It was through Dr. Horace Van Duesen that Paul finally met Dr. Chapman. Horace was a young Professor of Obstetrics and Gynecology who had been disinterested in what he had so long trained for, and had hoped to become a statistician. When the second project had sufficient endowment, but was not yet fully underway, Dr. Chapman hired spare-time associates. Horace Van Duesen was the first on his staff. Horace was thin and bony; when he rose to his feet you were sure you heard him rattle. His blinking myopic eyes were limpid, his nose beaky, his chin receding and apologetic. When Paul saw his face, he thought of Aldous Huxley on Shelley: “Not human, not a man. A mixture between a fairy and a white slug … No blood, no real bones and bowels. Only pulp and a white juice.” It seemed that Horace was aware of his liquid countenance and tried to reinforce it with the formal, starched collars, severe navy ties, and dark suits. He was more than he appeared, however. He was rigid in his essential decency, and puritanical at the core, and devoted to the belief that the only reality, comprehension, communication, lay in numbers.
Paul was drawn to him at once, because he was good, and he was level. Too, with this man, Paul decided, there could be no misunderstandings. They were brought together in a natural way. They were both lonely-or, rather, because both were unattached, hostesses assumed that they were lonely. Soon enough, Paul learned that Horace had been married for a brief period, and that his wife had left him or he had sent her away, and that now she was in the process of divorcing him in California. There had been some kind of scandal. Paul could never get it clear, nor did he wish to, and Horace never spoke of the bruise. Several times, Paul had heard professors’ wives, or their grown daughters, refer to the recent Mrs. Van Duesen with antagonism and distaste. Since this always came from women, and the antagonism was unanimous, Paul felt safe in assuming that the recent Mrs. Van Duesen had been good looking and attractive to men.
As their friendship developed-poker, ball games, movies, occasional double dates, long walks and talks about their work-Paul learned of Dr. Chapman’s project, and Horace learned of Paul’s published book and book in the works. One summer evening, Horace asked to read The Censorable Fringe. A week later, having read and enjoyed it, he reported that he had loaned it to Dr. Chapman. Two days after that, in a state of excitement, Horace caught Paul between classes, before the gymnasium, and told him that Dr. Chapman wanted to see him.
And so, at last, Paul met Dr. Chapman. Horace drove Paul to the Swedish restaurant in town where, in a leather booth across the large room, Dr. Chapman was waiting. They ate and talked. They drove back to the school, and went inside the quonset hut, and Dr. Chapman showed what he and Horace and the others were doing, and he talked. Later, deciding that a breath of air would do them good, Dr. Chapman led them on a long stroll about the darkened campus, Paul striding quickly to keep up beside him, and Horace a step behind.
It was a dizzying and stimulating night, in every way, and for Paul, it was wonderful. He found Dr. Chapman quick-witted, though humorless about his work, a man as well read as himself, and an hypnotic talker. Several times during the evening, drawing himself away from the flow of words, Paul considered Dr. Chapman and saw Dwight Moody and Billy Sunday. Not only in high-pitched, droning eloquence, but in single-mindedness, was Dr. Chapman fanatic about his calling and his mission. He spoke of the men and women who were his subjects with the same bloodless detachment that one might use when speaking of halibuts, and he spoke of sex with the same offhandedness that one might use to speak of a piece of furniture or wearing apparel.
When they crossed the campus, Paul became aware-and this awareness was confirmed in later travels-that Dr. Chapman had no sensibility or consciousness of externals. He had no interests in sights and landscapes, and he had no sensory reactions. He was not even interested in people as individual human beings, except for what they might contribute to his precious digits and codings. It was during that evening, for the first time, that Paul had casually wondered about Dr. Chapman’s personal sex life. Later, Horace had informed him of the once Mrs. Chapman and repeated a rumor of some handsome, middle-aged woman in Milwaukee (only a rumor, mind you, though he did go to Milwaukee several times a month, always alone), but if true, the affair was merely an anatomical convenience.
All through that night, Paul knew what was coming, and waited, fearful that it would not come (a fear rooted in the uncertainty of his academic standing, since he was not even an instructor with a Master’s degree but merely a lecturer, which sometimes made him
feel he did not belong to the club), but at last it did come, and he was finally not surprised.
“It’s a pity, at this point, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let Dominick go,” Dr. Chapman had said.
They had reached the gabled Theta Xi house, and Dr. Chapman stood at the edge of the curb, making much of lighting a new cigar.
“A good man,” he continued, exhaling smoke. “But he’s married a Catholic girl, and she and her whole family are pounding him for his disgraceful vocation. He wants to get back to his first work -he was in physiological chemistry when I found him-but he feels a certain loyalty to me. He was with us this past year, on the interviews throughout the country. But now he’s impatient and upset, and that’s no good when you’re collating.” Suddenly, he peered through the smoke at Paul. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“My mother adhered to the teachings of John Calvin, my father to Bob Ingersoll,” said Paul. “I have a sister in New York who is devoted to Mary Baker Eddy. I’m-well, I suppose I’m most faithful to Voltaire.”
Dr. Chapman stared at the pavement a moment. “Let’s walk back,” he said.
They walked more slowly now, and Dr. Chapman resumed again. “There’s an opening,” he said. “We’re preparing the presentation. It is the final stage, but it’s the one we’ll be judged by. I’m loaded down with assisting specialists in physiology, psychiatry, sociology, endocrinology, anthropology. At this point I need someone who knows something about literature-and a little of everything else-to help with the presentation.” He glanced at Paul. “Like the man who wrote your book.” It was his only concession to levity the entire evening.
And so, within a week, on a part-time basis, Paul became a member of the team. During the year that followed, the latest survey was prepared for the press. The more closely Paul worked with Dr. Chapman, the more he admired him and saw in him the traits that he always wished his father had possessed. For, in Paul’s eyes, Dr. Chapman wore, like three precious stones in an idol’s head, the qualities of Direction, Dedication, Confidence.
Paul’s admiration for Dr. Chapman carried over into the project itself, so that sometimes it seemed that all the world beyond the college hut was a primitive and ignorant place, waiting only for the Message to give its dark age a renaissance. Dr. Chapman toiled
mornings, afternoons, and from eight to midnight every evening, as well. Always, Paul was beside him. The notes on Sir Richard Burton gathered dust, the Milwaukee Braves were one rooter shy, and the Lake Forest girls sighed and cast about for more likely prospects.
When the project was done, and the book put to press, Paul felt oddly bereft. Something needed and encompassing had left his life. And, when the book was printed and released, there was the dreadful apprehension. Would it be accepted, or was all this belief and devotion a delusion? Accepted it was-as few books in all history had been accepted-by specialist and layman alike. In the hysterical excitement that followed, Paul forgot his vocation, his career, his private dreams. He wanted only to go on being a part of this new adventure.
Dr. Chapman’s third survey, A Sex History of the American Married Female, was already in preparation when the enormous success of the second venture ensured the undertaking of the third. Paul was offered a permanent job as member of the interviewing team. His salary increase was twenty-five per cent. But even without it he would have grabbed the opportunity. He resigned as lecturer on “English Literature-Borrow to Beardsley” and became a full-time investigator of femal
e sexuality.
After the groundwork had been laid-the studying and orientation, the planning of objectives, the sifting of questions, the corresponding with friendly college groups, church organizations, community clubs, PTAs-the itinerary of the tour was set. As to personnel, Dr. Chapman had streamlined his team. On his first survey, there had been two of them, himself and an aide; on his second survey, to cover more ground, there had been seven interviewers deploying as two task forces. But now, for the third survey, Dr. Chapman decided to reduce his commandos again, for the sake of thoroughness, mobility, economy. This time, there were four of them, and a secretary. Dr. Chapman, Horace, Paul, and a portly young psychologist named Dr. Theodore Haines comprised the team. Benita Selby, a pale, withdrawn, flaxen-haired girl of twenty-nine, and frantically efficient, was the secretary. Benita was expected to fly into each city two days before the team arrived, set up. the machinery, and stay on for the paper work. The fourteen-month tour was to begin in Minnesota, move to Vermont, then zig-zag up and down the land, and across to California. One month before departure, Dr. Theodore Haines resigned. He had been offered a government job in Washington-as a result of his connection with Dr. Chapman-and it was important to him to stand independently on his own two feet. Dr. Chapman cajoled, to no avail. Haines departed-and Cass Miller took his place.
Dr. Chapman had rushed to Chicago to interview candidates, and Cass had appealed to him at once. Cass was a zoologist, in a small but highly rated Ohio college. He taught four classes, and he was working for his Ph.D. His background, so similar to Dr. Chapman’s own, and his fierce intensity, which, in his haste, Dr. Chapman mistook for dedication, were appealing. After surviving twenty-four hours of Dr. Chapman’s penetrating questions and a superficial check into his background, Cass became the fourth member of the team.
A week later, having settled his affairs in Ohio, Cass was at Reardon, undergoing day and night briefing. Horace thought him agreeable, but Paul was less certain. Cass was short, but solid and athletic. He was dark and handsome in a brooding sort of way, like an embodiment of Hamlet. His hair was black and wavy, his eyes narrow, his lips full. His cleanliness shone, and his clothes were impeccable. He walked with the bantam-cock strut of many small men, and there was about him the feeling of one high-strung, coiled tight. He exercised in a frenzied way, and was strong and tireless at his work. Often, he was uncommunicative, which at first deceived Paul into believing that he possessed hidden wisdom. He was given to cynicism, crudities (in the manner he spoke, for he was actually erudite), moderate drinking, and long silent walks. You have to know him well, Paul often thought, really to dislike him.
During the rigorous fourteen months past, Paul had come to know him well. Weighing all personality factors, Paul decided (to himself) that what repelled him most about Cass was his attitude toward women and sex. Since all of them were devoted day after day to studying the private sexual behavior of women, any deviation from the purely scientific attitude was glaring. Dr. Chapman was simply above ordinary off-hour sex talk and drive, and was not to be judged. Horace was apathetic, as if he had expended his last emotional investment in the wife who had divorced him. Paul imagined that Horace had a low sex quotient, and that, generally, he was a recluse in his private world of fantasy. Paul himself, based on Dr. Chapman’s findings in the bachelor survey, had been about normal in his desires and activity before joining the team. Recently, however, he had sublimated his physical needs in work. He now found that he could perform efficiently for several weeks without a woman. The surfeit of sex chatter each day, the long hours of note making, the constant travel, were enervating, and alcohol and sleep became satisfactory substitutes for physical love. But then, always, finally, there was a woman’s voice, legs, bust, and suddenly his emotions were engaged.
Since the members of the team labored under the closest national scrutiny, challenged constantly by moral voices of the Mrs. Grundys, their conduct had to be above reproach. Dr. Chapman hammered this home to them time and again. Paul played it safe. He found his occasional woman in the anonymity of a crowded bar or, as frequently, through a colleague in a co-operating university, a bachelor like himself who knew someone who had a friend. There was no love in this, but there was release and relaxation. Real love (whatever that was) Paul had never known, nor would he allow himself to dwell upon it. In this way, he supposed, he was like Cass, and yet he was not like Cass at all. For, he was sure, Cass hated women. Dr. Chapman, usually astute and perceptive about those near to him, was too occupied elsewhere to have discovered this fact yet. But Paul was sure. Cass’s neuroses had not been so evident earlier in the investigation, when more often his intensity was leavened with humor. But lately, in the last few months certainly, especially when Dr. Chapman was not about, Cass had more and more displayed an angry, almost savage way of discussing women. It was as if they had not evolved beyond the animals he had once dissected in zoology.
Paul knew that Cass had a compulsive need for many women, for different women, and that he picked them up in almost every city they visited, sometimes with a total disregard of his position. Was it to make himself more than he was-or to make all women less? Paul did not know. But he felt that Cass made love at women, not with them. This was the basic difference between Cass and himself. Cass loved without hope. Paul, even in his most calculated adventure, hoped for more than there was, forever seeking not sex alone but total love, and never finding it.
Dimly, he heard his name, and, momentarily groping out of the recess of daydream and past, he scrambled back to the train bedroom.
Dr. Chapman, he was aware, had been addressing him. “. . , takes care of East St. Louis.”
Paul nodded solemnly. “Yes, it does.” Busily, he straightened the sheaf of papers on his lap.
Dr. Chapman turned to Horace and Cass. “Well, we’re going to be up bright and early. We want to be at our best at The Briars.”
Horace rose and stretched. “Has there been much publicity about our coming?”
“Oh, I should think so,” said Dr. Chapman.
“I hate having my picture in the papers,” said Horace. “I’m not the type. I always look like I’m being confirmed.”
Dr. Chapman laughed. “The price of fame,” he said with satisfaction. “Well, good night.”
“Good night,” said Horace.
He started for the door. Paul and Cass were on their feet. They both nodded to Dr. Chapman, who was stuffing his papers into his brown calf briefcase, and followed Horace. They were in the narrow corridor, Paul in the rear, when Dr. Chapman spoke up again. “Paul, can I see you for a minute-just for a minute?”
“Of course.”
Paul looked after Horace and Cass, who were already moving down the corridor, hands extended like wings, balancing against the beige metal wall and the green shades, making their way toward the lounge car.
It would be their last night like this, before heading home. Paul wanted to celebrate. “Cass,” he called, “if you’re going to have a nightcap-“
“You’re damn right,” answered Cass.
“… I’ll join you.”
He watched them continue down the rolling corridor, and then he turned back into Dr. Chapman’s compartment.
“… you’ll be quite appalled, but without men like Ackerman, our work would be ten times harder, maybe impossible,” said Dr. Chapman.
He sipped his gin and tonic, and Paul, sitting across from him, drank again of his Scotch and water.
They had been conversing like this, not exactly about their work, but around their work, for five or ten minutes. Dr. Chapman had rung for the porter, and ordered the drinks-he, too, apparently, was feeling festive-and they had just got the drinks.
Dr. Chapman had been discussing inconsequential matters—
California, The Briars, some friends at UCLA, a possible vacation for all when they returned to Reardon, then California again-and this was odd, since he had so little small talk. Paul divined that this was all preliminary to somethi
ng, and he drank and waited. Now Dr. Chapman was discussing Emil Ackerman, a wealthy Los Angeles resident, who had helped make arrangements for interviews four years before and had been responsible for the contact with The Briars’ Women’s Association.
“But just what does he do?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know,” said Dr. Chapman. “He’s representative of a certain profession, unclassified, unnamed, in America, that helps make the country go. He was in manufacturing, probably still is. Enormously rich. Has homes in Bel-Air, Palm Springs, Phoenix. His avocation is politics. Maybe it’s his vocation. Maybe that’s how he makes his money-putting in a governor or a mayor, fooling around with tax legislation. I know he’s tied in with the lobbyists in Sacramento, and he has his hand in a dozen activities. He doesn’t get much publicity. He doesn’t run for office. He’s a sort of Harry
Daugherty-or, better, Jesse W. Smith, the Harding man who had the Little Green House on K Street. Ackerman’s profession is doing favors.”
“Purely altruism?”
“I strongly doubt it. You cast your bread upon enough waters-and you wait-and sometimes you catch a whale. It’s a profitable sport. Most office holders are not titans of integrity or intelligence. You’ve heard the story about President Harding. His father said to him, ‘If you were a girl, Warren, you’d be in the family way all the time. You can’t say No.’ Well, there are hundreds like that. They can’t say No when Ackerman offers to do a favor, and they can’t say No when he wants repayment. Ackerman’s in the business of being paid back.”
(1961) The Chapman Report Page 8
