse.”

“I will be guided by you,” I answered. “My only wish is to meet you again, and often.” With that, I bestowed a tender kiss on Anna’s lips. She did not pull away.

A moment passed before Anna murmured “Evi, I must go. Whatever happens, do not forget me.”

“How could I ever,” I asked her in reply.

December 28, 1910. Cristtag — Christmas Day — passed quietly. My aunt and I exchanged a few presents (hers as usual were exactly what I need but would not buy for myself). We have been guests here and there; Aunt Enid is well-remembered in Vienna and is never at a loss for amusement. Last night we ourselves entertained some friends. Aunt allowed me to include Madeleine and a few others others from the Academie Goethe. I confess I was plotting. If Já¶rgen were to find Madeleine attractive, perhaps he would be less bothersome to me. Alas, my attempt to pair them off failed. She is lovely, charming and cultivated, so it must be that she is not wealthy enough for Já¶rgen. . . .

December 30. My aunt and I have been all day at the Bezroukoff ‘datcha.’ It is a rambling old cottage deep in the Wienerwald, the sort of place that requires several roaring fires to make it pleasant — which was the case this afternoon. When we returned to the house after an hour’s tramp in the snow, Mme Olivia Bezroukoff had seen to it that the tables were heaped high with treats and there was plenty of champagne and glá¼gg.

I had not seen Raymond Bezroukoff for months; he has been off in the Banat trying to introduce modern methods at the family’s estate. Raymond was quite attentive to me, attentions that I quite enjoyed, and so I have accepted his invitation to the Coffee Grinders’ Ball a month hence. Lara too greeted me warmly and introduced her fiance, a baron from somewhere in Hungary. He and I competed at “my German is worse than yours” and he won — poor Lara! As for Sasha Bezroukoff, what can I say? He was most elegantly gowned, tall on three inch heels, tightly corseted, in a high-necked tunic and hobble skirt of moss-green shantung silk. None of his finery or his airs seemed to disconcert Raymond, Lara or his mother at all — in fact, Mme Olivia practically doted on him.

After dinner, as coffee was being served, Sasha drew me aside. “I upset you, I think,” he said. “Do not be angry, Evi. I cannot be what I am not.” I wanted to explain that I only feared that . . . what? . . his house of cards will come tumbling down, but Sasha would not give me leave. “No, do not argue! Congratulate me, for I have found a man who loves me, truly loves me, the girl in me, as I am.” What could I do then, Diary? I wished the poor boy well.

January 1. Another year. What lies ahead in 1911? Today is dark and damp, the kind of day Madeleine says is the norm for Central Europe in mid-winter. I am writing a pile of letters to people back in Baltimore that I promised I would write . . . and haven’t.

January 3. Damn! Damn! O, double Damn! Anna is being sent off. Her letter came by the morning post. ‘Papa’ has decreed that she should go to Italy “for her health.” Fiddlesticks! Anna is in perfect health; her head is fine too, it is ‘Papa’ who needs a change of scene. Someplace where he cannot play God Almighty. . . .

Anna said she will find a way to stay in touch, if I will but be patient.

January 7. Letters from home. Balthasar’s nephew, Caesar, has been sent home from Howard University, Dorothy says. He did not apply himself to his studies. The Bishop family’s hopes rest on Caesar. Balthasar is angry that a boy with so much natural talent has wasted his time in honkeytonks and pool halls.

Dorothy encloses a note from our mutual friend. It says in part that ‘I hope that you will permit me to give Caesar employment in the laboratory. In truth, I am not so spry as I was, and am starting to need help with the heavier work. I think I can teach the boy some practical chemistry, Miss Evelyn, in anticipation of a time that I can no longer be of service to you and the other young ladies. Caesar is a handy lad, and smart enough, too, though he has disappointed me in his lack of application to his schoolwork.’

I have already posted my agreement to Balthasar’s proposal. I reminded him of my great admiration for his skill as a chemist and my appreciation of all his kindnesses. Requesting Balthasar to leave Caesar under no misapprehension that this was employment which he could not take for granted, but for which he must prove his worth, I sent my love to my colored friend and his family.

January 10. A whole week has passed without word of Anna. I am angry, frustrated, unable to concentrate. Even so, I have turned in my papers for the university classes.

January 13. A letter from Anna at last. She must write clandestinely. Anna is in Rome, under the protection of Dr. Freud’s cousin. They have enrolled her at a convent school where she is being taught Italian, deportment and water color painting. Anna misses me utterly, she says, and has begged ‘dear Papa’ to forgive her and me. She encloses an address where I may write to her. I scribble a reply. I do not want her father’s forgiveness. I wish the old fraud (bad play on words!) would rot in hell. I tear that letter up, and instead send Anna a tender, loving one.

January 20. It is the beginning of the ‘ball season.’ Until Ash Wednesday, says my Baedecker, “the seductive pulse of the Vienna waltz and the glitter of mirrors and chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles will dispel the gloom of winter.”

January 24. O, Great Merciful Heavens, save me! I am in a terrible mess, Diary. I have let Leá¼tnant-Kommander Já¶rgen escort me to the Opera Ball and now he gives every sign of being enamoured of me. There is no lesser word. Já¶rgen builds castles in the air, not to house the real me, but to serve as a prison for a girl he conceives that I might become, his German wife.

I have to confess that notwithstanding his absurd prejudices, I had grown fond of my poor orphan ‘cousin’ in a way. He is lonely and feels awkward — all his savoir faire and bragging are a bluff. Poor Já¶rgen wants to be liked, and I have treated him nicely.

Now I must at all costs prevent him from falling in love with me. Já¶rgen’s idea of bliss is a comfortable Teutonic domesticity, with six or eight kinder and me growing plump on my own cakes and strudels. Leaving aside the little matter of my ambiguous sex (of which he knows nothing unless my aunt has broken faith with me),leaving that aside,I am certain Já¶rgen could not abide the real me — the me who revels in in new things, radical notions, in the infinite variety of human nature.

Aunt Enid is no help. She is too fond of a Já¶rgen who for her is but the larger version of her nine year-old pet. In vain I reminded my Aunt that even were I smitten with Já¶rgen, and indeed I am not, there is no way that I could supply him with the flock of ‘kinder’ he imagines. In fact, I told her, one look at my privates and he will be instantly repelled. But “no,” she said; “He is a nice boy, and he will understand. I will help him to understand.”

It is three days since the Opera Ball, and with each day that passes, I am more certain that I must discourage my Prussian cavalier. So why o why, Diary, did I accept his invitation to ride on Sunday in the Wienerwald? What was I thinking of?

January 25. I could not sleep last night. I lay between sleeping and waking, rehearsing in my mind vignettes from the Opera Ball:

• “What have you got to do with that fairyboy?” Já¶rgen asks after Sasha — quite handsome in perfectly tailored evening dress — stops by the German Embassy’s boxes to pay me a compliment. “He is . . . (I dissemble) . . . the son of one of my Aunt’s friends (and then add, unnecessarily) Aunt Enid is quite catholic in her acquaintances.”

  “I am quite aware of young Bezroukoff,” Já¶rgen confides. “Your aunt had best not receive him. He is a notorious pervert. All Vienna laughs when he goes about in dresses.”

• Another friend greets me. “Who was that man,” Já¶rgen wishes to know. “Oh, I think you’d like him,” I reply. “He’s a philosopher of sorts. He told me the other day, the last time we met, that Germany’s greatness — now and much more in the future — lies in the perfect integration of German spirit and Jewish intellect. . . .”

  “What is his name?”

  “Oh, Isaac something — I hardly know him, but . . . .”

  Já¶rgen stops me again in mid-sentence. “I do not like your associating with Jews,” he says. “Perhaps in America, it is done. . . .”

• The band strikes up a familiar, pulsing beat. “Come, Já¶rgen, you can dance the tango, can you not?”

  “I can, but I will not have you do it. I am sure you know why.”

  The truth is, I do not, unless it is that Já¶rgen finds it ‘unladylike.’

January 27. What is so splendid about life, I think, is that just when one begins to feel truly desperate, it throws one a life preserver. In this case, it was a telephone call from Kat. I do not see her anymore. It was she who dropped me; I must confess it hurt. Sasha says she never continues a relationship more than a month (in that case, I hold the record), it is her Catherine the Great complex, he thinks. One day she announced it was time to move on, and our affair ended as abruptly as it began.

And now, a telephone call. There is a man I should meet, Kat says, a Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld. I should come to Momo’s at nine. She would introduce us, and Dr. Hirschfeld may help me to solve the problem of Balthasar’s Elixir.

I was supposed to have my hair cut and dressed this evening; it is the eve of the Coffee Grinders’ Ball. But now — this errand — I must manage for myself. With difficulty, I have rescheduled my appointment chez le coiffeur for tomorrow morning at the ungodly hour of eight a.m. Aunt Enid’s misgivings were palpable but unspoken when I told her I should be going out alone this evening, but she has not, thank God, forbidden me.

January 28. I am dressed already (and must admit that my ball gown, one of two we had made in Paris, is absolutely splendid!), and have half an hour before Raymond Bezroukoff will arrive to escort me to the Coffee Grinders’ Ball. Enough time, perhaps, to describe Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld and our agreement.

Hirschfeld is a solidly built fellow of about 40, sporting a huge mustache and a monocle, a German from Silesia visiting Vienna ‘on business.’ Kat told me that he is fond of dressing in womens’ clothes; I imagine that must be quite a spectacle, but in the event, yesterday evening he had quite an ordinary male look about him.

Things were just getting started at Momo’s Kabaret, in fact the band was not yet in tune, when Kat introduced us. Her duty done, Kat quickly vanished in search of prey. Dr. Hirschfeld quizzed me; in reply, I confirmed what Kat had told him: that through a singular set of circumstances, I have detailed knowledge of naturally-secreted chemical compounds which, purified and taken in calibrated doses, feminize the male (or in my own case, the quasi-male) body.

Immdiately, my companion proposed that we seek a more private venue. I paused, at a loss for an answer, perceiving which he assured me that I was perfectly safe; he is aroused only by young, beautiful boys, most especially boys in uniform. Impressed by his candor, I assented to supper a deux in one of Momo’s private rooms with the eminent exponent of ‘homosexual rights’ (for so he described himself), Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld.

He was nearly in rapture. “I have long been convinced,” Dr. Hirschfeld said, that homosexuality is at root hormonal in nature, the consequence of some surfeit or deficit of glandular secretions. I have urged Steinach to pursue such a line of inquiry; so far he has refused, but I hoped I might find a way to persuade him otherwise.

“Now the bastard can go to his own priapic hell,” chortled Hirschfeld as he downed his second dozen of oysters. “It seems you have the answer.”

“I do not,” I replied while flaking off bits of a poached fish. “I have a clue, and a significant body of empirical evidence, but characterizing the chemical, explaining how it works, and producing it purely and in large amounts — that requires far more sophisticated resources and favorable circumstances that I can hope to find in the United States. I pin my hopes on Europe, a far more advanced continent.”

“O, you should not doubt, young lady, that in its vaunted sophistication, Europe is capable of cruelties unimaginable in the New World. Few can doubt anymore the existence of a ‘third sex,’ by which I mean that many amongst us are not instinctively binary in our sexuality — but ‘society’ succeeds in willing itself to ignore this truth, does it not? How many so-called leaders and thinkers instead visit the gravest punishments on those so impudent as to assert that they are in fact, different?”

With a twinge of apprehension for poor Sasha, recalling brave Oscar Wilde so recently dead, I dabbed away a tear or two.

I found myself liking this man Hirschfeld. We have made a contract. He will carry my proposition to a number of the great German pharmaceutical houses — Merck, Bayer, Schering. Their competition is so great, the drive of each to steal a march on the other so urgent, that Dr. Hirschfeld is confident that one of these firms will undertake to synthesize what I call “Gynol,” i.e, a pure essence of the active element of Balthasar’s elixir. When he has elicited strong interest, Dr. Hirschfeld will send for me . . . .

Raymond has arrived below; I can hear Aunt fawning over him. I am off to the ball, Diary!

January 30. Well, it is done, Diary. After a lovely night of waltzing with Raymond and his friends, I regretted more than ever my promise to Já¶rgen. Still, I forced myself from bed at half-past ten and dressed for our ride in the Wienerwald.

He arrived promptly at noon, elegant in his riding costume. I fancy Já¶rgen and I made a pretty pair, but I did not feel at all pretty, but in fact I was full of dread. Perhaps Já¶rgen sensed my unease? Was it possible, O merciful Heaven, that he would put aside his fond illusion of bliss with me?

The athletic fraction of Vienna’s population was enjoying the woods in large numbers, it being Sunday and a rare sunny day to boot. All about there were hikers, snow-shoers, sleighs, sleds, parties of merry-makers toasting with schnapps and grilling sausages, even a mens’ chorus practicing in the open air.

A fine pair of horses awaited us at the German Embassy club. Já¶rgen assisted me onto mine, a pretty roan, vaulted onto his own black stallion, and we were off. The trail he chose led along the course of a rocky stream, here and there iced over. Stupidly, I kept thinking that my riding habit — purchased in Paris last summer — is too tight and the color a bad match for my horse. From time to time, Já¶rgen would pause so that I could keep up with him, regard me fondly, and then lead us on, deeper into the woods.

At last — we must have been riding for half an hour — he pulled up at a clearing where a wooden bridge arches over the stream. “We shall walk a little, perhaps, while the horses are given a rest?”

“Here it comes,” I thought. “Courage, Evelyn.”

Já¶rgen led me out onto the bridge. Snow and ice reflected the bright sunlight, the brook literally babbled, it was a picture-perfect setting. I laid a gloved hand on his arm. He turned to me, about to speak . . . .

And I spoke first. “You are under a misapprehension, I fear. I am fond of you, Leá¼tnant-Kommander — it could not be otherwise, for you are a gallant gentleman and much loved by my aunt.”

Sensing the drift of my words, Já¶rgen attempted to speak, but I stayed him. “I very much hope we shall remain friends, for we cannot be more than friends.”

“You are refusing my proposal before I have made it? Without knowing that night and day you fill my thoughts? I have imagined that we might be very happy together. I have the prospect of a brilliant career; with you at my side, life might be wonderful.”

Já¶rgen’s expression was desolate. He knows it is hopeless, I thought. Did I detect a tear, summoned by thoughts of the kinder I would not bear him, the kuchen I would not bake him, the leider I would not hum as I darned his socks by the fire?

“Imagination,” I said softly, “is a wondrous thing. It builds for us castles in the sky. Yet you and I should make a terrible match, I am sure.”

He was staring stolidly at the water below. “Já¶rgen, look at me, please.”

He turned toward me. Yes, the tear was there! Before my resolve crumbled, I forced out more words. I fancy they fell like blows. “I am an American girl, and a modern girl. I shall attend university, become a doctor — for years, that has been my dream. I should never, never be happy were I to give it up.”

“O, but you can study in Germany. We have the best universities. . . .”

“Já¶rgen, my dear friend, there is more. I cannot bear children.

“Yes, I know that. ‘Maman’ told me as much. It is not so important.”

Would he not desist! “And then, you do not know me. Believe me, Já¶rgen — I have given this matter much thought, perhaps as much as you. We do not share the same interests or ideals. I fear — no I do not fear — I am certain . . . that I should disappoint you.”

“There is no hope that you should change your mind, then?”

“No, there is not. Now be a gentleman, and take me back to the stable, and then directly home, I think.”

Again Já¶rgen stared at the dark water below, his face in shadow, doubtless thinking dark thoughts. His big hands gripped the rail; I imagined them gripping my neck. It was an unkind thought. After a moment, having recovered his composure, Já¶rgen said to me “Well, that’s it, then. As you wish.”

We rode back slowly, in a silence hardly broken by conversation. In truth, we had nothing more to say. He brooded, and out of respect for his feelings, I stifled my own elation (to give the sensation a name) that I had escaped certain disaster.

Aunt Enid was waiting in the parlor when I returned. “I see Já¶rgen is not with you. You’ve sent him packing, then?”

“You knew everything? Did you put him up to . . . .”

“Pfff! Of course not. I told him you wouldn’t have him. Now take some tea, Evelyn, and tell me what you have told him — I trust it was not everything -- so that I can salve the poor lad’s wounds when I see him next.”

February 2. There is a letter from Anna at last. They have got her locked up in a convent, well it is a sort of ‘finishing school.’ The nuns have been told that she has had a great shock, and needs to be sheltered until her health returns. In vain, Anna claims to be in perfect health, merely lonesome for her friends. The nuns just smile.

Anna says she is not angry at her father. She understands him better than anyone, more than her mother, certainly. He cannot help his jealousy and he is a genius. Anna begs me to understand as well. What I understand is that he is selfish and in matters close to him, oblivious of the suffering he causes. I suffer because Anna puts her genius father ahead of her own happiness!

There is an address to which I can send letters. They will be relayed to Anna unopened, she says. She begs me to forgive her (as though she were to blame!) and not to abandon her.

And there is also a photograph. It is of Anna and her brute of a father in the Italian Alps. It was taken last summer, she says. O, she is adorable, her soft brown hair waving about her face, dressed in the country style in a cotton chintz dress, broadcloth shirt and apron. What is marvelous about the ‘photo’ is her posture and Doktor Freud’s. He regards the camera possessively, as though he owns his daughter, cane in one hand, pipe in another, kitted out like the country squire he is not. Anna, meanwhile, though her hand touches her father’s elbow, looks away from him, denying his ownership of her, a sweet, winsome glance that says (at least I fondly hope) “I am not entirely his.”

February 3. This morning, a week after we handed in our papers, I received a telephone call from Professor Rank. We had not spoken since the short interview that persuaded him to admit me to his course. “Miss Westcott,” he said, “yours is a most remarkable essay. I should like to know more about you. Will you meet me in my office on Thursday at three?”

February 9. I arrived at the Schule fá¼r vorgerá¼ckte Sozialstudien at the appointed hour and presented myself to the receptionist. Dr. Otto Rank was informed of my presence. Smallish, clad in a three piece suit that wanted a good dry-cleaning, peering at me through thick lenses, he is no more imposing at close quarters than from the balcony of the lecture hall. After greeting me, Dr. Rank led me to his office, ostentatiously leaving the door ajar.

Without preliminaries, he said “You have made an enemy of Freud by befriending his daughter.”

“Anna is in great distress. I merely listened sympathetically.”

“And she told you what a jealous despot he is, I have no doubt.”

“I don’t think I should repeat . . . .”

“O, come, Miss Westcott. I am Freud’s favorite disciple. No man knows him better, no man less desires him to appear . . . no, to be . . . ridiculous.”

I confessed that I had found the great Doktor to be, well, paranoid.

Rank turned the conversation to my paper. From his questions, it was evident that he had read it carefully. I had referred to Steinach, judging him overly influenced by Lamarckism; “Why? Rank asked. I explained, and he murmured his agreement.

Encouraged, I elaborated my view, apropos of Darwin, that fundamental change occurs only thru a glacial process, and that each child is a unique organism that must be taught anew the traits essential to a productive and social life.

He nodded. “You would not know, of course, of theories of the radical educationalist Maria Montessori. She shares your views — it is more evidence of convergent evolution, I suppose. She is putting them into practice in a school in Rome.”

February 10. I sent a letter today to Dr. Nathan Weiss, friend and physician to me and the rest of ‘Tottie’s Girls,’ telling him in part that

“Yes, I have met Dr. Freud. He remembers you and was pleased to know that you have put his insights to work in your practice in Baltimore. He was not sure where Baltimore is, so I drew him a little map.

“I have learned on the best of authority that not all of those insights are the fruits of his psychoanalytical work with patients. He has studied himself as well. If you were to re-read Chapter IV of Interpretation of Dreams, knowing what I now know about his feelings about his youngest daughter, you would see it and Dr. Freud in an entirely changed and more sombre light.”

February 13. On a whim, I telephoned Kat. “Who are you taking to the Rainbow Ball?” I brazenly asked. “I have a gown I have not worn yet. It is rather daring — you would like it.”

“Evelyn! This is a pleasant surprise. Your timing is excellent. I have just sent off someone who bored me. Has your tango improved at all?”

I confessed that it was probably worse for lack of practice.

“Then,” said Kat, “we shall strike a bargain. Today is Monday. If you will take private lessons with my friend Marko every afternoon until Saturday, yes, I shall be very pleased to be your escort.”

‘Marko’ is a famous ‘travesti’ — her real name is Fraulein Monika Vá¶rgspraut. No one in Vienna can tango like Marko. I have seen her at the Boite des Bijoux with her partner, in fact, I have imagined how divine it would be to dance with her. Lessons will not come cheap on short notice and at this season. I do not care. “I shall do it,” I said.

February 16. I am exhausted after another 90 minutes with Marko. She is hard as nails, so strong she can give lessons all day long, I think. I plead that studying too much has put me out of shape. That elicits no sympathy. If she was not a friend of Kat’s, a schoolmate in fact, I think she might have whipped me out her door on the first day. Instead, we have persevered to the scratchy rhythms of ‘records’ imported from Buenos Aires, and I am much improved. I am learning to move without conscious thought, to anticipate my partner’s lead.

February 22. Kat has phoned to confirm our outing, and sent two dozen white roses. She says that Marko has given me an excellent report.

February 26. O, last night was wonderful. I shall remember Vienna, I think, through the lens of the Rainbow Ball.

This ball is not, apparently, officially recognized, but the organisers are having to beat off those who would attend simply to pose and gawk. Seeing the room last night, it was easy to imagine that half of Vienna is outside the line that is considered to be the ‘norm.’

I knew a few, Sasha resplendent among them on the arm of his ‘friend.’ So many more — men, women, people in between -- were friends of Kat.

She herself was absolutely gorgeous, Diary. My Kat had dressed as a man — splendidly, in top hat and cutaway — yet her costume was tailored so that there could be no misunderstanding that she is entirely woman. She was — does this seem right? — swanker than any man could be. Diamond studs glittered in Kat’s ears, her heels were a little high, her cheeks unusually red, her lips on the lush side.

I had dressed in a long, full skirt, paired with a bodice cut daringly low, as Marko had counseled, the better to tango with.

As Kat and I waltzed, it occurred to me that I have never felt so happy in the movements of my own body as I am with Kat. She commands; I gladly follow. Surely for her, too, it was an electric experience. We awaited the chords of a tango impatiently. When at last they were sounded, I was practically damp with anticipation.

“O my God, I am going to . . . I mean, right here,” I whispered. “Shut up and dance,” she replied.

Well, I bottled it up while Kat made love to me with her body, me in a trance moving as Marko taught me till the last chords sounded and I realized that we were alone on the dance floor, Kat and I, and from all sides, from all of those dear people, the ‘different’ people of Vienna, came applause.

“I hear you have a special friend,” Kat murmured as she guided me back to our seats. “How?” I asked. “Sasha told me,” she said.

“It might have been you, had you encouraged my affection,” I replied, embracing her fondly.

“I know,” Kat replied. “You I loved especially. But you know I am not the kind for permanent alliances . . . .”

March 12. It is the third anniversary of Tottie Clathrop’s death. The famous Vienna ball season is ended. I am dreadfully unhappy today. I should not be sitting here, listless, uncertain, allowing time to pass unused, yet here I sit in a funk. It has been ten days since I have heard from Anna. Hirschfeld has not written either; nearly a year has passed and I am no closer to achieving the pure form of Gynol. I am not worthy of dear Tottie.

March 14. At last a letter from Anna! She has been ill — truly ill, poor dear! A horrible cold, headaches, fever, rheum — but it has nearly run its course, she writes, and it is already spring in Rome. Anna is allowed out of the convent on weekends in the care of her uncle and aunt, so the regime — her father’s so-called ‘rest cure,’ is not so horrible: “This enforced idyll has done wonders for my piano playing and French. I can speak a bit of Italian now, too. O, Evi — do come to Rome! If you were here, I would contrive to evade my guardians quite brazenly, you will see!”

March 20. I have harvested another crop of letters from the American Express, among them one from Mrs. Eustis Rawlings in Baltimore. She is, of course, the mother of Ted, the painter on whom my chum Doro so dotes, and Fiona, my Aunt’s goddaughter, the glamorous college girl who caused my own heart to flutter so.

Mrs. Rawlings’ geography was lacking but her motherly concern was not. She has scarcely heard from Fiona, she wrote, only erratic, odd letters prompting worry. Hence she was impelled to write to Aunt Enid and me in Vienna, which appears to be, if truth be said, as close to Rome on the maps commonly consulted in Baltimore as that city is to Washington. Doubtless she perceives Milan, Florence, Venice to be no more than crossroads or hamlets, the European equivalent of Taneytown or Rockville. . . .

And so, asked Mrs. Rawlings, would my aunt and I do her the great service of calling on Fiona in Rome?

I passed the letter to Aunt Enid, and sat silently while my mind raced. She read it to the end, and then looked at me with a sly grin. “The Lord knows I am beginning to weary of this dull, damp Austrian winter,” she said. “Let’s do it!”

“Oh, Aunt,” I replied with unstinted enthusiasm, “let us indeed!”

March 28. We have been packing for three days. How did I accumulate so many things I simply cannot do without? I vacillate: do I keep this or not? If so, how shall I wrap it? In which trunk shall I put it? Shall I need it again before we have reached Baltimore? Shall I actually need it there? Pegeen is quite cross; I am sure she thinks I have far too many clothes and books already!

April 1. Sasha and I have been to the famous Prater. I persuaded him that I could not leave Vienna without a ride on the giant Ferris Wheel. It is a trap for tourists, he replied, and thus boring. “But,” he added with a laugh as though the idea had just occurred to him, “I shall go there with you, Evelyn, if you will consent to be seen with me as I really am.” Of course I knew what he meant.

“Yes, all right, dear Miss Sasha — this once. Just try not to be too outrageous. . . .”

Sasha cannot help but be outrageous, it is his essence. Now that toute Vienne knows he adores dressing as a woman, he makes no effort to hide it. But Sasha has, as well, a wonderful sense of style.

For our outing today, he might have stepped off a page from the latest number of La Mode Illustreé. He wore a closely fitting overdress of fine wool, trimmed with velvet bands, over an exquisite lace jabot that covered his bosom and neck. The overdress reached to the approximate region of Sasha’s knees; below extended a pleated silk skirt trimmed at the hem with the same velvet. Sasha had a monstrous big hat — yards of gray tulle and big pink tulle ‘roses’ blooming upon a foundation of woven straw, earrings of amethyst and white gold and — I am sure of it — a touch of color on his lips and cheeks.

Next to Sasha, I was but a little mouse, but a happy mouse. In only four more days, Aunt and Pegeen and I shall be on our way to Rome. O, I shall miss poor Sasha and other friends here but . . . who knows what adventures lie ahead? Anna is there; I have missed her terribly; she writes as much to me.

It being Sunday, there was a great crowd of merry-makers at the Lusthaus, or ‘Pleasure Pavilion.’ At the giant Wheel, the line was endless. Sasha and I had nearly given up the idea of a ride into the heavens when a young man stepped out from near the front of the line. I confess I’d noticed him giving us ‘the eye.’ Very dapper in his bowler and striped shirt, to tell the truth.

“Misses — do you speak English?” His accent was unmistakeably American. Boston, I guessed, and I was right. He turned out to be Charles Fenwick, lately graduated from Harvard College, touring Europe with his cousin Oliver Peabody. In no time, Sasha and I were sharing a cabin with the two boys, rising up and up some more on the giant wheel, until we might have been birds, the sensation was so strong that we were being buoyed up by nothing more than air!

The boys were charming. Sasha, the little minx, had them fooled; ‘she’ flirted shamelessly; they were completely taken in by ‘her’ feminine wiles. Oliver was entranced. I, meanwhile, played with Charles at finding a mutual friend or two among my acquaintances and those of these boys from Boston. Did he know Sally Campbell’s cousin, also a Harvard man? Or Tom Shoesmith at MIT? Anyone at all from Baltimore? Well, yes, in a way, said Charles. His second cousin had graduated from Johns Hopkins University. She was a brilliant chemist, he’d been told. Had I ever heard of Dr. Charlotte Clathrop?

O my God, Diary! Tottie’s cousin! It was all I could do to breath. I stared grimly out the window of our swaying cabin, struggling to quiet my heart and my churning stomach.

My discomfort had passed without event by the time we regained terra firma. I had to know more. “Charles,” I said with the strength of desperation, “if you and Oliver are not pressed by another engagement, perhaps you would allow Fraulein Sasha and me to take you to tea — in repayment of the favor you have done us by allowing us to share your cabin on the Giant Wheel.”

Sasha knows about two hundred words of English; they had been sufficient to captivate Oliver. Charles, too, assented readily.

“I cannot tell you much about ‘Cousin Tottie,’” he said as we divided a Zimtschneke literally bursting with nuts and jam. “My sister Allie was her age, and knew her far better. It has been three years already since she. . . I think . . . or so I heard . . . that she slew herself.”

“She died,” I answered, “the victim of a foul slander, because she believed taking her own life the only way to guard the confidences of a number of girls and young women. I was one of them. Her medical research literally gave me a new life.

“I owe it to Tottie Clathrop to carry on as she would have,” I said.

It has grown very late, Diary; I must close. Suffice it to say that Charles and I have exchanged addresses; if he wishes to know more, I daresay he will write me when he is back in Boston.

I have not done with Sasha. More tomorrow!

April 2. It was only by dint of kicking Sasha fiercely under the tablecloth that I deterred him from accepting Oliver’s proposal of an evening ‘on the town.’ I wanted the boy all to myself; for this once he could give up male company.

I took Sasha to our apartment, where Aunt Enid greeted him pleasantly, complimenting him on his lovely dress and asking him to convey her fond regard to his mother before she retired to her bedroom, leaving us alone in the parlor.

“Now, Sasha dear,” I said, “whatever is to become of you?”

“You have a poet in America,” he said, “a woman named Vincent something. She wrote this. “’Mein kerze . . . my candle burns at both ends. It cannot last the night. But ah, my friends and oh, my foes, it gives a lovely light.’ That is me.”

A fire burned on the hearth. I trimmed the rest of the lamps, and Sasha and I snuggled together on a chaise lounge rendered toasty warm by the blaze.

“You were having a jolly time with Oliver today. He had not the slightest suspicion that you are really a boy. Tell me, Sasha” I asked, “were there such a thing as true magic, and were a magician to offer to transform you into a woman, would you choose to be re-sexed?”

“O, damn’t Evi, I don’t know! I suppose not. I like the men who like me now, and I do not suppose they would like me if I were not a sort of bon bon — creamy candy on the outside, crunchy toffee within.”

I have often thought I should share my stock of Balthasar’s elixir with Sasha. I still have a year’s supply of the pills, and I will be back home in scarcely two months’ time.

“How is it for you?” he whispered, laying his perfumed head on my shoulder. I took Sasha’s meaning, of course; many months ago his brother Raymond, with whom I lay one night last summer, told Sasha that I am a hermaphrodite. “I thank Heaven daily,” I replied, “that my Aunt is liberal both in her habits of thought and in her provision for me. I would rather be entirely a woman, I suppose, but since I cannot be that, I shall accept my lot. I shall try to be a loyal friend to those who love me, and to make something of myself.”

“You really are set on becoming a doctor,” aren’t you? “I wish I had your strength of will. You are twice the ‘man’ I am, Evi, and all woman, too.”

I will make one more attempt, I thought. “Sasha, help me to understand. You would not give up your . . . the tool of your true sex . . . under any circumstance?”

My friend stared pensively at the flames. He had thrown off his jacket and opened the buttons of his bodice. The glow of the dying fire tinted his face and neck, and revealed a boy — no, a girl by every appearance, including pushed up breasts supported I know not how — tortured by the contradictions of his essence. Gravely, he shook his head.

I reached across and pulled the pins from his hair, freeing Sasha’s blonde wig. He buried his head in my lap. “I shall always remember you thus,” I whispered.

If Aunt Enid was surprised to find Sasha joining us at breakfast this morning, she gave no hint of it, nor had she cause for concern from that quarter. We had shared my bed as chastely as any two maidens might and now, fortified by café au lait and a beugel croissant, with fervent promises that we shall meet again, Sasha has taken his leave of us.

April 4. Everything is in readiness; we leave Vienna on the morrow. á¶eine came by today to bid me adieu, and also Hiro and Erik from my German class. American Express will see that our mail is forwarded to Rome until April 12, and then to London. Now, in the evening, I am all alone. Aunt Enid retired early, advising me and Pegeen to do the same, but I cannot sleep.

I keep thinking about the Dream. It came again last night, as real as life. Each time I dream it, there are more details. Now it is like one of those paintings by Breugel, full of life, full of people absorbed in their merrymaking.

Again, Diary, it is a city of the future I dream. I know it is the future because I see sleek motorcars, bullet-like electric trains and shiny aeroplanes. The buildings are tall cylinders constructed entirely of glass, it seems. The people in my dream are golden and glittering, they wear marvellous garments, and yet I know these people. There are my friends from Baltimore, Teddi and Dorothy, gowned as though they were sisters, and dark Alexandra Cooper resplendent in a white dress. Harry Halloran, gotten up splendidly as Henrietta, Miss Ella Spears as Bertie and the rest of her vaudeville troupe pass by on a float followed by a band blaring a hypnotically percussive tune. Behind it are the rest of Tottie’s girls — Rachel and Hannah, Helen and Ingrid, Eilidh, Alicia and all the rest — and Dr. Nathan Weiss, our doctor. Here then comes Kat on a fire engine, surrounded by a dozen of her conquests, and Sasha resplendent as a phoenix hen rising from her fiery nest. I see Ms Olivia Bezroukoff and her sister, Mme LeBlanc, their whips flashing in the sun. I see all this from above, Diary — I am high above the street with Martin Tolliver in the swaying basket of a balloon, throwing kisses to the crowd.

Nor are all of the marchers ‘different.’ My ‘normal’ friends are there too, Diary — Balthasar Bishop, Miss Alice, Sally and Flora, Martin and Billy, Miss Alice, Winnie Clem and big, ungainly Rupert, all cheering us on. It is a marvellous, triumphant parade, except — and here I awaken suddenly, seized by dread — Anna is missing! She is not there. Everyone is in my dream but Anna.

What can this mean?

April 7. We are in Rome at last. It is the eve of Holy Week. The Rapido brought us here from Florence overnight. All the second class cars were crowded with pilgrims, whole families, come for the Pope’s blessing.

Rome is as new to Aunt Enid as it is to me. We understand hardly a word of Italian and must depend on the Baedecker Guide I have purchased. Our maid Pegeen is a wonder, though. I wonder how we should have managed without her. She speaks Italian — the rough dialect of Naples, learnt on the back streets of Baltimore! Pegeen is not fluent, of course, but she recalls enough to make herself, our needs, understood to the draymen and cab drivers who have brought us to the Villa Caracalla.

The Villa C is a ‘pensione.’ The rooms are lovely, bright and sunny. I cannot get enough sunshine, after long gray months in Vienna. We shall take most of our meals here in company with the other guests. Luncheon was excellent; that augers well.

Straightaway, Aunt struck up a conversation with a couple from California. Professor Morrison is an antiquarian; he and Mrs. Morrison (“Oh, do call me Hilda”) are travelling extensively during his sabbatical year. It is one of those friendly alliances one is apt to make when far from home, and never think of making when secure in one’s own milieu.

For once I have trumped my aunt in the matter of acquaintances. After Aunt Enid and Mrs. Morrison sought in vain to find someone they know in common, quite a rare thing for my aunt, I inquired if the Morrisons had visited the Holy Land. “Yes, indeed, for six whole weeks.” And had they, perchance, encountered Lady Violet Davyss, the English archaeologist? “Oh, my heavens yes! We went to Ashkelon specifically to meet her. She is a phenom, indeed!”

I explained that I knew of her only by reputation — she is the mother of my chum, Winifred. “You are in luck, then,” was Professor Morrison’s ready reply. “Lady Violet and her assistant are enroute home to England. They have pledged to stop with us in Rome. We expect them on Wednesday.”

April 8. From Sunday night to Saturday morning, Anna Freud is locked up in a convent that claims to be a sort of finishing school for young ladies. I should hate it. The nuns read her letters. She is allowed only on weekends under the protection of her fathers’ cousin. Nor is Anna resigned to her imprisonment. With exquisite circumspection, she and I contrived to meet at the Palazzo Borghese at half past two this afternoon.

My eyes misted over, Diary, when I perceived dear Anna among the throng in the foyer of the Palazzo, a museum specially noted for its Renaissance masterpieces. My Viennese friend was fashionably fitted out in a day dress of flowered peplum, low-heeled court shoes, silk scarf and parasol. Her hair was up, secured by a small hat and large hatpin. Anna’s transformation from little Austrian schoolgirl to debutante was startling. With dismay, I perceived that she was wearing a corset.

As pre-arranged, I greeted Fraulein Anna in the guise of a Museum guide whose services she had contracted. She was accompanied by a lad of ten or twelve, her second cousin, sent along as her chaperone.

Massimo, a smallish boy with a big name, seemed sensibly impressed by the duty of escorting his older cousin. Fortunately for us, he knew not a word of German.

Grasping my hand more fondly than the pretense of our meeting would dictate, Anna whispered “You would hardly believe, dear Evi, that scarcely a year ago this gentle lad was a true hellion! He is a perfect subject for your research.”

I perceived that Anna referred to my paper for her father’s disciple, Professor Doktor Otto Rank, on “Social Construction of Sexual Identity.” Still, I stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“Massimo has only lately been emancipated. His mother was compelled to dress him as a girl in order to reform him.”

I regarded the lad with more interest, recalling that a similar ‘punishment’ had been visited on my dear friend Harry ‘Henrietta’ Halloran.

Dressed in the nautical garb that is de rigeur now for boys, a cream colored cotton suit with blue piping, Massimo seemed unusual only in his good manners in our presence. I remarked on that to Anna. “Yes,” she replied. “That is the point.” The wife of my cousin believed, Anna said, that “the only way to impress upon Massimo a decent respect for the fairer and ‘more civilized’ sex [was] to have him experience life as a girl. She maintains that putting refractory boys in petticoats is a common practice in her own country.”

“Oh, she is English, then?”

Startled by my deduction, Anna nodded.

“And of course you speak English well,” I continued, addressing myself to young Massimo in his mother’s tongue.

“Yes, Miss, I do. Are you from England?”

“No, I am from Baltimore, a city in America. Thank you for escorting us today.”

“It is my pleasure. You and Anna are both beautiful and, I am sure, kind young ladies.”

“How nice of you to believe so, Massimo! Now I must attend to Fraulein Anna, who has engaged me to show her the pictures, but afterward, I should like to know you better, too. Would you mind that?”

“No, of course not,” he replied shyly. “I shall wait for you both over there near the fountain.”

Anna and I picked up exactly as we had left off in Vienna; if anything, our separation has strengthened our mutual affection. The art and sculpture on display at the ‘Borghese’ is overwhelming in its quantity and magnificence, but I must confess that I remember little of it.

We wandered among the galleries absorbed in conversation, oblivious to the grandeur of the paintings hanging there. There was Michelangelo’s famous sculpture of the young David, of course, and some paintings I vaguely recall as being especially fine, but the truth is, Diary, I could hardly divert my eyes from Anna Freud.

She is to remain at the seminary until the summer, when Rome becomes unbearably hot. It is her father’s conviction, she says, that she requires time for reflection before launching again into the world. “In other words, he is punishing me for being too ready to form a connection with such as you, dearest Evi.

“I love my Papa dearly, but I fear his jealousy may prove an impossible burden for me to bear. It is strange, is it not, that he who sees so clearly the causes of the obsessions of others is so oblivious to his own?”

“No, not at all,” I declared. “Men have always been better at prescribing for others than at curing themselves. I suppose your father regards his relations with you as the quite natural exercise of his right of governance, not as a selfish act.”

“Papa writes me the most piteous letters. He is ‘miserable without me,’” he says, “’but this separation is for my own good.’ I resent his presumption, but I feel sorry for him, too.”

A sudden thought caused me to shudder, Diary. “Anna,” I said, “I must ask you something — only this once. Is your father, in his expression of his sympathies for you — is he invariably . . . correct?”

My question elicited a gasp. “O, Evi, how could you think such a thing!”

I have no doubt that Anna was quite shocked by my question. She paused a moment to regain her composure, then continued "It is not my body that my father wishes to control. Consciously or not, he has a compulsion to govern my mind. In this, I am no different from his other disciples. Once one of them advances original ideas, quarrels with him, he is denied my father’s affection, indeed, he is expelled from Father’s presence. And. . . Evi. . . I could not bear such a fate.”

There is an alcove, Diary, in one of the more remote galleries of the great Palazzo, that afforded Anna and me some shelter. Laying her head on my shoulder, Anna wept great wet tears of frustration and repressed sentiment. Opposite was a large painting by Lucivorno Fratelli that depicts the Rape of the Sabine Women. That debauched scene spread its gloom over us as I rocked my friend in my arms, seeking vainly to give her comfort while watching anxiously least we be disturbed. At length, perceiving no other means of solace, I allowed my lips to find Anna’s.

She responded immediately, with a fervor that signalled her wish that I should kiss her deeply, fiercely and without restraint.

We were both weeping now, Diary, overcome by certain knowledge that our affection, however pure and true it might seem, could not prevail against the circumstances that must ineluctably separate us. I blotted Anna’s tears with my handkerchief, she mine own on her shawl, both of us still planting kisses upon each other’s cheeks, necks, ears and lips with an intensity I have never felt before — not with Kat, nor Billy Barkell, nor Frank Campbell nor certainly with my noble, naíve Martin.

It was over an hour later before we regained the fountain where Massimo awaited us patiently, his nose in a book.

April 11. Returning from a morning walk on the hill above the Coliseum, I perceived Mr. and Mrs. Morrison in conversation with two youths who had, from the evidence of their baggage, just arrived at the Villa Caracalla. One I recognized immediately — it was my chum Winifred’s erstwhile swain! “Rupert!” I gasped. “How on earth . . . ?”

“O, by Jove, Evelyn, is that really you? Here, in Rome! This is too wonderful!” Rupert seized my hand. “I must introduce you to my mentor and mother-to-be. Lady Violet, this is Evelyn Westcott. She is Winnie’s great chum.”

I must confess that I stared, Diary. Lady Violet was got up as a young man — rather broad of beam but nonetheless convincing in a sack suit of tan poplin — khaki, I think the material is called. “There, is that better?” she asked, removing her cap to free a mass of red curls and ripping a false mustache from her upper lip.

“Yes,” I replied, amazed. “You had me completely taken in.”

“O, I always travel like this,” Lady Violet explained with a wry grin. “It is much safer in the East, and one has a great deal more freedom.

“And now I am dying for a bath! Pray, let us get these bags upstairs, Rupert. We shall see you all at teatime,” Lady Violet added with a nod to me and the Morrisons. She followed Rupert and the several ushers that staggered under the weight of their bags up the grand staircase of the Villa Caracella.

April 13. On the strength of my Baedecker’s assurance that it affords a marvelous view of the sinuous Tiber, Rupert and I set out early to climb the Janiculum Hill. We had nearly reached the top when he said to me off-handedly “Do you know what, Evi? I am to become a relative of Sigmund Freud.”

Well, knock me down with a feather! I had to steady myself with the aid of a small tree.

“I say, are you all right? Do you want some water?” Rupert added, offering his flask.

“Thank you, I am just a little winded. Pray tell, what is the relationship?”

‘It would be a fourth — no, a fifth degree relationship. Lady Violet’s cousin is Signora Morabbi, on whom we called yesterday. The Signora is as English as I am, her maiden name was Beatrice Beaufort, but she has married a man whose family has lived in Rome since the first century B.C., would you believe that? He is a prominent member of the Hebrew community, and very cultured.

“Now Morabbi, you see Evelyn, is a cousin of Freud himself! The great doctor’s daughter is presently a ward of the family. She’s a lovely girl that we met yesterday. Poor Anna is shut up in a convent most of the time but, this being Holy Week, lessons are suspended and the girls that can are allowed to return to their families.

“So, how do you like that? Perhaps Cousin Sigmund will analyze me . . . .”

I liked that very much, Diary, but of course I did not tell Rupert why. The view of the river and Rome’s ancient center was as fine as advertised, but I fear I did not take it all in, my brain was racing so fast!

By the time we regained the Villa Caracalla, I had thought out a plan. As I changed my costume for luncheon, I tested it on Aunt Enid. Had she heard of the gardens of the Villa d’Este, I asked? She had not. I related that Baedecker spoke highly of them; they are lush with fountains and always cool.

“How nice that would be,” my Aunt replied. “This Italian heat is beginning to annoy me greatly.”

Encouraged, I plunged onward. “The villa is not in the city. It lies in the hills to the east, about 20 miles from here.”

“So far! And you want to spend a whole day getting there and back?”

“O, yes, Aunt, let’s! We can form up a party for an excursion, and have a splendid picnic!”

“Well then, let us see what the Morrisons and Lady Violet think. Rupert will follow you anywhere, I suppose.”

April 14, Good Friday. It is all arranged. We shall set forth in the cool of the morning at half past seven in two open coaches. The Villa Caracalla has arranged them for us. Fiona Rawlings has agreed to go too, and several of the Morabbis will join us with their own coach. We shall arrive at the Villa d’Este within three hours.

Later. I think I am remarkably handsome in Lady Violet’s lounge suit. When I ventured to her that I should like to essay her practice of travelling incognito in the guise of a young man, she lent it to me immediately. If I can ‘pull it off,’ I told Lady Violet, the trick should come in handy when I travel to wilder and ruder places. “O yes,” she exclaimed, and proceeded to tell me at great length of her travels in the Levant, Anatolia and the Caucausus. And indeed, Diary, Winnie’s mum has had some marvellous adventures. . . .

It is not the khaki suit that Lady Violet has lent me, but her spare one, a light gray fabric that goes well with my coloring. She also provided me a garment that binds up my breasts, a cravat, a handsome high-collared, striped shirt of fine Egyptian broadcloth, and a soft, broad-brimmed hat that conceals my hair nicely. If one does not regard me too closely — if, for example, one does not remark that my low boots are in fact cut for a woman or that my lobes have been pierced to admit earrings — I fancy that I make a charming boy of, perhaps, seventeen years.

Anna is just sixteen.

My Aunt is annoyed. She has already sorted through the evidence. “This is an elaborate ruse to see your little Jewish girl friend again, isn’t it,” she said. “Really, Evelyn, I wish you would confide more in me. You may need my help to save you embarrassment when one of your schemes blows up.”

Aunt Enid is right. I must trust her. She is not like other adults, and I owe all my happiness to her. [It occurs to me, Diary, that I am very nearly 19 and therefore an adult too. Or am I?]

Evening. My heavens, what a day this has been!

My American friend Fiona Rawlings arrived at the Villa Caracalla barely in time this morning. How wonderful to see her again after nearly two years! Fiona was wearing an Italian peasant’s dress and a mobcap of sorts; the effect was charmingly bohemian. She behaved herself, but only barely. We had scarcely reached at the Palazzo Morabbi (and I was greeted fondly by Anna) than Fiona pulled me aside. “Who is that morsel,” she demanded.

“She is my friend and she is but sixteen,” I replied, “and I shall think badly of you if you should try to take advantage.”

“I did not take advantage of you when you were her age,” replied Fiona, “though you begged that I should. Pray you remember that.”

Thus reminded, I asked Fiona’s pardon, squeezed her arm, and asked her how she liked my get-up for our outing.

“It is rather blatant, I’d say,” said she. “It would appear that you have gained some knowledge of the world, and not all of it from men.”

I confessed to Fiona that I had indeed sought and gained such knowledge.

“What have you and that Dorothy person done to Ted?” asked Fiona suddenly. “I hear he has taken to dressing up as Miss Theodora.”

The alarm I felt must have registered on my face, for my friend immediately grinned and added “He’s always been a bit of a sissy. I am not surprised. Mother’s made him promise not to make a public spectacle of himself. I suppose he hasn’t, so far.”

I assured Fiona that dressing en femme was entirely Ted’s idea, not Dorothy’s.

We had arrived at the Palazzo Morabbi. Anna and a little girl climbed into our carriage. I immediately perceived that the child was her protégé, young Massimo, and so introduced Anna to my Aunt, and her niece. . . . “Marisa,” he obligingly supplied when I paused, claiming the seat beside Aunt Enid.

Suppose one has a cuddly pet that makes intelligent conversation? That is Anna, at least whenever her minders in one of the other coaches were unable to watch us. She was amused by my garb, and ‘enchanted,’ she said, by Fiona’s peasant finery. In the lead carriage, we are Fiona, me in my disguise, Anna, Aunt Enid, and young Massimo — or rather ‘Marisa’ today. One of us a maiden, originally a boy and who though tricked out as a dandy of her original sex who seems to fool no one, and one of us a little boy whose imposture is artless and perfectly deceiving.

Anna whispers to me in one ear, dreamy stuff, the sort I suppose she also tells her father. Meanwhile, ‘Marisa’ is explaining things to my aunt that I am straining to overhear.

“It is like this, you see. Mama said she should have to put me back in dresses could I not behave. Of course I could behave, but it came to me that today, I should very like to go out as a girl, so I put it to my Mama. ‘What would I do that you should have to punish me so?’ ‘O,’ she replied, ‘that you should speak ill of girls or women. I would have you back in dresses in an instant.’”

“And so I spoke ill of girls, of Cousin Anna, in fact. I said she had been so much enamoured of the guide at the museum that she had quite ignored me.”

My aunt regarded Massimo as though he were an exotic growth of some sort. I thought him not a bit odd myself, merely a pretty boy having a jolly outing attired in skirts. But then, Diary, my thoughts on such matters are most assuredly not ‘normal.’ Our young friend’s mother — whose laugh I could hear pealing from time to time from the carriage just behind — had dressed her son to the height of juvenile fashion. He wore an Empire frock of cotton batiste, the neck cut high, the sleeves puffed and finished with a cuff, the skirt rather short, and gathered and flounced. To ward off the sun, Massimo — ‘Marisa’ — was equipped with a broad woven straw hat, and a parasol to boot. “You are extremely attractive as a girl” I could not help but murmur to the lad. “Would that I were as convincing a youth.”

“O, Miss Evelyn, I know!” was all he replied, blushing.

It was already distinctly hot when our carriages gained Tivoli. Though it is charming, we did not stop at the village but pressed on to the Gardens a short distance beyond. They were as handsome and, O wonder!, as refreshing as they were advertised in my Baedecker.

At once the ladies hastened to avail themselves of the Villa d’Este’s amenities. I too was impatient for relief, but hesitated uncertain which door to choose whilst attired as a youth. The one marked ‘Signori’ opened and Rupert emerged. He realized at once my discomfort. “Use a stall within,” he whispered. “I shall stand guard — as I have done often for Lady Violet.”

I found when I emerged that our party in general had disappeared into the Garden, which is a maze of luxuriant flora and dozens — no, a hundred at least -- of water follies and fountains. One of the ladies had lagged behind; it was Beatrice Morabbi, Massimo’s mother. She motioned for me to take her arm and stroll with her.

“You are not such a monster,” she said.

Not waiting for me to reply (and what could I say?), Signora Beatrice continued. “Sigmund is quite paranoid; obviously Gustavo and I cannot tell him that you and Anna have had a reunion. Will you behave yourself with her?”

“My affection for Anna is entirely platonic,” I lied.

“He would be beside himself were he to know that you court his daughter in the guise of a youth.”

That was doubtless so, I acknowledged.

There followed a longish pause whilst Signora Beatrice pondered matters. Unable to bear the silence, I offered the solution. “My aunt and I shall be off to England within a week’s time, and will sail for the United States by the end of the month. Anna is not so foolish as to pine for me.

“In the meantime, I beg you to allow me her friendship.”

“Of course,” she replied, “but behave yourself.”

I expressed my gratitude for the Signora’s kindness, and then without premeditation asked if I might say a word or two about Massimo. She turned to me attentively, nodding.

“He is an exquisitely mannered and sensitive child,” I said. “I have known some others like him . . . in my own country, boys whose constitutions are by some chance, whether nature or nurture I am not sure, essentially feminine.

“You can see that Massimo is delighted to play the female part. He may tire of it; it may be but a phase in his growing up. Or, it may persist, and I do not presume to advise you how you should respond in that event.

“One thing, though, Signora . . . .“ I regarded Massimo’s mother directly, and she nodded. “It could be tragic if your son were to associate his greatest pleasure with punishment and pain.” Gravely, she nodded again.

We had arrived at the place where our luncheon was being set out by servants from the Palazzo Morabbi, a lovely buffet. Signora Beatrice excused herself to supervise. Seeing Anna head to head with Fiona in a leafy alcove, I appropriated three glasses of cold white wine and joined them.

“Hello, Evelyn. We are talking about you behind your back,” offered Fiona.

“Evi, do you know what? Fiona is living in sin in Trastavere with a Marchioness!”

“Yes, and we are dirt poor. Giuletta’s father has cut her off, my own parents will not listen to reason, the merchants will not extend more credit and so — you see I am starving!”

Though Fiona is in truth quite buxom, I had no doubt she was as hungry as I after such an early start this morning. Fortunately, plates of antipasti arrived before starvation set in. Between morsels of baby octopus, olives, prosciutto and goat cheese on toast points, Fiona added details of her love life. “So you see,” she concluded, “there is no possibility I should wish to return to Baltimore.”

Fiona pronounced our hometown’s name as though it were a backward, disease-ridden venue for pogroms rather than one of the most progressive cities in America. “The less you tell me of yourself and Giulietta, the less I shall have to lie to your mother,” I told her. “Tell me instead about your work.”

My life is full of coincidences, Diary. Fiona is working as an aide to the celebrated Maria Montessori, the Italian woman who is overturning all the conventional wisdom about early childhood development — the very person whose work Dr. Rank commended to me some months ago. I made Fiona promise to take me to the Montessori School. “And me as well,” demanded Anna. “Tomorrow! Please?”

Subject to the approval of the great educatress, it is agreed.

Luncheon was ended. We had spread blankets on a bit of grass under some huge trees. Fiona was scribbling a note to Signorina Montessori while Anna and I, made drowsy by the good food, were repressing yawns when Aunt Enid approached hand-in-hand with Massimo. They made a pretty pair. Though she is nearly three score, my aunt carries herself well and dresses á¡ lá  mode. She would be a brilliant grandmother — I regret that I cannot give her the pleasure of spoiling my own children.

“I have been trying to explain to ‘Marisa’ why you care to wear mens’ clothes today. The best I can do is to say that you have become so secure in your life as a woman that reverting to pants is a bit of a lark.”

“If I might, I would never wear pants again” declared Massimo with a pout. “You are fortunate, Miss Evi, not to have remained a boy.”

“It is not so simple as that,” I replied. “You, I think, may grow up to be a very handsome boy if you set your mind to it.”

Massimo made a face, an expression of dread that haunts me still. Perhaps Aunt is right — she believes the child ‘s best hope is a daily dose of Balthasar’s elixir.

April 15. Fiona prevailed upon Signora Montessori to invite Anna and me to the Casa dei Bambini, her school in the Trastavere District. We were expected at nine, such a wretched hour after our exertions of the day before.

I have not yet related the last of the events of yesterday. Having regained our pensione from the Villa d’Este only at dusk, Rupert and I changed our costumes in haste and bolted a light supper. Then we set out for the Palatine Hill, joining thousands of Romans and visitors to await the great Good Friday procession. For a few hundred lira each, we secured seats on a raised platform by the Via Crucis, and just in time indeed. Solemn, sorrowful chants announced the arrival of the Pope himself, accompanying a great cross and escorted by thousands of torchbearers. Pius X, though extremely old, still walks without asssistance. He paused to pray at one of the stations -- I understood it to be the place where Christ falls the third time — and as he rose, there arose with him a heavenly lamentation, soprano voices descanting above the baritones and bases. One does not have to be a Romish Catholic, Diary, to be transported by such a spectacle.

This morning, though awfully weary, and having dragooned Rupert to escort us, Anna and I arrived at the school. Having heard that discipline is scarcely administered there, I had expected a sort of guided pandemonium. Instead, there was a strange calm. Several hundred children — the youngest but three or four, and the oldest perhaps twelve — were busily absorbed in their tasks.

“You are amazed, no?” Signorina Montessori greeted us. “Work is children’s play. When they are truly learning, they are quiet as mice. When they have learned a task, they will teach it to others — there, do you see?” She pointed to a couple of seven year olds who were quizzing smaller children, using block letters to make simple words.

After a brief tour of the Casa dei Bambini, during which we were joined by Fiona, the Signorina sent Fiona off with Rupert to observe a class while she detained Anna and me. “Come, sit with me and tell me what it is you have been doing in Vienna. Fiona has tried to explain, but . . . .”

Signorina Montessori is a broad-hipped woman with large, expressive gestures. Her features are pleasant enough; she makes no particular effort to improve them. She speaks English slowly and carefully, as many foreigners do when they fear they will not be understood.

I said that I was especially pleased to meet her. Helped by Anna, I had done some reading and thinking about the ways that children learn through stages to think of themselves as either boys or girls, and to adopt characteristic behaviors. “My paper is titled ‘Sexual Differentiation among Children’ (here I pointed to the words in German) but in fact, I think it is not really sex but something purer and more elemental — a consciousness of ‘gender,’ if one may use that term.”

Signorina Montessori picked up my paper and studied the table of contents. I related my professor’s observation that I had stumbled upon a concept of early childhood learning that was in close accord with the Signorina’s own insights and borne out by her experiments. “Of course,” I added hopefully, “I want to learn more about the Montessori Method.”

“O, yes. Perhaps like Fiona you will work with me? How long do you stay in Rome?”

We had, I regretted, but a few more days. “You will come back here on Tuesday, then? We shall have a long, good talk. Meanwhile, I will practice my German on your paper for my friend, Doktor Rank.”

Were I not so tired, Diary, I would also describe the flat that Fiona shares with her outrageous companion, the Marchioness Giulietta Sampi-something, and the sounds, smells and tastes of their neighborhood. It is crowded, noisy, pungent — it occurs to me that Trastavere is East Baltimore one hundred times more vivid and full of life.

Suffice it for me to record here, most importantly before I sleep, that I am thoroughly, hopelessly in love. I do not know how I shall be able to say goodbye to Anna.

Easter Sunday, 1911. Though we are neither of us Romish in our inclinations, if it can be said that we are religiously inclined at all, Aunt Enid and I were determined to experience Easter Sunday in all its Catholic glory. Rather than brave the crowds at the Vatican, we attended the service at the parish church of the Villa Caracalla, a 12th Century structure called San Giovanni in Oleo. My Baedecker, always ready with answers, explains that the name refers to a miracle in Roman times. Saint John, passing by, had been seized for some trifling infraction and boiled in oil. Evidently, with God’s aid, the event was for him a pleasant outing akin to a nice hot bath. At length he arose, wiped his loins, and gave a really good sermon.

I expect that the priest gave a great sermon, too. Easter is a really happy event for Christian believers, especially after all the angst of the week preceding. The crowd, mostly people from the neighborhood, was evidently fond of the priest, a young man in a splendid white cassock. He was preaching in Italian, however. I still cannot make any sense of it, so I studied the frescos instead. There were lots of gruesome scenes within easy view, about equally divided between Old and New Testament stories.

The singing was spectacular, from the introit to the glorious hallelujahs that ended the service. Baedecker says this church is a training site for the magnificent choirs of St. John’s Lateran. As far as I can tell, the boys and men who sang today are ready for promotion.

It was not so hot today, so Aunt Enid and I decided to return to the Villa Caracalla on foot. For fifty paces or so, my aunt seemed deep in thought. I imagined she was meditating on the splendid choristry.

She spoke abruptly. “You are quite taken with the girl, I suppose?” I knew at once she referred to Anna.

“Anna is like no other,” I said. “You have noticed that we are . . . that there is . . . O, what shall I say? Yes, Aunt Enid, yes, I have fallen in love with Anna Freud. There are boys I like, but none ever so much as Anna.”

“Well, my dear, I think I know you well enough,” said my aunt, taking my arm in hers. “You must prepare yourself for heartbreak. Between women there can be the greatest affection and the most intimate relations, but without the sanction of society, these liaisons are liable to break at the slightest of shocks.”

“Anna has already told me that her dear Papa must always come first,” I replied gloomily, “and he hates me.”

“Let us walk faster, then. As we have only three days left in Rome, I am sure you will wish to spend them with your Anna rather than me. Another time, perhaps, I shall tell you a story or two.”

A few moments later, we had regained the Villa Caracalla where, as I hoped, Pegeen caught my eye. Leaving my aunt in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, I joined our servant. “Is it arranged, then?” I asked. “Yes, Miss, she replied. “Miss Anna will meet you at the Castella Brava. It is a famous place for ice cream. Sit under the awning and enjoy a gelati. Whenever you wish, leave two thousand lira on the table and signal for the waiter with a purple boutonniere. His name is Francesco, and he has become a friend of mine. He will lead you through the restaurant and into a garden in the back, which in turn leads to a tiny hotel. It is the sort of place that specializes in such meetings. My friend says their discretion is absolute.”

Once again, just as in church but an hour past, I heard the exultation of the angels.

I found the Castella Brava all right, and had scarce been seated when I spied Anna alighting from a cab. Marvel of marvels, she was without a chaperone — allowed by what ruse I could not imagine until, while ravishing a lemon sorbet, Anna explained that she and her cousin Elena were believed to be at a class in flower arranging. If necessary, the instructor will swear for their sake that they were both present for a full two and a half hours; meanwhile, Elena was keeping a rendezvous of her own.

“And now what,” Anna asked. “You said you have a surprise for me.”

“I do,” I replied “but only if you wish it as much as I.”

She wrinkled her delightful nose. “How much is that, pray?”

“More, I think, than I have ever yet wished anything.”

“O, I am sure that I can match you, Evi.” Anna was silent for a moment. “You see, I do love you.”

I whispered that I had contrived, were she game for it, for us to be alone together. Anna’s hand found mine beneath the tablecloth. “O, yes, darling, I know I will be safe with you,” she whispered back.

At that instant, almost, a waiter obtruded into my field of vision, a man wearing a purple boutonniere. “Francesco?” I said. “At your service, Signorini,” he replied, pocketing the banknotes I had placed under the wallet that held our service check. “Perhaps you will follow me within.”

And so, Diary, not so much later, with the greatest tenderness that my raging desire would allow, after many sweet kisses and caresses had brought her to an extreme of tumidity and desire, I deflowered my dear sweet Anna.

We lay, legs still entangled on the bed of our rented room, a small room but clean and decorated with taste. Through an open window from the garden came the scent of roses, and from Anna, and me as well I suppose, came the scent of women who have been well loved. “Is it always like this?” asked Anna.

“It is rarely so sweet,” I replied. “No, in fact it has never before been so sweet for me. I suppose that is because I have not been in love as I am now.

“Love and sex are very different things,” I mused, “each is possible without the other, and yet . . . neither one is half so grand as both together.”

Anna rolled closer and wrapped a slender arm about my shoulder. “You must leave Rome on Wednesday? There is no forestalling it?”

“I have considered a thousand ploys to prevent our departure. Save throwing myself in front of an omnibus and landing in the hospital, I doubt that I should succeed. My aunt has made promises that to her are sacred, and so we have reservations to sail for New York in three weeks’ time.”

I kissed Anna on her eyes, her nose, ears, neck, shoulderblades, nipples. I buried my face in her soft brown hair and breathed its sweet odor. She stroked my back and my naked buttocks; engorged, I lay back and pulled my sweet friend atop me. Anna sucked at my nipples until I could bear no more. I pulled her higher, till her pelvic mount met mine, and I rocked her as Kat had taught me, deep strokes, engaging my diminutive penis as well as my clitoris to give Anna pleasure.

Her orgasm came again an instant before mine, and then she began to cry. Crying is contagious; I was soon weeping too. Anna and I regarded each other through a film of tears, overcome by the thought of giving up such pleasure so soon after we had found it, oppressed by the thought that an entire ocean would separate us.

From not so far away, a bell began to chime. We held our breaths and counted the strokes. Five of them. “O, my darling, I must go. They will have been expecting me for tea for at least half an hour already” said Anna. She jumped from the bed and thrust her coltish limbs back into her chemise and knickers. I assisted her to dress, and she me; all the while we could not take our eyes off each other.

“What shall I say happened to my hair,” said Anna with a rueful glance at the mirror. “Watch,” I said, “I can roll it like this (here I executed an artful twist), secure it with your hatpin, and voila, once again the proper schoolgirl!

“If I am disowned, I shall essay a career as a hairdresser,” I added. “And now, let us fly.” And so we did, past the hotel clerk who accepted my envelope without making eye contact, back through the ice cream parlor as though we had just availed ourselves of its powder room, and soon Francesco (of the purple boutonniere) had handed first Anna and then with a wink, me into separate cabs.

April 17. My last day with Anna has been spent as innocently as yesterday was not. Aunt Enid and I were the guests of the Morabbis at luncheon — though I was given to believe that this was at Anna’s express request, we were permitted only a few moments alone in a corner of the garden. Just long enough for me to give to Anna the ring of white gold chased with lilies that I had purchased that morning.

She regarded it as though she had never seen a finer ornament. “We are not allowed jewelry within the convent, so I shall secure it on a chain about my neck, underneath my blouse. O, Evi,” Anna exclaimed with delight, “it is inscribed. Je reviens — what does that mean? You know my French is terrible!”

“It means,” I said, clasping Anna’s hands in mine and giving her a tender kiss, “it means ‘I will return,’ and indeed some day I shall.”

“I too have something for you,” said Anna, reaching into her purse to find a packet. “It is not half so nice, I fear, but perhaps this will bring back a memory of the garden — yesterday’s garden, outside our window. Go ahead, open it!”

I did as I was bidden, to find a tiny crystal atomizer filled with scent — a perfume unmistakeably of roses. “Thank you, dear Anna. I shall make this and the memory last until I see you again.”

Young Massimo’s sudden arrival brought our idyll to an all too sudden end. “Miss Evelyn, come! I have been looking all over for you. You and Anna are wanted for croquet. I want you to play on my side.”

The rest of the afternoon passed far too quickly. Massimo, again today in boy’s attire — a velvet suit and lace collar that bespoke his Mother’s fond wish that he not grow up too soon — is a terror at croquet. We won handily, just in time for tea.

My aunt and I then took our leave, a departure replete with protestations of eternal friendship and vows to meet again — mere sociability, perhaps, for our elders, but for me and for Anna a sacred promise.

April 18. My Anna is shut up again in the convent. Though he supposedly blazes the world’s way to a future when we shall all be free of ‘neuroses,’ I cannot regard my dear one’s father as anything more than a medieval despot.

I should have spent the day brooding, were it not for my appointment with Signorina Montessori. I arrived at the Casa dei Bambini a few minutes early. She came to greet me as soon as she learned of my arrival, with a broad smile that set me at ease. “Your paper is wonderful,” she said. I have looked forward to our interview from the moment I read it on Saturday.”

“You should not praise it so much, Signorina” I murmured. “I think the better part of it is just common sense.”

“Exactly!” she replied. “Which is exactly what is lacking in traditional education. Your name is Evelyn? What do your friends call you? Please do not be formal. I am Maria, and you?

“Evi, thank you. . . Maria. May I ask you,” I said, about ‘Montessori children’? Are they as apt to think of sex as binary? Do they instinctively enforce the division of the human race into male and female, boy and girl?”

I hoped, Diary, that Maria would shake her head, laugh and tell me “of course not!” But she did not. Peering intently at me instead through thick glasses in their tortoise frames, she replied “we have only begun our revolution. My bambini learn well, quickly, and they learn especially to help, to consider each other. They cannot escape the world outside, however. I have the children for eight hours, five or six days a week. Their families have them for the rest of the time, and so, ‘Montessori children’ or not, they absorb the attitudes, the prejudices of the world before they are old enough to reflect on them.

“From nine to eleven years, yes, before their puberty begins, the children are already desperate to stake out and secure their claim to maleness or femaleness. Many, alas, get trampled in the process — just as you have written.”

She said those things, Diary, and I was suddenly certain of her understanding.

“Maria,” I replied, I shall confide in you as I have in only a handful of other friends, not including Doctor Rank, our mutual acquaintance. Not all of the examples I cite were found in the university library. I have lived some of them, and some are the stories of my friends. I was raised as a boy until my 13th year, a rough and tumble, outdoors sort of farm boy, not one of your velvet or satin-suited laddies. I hardly imagined any other future until maidenhood was forced upon me by the treason of my body. I suppose I might say that I was compelled by circumstances, and yet, Maria, it did not seem such an awful thing once I got over my fear of being ‘found out.’”

“And could you then, now, imagine yourself equally a man?” she said.

An image flashed into my mind of dear Anna on my arm, me in frock coat and trousers, taking the air in Druid Park . . . . “Ah, yes, I could,” I said with a smile, “but I imagine too that I should be a ludicrous one. At eighteen, my body is no longer so plastic.”

“I believe,” Maria offered, “that you understand exactly a fundamental objective of my scheme of education. We must raise boys who are not afraid to have feelings, and girls who do not hesitate to assert themselves.

“What will you do now? I would like you to stay here to work with me.”

“I am deeply conscious of your consideration . . . ,” I started. “Oh, that’s too formal! Maria, I would love to do that, but I have obligations back home . . . (here I thought again of Tottie’s Girls and faithful Balthasar) and I am to enter university in September, to study medicine.”

“Ah, good! You will be a brilliant success, and in 1915 or 1916, when you are graduated, you will come back to Rome to work with me — make to me a promise!”

I wonder, Diary. 1915 seems such a long way off; it’s as long a period as I have already been a girl, four years. “I shall try,” I said, silently adding “if Anna is here too.”

END OF PART V

The Story So Far — Evelyn Westcott is not your average turn-of-the-20th-century American girl. She didn’t want to be a woman, at least consciously, but when Edward’s body betrayed him, he had no other sensible choice. Fortunately, rich & sophisticated Aunt Enid was able to sort everything out. Within a few months after Edward arrived in Baltimore, he was making a game go of it as Evi Westcott, a sophomore at the elite Bryn Mawr School.

In Evi’s day, the mystery of ‘internal secretions’ was only beginning to be unravelled. Our fortunate heroine becomes the patient of the brilliant young researcher, Eleanor “Tottie” Clathrop and her assistant, Balthasar Bishop. When a tragedy claims Tottie, Evelyn carries on her work with Balthasar’s help. She is the ringleader of ‘Tottie’s girls.’ The gender-dysphoric group includes her dear friends Dorothy Downey and, later, Rachel Klimintz and Alexandra Bishop.

Evi is brilliantly popular at school. She develops an interest in serious things: scientific research (into hormones, of course), women’s suffrage and (like all young people) sex. Friendships develop and multiply. The men in Evi’s life include a boy scoutish aeronaut, a female impersonator, an artist (and secret cross-dresser), a sexy midshipman and a cad. She's also strangely attracted to a racy poetess.

In Part IV, having survived a night in jail, been graduated from Bryn Mawr School and lost her virginity, Evi embarks on ‘the Grand Tour’ with Aunt Enid. In Europe, she hopes she will find greater tolerance and understanding of ‘different’ people — in the event, she finds more differences, a touch more tolerance, but no more understanding. Part V opens as Evelyn, still hopeful of finding a manufacturer for the feminizing drug, Gynol, and her Aunt Enid are arriving in Vienna, the glittering, decadent capital of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

BALTHASAR’S EXTRACT (The Titanic Era Diary of Evelyn Westcott) Part VI Evi Westcott is a turn-of-the-20th Century Alpha female, impatient with the roles polite society has assigned to women — including accidental women like herself — and in a hurry to set things straight. Evi is now nineteen and in love. In fin de siecle Europe, she’s learned about Life in its astonishing diversity. In this chapter, she returns to Baltimore to face a crisis that threatens all of ‘Tottie’s Girls’ — the dozen gender-dsyphoric youth who like Evelyn depend for their happiness on a secure supply of ‘Balthasar’s extract.’

1911 is a fine time to be young. The world is full of new things — the automobile, the aeroplane, social consciousness, moving pictures, mental hygiene and ragtime. Women are dumping the corset and demanding the vote, kicking over the pedestals upon which Victorian Sensibility has placed them. It is a time of creativity and experimentation in the natural sciences, of rapidly growing comprehension of how ‘internal secretions’ regulated human physiology.

Join Evi as she and Aunt Enid bid 'arrivaderci' to baroque, boisterous, sensual Roma. Or, if you are new to this series, begin at the beginning (Part I, some 95,000 words ago) or go to the end of this chapter for a very short synopsis of the story so far.

Copyright August 2008 - Daphne Laprov

April 18, 1911. By the time I returned to the Villa Caracalla, it was long past luncheon. Steamer trunks and portemanteaus lay open all about our rooms. Aunt Enid and Pegeen were wrestling clothes into them. “Where have you been,” my aunt grumbled. “I am at my wit’s end in this heat. All these presents. . . .” She regarded a life-sized gilt cherub doubtfully. “This thing — whatever was Gustavo Morabbi thinking? Well, there is no helping it. We shall need another steamer trunk just for gifts that we could not refuse.”

April 19. We are gone from Rome. A mad dash this morning, and then the four of us — Aunt Enid, Lady Violet Davyss-Clem, Rupert Roark and I, plus Pegeen of course -- and our great heap of luggage were aboard the Rapido fully 15 minutes before it departed the Terminale. The rail journey to Paris, the conductor has just stopped by to say, will take twenty-nine hours at an average speed of 50 kilometers an hour. After Milan, we will pass through the Mount Cenis Tunnel beneath the Alps. Our car is one of the newest Wagons-Lit; we shall be quite cozy, there can be no doubt of it.

They are trying to coax me into a game of cards. I would much rather dream of my dear Anna.

April 20. Exhausted, I have slept much of the way from Rome. My aunt and I will pass only three nights in Paris, so we have taken rooms at the Victoria Regina, a new hotel named for Britain’s late sovereign. We shall see the dressmakers for alterations and repairs. My aunt will visit again with Mme Alexis LeBlanc and her other Parisian friends of long standing. I shall call at the Cone sisters’ and Etienne Downey and his mother will call upon us. Rupert and Lady Violet, meanwhile, have pushed on to England. Rupert was quivering — there’s no other word for it — with anticipation of his reunion with Winifred Clem!

April 21. Etienne Downey, the Annamite step-brother of my dearest chum, has become a handsome youth. His French now far outshines mine. He is trying to grow a moustache with scant success. Etienne’s mother’s name is not “Bik-Nok,” as Mrs. Downey reported, but “Bá­ch Ngọc,” which means “blue pearl” in her language. Etienne corrected my spelling, but threw up his hands at teaching me to pronounce her name properly. She has but lately arrived in Paris for an extended visit and wisely has not adopted European costume. Mme. Bá­ch Ngọc is utterly graceful in her long silken dress. It is cut tight about the bodice, whilst the skirt is slit on either side to the hip and worn over long silk pantaloons. It is alluring and modest at the same time. She wears her hair up, in a braid wrapped in a cylinder of black velvet. Etienne says that only unmarried girls wear their hair loose in his country.

Now we have even more objects to fill our bulging trunks. Mme. Bá­ch Ngọc Downey has pressed upon me teas and strings of pearls, exquisite lacquer bowls and yards of raw silk in a luscious celadon shade. She has brought it all the way from Saigon; now I am to take to Dorothy and her mother, the original and therefore senior Mrs. Downey. For me and my aunt, there are cunningly beaded slippers and candied fruits.

O, I was at quite a loss to reciprocate until I remembered the several dozens of fine kidskin gloves I have bought in Rome for friends in America. Happily, the smallest sizes fit the Annamite lady’s hands quite well. She professed herself delighted. After another cup of tea, still bowing and understanding scarcely a word I said, wearing the gloves, she took her leave with her son.

April 22. I have called at American Express for our letters. None are from Anna. Martin Tolliver reports he is well and will work again this summer with the famous aviator, Mr. Glenn Curtiss. Winnie promises me a ‘jolly time’ in London. From Vienna, Sasha reports that he has made a new friend, another ‘man who appreciates me (i.e., Sasha) for what I am.’ There is an alarming note from Dorothy. She visited the laboratory to review accounts with Balthasar, and found our friend clearly upset — why, he would not say, but Doro is sure it pertains to Caesar. The boy was positively ‘skulking and scowling,’ she says. It is good that at last I am on my way home, my chum adds — she will be overjoyed to see me and have my help again managing “our business.’

Magnus Hirschfeld reports he has met with representatives of the great German chemical company, GMBH Merck. They are interested in Balthasar’s elixir, he reports, and request samples for their analysis. He proposes that I send, at the least, an outline of the chemical processes and a sum of money to defray his marketing expenses. I am seriously annoyed! Dr. Hirschfeld knows he is putting the cart before the horse. Whilst still in Vienna, I told him that at the right time, I will supply Dr. Nathan Weiss’s summaries of ‘Gynol’s’ therapeutic effects, but I will not reveal the details of its chemistry until there is a firm agreement as to the ownership and use of this knowledge. Replying rather stiffly to Hirschfeld’s presumptuous letter, I told him that when Merck or Schering or Hoechst is ready to make a proper contract, I will come to Germany to meet them, with the samples — and not until then.

April 23. Aunt Enid and I are enroute to Calais and the ferry for Dover. Wrapped with Gustav Klimt’s drawings of me is now yet another sketch, the work of the avante-garde artist who styles himself ‘Picasso.’ He is a great friend of Clarabel and Etta Cone. When I called at their apartment yesterday morning to pick up some packages for Rachel Klimintz in Baltimore, Seá±or Picasso was there, holding the sisters in thrall with bombastic declamations such as (if I understood his broken French properly) "There are painters who transform the sun to a yellow spot, but there are others who with the help of their art and their intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun." When he finally settled down, I said I had admired his work at the Petit Palais last summer. Picasso was not shy; he proposed on the spot that I should sit for him in the nude. I assented, charmed by his impudence. In the afternoon at his studio, Picasso dashed off several sketches, then gave me my choice of them.

I think in America there is not yet anything quite like these sketches. They are as though I were refracted and reassembled so that I am seen from every aspect at once. The new technique is called ‘cubism.’ Miss Etta, who kindly accompanied me to the studio as my protector from the ‘greatest satyr in Paris,’ says that M. Picasso and another artist named Braque are its foremost practitioners.

April 25. Our journey is now a film winding backwards towards America and Baltimore. London is lovely, lush and green with the spring rains. Aunt and I have refused the Clems’ gracious invitation and tucked in instead at the Mayfair, which is nearby on Grosvenor Square opposite the American Embassy. Winifred Clem and I have had a joyous reunion. Win has amused herself by writing a novel for girls; it takes place at a thinly-disguised American school, and its heroine is a sort of perfected version of — me! (100 percent girl, of course! — Win has no idea that I am anything but.) The book is already in its third printing, and ‘Ooh, it’s bringing in heaps of money,’ she giggled. A sequel is imminent, and an American edition is selling well.

Win and Rupert have reached an understanding. All the while he was assisting at Lady Violet’s excavations in Palestine, Rupert bombarded Win with the most clever and passionate letters. They are to be married as soon as he has secured a proper academic appointment. His brilliant success decoding the Philistine shards practically assures it. The parents on both sides approve the match.

And, Diary, I have met a friend of ‘Henrietta’ Halloran. Miss Beatrix Triscuit-Cheevers claims to be the best young swordswoman in England; indeed she may be. I have just missed Harry; Beatrix answered when I ‘phoned’ his flat. Miss Ella’s travesty troupe is off to North America again after another triumphant winter in London.

Beatrix is tall and slim. She wears her hair bobbed, and it’s as easy to imagine her in tights and doublet, fighting off a gang of robbers, as it is to imagine Harry in one of his ‘Henrietta’ roles. Beatrix has been a student at Miss Ella’s new school of impersonation. For tuition, she gave Harry lessons for a new act in which the lovely ‘Henrietta’ fends off a brigand who has climbed into her chamber until help (in the form of Beatrix, as the noble youth D’Arcy D’Absynthe) arrives and then somehow, after a general melee, the robbers are entirely foiled.

Beatrix is extremely fond of Henry (and she says, he of her) but marriage is out of the question; Papa (the inventor of the cracker that bears his name --Triscuit, not Cheevers, and very popular in Britain) will settle  £20,000 annually on her but only if she marries as he wishes. “You Americans are quite romantic about marriage, aren’t you?” she asked me. “Some of us are,” I said, “and some of us are so hopelessly romantic that marriage is beyond our imagination.”

April 26. A letter from Anna has caught up with me! It is dated April 18, the day I left Rome. She has cried all night, she says, but is trying to be brave. The ring I gave her is her talisman and the token of my promised return, Anna says.

A telephone call from Rupert interrupted my reverie. “Winnie and I are going round to visit some friends of ours this evening, the Stephen girls. Wouldn’t you like to come?”

I answered yes, I would like that. “Ripping. Look, a friend from Cambridge will come along too. Don’t worry, he’s not a quarter so boring as Toby Whyfford. Can be charming. Other than Winnie, I think Lytton Strachey’s the only person in the world who’s confessed to falling in love with me. Regrettably, I could not indulge him — it’s just not the way I am. He’s a splendid chap.”

The “Stephen girls” turned out to be a pair of sisters, Vanessa and Virginia. They keep a sort of open house for a collection of literary friends and other ex-Cambridge boys. “Evi, please don’t mention my book,” whispered Winnie; “these are serious writers.”

Rupert overheard her. “Not one has published a thing one would want to read, just impenetrable essays and poems in obscure magazines. I should think they’d be jealous of you, pet.”

The four of us were shown into a large room where a dozen or so young men and women were in boisterous conversation. “Hey, what!” cried one, “Scratchey’s brought Rupert, back from the digs!”

“That isn’t the half of it,” replied Lytton. “May I present the creator of Alison Ainsley -- and her real-life prototype? Here’s Rupert’s fiancee, Winifred Clem, the only writer amongst us who has made any real money, and Evelyn Westcott, model for the heroine of The New Girl.

The evening was great fun. Of the ‘Bloomsburies’ (as they style themselves). Virginia Stephen is particularly appealing. She is a slim, intense woman with large, luminous eyes, a great intellect and a habit of asking direct questions. I think she might scare off a lot of men. Virginia had read Winnie’s book “of course, at one go,” and then gone out to buy copies for her nieces. “It was because of you,” she added. “If you are but half as terrific as Alison Ainsley, you are the daredevil girl we all wanted to be. My nieces loved the book, too, and cannot endure waiting for the next one.”

“I seem to be the only one who hasn’t read it yet,” I replied with a shrug, “yet I assure you that Win must have prettied me up beyond recognition.”

“Are you here for long? My nieces would adore to meet you.”

“No,” I said, “we leave for America on the 30th.”

“Well, then, come back soon. Come in the summer; we’ll invite you down to Cornwall.”

April 28. A flurry of repacking today whilst chatting with Win. She is plotting the chapters of two more Alison Ainsley books. “I think I’ll have you disguised as a boy for the stunt at the windmill — what do you think? Or maybe infiltrate you into St. Dunstan’s to steal their mascot? And Evi, tell me again about your friends’ masquerade ball — the one you attended as Shakespeare’s Ganymede.”

Good grief! Has she somehow latched on to who I really am? “O, Winnie, do compose yourself. I am . . . not . . . Alison Ainsley, supergirl.”

My friend put down her notebook, rose and stood directly before me. She put a hand on each of my shoulders and said “to me, Evelyn, you are indeed Supergirl. You changed my life. I was a frumpy little thing, a mouse, until I met you — until you became my friend and my inspiration.”

Of course this moment dissolved into a fond hug. “You silly goose,” was all I could think to say. “Your achievements will put us all to shame.”

April 29. Aunt Enid and I have missed our express train for Liverpool and must take the ordinary that leaves in an hour. We were slowed by a huge demonstration at Leicester Square, damnably ill-timed. Both the suffragettes and the police were out in force, rumors of a bomb planted, traffic all tied up of course.

April 30. What a relief, after a wretched, sleepless night on the train, at last to be on board the Lusitania!

May 1. It must be lovely in Baltimore now, the magnolias in full flower and the dogwood trees in Druid Park just beginning their show. I am so eager to be home, to see Dorothy and Rachel, Alexandra Cooper, Balthasar Bishop, Eleanor and Sally Campbell and so many other friends again. Billy Barkell’s a second year Midshipman now. And what shall I do about poor, dear, dull Martin Tolliver? I fear I have allowed him to cherish a hopeless dream.

And what awaits me, Diary, after nearly a year abroad? Most of all, I have pinned my hopes on a letter from the University of Chicago admitting me to its medical college. Although the people at Johns Hopkins will not concede it, by many accounts Chicago is the best in the nation, perhaps even the world.

May 2. I am thinking sadly of Anna. I posted her a letter just before we sailed. Whatever may befall us both, nothing can dim my memory of our sweet times together, I said. No one, man nor woman, has set me on fire like my sweet, smart, loving Anna. I return to America, I said, resolved to ‘make something’ of myself, but absolutely firm in my conviction that we shall, must be reunited some glorious day ere long.

May 3. We saw icebergs today. Assistant Purser Scott said it is late in the season, but there they were, great massive floating islands of dark ice. Nine-tenths of their mass is below the surface. I shuddered to think what might happen if a ship — even a vessel as large as the Lusitania — should collide with one in the night. The Assistant Purser dismissed my fears. It has never happened he reasoned, and were it to happen, the great liners have so many watertight compartments that they are unsinkable.

May 4. Edward Westcott was born nineteen years ago today. Aunt Enid and I have celebrated his (and therefore my own) birthday with champagne, and reminisced about my first days as her ward. “In truth, when I agreed to take you in,” she said, “I had not the slightest idea what to do with you. Certainly I did not intend to convert you into a girl, but [here my aunt paused]. . . once I observed that your manner was unconsciously somewhat feminine, and how very sad you were, it seemed the only solution. A desperate one indeed, and yet, now look at you, Evelyn! What a lovely and well-bred young woman you have become.”

I could only blush. I do love my aunt so.

May 5. Tomorrow morning we shall disembark in New York. Aunt Enid has promised me we will stay overnight to see Harry Halloran on stage as the celebrated Miss Henrietta. Harry wrote to me in England that the Ella Shields troupe has sold out the house (one of the grand theatres on 14th Street) since mid-March. Word of their brilliant success in London has made the revue a must-see; fortunately, Harry has tickets arranged for us. I have long white kid gloves for Henrietta, and for him from Beatrix Triscuit-Cheevers, a large tin of those crackers.

May 6. A Western Union boy banged on our stateroom door at dawn with a urgent telegram from Dorothy. I must have read her words a hundred times; still the message was the same. “Please come at once! Balthasar is arrested, the laboratory sealed as ‘evidence.’ Don’t know why, can’t think what to do! Urgently, Dorothy.”

It took us forever to disembark. Of course I ran for the telephone, but all I could learn, when Dorothy at last lifted the receiver, is that narcotic drugs were found, that Caesar Bishop has gone missing, and that the police wish to question Aunt Enid and me.

Telegraphing regrets to Harry, we dashed for Pennsylvania Station. Aunt Enid and I will be back in Baltimore by six pm, a day early, after ten full months abroad.

Later. Finding 1319 Eutaw Place quite dark, we shouted up the servants and left Pegeen behind to supervise the unloading of our trunks. Aunt Enid and I have gone straight to the Downey house on Bolton Street to spend the night.

May 7. The Dorothy who greeted us was gaunt bordering on ghastly. My chum has not slept for four days, she said, not since the police broke down the door of the basement laboratory with axes and crowbars. She herself has been questioned twice. Balthasar is in police custody and has been questioned how many times one can only guess. The men in blue have ‘leaked’ to the newspapers that Aunt Enid’s house concealed a ‘huge laboratory for the production of illicit narcotic drugs.’

May 8. Oliver Stokes, Esquire, arrived at the Downeys’ at eight-fifteen. My aunt keeps her solicitor on a generous retainer and so he was appropriately quick and [awful pun!] solicitous. Since her telephone call yesterday, Mr. Stokes has been studying the new laws on “narcotic drugs.” Considering that probably half the spinsters and widows in Baltimore are fond of dosing themselves with codeine or worse, the Harrison Act is quite draconian. It went into effect at the first of the year. The Baltimore boys in blue are determined to make an example of Balthasar. It is their first prosecution under the new law.

Mr. Stokes has arranged for Aunt and me to talk with Balthasar on the morrow. The judge who rules on such things would not even hear his plea that Balthasar be released on bail.

May 9. Tears streamed down Balthasar’s dear brown cheeks when we met our old friend at the Downtown Jail. It is the same lock-up that housed me and my friends from Bryn Mawr School after we disrupted the Memorial Day parade with our suffrage banners. Balthasar is being held in the colored section, of course. He said his treatment is “all right.”

Mr. Stokes said we could speak freely. The police are strictly forbidden from eavesdropping on conversations. I have my doubts, Diary. Anyway, I leaned very close to the grill, and so did Balthasar, where he told me of the dreadful events since January.

I ought to have given attention to the worried letter Doro sent me back then. Instead, besotted by Anna Freud, I let it lie!

Later. We assembled at the Downey home on Bolton Street for a council of war — me, Dorothy, Mrs. Downey, Dr. Nathan Weiss, Aunt Enid and her lawyer, Mr. Stokes. “Well, Evelyn,” observed my aunt, “while you and I were gallivanting about Europe, it appears that the do-gooders have been busy transforming American society. On the face of it, this new Harrison Act only obliges physicians to report when they prescribe heroin, morphine or some other drug of that ilk. Its actual effect — perfectly predictable knowing the cowardice of most doctors — has been to dry up the supply of these ‘comfort drugs.’

“Now imagine how many people have used them to relieve pain — I don’t care whether it is physical or emotional pain — and become dependent on their regular daily dose? Suddenly their doctor will no longer prescribe it. They apply to other doctors, and again the answer is no. They can’t even buy a Coca-Cola with real cocaine in it anymore. What is a one-legged veteran or a melancholic widow to do as the distress of giving up their painkiller grows increasingly unbearable? “

“They will find some other way to obtain it,” Dr. Weiss offered. “Already there is a well-articulated underground system of supply in East Baltimore.”

“Exactly,” replied my aunt. “Thus, though I am absolutely furious that Balthasar’s son should have put us all at risk, it’s also obvious that he must have conceived it a marvelous opportunity to profit from the idiocy of our new law. Had I myself just been dismissed from university, thereby dashing my father’s fondest hope, I daresay I should have found it hard to resist the temptation myself.

“Imagine, Evelyn — suppose your father takes you into his laboratory as an apprentice. It — that is, the basement of our house at 1319 Eutaw Place — is a fully-equipped factory for the production of that extract of hog urine that you depend on. I mean the chemical that Doctor Tottie Clathrop and our friend Balthasar discovered and you and Balthasar further refined, the ‘Gynol’ that has proven so efficacious as the stimulant of feminine characteristics in you and many other youth of ambiguous or conflicted sexual natures.

“Young Caesar, then, assists his father. Anxious to regain his father’s respect and ease his burden, Caesar zealously fulfills his duties. He bids his father return home early each evening, assuring him that he will attend to the cleaning up chores. Before long a routine is established that permits Caesar to produce a growing volume of clandestine narcotic drugs. For a boy skilled in the routine of the laboratory, the technology is elementary; the money irresistable. The challenge is to retain his father’s unwitting trust.

“Balthasar, too, wishes the best. Perhaps willfully so, Balthasar pays little heed to what is happening in a darker corner of the lab.

“Months pass, and run through honkey-tonks and I know not where else, Caesar’s business on the side has prospered. But somewhere he has slipped up. Acting on a tip, the Baltimore Police intervene, Caesar goes missing, and it is up to you, me, Dorothy, Balthasar (and Caesar if he is found) to explain our circumstances.”

I acknowledged the logic of my Aunt’s analysis; we all did.

“How, then, do we deal with this situation,” she asked. “Dorothy, what is the condition of the laboratory?”

“It is quite a mess, I am afraid, Mrs. Westcott. The police swooped down with several wagons and carted off a great deal of ‘evidence,’ including several hundred dozen of the Gynol pills and over 30 liters of the liquid essence. Altogether, they have impounded over six months’ supply of Balthasar’s extract.

“The good news is that Mother had allowed me to store four months’ supply at our house. I can’t say exactly why — Balthasar suggested it, because we were running out of storage space at the lab. Moving some pills here seemed prudent at the time, and now I suppose it was prescient.” Dorothy grinned weakly. I smiled back to reassure her.

“Is it all our own elixirs?” I asked. “There are no narcotic drugs intermixed?”

“O, golly, Evi, I hope not!” replied my chum.

As if on cue, we all regarded Aunt’s attorney, Oliver Stokes, Esquire.

“I have read the text of the new law,” he said, “and the Congressional Record account of the debates on it. Possession of codeine or morphine is not a crime. There is no case unless the State can prove that Caesar was producing and/or distributing the narcotic drugs for his personal gain.”

“Flight when under warrant is a de facto admission of guilt,” observed Aunt Enid.

“Quite right, Madam,” replied her attorney. “I suggest the importance of separating whatever the boy was up to from your own affairs. Let us say, perhaps, you had no knowledge of a clandestine drug laboratory operating in the basement of your home while you were abroad. I am confident that the City will excuse you of any penalties if you pledge that these activities will be strictly discontinued.”

“Well, Oliver, it’s perfectly evident that you only half understand what’s going on there.

“Evelyn, I’m worn out from talking,” Aunt Enid continued. “Would you mind explaining to Mr. Stokes why the laboratory is essential?”

So, Diary, it fell to me to recall for everyone present the story of what Dr. Tottie Clathrop dubbed ‘Balthasar’s Extract,’ and which now, in its purer form, we call ‘Gynol.’

“Mr. Stokes, the first thing you should know is that I have the immature genitalia of a boy. I grew up believing I was a boy, as did my parents and everyone else. When I was twelve, however, I began developing anomalously. My parents sent me to Aunt Enid, who afforded me refuge and arranged for my treatment at the Johns Hopkins Institute of Mental Hygiene. Psychological examination and testing confirmed my aunt’s guess that I should fare better if I were to assume the dress and manner of a girl. Coincidentally at Hopkins, Dr. Charlotte Clathrop and her colleagues were unlocking the chemical secrets of sexual development.”

I recounted how I had participated in experimental trials of an extract refined from the urine of pregnant sows. It had proven effective in inducing feminine characteristics in lower orders of mammals.

Fifteen young people participated in the trials. Eight of us had been thought by the external evidence of our genitals to be boys. Six others, raised as girls for the same reason, were developing masculine traits. I learned later that all of us had been in various ways severely distressed in our physical and emotional development. (At this point, I glanced questioningly at Dorothy; she nodded.) No case, I supposed, had been more unusual, and none more distraught than the fifteenth of us, the person who subsequently became my dear friend Dorothy Downey.

The drug was startlingly effective, I continued. With regular injections and psychological counseling, most of us soon appeared to the world to be normal adolescent females — and in fact, that is what we were, leaving aside technicalities.

There was one exception, a youth from Catonsville. For reasons that have never come clear, he fell deathly ill and passed away just after Christmas, 1907. The parents blamed the feminizing drug, and threatened legal action against Hopkins. Fearing unfriendly publicity, the university took the coward’s way out: it terminated Dr. Clathrop’s contract and program.

I paused, recalling Tottie’s dear, kind face, and within seconds tears began to flow uncontrollably. Handing me his clean handkerchief, Dr. Nathan Weiss murmured “If I may, Evelyn,” and took up the tragic story.

Nathan related how Tottie, burdened with family secrets and the collapse of a brilliant career, had taken her own life. “Before that tragic event,” he continued, “Dr. Clathrop devised a scheme to provide for the girls’ continued care. It required only Mrs. Enid Westcott’s generous sponsorship. It is she who provided the means for Dr. Clathrop’s perennial assistant, Mr. Balthasar Bishop, to continue to produce the fluid on which the girls depended for their happiness.”

“One of the girls is my niece, Rachel, born Joshua. Joshua was a miserable little boy; Rachel is now a most lovely and accomplished young lady. I was already a believer in Dr. Clathrop’s course of treatment when, at Rachel’s prompting, Evelyn came to request my help. The girls needed a physician they could all trust, she said, and I readily agreed to serve in that capacity.

“In the cases of Rachel, Dorothy and Evelyn and the other girls, Mr. Stokes, there is eloquent testimony that whatever ‘the world’ may conceive about the immutable and binary nature of the sexes, there is in fact substantial plasticity. From these successful experiments, we can conclude that a way lies open to save many poor souls — people who for whatever reason are conflicted in their sexual identity — from a lifetime of misery.”

“Are there so many, then?” asked Stokes.

“I should hazard a guess that there might be as many as one in five hundred. If so, that would be nearly 20,000 persons in the present population of the United States. A significant, suffering minority, and an irresistable subject of titillation and scandal for the sensational press.”

Dorothy spoke up. “I won’t trouble you with the details, Mr. Stokes. Suffice it that you know that had not Balthasar’s elixir been available to me, I should have taken my own life long ago.”

All of us were speechless for a moment.

“The laboratory must continue its honest work, then,” ventured Stokes at last. “Nothing less will do. And, yet . . . can such work bear the scrutiny of an unkind public?”

I winced at the thought of my photograph and a sensational story in one of the Pulitzer or Hearst’s newspapers. Dorothy’s eyes caught mine, despairingly. “Be brave,” I mouthed to her.

Aunt Enid interrupted. “No! We will not have a public spectacle. That is the point of this meeting. It is out of the question.” She glared at Mr. Stokes. “It is vitally important that all the girls be shielded from notoriety,” my aunt continued. “Some are still in a fragile mental state. I cannot vouch for their safety if . . . .”

“Excuse me, madam,” said Stokes. “I agree with you entirely. I was simply thinking out loud. I suppose this situation is manageable. We must redirect the attention of the police.”

I felt I had to speak up, Diary. “There is another consideration,” I said. “I fear greatly for Balthasar’s health if his son Caesar is arrested and brought to trial.”

With difficulty, I held my point over others’ objections. However reprehensible the boy’s behavior, every effort will be made to shield him from the consequences. Is it too much to hope that we may effect his redemption?

So it is decided. Lawyer Stokes and Aunt Enid will undertake a quiet campaign. My aunt has been a pillar of Baltimore society for twenty years, and a liberal donor to its causes. Now it is time to cash in some of her ‘investments.’

May 10. I went to the Bishops’ house on Brunt Street this morning. It was ‘staked out’ by reporters. Ignoring their shouted questions, I climbed the stoop and was relieved to find Alexandra Cooper there. Balthasar’s niece is one of us, and also an accomplished musician. Alex has agreed to escort me to the Downtown Jail on the morrow. Though distinctly discomforted by the thought of requesting an interview with Balthasar in a room where, I have no doubt, there lurk many more newspaper representatives or their informants, I conceive it my duty to apprise him of yesterday’s meeting. We agreed that to throw the reporters off the track, my colored friend will tell them I am a social worker.

May 11. I was wishing that, just this once, Alexandra and I had been Moslems and might have visited Balthasar in full ‘purdah.’ In the event, I wore a dark veil in hope of avoiding recognition.

My old friend was in better spirits when we left, buoyed by my report of the meeting two days ago. I told Balthasar that Mr. Stokes is preparing a writ of habeas corpus.

A pack of reporters ambushed us as we exited the jail. Ignoring their shouted questions, I whispered to my friend “Alexandra, think! Where can we go?” It is not such an easy question. Nearly all Baltimore establishments refuse entrance to negroes, but Alex had a ready answer. “We’re going to the Colored Girls Y, if you don’t mind that.”

Twenty minutes later, we were in a corner of its locker room. Alex had brought along a bathing costume, and I had rented another and some towels.

Inevitably, we regarded each others’ private parts with bashful interest. Both of us have a modest male appendage and inconsequential testicles; I have something else besides.

“Oh my goodness, Evelyn! You have a vagina!”

I acknowledged that was so. “It leads to nowhere,” I said, “but it is pleasant to have.”

“Was it . . . made?” she asked.

“No, it just grew that way. I don’t think I should care for surgery, though Dr. Weiss has suggested it. I won’t chance losing the sensations I like so much.”

Alexandra’s eyes grew distinctly larger. “You, . . .you have sensations?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Don’t you?”

“Well,” she replied after some hesitation, “I suppose I might. I don’t know for sure. I try not to touch myself down there.”

“And you haven’t a boy friend?” I asked.

“Good heavens, no! What would one think if . . . ?”

Alexandra sat prettily on a bench, seemingly dazed by new knowledge. Her thought hung in the air.

“You may think me a frightful adventuress,” I said softly, “but I have had occasion to learn something of my own and others’ natures, and I do not regret that. Allow me to show you this,” I continued, sitting beside her on the bench and taking her hand in mine, I guided it until it enfolded her diminuative penis. “Do you feel something there?” I asked as I commenced a gentle stroking. Sensing her nod, I quickened the pace, still guiding Alex’s hand. “You see, though you cannot become a parent, you are not denied the pleasant feelings of sex.” Alex was breathing hard, gripping my free hand, her eyes shut when, an instant later, her instrument shuddered and spurted forth its molten cargo. I was ready with a tissue.

Alex turned to me wonderingly. “My Lord, Evi, I never guessed. . . . And in the YWCA, too. Was that sinning? I hope not.”

“No, my dear, it is the sweetest feeling one can have, and yours to command. Surely God would not have allowed it only to tempt and tantalize us.

“And now, dear heart, let us have a good swim!”

Forty-five minutes later, bathed and dressed, Alexandra Cooper and I left unnoticed from the small service door at the back of the Colored Girls’ Y.

May 13. These recent days have been so fraught that I have scarcely thought to notice my home town. Baltimore is clothed in vernal splendor, the dogwood, the late magnolia and the early azaleas all competing for pride of place. At 1319 Eutaw Place, spring cleaning is underway. In vain did Patsy protest that she had already scrubbed and shined; it must be done again to my aunt’s high standard. Whilst Patsy and Pegeen polish the windows and mirrors, Aunt Enid interviews applicants for the vacant post of ‘Cook’ and I try to be useful by sorting the contents of my steamer trunks into dressers and closets.

Early today, a deputy sheriff came to remove the locks and seals from the laboratory. His visit is a fruit of Aunt’s persuasion campaign. The deputy attracted quite a crowd. I watched discreetly through a screen on an upstairs window, having no wish to provide sport for the photo-journalists.

May 14. By telephone, I summoned Dorothy to investigate the laboratory with me. We sent Pegeen outside to enter through the door under 1319’s front steps and within seconds, she admitted us both by the interior door.

It was gruesome in there, Diary. The light of an electric torch affirmed the testimony of our noses: several broken bottles of the elixir gave forth a stench of the utmost redolence. Guinea pigs — our brave little scientific pets — mewed pitifully in an extremity of thirst. Some were already dead, and the others will not survive, I fear. Still, I was relieved that there was little vandalism by the officers of the law who searched the lab. Most of the equipment is intact. It should take only a few days to set our laboratory straight.

May 16. Balthasar is home! Details later, when I am surer of them.

May 17. I often think, Diary, that I am marvellously well protected — not just by my aunt and her friends, but by Divine Providence as well. It seems that the business of the laboratory has been settled. The scandal we have feared has been averted. The sensational press will not have the pleasure of exposing a ‘ring of perversion,’ a ‘depraved conspiracy’ or whatever else they might choose to call ‘Tottie’s kids.’

On Sunday afternoon, two days ago, Mr. Stokes took a call from the Police Department. Would he and Mrs. Westcott, they asked, do the Deputy Commissioner the great favor of calling on him the next morning?

Without a word to me, Aunt went to bargain for our privacy. She and Mr. Stokes learned that Caesar Bishop had been taken into police custody in North Carolina. Out of money and desperate from hunger, he had robbed a store but was immediately apprehended. Caesar has confessed everything, absolutely exonerating his father. Balthasar knew nothing of his morphine distillery — that at least is what the police have agreed to believe. Perhaps it is closer to the truth to say that my old friend did not wish to know.

My aunt says that if Caesar tells the police everything he knows about the underground drug trade, that is about the system of supply, he will receive light punishment — perhaps even a suspended sentence on condition that he enlist in the Army.

May 18. Joy! Unalloyed joy! The Medical College of the University of Chicago has admitted me to its September class, and with ‘advanced standing on the strength of your excellent reports from Vienna and Bryn Mawr School.’ I shall have my degree a year earlier than I thought! Enough writing. I am going to telephone everyone I know with the good news!

May 20. In the drab costume of a ‘social worker,’ I visited the Bishops today. There was no need for dissimulation, however — the reporters are gone from their encampment under the elm across the street.

Ten days’ imprisonment has left a mark on Balthasar; he also grieves for his son. Mrs. Portia Bishop, Alexandra and her little cousins are doing their best to cheer him up, but I fear his spirit is broken. Dear Balthasar received the news of my admission to Chicago numbly, as though hearing of an obscure event in some far-off land.

May 23. Dorothy and I have decided to close up the laboratory until things are clearer. All the guinea pigs are dead now. I put the last of them out of their misery, and have wrapped and frozen several of their number for later dissection. With some difficulty, I have found the addresses of our suppliers of the feedstock — the urine of pregnant sows — and written to advise them that it may some months before we are able to resume purchases.

Yesterday afternoon, Dorothy hosted a meeting of ‘Tottie’s Girls’ at the Downey home. Twelve of the original fifteen remain, plus Alexandra Cooper and Eilidh’s new ‘sister,’ Alicia. We have lost contact with Ingrid and Helen, and the last was poor Benjamin Blacknell, whose tragic death led, some months later, to Tottie’s self-destruction.

Ours is a very democratic group — that is, of the fourteen of us who gathered at Doro’s, all classes and many races are represented — indeed, we are a cross-section of the American population! We are all in our late ‘teen years, we all ‘present’ as women, and we all depend for our happiness in part on a daily dose of Gynol, Balthasar’s elixir.

Begging the girls to save gossip for later, Dorothy went straight to business. She related the unfortunate circumstance that stopped work at the laboratory in the basement of my aunt’s house. There was no cause for alarm, she said; a stockpile of Gynol tablets would last us all for at least four months. As I nodded in agreement, Dorothy said that surely within that time, dear old Balthasar would be able to resume production of the drug.

There was evident disquiet at this news, notwithstanding the positive way Dorothy presented it. Cecily Young and Sylvia Spagnuolo in particular persisted in posing ‘what if’ questions — speculation that simply drove us all into a funk. “Girls, please!” I said at length. “Cheer up! This is a worry, I shall be the first to admit it, but we shall manage it. The generosity of my aunt and of Dorothy herself ensure that we have ample financial support. I personally shall be responsible for resurrecting the laboratory. You know that Balthasar and I have worked together many hours in the past; I know what has to be done there, and we shall do it,” I affirmed whilst, out of view behind my back to all but Doro, my fingers were crossed.

The business of the meeting over, tea was brought in, and we turned to ‘catching up’ on each others’ lives. I had missed several meetings while travelling with Aunt Enid, so, much as I wanted to hear the others’ stories, I was required to relate first my own adventures in England, France, Austria and Italy. I gave a selective and not altogether coherent account of these past ten months, touching in particular on attending the theatre in London, shopping in Paris, witnessing Mr. Glenn Curtiss’ triumph at the great air show, the magnificent balls in Vienna, the pomp of Easter Week in Rome. I said that some research in Vienna has persuaded me that one or another of the great German chemical companies may take on the challenge of refining Gynol to its pure essence, a feat beyond our capabilities in our tiny laboratory. A friend of ours, I said (that fellow Hirschfeld), is making inquiries on our behalf. Yes, I confessed in reply to questions, I had received a proposal of marriage, and had turned it down. No, I did not see the King of England, but I did often see Archduke Ferdinand and some of the other Austrian royals. And Pope Pius, of course. And yes, I had fallen in love — perhaps a hopeless attraction, but mutual and intense — I would not disclose details; the girls should pray for us. What next? I would study medicine at the University of Chicago beginning in September.

Then the gossip became general. Julia Herz and Margaret Stickney’s dressmaking business is well-launched in a smart shop near the Lexington Market; we all took cards and promised to bring them business. Eilidh Owens claims to be heartily sick of learning accounting. Both she and 15 year-old Alicia are unmistakably sisters, willowy, graceful, Celtic in their coloring.

Maeve Moreland said that Dr. Weiss has helped her understand the attraction she feels to women; she has accepted that she is ‘different,’ and now shares a home with a very dear friend. Rachel Klimintz has passed a happy first year at Baltimore City College, she said, and must decide on a major subject of study. Jane Ellen Webb, who was so sickly, is now in robust good health and working in a dairy near Towson. There is a boy who wishes to marry her. He is persistent and she cannot imagine what to do about him. Cecily has graduated from Miss Gibbs’ Secretarial College, and looked quite the stylish stenographer in a starched, high-collared waist and ‘business costume.’ Sylvia is preoccupied by care of her mother, who has been quite ill for over a year, and looking after her younger siblings. Ingrid Svensen, in a letter postmarked Buffalo, NY, had begged Dorothy to discontinue further efforts to contact her. “But,” Doro added, “I have a bit of good news on my own part. I have been accepted by Goucher College to learn social work.”

Alexandra reported that her Uncle Balthasar has been sunk in gloom since his release from prison, brooding on the tragedy that Caesar’s greed has brought upon their family. “My cousin is not a bad boy,” Alexandra said, “but he is a foolish one who thinks doing well is a matter of luck and seizing the main chance rather than of discipline and hard work. I fear the worst; he will be punished harder because he is a black man.” Hoping to divert Alex to a happier subject, I asked about her musical studies at Oberlin. “They were all right,” was all she offered. Something is wrong there, too; I must find out.

May 26. I have been ‘out and around,’ hunting up old friends. Many said they expected I would marry some European gentleman and never come back to Baltimore. A few have asked, ever so delicately, about the ‘incident’ at 1319 Eutaw Place. As Aunt Enid and I have agreed, I passed it off as much ado about nothing — only some misbehavior by hired help, now settled.

My school chums are doing well. Sally Campbell is in her second year at Hopkins and wants to be a crusading journalist like Ida Tarbell. True to her Quaker roots, Christy Hodgson chose to enter Swarthmore College, near Philadelphia. She has three beaus, Christy says, and can’t make up her mind between the smart one, the handsome one and the clever one.

“Who is the clever one?” I asked Christy. “O, you know him,” she said. “It’s Frank Campbell, Sally’s brother. I believe he used to be sweet on you. I shall probably marry him.” An unpleasant memory flashed through my mind, Diary — a rainy night in April, more than a year ago, a glimpse of Frank where he ought not have been. “Frank will be a lucky man if he lands you,” I said.

May 29. I had tea with Mrs. Eustis Rawlings today, as was my duty. Sunshine filtered through new leaves cast a warm glow over the parlor of the Rawlings’ rambling frame house in Cold Spring. Several of Ted’s paintings graced the room, including one of Mrs. Rawlings so new that the oils are still redolent. I remarked with all sincerity that Ted has real talent; his portraits are in no way inferior to many I saw hanging in the museums of Europe.

“I do not doubt that Ted will make a living as a painter, perhaps a good one, if he does not fail as a man,” Mrs. Rawlings replied. She gazed pensively at a small tempura, unframed on an easel. My eye followed hers, and I realized that the portrait was of Ted. The style was not his. “O, what a fine likeness. Is it . . . ?

“Yes, it is Dorothy Downey’s work. I am quite fond of Dorothy. Without her inspiration, I fear Ted should be something of a layabout. And yet, I wish she would not indulge his . . . penchant for dressing up as a woman.”

“You have seen him so?” I asked softly.

“Yes, several times. Once I thought to take some lemonade and cake to the studio (here Mrs. Rawlings gestured toward the barn half-visible from a parlor window) and surprised him with Dorothy, somewhat deshabilleé in peignoire and dressing gown.

“He wishes for my indulgence, but I cannot support him in his . . . perversion. O, Evelyn, I suppose he and Dorothy will marry. Will they still carry on like that? I imagine horrid things — my own grandchildren with two ‘mommies.’ What can I do to dissuade them? The world will never tolerate such a thing!”

Well aware that Dorothy can never bear children, it was an easy thing to express confidence that Mrs. Rawlings’ fears would never come to pass. “I have no closer friend than Dorothy,” I said. “She has a fine, feminine understanding of such things and good sense. I assure you, she will manage Ted.”

“I do hope so, Evelyn. Ted will not listen to me, anymore than he would obey his father when Eustis was still alive.” She dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. “Do take another cup of tea, and tell me about my mad, mad Fiona.”

“Well,” I said, reaching into my reticule, “she has sent you this.” Mrs. Rawlings eagerly opened the package to find a golden case, and within it a cameo of Fiona. There was no missing the likeness; Fiona’s partner Giulietta is an accomplished miniaturist. I recall her joking that she shall have to survive on that talent now that her family has disowned her. “It is by Fiona’s great friend, the Marchioness Scampidarosso.”

“Your daughter is thriving in Rome,” I rushed on. “The city, with all its noise, smells, liberality and extraordinary sights, suits her perfectly. And the educator with whom Fiona works is a true genius.”

“Did you go to the school, then?” asked Mrs. Rawlings.

“Yes, twice,” I replied. “Signorina Montessori received me very kindly, and I was so very impressed by her methods.”

“Fiona has written that the world should be a much nicer place if all children were trained in Montessori schools.”

“I am sure of that,” I answered.

“There are no men in her life, then?” asked Mrs. Rawlings.

I blinked, then realized that she referred to Fiona, and not to Signorina Montessori. “No, I suppose not,” I said.

“What a pity, then. How old are you? Eighteen? So many boys were after her when she was your age.”

Making my excuses, I fled, leaving Mrs. Rawlings alone with her worries. I have plenty of worries of my own.

Memorial Day. The telephone rang this morning with a summons from Miss Edith Hamilton. “Evelyn, where have you been? Will you come to tea today? Alice is here visiting. We both want to hear about your adventures,” said the Headmistress of Bryn Mawr School.

Useless to protest that I left my calling card at Miss Hamilton’s nearly a fortnight ago, the same day I learned of my admission to the medical college at the University of Chicago. Miss Hamilton is a busy woman, and ready for me when she is ready. Dutifully, I wrapped two pairs of the fine kidskin gloves I’d bought in Rome and then, on a whim, added a copy of The New Girl.

The school seemed unchanged since I last saw it. I reached Miss Edith’s house, where she and her sister greeted me fondly.

“Well now, Evelyn! It was exactly a year ago that you stopped the Memorial Day Parade with that demonstration and nearly stopped my heart, too. And look at you now — why, you are thoroughly elegant! One would hardly believe this extraordinarily elegant young lady is capable of causing mayhem, even for a good cause like womens’ right to vote, wouldn’t you agree, Alice?”

It was true, Diary. I was overdressed and deserved the implied reproach of this very sensible woman. I had been unable to resist wearing a summer ensemble from Lanvin’s of Paris, the skirt and jacket elegantly slim, all white with black trim, with white boots and a huge hat trimmed to match. In fact, I had hounded Pegeen to exhume the costume from a steamer trunk and steam iron it just so.

“Don’t tease Evelyn, dear heart,” said Dr. Alice. “She is quite splendid, and when is it more appropriate to sparkle than when one is young and talented?

Blushing hotly, I thrust forward the letter from Chicago. “Look, my dream came true,” I stammered.

The letter, after an instant’s glance, elicited whoops of pleasure from both women. “This is wonderful. They only accept two women each year,” said Dr. Alice. “You must call on me often in Chicago.”

“Yes, it is wonderful. I am sure I have both of you to thank, and yet now I have come to doubt that I shall profit by this opportunity.”

The sisters stared at me. “There is trouble. I cannot tell you more, but I have responsibilities here in Baltimore that I cannot evade.”

They would not take a hint. “It is this business of the laboratory, isn’t it, Evelyn? And that is . . . somehow related to your . . . sexuality, am I right?” It was Dr. Alice speaking, while thoughts whirled confusedly in my head. I began to cry.

“Alice, gently! Let the poor child be! Evelyn need not confide in us, if she . . . .”

“Oh, no!” I burst out, interrupting. “I do so want to confide in you, both of you! I am feeling so . . . overwhelmed. Everything was perfect and then, suddenly, it is all bits and pieces in my lap.”

“Evelyn, I am sorry.” It was Dr. Alice speaking now. “Edith told me quite some time ago about the circumstances that brought you to Bryn Mawr School, and also what she knew of the research at Hopkins that ended in tragedy. I took it on myself to find out more from Dr. Reuben Crawford — I suppose you know he is on the staff at the Mayo Clinic now?

“So, when I interviewed you here a year ago, I already had an inkling of why you were so intent on your experiments with the guinea pigs.

“Can Edith and I help?”

My composure having recovered somewhat, I related as best I could the events of the last months, Balthasar’s deep depression, and my reluctant conclusion that not just for my own sake, but also for the sake of my dozen ‘sisters,’ I must stay in Baltimore until a stable supply of the drug is assured.

“If Chicago is impossible, then, Hopkins must do” said Edith, “though it is quite late.”

“I have . . . issues with Hopkins,” I sniffled. “I swore never again to have any connection with that university. They killed Tottie Clathrop.”

“She means,” Alice explained to a puzzled Edith, “that by shutting down Dr. Clathrop’s laboratory and in effect disowning her brilliant work, Adolph Meyer drove Dr. Clathrop to suicide. Of course he never intended so. Young Clathrop was a gifted researcher. Crawford said she had identified a drug that brings out feminine characteristics.”

“Oh, yes, now I see,” answered Miss Edith. “That was three years ago. Adolph was quite distraught. I must admit I comforted him. I saw the matter as he did — when the school to which one has dedicated one’s life is threatened, one must act ruthlessly to save it. The Hopkins Institute of Mental Hygiene has been controversial since it was founded. Dr. Meyer could not allow a scandal.”

Miss Edith saw that I was again close to losing my composure. “I am so sorry, Evelyn. At that time, I had no idea that the business at Dr. Meyers’ institute touched you or Dorothy. And it must be that this drug — you were making it in the laboratory of your aunt’s house?”

“No, not me. Balthasar makes it. For all of the girls.”

“I think, my dear, that this is much too heavy a burden for you to carry unaided. I am inclined to lean on Adolph quite forcefully. Let me ask you this: if Hopkins were again to facilitate preparation of your friend Balthasar’s remarkable extract and his inquiry into its properties, would you, as a medical student there, guide and assist that work?

“Or, on the other hand, dear Evelyn, will you stand on principle until the game is lost?

“What do you suppose Alison Ainsley would do?” she added with a grin.

May 31. Re-reading yesterday’s entry, Diary, I see that I omitted to explain about Winnie Clem’s preposterous book. I need not to have taken a copy to Miss Alice. She already has a copy of the first edition signed by the author. Win wrote to beg her pardon for the egregious appropriation of Bryn Mawr’s attributes for her imagined “Meadowbrook Academy.” Miss Alice wrote back her amusement that Win had also appropriated Evelyn Westcott’s persona and embellished it further. They are thinking about erecting a statue of Alison Ainsley at Bryn Mawr, Miss Edith said; applications for next year’s class have doubled since publication of the American edition of “The New Girl.” If only they could find a fitting model for the statue, she mused. Entering into the spirit of the thing, I proposed my friend ‘Henrietta Hawkins’ Halloran as a perfect choice.

June 2. Great heavens! Caesar is dead! There was some sort of row at the prison, and he was grievously hurt — knifed, I think. Alexandra came to tell me. Her eyes are sunk deep in their sockets and red from weeping. She has had no sleep since the family was summoned to collect Caesar’s corpse yesterday afternoon. I bade her rest for ten minutes while I changed my dress, that I might go back with her to help.

“No — stay away, Evelyn. There are hard feelings right now. It wouldn’t be safe for you in my neighborhood. Come to Caesar’s funeral on Monday, if you want to.

June 3. Well, the deed is done. I have written to Chicago declining my position in the new class of the Medical College, weeping a little as I did so. I explained that events beyond my control compel me to remain in Baltimore, however much I wished it otherwise.

Alexandra Cooper helped me see my duty. After a year’s study there, Alexandra has withdrawn from the Conservatory at Oberlin College. “I’m not going back,” she said. “I’ve had it with white folks. I don’t mean you, Evelyn, or your aunt; I mean my pretending that if I get ‘white’ enough, the rules will change.

“Those coppers promised Caesar they’d take care of him; they milked him for everything he knew, promising they’d protect him if he spilled it; and then they let him get killed right there in that jail. And that’s just about killed my uncle, too. I have got to help take care of him and the children, so I have transferred to Morgan College. It’s where I should have been all along, with my own race.”

“But,” I objected, trying not to show my dismay, “what of your musical training?”

“I’m going to be in the teachers’ school. I’ll have plenty of chances to sing real music — the kind we colored folks like.”

Alexandra left me alone with my thoughts. Her bitterness is quite real, I’m sure, but it also helps her justify doing what she must do. Her aunt, uncle and cousins need her care. I’m sure Aunt Enid will continue to help Alex meet her college costs. And where does that leave me, Diary? I cannot traipse off to Chicago, leaving the happiness of a dozen other girls like me at risk, when Johns Hopkins Medical College is here at hand.

June 5. Caesar Bishop was laid to rest today. The Hallelujah Tabernacle on Dolphin Street was filled to overflowing with friends of the Bishop family; among the weeping crowd, Dorothy, Aunt Enid and I were the sole representatives of the white race.

It serves no good purpose today to reason that Caesar was caught up in an ugly business, or that his murder was at the hands of another of his race. When one of us goes astray, we all share the responsibility. As, I suppose, funeral services are meant to be, the mourners were exhorted to believe he has gone to a better place, reunited with our Good Shephard. Even Hell, I imagine, may be no worse than the mens’ section of the Downtown Jail. Whatever his immortal destination, Caesar has been sent there on clouds of hauntingly sorrowful, beautiful music.

June 7. At last, a letter from Anna. “Dearest Evelyn,” she writes. “Forgive me for it being so long between letters. The nuns have been observing me closely — perhaps I seem suspiciously happy when I think of you. I cried when I read your news about poor Balthasar and your laboratory, but you will soon fix things up, I know. My ‘rest cure’ at the convent will be ending soon; I shall say farewell to Rome and go to join Mama and Papa at our summer cottage in the Tirol. Evi, I know you dislike Papa. Please do not be unfair. He is selfish — especially in his need for my company and assistance — but Papa is not evil. I think that like all great men, he is so intent on achieving his ‘mission in life’ that he is nearly blind to the convenience of others. Put it differently: others, whatever their own needs may be, are merely a convenience to Papa. All of us dread being inconvenient to him. When he is angry, he is cold. He casts out the offender. Papa would not speak to my cousin Johannes for three years! Evi, please understand. I cannot bear for Papa to be angry with me. It would be as terrible, I think, as if you were to hate me. Please, Evi, let us remember Rome, and try to be happy. With so much love, Annika.”

June 8. I have had a medical exam at Dr. Nathan Weiss’s clinic. He is the saint of East Baltimore. Rachel says his waiting room is always full because he treats so many for free, or almost free. Today Nathan probed me with unusual care, it seemed. Was my liver enlarged? Were my kidneys distended? Had I experienced any unusual discharges or pains? Of course I asked him what he feared. “It would seem,” Dr. Nathan answered, “that among Tottie’s children, there may be an elevated risk of malignant tumors. Maeve is gravely ill, and she is not the first.”

I shot Nathan a severely questioning look.

“I have searched out the coroner’s papers, and then tracked down the family’s physician in Catonsville. When young Blacknell died, both his kidneys were tumorous. It was that which killed him. Brace yourself, Evi — we cannot exclude that Charlotte Clathrop’s medications were instrumental in his death.”

June 9. Aunt Edith has had both of the drawings of me framed, along with her landscape by Maestro Klimt (a somber study in gray, green & brown). Where do I think the drawings should be hung, she asks. Should they hang together? Which one of them am I anyway, I ask myself — Klimt’s serenely confident young dancer, or the ‘deconstructed’ harlot desperately trying to preserve her inner integrity? I fear it is Picasso who saw me more truly.

I could not sleep all night, tormented by Nathan’s terrible conjectures. No, conjectures is my word. He seems persuaded there is a problem with the Gynol. Is it an impurity or does the same secretion that impels the development of female characteristics place an extreme burden on the kidneys? I have promised him the cadavers of my dead guinea pigs for autopsy. Did Tottie know? Was that why she and Dr. Meyer had that awful fight? O, my dear God, Diary, I am so miserable!

June 13. Dorothy’s 20th birthday. We have celebrated by getting tipsy over lunch in a private room at the Cock and Bull, two handsome young women who consumed many oysters and bared our souls to each other.

Doro ‘was terrified’ the entire time I was abroad, she said, that she would not manage things properly — it was well-founded fear, as I have seen. Watching out for Tottie’s girls, keeping everyone’s spirits up — that comes easy to Dorothy. Not so the ‘scientific part.’ For that, she could only rely on Balthasar and his nephew.

No, I said, responsibility for the troubles at the lab was mine, if anyone’s. I confided that I shall not go to Chicago after all. Though Doro expressed regrets on my account, she’s clearly very happy for her own sake that I will remain in Baltimore. “O, Evi, I am relieved. You will manage everything, I am sure of it. You always do.”

Do I, Diary? Will I?

Our conversation became more intimate. At Dorothy’s urging, I talked of Paris, Vienna and Rome, of Sasha, Jorgen, Kat, Anna, Fiona, young Massimo and other friends. “I have learned that there is a great diversity of people in this world, Dorothy. You and I are not so odd, after all — or Ted, either. Tell me about you and Ted.”

And so she did. Dorothy is sure that Heaven has brought them together. Ted is not especially manly, she said, that is to say that his interest in women is not so much sexual as worshipful. He loves everything about women; this impels him to imitate them. He does it well, O not so well as Harry Halloran, of course, but well for a youth nearly six feet in height. For Ted, Dorothy’s own situation is, well, ideal. (Remember, she is in fact a eunuch, Diary, having by her own hand removed the offending member. That was, O, more than four years ago. One could hardly blame Dorothy, she was then in a total funk at the thought of spending the rest of her life as a man) Doro is able to satisfy all Ted’s companiable needs, and he thinks it splendid that she, though born a boy, was raised to be in every respect a perfect girl.

“My mother adores Ted,” she added. “I wish Mrs. Rawlings would like me as much.”

“I wonder if you should confide in her,” I answered, and recounted my conversation with Ted’s mother.

June 16. Well, it is done. I have filled out an application to the Medical College at Hopkins. Dr. Alice Hamilton has taken on the challenge of securing me a place in the new class, for it is of course much too late to apply in the ordinary course of things.

I visited Balthasar today. Too soon, I know. It is only nine days since Caesar’s funeral, but I cannot put off the lab work any longer. Balthasar is most unwell, brooding, almost catatonic. Hoping to restore his energy, I brought along his lab notes, returned by the police after Caesar’s confession. I could not rouse his interest in them; in fact, I realized almost immediately that it is hopeless. With Mrs. Bishop’s consent, I have kept these notebooks — slim volumes that trace the hundreds of experiments that resulted in ‘Gynol.’ Balthasar’s ingenuity, abetted by Tottie’s genius and a few lucky deductions of my own, has resulted in a much purified extract — put another way, we have eliminated 98% by volume of the matter that is in the urine of pregnant sows — and it is indeed efficacious. Administered to young people soon enough, that is, by their 14th year, it totally suppresses the expression of masculine characteristics and either permits or perhaps even stimulates — I am not sure which, Diary — the development of those traits of body and character that we consider feminine. I was quite persuaded of this by my experiments on my dear little guinea pigs but now I have found further confirmation in the form of a letter to Balthasar from ‘Oliver Borgmann.’

"I suppose," she wrote him late last year, "that it would be useful for you to know how I am, in that I was Dr. Clathrop’s patient and then yours. I was known as Helen then, and at first quite content with being a lass. Taking the medicine, there was no reason for anyone to doubt me, neither. Still, I wasn’t comfortable, and having an eye for other girls, I resolved to quit taking the pills. Six months later, I have now become quite mannish, with a deepened voice, a beard that’s growing and a good many muscles from helping my Dad about the farm. In short, I am back to being a boy and quite alright.

“Please don’t tell Dorothy or the others. They think they are doing the right thing for themselves; I don’t want to trouble them with second thoughts.”

Well, Diary, I have three months exactly to retrace Balthasar’s path. Rachel has volunteered to work with me this summer as a laboratory assistant. She has had a little chemistry and will do her best. Hardly less than I, Rachel comprehends the enormity of our task: our very fates as women depend on restoring production of the drug.

June 19. "Dear Miss Westcott," his letter began. "We are not acquainted, but I hope you will do me the honor of consenting to a meeting. Via mutual friends, I am, in the broadest sense, aware of your situation. I hope that I might be of help — but only if you consent. Yours, sincerely, Archibald Black, The Baltimore Sun."

I have replied, of course, that there is nothing about me that would be of interest to the press. What does he want, I wonder? Is our secret ‘out’?

June 22. Now the ‘Sage of Baltimore’ has written to me! "Though my own character and those of the Fourth Estate in general are with ample reason considered to be thoroughly disreputable, I can assure you that Archie Black is innocent of all bad traits. He is a thoroughbred and, except for his regrettable involvement in the newspaper business, a gentleman. You should meet him. Yours sincerely, H. L. Mencken (p.s. — he is devilish handsome.)"

Mr. Mencken supported us girls a year ago when we made our mad assault on the Memorial Day Parade. I cannot refuse him, and so I have agreed to lunch on Saturday with Mr. Archibald Black.

June 24. Archie Black is handsome! And charming! And Sally Campbell’s fiancé!

We met for lunch at Harrison’s. Archie ordered wine; it was excellent. He mentioned mutual friends and hinted at a view of the world not unlike mine own. Resolving not to be charmed, I asked why he found me interesting.

“Well, I’ll ‘fess up.’ Sally Campbell and I are engaged to be married, which is why I am working here for my dad at the Sun and not back home in California. Sally says the story’s going around that you are in trouble, that you have a secret and it might pop. She doesn’t want that to happen, none of your friends do, and that includes me.”

Seeing the perplexity I could not hide, Archie continued “I didn’t mention that Sally and I are engaged for fear you’d feel obliged, but now that’s out and no harm done, I hope.

“Anyway, Sally says that a lot of people believe you were raised as a boy, and only since you came to Baltimore have you been Evelyn Westcott. And, she says, there was speculation that when you went with your Aunt to Europe, it was for some kind of operation to . . . uh, deal with that.”

A silent moment, perhaps two of them, passed. Slowly taking in two or three great gulps of air, I managed to recover my composure. “Yes, . . . and no,” I replied.

“I was believed to be a boy when I was born, and was raised so until, when I attained my 13th year, it became apparent to all that I was not male, at least not in the sense that I expect you are. My Aunt Enid kindly took me in and gave me a new life . . . as a girl, the girl you see.

“No operations were necessary, however, only the regular administration of certain medications. Some research at Hopkins was . . . .” I paused, searching for words.

“. . . had pointed the way,” he supplied, “through the development of a drug that suppressed the expression of masculine characteristics. Is that it?”

“We don’t know, actually,” I replied, shedding my restraint. “It may be that Gynol simply promotes the feminine characteristics, and that in turn inhibits the male ones. In any event, it clearly is effective and has helped quite a few unfortunate souls.”

“Are there so many?” Archie asked.

“More than a dozen girls,” I replied. “And they are looking to me to supply them the drug. It must be taken regularly.”

“So,” he probed, “the laboratory was critically important.”

“The lab and the technique itself,” I answered. “The fellow who has manufactured it for us until now has had a nervous breakdown and cannot help. I am not at all equipped to take over his place.”

‘And it may not be safe,’ I was thinking. ‘It may kill us all.’

“So that explains the business about the laboratory. It’s said that Hopkins is your only hope,” Archie murmured. I did not answer. “We could threaten to expose . . . certain things, which is what the American would do. Hopkins, however, is not stupid — Dr. Adolph Meyer in particular. They know that giving into threats only exposes them to more.

“So instead, we at the Sun may promise Hopkins the fine publicity it desires if it does the right thing.”

“And the right thing, as you conceive it is . . . ?” I replied.

“. . . Hopkins acknowledges its moral obligation to you and the rest of Doctor Charlotte Clathrop’s patients, and assists you to resume production of the drug.”

“Yes, we are desperately in need of such help,” I acknowledged.

Later, still June 24. I cannot clear my mind of Archie Black, not that I shall encourage his attentions in the least. He is pledged to Sally, and that is that, but O my heavens, Diary, what an attractive man! Archie is unconsciously charming, handsome as a moving picture star, and smart as a whip, too. I thought things had sorted themselves out, first with Kat Strasser and then with Anna Freud; I was certain it is women who attract me, not men. Now I am no longer sure, not at all!

June 29. Martin Tolliver is home from Cornell University. We have not met since the great Air Show at Reims, but Martin has been a regular correspondent, sharing bits of his life at Cornell University. He is confident he will have his degree in aeronautical engineering by this time next year. My letters to Martin have been less regular — long silences punctuated by rambling, deliberately incomplete accounts of my life in Rome or Vienna. Martin continues to profess the most sincere affection for me. Nothing that I do or say seems to shake his conviction that we are destined for each other, and that we shall wed as soon as I have earned my medical degree. I am very fond of Martin. He is handsome, manly and kind. He will have a brilliant career and loyal friends. I just do not love him; in fact, he does not excite me at all.

More and more this past year I have regretted my consent to Martin’s desire for an ‘understanding.’ It was impulsive; I was carried away by the excitement of the Golden Flyer’s splendid triumph. Now, however, I am not sure that I shall love any man, and quite sure that I would be bored to death with my Martin. Not to omit that he knows nothing of my imposture — I am nearly certain of that, and O, it is strange, when so many people are aware that my sexual bits are odd, that this news has never reached Martin. I wonder what he would think if he knew that I was once a boy? Perhaps he would not recoil in horror; Martin is too much a gentleman. And yet, when he knows, if he knows, the idea must disgust him. So, Diary, I have dreaded this reunion, knowing that I must dash poor Martin’s fond expectation.

Martin called on me yesterday afternoon at our house on Eutaw Place. Quite dapper in Panama hat and a striped shirt, a fraternity stickpin in his cravat, Martin chatted for fifteen minutes or so with with my Aunt Enid, insisting that she try the toffees he brought her, a specialty of Ithaca, NY, his college town. Then Martin proposed that we walk over to Madison Avenue for an ice cream cone at the new Dobreiner’s branch there.

I was, Diary, more than a little nervous, uncomfortably reminded of that winter afternoon not so long ago in the Vienna Woods with another ardent swain. And just as then, before panic set in, I seized the initiative. “Martin, I have given our friendship much thought,” I started. How phoney it sounded. “Martin,” I started again, while he gazed at me, waiting, “you and I, the fact is, it won’t work. I can’t, I’ll never, give you what you want.”

“I just want what you want, dear Evelyn” he replied unhelpfully.

“No” I almost screamed. “You want all the conventional things. A cottage, a wife who mends your socks, reads stories to your children, edits your reports, rejoices in your accomplishments and — let me be honest — will be content to shine in your reflected glory.”

“No, Evelyn. You shall be a doctor. It is a worthy ambition, and I support it.”

“I shall not be just ‘a doctor.’ I intend to be the best doctor I can be, the kind of doctor whose ambition is all-consuming, who has no time for marriage. Do you understand me, Martin? Do you remember that I told you, even if I wished, I cannot bear children?

“Yes, that is o-kay. You have some kind of birth defect. Perhaps we shall adopt a child or two.”

Even Já¶rgen was not so dense as Martin. “Martin,” I started again. “These past months, I have come to know myself. I am not . . . a conventional . . . girl, Martin. The fact is, I need many things that are beyond your imagination and — though you are wonderfully talented — beyond your ability to supply.

“We were meant to be friends, not partners for life. I have let you expect more than I can give. Please, let us not be obliged to each other.”

“You are . . . is this . . . we aren’t to be engaged?”

“No, my dear . . . and you will always be dear to me. I am too ambitious to promise anything to you, or any other man, so I must require you to free me.”

I have hurt Martin. I know that. Less than perfectly gallant for once, he returned me home, bid me a curt goodnight, and, turning on his heel, hurled the stump of his double-scoop pistachio ice cream cone into the gutter. Yes, Martin is capable of anger.

June 30. My talk with Martin was not at all rehearsed, but it was informed by Anna’s latest letter. My darling wrote on an evening when, she said, she “could not suppress the deepest yearning for your kiss, for the touch of my breasts against yours, the caress of your hips, joined to mine.”

I wonder, Diary, shall I ever feel more deeply than I did those few days in Rome? Is it any longer imaginable that a mere man can move me as Anna Freud has done?

July 2, Sunday evening. Balthasar kept few notes, and the notes he kept are damnably telegraphic. Day after day, Rachel and I labor to recreate the process he worked out through own painstaking experimentation. We are not making headway on steps 57 to 62, the crucial part of the process that permits conversion of the reduced liquid to pill form. I have tried more than a dozen variations and still it is impossible to precipitate out the chemicals. The work is exhausting. Thank God for Rachel, who is unfailingly optimistic and puts up with my mood swings.

I have been to the Bishops’, where I begged Balthasar to come back to help. We sat together in the parlor of his tiny row house, fanning ourselves and sipping iced tea. Balthasar was sweet, friendly and oblivious to my pleas. He stared off into the trees that line the street. The man’s heart has been broken.

O, Dr. Meyer at the Mental Hygiene Institute has asked me to come meet him after the 4th. I suppose we are to be friends again, and then I shall have a place at Hopkins.

Independence Day. Spent the holiday in the lab up to suppertime. As darkness fell, Pegeen and I persuaded Aunt Enid to join us and our new cook (another Italian lady, Theresa) on the roof of 1719 Eutaw to watch the fireworks over Druid Hill Park. Theresa says the fireworks are better in Siena, her hometown.

July 6. Dr. Adolph Meyer is more than a little bit self-important. I went in determined not to accommodate his ego needs, as Anna would put it, but softened when I perceived that he was genuinely troubled.

“I am going to reveal some details of the Blacknell affair,” he said, “that I must depend on you absolutely to keep secret. Do I have your pledge?”

“Unless the lives or happiness of others depend on it,” I replied.

“That will have to do, I suppose, Evelyn. There is reason to believe that young Blacknell died primarily from the effects of the injections of the extract that Dr. Clathrop administered to him. Tottie and I differed vigorously on that point; she also maintained that bringing happiness to fourteen or fifteen others was the truer objective, a success that vastly outweighed the occasional failure.

“I reminded her of the Hippocratic Oath — the injunction to ‘above all, do no harm.’ That was when she marched out, slamming the door on me.”

I sat silent for a moment. Nathan had hinted at much the same. Tottie was like the rest of the human race, imperfect. I loved her none the less.

“Dr. Meyer,” I began, “we need your help. Forgive me if I seem impertinent, but Hopkins cannot just wish away the legacy of Tottie’s research. She and Mr. Bishop opened a door to rational understanding of human sexual development. Her experiments surpassed anything being done in Europe.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” I continued. “I have made it my business to find out. You see, sir, unlike Hopkins, I cannot turn my back on Tottie’s work. The happiness of a dozen young women, myself included — indeed, perhaps our very lives — depend on my producing a pure and form of ‘Gynol.’”

“Miss Wescott — Evelyn -- I am only a psychologist, not a chemist. What are you saying?”

“I am saying, Dr. Meyer, that shortly after Tottie’s tragic death, my aunt provided the means for Balthasar Bishop to continue to extract the drug from the urine of pregnant sows, that I have worked with him, and that we have had several important successes — in particular the attainment of a substantially higher level of purification and the stabilization of the vital element in tablet form. And now, sir . . . .” Pausing, I leaned forward in my chair and regarded Dr. Adolph Meyer intently.

“And now?” he echoed.

“Mr. Bishop is no longer able to work with me. I require the assistance of a skilled chemist and the friendly interest of other specialists — endocrinology and nephrology in particular. If you would exert your influence to produce such a result, sir, we should be most particularly grateful.”

Another silence. Having gotten out what I had to say, I could hardly breath. At last, a smile. “You are charmingly impudent,” said the great professor, “and I have no doubt that you are as talented as others — including the new publisher of the Sun — say you are. If I were to manage things so that your request is satisfied, I should require something of you in return.” He paused, still smiling.

Disconcerted, I said the conventional thing. “If it is something within my ability to give, of course I shall be pleased to do so. Is it a matter of money?”

“Only in a small way. It is more a matter of ‘burying the hatchet’ with Hopkins. The dean of the Medical College has asked me to inquire on his behalf if you would accept a place in the class that begins in September.”

So there it is, Diary. Dr. Meyer is to ‘manage things’ and I am to study medicine at Hopkins. O, and that supposes that we succeed in resuming production of Gynol before our dwindling reserves of the pills are exhausted. At least now I will have some expert advice.

July 10. I have a dozen dozen baby guinea pigs and their mothers to tend — forty-three litters all born in a five day interval. Samson and Attila, my stud pigs, are looking very virile and pleased with themselves. Rachel and I were down in the lab this morning; while we cleaned the cages, I was explaining my plans for the pigs when Patsy came down the back stairs to announce a gentleman visitor.

We washed our hands, doffed our aprons and smoothed our hair, and ascended to the parlor where Igar Lutjak awaited us. One glance confirmed my hope: Mr. Lutjak is a practical chemist. Both his hands bore the stains of many a dye or reagent, and there was unmistakably an acid burn on his waistcoat.

I introduced myself and Rachel. “Ess,” he replied, smiling broadly. “I come from Hopkins Hospital at order of Dr. A. Meyer. You are needing chemist to help.”

“We do indeed,” I answered. “Please accompany us to the laboratory, and mind your head on the stairs.”

The lab, I must have explained already, Diary, is a largish room in the basement of my Aunt’s house, directly under its back parlor and dining room. It is well-equipped with work tables lit by electric lamps, and there are plenty of cabinets and a large sink. There’s a full kit of flasks, flagons, beakers, tubes, titrators, burners, reagents and other chemical gear. Against a wall to the back are cages for the guinea pigs. The lab can be accessed from a door under the front steps, by a corridor that leads from the yard and carriage house, and from the kitchen by the aforementioned stairs. By dint of considerable elbow grease, Rachel and Patsy and I have returned the place to a rather remarkable state of order and cleanliness.

Lutjak was impressed. I could see his eyes pop out.

“What then, that you wish me to do? Dr. Meyer only telled . . . told me you want me now to help.”

“We aim,” I answered, “to produce a pure form of what I call Gynol. It is the internal secretion that is responsible for the development and maintenance of feminine characteristics. I suppose Gynol can some day be synthesized, but we dare not aim so high at present. For now we need only to replicate the many steps that our friend Balthasar has worked out to extract it from the urine of pregnant sows. We must do it urgently.”

“So, good” Lutjak said, smiling. “Where we are now?”

“Here are Balthasar’s notebooks” I replied, “and here is my own attempt to state precisely each step of the refining process. You will see that steps 56 through 63 are especially problematic — the proteins do not precipitate as completely as they should — and this frustrates the reification of the extract into powder form at step 71.”

He gave me a puzzled look. I wondered if I’d used the wrong words . . . .

“Sorry,” Lutjak said. “I am too soon off boat from old country. Perhaps can I read notebooks?”

Several hours passed, punctuated by a simple meal of soup and sandwiches in the kitchen upstairs. When Rachel and I finished with the cages, I set her to helping Lutjak puzzle out Balthasar’s spidery handwriting while I worked on my protocol for testing Gynol in massive doses on the little guinea pigs.

I was interrupted by a whoop from Rachel. “Evi, O this is marvellous! You can explain our work to Igar in German!”

Why hadn’t I thought to ask? Wunderlicht! Our chemist speaks beautifully precise German, learned at school in Zagreb. He knows so many scientific and laboratory words that I do not.

It was past seven when I bid Mr. Lutjak good night. Rachel was long gone — her mama frets if she is not home by six. Lutjak and I were both grinning in pleasant anticipation of the work ahead. Though such a great deal remains to be done, I believe now that we shall find the clues we need. Lutjak radiates confidence.

July 14. On Wednesday, two days ago, we started over from the beginning. Igar Lutjak is convinced that we have missed something in the early steps. There is a contaminant — something organic — that throws off the pyritic reduction in steps 27-29. It is painstaking work — he takes no shortcuts, and all the equipment must be ‘just so.’ Poor Rachel is constantly washing and sterilizing the glassware.

And I am so weary of this unrelenting toil, Diary! Vienna, London and especially Rome seem so far away. Life has grown so serious, deadly serious. If it were not for Anna’s letters, I think I should be sick with depression and anxiety. My dearest one finds a way to post me a letter every week.

We must have a new supply of the extract in two weeks to test it on the guinea pigs.

July 15. Billy Barkell is back! A card posted from Norfolk, Virginia, announces his imminent arrival in Annapolis. The second year cadets have been on an extended voyage on the Naval Academy’s training ship, American Eagle. Billy says he will ‘look me up’ in Baltimore next weekend.

July 17. Mr. Holtzell has brought us six gallons of fresh sow’s urine from his pig farm. He has supplied us for three years, and Tottie’s lab before that.

July 18. I visited Balthasar again today. Though hardly sixty, he is much diminished. Mrs. Bishop says he will not eat properly and hardly speaks; my old friend sits all day gazing at the traffic on Brunt Street, as if by some miracle he will see Caesar coming around the corner, returning home.

“He knows the boy is dead, but he won’t accept so, and it’s killing him,” Mrs. Bishop said. “My husband’s sick with grief and shame. There’s no more use your coming ‘round. He won’t tell you anything. Won’t talk to anybody.”

“That’s not my purpose,” I answered. “Your husband is one of the finest people I know. I am wondering if you would allow me to arrange for a doctor to examine Balthasar — one who specializes in, uh, helping people to come to grips with traumatic events.”

“You mean one of those crazy doctors? No way. No thank you. My husband isn’t crazy. He’s just got the droops in a big way. By and by, he’ll come around all right.”

“Aunt Portia, you ought to listen to Evi” came a familiar voice from the kitchen. Alexandra emerged, shedding an apron.

“I’m sorry, Evi. I was there all along. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see you. Heck, I’m ashamed too, and angry.

“Auntie P,” she added taking her aunt’s hands in hers, “he’s even more angry than me or you. He doesn’t know how to let it out. All that anger — that’s what’s killing him. Maybe a doctor could help.”

“It ain’t . . . isn’t going to bring our boy back. Every time colored folks get in trouble with the Man, one of us ends up dead. Your uncle thought he’d gotten above that. Now he knows different.”

I know what she meant by ‘the Man.’ It’s me, and all other white people, everybody who makes the rules the colored people have to live by. I could only say “Ma’am, think about what I suggested. If it should sound any better to you, I’d like to help.”

“Evelyn, you’re a good girl and a friend, and I thank you for that, but all the same, we don’t need no more help.”

“Alex,” I said. “I guess that’s that. Uh, that ice cream shop down on Argyle Avenue . . . how about walking me down there for a chocolate fudge sundae?” Fearing Alexandra would turn me away too, I waited for her answer.

“Sure, Ev, let’s do that. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Let me fetch my parasol.”

No one at the ice cream parlor seemed to mind that I was a white girl. We lingered there for over an hour; it was a reunion that we both needed. Alexandra is a beautiful young woman, inside and out. I wish Tottie could know what a miracle the regular administration of ‘Gynol’ has effected on the child she knew as Balthasar’s desperately awkward nephew.

I recounted our labors in the basement at Eutaw Place. Alex said she’d come now and then to give Rachel a hand with the cleaning and sterilizing.

“Oh, hey, Evi — I want to ask you something,” Alexandra said as though she’d just thought of it. Something told me I might have passed a test. “You ever hear of Mr. Eubie Blake?”

I confessed that I had not, and waited.

“He’s just the best musician in Baltimore, that’s who he is. Do you like jazz music?”

Another confession — I don’t know what ‘jazz music’ is. “Is it something like ragtime?”

“Well, it’s freer, and noisier and . . . (here a sly smile) sexier.”

“I’m going to be singing with Mr. Eubie Blake at a club downtown every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night for the rest of the summer.”

“O, that sounds wonderful,” I ventured.

“You don’t sound convinced of that. Evi, you have to come hear us! Hear me sing!”

Well, I have promised that. I’ll get Billy to take me.

July 23. Billy Barkell visited me on Sunday afternoon, quite splendid in his ‘dress whites.’ My oldest friend has grown muscular and self-assured. I believe I am the only one he allows still to call him ‘Billy.’ It has been over a year since our boldly erotic exploration of each other’s bodies one afternoon at the Savoy Hotel. I fancy that I have become adept at lovemaking since then. Billy has had opportunities to learn more finesse also, I dare say — if not with the girls of Annapolis or Perkinstown, Pennsylvania, . . . the Eagle has just recently called at a dozen Latin American ports.

“So how are you, Evi? I always knew you’d grow up to be smart, but gorgeous is still a big surprise,” Billy said once we were alone. My aunt had discreetly absented herself from the garden after accepting Billy’s greetings and a package of the best Brazilian coffee beans.

“O, life has been good to me,” I replied truthfully, “though the way here from Perkinstown has not been without its bumps. Here’s to old friendships,” I said, raising my glass of lemonade.

“Here’s to friendships that never end,” he answered, clinking his glass to mine.

Our conversation meandered from Baltimore and Annapolis to Vienna and Paris, and then to Trinidad, Havana and Rio. At length, it got back to Perkinstown. I had to confess to neglecting correspondence with my family. “It’s just, Billy, I haven’t much to say to them anymore. I feel uneasy when I visit. They still remember me as a shy little boy. So do all the neighbors, though they are kind enough to pretend that they don’t.”

“You ought to go home again soon, Evi. I stopped by when I was up there at Easter week. To tell the truth, your Pa looked quite poorly. He and your mother and your brothers all spoke fondly of you.”

A long pause. Pensively I regarded the toes of my shoes, peeping out at me from under the hem of my skirt, avoiding Billy’s warm eyes, afraid that if I looked at him, Billy’d charm me into a journey that would stir up too many old ghosts. “We have two weeks’ leave in late August, Evi, before classes begin again. If you’d like then, I could see you got safe to Perkinstown.”

My hand crept into his, but still I avoided Billy’s eyes. “Thanks,” I heard myself answering. “Things are horridly uncertain at the moment. Maybe I can clear them up by late August. And if I can’t, thank you for being thoughtful.”

And then Billy was off to meet some classmates for God knows what kind of carousing, turning down Aunt Enid’s invitation to dinner, but not before we’d agreed to spend Saturday together two weeks from now. O, damn, Diary! He is so handsome and kind; if I do not take care, I shall break my vow to Anna!

July 24. Igar Lutjak has done it. Well, Rachel and I can share some of the credit. Just in time, we have an extract that’s purer than Balthasar’s best, and just in time. Sixty-eight little boy guinea pigs are about to become little girls.

July 26. Dr. Nathan Weiss, who has helped me with the testing protocol, came over to help with surgery today. We have sorted the litters into ten groups of, well, guinea pigs. Group one, males, will receive a ‘normal’ dose of Gynol each day. Group two, also males, will be castrated and receive the same dose. Group three, uncastrated males, will receive ten times the normal dose, and so will Group four, castrated males. Group five, again uncastrated males, will receive what Nathan calls a ‘megadose’ — one hundred times as much Gynol as is needed to stifle male development and induce female characteristics. Group six, castrati, will receive the same ‘megadose.’ Groups seven through ten are ‘controls’ — seven is females who will receive a 10x dose; eight is females who will receive a 100x dose, nine is castrated but undosed males; and ten is undosed, uncastrated males.

We hope we will find that Gynol is benign. It will be almost a month until we know for sure, . . . well, as best we can.

Nathan and Igar Lutjak do not get along. As we sat around the kitchen table eating lunch, Nathan deflected all efforts to initiate a general conversation. Pointedly he avoided Igar, and that surprised me. Usually Nathan is a very polite man.

I had to know, so I signalled Rachel that it was time to powder our noses.

“I was going to tell you, Evi. In fact, I was going to ask what you would do. Igar and I have become good friends. Nathan disapproves, of course. He’s the only one in my family who knows anything at all about us. My father would die of shock, I think.“

“So?”

“Igar’s Roman Catholic, and thinks everything will be dandy if I just convert to his religion. Well — maybe with his family. To my own, I’d be dead. It won’t work at all and yet — O, God, Evi, I think I’m in love!”

July 28. I gave Igar the day off so that Rachel and I could be alone together. His work is nearly finished, anyway. Hardly speaking, both burdened by our thoughts, Rachel cleaned out our nearly empty supplies closet while I tended the guinea pigs. I fancied the little castrati would still be feeling the pain of their loss, but they ate as eagerly as their brothers and sisters.

By ten, we’d finished our chores. Time for tea, and a serious conversation. “Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked. Rachel nodded. Tears were welling in her eyes.

“O, Evi, what ever am I going to do!”

Rachel and Igar both live on the East side. He has a room in a house near Hopkins Hospital; it is farther along the trolley line that Rachel uses to come here. There was, therefore, opportunity for friendly conversation; Rachel noticed that Igar was timing his departure from our laboratory to coincide with hers. On their fourth trolley ride together, he asked if she would help him improve his English. She agreed. They have spent most of two Sundays improving it.

Igar told Rachel about his home in Croatia, a region of Catholic Slavs to the south of Austria proper (the German part). There he has a family ‘as large as a village,’ he said, but here in Baltimore, Igar is all alone. “America is, all people say, ‘land of opportunity.’ In Zagreb, I am university graduate. Good chemist, but I cannot find work. Everyone cries but me when I say I am going to America. Especially the girls cry.”

Rachel could picture this, she said. It seems that half of Europe is moving to America. Her families — both her father’s and mother’s — have lived in Plzn, a city in Bohemia, for hundreds of years. There are three synagogues, a Yeshiva and a secular Jewish school, a strong and vibrant Hebrew community. “Everyone cried when my grandfather left for America, too. That was in 1849. The police were rounding up Socialists, and looking for Baba — my grandfather. He packed a suitcase, kissed his brothers and sisters, and left. By 1856, Baba had a good business here in Baltimore, buying and selling leather. He wrote home, and a year later, my grandmother arrived; at last Baba could have a good Jewish home. Ten years later, there were five children — Isaac, Yakob, Ruth, Sarah and Nathan.

Sarah is Rachel’s mother. Her father, also a Pilzner Jew, came from New York City to court her, with letters of introduction from a rabbi there.

“Papa and Mama, maybe I could manage. Ruth’s husband’s family, the Cones — they’d accept him. Uncle Nathan I can persuade; he and Igar are both educated, modern men. But Uncles Isaac and Yakob — never, not even if Igar converted and I kept the best kosher kitchen in East Baltimore.”

“And so?” I asked.

“And so it is hopeless. I have told him so.“ Rachel broke down in tears, her thin shoulders heaving. I felt as though I should take her in my lap and rock her. “And O, Evi, no other boy has even looked at me before. He is so handsome and kind and gentle. He does not even try to kiss me.”

Well, Diary, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Igar is actually rather homely.

“Rachel, I have to ask this. Has Igar put two and two together?”

She stared at me through wet spectacles, uncomprehending.

“Does he know you were a boy?”

“I suppose he must. Don’t you think so?”

July 29. At last I can take a rest from the laboratory, other than tending to the guinea pigs. This weekend I shall catch up on my correspondence, starting with dear Sasha.

Yesterday evening I was startled me from an after dinner reverie by my Aunt’s gasping laughter. She had a letter in her hands. “Evelyn! Why didn’t you tell me you know Charles Fenwick?”

I struggled to remember. O, yes. The Harvard boy at the Prater.

“You know Charles too?”

“No — I know his great aunt, who married Count Sarkozcy not long after I married the Baron. You remember Countess Sarkozcy, don’t you?”

Dimly, I recalled a large woman with a taste for diamonds who was chummy with Aunt Enid while we were in Vienna. “Yes,” I said, and waited.

“Well, I have just opened Ilene’s letter. She says you made quite an impression on the boy, and (here my aunt winked) his friend Oliver was absolutely smitten by your wicked friend Sasha!”

“Only considerably afterward, after the boys left Vienna, after she herself was charmed and fooled — and I suppose this must be the point of her letter – did Ilene learn that ‘Sasha’ is the notorious Sasha Bezroukoff!”

“Sasha,” I replied, choosing my words carefully, “has a gift. In mimickry, he is not quite the equal of Harry Halloran. Unlike Harry, however, Sasha is female to the core. When he is in costume, it is impossible not to think him a woman.”

“I worried about your befriending him, fearing that he might lead you into waters too deep for comfort.”

“Au contraire, Aunt — it was I who tethered Sasha to solid ground. Without me to hold on, he is likely to sail into space.”

So now, Diary, I must write to Sasha to tell him he is not at all forgotten.

July 30. Well, Diary, I have been up since six and have written a sheaf of letters.

To Winnie Clem in London, overdue congratulations on her engagement, an account of my visit to the Misses Edith and Alice Hamilton at Bryn Mawr School and the popularity of her Alison Ainsley books here, a postscript to the effect that I have decided to matriculate at Hopkins after all and that if she and Rupert do honeymoon in North America, I will give a splendid party for them in Baltimore.

To little Sasha Bezroukoff, trepidatious inquiries. He skates on such thin ice. I pad out my letter with a hopeful account of my life since I last wrote (from London) and remind Sasha that a letter from him is long overdue.

To Harry Halloran, my regret that we missed each other in New York and thanks for his postcard from Denver. I hoped the Etta Shields Travestic Revue was as big a hit on the West Coast as it has been here in the jaded East. Was the story I’d read in the Sun true — Miss Ella was about to take the troupe to Japan and China? What a splendid idea that is -- both countries have a tradition of theatrical impersonation, so the Shields Troupe will no doubt be a huge hit on the stages of the Far East.

To Madeleine Spielvogel, thanks for her welcome letter and, I fear, too bland an update on my life from Rome through Paris and London and back to Baltimore. I add that I am regularly practicing German with a young chemist from Zagreb.

Letters both to Dr. Otto Rank in Vienna and Signorina Maria Montessori in Rome, offering belated thanks for their professional kindness. I report that I will enter medical college a month hence, where I intend to specialize in psychiatric medicine and hope in time to justify their faith in me.

To dear Kat Strasser in Vienna, thanks for her warning about Hirschfeld. He is a scoundrel, but that is not a surprise. Fortunately, if it comes to that, I have nothing to hide and so he has no opportunity to blackmail me.

To “Doktor” Magnus Hirschfeld, sharp words. I will not send him either a bank transfer or the recipe for Gynol. He will have to be content with detailed reports on its marvelous effects — in fact, I will have more to send within a month. When and if, I underlined, a pharmaceutical company is seriously considering investing in research on Gynol, he should inform me. I will then travel to Europe at my earliest opportunity and there present more evidence and negotiate an appropriate contract. (The man is a fool, for he takes me for a fool.)

To Charles Fenwick in Peabody, Massachusetts, an apology. I had abetted my friend Sasha’s deception of his cousin Oliver, and perhaps I had not been as honest as I ought to have been about myself. Would he allow that our play was innocent? I hoped, I said, he will remain my friend. In particular, I should like to pursue our conversation about his cousin, and my mentor and friend, the late Dr. Tottie Clathrop.

And last of all, a long letter to my dearest Anna, still high in the Tirolian Alps with her family. I post to her via Anna’s cousin Beckah in Salzburg. She and Beckah have been intimate since they were toddlers, Anna says, so our love is safe in her care. With Beckah’s kind assistance, my letters will reach Anna whenever they can be forwarded safely. This is annoying, of course, but I must accept that Anna’s father is for now a fact of our life that, since he cannot be challenged, must be maneuvered around.

In Anna’s last letter, she said that Dr. Freud has been invited to lecture at the annual dinner of the American Psychiatric Association and to be the guest of William James at Harvard University. Is it possible, I ask, that her father will bring her with him to New York and Boston? Or were his hints just another cruel enticement? No — I didn’t mean that, forgive me. I understand, dearest Anna, what you have said about your father. You are his personal obsession and, most probably, the neurotic inspiration for some of his most profound insights. I will not speak ill of the eminent Doktor. I resent only that he has made you, my little bird, his captive. Ah, my soul, I do love you and miss you so awfully.

July 31. I told Rachel not to come today, so that I could talk to Igar alone. This is the beginning of training for my career as a psychologist, I suppose.

‘Til 10 am we had been reviewing and editing Igar’s reformation of Balthasar’s notes. He has typed them out, double-spaced, ungrammatically but intelligibly. Then I made tea, strong and on the bitter side, the way we both like it, and sat down opposite him.

“So, Igar,” I said in German, “have you put two and two together?”

He stared at me blankly, so I threw him a line. “You are very fond of Rachel, so fond that you believe love can overcome all barriers.”

“Yes, it is so. In the old country, this never can happen. Maybe a Croat will marry an Italian or a Serb or perhaps a German. Even that is discouraged. Absolutely never a Turk or a Jew. Everybody works together, the different kinds get along — but they do not intermarry.

“America iss different, iss land uff opportunity.” Igar added in English, smiling blissfully.

“It is easy for you to think so,” I said. “You have left your family behind. Rachel’s family is here.”

“So maybe I shall become a Jew, just for the wedding.” Triumphant smile. I let it pass.

“Igar, it won’t be so easy. All of Rachel’s family know she was born a boy. She’s already in trouble with Jewish beliefs, but they sort of look the other way. Her getting married — especially to a Catholic boy — would be more than they could handle. Her family would throw her out.”

“Please say that again. The first part.”

I began to repeat. He cut me off. “What you mean, ‘born a boy?’”

“I mean like me, and everyone else who depends on Gynol! We are only girls by our appearance and disposition. No Gynol, I grow a beard. Rachel grows a beard and a deep voice. Our chests go flat. Surely this is not a surprise, Igar?”

I could see it was.

“You, Miss Evi, yes. . . I know it. But not Rachel! She is so . . . feminine. She is just helping you, I think. Tell me it is not so, please!”

“Rachel tried to explain. You didn’t want to hear, so she asked me to explain to you.” Which I then did, in German, telling Igar the whole story; how Rachel and I and a dozen others were miserable little boys, most of us freaks, until we were rescued by Tottie’s brilliant research on the internal secretions that determine secondary sexual characteristics.

It was nearing lunchtime when Igar stopped asking me questions. “So go home now, and think about this,” I told him. “I know you are smitten by Rachel, and that proves you are a man of taste and discernment. Now decide if, knowing Rachel has a little boy’s penis and testicles, knowing she can never give you sex in the ordinary way or give you children, do you still wish her for your life’s companion?”

“I think I shall talk to Rachel,” he said. “You will see.”

Yes, Diary. We shall see.

August 2. Dead silence for two full days from both Rachel and Igar. Wrote Rachel a note. Guinea pigs all doing fine.

August 3. Flora Cooper telephoned me today to propose a Labor Day Weekend party at the Coopers’ farm on the Chester River, across the Bay from Baltimore. Just us young people, she said — Christy Hodgson and her beau Frank Campbell, Sally Campbell and Archie Black, her fiancé, Flora and “a boy I’ve known for ages, sort of a cousin,” and, to cast a veil of propriety over the long weekend, her married brother and his wife. I could invite Martin Tolliver, or anyone else I wished, and O, were Dorothy Downey and I still good friends? Charmed by the idea of a party with my ‘normal’ friends, I agreed. So it would not be too normal, I encouraged Flora in her notion to include Dorothy and Ted Rawlings. Now, who can I invite, Diary? Certainly not Martin. Billy? I have a couple of weeks to figure this out.

I am worried sick about Rachel.

August 4. I could hear the doorbell ring upstairs, and Patsy hurrying to answer. Something told me our caller must be Rachel Klimintz. I ran up the steps to the kitchen, doffing my apron as I climbed, and reached the hall just in time to see Rachel faint into Patsy’s arms.

There is a daybed in the back parlor, onto which Patsy and I maneuvered my friend. She revived before Patsy returned with the smelling salts and flashed me a weak grin. “O heavens, Evi, did I pass out?” I nodded, waiting in silence. “My body is rebelling,” Rachel continued. “It has been such an awful week I’ve had. I knew you must be worried.”

Patsy wanted very much to stay and listen, I am sure, but I sent her for iced tea and a bit of cake.

“There’s been an awful row with my parents. O, and first Igar and I argued and cried most of Tuesday night. It was after one a.m. when he brought me home. Papa and Mama were still up, waiting. My father called me terrible names until the sun came up.

“I could not eat all day long, even when Mama begged me to take food. I knew what I must do. When father returned home from the shop in the evening, I did not wait for him to call me. I went to the kitchen and said ‘Papa, I have something to tell you and Mama — and my brothers if you will allow them to listen.’

“They could not deny me that. I said that I had no intention of it happening but I have fallen in love with a young man, a kind and educated gentleman, someone I knew they would like if they would just give him a chance, if only for the sake of my happiness.

“’So,’ said my Papa. “It is a goy.’ That just means a gentile, Evi, but my father said it like a dirty word. He didn’t want to hear anything else and started calling me names again and soon I couldn’t stop crying and ran to my room. I sat there until the sun went down and then I lay awake in my bed. I heard someone take away the tray of food . . . they’d left it by the door . . . of course I could not eat but I am not stupid, I drank the water. Then my little sister Minnie — she’s fourteen — crept into my bed. I supposed they’d sent her to spy on me and so I refused to talk to her until I fell asleep. About two, her snuffling woke me up.

‘You think I hate you too, don’t you,’ she whispered. ‘Well, I don’t. Rachel . . . I love you. We all do. It’s just that it’s too terrible for Mama or Papa to imagine . . . .’

“’They will drive me away,’ I answered her. ‘I will not wait for Papa to cast me out.’”

Suddenly, Rachel was wracked by sobs. I steadied her as best I could and waited till the fit passed. “O, Evi, why does Papa think he must pass judgment on us like one of our prophets? Why can’t he just talk to Igar?

“Evi, do you know what I’ve done? Yesterday morning, I stole out of the house with just some things in a little bag. I went to the library and sat and thought all day. Then at four-thirty I got on the trolley and went to Igar’s boarding house. The landlady, you can imagine, she was all curiousity; I wouldn’t tell her anything so she must have speculated a great many dreadful things. Meanwhile, I was waiting for Igar and worried what he’d think when he saw me.

“O, and God is merciful, Evi, he was happy to see me. He was positively radiant! Evi, he got a bag and some things and he took me to a hotel. I’m a fallen woman! Not really, all we did was kiss and hold each other. I’ve never kissed anyone before. It is wonderful. I know I sound silly; you kiss boys all the time, don’t you, but Evi he is such a sweet, wonderful man and he doesn’t care a bit if I am not 100% girl, I am all the girl he wants to love he says!
We don’t care what my mama and papa say, we are going to get married, Evi, not now but later when Igar is a PhD. and I have my degree too, just a BA so I can teach but that’s good enough and then I’ll be 23 they’ll have to let me, won’t they?”

“Shh,” I said. “Take a breath, dear Eat some of this cake. I am happy for you. Do you need a place to stay?”

Rachel sat up. “No thank you, Evi. I am going home. Tonight is Shabbat. I shall not let them chase away from the table.

“You know what? I think Papa will come around in three years, don’t you?”

August 5. On Saturday evenings in midsummer, merrymaking spills from a hundred doorways on Pennsylvania Avenue south of Dolphin Street. It’s a part of Baltimore that no respectable woman, black or white, young or old, will visit without an escort. The Carolina Club fills up a cavernous basement. The air inside is thick with smoke, not just of cigarettes. Notwithstanding the electric fans, the heat is oppressive; all the customers have removed their coats, and most of the men have loosened their ties and rolled their sleeves. Scantily clad waitresses hurry with overpriced drinks and snacks. Upstairs from the club, there’s evidently another sort of business.

The Eubie Blake Trio — pianist, bass fiddler and drummer — was about to play as Billy and I squeezed into our seats, three dapper young men in bowler hats, open-collared shirts and bright vests. Billy ordered us a couple of ales and proceeded to talk about nothing in particular. “Hush,” I ordered. “I promised Alex Cooper I’d pay attention to the music.” Mr. Blake had begun a series of rhythms and piano riffs that were like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Nor Billy: now he too was transfixed by this music, this sensual melody that soared freely above the throbbing, driving rhythms of bass and drum.

After his second number, Eubie Blake rose from the piano seat and raised his hand to still general applause. “Tonight, my dear friends, there is a special treat. Though she’s been singing with us only a few weeks, many of you know her already. Years from now, all of you are going to brag you knew her now. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Chesapeake warbler, Miss Alexandra Cooper!”

General and genuine applause greeted Alex. She was dressed all in white — a deliberately virginal choice, I perceived. “I am untouchable, beyond the reach of all of you, beyond your fondest dreams, a goddess,” was Alex’s message even as she launched into the first bars of a sultry, sexy hymn to love gone badly astray.

I have heard Saint James Infirmary and Frankie and Johnny before on Dorothy’s Victrola, played by a honkey tonk band from New Orleans. That was fun, a little risque. By comparison, the songs Alex was singing fit no categories I knew, defied description, her music blended pain and longing and a touch of hope, speaking to each person’s heart. She sang six songs, then two more as encores; each won greater applause.

After her set, Alex came out to sit with Billy and me while Mr. Eubie Blake and his trio played on. “’Scuse me,” said Billy without waiting for my introduction. “You are just plain wonderful, Miss. My name’s Billy Barkell, and I’ve known Evi forever — since we used to steal apples from Mr. Pinckney’s backyard. What would you think of doing a concert at the Naval Academy?”

“Well, Billy,” Alex laughed, fishing in her purse for a package of cigarettes, “Look around you. You figure out how that’s going to happen, and if the money’s good enough, I guess I’ll show up to get it.

“Want one of these things, Evi?”

I didn’t. Billy took a cigarette, though, and held the candle while they both lit up. I just sat there with a goofy grin, happy to be young and feel risqué with two of my favorite people.

“Y’know, Alex” I said, more a question than a statement, “I guess you spare your aunt and uncle all this.”

“O, Aunt Portia’s been here. She was right with me offstage last week. Said she knows a colored girl’s got to find some kind of living, and as long as I stay off drugs, don’t jazz up any gospel hymns and make it to church on Sunday, she guesses it’s all right.

“So, how’s it going,” I asked.

“I’m making it to church.”

August 7. Rachel was back to work in the lab today, less bedraggled than on Friday but still with great dark circles beneath her eyes. “You look terrible,” I said.

“I know. I had to come to ‘work’ to get away from the house. They are watching me all the time — but it is better than before. Papa is calming down. Uncle Nathan is talking to him a lot.

“Evelyn? I’m really tired. May I just take a nap?”

August 8. Nathan — Dr. Weiss — came today to plan Thursday’s business. We will euthanize and examine twelve dozen guinea pigs: girls and boy/girls. They are all happy, squealing adolescents, almost fully mature. Most of them have been ingesting huge doses of Gynol. O, Diary, it is so depressing to contemplate their massacre, even for science. So many of them! Nathan requires a large number of victims to rule out other causes for anomalies we may find.

Plans complete and roles assigned (this afternoon I shall ready the surgical theatre for tomorrow), I poured tea and asked Nathan if he has met Igar Ludjak. “Yes, matter of fact. Seems like a decent chap.”

“That’s high praise, I guess, from a man.”

Nathan thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it is. Things may work out, if they are patient. My brother Shmuel . . . Samuel’s not an unreasonable man. It’s a tribal reflex. If we welcome outsiders into our tents, how can we Jews survive?

“He came here yesterday,” I said. “I mean Igar, of course. Except for the public library, they have nowhere else to meet. Rachel says they do not know Igar is helping us, and so allow her to continue helping me.”

“We’ll need the help of both of them on Thursday,” Nathan replied, packing his pipe.

“Tell me again. What’s the worst thing we may find?” I knew what Nathan feared, but I wanted to hear it again.

He lit the pipe, then answered. “Necrosis, kidney disease, or gross enlargements. Possibly liver damage. All corrolated to the amount of Gynol the pigs’ve been ingesting.”

“And if so, what then?”

“You must desist from using it, if you want to live long.”

“That is too dreadful to contemplate.”

“The mind resists facts, and the inevitable conclusions that facts compel,” said Nathan, applying a second flame to his pipe. “Suppose, Evelyn, it was found beyond reasonable doubt that smoking tobacco reduced a man’s lifespan by three years on the average. How many smokers would consider the facts soberly and throw away their cigars, their packages of cigarettes, their pipes?” (Here Nathan regarded his own pipe wryly.) “No, we would deny the evidence, imagine flaws in the research, find reasons (doubtless planted by the cigarette manufacturers) to believe that our own circumstance is an exception to the general rule. We should scoff at the pleas of our family and friends that we should desist from smoking.”

“Doubtless some, in the instance you describe, would attempt to shake off their dependency,” I suggested.

“Yes, and a very few might succeed, but the rest of us would find ourselves so miserable without our friend Tobacco that the experience would fortify our resolve to ignore the counsels of the medical community.”

“Let’s pray we find nothing amiss on Thursday.”

END OF PART VI

The Story So Far — Evelyn Westcott is not your average turn-of-the-20th-century American girl. She didn’t want to be a woman, at least consciously, but when Edward’s body betrayed him, he had no other sensible choice. Fortunately, rich & sophisticated Aunt Enid was able to sort everything out. Within a few months after Edward arrived in Baltimore, he was making a game go of it as Evi Westcott, a sophomore at the elite Bryn Mawr School.

In Evi’s day, the mystery of ‘internal secretions’ was only beginning to be unravelled. Our fortunate heroine becomes the patient of the brilliant young researcher, Eleanor “Tottie” Clathrop and her assistant, Balthasar Bishop. When a tragedy claims Tottie, Evelyn carries on her work with Balthasar’s help. She is the ringleader of ‘Tottie’s girls.’ The gender-dysphoric group includes her dear friends Dorothy Downey and, later, Rachel Klimintz and Alexandra Bishop.

Evi is brilliantly popular at school. She develops an interest in serious things: scientific research (into hormones, of course), women’s suffrage and (like all young people) sex. Friendships develop and multiply. The men in Evi’s life include a boy scoutish aeronaut, a female impersonator, an artist (and secret cross-dresser), a sexy midshipman and a cad. She's also strangely attracted to a racy poetess.

In Part IV, having survived a night in jail, been graduated from Bryn Mawr School and lost her virginity, Evi embarks on ‘the Grand Tour’ with Aunt Enid. In Europe, she hopes she will find greater tolerance and understanding of ‘different’ people — in the event, she finds more differences, a touch more tolerance, but no more understanding. Part V opens as Evelyn, still hopeful of finding a manufacturer for the feminizing drug, Gynol, and her Aunt Enid are arriving in Vienna, the glittering, decadent capital of the Austro-Hungarian empire. There she learns there are many kinds of love, and finds lovers and at last a true love. Anna’s autocratic father attempts to break up the liaison by sending her off to a convent. Evi follows Anna to Rome and a tender, joyful reunion marked by pledges of eternal affection.

Yet again, the readability of this epic owes much to the kind help of my Beta readers, Riottgrrl and Jan S. Hugs, Daphne

BALTHASAR’S EXTRACT (The Titanic Era Diary of Evelyn Westcott) Part VIIEvi Westcott is a turn-of-the-20th Century Alpha female, impatient with the roles polite society has assigned to women — including accidental women like herself — and in a hurry to set things straight. Evi is now nineteen and in love. In fin de siecle Europe, she’s learned about Life in its astonishing diversity. In this chapter, she returns to Baltimore to face a crisis that threatens all of ‘Tottie’s Girls’ — the dozen gender-dsyphoric youth who like Evelyn depend for their happiness on a secure supply of ‘Balthasar’s extract.’

Rejoin Evi just as she and Dr. Nathan Weiss have learned the tragic secret of Gynol, the wonder drug on which she and the rest of ‘Tottie’s Girls’ depend. Or, if you are new to this series, perhaps you’d rather begin at the beginning (Part I, some 116,000 words ago), review the list of characters (see 'The People in Evi Westcott's Diary') or go to the end of this chapter for a very short synopsis of the story so far. Copyright August 2009 - Daphne Laprov

August 11, 1911. My dear God, Diary, what are we to do? Nathan says the evidence can no longer be denied. Balthasar’s elixir, that is, Gynol, is not only a life-saving drug; it harbors a potent toxin as well — a contaminant, perhaps — that subverts the function of the kidneys.

I have written to Anna, pouring distress from my heart, but it is unfair to burden her so. My Anna has enough problems of her own in Vienna. I will not post the letter. The act of writing it, though, has cleared my head. Last evening I could hardly link two coherent thoughts. Now at least this is clear: the girls must all be alerted to the risk we run if we continue to use the drug. Each of Tottie’s Girls must decide in her own mind whether to discontinue the daily dose. What a fearful choice! Cease, and masculine traits will reveal themselves within months. Continue, and our kidneys may fail at any time!

Nathan will continue the autopsies through the weekend with Igar’s assistance. I doubt that I am able yet to be of much help. Yesterday, as the evidence piled up with each dissection, neither Rachel nor I could suppress waves of nausea. (A fine doctor I shall be!) Nathan has excused us from further attendance at the dissection table; in fact, he and Igar Ludjak have seen all the guinea pig cadavers, well-iced, removed in a cart to the Hopkins Hospital laboratory. They believe the advanced apparatus there may permit them to discover the action of the pernicious element in our serum, and thereby give us a clue to its nature.

August 13, Sunday. Billy Barkell came up from Annapolis yesterday afternoon. He pressed me to accompany him ‘home’ to Perkinstown and without enthusiasm I have agreed. I do love my parents, Diary, and should of course be eager to see them again — it has been nearly two years! Burdened as I am with my own cares and fears, however, I shall be dreadful company for Billy and scant support for my mother in her bereavement. It is generally conceded that my father is dying. He was ill in the spring, rallied, and now has fallen gravely ill again. Billy and I will leave by the first train on Wednesday and attain Perkinstown late on the same day.

I have confided my own awful news to Aunt Enid though not to Billy. My aunt received it gravely, of course. She professes that whatever I may decide, I shall turn it right. Should I need them, she added, all her resources are at my disposal. Would that I had her faith in my own capacities!

August 14. Now Dorothy Downey and her mother know as well. I acquainted them with the facts of our experiments this morning. For Dorothy there is no dilemma. Come what may, she will continue daily doses of Gynol. “If I cannot be a girl, I would rather be dead,” she says. “You will never make a man of me!”

We have agreed that Dorothy will summon the girls for a meeting at the Downey’s home on the 27th, in the afternoon. It is a Sunday so all should be able to attend.

August 16, aboard the Susquehanna Flyer. Billy has absented himself to the smoking car for the hour before our train reaches Harrisburg. As always perceptive, he realizes that I need some time alone with my thoughts. So, I suppose, does he after our conversation just now — a conversation I have anticipated might occur.

Soon after we were settled in our compartment, Billy, with the most earnestly charming expression, commenced to confide to me sentiments of affection, sentiments, he said, that go far beyond mere friendship. Everything about me captivates him, Billy claimed — my bearing, my industry in improving myself, my intelligence and, most of all, my ‘perfect femininity.’

“Billy,” I said, “dear Billy Barkell, you have known me since I was a boy. You know I am a perfect fraud.”

“You are not a fraud, Evelyn. You are the most wonderfully female person I ever have known.”

“Ah, Billy, you do not know me all so well as that. I am deeply conscious of your affection; indeed I can imagine no man whose nature would suit me better, no man I could love so well as you. But, my dear, my ambition does not allow me to love a man. I have already said as much to two other suitors. It saddens me that I must say as much to you: marriage is not for Evelyn Westcott.

Had he pressed further, I was prepared to confess that I did indeed love another, my dear sweet Anna Freud. I would have told Billy that with Anna I had learned that whilst the company of well-mannered men is quite nice, I can find true happiness only with a kindred, female soul. And that I am pledged to Annika, now so far away.

But Billy did not press. He said only that he hoped I might change my mind some day, and that we might continue to be friends. I replied that I should be quite miserable if he or I should feel the least constraint hereafter on account of our honest expression of sentiments. We had always been friends and the fact that we shall not become lovers as well ought not now come between us. And so now Billy is off smoking a cigar, brooding a bit perhaps, while I sneak fond glances at the photograph I always carry of slyly smiling Anna in her dirndl skirt.

August 17. Eben met us at the station. Perkinstown is much citified since completion of the branch rail line. It has been wonderful for commerce, Eben says; he can ship his vegetables and hay overnight either to Philadelphia or Baltimore. Indeed, my big brother is the image of prosperity, with a new gabardine suit, a smart carriage and team, and the beginning of a paunch. I was on the point of teasing him about it when I recalled the sad occasion for my overdue journey.

“Father is unlikely to last the month,” Eben replied in answer to the question I posed as soon as we had dropped Billy off at his parents’ drive. “Lately he is at peace with the idea, and professes confidence that Geoff and I shall look after Mother as sons ought to.

“He has asked about you, too. I doubt that you are ever far from his thoughts. It will do Father good to see you. And Mother too — but I must warn you, Evelyn, you will find she is much diminished herself, not from sickness but from worry and the work of tending an invalid.”

So, after this consequential conversation, Eben and I arrived at Tucker Farm last night, where I found things just as he had described.

Awakening this morning to the mingled aromas of bacon and maple syrup, I dressed hastily and ran to the kitchen to find my mother already laying breakfast on the table. Seeing me, she put her finger to her lips and I perceived that Father must be sleeping on the bed that has been made up for him in the parlor. “It’s good you are here, dear,” she said in a hushed voice. “I have gotten out of the habit of eating properly.”

“I fear that I am only another burden to you, Mama. I ought to have been here to help.”

I meant that I had been remiss in not waking with the roosters, but intuiting a larger meaning, my mother regarded me tenderly. “It’s all right, Evelyn. Perkinstown wasn’t the right place for you. We all expect you’ll do great things. Your father said to me just the other day, a time will come that they’ll put up a sign bragging that Perkinstown is the birthplace of the famous Doctor Evelyn Westcott. What do you think?”

I started to sniffle.

Father awoke towards nine. Bidding me wait, Mother attended to him and then told him that I had arrived from Baltimore.

Distinctly, I heard through the door to the parlor “Thunderation, ‘Bella, where is she then?”

“Oh, Father, here I am!” I said, flinging myself through the door to Father’s bedside, and there I hesitated, not sure how to embrace him without causing pain. I took his hand instead. He was much shrunken, save for his swollen abdomen. His eyes were cloudy with what I supposed was a morphine haze.

“I hoped I’d last until you got here. Aren’t you cold? It’s cold, isn’t it?”

I was wearing only a cotton shirtwaist and skirt, and already outdoors it was nearly eighty degrees.

“No, Father, it’s a lovely summer day.”

“Well, I’d rather die in the summertime, I guess, as long as there’s plenty of ice to keep me from stinking at the funeral.” My face must have expressed pure horror, for Father added quickly “O, come on, child — we both know it’s awful close. It’s nice to see you.”

Then my sobs came, the woeful sobs that guilt induces, guilt and knowing that what was wrong couldn’t be put right. Father lay quietly, regarding me until they subsided to a sniffle, and then he spoke again.

“Now listen to me, child. I haven’t got a lot of strength left so let’s not waste it me trying to stop you from blubbering. I just want to tell you that I understand. Perkinstown is your past, and that means bad memories as well as some good ones, and you can’t sort out the one from the other, so maybe you just needed to stay away so you could get on with your life.”

Yes, Father — that’s it exactly.

“ ‘Sides, your mom and I didn’t need another boy. Already had two. We just want you to be a good, happy girl who . . . gets to live out her dreams.”

I took a tissue, folded it and mopped my father’s brow, and kissed him there.

“So quit sniffling about me and make me feel good instead by telling me about medical college, and all your traveling in Europe with Enid.”

We talked, or rather I talked, Diary, for most of the day. My mother sat with us, occasionally absenting herself to see to a chore, and Father drifted in and out of a light sleep. He’d wake up, however, whenever I stopped, so in an almost disembodied murmur, I revisited the events of my life as a girl and young woman, my amazing odyssey since -- as 14 year-old Edward Tucker — I left Perkinstown, Pennsylvania to become Evelyn Westcott. I told him of my friends — Dorothy and Rachel and the rest of ‘Tottie’s girls,’ Billy, Ted Rawlings, Balthasar Bishop, Dr. Nathan Weiss, Harry Halloran, Ella Shields, my chums from Bryn Mawr School, Winnie and Rupert in London, Sasha, Kat and Anna in Vienna, Fiona Rawlings and little Massimo Morabbi in Rome — all dear and in large part ‘different.’ I rambled on about Dr. Tottie Clathrop and Aunt Enid and the Hamilton sisters — the strong women who’d kindled my ambition — and of my brave plans to study the psychology of children and youth. I told my father about Otto Rank and Maria Montessori, Sigmund Freud and even that mountebank, Magnus Hirschfield. I confessed that I’d been — still was — in love. I shared my fear that I’d not live up to the hope that others have invested in me. At last, it seemed that there was nothing more to say.

“Give me your hand, child.” I gave him both. My father’s eyes were clear now, brilliantly blue in the afternoon sunlight that now flooded the parlor, his sickroom. “Don’t worry and for Pete’s sake, don’t cry. God has blessed you with great and special gifts. Use them for good.”

Just then we heard we heard my brothers and their families stealing into the kitchen. My dear father raised his voice as much as he could and called out, "I'm not dead yet," then he whispered, "Only very, very tired," and with that he drifted off.

Our meal was almost festive, consumed in the dining room only a few steps from Father’s sickbed. Once he awoke, and it gave him evident pleasure to see us all together. Scarcely an hour after our meal, however, Father took a turn for the worse. When Eben went to touch his hand by way of farewell, he found my father unconscious.

August 18 — Father’s death. Breathing hoarsely, Father slept fitfully all night as we (Mother, me and my brothers’ wives) took turns keeping vigil by his bedside. This morning Father regained consciousness. He was well enough — barely — to acknowledge Pastor Watson and some friends from neighboring farms who came by to pay their respects. Seeing Doctor Cutter arrive, Father said “I’m not dead yet,” grinned weakly, sucked in a great breath and passed away thereupon.

August 19. The wake will be on Sunday evening and the funeral Monday morning. Have telegraphed Aunt Enid. Cleaning house furiously with Ruth while Mother and Alice bake pies.

August 20. If anyone in Perkinstown remembers Edward Tucker, they are keeping it a secret from me. After church this morning, quite a few girls near to my age stopped me to say hello and show off their husbands and babies. Billy hovered close, perhaps to intercept any young man who might be tempted say something awkward. As the congregation dispersed, I thanked Billy for insisting that I come ‘home.’ I am sad, but would be far sadder, I told him, had I not taken leave of Father.

August 21. Half the population of Perkinstown must have been at Father’s funeral to hear Pastor Watson extol his virtues and utter hearty ‘amens.’ Aunt Enid arrived just in time to join the throng, having taken the night train.

Then, satisfied that Father was well-buried, bearing casseroles, bottles and salads, at least a hundred souls followed us home for a noonday meal, as is the country custom. Ruth and Alice and I hurried to set out the food and drink. Father’s friends were in a convivial mood, and there was much toasting of the dearly departed.

Having grown rather weary, I detached myself from the crowd for a moment to rest against a porch rail. Immediately I was approached by a handsome young man. Evidently he had been waiting for an opportunity; he came bearing two glasses, smiled warmly and said “I wonder if you’d accept some lemonade and a heartfelt apology. I was a heartless cad when we were young, and I want you to know I regret very much the bullying I inflicted on you.” Only then, Diary, did I recognize my childhood nemesis, Finney Baker. “O, it is you!” is all I could stammer in reply.

“The same, but I hope a better person now,” he replied. “Barkell has acquainted me with some facts that make my behavior back then doubly reprehensible. Please believe that could I undo it, I surely would.”

Perhaps I ought to have been kinder, Diary, but instead I told him the truth. “I suffered unspeakable torments, confounded by my own body’s betrayal, the loss of my innocence, thinking perhaps your relentless ragging was merited. For years, I blamed and hated you, Finney. In my thoughts, I consigned you to a special hell for bullies."

“And of course, no one deserved such punishment more. I think I must have been envious of you, Miss Evelyn, jealous of your intelligence and good manners.”

“That’s long ago, and you are forgiven. What are you doing now?” I asked.

“Perhaps you’ll find this hard to believe,” he answered. “I was graduated from the normal school in Shippingsport last year, and this year I will teach eighth grade in Perkinstown.”

Yes, it is hard to believe.

Later, after we’d cleaned up with the help of some of the neighbor women, I found Aunt Enid and Mama deep in conversation. “Help me here, Evelyn,” my aunt said. “I’m trying to persuade your mother to come down to Baltimore for a long visit in the autumn when things have settled down.”

“Enid, not once in forty years do you come back to Perkinstown, and now you think it’s my turn to visit you! Fiddlesticks!” grumbled my mother. “I’ll think it over.”

August 23. Night had fallen when Aunt Enid and I reached home on Eutaw Place at last. Awaiting us were notes of condolence from friends and an urgent message from Nathan Weiss. Would I please telephone him as soon as I was fit to do so?

Notwithstanding the hour, I ‘phoned immediately. “Evelyn, is that you?” I heard him say as soon as he picked up the instrument. “I want you to hear this first of all from me. Steel yourself. Dorothy is ill.”

August 24. I visited my chum today. Though visibly weak and wan, she was stoutly opposed to putting off the meeting with the rest of Tottie’s girls. “Nathan suspects it’s my kidneys,” she said. “All the girls need to know the truth. I suppose that if it persists, this illness of mine will be a lesson for us all.

August 27. Jane Ellen Webb straggled in a few minutes after two, the fourteenth and last, and I called the meeting to order. “Girls, I fear that we must attend to serious business,” I said. “Since our last meeting, we have succeeded in resuming production of Gynol. If anything, it is a purer drug than ever, and as efficacious. But — I cannot vouch for its safety.

“You all know Dr. Weiss. We have no greater friend, as he has proved again and again since the, um, incident early in May. Most recently, Dr. Weiss and a chemist from Johns Hopkins Hospital have supervised important research into the effects of the drug. I am acquainted with the results of that research; they are of great consequence for each of us. Accordingly, I have asked Dr. Weiss to discuss them today.”

With this introduction, Nathan reviewed our experiment on the guinea pigs. The sample was sufficiently large, he emphasized, that there could no longer be doubt that guinea pig kidneys are severely stressed by Gynol when it is ingested in large amounts. There is, further, no significant physiological difference in the function of guinea pig and human kidneys. One was forced to the conclusion that to some as yet undetermined degree, reliance on Gynol by humans in amounts sufficient to suppress ‘male’ characteristics and stimulate ‘female’ ones poses an elevated risk of kidney disfunction. Was that clear?

Nathan was peppered with questions until all the girls understood. Gynol inhibits the development of beards, deepened voices, and characteristically masculine musculature, not to mention typically boisterous or aggressive behavior. It promotes curves, softness and a gentle, nurturing disposition, in short, the marks of femininity. A disinterested study of the individuals treated by Dr. Tottie Clathrop would provide ample evidence that for this population, Gynol has been a miracle drug, with dramatic therapeutic impact on crises of sexual identity. Gynol might well have application, Nathan speculated, in the treatment of a much larger number of women who for some reason suffer an irregularity of their internal secretions.

That is not Gynol’s only impact, however. Nathan explained that already three of the seventeen individuals who have taken a daily dose of the drug have shown symptoms of kidney dysfunction. One — young Benjamin Blacknell — was dead, possibly because Gynol triggered an intensely antipathetic reaction. Autopsy had revealed tumors on both kidneys. Maeve Binchey was operated on in 1910 to remove a grossly swollen kidney which was, by subsequent evidence, harboring a malignant tumor. So far, Nathan said with a wink at Maeve, that operation must be deemed a great success.

Lately, he continued, another of our number was showing impairment of renal, that is, kidney, function. Taken with the evidence of the guinea pigs, the risk is palpable. As our physician, he could no longer recommend Gynol. Nor would he refuse to prescribe it. The decision to continue or not was ours alone.

Gravely, hardly breathing, we girls regarded each other. “I must tell you, my dear friends,” said Dorothy at last. “It is I who am ill.” Audible gasps greeted her revelation, followed by general tears. “I am not afraid,” Doro said. “God willing, and with the aid of your prayers, it will come to nothing.”

August 30. It is as I guessed. Nathan has heard from each of us. Not one of our group are willing to discontinue Gynol. I suppose ‘normal’ people would find it hard to understand why we are so attached to our hard-won femininity, but were any proof wanting of our resolve, there it is.

We shall, however, reduce the daily dose. It is essential to verify the minimum level that will enable us to remain unambiguously ‘female.’

Dorothy is slightly better, but not nearly well enough for a Labor Day Weekend excursion to the Campbell farm. Nor would it be proper for me to join them so soon after losing Father. After consulting Ted Rawlings and advising Billy, I have phoned Sally Campbell to tender regrets for all of us.

I am miserable, thinking of my dear ones in Perkinstown. Fearing (baselessly it has turned out) ridicule from persons who knew me as a child, I wasted so many opportunities to know my father in the fullness of my own adolescence and now adulthood. And now Father is gone forever. O, I do hope that Mother will consent to visit us soon!

September 2. Be still, o my wildly thumping heart! Glorious news has arrived in a letter from Anna. Her father has agreed that she may accompany him in his trip to America in her accustomed role as his secretary! They will arrive in mid-October for two weeks — Dr. Sigmund Freud, Anna, and two of his disciples, a Hungarian named Ferenczy and a Swiss named Jung. Freud will give five lectures at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts.

O, but of course there is a problem. I know it already, but Anna has underlined it. “I dearly hope that you shall be able to manage the demands of medical school so that we shall be able to meet,” she writes. “I hope for you so much, and feel so eager for you . . . that the expectation once more to see your face again, makes me feel hot and feverish. However, at all costs, Father must not suspect that we are even in touch.

“With diligent obedience to his needs, I have at last quieted Father’s jealous apprehension, but the merest hint of continued affection between us would result in my being left behind in Europe. I would not be surprised if he were to send me back to that horrid convent in the event his suspicions were aroused.”

By stunning coincidence, Clark University is Nathan’s alma mater.

September 3. I visited Nathan this morning to broach my scheme. Not without considerable trepidation, I explained to him the circumstances of my attachment to Anna. I fancy that my story surprised him — after all, young women are not in the habit of advertising their romantic liaisons. Perhaps Nathan blinked once or twice, but after hearing me out, he agreed to my audacious proposal. Accordingly, Nathan has posted a special delivery letter to President Hall at Clark, requesting permission to attend the lectures with his protégé, a youth recently returned from study in Europe who is not only fluent in German but conversant with psychiatric concepts and terms. He had no reservations, Nathan wrote, in proposing that ‘Edward Tucker’ be recruited to assist the visitors from Europe.

It is the only way, Diary. If Dr. Freud were to see me as I am, I am sure he would recognize me. Yes, I made a profound impression on the old tyrant that afternoon in Vienna scarce nine months ago. A disguise is imperative. Miss Ella Shields and Harry Halloran have taught me to ‘play the youth.’ At least, I shall try it, and please God, I shall succeed brilliantly!

September 5. The Johns Hopkins Medical School Class of 1913 was convoked today — eighteen men and three women. We did not need Dean Welch’s warning that the course will require all our strength and stamina to complete, but he took pains to issue it nonetheless. Lectures three days a week, mountains of books to study and lists to memorize — that is our ‘life’ for the year ahead. Yet, here I am already plotting to be absent for ten days!

September 6. Nathan has received a telegram from President Hall at Clark in response to his letter. His plan is enthusiastically acclaimed. Would Nathan and young ‘Mr. Tucker’ be able to join him on October 5 to meet the SS Kaiser Freidrich der Grosse on its arrival in New York City and assist by escorting the distinguished guests to Worcester?

September 15. A letter arrived from Sasha Bezroukoff in Vienna today, as charmingly insouciant as ever but, for all that, tinged by sadness. For some months, he has been the pet and consort of “a wonderful, generous man, Evi, noble in manner as well as of birth.” However, he senses that his grande amour is losing interest in little Sasha’s tender caresses. “Alas, it is no longer so easy for me to play the part of a girl. The mirror reports to me the ineluctable treason of my body. I must resort to greater and greater artifice. Evi, I am taking lessons to train my voice not to break, and I have found the most brilliant dressmaker — she is able to to add a bit here and take away something there so that, expertly corseted and stayed, I retain the figure I must.” Sasha sends dix mille bizous, greetings as well from his mother and sisters, and a charming photograph. It shows him on the steps of the Burg-Theatre in a stylishly slim walking dress and huge feathered hat and on the arm of his “Kurt,” an officer of the hussars who is quite manly, if not handsome. I imagine they are about to take in a matinée, or to promenade on the Ringstrasse.

There is also a letter from Hirschfeld, posted from Berlin. He has by dint of great effort, he reports, succeeded in arranging interviews at the headquarters of the Hoescht and Chimie Fabrik chemical companies. Both are ‘interested’ in Gynol, he relates, but demand scientific data to analyze — details on the precipitation process, he means — before they will agree to talk business. “You should send such information forthwith,” Hirschfeld adds with an underline. He encloses his bill for services rendered: 400 Deutschmarks.

September 24. Friends have been asking about Dorothy. Word of her illness has spread all over Baltimore. I pass on what I have learned from Ted Rawlings; she is not well at present but is getting the best of medical care and surely will recover.

September 30. “This gentleman is Master Dinh,” Etienne explained in French. “He is a very skilled practitioner of our medicine, which incorporates the wisdom of three thousand years. My mother has brought Master Dinh from Paris to assist in curing Miss Dorothy.’

I eyed Master Dinh skeptically — in fact, rudely, I suppose, so surprised was I by the thought that he might treat Dorothy. If he took offense at my stare, he did not show it; indeed, he seemed quite at ease, showing just the shadow of a smile on an otherwise impassive countenance. This Annamese ‘doctor’ was dressed all in black — tunic, silk trousers, and a flat turban that I took to be his badge of authority.

“Master Dinh has already examined Dorothy. Her, uh, metabolic system is severely out of balance. He believes he can help restore a more harmonious relationship among her . . . vital humours. It is not easy for me to explain,” Etienne added with an apologetic smile.

Master Dinh leaned forward and, touching both Etienne and me on the forearm ever so lightly, he murmured something to Etienne in their singsong tongue. As he did so, I caught Nathan’s eye. “It is all right. Let’s see what he has to say,” he whispered.

“The Master says I am to explain that there is a great dislocation in the flow of Miss Dorothy’s ‘chi’ — her vital humours. He has seen similar cases many times. Almost certainly her kidneys are greatly weakened.”

Nathan and I both gasped involuntarily.

October 6. I must say that I am surprisingly handsome in a frock coat and wing collar, but I do not care one bit for the sensation. The coat and trousers — black, of course, and with a crape band on the sleeve, for I am in mourning — are so stiff and scratchy, for one thing, and for another my breasts are tightly wrapped in elastic bandages. I have silk lingerie underneath, of course, but my feet are encased in thick-soled boots and my curls, most cruelly shorn to just above shoulder length, are wedged into a ‘homberg’ hat.

Past weeks have sped by in a blur of memorization. The 17th edition of Gray’s Anatomy compasses over 600 pages! I have been a diligent student; I can ingest and regurgitate the Latin names of muscles, ligaments and bones better than any of my classmates, I dare think, but the work of memorization leaves hardly time to sleep, let alone scribble in my diary. I fancy my brain is swelling like the livers of those French geese who are force-fed on corn.

And now, at last, Nathan and I are in a first class car of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, already halfway to New York City. He has been speculating that we proud worshippers at the altar of ‘scientific method’ may learn much from the medicine men of the Orient if we were to approach them with respect and an open mind. What other conclusion could a reasonable man reach after witnessing Dorothy’s remarkable improvement under the ministrations of Master Dinh?

If only her remission is permanent!

Now to happier thoughts. . . . In six hours, at most, I shall see my Annika! She, her father and the two other psychoanalysts will arrive direct from Bremen.

Nathan has been a kind, dear and true friend. I don’t know how I should have managed this adventure without him. It seems that he is as keen for it as I am, and a great deal more impressed than I by the prospect of meeting Dr. Freud himself.

Nathan has bought himself a new suit of clothes — a well-cut black frock coat and matching trousers, set off by a rather splendid nut-brown and gold striped vest and a derby hat. It looks wondrous good on him. I had to tease Nathan, so used are we to seeing him absent-mindedly attired in a drab sack coat and weskit that have seen much better days. “At last you appear to be a doctor of some consequence,” I ventured. “Might your friends surmise that there is a lady whom you want to impress?”

“O, you might surmise that,” he replied, “but wouldn’t the honor of greeting an eminent foreign personage suffice?” It was all Rachel’s doing, he confessed — she’d badgered him until he agreed to visit a tailor — she accompanied him as his advisor — and voila, Diary, the result — an extremely presentable gentleman!

October 6, again. I was nervous as a cat when the great man disembarked, apprehending that he should see through my disguise in an instant. I hardly dared to look him in the eye as I squeaked out a reply to his greeting. No matter — Dr. Freud noticed me not at all and gave Nathan hardly a second glance as he addressed his attentions to President Hall, his host.

Twenty minutes passed before I could exchange even a few polite words with Anna. She was still laughing hard at my appearance and my discomfiture. How gay she was in a smart new travelling suit, her fair hair loosely coiffed below an absurd felted hat with a feather cockade! The young Hungarian, Ferenczy, hovered protectively. I longed to throw my arms about Anna but could not, perforce, do more than offer my arm. She but give it a friendly squeeze as we descended from the station to a waiting cab, and then were whisked off to the Hotel Manhattan.

Father and daughter are sharing a room! She must suffer his snores and cigar smoke so that he may save $2.50 a night!

October 7. The great man and his party appeared at eight-thirty. Dr. Hall soon took his leave — he is returning to his college see to the preparations for the conference — and the rest of us betook ourselves the Metropolitan Museum at Freud’s behest to view some recently acquired Cyprian bronzes.

The Hungarian is an awful pest, hovering about Anna as though he possesses her, or wishes to do so. At last Nathan managed to draw ‘Sandor’ away on the pretext of showing him and the others something quite fascinating about dinosaur fossils, whereupon I was able to whisper my exquisite joy to Anna at our reunion, and she to reply with a similar sentiment.

“Don’t worry a bit,” she said. “Father doesn’t suspect a thing -- nor will he if you behave yourself and prove a useful interpreter. Now let us hurry; they are probably waiting for you with a question that wants translation!”

And so it has gone all day, Diary. I am bound to interpret for Drs. Freud and Jung whilst Ferenczy, who knows a few words of English, flirts with Anna in German. Tonight we dine at Hammerstein’s Bavarian Roof Garden. Tomorrow we leave New York for Worcester, Massachusetts.

October 8. It is Indian summer as we speed across Connecticut. Our compartment is hot; the fan works imperfectly and I am perspiring profusely within my woolen frock coat. The men have taken their coats off and relax informally in shirtsleeves. I dare not emulate them. Though my breasts are bound, still my figure is less than manly. Anna is enchanting in a high-necked, sashed cotton dress; she has tied her hair in a bow to match the sash. Unbeknownst to her father or the rest of her travelling companions, her pretty boots are brazenly brushing up against my brogans whilst she quizzes me in her schoolgirl English about America. At what age do ‘nice’ American girls marry, she asks. Are they allowed to choose their own male friends? To attend university? To work in the professions? To live independently, perhaps with a woman friend? To manage their own financial affairs?

I choose my answers carefully, aware that they are to be replayed later in conversation between father and daughter — Anna seeking to loosen the unseen cords that bind her to her father, and he fearing the consequences not so much for her, I think, as for himself if he loses her constant assistance, the acquiescence to his demands that he takes for granted.

October 9. Dr. Freud is working on his lectures. He is to give five this week, beginning tomorrow, and only one is ready. He uses Anna as his scribe/slave. Jealous, I apply myself to memorizing the Latin names of the arteries and veins. Tonight there is a gala welcoming banquet.

Nathan sought me out to introduce me to other psychologists who are gathering to hear Dr. Freud. What a waste — can you imagine, Diary, that on encountering these same gentlemen some years hence, and presuming on prior acquaintance, I should confess that I had attended their conclave disguised as a young man? What psychosexual theories should they spin out to ‘explain’ my bizarre behavior? Would they believe that it was all for love?

I am particularly glad to meet one of them, however, a Dr. Ernest Jones who has come down from Canada. His command of German is excellent and it is he, rather than I, who will interpret the pending lectures. Though Nathan and I shall continue to serve as interpreter for informal conversations, I feel that a heavy burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

Meanwhile, Nathan and I have formed a plan. Anna, to whom I conveyed its essence in a note, has signified her agreement with a nod!

October 10. Dr. Freud gave his first lecture today on ‘The Origins of Psychoanalysis.’ I admit that he spoke well — conversationally, without notes — and has charmed his American audience. Would they like him so much if they knew he misses few opportunities to disparage American culture to his friends?

Consider this rude rant to Dr. Hall, which I was compelled to interpret: You are ruled by women in America. Your young men go to college with girls, fall in love and marry at an age when girls are usually much more mature then the men. They lead the men around by the nose, make fools of them, and the result is matriarchy. That is why marriage is so unsuccessful in America -- that is why your divorce rate is so high. Your average American man approaches marriage without any experience at all. You wouldn't expect a person to step up to an orchestra and play first fiddle without some training. . . . In Europe, things are different. Men take the lead. They are not mentally feminized. That is as it should be. . . . [Equality in marriage] is a practical impossibility. There must be inequality, and the superiority of the man is the lesser of two evils.

This morning the great Doktor ‘slept in.’ Anna says he is greatly bothered by intestinal disorders which he attributes to ‘American cooking.’ At mid-morning, Jung was sent out in search of ‘real German food’ while Freud worked with Ferenczy preparing another lecture. They hardly noticed as Anna and I slipped out for a walk.

The campus was indeed lovely this morning; its oaks, elms and maples are garbed in autumnal splendor, the sky was bright and blue, and fresh-faced students hurried past us on their way to class. None paid us the slightest heed; at last I had the joy of Anna’s exclusive company. We wandered into a wooded area, conversing animatedly in German.

“You make a rather odd boy, my dear,” Anna confided, “with not even the hint of a beard. Father commented on it. He is quite satisfied by your discharge of your interpreting duties, though. And I . . . I should adore to rip those awful clothes off you entirely!”

“Nothing could please me more,” I replied. “This week has reconfirmed to me that in all but the most technical sense, I am entirely a woman. I cannot abide this charade a moment longer than necessary.”

As Anna and I walked, I outlined the plan that Nathan and I have formed. It turns upon Professor Nathaniel Fenwick’s enthusiasm for psychoanalytic theories and Dr. Freud’s dyspepsia. Professor Fenwick, you see, Diary, is the father of Charles Fenwick, one of the young men that Sasha and I so wickedly duped in Vienna.

Charles is a forgiving soul. He bears no grudge for my part in his deception, and so I felt no embarrassment when I telephoned to recruit him into our conspiracy. I have induced Charles to persuade his father — the incumbent of a distinguished chair of pyschology at Harvard University — to invite Doktor Freud, et al., to visit Harvard and Boston.

The invitation will be duly extended, and my only fear is that Dr. Freud will not only refuse it but require that Anna remain by his side as his nurse.

O, Diary, I must add that Anna’s kisses — stolen as we paused in a secluded bower — are as sweet as ever.

October 13. The lecture room, half-empty on Tuesday, is on Friday full to crowding. Dr. Freud is explaining how he conceived his theory of sexual psychopathology. A round dozen of newspapermen, including some from New York, are scribbling furiously. Dr. Hall is watching them apprehensively. In two hours, I shall be on a train bound for Boston.

October 14. Nathan has just telephoned to me at the Fenwicks; he, Anna, Freud, Jung and Ferenczy are about to board the Boston express. They will disembark in Cambridge at half-past ten. I must hurry to complete my toilette. Ah, Diary, how wonderful was this morning’s bath! It has washed away all the nasty manliness I have been compelled to pretend this past week.

The Fenwicks have welcomed me graciously as a friend and protégé of their deceased niece and cousin, Tottie Clathrop. I arrived last night still in the guise of a young man; Charles and his sister Allie, who met me at Cambridge Station, spirited me into the Fenwick home without disturbing the servants. The two of them also conspired to support my stealthy transformation back into my true identity, and so it was as Evelyn Westcott that I was enabled to greet Dr. and Mrs Fenwick at breakfast this morning.

Allie Fewick is Tottie’s age — that is, the age Tottie would be — and a lepidopterist of growing renown; this morning after breakfast she bade me recall in detail what I could of her dear cousin’s great and greatly misunderstood research into the chemical basis of ‘gender attributes.’ Feeling a little as though I were a specimen under her glass, I told Allie truthfully that I had understood only a little at the time, and only a little more now, of Tottie’s motivations. She was twenty-seven, I then but fourteen and hence oblivious to deeper sensibilities. In my estimation, I said, Tottie was a saint whose sacrifice made it possible for at least a few souls to find peace on earth. I hoped to continue and extend that work.

“By that,” Allie Fenwick answered, “I suppose you mean unlocking the chemical secrets that make boys boys and girls girls?

“That is the point,” I said. “Tottie was not merely a curious researcher. She understood the horror experienced by one who is essentially female in nature, but compelled by anatomy to live as a male. I am sure of it.”

“And so her research made possible Evelyn Westcott and a number of others,” added Charles thoughtfully. “I would never have conceived you a boy — as you know already, you fox!”

October 16. O damn, damn, damn! Yesterday, Diary, I was raised to the heavens and then dashed back to earth. Anna and I have been living a dream, or so she claims to believe.

As I’d hoped, her father and his colleagues hardly nodded when I was introduced as a visiting friend of the Fenwick family, so intent were they on their conversation with Professor Fenwick. Charles then proposed that Anna join ‘us younger folk’ on an outing. Dr. Freud seemed troubled. ‘O, please Papa — I’ve hardly seen anything of America’ whispered Anna, leaning over his chair, and extracted his permission.

We set out from Rowe’s Wharf on the Boston waterfront. It seemed that half the city was aboard the steamer bound for Provincetown, hurrying to take advantage of perhaps the last splendid days of autumn. I gladly would have left Ferenczy behind, but he had insinuated himself among our number and could not be refused. We were, altogether, seven, counting also Nathan and a friend of Allie’s.

Provincetown is not so large a town, more like a village cradled inside a gigantic arc of sand that shelters it from the worst of the ‘nor’easter’ storms. We — Anna and I, Charles and Allie and friends -- waltzed, polka-ed and chattered together as the ferry ploughed its way across Cape Cod Bay. Then, intent on feasting on oysters, the others hardly noticed when Anna and I broke away from the group to rent bicycles.

We rode out behind the dunes on a narrow boardwalk, pedaling until at last we were alone but for the gulls and sandpipers. I spread a blanket in the valley between two large dunes and sat to remove my boots and stockings. Anna, however, remained standing beside her bicycle. ‘Isn’t this place lovely, dear?’ I said, wondering what caused Anna to regard me so gravely. “Come, give me a kiss, and then we’ll go wading.”

‘I cannot think what to say,’ she answered sadly. “Forgive me darling Evelyn, for every word I say, my heart is full of you. Only you are in my thoughts, but when I seek to say something to you not for the world, words fail me.”

“O Annika, we need not talk at all,” I said. “Come here, let our eyes whisper for us, and if you will but give me your sweet kisses, we would not ask for language.” Rising, barefoot, I seized both her hands and pulled her near me. Instantly we fell into a passionate embrace.

Long moments passed, our kisses interrupted only by pauses to discard unnecessary clothing. I helped Anna to rearrange her skirt — it was full like my own — so that we might entwine our bared legs while preserving, at least if seen from some distance, a minimum of modesty. She unbuttoned my blouse and camisole so that her lips could have full purchase on my breasts.

At length, exhausted and frustrated, we broke apart and lay panting on the blanket.

“Do you know,” she said, “that if you touch me, or even only speak to me there is not a nerve of fibre in my body that does not respond with a thrill of delight?”

“It is no less for me,” I replied, guiding her hand beneath my skirt to where my instrument of pleasure now stood to attention, a small brave soldier. “Touch me there.”

“Achtung, Evelyn! Someone is coming!”

Anna and I rearranged ourselves hastily, and waved back to a passing party of bicyclists. I sought then to entice her into a renewed embrace, but the moment had passed. This time Anna resisted, turning her back to me, gazing at the line where sea met sky.

“Are you looking for Europe, dearest?” I teased. “Stay with me here in the new world!”

Now Anna turned to regard me, and I saw that her darling brown eyes were brimming with tears. I gave her my handkerchief. “You know I cannot do that,” she said piteously as her tears overflooded. “I have been thinking all week that I must tell you . . . .” A racking sob stifled Anna’s thought.

I guessed what she must be trying to say and began myself to whimper as tears started down my cheeks. “O, no, no my dear. Do not , God forbid. . . .”

“Evelyn, I must . . . face the truth . . . that I shall have no life outside my father’s orbit. You are ever so dear, I can hardly conceive that I shall be able to endure losing your love, but you must forget me. I have been thinking this all week. You must let me go. Papa needs me.”

“He has no right to keep you as his slave,” I muttered bitterly.

“But Evelyn, he does! He is, . . . I am condemned to serve him. Perhaps here in America, it is a fate you may avoid, but if you know that the genius of your father can change so many sad lives for the better, would you refuse it?

“So, you see? You must let me go. I treasure your pledge to me, but now I relieve you of it.”

O, Diary, how miserable I am! I wanted so to reason with Anna until she relented, but seeing something in her reddened eyes that was not there before — resolve, I suppose, or surrender to her destiny -- I simply sat there weeping. Anna also. We embraced, weeping still. I write these words and weep anew.

October 17, on the New Haven Railroad train. Dr. Nathan Weiss, again my travelling companion, perceives that something is greatly wrong. I can sense his jaw working as he labors to find words suitable for asking me the cause of my agitation. Nathan, who is never lost for words!

Anna and I had scarcely a moment alone this morning before Nathan and I were waved away to the station by the admirable Fenwick family, just long enough for me to tell her that I accepted her command and for her to slip me a note. I wish she had not done so, or at the least had omitted mention of her father’s wish that she ‘should consider’ Ferenczy. He has no manners to speak of, and will make her miserable. If she marries him, she must say goodbye to any thought of distinguishing herself. Of course I am agitated! I am so angry I could spit fire and brimstone.

Later, somewhere in New Jersey. Nathan is ever the discreet gentleman. I wish he would ask me why I am fretful. Talk would help. There is pressure in my chest and my stomach churns. Ferenczy, for heaven’s sake!

October 18. I took the bull by its horns when our train paused in Philadelphia and the couple that had shared our compartment disembarked. “Nathan, I need to talk to someone. I am a very miserable girl, a girl who has everything but that which she most dearly wishes.”

“She has bidden you adieu, then?”

“Yes,” I wailed, fumbling for my handkerchief until he supplied his own, a huge sheet of fine linen, to catch the flood of tears that burst forth with this admission.

Somehow, it seems right that Nathan’s strong arms encircled me as I sobbed out the bitter denoument of my liaison with Sigmund Freud’s daughter, my Annika, forced to deny not just her love of a woman — an American woman — but probably doomed as well to forego all friendships incompatible with her father’s expansive ego.

Nathan neither chided me nor attempted consolation. I felt comforted, burying my tear-streaked face against his chest. His strong, surgeon’s fingers smoothed my cropped curls as I wept for the loss of Anna and of my dear kind father, too. I recall something Nathan told me once: people need to grieve before they can heal. Well, I shall bear the grief and try to heal myself through study, Diary. I have missed a week of classes and must apply myself to anatomical memorization again.

October 20. Doro is sensibly better. Her appetite has revived, and hence also much of her former vigor. She attributes her recovery to the infusions the Annamite physician has prepared for her and his daily massage. Though Etienne and his mother have returned to Paris, Master Dinh remains in attendance at the Downey home. Dorothy has resumed painting with Ted, and says they will exhibit jointly in the spring. Pray that it is true!

By dint of many hours in the cellar laboratory at Eutaw Place, Igar Lutjak has reconstituted our stocks of Gynol. He wishes dearly to set up a proper ‘factory’ elsewhere. Distracted, and doubtful as well that we shall ever wish more Gynol than we now can produce in small batches, I have given him no encouragement. Nathan has given Igar a sympathetic hearing, however — more because Igar is Rachel’s unofficial fiance, I think, than because he finds merit in the chemist’s speculation that the contaminant in Gynol may proceed from some flux or miasma that cannot be suppressed in our damp cellar.

The two men have grown close. They are making plans to reorganize and expand Nathan’s clinic in East Baltimore. Igar is to become its laboratorist, and a second doctor will be recruited, perhaps the young man who has filled in for Nathan while we travelled to New York and New England. Rachel has determined to earn a social work diploma; she will take charge of ‘outreach’ to the families of the neighborhood. It is greatly needed. Most are newly-arrived immigrants with little experience of modern cities and little English. Nathan has wondered aloud, would I join them when I am ready to practice? I think not; I should have a devil of a time overcoming the immigrants’ natural shyness of white Protestant Americans. However, I have simply answered that it is too soon to decide.

October 24. A letter from Anna arrived today, posted just before the Kaiser Wilhelm sailed. She is sad, she says, but it is better this way. She prays for my understanding of her position. Very well, so be it. I must memorize the parts of the neurological system and catch up on my dissection work. My ‘lab’ partners are amused by my new haircut . They have been made impatient by my ‘holiday,’ as they call it. I have no time to brood.

October 30. Our Dorothy has been struck down! She collapsed yesterday afternoon at the Rawlings’ and was rushed to Johns Hopkins Hospital. Of course I went there immediately on receiving Ted’s call early this morning. I found Ted near collapse himself after a sleepless night there. Dorothy has not regained consciousness. I cornered the attending physician and by telling him I am a medical student, extracted his somber assessment: she is in shock; her kidneys have failed entirely and death is certain. Dinh, the Annamite ‘doctor,’ concurs: Dorothy’s residual maleness has taken its revenge and the disequilibrium of her vital humours is beyond rectification, he says. Mrs. Downey will not be consoled.

November 1 — All Saints Day. My sweetest, kindest friend is gone. Her funeral will be on the 4th, Saturday. It falls to me to notify all the Girls.

November 3. I have prevailed on Mrs. Downey to invite Alexandra Bishop to sing at the service tomorrow, and on Alex to accept her invitation.

November 4. St. Bartholomew’s Church was filled near to overflowing with Dorothy’s friends. The rector did his best to evoke her spirit, but it was evident that the poor man hardly knew her. Indeed it was a relief when, after Alexandra soloed in Steal Away to Jesus, Miss Edith Hamilton rose to speak. Her theme was character — the moral qualities that enable a young person to hold to a goal, to swim against the tide until the far shore is attained, to conceive each day as an opportunity to make the world a better and more congenial place. Dorothy had a ‘special sight,’ our former headmistress continued. Few of us, she ventured, would ever have to make the choices Dorothy could not avoid, and few of us, so burdened, would manage them with Dorothy’s grace.

Perceiving that she might have only a short time to live, Miss Hamilton said, Dorothy had called upon her with a proposal. She wished her fortune to serve others and to that end had contributed an endowment for the education of ‘young people of modest means, rare intelligence and singular determination,’ two such persons in each class for as long as Bryn Mawr School should endure.

Miss Hamilton finished, the organ sounded softly the opening bars of Amazing Grace. Alex Bishop’s amazing soprano carried the first verse, the choir joined in on the second, and the entire congregation on the triumphal conclusion.

Later, after we had all marched from the church to the cemetary to witness Dorothy’s interment and drop a flower or two on her coffin, I convened a meeting of Tottie’s Girls, using a room lent me by St. Bartholomew’s. Knowing that most of the Girls must be even more afraid than I, and equally bereft, I willed myself to speak calmly and quietly about the threat that hangs over each of us. I reminded them of our meeting in August, acknowledging that the loss of Dorothy confirmed our fears. I would not, I said, urge anyone to discontinue their daily dose of Gynol, though that remained an option. On Nathan’s advice, I said that healthful living is our best defense against the stress Gynol evidently puts on our kidneys. Plenty of sleep, nourishing food, daily exercises and, finally, regular checkups. In this respect, I added, there was a little bit of good news. Mrs. Downey wished to honor Dorothy’s memory, in part, by endowing free medical care for ‘boys who do not identify as such’ — people like us, in other words. Mrs. Enid Westcott, my aunt, would be the charity’s first chairman, and Nathan Weiss, MD, its medical director.

November 9. Dorothy’s untimely passing has prompted the most melancholy feelings. I think not only of her invariable kindnesses but, of course, her death reminds me of Father’s too. At least in Dorothy’s case, I was — I believe -- ever a faithful and attentive friend.

All this week, I have buried myself in my text books. Today, however, something impelled me to telephone Frank Campbell. Frank spoke to me after Dorothy’s funeral, conveying Christy Hodgson’s sympathy and his own. I had not seen him since a dreary, disenchanting afternoon eighteen — no, nineteen -- months ago. Like everyone else, I had heard of Frank’s recent engagement to Christy, who is now away studying at Swarthmore College.

I conceived that I needed to talk to Frank because, having grown up considerably in the interim, I should like to understand the meaning of his conduct that April evening. Though I feigned simple desire to renew an old friendship, Frank intuited my purpose immediately. “As I recall,” he said over the telephone, “some time ago you told me that you ‘should not wish to see me again.’ However, I should be delighted at an opportunity to explain myself.” Yes — that’s exactly what I want Frank to do — and if he cannot satisfy me, I am honor-bound to share my foreboding with Christy.

November 11. After my last class today, Frank and I met at the Peabody Institute, where there is a nice and very public tea shop. A student trio was scraping out a Mozart sonata in the atrium when I arrived. I found Frank already in possession of a table just tall enough to shelter his long cowboy legs. He is still devish handsome; I could not deny it.

There was some initial sparring. We went at it in earnest after the tea arrived. “You did not offer me an opportunity to explain myself,” he said, “and I have often thought about that. In fact, I do not know how I should explain myself. The evidence, to your eyes, must have been quite damning.”

I nodded and waited.

“The fact is — and I should appreciate it if you keep this strictly to yourself, Evelyn. The lady you saw me with — Mrs. Hutchings — is, er, was my father’s mistress. After my sister Sally’s birth, which was even harder on my mother than my own, she could not bear the prospect of another pregnancy. That was not easy on my father; his needs were importunate, and after an interval, he made the acquaintance of the woman you saw with me that evening.

“Mrs. Hutchings was never mentioned in our home, of course. I vaguely sensed her existence from — oh, je ne sais quoi. Anyway, when I was 15, I made her acquaintance, at Father’s initiative.

“’You are old enough now to understand, Frank,’ Father said, “and I would have you be aware, in event of need, that there is another dimension of my life, a dimension that I have cherished, though it must necessarily remain in the shadows.’ He spoke then of his tie to Mrs. Hutching, a relationship both simple and affectionate, and shortly afterward, he introduced me to the lady herself.

“I suppose some sons might have found such ‘disloyalty’ to their mother reproachful. I did not; Mrs. Hutchings regarded me kindly and, in fact, I appreciated my father’s discretion in the matter. And so, when Father passed away, I was not surprised to find, in a letter left behind for me, his request that I seek out Mrs. Hutchings and aquaint her with the arrangements that Father had made to ensure that she would not be troubled thereafter by want of money.

“In fact, I had only just discharged that duty when you observed me taking leave of my father’s friend at the trolley stop.

I must confess that I blushed, Diary, recalling how angry I had been that day. “I am sorry, Frank, my thoughts were unkind.”

“They were entirely understandable. I could not think then how to explain myself, and you already knew me for something of a roué. That’s changed now. Christy has reformed me brilliantly.”

Hopefully, I said I was sure of that.

“But,” continued Frank, “confess that you missed me a little bit!”

“You were — up to that time — the most exciting person that had every entered my life. Of course I missed you!”

“And so did I miss you,” he said. “And now it is my turn to ask a question, if you will permit me.”

“Yes,” I answered. “Wipe that crumb from your mustache, first, and then fire away.”

“Um,” Frank said, wiping. “Uh, . . . er, this too is a delicate matter, you needn’t answer if . . . .”

I had never seen him so flustered. “Mercy’s sake, Frank! What is it?”

It tumbled out. “Evelyn, it is said that you are actually a boy. At least, that is, some of your friends understand that you were raised as a lad, before, uh, you came to Baltimore.”

“Go on,” I said, hardly breathing.

“I heard that by chance, sometime after, uh, we stopped seeing each other. It made not the slightest difference in my regard for you. I see nothing but a wonderously attractive girl.”

Unclenching my knuckles, I took a breath. “The rumor is true, Frank.”

“I mention this,” he said, “only to put you on your guard, lest something slips out. None of your friends would wish that. They love you and respect your privacy. And yet, we live in times when . . . .”

“. . . when people like Mr. Hearst would adore to publish such a disclosure,” I finished Frank’s sentence. He nodded.

“I trust you as my friend, Frank, and to forestall unfounded conjecture, I shall tell you this much. God has seen fit to bring some people — no more than one or two in a thousand, I should think — into the world with ambiguous genitalia. When I was born, I appeared to my parents and the doctor who delivered me to be a boy. Later on, it became obvious that I was not one. That is all.”

Frank smiled. “I expected it was something like that.”

“You have my permission, dear Frank, to correct the impression of my friends, should the need arise. Or you may send them to me. And now it is getting late. Will you see me to the trolley?”

November 12. Mother has come to the city for a fortnight. She is still swathed in black crape, of course, but has not been laid as low as I feared. Though Aunt Enid and my mother have never been close, Father’s death seems to have brought them together. My aunt has been taking her all about town — they will succeed in ‘doing’ all the museums and some shows, too.

November 19. It is three months and a day since Father’s death, and not yet three weeks since Dorothy’s. I accompanied Mother to church this morning and prayed quite hard for the souls of both my dear ones. In the afternoon, I put aside my textbooks to pass the afternoon with Mother in reminiscence. I have never until now had an ‘adult’ conversation with her — which experience has revealed Mother to me as a profoundly more insightful person than, drawing on my childish memories, I’d imagined.

She will be all right. Father’s long illness prepared her for the fact of his passing, indeed to regard it as a blessed release from suffering, and my brothers are constant in their solicitude. Ruth and Eben and their children will move to the big house this winter, so Mother will rarely be alone. She insists that I not “waste time worrying.”

With Frank Campbell’s disclosure very much in mind, I asked Mother her thoughts when she sent me to Baltimore. My mother told me that neither she nor Father had been surprised when soon afterward I reported to them my decision — with Aunt Enid’s active encouragement — to begin my life as a girl. “You were never ‘all boy,’” she said, “perhaps not even mostly boy. My little Edward was a delicate, sensitive child, often lost in his daydreams. Do you remember that you cried for days when your calf died? And you were always so aware of the moods of the people around you! Even when you were just five or six, you knew immediately if I was sad or worried, and would offer to help me with the house chores or pluck me flowers from the garden.”

“O, Mama,” I replied, winking back tears, “at school I was always teased for being the teacher’s pet, or for crying when someone was mean to me. It seemed so unfair that the girls could be smart at their lessons or read lots of books and express their feelings, and no one thought anything about it, but if a boy was that way, he was laughed at.”

“I remember,” she said, “but I think you’ve forgotten it — there was a day you came home from school with such a woeful expression that I sat you down and asked you what was wrong. You must have been seven or eight. You bit your lip and answered in a barely audible voice ‘I think God made a mistake. I think I was supposed to be a girl.’”

“I said that?”

Well, Diary, it seems I did. And I was right. I wasn’t rude enough to be a boy. My conscience was always telling me I should be gentle, truthful and kind to others. I could hardly help exclaiming at a beautiful sunset or a sad story. The more I acted like I felt, the more the other boys would call me a ‘sissy’ or ‘Edna.’ They’d tell me to ‘go play with the girls.’ Well, I might have wanted to — but I had to pretend I didn’t!

“And because you saw these things in me, Mother, is that why you determined to send me to Aunt Enid?”

“We knew things had to change for you, Evelyn. You were so high-strung, I was sure you were going to have a nervous breakdown. Papa and I never imagined, however, that our gentle, timid boy would become a vivacious, smart young woman!”

It is hard to believe that even now, I suppose.

November 26. Aunt Enid and Mother and I have passed a quiet and rather bleak Thanksgiving. This morning we put Mother aboard the Susquehanna Flyer. She is fretting to be back to Perkinstown. As the train pulled away, I confessed to Aunt Enid that both my parents were a great deal more interesting people than I had recalled, which she answered by pointing out that I had them to thank for my own native intelligence, what did I expect?

November 29. It is hard to sustain a proper Diary when one studies 12 or 14 hours a day and, in addition, there is a dearth of pleasant things to record. Dorothy’s ghost haunts me. It is not just the memory of her thoughtfulness and sweet manner. I am reminded how prone to failure our bodily systems are to failure every time I sit down, apprehensively, upon the toilet. And, though I have sworn to forget her, Anna’s betrayal haunts me as well. I remember my father’s indomitable spirit as his end neared. Would that I could be so strong! The days are growing short and gray, my spirit gray with them, winter has fallen upon it.

And now my eccentric English chum, Winifred Clem, has sent me another of her ‘Alison Ainsley’ books. It is dedicated to ‘E.W.’ and has a very fine photograph of Winnie on the flyleaf. I swear she must have jotted down everything she ever heard me say at school. It is hugely odd when one’s artless remarks are dressed up and transposed into the mouth of the daredevil heroine of a series of schoolgirl romances. In The Mystery of the Missing McGuffin, it seems that my doppelgá¤nger must disguise herself as a boy to evade arrest while she solves the crime for which she herself is suspected. I suppose this book, too, will fly out of the bookstores and onto the pillows of a million schoolgirls in Britain and America.

December 3. Nathan Weiss telephoned this morning just as I was leaving for the medical school laboratory. Would I accompany him to see the holiday greens at the Conservatory? No, I would not, I replied; I have an appointment with the cadaver of a dog. My friend would not take ‘no’ for an answer. It was too long since we had talked, Nathan said. He would bring a picnic meal to the ‘lab.’ We would feast there at noon and then take the trolley car to Druid Hill. What could I do — Nathan is irresistible when he has built up a head of steam! Laughing in spite of myself, I bargained for an extra hour with Rover, so it was not until one — precisely — that he rapped on the door of the laboratory bearing a sack of hot dogs, root beer and cream puffs.

“This is not the ‘nourishing food’ you have prescribed for me, Doctor Weiss,” I teased him, extracting myself from a hug. “Ah,” he replied, ‘this is food for the soul, to cheer you up. I have made inquiries about you, Miss Westcott, and I have learned that you have buried yourself in work. The only sure antidote to a steady diet of medical school is cream puffs.”

There was a contagion of Christmas spirit at the enormous glass house. Our Druid Hill Conservatory is really splendid during the holidays, chock-a-block with ‘ladies, gentlemen and children of all ages’ in a festive mood. Nathan, Hebrew to the core and only a generation removed from Eastern Europe, was having a fine time humming along with a group of carolers. “Suppose your father were to peep down at you from his synagogue in heaven?” I whispered.

“O, he’d wonder what else I have done to win the esteem of such a beautiful young woman, I’m sure. You’d tell him I’ve been well-behaved, won’t you?”

“I might, but first you’d have to tell me what’s in your mind. Nothing you do is as impromptu as it may seem.” I pointed at the tea room in the sunny vestibule of the greenhouse.

“Now, talk” I commanded once we had our tea (lapsang souchong for me, darjeeling for him).

“I guess you have me cornered, m’am, so I’ll have to spill the beans. I’ve arranged for you to take off the spring term at Hopkins so you can travel to Europe with me.”

I nearly dropped my teacup.

(More later, Diary — I am so awfully sleepy!)

dawn, December 4. The long and short of it is that Nathan thinks we need to take our problem with Gynol to the big German chemists. He doesn’t trust Hirschfeld, my supposed representative in Europe, and neither do I. He said he’d explained all this to Dean Welch and to Aunt Enid and they’d agreed he’d better not delay, before more of us fall ill.

“You forget one thing,” I said, “one important thing. We are not married. This may be 1911, and you and I may be very modern, but insofar as I am aware, the World still looks askance when a young woman travels with a man who is not her relative.”

“The World will understand that you travel abroad on business, an errand of mercy.”

“The World will see a brazen young hussy. Some will be forgiving, because I am obviously rich, but not all.”

“In that case, Evelyn, you give me no choice. Will you marry me?”

Nathan reached in his pocket and extracted a small, square box.

“Put that away!” I exclaimed, feeling suddenly flushed. “If you are going to propose to me, I insist that you do it right. It’s no good marrying someone under a, a pretext!

“Besides,” I continued, “I’m still in mourning for Anna and Father and Dorothy, and for all you know, I’m only partial to girls.

“And anyway,” I concluded, “I need time to think things over. I think you should take me home now.”

“Whatever you say, my dear,” Nathan answered, batting his eyelashes earnestly. “In all seriousity, however, and as improbable as it may seem to you, I have fallen in love.”

A Synopsis of Balthasar’s Elixir up to Part VII:

Evelyn Westcott is not your average turn-of-the-20th-century American girl. She didn’t want to be a woman, at least not consciously, but when Edward’s body betrayed him, he had no other sensible choice. Fortunately, rich & sophisticated Aunt Enid was able to sort everything out. Within a few months after Edward arrived in Baltimore, he was making a game go of it as Evi Westcott, a sophomore at the elite Bryn Mawr School.

In Evi’s day, the mystery of ‘internal secretions’ was only beginning to be unravelled. Our fortunate heroine becomes the patient of the brilliant young researcher, Eleanor “Tottie” Clathrop and her assistant, Balthasar Bishop. When a tragedy claims Tottie, Evelyn carries on her work with Balthasar’s help. She is the ringleader of ‘Tottie’s girls,’ a gender-dysphoric group that includes her dear friends Dorothy Downey and, later, Rachel Klimintz and Alexandra Bishop.

Evi is brilliantly popular at school. She develops an interest in serious things: scientific research (into hormones, of course), women’s suffrage and (like all young people) sex. Friendships develop and multiply. The men in Evi’s life include a boy scoutish aeronaut, a female impersonator, an artist (and secret cross-dresser), a sexy midshipman and a cad. She's also strangely attracted to a racy poetess. In Part IV, having survived a night in jail, been graduated from Bryn Mawr School and lost her virginity, Evi embarks on ‘the Grand Tour’ with Aunt Enid.

In Europe, she hopes she will find greater tolerance and understanding of ‘different’ people — in the event, she finds more differences, a touch more tolerance, but no more understanding. Part V opens as Evelyn, still hopeful of finding a manufacturer for the feminizing drug, Gynol, and her Aunt Enid are arriving in Vienna, the glittering, decadent capital of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

In Vienna, she learns there are many kinds of love, and finds lovers and at last a true love. Anna’s autocratic father attempts to break up the liaison by sending her off to a convent. Evi follows Anna to Rome and a tender, joyful reunion marked by pledges of eternal affection. And that's where things start to unravel.

Evi returns home to Baltimore in May 1911, to find things have gone to hell in a handbasket. Balthasar’s in jail, his son Caesar’s on the run, and the lab has been padlocked. No sooner do those things get sorted out, then it becomes apparent that Gynol’s not as safe a feminizing drug as was thought. Some of the girls are having side effects — can Evi, her chum Rachel, Rachel’s uncle Nathan and the émigré chemist Igar Lutjak find the sinister contaminant ? As Part VI ends, ten dozen guinea pigs are about to do their bit for science.

Hugs, everyone! Daphne

BALTHASAR’S EXTRACT (The Final Chapter of the Diary of Evelyn Westcott)Evi Westcott is a turn-of-the-20th Century Alpha female, impatient with the roles polite society has assigned to women — including accidental women like herself — and in a hurry to set things straight. Now twenty, Evi’s had a rough few months. Gynol, the wonder drug on which Evi and all the rest of ‘Tottie’s Girls’ depend for their happiness, harbors a deadly contaminant, to which Evi’s dear friend Dorothy has already succumbed. Compounding Evi’s misery, she has bid adieu to her true love. There’s but one ray of light through the lowering clouds — Evi’s deepening friendship with Doctor Nathan Weiss.’

If you are new to this series, perhaps you’d rather begin at the beginning (Part I, some 130,000 words ago), review the list of characters (see 'The People in Evi Westcott's Diary') or go to the end of Chapter VII for a very short synopsis of the story through Chapter VI. Copyright October 2009 - Daphne Laprov

5 December. Diary, what am I going to do! I don’t want to marry! I’m not ready for marriage. Probably I’ll never be ready. I can’t have babies and my sexual bits are odd as can be. Of course Nathan knows that; he’s my doctor. How can I marry my doctor? And if I marry anyone, what happens to my life? I’m going to be a child psychologist, to work with Maria Montessori. Is Nathan going to calmly wave me off to Italy for years at a time? Will he make room for me to have a career? Well, of all the men I know, he’s the one who might. I’ve never known anyone with more self-confidence. But he’s a Hebrew! I can manage Aunt Enid, and most of the other Christians I care about, but Nathan’s family will throw him out. Look how they’ve treated Rachel! No, this is a crazy, half-baked idea. It can’t work! No, I won’t agree.

Nathan sent two beautiful pots of poinsettia flowers this morning — addressed to my aunt, the cad!

6 December. Rachel says — I asked her point-blank — that Nathan really loves me. She thinks her uncle has loved me for a long time.

8 December. Nathan stopped at Eutaw Place this evening to ask when he might hope for the pleasure of my company. I told him that I have semester examinations next Monday and Tuesday and that after that we need to have a serious talk. “I have put you down for Thursday the 14th,” I said. “Will that suit?” He said it would have to, perforce.

10 December. I was frowning so hard at my anatomy notes that Pegeen was afraid to tell me, she said, that a gentleman wished to speak to me on the telephone. “Tell Dr. Weiss not until Thursday,” I snapped.

“No, Miss,” Pegeen replied. “It’s Mr. Halloran.”

Joy! Harry’s back. It’s been so long! Now that the Shields Travestic Troupe is world-famous, little Baltimore is hardly on their itinerary anymore. I told Harry I want him to go out with me to hear Alexandra sing, and to protect me from a handsome doctor who’s set on marrying me. “Of course,” he agreed.

O, I wonder if he’d come as Henrietta?

12 December. I’m sure I did well on the examinations. I always do, and I always give myself indigestion first. Perhaps I worry too much.

13 December. Aunt Enid, after a brief conference at my initiative, has invited Nathan to dinner tomorrow. I shall regard him very thoughtfully.

Harry Halloran hardly hesitated when I phoned to suggest that he might like to play his amusing alter ego on our outing to the Carolina Club on Saturday. “Of course,” Harry had said, “but may I also bring my boyfriend Boris? I think you know ‘him’ already as Beatrix Triscuit-Cheevers.” We shall go to the second show, after the evening’s performance by the Shields troupe. O, this is going to be yummy! I wonder how Nathan will take it?

15 December. Reasoning with Nathan when he has his mind set on something is hard work, Diary. I am exhausted this morning, but I am still not engaged to be married.

We’d had a simple dinner, only four courses and two kinds of wine. Then, suddenly victim to a convenient headache, Aunt Enid excused herself, leaving Nathan alone with me in her salon. I supposed I should sit primly. That was not what I wished, so I shed my slippers and curled up on a settee with a blanket over my legs. Nathan therefore had to decide whether to seat himself at the further end of the settee or maneuver himself onto his knees beside my recumbent form.

Wisely, he chose to sit and reason, rather than kneel and plead.

An hour later, I had conceded this: that if I were to marry, there is no man I would likely find more attractive than Dr. Nathan Weiss — and not because of his devilish good looks, but because he is about the most decent and considerate male I know.

And that, Diary, is begging the question. Until Nathan pulled the ring out of his waistcoat pocket last Sunday, marriage was the furthest thing from my mind. I am still getting used to the idea. At least it gives me something less morbid to think about.

I ventured to Nathan that he had not thought things through. Were we to marry, he might find me less charming in his bed than he supposed. He might, in time, resent that I cannot give him sons and daughters. I reminded Nathan that dozens of people know my secret, or suspect it. Suppose one day, when he’s a distinguished physician, a pillar of the medical society, the truth comes out in print? I asked Nathan if his brothers and sisters will welcome a ‘shiksa’ into their family. (Shiksa’s a word I learned from Rachel — it’s a derogatory term for a gentile woman.) I like pork and ham and I adore oysters and crabs, and don’t fancy giving them up. I want a real career; I don’t fancy giving up medical school, or study for a psychiatric certificate, or doing research into the traumas of childhood. I don’t fancy giving up an eclectic assortment of ‘different’ friends. I might even be unfaithful.

Unless Nathan is game for all that, I concluded, there’s no basis for marriage. Nor, apropos of Gynol, is it necessary. I would gladly empower him to go to Germany alone in quest of help.

Nathan did not pretend that my apprehensions are without substance. He had, he said, considered most of them already, at some length and depth. He was satisfied that he could make me content in all respects — even regarding the odd friends I choose to keep — nor would he expect me to be as faithful as he, he swore, would surely be.

We shall see. In fact, we shall put Nathan to the test on Saturday.

Still December 15. I spoke to Harry on the telephone again today. He has agreed to be outrageous tomorrow night, he and Beatrice.

December 16. I am not prone to melancholia. Usually I find something to cheer myself up, or at least distract me when I sense it bending my thoughts. This morning, however, gloom wrapped me like a cloud. I could not force my head from my pillow until at half-past nine Aunt Enid rapped upon my door.

Considerate as always, my dear aunt sat quietly on the edge of my bed wearing her ‘attentive listener’ expression until I chose to speak — or rather to moan.

“I am a fraud,” I confessed. “I don’t deserve your kindnesses. I don’t deserve my friends. Everything is falling to pieces. I’m not going to be worthy of Nathan, just like I wasn’t worthy of Father. The Gynol is killing us, one by one; I thought surely I could fix it, but I can’t. I know, I just know, I will disappoint Nathan. . . .”

Aunt Enid regarded me affectionately, and stroked my hand. She didn’t try to argue.

“I too have felt terribly inadequate at times, ” she said. “The first was after Captain Bonner ravished and abandoned me. O, I’d been so cocksure, running off with him! And the absolute worst time was when I lost my baby, little Evi, your namesake, to diptheria. And Joe Westcott gone as well — there was nothing I could do to save either, but I still felt that . . . there must have been something.

“It will pass, my dear. This too will pass. Doctor Weiss is a good man, and he is fortunate that you love him.”

“Do I?” I wonder. Do I truly? Yes, I think I do!

December 17. “So, my dear, how was it?” I asked Nathan last night. We’d taken a horse cab when we left the club; I suppose we both wanted our evening out to last a little longer.

“All in all, quite splendid, in my estimation,” he replied after a moment. “I was, however, disappointed in your friends.”

O — a bad sign! I thought.

Beatrice and Harry, still en travesti, had joined us in the dark, smoky Carolina Club directly from the Ella Shields show at the Gaiety, still in their costumes. The club was packed, a sea of jazz-loving colored folks and a handful of whites. Harry — or rather ‘Henrietta’ — was attired as a Southern belle, transported direct from some ante-bellum plantation complete with off-the-shoulder bodice, puffed sleeves and tiered hoop skirt gown — satin and lace, of course — set off by a broad brimmed bonnet and parasol, all in dusty rose, and powdered to a fare-thee-well. On top of which Harry reeked of lavender scent. Meanwhile, Beatrice, in her alter ego as ‘Boris,’ was decked out as a riverboat gambler. She wore a grey serge frock coat and trousers, a vest of rich burgundy brocade, string tie, slouch hat and patent leather boots. She’d cut her hair short since we met in London, and appeared to have grown a handsome handlebar moustache (it was glued on, of course).

Honoring Harry’s promise to a fault, the two entered the Carolina Club ostentatiously, making no effort to disguise their voices — and hence their real sex — as they were guided to our table near the stage. I am sure I flushed, believing every eye in the room must be on us, including more than a few that might not take kindly to be reminded o the days of slavery. Nathan, on the other hand, evinced not the slightest discomfort; in fact within seconds of my flustered introductions, the three of them were wrapt in animated conversation.

I was studying the menu — steamed shrimps, fried oysters, pulled-pork — what on earth could I order that wouldn’t break a Hebrew taboo? Seeing my perplexity, Nathan leaned close and whispered “I’ve always wanted to try soft-shelled crabs.”

“You’re sure?” I replied. “Absolutely,” he said. “This is America, and the 20th Century.”

Well, we made short work of a platter of sauteed jumbo crabs with baked apples, turnips and pumpkin pie, washed down with mugs of draught beer. As we ate, I told ‘Henrietta’ and ‘Boris’ about Alexandra Bishop, Balthasar Bishop’s niece.

Balthasar was Dr. Charlotte Clathrop’s lab assistant, the colored man who after Tottie’s death continued to compound Gynol in a laboratory we established in my aunt’s cellar. I recalled how Balthasar had confessed to me one day that, in addition to Tottie’s thirteen ‘girls,’ there was another. He had taken pity on his nephew, a thoroughly girlish lad, but fearing that a Negro boy would be unwelcome in the experimental program, had started him on a course of the drugs without consulting Tottie.

Like the rest of us, Alexandra had bloomed under the Gynol regimen. Her wonderful voice and my aunt’s discreet help had secured for her a musical scholarship. When her cousin Caesar’s cruel death precipitated Balthasar’s collapse, however, ‘Alex’ had left Oberlin College for the Negro teachers college here in Baltimore and, to help make ends meet at home, begun singing with the Eubie Blake trio. “I think she’s wonderful,” I finished, “and hope you will, too.”

They immediately had an opportunity to decide. On the stage, a trio of dapper young colored men launched into a scorching version of Alexander’s Rag Time Band. When the applause died down, Mr. Eubie Blake greeted the audience and introduced Alexandra, tall and slim in her signature white gown.

Transfixed as always by Alex’s singing and Eubie’s jazzy improvisations, I was wishing the set would go on forever. After half an hour, however, Alex signaled to the trio, silence fell, and she said “Good evening, everyone. I’ve heard we have some very talented visitors to the club tonight. I’d like them to come up and do a couple of numbers with us. Miss Halloran, Mr. Cheevers — please join us!”

I suppose I would have fainted with anxiety if I’d been bidden so suddenly, but Harry and Beatrice weren’t daunted in the least. They climbed up onto the stage , conferred with Mr. Blake by the piano for a moment, and then Beatrice — as a soulful Boris -- launched into a convincingly baritone rendition of I Want a Girl (just like the Girl that Married Dear Old Dad). Not to be outdone, Harry, tossing his skirts outrageously — answered with a music-hall song, a wildly-applauded Now I Have to Call Him ‘Father.’ “I guess you’ll have to do another,” said Mr. Blake. “How about this one?” and pounded out the first bars of Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Of course, everybody in the room knew the words, so when Harry and Beatrice reached the chorus, we were all singing along.

“So,” I answered as the cab clip-clopped its way into Eutaw Place and I nestled in Nathan’s strong arms, “what was it that disappointed you about my friends?”

“O,” he replied, “they do those music hall songs pretty well, but they don’t know a darn thing about jazz.”

“And how,” I added, “did Alexandra know Harry and Beatrice were at the club?”

Nathan grinned. “I sent her a note. Didn’t you notice?”

December 20. I must be hooked, Diary. Except for two more chapters of Gray’s Anatomy, I haven’t thought about anyone or anything but Nathan Weiss for three whole days.

By the time the cab reached home, I knew I was going to let him kiss me goodnight. He is a good, gentle kisser. I was loath to break away though the stiffening of my little rod told me I must.

Now it is already the second day of the Hebrew holidays. Am I allowed to give him a gift? I have bought Nathan a lovely camel’s wool scarf.

And, O, Diary! I have my first semester grades. I am first in the class! In the envelope — it came in this morning’s post -- there was a note of congratulations from Dean Welch, and his permission for me to travel to Europe on the Gynol business.

Christmas Day, cold and bright, the happiest and best day of my life!

As we are in mourning, Aunt Enid and I have attended only a few ‘at homes’ and dinners this season, and I have bypassed the balls entirely. I do not mind so much — in any event, Nathan would not be there. I wonder how that will be managed should we marry? Baltimore’s Christians and Jews meet for business without the slightest inhibition, and sit together these days on ever so many boards and committees, but it is still ‘not the thing’ for the two races to meet socially. And yet, Nathan is more a gentleman and better spoken than the vast majority of Baltimore’s blue-bloods!

He called at midday today, bearing gifts, and stayed to dinner when pressed by Aunt Enid. I have confided to her that my affection for Nathan grows with every meeting or note or telephone call. She regards him fondly, quite endorsing my sentiment that he has the moral foundation and unfailing consideration that one hopes for in a life partner.

After the meal, I excused myself briefly — my toilette needed some repair. When I returned, ten minutes later, I found Nathan and my aunt in the parlor, heads almost touching, in earnest conversation. A bit agitated, she shook his hand and excused herself ‘for a nap.’

Nathan regarded me with a twinkle in his eye. “Your aunt has kindly granted my request. I have her permission to ask your hand in marriage.”

O, Diary — it was impossible to maintain even the pretense of composure. I must have flushed as red as the bow on our front door!

“Ask, then,” I bade my suitor.

As the occasion demanded, he knelt on one knee and spoke softly. “Would you then . . . do me the great honor of becoming Mrs. Nathan Weiss?”

“O, yes, darling” I whispered. “And now kiss me until I tell you to stop!”

December 28. Nathan has bought our tickets. His brothers are up in arms — he did not bother to seek their approval — and in fact, it is also awkward to marry so soon after father’s burial. Even so, we can delay no longer; if a way to purify or synthesize Gynol can be found in Europe, we must have it. And so, we will sail for L’Havre on January 4. As it would be awkward — perhaps impossible — to marry discreetly in Baltimore, we will wed in New York City before we board the France.

I have written Mother my news. O, I do hope she will come to see us married!

December 31. I am writing this entry while awaiting Nathan and our other dinner guests, old friends of my aunts. Although we’ve made no formal announcement, word that I am engaged has spread about since I confessed ‘an informal understanding’ to Sally Campbell on Boxing Day.

January 1, 1912. The worst and best of years is over, pray God 1912 will be less eventful! Nathan and I spent the hour before midnight ignoring my aunt’s friends, making our lists of what still must be done before we take the train to New York. I am traveling as lightly as I possibly can, taking only one steamer trunk. We will be in Europe for three months. I shall not resist the opportunity to shop in Paris, and to see that Nathan acquires some handsome clothes himself.

My dearest one has arranged for Dr. Rosengarten — the same young man who did so capably in October — to ‘cover’ for him at the clinic. I am sure Nathan’s thoughts will not stray far from that place. Already he is proposing to spend part of our honeymoon visiting a sanitorium in Switzerland and inspecting medical equipment!

January 4. At last we are on board, leaving New York harbor. Nathan is still on deck, admiring the sunset that silhouettes the Statue of Liberty. I have abandoned him to scribble at least a few lines before dinner, before the details slip from my mind.

Now I am Mrs. Nathan Weiss! I can scarcely believe it, Diary, it all has happened so fast. There was a time once that I imagined myself wed in a grand event, a beautiful church filled by flowers, with hundreds of friends in attendance. Then, while I was infatuated with Anna, I completely repressed any such idea — I would not marry! And now, today, such a modest ceremony, but could any bride be happier than I?

Nathan and I were joined in matrimony at ten this morning by the Presiding Judge of the Manhattan Borough Court — incidentally a one-time beau of Aunt Enid’s. Mother, Eben, Ruth and little Flora came from Perkinstown and will stay in New York through the weekend, taking in the sights of the great city. Of Nathan’s family, only Rachel Klimintz was in attendance; she, of course, was my bridesmaid. A college classmate of Nathan was his best man. Then there were Harry and Beatrice, today as their original selves, respectively quite manly and womanly indeed, a beaming Igar Ludjak and my own dear aunt. Everyone was in daytime dress, at our request. In Dorothy’s memory, I wore a scarf she gave me just before she left us — a gossamer scarf of raw silk from Annam that matched the orchids in my trailing bouquet. The flowers were much too elaborate for the occasion, but that is what Nathan ordered. With the sparest of flourishes, Judge Swink declared us man and wife and we all adjourned to a private room at Delmonico’s Restaurant for a steak and champagne luncheon. I drank too many toasts, Diary. My head is clearing only now!

January 5. It gives me a start — and makes me blush — to be addressed as Madame Weiss by the staff of the France. As though they were reading my mind, which is lasciviously flitting between delicious memories of last night and anticipation of an infinite number of nights to come. For one who claims no experience at all, my Nathan is a wonderful, tender, thoughtful lover.

January 8. I can practically smell Europe! We shall pass a week or so in Paris. Although Nathan studied for almost two years in Germany, he has never travelled in France. He is anxious to repair that omission, and then to go deep into the Swiss Alps. Nathan is set on visiting Dr. Jessen’s Waldsanitorium, which is famous for the cures they work there on consumptives. I will be happy just to see the Alps in their winter glory. Then on to Munich, Basel, Frankfurt, Cologne and Berlin — in one of those places, pray God, we shall untangle the ‘Gynol problem’ at last before we must head for England; our ship leaves Southampton early in April.

January 10. Nathan has found a dactylographiste aboard La France and we have prepared the letters — six altogether — requesting appointments to consider a licensing and development agreement for ‘Gynol, a hormonal product of animal urine proven effective in treating certain disorders of sexual development.’ There’s more, of course — enough, Nathan believes, to whet the appetites of the pharmaceutical titans without giving away our secrets.

January 12. Since last night we have been ‘stashed away’ in a handsome suite at the Hotel Majestic. We shall selfishly prefer our own company to that of the many good people, friends of friends, that we have been enjoined to ‘look up’ in Paris. Even so, we must of course visit Nathan’s cousins, the Cone sisters, and I shall save an afternoon for Etienne Downey.

January 17. Diary, we have been out every evening, to the Opera, the Folies Bergere, the Circus, Maxim’s — my Nathan is a passionate consumer of French amusements! Tonight we shall prowl the Quartier Latin.

We did our duty by the Cone sisters; they have gone to the Riviera for the winter months, so we got by by leaving our card. That Stein girl is camped in their apartment.

January 18. On the Boul’Mich today, more proof that the world is a village! Nathan and I were hunting for a restaurant someone told him we must not miss when I glimpsed a strikingly slim, tall woman emerging from the Luxembourg Metro. She proved to be none other than my erstwhile seductress from Vienna, Kat Strasser! No, she could not join us for luncheon, but shall we meet tomorrow evening? Her American friend Nathalie will be holding open house in Neuilly; we must come with her; it is a gathering to be savored, insisted Kat. And so we have agreed.

January 20. This was a morning for wry smiles as Nathan and I recalled Natalie Clifford Barney’s salon.

I doubt there is anything like it anywhere — surely not on the American continent. Mlle Nathalie Barney is a fabulously wealthy heiress from Cleveland, Ohio. She makes no secret of her affection for other women, and the customs of Lesbos reign at her salon. She greeted Kat with undisguised enthusiasm and was extremely civil to Nathan and me despite our evident heterosexuality. “It is enough that you are accomplished,” she said. “Do you write? Sing?” We confessed that we were mere medical persons.

A poetry reading was beginning. Mlle Barney wandered amiably off in search of fatter prey. Nathan and I made ourselves comfortable and surveyed the crowd. I recognized only Gertrude Stein, deep in amorous conversation with a woman in doublet and pantaloons.

Half an hour later, Kat returned, leading a waiflike girl with bobbed brunette locks and almond-shaped eyes.

“Evi, this is someone you especially should know,” said Kat. “Lili is very like you.”

Yes, very like me, insofar as one could determine without disrobing us. It was not long before I bade Nathan and Kat leave us, so the poor girl could speak without embarrassment. “I am a man,” she said. “My real name is Einar Wegener. It was five — no, six — years ago that my wife and I learned that in spirit, I am a woman. A woman, Lili Elbe. Perhaps you have seen me before.”

I drew a blank, and said so.

“The next time you are in the Metro, observe the advertisements for les Galleries Lafayette. The girl in the illustration is me.

“My wife and I, we are both painters. And I am also her model.”

Another woman joined us. “This is Gerda, my wife.”

Fair, buxom and evidently somewhat intoxicated, Gerda Wegener peered intently at me. “Kat says you have a medicine that will help Lili be fully herself.” Her statement was obviously a question.

“I, I don’t know,” I replied stupidly.

“Kat says you are partly a boy and partly a girl.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a girl with certain anatomical features common to males.”

“You see,” she said, turning to her husband with a knowing nod. “It is possible.” Then, turning to me: “Help Lili! Help my darling!”

Where was my husband when I needed him!

As if summoned telepathically, Nathan was at my elbow. “Dr. Weiss, my husband. Mrs. Wegener and, er, . . .”

“Lili Elbe,” my new friend supplied. “Or Einar Wegener, if you prefer.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Nathan answered. “Fraulein Strasser has told me a bit about you. I should very much like to conduct a medical examination — if you’ll permit me — but not here, of course. . . .”

. . . “So,” I continued over breakfast in our rooms, “do you really expect me to supply Lili Elbe with Gynol?” I was distressed, to tell the truth, not pleased that Nathan had been so accomodating. Dear Sasha Bezroukoff has a higher claim on the drug, and yet I have kept it secret from him, knowing that the supply is precarious. Europe probably has hundreds of poor souls no less deserving, but I dare help them only if we have a reliable and unconstrained manufacture of a pure strain of Gynol. I am more sure of that now (since Dorothy’s death) than a year ago when I rejected the thought of leaving Sasha a supply of the pills.

“Think of it this way,” Nathan replied. “We may be about to license experimental production of Gynol in Europe. If so, why should not both Lili and Sasha benefit? Both — if I understand you correctly — are desperately unhappy when they contemplate living as men. In that respect, they seem no different from the rest of your ‘girls.’ Not one, given the choice and with full understanding of the risk, would abandon Gynol.”

To conclude, Diary, I have accepted Nathan’s decision and have sent a note to make another rendezvous with the Wegeners.

January 21. Etienne Downey and I lunched tȇte-á -tȇte today. The boy has not been eating well. He says that his mother is horror-struck by his decision to join the Socialists and agitate for Annamese independence. He says he is now known as Comrade Tiȇn, no longer Etienne. Maman expects the Sá»reté to haul him off to prison instantement; in the meantime she has stopped his allowance, hoping that will bring him to his senses. We reminisced fondly of Dorothy, and I slipped ‘Tiȇn’ a hundred francs as we parted.

January 23, enroute Zurich. It is done. We counted our bottles and left a year’s supply of Gynol with the Wegeners. I am resolved to do the same for Sasha.

January 31, Davos-Platz. We have been buried deep in the Swiss Alps for a marvelous week, just Nathan and I. Our hotel room looks directly at a huge mountain, that is magical in its changing moods. There is an electric-wire rope railway to the summit, from which we have peered into Germany, Italy and Austria all at once. Deep snow — two meters of it! — covers the entire village, which nonetheless bustles with throngs of holiday-makers from Munich, Zurich or Vienna, even some French and British. For the most part, Nathan and I have been determinedly anti-social, rising late, refusing invitations to join climbing expeditions, occupying ourselves on bright days in snowshoeing or ice-skating together, and snowy days talking, reading, attending performances of the town’s small but well-rehearsed symphony orchestra or (frequently!) abandoning ourselves to the pleasures of the bed. How lucky I am to be married to such a gentle, manly man!

This morning Nathan has abandoned me to visit Dr. Jessen’s famous sanitarium. Nathan is determined to find more effective treatments for his consumptive patients. Many, recently arrived to Baltimore from the ghettos of Russia or Poland, have carried the germs there with them. Here in Davos, Dr. Jessen has proven that if money is no object, fresh air and high altitudes can stem even a chronic infection. But that’s for the rich! Where, Diary, can money be found to effect such cures amid the tenements of East Baltimore?

February 2. As I was taking tea in the lovely Berghof dining room this afternoon — Nathan again having deserted me for Dr. Jessen — I was startled by a sudden whoop, the sort emitted by a joyful adolescent, “Signorina Evi! Is it really, really you? O, it is!”

Imagine, Diary, who should I see bouncing happily before me but Massimo — or rather Marisa — Morabbi, my young friend from Rome. “O, my heavens! How splendid you’ve become, Marisa!” I burst out. “O, do sit down with me!”

And indeed the child was much matured — no longer the precocious chubbie who had so charmed me the previous spring, but now a young — still very young — lady, charmingly costumed in a woolen winter ensemble. Marisa’s thick cinnamon locks were tamed only by a satin bow, her cheeks were bright from the chill mountain air, her eyes sparkled with pleasure at our chance reunion. I could not help thinking that within a few years Marisa would turn many heads if . . . her male genes do not betray her.

Marisa ordered a hot chocolate at my invitation and demanded to know why I had not written. I protested that I had written indeed. Perhaps my letter was lost in Italy’s hopeless postal system. I satisfied her curiousity and promised to introduce her and her mother to Nathan. Then it was my turn to question.

“I take it, then, that you’ve chosen to live as a girl?”

“It is the only thing for me,” Marisa replied. “I think I knew that already when you and your Aunt came to Rome. And, Miss Evi, I have so much to thank you for. After you talked with my mother, everything was different, . . . much better between us. We have become great friends.”

I recalled how Beatrice Morabbi had confessed to employing petticoats to discipline her son, only to find that he took readily to her dressing him as a girl. “Mama accepts now that I am not like other boys. We no longer pretend that she is punishing me, but that this is how I am, really. Only . . . I have to be careful around Papa. He still thinks it is a game of which he ought not to approve.”

This evening at dinner, I told Nathan all about the Morabbi family, Roman cousins of the Freuds, and the extraordinary coincidence of my reunion with young Marisa.

“You seem, my darling, to have an extraordinary knack for befriending boys of ambivalent gender — your friend Sasha, young Marisa and just now Lili in Paris, not to mention all of ‘Tottie’s Girls.’ Does Marisa know that you yourself are a sort of halfling?”

I replied that I did not think so, unless Anna or my aunt had spoken thus to Beatrice Morabbi.

“Perhaps, then, it is time to tell her and Marisa more. I surmise that if you and I have determined to supply both Lili and Sasha with Gynol, it would be wrong to deny its miraculous effect to young Marisa.”

That’s exactly what I hoped Nathan would say. O Diary, he is such a wonderful man!

February 3. Our next-to-last day in Davos — Nathan and I have been in the Alps ten days already. Favorable replies have reached us from several of the chemical companies, and we are keen to bring our quest to a happy conclusion. First, however, there has been the business of the Morabbis.

A telephone call yesterday noon sufficed to set up a joint expedition to the Fliiela waterfall. This morning we shared an open sleigh drawn by a team of four, a lovely excursion. I think all of us — Nathan, me, Marisa and her still-youthful mother, Beatrice Morabbi — got drunk on the bright sunshine and crystal-clear air.

The Morabbis have come visit Beatrice’s own mother, an English lady impelled by poor health to flee damp, smoky London each winter for the invigorating climate of the high Alps. They will next continue to Salzburg, there to visit their Moritz and Bernays cousins and rendezvous with Signor Morabbi, and then reach Vienna for the last days of Fasching, the pre-lenten carnival season. Did I mention, Diary, that the Moritzes, Morabbis, Bernays and Freuds are all cousins, and that it was Berta Moritz who forwarded me Anna’s clandestine letters? Well, that is all over now, and I do my best not to think any longer of Anna Freud.

Signorina Morabbi and Marisa make a charming pair. Her arm gently encompassing her new daughter, Beatrice confirmed the pleasure that Marisa’s journey into femininity has given them both. “But,” she confessed, “we must wonder where all this will lead, indeed if it can be kept up for many years. If Marisa should become entirely habituated to the manners of women, can she ever, then, revert to the person of ‘Massimo’ should her physical development require it? Honestly, I dread the thought: a beard, a deepened voice, broad shoulders!”

Here Marisa whispered something into her mother’s ear, and she brightened considerably.

“My dear one has undertaken to eat as little as possible, that she shall not grow tall and thick. And she has reminded me that her father has already been brought half-way around.”

“How is that,” Nathan asked.

“Gustavo is convinced that Europe is on the verge of a cataclysm, a continental war that will destroy the flower of our youth and return us to barbarism. He is desperate that our children not be swept away in the coming conflagration — indeed, he talks endlessly of emigrating to Argentina or America. Failing that, he takes some solace from the idea that ‘Marisa’ would not be taken to be a soldier.”

“I beg to disagree,” Nathan offered. “General war has become unthinkable. Modern weapons are so destructive that however much they may glower at each other, none of the leading countries would stoop to such folly.”

Listening to the conversation, I thought to myself that once men have a theory to hang it on, they can reconcile to almost any course of action.

Nathan squeezed my hand beneath the sleigh blanket; it was my turn. “Beatrice, Marisa, dears” I said, “I should like very much to share with you some personal information. I hope you will regard it as good news, and the talisman of my affection for you both.”

I proceded, Diary, to relate my own history, omitting no important detail about the development of Gynol to this point. “Thus,” I concluded, “we cannot claim that it is absolutely safe. All potent drugs have some unwanted effects. In the case of Gynol, there is assuredly an elevated risk of interference with kidney function. How great is the risk? That is still to be determined. What is beyond doubt is that every one of ‘Tottie’s Girls’ and a number of other ultra-feminine boys, well aware of that risk, have chosen to rely on Gynol to keep them as they wished to be.

“We shall continue to manufacture it, and hope in addition that a European company will carry the work to perfection. If you desire, I will share my supply with you.”

As I neared the end of my story, not only Nathan’s strong hand was gripping mine. Marisa had seized my other hand and was waiting breathlessly for her mother’s verdict. They exchanged glances.

“Yes,” she answered. “Of course we accept your kind offer. We are deeply grateful.”

February 5. The Morabbis, mother and daughter, accompanied us on the cog railway as far as Landquart, where with affectionate embraces we transferred to other trains — theirs heading east for Innsbruck and Salzburg, ours bound for Zurich and west. Alone again, Nathan and I planned our campaign. We have appointments in Basel with representatives of both the LaRoche and Geigy firms, and Hoechst in Frankfurt and Bayer in Wupperthal have both consented to meet us. But it is in Chemische Fabrik that Nathan places his greatest hope. We shall not come to terms with any firm until we have journeyed all the way to Berlin to confer with the CF directors.

February 7. I called at the American Express office in Basel in confident hope of mail. There were fond letters from Aunt Enid and Mama — both still a bit giddy over my marriage, I think — and a note from Winnie in London. She writes that if Nathan and I are there by March 21, I am to help launch the fourth book of the Allison Ainsley saga. From Vienna, a reproachful note from Sasha Bezroukoff. Kat has returned home from Paris bearing news of us. The burden of Sasha’s message is that he will travel anywhere to meet us, he must see me, talk to me again. There is unmistakable agitation in his scrawl and disjointed syntax. For Nathan, letters from Dr. Rosenbaum, the caretaker of his clinic, and from Rachel. All is well there. Several dozen letters congratulating our marriage, following its announcement in the Sun.

And last and best of all, a note from Harry and Beatrice. They are to be married in England in March! Harry writes, in part:

Bea’s father, the biscuit magnate, has at last given up his fancy that Beatrice should plight her troth and join his fortune to a peer of the realm. Her feckless suitor, a Lord Toby Whyfford, has been sent packing, and Bea’s engagement to me ever so regretfully agreed by Daddy and Mum. With the proviso, of course, that I should give up vaudeville and petticoats forthwith (at least in public) and begin a proper career at Triscuit-Cheevers Cracker Company, Ltd. I suppose I can stand it; as you know well, I have already lost my girlish good looks.

Our wedding’s set for March 28th — Church of England, of course, a quaint old chapel deep in Dorsetshire. Bea and I will be devastated if you and Nathan can’t come. Write me you will!

That’s exactly a week before our ship sails from Southampton. Brilliant timing!

February 8. Our meeting this morning with representatives of LaRoche et Cie. was not a great success. They listened with some interest as Nathan and I described the action of Gynol, but offered only to evaluate samples, and then only if we were to turn over details of the process and promise LaRoche exclusive rights to it. They expressed surprise that we have not secured a patent on the process; we said we have not because if we published such details on a drug not yet perfected, others would hasten to copy and extend our work, claiming their own to be original. At length, we excused ourselves but ‘left the door open’ for further talks.

February 9. Now we have met with a director of the J.R. Geigy Company, a sleek, well-fed man who claimed to be a chemist. A few moments after we had begun to describe our proposal, however, Herr Keller confessed that ‘hormones’ and the endocrine system generally are a mystery to him. He asked for a recess so that he could summon expert help. By the time the experts arrived, two young men in lab coats, Keller was evidently persuaded that drugs that modify sexual development are of no interest to Geigy. We could hear his junior colleagues protesting as they huddled with him in an anteroom. At length, he agreed to hear us out — a trial that featured sharp questioning and, at the end, a hung jury. The young men are palpably excited by the results we have reported. Keller conceded that they will consider our proposal further, and perhaps suggest a second meeting.

February 13. After a weekend hidden away in Heidelburg, our rooms a pension above a bakery, Nathan and I entrained for Frankfurt, where we have met representatives of Hoechst Chemicals this morning. I must admit to mixed feelings about the event. Some clue caused our interlocutors to conclude that I must be one of the sample upon which Balthasar’s elixir — what we now call Gynol — was tested. This led to considerable questioning of a personal nature. Nathan sensed my growing discomfort and called a recess. In private conversation, he suggested that I absent myself briefly whilst he satisfied the legitimate curiousity of the Hoechst representatives, an offer that I tearfully accepted.

I don’t know why, Diary — I’ve thought I was dispassionate about these things, and that keeping my circumstances private was simply a courtesy to those who had greater sensitivities, such as my aunt. I had become accustomed to ‘doing for myself’ — not depending on men to think or ‘do’ for me. But now, I find myself endlessly grateful that Nathan is at hand to protect me from nastiness. I must be feeling the emotional sequelae of Dorothy’s untimely death — the event that has so greatly raised the stakes for all of us in perfecting the drug. But in a deeper sense — it is such a relief to be able to rely on him!

In the event, Nathan summoned me back to his side after half an hour and the conversation took a really promising turn. With but a little encouragement, members of the Hoechst research staff were suggesting broader uses for ‘gynol-like’ drugs — potential applications to the stablization of women’s ‘cycles’ or even to the facilitation of conception — or indeed, of its prevention.

Later. Nathan was away, seeing to our return bookings, when a telegram arrived. I gave the boy five pfennig for his trouble and — as it was addressed to both me and Nathan — extracted the message from its envelope. So, Magnus Hirschfeld has tracked us down. For emphasis, he writes in English. “You have betrayed my trust,” he begins, “and I must insist to join your negotiation to assure effective result or else.” There is more. Hirschfeld is pained, he says. Good!

February 14. Nathan has been musing over the implications for society if conception could be halted at will. I let him ramble on; he has such a lovely voice. At last, he pressed me for my own opinion. “It would foment a revolution,” I said. “For the first time in history, women would gain control of their own bodies. The tyranny of men would be overthrown.”

February 15. We have met Hoechst again. This time the managing director of its pharmaceutical branch joined us to table a proposal. They have offered us a very substantial sum for the European rights to the process, subject to verification of our description of Gynol’s action. Missing, however, is an essential element: Hoechst balks at a commitment to press ahead with production and commercial marketing of the drug. The managing director adduces ‘social considerations’ that must first be investigated thoroughly.

February 19. Nearing Cologne this morning, Nathan and I heard churchbells ringing from either side of the Rhine River. It is almost the end of a deliberately slow cruise on a romantic barge that is fitted out like a five star hotel! Every hill or cliff, every turn in the river has revealed another ‘Kastel.’ We have stopped to tour some vineyards, and to see the medieval sights of Koblenz. The Rhine and Mosel wines are delicious. Der Kapitan has a gramophone and a stack of Wagner arias. Our fellow travellers are uniformly delightful representatives of six nationalities. Alas, we disembark this afternoon, and must prepare for our call on the famous Bayer Chemical Company Tuesday morning.

Bayer is renowned for the discovery and universal marketing of aspirin, which has done more to free mankind from pain than all other nostrums combined. Though Nathan is not hopeful of a positive response, Bayer’s stature as a leader in the modern drug industry practically requires that we present our proposals to it.

February 20. At the American Express office in Cologne, a letter awaited me from Sasha. He will leave Vienna on the 22nd and will await us in Berlin from the 23rd at the Brandenbergerhof. That much is plain; the rest of Sasha’s letter is a tangled and often incomprehensible web of recrimination, despair, heartbreak and hope. It might as well be written in code; God forfend that Sasha’s spirit is as broken as his syntax. If there is a unifying thread, and indeed it is difficult to find one, it is Sasha’s apparent faith that I shall somehow serve as the fulcrum for the resolution of his pyramiding problems. I am as confused as I am concerned — evidently my gentle friend’s self-destruction is far advanced. Nathan is no better able than I to make sense of Sasha’s missive.

February 21. Though we were courteously received, the seeds we planted with Bayer will bear no fruit. So far, only Hoechst has shown interest in Gynol, but there is still Chimie Fabrik in Berlin.

February 22. After sightseeing this morning — the cathedral here is amazing! — this afternoon I am writing letters while Nathan sees about our steamer tickets home. O, and Nathan has telegraphed that odious fellow Hirschfeld, rebutting his pretensions. In nearly a year, he has yet to achieve anything through his much-touted ‘contacts.’ In fact, it appears that knowledge of his connection with us was enough to sour LaRoche, Sandoz and who knows what others. If Herschfeld insists that some consideration is due him for his efforts, he can make his case on the 26th. That will follow our discussions with Chemie-Fabrik.

February 23. Arrived in Berlin at nine, none the better for a night of swaying in a Wagons Lit car, and opted for a nap until lunchtime. Awakening, I found a note had been slipped under the door — Sasha was waiting in the lobby.

His appearance startled me — little Sasha who had been so meticulous about his dress and toilette was now unkempt, unshaven and in evident disarray. For Nathan, who knew Sasha only from my accounts, the shock may not have been so great. “This boy,” he prescribed, “is in want of a draught to calm his nerves, food and sleep, in that order, before we can expect him to talk sensibly.”

Addressing Sasha, Nathan learned that not only had he not registered at the Grand Hotel, he could not possibly have done so, having only a handful of deutschmarks in his purse.

February 24. When Nathan and I stole out to keep our rendezvous at the headquarters of Chimie Fabrik, Sasha Bezroukoff was still deep in sleep on a daybed brought into the sitting room of our suite. I left a note on the mantle for Sasha, and with the concierge, I left instructions that a hearty breakfast should be delivered to him at ten-thirty.

Nathan and I returned to our suite at the Brandenburger Hof many hours later as dusk was falling. We found Sasha much restored. He had been sitting by the window awaiting us, now properly shaven, brushed and dressed, and sipping a glass of wine. “O, my God, Evi, will you forgive me?” Sasha exclaimed as I came through the door. “What sort of impression must I have made on your husband?” He seized Nathan’s hand and pumped it. “I am so sorry, sir . . . it is just . . . my life has fallen to ruins.” At once, tears started from Sasha’s eyes, still so large and blue and still — there is no other word for it — softly feminine.

Sasha’s distress wiped from our faces the residue of a brilliant meeting, the broad smiles that Nathan and I had worn all the way back to the hotel. “We have all the time it takes for you to share what you have to tell us,” said Nathan. “Pull yourself together, Herr Bezroukoff — and meanwhile, allow me to order some champagne.”

“You have good news?” he asked. “The drug you spoke of?”

“It will be produced in Europe, and soon, I am sure,” I replied.

“O, Evi, if only it is so! But too late for me, I think.”

We sat, and bade the boy speak. When Aunt Enid and I left Vienna a year ago, Sasha was already the city’s premier exemplar of the art of masquerade, the toast of its Bohemian demi-monde. “You recall how beautiful I was, Evi — the debutantes were jealous, I turned the heads of half the men in Vienna even though everyone — everyone who was anyone, I mean — knew that I was but a boy in a gown.

“In April, I met Kurt von Tueffenback. I wrote you about him. He is dazzling, Evi, a count, a captain of hussars, a cousin of the Archduke, the most eligible bachelor in all the Empire — and he fell for little Sasha! He swooned for me. I played hard to get, and he pursued me the more. Daily there were flowers; jewels at every occasion that I consented to meet him. Ah, gladly before too long I shared his bed. In fact, I could not do so often enough to satisfy the passion Kurt had awakened in me.

“We were soon notorious in certain circles, of course. When there is a scandale, Vienna is only a village — everyone who is anyone knows — not that either Kurt or I cared. Indeed, the brighter our fire blazed, the more we were toasted, entertained and sought after.

“Then a shadow fell over us. He received a letter, signed only ‘Doktor H,’ that required a ‘charitable contribution’ to a fund established to campaign for the freedom of men to love each other. Should there be no response, the letter insinuated, Kurt’s liaison with me would be brought forcefully to the attention of his parents, the Imperial Court and — in extremis — the popular press.

“My darling Kurt was furious, defiant but also, I could see, terrified. It is one thing to have an affaire that is tolerated fondly by one’s friends and equals, and quite another thing to incur the wrath of the Empress — she is, as you know, Evi, the worst of prudes. . . .

“. . . the worst, now that Victoria of England is dead,” I interrupted with a giggle.

“. . . and, of greater consequence, it costs a very huge sum to bribe the newspapers to silence.

“ ‘H’ had provided a post office box address; Kurt responded, proposing a meeting but intending a confrontation. ‘H’ replied by requiring Kurt to meet him in Munich. With the utmost trepidation, I saw my darling off at the station. O, Evi, I wore that magnificent ensemble, do you remember it, that you helped me order at Lanvin’s? It was Kurt’s favorite among my costumes.

“Here my story grows tragic, my dears. Kurt returned with, one might say, all the courage drained from him. ‘The bastard has photographs, sworn statements, detailed accounts of our assignations,’ he said. ‘Evidently Herr ‘H’ has already blackmailed half of Vienna to peach for him. I shall have to accommodate him.’

“Already I was crying when I heard the worst: ‘and, my dear Sasha, I shall have to let you go. I cannot afford to keep you at Hirschfeld’s price.’”

Hearing Sasha utter that name, I gasped. Nathan swore.

“You know him, then?” asked Sasha.

“I wish to hell that we did not,” said Nathan. I do not blame my love for swearing. “The man is a charlatan who has tangled us in his web as well.

“Forewarned is forearmed, thanks to you, Sasha. We shall be well-prepared when we meet Hirschfeld on Saturday.”

Little Sasha — no, he is no longer so little as that — continued his story. The count his lover has cut him off, his mother grudges him his allowance, daily — no matter how he mistreats his body — his shoulders widen, his voice deepens, he gains altitude.

“Do you remember that dream of yours, Evi? The one you described, the great parade of all of us different people, the joy, the celebration, and then . . . the skies darkening, the crowd turning angry, closing in? O, that is what I sense everyday, my life that burned so brightly for an instant is no longer . . . no longer worth having. Most people, I suppose, never question who they are. Boy? Girl? They hardly consider the possibility they might have been the other.

“Yet here I am, Evi . . . If I cannot live female, and be loved for being as female as God will allow, I hardly care to live.”

No boy I know, Diary, is in essence more female than Sasha, and thus no one has so vividly confronted the treason of his body. I was nearly sick with remorse, remorse that on leaving Vienna I had not divided my dwindling stock of the Gynol pills with Sasha in time to save him from the maleness that has undone him.

Sensing my discomfiture, Nathan intervened, thank God. “Sasha, young friend,” he said in that slightly bookish German of his, “since you and Evelyn parted, events have driven us to realize that a drug we possess — we call it Gynol — is though not without dangers, the salvation of many like you . . . and Evi, I should add in case you have not yet realized.

“Your character and my wife’s character originated and developed along different paths, I am sure of that, but the end point is identical and incontestable — neither of you, nor yet a great many others we now know — could find happiness, could be fulfilled as human beings, if compelled to live as men.” Here Nathan muttered a phrase in Hebrew that I recognized. It means ‘the ways of the Almighty are inscrutable,’ which of course they are, Diary.

A day late and a dollar short, as the homespun saying goes, it is agreed that we shall endeavor to provide Sasha with a secure supply of Gynol. Nathan posits that may be enough to save him. I have my doubts, Diary.

It was then our turn to tell Sasha the essence of our meeting that day with the managers of Chimie Fabrik, including its Regiesdirektor, Herr Schering himself. Unlike the senior people at Hoechst, they were not troubled by the notion that adjusting the manifestations of sexuality might in some way trespass on the prerogatives of the Almighty. The Chimie Fabrik representatives in addition are au courant on recent scientific advances — the work of Starling and Bayliss in England, of that fellow Steinach in Austria, and most directly for our purposes, the work of Gudenacht here in Berlin, a chemist on their own staff. The experiments of Dr. Gudenacht have predisposed the Chimie Fabrik managers, I am sure of it, to believe what we told them about the action of Gynol.

Their great company is ready to work with us, to patent our process in Europe and to assist us to manufacture in America as well a purer and safer Gynol. O, dear Diary, were it not for Sasha’s distress and the shadow that that fellow Hirschfeld throws over us, I should be supremely happy now. We have followed a rocky road indeed from the time I entrusted myself first to my Aunt Enid and soon thereafter, to Dr. Charlotte Clathrop. Along the way, I have lost dear companions — Dorothy Downey in particular — yet I know Dorothy especially will be cheering us on, from wherever she may now observe us mortals. And at last I shall be able to rest my own load, trust to the good will of our friends here, and apply myself with a whole heart to the study of medicine and psychology.

February 25. What a wonderful day this has been! Well, many would not agree, perhaps, but there is for me nothing more pleasing than to converse intimately with a man who has extended the boundaries of our knowledge of the chemical bases of sexual development. Herr Dr. Gudenacht received me courteously at his laboratory in the Berlin suburb of Wedding. The laboratory is part of the Chimie Fabrik organization — I find this marvellous, that such a huge firm is persuaded that supporting fundamental research will bring it profit in the long run. Gudenacht and I spent the afternoon skewering and dissecting a number of frogs that demonstrate his thesis that sexual development is triggered by the release of certain ‘hormones.’ I returned to the Brandenburger Hof toward five to find that Nathan and our Chimie Fabrik friends — including a legal expert -- have agreed provisionally on the text of an agreement. The formal documents are being drawn up for signature on Wednesday, the 28th.

February 26. Today Nathan and I rose early to explore the German capital. Much of its sights are of a grandiosity that I do not favor, but the Tiergarten, today decorated with frost, probably has no equal anywhere. Sasha joined us for lunch at a café off the Kurfá¼rstendamm. He struck me as still considerably agitated. As for Nathan and me, but for the formality of signatures, our business in Europe is done. As soon as the papers are signed, Nathan will write Hoechst that Chimie Fabrik has offered the terms we require. And then, Diary, my love and I shall apply ourselves diligently to the completion of our honeymoon!

Nathan has promised to take me next to Plzn in Bohemia, from which his father fled in 1848. Then, before we retrieve the comfortable shores of England, I shall show Nathan my glittering Vienna. I know I should be consumed by guilt, Diary, further postponing my medical studies for the mere purpose of a magnificent honeymoon — but JHU has graciously agreed I can make up courses in the summer, and who am I to complain about that?

February 27. Nathan has arranged to meet Hirschfeld in the hotel lobby at three-thirty, an hour from now. It is our deliberate choice — he will not dare make a scene in such a public place. Sasha has implored us to have no converse at all with the man, but after due consideration, I have agreed with Nathan that we must confront him.

The point is — and it is quite unavoidable — Hirschfeld knows just enough to blight our happiness, should he choose to deploy his information in Baltimore. Over luncheon a deux — Sasha having disappeared to who knows where — we pondered the worst that might happen. Yes, we — or rather, Nathan — could be hurt if my sexuality were to become the subject of popular speculation. The Baltimore American fattens on such stories.

I put the question directly: “Nathan, dearest, if it were to be bruited about that you have married a man, how would your Hebrew compatriots receive that news?”

“For the most part, we should have to brazen it out. I have friends among the Reform rebbe of Baltimore; Rabbi Rosenau in particular would support me in any circumstance. That’s not just because he is broad-minded. He values the work I do and, I believe, my intervention did save his wife in childbirth, that she might care for him for another twenty years at least. He is obliged to give us the benefit of the doubt.

“If we are pressed, I should confide in Rosenau and others, and try to persuade them that the greater good of our people now resident in Baltimore and of mankind generally requires that they interpret the circumstances of our union liberally. I hope we might count on that.

“In any event, nothing Hirschfeld can say will move me. To give even an inch will only invite him to try for more.”

So it is resolved. We shall not submit to blackmail. Nathan is truly noble; I only hope, dear God, that he is right as well. I do so love this wonderful man, Diary, who knowing every detail of my history, privy to all my hopes and dreams, has chosen me as his partner ‘till death do us part.’

March 1, 1912. Fate has torn Evelyn Westcott Weiss, my beloved wife and companion, away from us. The event was so sudden and tragic that I still find it unbearable to contemplate. Three days later, I — Nathan Weiss — write this postscript to Evi’s own diary with the heaviest of hearts, hoping that the act of writing will help me to find some shred of meaning or, if not meaning, acceptance.

Magnus Hirschfeld arrived late and as expected, blustering. I of course conceived an instant dislike for the man. In a corner of the hotel’s cavernous lobby, Evi and I heard him out. I then replied that he had represented himself falsely at his meeting with Evelyn in Vienna, the proof of which was that he had demonstrated afterward not the slightest ability to secure the positive interest of European chemical or pharmaceutical firms, and indeed, he had alienated several of them by his clumsy importunance.

As we had foreseen, Hirschfeld fell back on insinuations that information in his hands would prove most inconvenient for me and for Evelyn, should he forward it to third parties. Evi, I think, wished to leap across the table to slap the impertinence from his oily, mustachioed countenance. She could easily have done so, the table in question being one of those wobbly platforms that suffice only for tea and cakes. My wife’s nails dug deeply into my palm.

An instant later, whilst both parties paused to consider their next passage in the verbal duel — I was on the point of showing Hirschfeld to the door — I became aware of a movement behind our interlocutor. Evelyn saw it too, and led me by an instant. Rising swiftly, my wife hurled herself in its direction, shouting “Sasha, don’t!” I beheld the boy in the shadow of a potted palm but three or four meters distant. Both his hands were gripped tightly around a calvary revolver, squeezing the trigger until a report reverberated through the lobby. Hirschfeld spun about, grimacing, clutching at his shoulder as our crazed friend from Vienna took aim again.

Another shot, wild. I can only imagine what possessed my wife to interpose herself as I, still frozen, witnessed this scene. Whatever she hoped, Evelyn's only reward was a cruel bullet to her chest. Aghast as he realized the infamous result of his third shot, young Sasha lifted the gun as in a trance to his own head while I vaulted across the space beween us. I aimed to wrestle the revolver from his grip, but reached him too late — the very instant I seized Sasha’s arm another shot rang out, one that blew much of the boy’s brain into the shrubbery behind him.

Police and an ambulance arrived within a few minutes — there was a hospital nearby — as, leaving Hirschfeld to the care of others, I labored to staunch the flow of blood from the wound my wife had suffered. Alas, she had been cruelly struck down.

Unconscious when we reached the nearby Virchow Clinic, Evelyn rallied toward dinnertime. “Nathan darling, is that you?” she murmured, striving to find me in the dim light. I answered her, fighting to restrain sobs. “I’m dying, aren’t I, dearest?” I acknowledged that she was gravely wounded. “Evelyn, try, O try, my dear to live for me.”

She asked after Sasha. I lied. She asked again if she was dying. I told her that hers is the noblest spirit, that her work is not yet done. “God must realize that,” I said. “But if he should take you from me, know, my dearest, that I shall never love another as I love you.”

“Nathan, come close. No — don’t worry about germs, you silly. I . . . (Evelyn inhaled with difficulty) . . . just want to look at you. I want you to know (another pause as she struggled for air) that knowing you, loving you has made my life worthwhile.

“That is enough, darling,” my wife whispered softly as her eyes closed for the last time. “Take care of the Girls.”

Scarcely an hour later, Evelyn Westcott Weiss left me alone in this world.

Irony of ironies, Hirschfeld survives infamously. He was only lightly wounded. He has already given a self-serving account to the Berlin newspapers which, of course, have energetically and inventively reported the shootings at the Brandenburger Hof.

Chimie Fabrik sent a person from its legal department to meet me today. He conveyed Herr Schering’s condolences on my bereavement. Under the circumstances, he continued, our project is considered to be suspended. The contract we have discussed cannot be signed at this time. If such a venture is to progress, it must unfold beyond the glare of hostile publicity. Herr Schering suggests that we put our talks ‘on ice’ for four or five years. Chimie Fabrik would be happy to revisit our discussions in, say, 1915, all else unchanging.

London, March 4. Bearing my dear wife’s ashes, I left Berlin as soon as the police would allow me. I have acquainted Evi’s friends here with the tragic events of February 26 and have dispatched letters to America elaborating on my telegrams of several days ago.

At the White Lines booking office, I cancelled our reservation for passage next month on that company’s much-ballyhooed new vessel. They posed no objection — it appears that the Titanic’s maiden voyage is already heavily oversubscribed. I shall instead return to New York on the Carpathia, departing Southampton tomorrow noon. My heart heavy in my chest, I recall all the plans Evi and I made, the dreams we shared. Now these must happen without her by my side. But, for her sake, I shall persevere.

A last word, February 26, 1953. I often thought of publishing Evelyn’s journal, it being the record of a singular life at a singular time. Revisiting it every year on this day, I feel close to her still. Once I went so far as to have the diary typed in entirety and to excise many of the sections of a purely private or ephemeral nature — that is the text you are reading here. And yet, Evi’s diary remained so intensely personal and to me so poignant, that I could not bring myself to share it with others during my own lifetime.

There is already plenty of information in the public record on Schering Pharmaceuticals’ development of estrogen in the 1930’s. Schering might have been pursued for patent infringement, but frankly, I had no wish to rake over those memories or bring an action in a Nazi court. Two world wars and the Holocaust have swept so much away. Hirschfeld, Lili Elbe, Klimt, the Freuds, Picasso, Maria Montessori, Ella Shields — a diligent researcher can find plenty of information on their later lives. Others mentioned in Evi’s diary are hardly remembered today.

I wonder how many who are treated for gender anomalies and issues at Hopkins know their debt to Dorothy Downey’s legacy? I have never doubted that as time passed, both science and cultural evolution would enable mankind to contemplate a confusion of genders with more compassion. I grew pessimistic, however, that I might see this in my own time — if ever the joyous parade of Evi’s dreams would pass under my window. And yet now, as I write, we are reading in the newspaper of the surgery and drug therapy that have permitted young Christine Jorgensen to live the life she has dreamed.

My executor knows that he will find the original manuscript volumes of Evi’s diary, as well as the text as I have edited it, in the leather case that is always next to my writing desk. They are there with other mementoes of Evelyn Westcott Weiss — the extraordinary woman that I loved more than my own life.

Would that it had been I, and not she, who stopped poor Sasha’s bullet on that fateful gray afternoon in Berlin.

Nathan Weiss, MD

* * *

Afterward by Evelyn Lutjak O’Connor, August 2009.

While researching my doctoral dissertation on the development of Baltimore City’s social service network in the early 20th century, I of course paid particular attention to the network of clinics pioneered by my great-great uncle, Dr. Nathan Weiss. Inevitably, after weeks of poring over Dr. Weiss's personal papers which, since my grandmother's death, have been in the custody of the Baltimore Public Library, I chanced on Evelyn Westcott’s diaries. I was amazed. I could hardly turn the pages rapidly enough, I read the diaries all day, barely finishing Volume VIII before the library closed for the day.

Many aspects of my family’s history were at last made clear to me — in particular, I learned that my grandmother was the adopted child of Igar and Rachel Lutjak, and why. As Evi Westcott’s personality came into focus, I can understand why my grandmother — herself a rather formidable individual -- bore her name and, indeed, what an honor it is for me to bear it too. I concluded that Evi’s story is too intense, too interesting and too important a chronicle of how America and the world encountered issues of gender dysphoria a full century ago either to moulder in the stacks of the Baltimore Library or to languish in the footnotes of a PhD thesis -- hence the publication of this volume.

To aid the contemporary reader, I have appended the briefest of notes on the persons referred to in the diaries.

Evelyn Lutjak O’Connor