“Also, if I may add this, I was the first sexologist to perfect a technique of person-to-person interviews which, although subject , and interviewer were in the same room, preserved complete anonymity and made honesty more possible. The details of this technique I shall describe shortly. Furthermore, I believe I have developed and perfected a new approach to interviewing that leaves no stone unturned in the quest for truth. Hamilton asked his questions in writing and took the answers orally. Kinsey asked oral questions and received oral replies. Terman asked his questions in writing and accepted the answers in writing. In all cases, the questions were direct ones about sexual behavior and feelings. I have gone further. The questions my colleagues and I ask are separated into three distinct categories, in order to determine the subject’s sex performance and history, the subject’s psychological attitude toward sex, and the subject’s first-hand reaction to sex stimuli. Don’t let any of this frighten or confuse you. It’s all painless, this I promise, and certainly fascinating, and sometimes fun.
“But forgive me, I’ve been digressing. The point I wished to make is that, with the exception of those names that I have cited, and some I have overlooked, the subject of married sexual behavior has been handled by persons woefully uninformed or misinformed, or by persons with an ax to grind or possessed of some special dogma. Except for what married women have learned from these faulty sources, or from experiences with one or several men who are often as ill-informed as themselves, or from exaggerated gossip, or from the falsity of fiction, most married women continue through their lives burdened by medieval ignorance. As a result, their efficiency and their happiness is seriously impaired. And the subject of sex remains an under-the-table, back-room, back-street subject, suppressed and unknown and always indecent.
“My colleagues and I are dedicated to the sociological task of bringing sex into the open, and improving the lot of all women through factual knowledge. This is our crusade. This is why we are in The Briars today. To help you, and have you help us, prove that sex is a natural biological function, God given and God sanctioned, that deserves to be recognized as an act that is decent, clean, dignified, and pleasurable.”
Listening, Kathleen thought, Decent, clean, dignified, and pleasurable. How are you going to prove that? By asking me? By finding out the small hells I have lived through on my back? Will that factual knowledge free those others? Will that improve the breed? You fool. You stupid science fool. What do you know about being female-a bondmaid, a receptacle, Boynton’s sanctioned whore?
The hot inner flare of Kathleen’s anger gave way to reason, and reason to doubt, as always: Or is it me-me, not Boynton? Could any man make me normal, give me pleasure and receive pleasure in return? Am I-no, I won’t use that chilling word, I’ll use another-am I cold mutton? Why that? Why ever did I think of that? I remember. The story about Oscar Wilde. His friend Ernest Dowson tried to reform him, his homosexuality, to make him normal. Dowson sent Wilde to a Dieppe brothel, and afterward Wilde said, “It was my first these ten years, and it will be the last. It was like cold mutton.” I am cold mutton. But I hate it, I hate myself. I must find a man, have a man. I need one. So does poor Deirdre,
but me first. She wants a father. I need a man. Maybe Ted Dyson. When am I seeing him?
Ursula Palmer found that it was difficult to make notes. Several times she caught herself so absorbed in what Dr. Chapman was saying, somehow less related to the article than to herself, that she missed recording entire passages.
Now that he had paused briefly to pour himself a glass of water, and drink it, she hastily scratched across her pad: “Marriage beginnings primitive times. Groups of men mated groups women, changed partners, children in common. Church made custom law. Marriage human invention. Animals no, except maybe apes. Marriage social institution with demands, duties-mainly sexual intercourse.” She heard his voice again. She looked up and listened. ‘We have our enemies, of course,” said Dr. Chapman. “But it is the common lot of all probers of the truth. From the time Socrates was found guilty in Athens by 280 of his 500 jurors for telling the truth, to that more recent moment in Dayton when Scopes was found guilty of telling other truths, the leaders of enlightenment have suffered ostracism, punishment, death at the hands of the guardians of tradition, conservatism, conformity, and darkness:
“When our report on sexual patterns of the American single male first appeared, we were gratified by its overwhelming acceptance^-not only by scientists and scholars, but by laymen engaged in the difficult business of life and the pursuit of happiness. But there were dissenters, of course. I’m sure you remember them, the fossil-minded, who preferred the dreadful status quo of ignorance to the factuality of investigation. They were extremely vocal; they still are. They announced that our statistics were an open invitation to national promiscuity. They announced that our findings on bachelors and married women were subverting the holy state of matrimony. But fortunately the majority of American men and women, who wanted truth as much as we did, believed as we believe-that to know is better than not to know, that truth will strengthen rather than weaken morality and marriage.
“Back in 1934 and 1935, Lewis M. Terman asked 792 California women: ‘Before marriage was your general attitude to sex one of disgust and aversion; indifference; interest and pleasant anticipation; or eager and passionate longing?’ Thirty-four per cent of these women, over one third of them, told him frankly that their attitude
toward sex had been one of disgust and aversion. I think it would be safe to go even further. I would venture to guess, based on the not inconsiderable information we have obtained, that fifty to sixty per cent of all marital unions in this land suffer gravely from sexual misunderstandings. In short, five or six out of every ten women in this room are probably victims of the unnatural silence that surrounds the subject of sex. Our investigation into your lives, as into the lives of your husbands, may repair much of this damage and pain. We cannot guarantee magic-we are not in the business of magic-but I can only remind you, where there is truth there is
hope.”
Listening, Ursula thought, Five or six out of ten women in this room are victims. Of what? Yes, sexual misunderstandings-euphemism for mismated-but not really that, either, for if the mismated were separated to mate with others, they would still be mismated. Maybe the great man’s right. It’s not the principals who are wrong but their principles. Sa-ay, not bad. Maybe 111 use it. Am I one of the five or six out of ten, I mean Harold and I? We get along. Maybe not hilariously, but who does? And as for passion, we’re not kids any more. But we were once. Was there passion? Hell, we have as much sex as anybody. And we have other things, too. Harold’s getting the Berrey account. And I’ve got Foster drooling. New York. What would it be like working under him? Under him. Ugh. What am I thinking? I’m becoming a regular Freudian flip. If only he weren’t such a goddam repulsive girdle-snapper. How does Alma stand him? How does he stand her? That must be some sex life. Though a man can always get call girls, no matter how he looks. I guess she stands him because where would she be otherwise? This way, she has that moated castle in Connecticut-the gilded life. Would I make that kind of deal? What if he were demanding, wanted it two or three times a week? At least, Harold is considerate. He listens to me. And he doesn’t get in the way. I mean, there’s no tumult. Still, that big job in New York, that would be something. We’d be somebody. Have a place in Connecticut, too. Harold could-what in the hell could Harold do? Manage. He could manage my affairs. I’d be making big money then. Movie actresses are always doing that. Having husbands who keep busy by managing them. The role of cavaliere servente was an honorable one-once. Well, why not? This article could do it. It’ll literally slay them. Be picked up by Time. Reprinted by Reader’s Digest. I’d better keep up with these
notes. What was it again? Oh, yes-five or six out of ten … sexual misunderstanding … unnatural silence surrounding … don’t guarantee magic.
Knowing that she was fifteen minutes late, Sarah Goldsm
ith considered skipping the lecture. There were a hundred things to do at home. She had been neglecting everything lately, the small things. But what impelled her to continue to Romola Place, finally, was her sense of caution. She had said that she would be there, and she might, paradoxically, be conspicuous by her absence. Also, she had told Sam that she was going. He had hardly seemed interested, yet he might remember and ask her about it. If she told him that she had skipped it, he might be curious and start asking questions. If she told him that she had attended, and lied about it, there would be no questions. But this might lead to danger. Suppose she and Sam ran into Kathleen, or any of the others, and they wondered why she had not attended-this, after telling Sam that she had. It might really arouse his suspicions. It always happened like that in those silly television mysteries. Everything was planned, foolproof, protected, and then you lied once, made some nonsensical slip, and you were caught. If you told the truth, you couldn’t be caught lying.
Now, hanging back as Miss Selby softly opened the rear auditorium door, Sarah felt relieved that she had come here. Miss Selby beckoned her, and pointed off. She went to the door, saw the empty seat in the next to last row, third off the aisle. She nodded gratefully to Miss Selby, entered the auditorium, ducked her head apologetically at Mrs. Keegan and Mrs. Joyce, slid past to the seat and filled it.
She sat very still a few moments, looking neither to right nor to left. She had better make some excuse for being late, she decided. Jerry and Debbie would be the excuse. Worrying if she were in any way disheveled, she reached back, patting her sleek hair in the always neat bun. Fred sometimes spoke of actresses who looked as if they had just got out of bed. It was a very effective look, Fred said. It was worth more than being a talented performer.
Reassured that her hair was in place, and her gray suit as well, Sarah cast about to see if she were being noticed. All faces, all eyes, were pointed toward the stage. Suddenly, she realized that she was at a lecture. Not since she had been invited by Kathleen had she even thought of why she was going or whom she would hear. Her
mind was busy enough with Fred and Sam, with Fred actually. How hard and strong his body had been this morning, and how warm. With determination, she focused her attention on the stage. A strange man was speaking. She failed to grasp what he was saying, but after he paused, and began again, she was able to follow him. “We must have your complete confidence to continue with this work and to succeed at it,” said Dr. Chapman. “I believe, based on our past record, we have earned your confidence. The cornerstone of our interviewing technique-all else is built upon this foundation-is trust. We need your trust, ask it, and never once have we betrayed it. Three associates assist me in this work. They are scientists, technicians, all clinic-and laboratory-minded and trained for the task.
“For fourteen months my associates and I have questioned every type of married female-from housewife to career wife to prostitute. We have had candid interviews with secretaries, nurses, dancers, college students, waitresses, baby-sitters, mothers of large families, feminine professors, and politicians. We have talked with wives long married and just married, with widows and divorcees. We have heard and noted every conceivable type of female sexual activity-masturbation, homosexuality, heterosexuality, marital infidelity, and so forth. And, in every case, we have questioned and noted with scientific detachment. If I could choose one word to characterize our approach, I would use the word-and repeat it again and again-the word detachment.
“You must understand this. We are fact-finders, no more, no less. We are not in the business of appraising, commenting, or correcting. We ‘have no emotional feelings about how you behave, about what you do. We neither praise nor-condemn. And never -never do we attempt to change a subject’s sexual pattern. The questions we ask are simple, and they are asked of every woman we interview. They were scientifically prepared, far in advance, and are printed on sheets of paper. Beneath each question is a blank space for the answer. The answer is always recorded as a mark or symbol, these symbols being known only by the four investigators and meaningless to anyone else. I am eager to reassure you about this. When I first established Survey Studies Center, I considered using various obsolete systems of shorthand or old military codes as means of setting down answers that were to remain secret. None of these satisfied me. Then, I began a study of dead languages and learned that at least 200 and perhaps as many
as 325 artificial and so-called universal languages have been invented in the last five centuries. The most popular of these, as you may know, is Esperanto, which was invented by a Polish eye doctor in 1887. But I was seeking the least popular of these languages, one long extinct, and I found one that I felt was just right. This is the language of Solresol, conceived in 1817 and based on the seven notes of the scale. Well, I adapted Solresol to our surveys, adding various symbols to its forgotten alphabet. I have never found a human being, not even a veteran linguist or cryptographer, who could read Solresol, let alone our adaptation of it. This is the language we use to record your answers. So you know that your answers to our questions are, and will always be, confidential.
“When we leave The Briars two weeks from now, to return to Reardon College, we will have your Solresol answers with us. They will be deposited in specially rented safes of the Father Marquette National Bank off the campus. They will be removed only once, to be fed into a machine I designed, ten by twenty feet in size, known to us as the STC machine-STC standing for Solresol Translating Compiling machine. Your questionnaires will go directly into the mouth of this mechanism, the Solresol symbols will be photographed, and then, through an intricate electronic process, they will be translated into numerals for computing and totaling. Nothing is put into English until we have our totals, and then our results are published for the good of all. But, by then, each private answer has been absorbed by the whole, lost in the anonymity of the whole, and in no way can the final results ever embarrass a single person or be traced to a single individual.”
Listening, Sarah thought, I suppose it is safe, the way he explains it. And it is for a good cause. Maybe if they’d had something like this years ago, my life would have been different. Dr. Chapman looks like a man you can trust. His eyes are friendly. Of course, what can you tell about any man until you know him? When I was immature, I liked Sam a lot; thought I did. Look how he turned out. And Fred, the first time I met Fred, he irritated me. So sure of himself and bossing everyone, yet look what he’s really like. No one on earth is more decent or loving than he. There’s no man like him anywhere.
Sarah stared at Dr. Chapman, seeing him, not hearing him: I suppose, for science, it would be all right to admit the truth to him. But why risk telling the truth to anyone? Of course, if I told
a lie when I was interviewed-no, he’d find out, he’s a scientist, and he’d see through it and that might get me in -trouble. But why even volunteer at all? Because it would be riskier not to do it than to do it. I would be the only one, and everyone would know and begin to ask questions. Oh, hell, why is everything so-simple, so complicated finally? I guess I am mixed up, because I was going to tell Fred yesterday and this morning about the lecture and interviews, and I didn’t. Why didn’t I? I suppose I was afraid he would object. He and that damn wife. If he were living with her, I could understand. But he’s practically a bachelor. What has he got to lose if it gets out? All right, his boy, but neither of them hardly ever see the boy, and he’s practically grown up, anyway. I’m the one who should be worried. But I’m not. I just don’t care, I guess. In a way, I wish it were out. I’d like everyone to know. I’m so proud of Fred. There’ll never be anyone else, for the rest of my life. Isn’t it strange? I went with Jewish boys only. I guess the way I was raised. I always thought the others were different. That’s what Mom used to say. Goyem. I’m glad Mom isn’t here. I shouldn’t say that. But I am, really. Maybe I shouldn’t tell Dr. Chapman. Maybe he won’t ask. What if someone could read the Solresol language? What if it got out? How could I face Jerry
and Debbie? If they were grown up and experienced, they could understand; I could explain. But this way. No, I’ll just have to wait. It’s hard. How does that STC machine work? I wonder how many other women are like me? Right here. Of course, Mrs. Webb just went and left her husband. I guess she still sees that car dealer. Why doesn’t she marry him? And Naomi Shields. I heard about her. But that’s different. That’s not love. Oh, I’m so tired of the sneaking off and worrying. I wonder how they write it in that language?
Mary Ewing McManus was disappointed. She had expected a man of Dr. Chapman’s experience to be more practical. She had felt that she would listen to him and come away with something that she could use. But so far there was nothing like that at all. Only generalities. Of course, there were some interesting things she could repeat to Norman and her father at dinner. And some funny things, too. She tried to remember one of them. But she couldn’t.
Mary realized that she was staring at the back of Kathleen’s head. She admired Kathleen’s shining black hair, and the short bob, and the cream-white neck, and wished that she could be as
(1961) The Chapman Report Page 12
