On the 5th of September, 1833, I crossed the Simplon on my way to Italy.
On the very day, on which, fourteen years before, I had arrived poor and
helpless in Copenhagen, did I set foot in this country of my longing and
of my poetical happiness. It happened in this case, as it often does,
by accident, without any arrangement on my part, as if I had preordained
lucky days in the year; yet good fortune has so frequently been with me,
that I perhaps only remind myself of its visits on my own self-elected
days.
All was sunshine--all was spring! The vine hung in long trails from tree
to tree; never since have I seen Italy so beautiful. I sailed on Lago
Maggiore; ascended the cathedral of Milan; passed several days in Genoa,
and made from thence a journey, rich in the beauties of nature, along
the shore to Carrara. I had seen statues in Paris, but my eyes were
closed to them; in Florence, before the Venus de Medici, it was for the
first time as if scales fell from my eyes; a new world of art disclosed
itself before me; that was the first fruit of my journey. Here it was
that I first learned to understand the beauty of form--the spirit which
reveals itself in form. The life of the people--nature--all was new to
me; and yet as strangely familiar as if I were come to a home where I
had lived in my childhood. With a peculiar rapidity did I seize
upon everything, and entered into its life, whilst a deep northern
melancholy--it was not home-sickness, but a heavy, unhappy
feeling--filled my breast. I received the news in Rome, of how little
the poem of Agnete, which I had sent home, was thought of there; the
next letter in Rome brought me the news that my mother was dead. I was
now quite alone in the world.
It was at this time, and in Rome, that my first meeting with Hertz took
place. In a letter which I had received from Collin, he had said that it
would give him pleasure to hear that Hertz and I had become friends; but
even without this wish it would have happened, for Hertz kindly offered
me his hand, and expressed sympathy with my sorrow. He had, of all those
with whom I was at that time acquainted, the most variously cultivated
mind. We had often disputations together, even about the attacks which
had been made upon me at home as a poet. He, who had himself given me a
wound, said the following words, which deeply impressed themselves on
my memory: "Your misfortune is, that you have been obliged to print
everything; the public has been able to follow you step by step. I
believe that even, a Goethe himself must have suffered the same fate,
had he been in your situation." And then he praised my talent for
seizing upon the characteristics of nature, and giving, by a few
intuitive sketches, pictures of familiar life. My intercourse with him
was very instructive to me, and I felt that I had one merciful judge
more. I travelled in company with him to Naples, where we dwelt together
in one house.
In Rome I also became first acquainted with Thorwaldsen. Many years
before, when I had not long been in Copenhagen, and was walking through
the streets as a poor boy, Thorwaldsen was there too: that was on his
first return home. We met one another in the street. I knew that he was
a distinguished man in art; I looked at him, I bowed; he went on, and
then, suddenly turning round, came back to me, and said, "Where have I
seen you before? I think we know one another." I replied, "No, we do not
know one another at all." I now related this story to him in Rome; he
smiled, pressed my hand, and said, "Yet we felt at that time that
we should become good friends." I read Agnete to him; and that which
delighted me in his judgment upon it was the assertion, "It is just,"
said he, "as if I were walking at home in the woods, and heard the
Danish lakes;" and then he kissed me.
One day, when he saw how distressed I was, and I related to him about
the pasquinade which I had received from home in Paris, he gnashed his
teeth violently, and said, in momentary anger, "Yes, yes, I know the
people; it would not have gone any better with me if I had remained
there; I should then, perhaps, not even have obtained permission to set
up a model. Thank God that I did not need them, for then they know how
to torment and to annoy." He desired me to keep up a good heart, and
then things could not fail of going well; and with that he told me of
some dark passages in his own life, where he in like manner had been
mortified and unjustly condemned.
After the Carnival, I left Rome for Naples; saw at Capri the blue
Grotto, which was at that time first discovered; visited the temple at
Paestum, and returned in the Easter week to Rome, from whence I went
through Florence and Venice to Vienna and Munich; but I had at that time
neither mind nor heart for Germany; and when I thought on Denmark, I
felt fear and distress of mind about the bad reception which I expected
to find there. Italy, with its scenery and its people's life, occupied
my soul, and towards this land I felt a yearning. My earlier life, and
what I had now seen, blended themselves together into an image--into
poetry, which I was compelled to write down, although I was convinced
that it would occasion me more trouble than joy, if my necessities at
home should oblige me to print it. I had written already in Rome the
first chapter. It was my novel of "The Improvisatore."
At one of my first visits to the theatre at Odense, as a little boy,
where, as I have already mentioned, the representations were given in
the German language, I saw the Donauweibchen, and the public applauded
the actress of the principal part. Homage was paid to her, and she was
honored; and I vividly remember thinking how happy she must be.
Many years afterwards, when, as a student, I visited Odense, I saw,
in one of the chambers of the hospital where the poor widows lived and
where one bed stood by another, a female portrait hanging over one bed
in a gilt frame. It was Lessing's Emilia Galotti, and represented her as
pulling the rose to pieces; but the picture was a portrait. It appeared
singular in contrast with the poverty by which it was surrounded.
"Whom does it represent?" asked I.
"Oh!" said one of the old women, "it is the face of the German lady,
the poor lady who once was an actress!" And then I saw a little delicate
woman, whose face was covered with wrinkles, and in an old silk gown
that once had been black. That was the once celebrated Singer, who, as
the Donauweibchen, had been applauded by every one. This circumstance
made an indelible impression upon me, and often occurred to my mind.
In Naples I heard Malibran for the first time. Her singing and acting
surpassed anything which I had hitherto either heard or seen; and yet
I thought the while of the miserably poor singer in the hospital of
Odense: the two figures blended into the Annunciata of the novel. Italy
was the back ground for that which had been experienced and that which
was imagined. In August of 1834 I returned to Denmark. I wrote the first
part of the book at Ingemann's, in Sor÷, in a little chamber in the
roof, among fragrant lime-trees. I finished it in Copenhagen.
At this time my best friends, even, had almost given me up as a poet;
they said that they had erred with regard to my talents. It was with
difficulty that I found a publisher for the book. I received a miserable
sum of money for it, and the "Improvisatore" made its appearance;
was read, sold out, and again published. The critics were silent; the
newspapers said nothing; but I heard all around me of the interest which
was felt for the work, and the delight that it occasioned. At length the
poet Carl Bagger, who was at that time the editor of a newspaper, wrote
the first critique upon it, and began ironically, with the customary
tirade against me--"that it was all over with this author, who had
already passed his heyday;"--in short, he went the whole length of the
tobacco and tea criticism, in order suddenly to dash out, and to express
his extremely warm enthusiasm for me; and my book. People now laughed
at me, but I wept. This was my mood of mind. I wept freely, and felt
gratitude to God and man.
"To the Conference Councillor Collin and to his noble wife, in whom I
found parents, whose children were brethren and sisters to me,
whose house was my home, do I here present the best of which I am
possessed."--So ran the dedication. Many who formerly had been my enemy,
now changed their opinion; and among these one became my friend, who,
I hope, will remain so through the whole of my life. That was Hauch the
poet, one of the noblest characters with whom I am acquainted. He had
returned home from Italy after a residence of several years abroad, just
at the time when Heiberg's vaudevilles were intoxicating the inhabitants
of Copenhagen, and when my "Journey on Foot" was making me a little
known. He commenced a controversy with Heiberg, and somewhat scoffed
at me. Nobody called his attention to my better lyrical writings; I was
described to him as a spoiled, petulant child of fortune. He now read
my Improvisatore, and feeling that there was something good in me, his
noble character evinced itself by his writing a cordial letter to me, in
which he said, that he had done me an injustice, and offered me now the
hand of reconciliation. From that time we became friends. He used his
influence for me with the utmost zeal, and has watched my onward career
with heartfelt friendship. But so little able have many people been to
understand what is excellent in him, or the noble connection of heart
between us two, that not long since, when he wrote a novel, and drew in
it the caricature of a poet, whose vanity ended in insanity, the
people in Denmark discovered that he had treated me with the greatest
injustice, because he had described in it my weakness. People must
not believe that this was the assertion of one single person, or a
misapprehension of my character; no; and Hauch felt himself compelled to
write a treatise upon me as a poet, that he might show what a different
place he assigned to me.
But to return to the "Improvisatore." This book raised my sunken
fortunes; collected my friends again around me, nay, even obtained
for me new ones. For the first time I felt that I had obtained a due
acknowledgment. The book was translated into German by Kruse, with a
long title, _"Jugendleben und Tr ume eines italienischen Dichter's."_ I
objected to the title; but he declared that it was necessary in order to
attract attention to the book.
Bagger had, as already stated, been the first to pass judgment on
the work; after an interval of some time a second critique made its
appearance, more courteous, it is true, than I was accustomed to, but
still passing lightly over the best things in the book and dwelling
on its deficiencies, and on the number of incorrectly written Italian
words. And, as Nicolai's well-known book, "Italy as it really is," came
out just then, people universally said, "Now we shall be able to see
what it is about which Andersen has written, for from Nicolai a true
idea of Italy may be obtained for the first time."
It was from Germany that resounded the first decided acknowledgment
of the merits of my work, or rather perhaps its over estimation. I bow
myself in joyful gratitude, like a sick man toward the sunshine, when
my heart is grateful. I am not, as the Danish Monthly Review, in its
critique of the "Improvisatore," condescended to assert, an unthankful
man, who exhibits in his work a want of gratitude towards his
benefactors. I was indeed myself poor Antonio who sighed under the
burden which I had to bear,--_I,_ the poor lad who ate the bread of
charity. From Sweden also, later, resounded my praise, and the Swedish
newspapers contained articles in praise of this work, which within the
last two years has been equally warmly received in England, where Mary
Howitt, the poetess, has translated it into English; the same good
fortune also is said to have attended the book in Holland and Russia.
Everywhere abroad resounded the loudest acknowledgments of its
excellence.
There exists in the public a power which is stronger than all the
critics and cliques. I felt that I stood at home on firmer ground, and
my spirit again had moments in which it raised its wings for flight.
In this alternation of feeling between gaiety and ill humor, I wrote my
next novel, "O. T.," which is regarded by many persons in Denmark as my
best work;--an estimation which I cannot myself award to it. It contains
characteristic features of town life. My first Tales appeared before "O.
T;" but this is not the place in which to speak of them. I felt just at
this time a strong mental impulse to write, and I believed that I had
found my true element in novel-writing. In the following year, 1837,
I published "Only a Fiddler," a book which on my part had been deeply
pondered over, and the details of which sprang fresh to the paper. My
design was to show that talent is not genius, and that if the sunshine
of good fortune be withheld, this must go to the ground, though without
losing its nobler, better nature. This book likewise had its partisans;
but still the critics would not vouchsafe to me any encouragement;
they forgot that with years the boy becomes a man, and that people
may acquire knowledge in other than the ordinary ways. They could not
separate themselves from their old preconceived opinions. Whilst "O.
T." was going through the press it was submitted sheet by sheet to a
professor of the university, who had himself offered to undertake this
work, and by two other able men also; notwithstanding all this, the
Reviews said, "We find the usual grammatical negligence, which we always
find in Andersen, in this work also." That which contributed likewise to
place this book in the shade was the circumstance of Heiberg having
at that time published his Every-day Stories, which were written in
excellent language, and with good taste and truth. Their own merits, and
the recommendation of their being Heiberg's, who was the beaming star of
literature, placed them in the highest rank.
I had however advanced so far, that there no longer existed any doubt as
to my poetical ability, which people had wholly denied to me before my
journey to Italy. Still not a single Danish critic had spoken of the
characteristics which are peculiar to my novels. It was not until my
works appeared in Swedish that this was done, and then several Swedish
journals went profoundly into the subject and analyzed my works with
good and honorable intentions. The case was the same in Germany; and
from this country too my heart was strengthened to proceed. It was not
until last year that in Denmark, a man of influence, Hauch the poet,
spoke of the novels in his already mentioned treatise, and with a few
touches brought their characteristics prominently forward.
"The principal thing," says he, "in Andersen's best and most elaborate
works, in those which are distinguished for the richest fancy, the
deepest feeling, the most lively poetic spirit, is, of talent, or at
least of a noble nature, which will struggle its way out of narrow and
depressing circumstances. This is the case with his three novels, and
with this purpose in view, it is really an important state of existence
which he describes,--an inner world, which no one understands better
than he, who has himself, drained out of the bitter cup of suffering
and renunciation, painful and deep feelings which are closely related
to those of his own experience, and from which Memory, who, according
to the old significant myth, is the mother of the Muses, met him hand in
hand with them. That which he, in these his works, relates to the world,
deserves assuredly to be listened to with attention; because, at
the same time that it may be only the most secret inward life of the
individual, yet it is also the common lot of men of talent and genius,
at least when these are in needy circumstances, as is the case of
those who are here placed before our eyes. In so far as in his
'Improvisatore,' in 'O. T.,' and in 'Only a Fiddler,' he represents not
only himself, in his own separate individuality, but at the same time
the momentous combat which so many have to pass through, and which he
understands so well, because in it his own life has developed itself;
therefore in no instance can he be said to present to the reader what
belongs to the world of illusion, but only that which bears witness
to truth, and which, as is the case with all such testimony, has a
universal and enduring worth.
"And still more than this, Andersen is not only the defender of talent
and genius, but, at the same time, of every human heart which is
unkindly and unjustly treated. And whilst he himself has so painfully
suffered in that deep combat in which the Laocoon-snakes seize upon the
outstretched hand; whilst he himself has been compelled to drink from
that wormwood-steeped bowl which the cold-blooded and arrogant world
so constantly offers to those who are in depressed circumstances, he is
fully capable of giving to his delineations in this respect a truth
and an earnestness, nay, even a tragic and a pain-awakening pathos that
rarely fails of producing its effect on the sympathizing human heart.
Who can read that scene in his 'Only a Fiddler,' in which the 'high-bred
hound,' as the poet expresses it, 'turned away with disgust from
the broken victuals which the poor youth received as alms, without
recognizing, at the same time, that this is no game in which vanity
seeks for a triumph, but that it expresses much more--human nature
wounded to its inmost depths, which here speaks out its sufferings.'"
Thus is it spoken in Denmark of my works, after an interval of nine or
ten years; thus speaks the voice of a noble, venerated man. It is with
me and the critics as it is with wine,--the more years pass before it is
drunk the better is its flavor.
During the year in which "The Fiddler" came out, I visited for the first
time the neighboring country of Sweden. I went by the G÷ta canal
to Stockholm. At that time nobody understood what is now called
Scandinavian sympathies; there still existed a sort of mistrust
inherited from the old wars between the two neighbor nations. Little
was known of Swedish literature, and there were only very few Danes who
could easily read and understand the Swedish language;--people scarcely
knew Tegn r's Frithiof and Axel, excepting through translations. I had,
however, read a few other Swedish authors, and the deceased, unfortunate
Stagnelius pleased me more as a poet than Tegn r, who represented poetry
in Sweden. I, who hitherto had only travelled into Germany and southern
countries, where by this means, the departure from Copenhagen was also
the departure from my mother tongue, felt, in this respect, almost at
home in Sweden: the languages are so much akin, that of two persons
each might read in the language of his own country, and yet the other
understand him. It seemed to me, as a Dane, that Denmark expanded
itself; kinship with the people exhibited itself, in many ways, more
and more; and I felt, livingly, how near akin are Swedes, Danes, and
Norwegians.
I met with cordial, kind people,--and with these I easily made
acquaintance. I reckon this journey among the happiest I ever made. I
had no knowledge of the character of Swedish scenery, and therefore I
was in the highest degree astonished by the Trollh tta-voyage, and
by the extremely picturesque situation of Stockholm. It sounds to the
uninitiated half like a fairy-tale, when one says that the steam-boat
goes up across the lakes over the mountains, from whence may be seen
the outstretched pine and beechwoods below. Immense sluices heave up and
lower the vessel again, whilst the travellers ramble through the woods.
None of the cascades of Switzerland, none in Italy, not even that of
Terni, have in them anything so imposing as that of Trollh tta. Such is
the impression, at all events, which it made on me.
On this journey, and at this last-mentioned place, commenced a very
interesting acquaintance, and one which has not been without its
influence on me,--an acquaintance with the Swedish authoress, Fredrika
Bremer. I had just been speaking with the captain of the steam-boat and
some of the passengers about the Swedish authors living in Stockholm,
and I mentioned my desire to see and converse with Miss Bremer.
"You will not meet with her," said the Captain, "as she is at this
moment on a visit in Norway."
"She will be coming back while I am there," said I in joke; "I always
am lucky in my journeys, and that which I most wish for is always
accomplished.
"Hardly this time, however," said the captain.
A few hours after this he came up to me laughing, with the list of the
newly arrived passengers in his hand. "Lucky fellow," said he aloud,
"you take good fortune with you; Miss Bremer is here, and sails with us
to Stockholm."
I received it as a joke; he showed me the list, but still I was
uncertain. Among the new arrivals, I could see no one who resembled
an authoress. Evening came on, and about midnight we were on the great
Wener lake. At sunrise I wished to have a view of this extensive lake,
the shores of which could scarcely be seen; and for this purpose I left
the cabin. At the very moment that I did so, another passenger was also
doing the same, a lady neither young nor old, wrapped in a shawl and
cloak. I thought to myself, if Miss Bremer is on board, this must be
she, and fell into discourse with her; she replied politely, but still
distantly, nor would she directly answer my question, whether she was
the authoress of the celebrated novels. She asked after my name; was
acquainted with it, but confessed that she had read none of my works.
She then inquired whether I had not some of them with me, and I lent
her a copy of the "Improvisatore," which I had destined for Beskow. She
vanished immediately with the volumes, and was not again visible all
morning.
When I again saw her, her countenance was beaming, and she was full of
cordiality; she pressed my hand, and said that she had read the greater
part of the first volume, and that she now knew me.
The vessel flew with us across the mountains, through quiet inland
lakes and forests, till it arrived at the Baltic Sea, where islands
lie scattered, as in the Archipelago, and where the most remarkable
transition takes place from naked cliffs to grassy islands, and to
those on which stand trees and houses. Eddies and breakers make it here
necessary to take on board a skilful pilot; and there are indeed some
places where every passenger must sit quietly on his seat, whilst the
eye of the pilot is riveted upon one point. On shipboard one feels the
mighty power of nature, which at one moment seizes hold of the vessel
and the next lets it go again.
Miss Bremer related many legends and many histories, which were
connected with this or that island, or those farm-premises up aloft on
the mainland.
In Stockholm, the acquaintance with her increased, and year after year
the letters which have passed between us have strengthened it. She is a
noble woman; the great truths of religion, and the poetry which lies in
the quiet circumstances of life, have penetrated her being.
It was not until after my visit to Stockholm that her Swedish
translation of my novel came out; my lyrical poems only, and my "Journey
on Foot," were known to a few authors; these received me with the utmost
kindness, and the lately deceased Dahlgr n, well known by his humorous
poems, wrote a song in my honor--in short, I met with hospitality, and
countenances beaming with Sunday gladness. Sweden and its inhabitants
became dear to me. The city itself, by its situation and its whole
picturesque appearance, seemed to me to emulate Naples. Of course,
this last has the advantage of fine atmosphere, and the sunshine of the
south; but the view of Stockholm is just as imposing; it has also some
resemblance to Constantinople, as seen from Pera, only that the minarets
are wanting. There prevails a great variety of coloring in the capital
of Sweden; white painted buildings; frame-work houses, with the
wood-work painted red; barracks of turf, with flowering plants; fir tree
and birches look out from among the houses, and the churches with their
balls and towers. The streets in S÷dermalm ascend by flights of
wooden steps up from the M lar lake, which is all active with smoking
steam-vessels, and with boats rowed by women in gay-colored dresses.
I had brought with me a letter of introduction from Oersted, to the
celebrated Berzelius, who gave me a good reception in the old city of
Upsala. From this place I returned to Stockholm. City, country, and
people, were all dear to me; it seemed to me, as I said before, that
the boundaries of my native land had stretched themselves out, and I now
first felt the kindredship of the three peoples, and in this feeling I
wrote a Scandinavian song, a hymn of praise for all the three nations,
for that which was peculiar and best in each one of them.
"One can see that the Swedes made a deal of him," was the first remark
which I heard at home on this song.
Years pass on; the neighbors understand each other better; Oehlenschl
ger. Fredrika Bremer, and Tegn r, caused them mutually to read each
other's authors, and the foolish remains of the old enmity, which had no
other foundation than that they did not know each other, vanished.
There now prevails a beautiful, cordial relationship between Sweden and
Denmark. A Scandinavian club has been established in Stockholm; and
with this my song came to honor; and it was then said, "it will outlive
everything that Andersen has written:" which was as unjust as when they
said that it was only the product of flattered vanity. This song is now
sung in Sweden as well as in Denmark.
On my return home I began to study history industriously, and made
myself still further acquainted with the literature of foreign
countries. Yet still the volume which afforded me the greatest pleasure
was that of nature; and in a summer residence among the country-seats of
Funen, and more especially at Lykkesholm, with its highly romantic
site in the midst of woods, and at the noble seat of Glorup, from whose
possessor I met with the most friendly reception, did I acquire more
true wisdom, assuredly, in my solitary rambles, than I ever could have
gained from the schools.
The house of the Conference Councillor Collin in Copenhagen was at that
time, as it has been since, a second father's house to me, and there I
had parents, and brothers and sisters. The best circles of social life
were open to me, and the student life interested me: here I mixed in
the pleasures of youth. The student life of Copenhagen is, besides this,
different from that of the German cities, and was at this time peculiar
and full of life. For me this was most perceptible in the students'
clubs, where students and professors were accustomed to meet each other:
there was there no boundary drawn between the youthful and elder men of
letters. In this club were to be found the journals and books of various
countries; once a week an author would read his last work; a concert or
some peculiar burlesque entertainment would take place. It was here
that what may be called the first Danish people'scomedies took their
origin,--comedies in which the events of the day were worked up always
in an innocent, but witty and amusing manner. Sometimes dramatic
representations were given in the presence of ladies for the furtherance
of some noble purpose, as lately to assist Thorwaldsen's Museum, to
raise funds for the execution of Bissen's statue in marble, and for
similar ends. The professors and students were the actors. I also
appeared several times as an actor, and convinced myself that my terror
at appearing on the stage was greater than the talent which I perhaps
possessed. Besides this, I wrote and arranged several pieces, and thus
gave my assistance. Several scenes from this time, the scenes in the
students' club, I have worked up in my romance of "O. T." The humor and
love of life observable in various passages of this book, and in
the little dramatic pieces written about this time, are owing to the
influence of the family of Collin, where much good was done me in that
respect, so that my morbid turn of mind was unable to gain the mastery
of me. Collin's eldest married daughter, especially, exercised great
influence over me, by her merry humor and wit. When the mind is yielding
and elastic, like the expanse of ocean, it readily, like the ocean,
mirrors its environments.
My writings, in my own country, were now classed among those which
were always bought and read; therefore for each fresh work I received a
higher payment. Yet, truly, when you consider what a circumscribed world
the Danish reading world is, you will see that this payment could not be
the most liberal. Yet I had to live. Collin, who is one of the men who
do more than they promise, was my help, my consolation, my support.
At this time the late Count Conrad von Rantzau-Breitenburg, a native
of Holstein, was Prime Minister in Denmark. He was of a noble, amiable
nature, a highly educated man, and possessed of a truly chivalrous
disposition. He carefully observed the movements in German and Danish
literature. In his youth he had travelled much, and spent a long time
in Spain and Italy, He read my "Improvisatore" in the original; his
imagination was powerfully seized by it, and he spoke both at court and
in his own private circles of my book in the warmest manner. He did not
stop here; he sought me out, and became my benefactor and friend. One
forenoon, whilst I was sitting solitarily in my little chamber, this
friendly man stood before me for the first time. He belonged to that
class of men who immediately inspire you with confidence; he besought me
to visit him, and frankly asked me whether there were no means by which
he could be of use to me. I hinted how oppressive it was to be _forced_
to write in order to live, always to be forced to think of the morrow,
and not move free from care, to be able to develop your mind and
thoughts. He pressed my hand in a friendly manner, and promised to be an
efficient friend. Collin and Oersted secretly associated themselves with
him, and became my intercessors.
Already for many years there had existed, under Frederick VI., an
institution which does the highest honor to the Danish government,
namely, that beside the considerable sum expended yearly, for the
travelling expenses of young literary men and artists, a small pension
shall be awarded to such of them as enjoy no office emoluments. All our
most important poets have had a share of this assistance,--Oehlenschl
ger, Ingemann, Heiberg, C. Winther, and others. Hertz had just then
received such a pension, and his future life made thus the more secure.
It was my hope and my wish that the same good fortune might be mine--and
it was. Frederick VI. granted me two hundred rix dollars banco yearly.
I was filled with gratitude and joy. I was nolonger _forced_ to write in
order to live; I had a sure support in the possible event of sickness.
I was less dependent upon the people about me. A new chapter of my life
began.