WHEN KATHLEEN BALLARD slowed her Mercedes in the thickening traffic of The Village Green—which always increased through the morning, as women converged on the business section to shop before lunch—and then drew to a halt beside the stop sign at Romola Place, she realized that her fantasy had been no more than a fantasy and a wish, after all.
She had awakened early, in the gray dawn, before the sun was up, and lay very still, her eyes closed but mind awake, adjusting to the day ahead and knowing that this was the day.
The night before, the newspapers had been full of Dr. Chapman's arrival, and Dr. Chapman's lecture (all enlarging considerably on Grace Waterton's press release), and several ran pictures of Dr. Chapman. But even knowing that they had arrived, Kathleen lay daydreaming of a last-minute reprieve. Perhaps something would happen to Dr. Chapman; he would drop dead of a heart attack—no, that was not fair he would be hit by a car, and survive (after a long convalescence), and his associates would agree to cancel The Briars sampling, because they had enough material already. Or maybe it would happen another way. Each woman, individually, would feel that she did not want to subject herself to this ordeal. Each would stay away, certain that she would not be missed. In this way, at the appointed hour, no one would appear. Discouraged, Dr. Chapman would cancel the lecture and take his troupe to Pasadena or San Diego.
When the sun was out at last, slanting through the white drapes, and her alarm sounded shrilly and she shut it off, she could hear Deirdre stirring in the next room. She sat up, almost believing there would be no lecture, and feeling sure that she need not bother to attend. Yet, after her toilet, and breakfast, and the brief trouble with Deirdre, she returned to her bedroom to remove her brunch coat and slip into her dressy beige sweater and skirt.
Driving through The Briars, her hope of the lecture's being canceled diminished the nearer she approached The Village Green. When she reached Romola Place and peered off to her left down the long, sloping street, hope vanished completely. As far as she could see, and even beyond the bend, the curbs were lined with parked cars. They were before the post office and the Optimist Club, and they filled the Junior Chamber of Commerce lot. She turned to look at the entrance to the two-story Women's Association building. Three women—she was not sure, but one resembled Teresa Harnish—were animatedly conversing as they went inside. Two other women arrived at the entrance from opposite directions and greeted each other.
A horn honked impatiently. Kathleen glanced up at her rear-view mirror, saw a milk truck behind her, and hastily pressed the gas pedal and swung left down Romola Place. She drove slowly, in the right lane, searching for a parking place —if she found none, she would, of course, have to miss the lecture—and then, beyond the Chamber of Commerce lot, she saw a bald man maneuver his Cadillac from the curb and roar away. Reluctantly, she made for the gaping place. She would not be missing Dr. Chapman's lecture, after all.
Walking uphill toward the Women's Association building, Kathleen's mind reached back for Deirdre. It had been one of their unhappier mornings. Deirdre was an enchantment—everyone said that she looked like Kathleen—except on those mornings when she had her spells. This morning, she had screamed and resisted dressing and, once dressed, had wet her pants, and they had to be removed and replaced. At breakfast, she would not eat, and when Olive Keegan came in the car pool auto, she would not enter it. Hating herself, Kathleen had bribed Deirdre with a package of sweet gum and a new book she had been saving for a Sunday, and, at last, the morning was placid.
These rebellions, a week of every month, left Kathleen trembling and fearfully alone. She had several times spoken to Dr. Howland, and he, always hurried and harried, had by rote reminded her that four-year-olds needed consistency of handling (". . boundaries of behavior, they want authority, they want to know how far they can go"), and Kathleen always came away hating Boynton more for having left unfinished business, and yet knowing he would have been of no use. But maybe it was really herself. If she stopped living like a recluse—more men coming and going, the tweedy smell of men and their bass voices—it would be different. And there was Ted Dyson, but he was interested only in her and not in a four-year-old—he had no talent for children—but maybe it wasn't men either; maybe it was what Deirdre wanted from her and did not get—warmth—hadn't she been told that she had no warmth?
"Kathleen!"
She was just at the entrance. She turned and saw Naomi Shields crossing the street toward her, waving. Kathleen waited. A convertible was approaching rapidly.
"Look out, Naomi," Kathleen called.
Naomi halted in mid-street, then looked off toward the vehicle, smiling, waiting for it to pass. The driver, a swarthy young man in a seersucker jacket, jammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt. Naomi, still smiling, inclined her head to the driver, and then paraded slowly across the bumpers to the curb. Kathleen watched the driver. He was regarding Naomi appreciatively. At last, with a sigh of regret it seemed (for his wife? his appointment? his lack of boldness?), he shifted the gear and drove away.
Kathleen switched her gaze to Naomi. She tried to see her as the young man had seen her, and she knew at once that Naomi would always cross streets safely in traffic. Naomi's small, compact figure exuded an almost embarrassing air of obvious sensuality. The knit dress she now wore accentuated the effect. Few women, Kathleen decided, could successfully wear knit dresses—women in their thirties, that is—and Naomi was one of the few. Her doll face, and her extraordinary breasts, Kathleen concluded, must drive men insane. Did they? Were there men? Well, Dr. Chapman would know in a few days.
Naomi was beside her. "I'm glad I caught you, Katie. I'd hate to face that zoo alone."
Kathleen looked down at her and thought there was whisky in the scent of perfume. "I'm glad you could make it," she said. She could think of nothing less banal.
"I almost didn't. I woke with a splitting headache. But I feel better now." She inspected Kathleen. "You certainly look unmussed. How do you manage at this hour?"
"Clean living, I suppose," Kathleen said, not thinking, and then she was sorry, remembering the rumors about Naomi.
But Naomi seemed not to have heard. She was staring at the entrance. "Imagine a sex lecture at ten-thirty in the morning."
"I suppose it does seem more appropriate to the evening."
"Oh, I don't mean that. I think sex is fine in the morning—after you've brushed your teeth." Suddenly, she laughed. "But who wants to listen to some old poop who's over the hill?" She took Kathleen's arm. "Well, let's join the dim bulbs and get it over with."
Inside the large, gray inner hall, there were four tables, in a row, some yards apart, and on each a placard reading "A to G,”
“H to M,”
“N to S," and "T to Z." There were three nondescript girls, shorthand types with crooked teeth, behind three of the tables, and a tall, consumptive-appearing girl with lackluster flaxen hair bending across one of the tables,. whispering.
"Recruitment center," said Kathleen.
"Draft board, you mean," replied Naomi, too loudly.
Apparently, the tall girl had overheard her, for now she turned, an uncertain smile on her pale face, and came awkwardly forward.
"I'm Miss Selby, Dr. Chapman's secretary," she said. "Are you here for the lecture?"
"Somebody said something about stag films," said Naomi cheerfully.
Miss Selby appeared bewildered. At last, she forced a smile. "You've been misinformed," she said.
"I hope we're not late," said Kathleen.
"No, it'll be another five minutes," said Miss Selby. "The auditorium is almost filled.
Kathleen followed Naomi down the corridor and then followed her into the auditorium. The room, three broad windows to one side and a flag on the opposite wall, held a capacity of three hundred, and now it seemed an irregular sea of heads and colored hats. Many turned toward the door, and Kathleen smiled vaguely back at the familiar faces.
"Let's get off our feet," said Naomi.
"I promised Ursula Palmer—Ursula said she was saving a seat for me." Kathleen searched uncertainly.
From a row near the front, a hand was waving a pad. Kathleen stood on her toes. The hand belonged to Ursula. Now Ursula was removing the pad from her hand and holding up two fingers.
"I think she has a seat for you, too," said Kathleen. "Either that or she wants to go to the bathroom," said Naomi.
They started down the center aisle, Naomi walking very erect, with her large busts high, regarding her contemporaries with arch superiority, and Kathleen, warm and self-conscious.
Ursula Palmer was in the aisle seat of the fifth row. There were two empty seats beside her. She stood up to allow Naomi and Kathleen to squeeze past her.
"Hello, Naomi, Kathleen."
They greeted her and sat down.
"Sarah Goldsmith wanted me to hold one for her, too," Ursula said, lowering herself into the seat. She looked up the aisle. "I guess she couldn't make it."
"She's probably tied up with the children," said Kathleen, thinking again of Deirdre.
"Little monsters," said Ursula, because she often forgot that she was a mother.
Naomi poked her finger at the pad and pencil in Ursula's hands. "Handy tips?" she asked teasingly.
"I may write an article," said Ursula, annoyed.
Kathleen felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. Mary McManus was in the seat behind her, smiling. "Aren't you excited, Kathleen?" Her narrow eyes and narrow face were shining.
"Well, curious," said Kathleen.
"Hi, Mary," Naomi called. "How's Clarence Darrow?”
“You mean Norman? Oh, wonderful. Dad's giving him his first court case next week."
"Bravo," said Naomi. Then she added, "What are you doing for lunch?"
"I'm free until two. Are you?"
"It's a date," said Naomi.
Ursula held up her pad and pointed it off. "I think the curtain's about to go up."
They all turned expectantly toward the barren stage. Grace Waterton was carrying a silver pitcher and drinking glass across the rostrum. She placed them carefully on the stand there. The room was hushed. Grace retraced her steps toward the wings, then halted, and descended to the pit. She started for the center aisle when Teresa Harnish, her coral headband dominating the front row, beckoned to her. Grace moved toward Teresa, and they held a brief consultation.
"If they're talking sex," said Naomi, "there's the blind leading the blind."
Grace was making her way up the center aisle. Her hair, which appeared freshly ironed, was gray-purple, and her tiny frame seemed to peck forward. She saw Ursula and Kathleen and waved. "Any minute," she said. "He's just finishing his press conference."
As Grace continued on her way, Ursula frowned. "I didn't know he was giving a press conference," she muttered. "I should be there."
"You won't miss a thing," Kathleen said to her. "What can he tell them that's new?"
Kathleen glanced up at the barren stage again, uneasily studying the lectern and pitcher and glass and the gleaming silver head of the public-address microphone. She looked at the faces around her. Small talk and gossip had ceased. All seemed to be waiting expectantly or—did she fancy it?—fear-fully. Tension seemed a solid that you could reach out and touch.
She settled back into herself: What can he tell them that's new?
In the large cement dressing room, behind the velvet back-drop, Dr. George G. Chapman, wearing a dark-gray tie, white shirt, and charcoal suit, sat on the bench, arms propped back on the glass-topped table, and told the press that he was making this final appearance of the long and successful road trip an occasion on which to tell them something new.
The reaction in the cold room was immediate. Paul Radford, sitting in a pull-up chair a few feet from Dr. Chapman, could see it on every face. There were five reporters, four men and a woman, from the local dailies and the wire services, and two photographers. They were sitting or standing in a semicircle before Dr. Chapman, and somehow, all at once they seemed to be leaning closer to him. Beyond them, Emil Ackerman, a jolly, blubbery face on a fat body that spilled over his folding chair, sat with his arms folded and legs crossed. Now he un-folded his arms and uncrossed his legs. He scratched at the lapel of his tan silk suit, and then he found a gold cigarette case, and a cigarette, his eyes never leaving Dr. Chapman.
Dr. Chapman straightened on the bench and brought his hands together, lacing his fingers. He contemplated them for a moment, and then he looked up.
"Everywhere I have traveled," he said, "I have been asked to give out some summary, some trend, of our inquiry into the sexual history of the married female. Everywhere I have declined."
Paul shifted in his chair and stared at the maroon carpet. What Dr. Chapman was telling the press was not quite accurate, he knew. The project had been no more than six months on the road when, to climax every big-city press conference, Dr. Chapman had begun to drop a new and provocative generality gleaned from his female survey. He judged, and correctly so, that these insignificant morsels would be lapped up by the sensation-hungry press and enlarged upon under great black headlines. Thus, the project would be kept before the public, dynamic, important, and, appetites would be constantly whetted for the appearance of the forthcoming book. Dr. Chapman never discussed these casual droppings. Pure science was above catering to popularization and publicity. Perhaps he did not even design or plan them in advance. But so strong was his instinct for survival, for the project's advancement, that possibly unconsciously he had kept adding these transfusions. Never before, however, had he prefaced an announcement of something new and newsworthy so definitely.
He wants to wind up the tour on a high note, Paul told himself. Or maybe this is the beginning of a campaign to combat Dr. Jonas before the jurors of the Zollman Foundation. Until now, Paul had tried to push off the uncomfortable assignment before him. He did not want to call on Dr. Jonas with a blatant bribe. But there could be no doubt that the future of the project was at stake. That justified what he must do, and what Dr. Chapman was now doing.
"...I have declined," resumed Dr. Chapman, having disposed of his cigar stub, "because I did not feel we had gathered enough of a sampling to see any definite trends, and even after we had, I was reticent because I wanted to check and study my totals with my staff. However, now that we are in Los Angeles for our final sampling—we have carefully interviewed over three thousand American married women, divorcees, widows, to date—I feel it only fair to let the public in on one aspect of our findings, one that I know to be generally accurate, and one that will have immediate significance to married women throughout the nation."
Paul, observing the eager faces of the reporters, could conjure up a vision of the headlines expanding larger and larger, like mammoth balloons puffed round by the words Dr. Chapman was breathing.
"It became clearly evident to those of us on the team, very early, that the greatest—" Dr. Chapman paused, reconsidered, modified—"one of the greatest misunderstandings existing between the sexes is the belief that men and women are possessed of like or similar drives and emotions. While it is a fact that men and women are physiologically alike in genital responses, in location of erogenous zones, this alikeness does not carry over into needs and desires. The public seems to believe that for every man on earth who wants sexual relations, there also exists a woman who feels exactly the same way. In short, that both sexes have equal need of sexual release. While, I repeat, I am not yet prepared to present you with statistical evidence on this important point, I am quite prepared to make a general statement about it. To date, our findings explode the belief completely. To date, our findings indicate that sexual participation is less important to the American female than it is to the American male."
He paused. There was a flicker of a smile on his face as the reporters bent to their pencils. He glanced at Paul, who nodded approvingly, and then across at Ackerman, who lifted a chubby hand in brief salute.
The rangy reporter with the gray felt hat, standing behind the chairs, looked up from the folded papers in his hand. "Dr. Chapman, I want to be sure I have this right. Are you saying that, after talking to three thousand women, you believe that women aren't as interested in sex as men?"
"I'm saying something like that, based on our survey," said Dr. Chapman agreeably. Then he added quickly, "Of course, we're referring to American married women. I'm in no position to speak for the English or the French—"
"I'll speak for them!" boomed Ackerman from across the room. "When I was in Paris last year—" He paused, and grinned. "I better not, there's a lady in the room. Meet you boys down at the bar later."
Everyone laughed. The girl reporter made a mock grimace. "Aw, come on," she said to Ackerman. He shook his head.
"Our sampling includes only American married women," Dr. Chapman repeated.
"Can you tell us more about that?" the girl reporter asked. Paul noticed that though her hair had a Bohemian tousle, and her legs were long and shapely, her face was all sharp features. But the legs were fine. Her eyes were very bright. Paul bet himself that she was reporter and not voyeur, interested in story and not sex.
"I intend to," said Dr. Chapman to the girl. "Our findings on the married female are now of more value, because we have a detailed record of the unmarried male to employ as some standard of comparison. Our respective samplings indicate that the average male is more concerned, even obsessed, with sex than the average female. More often than not, the basic reason a male will marry is because he wishes to possess a woman sexually. Later, should he be disappointed, or tire of his wife—I am speaking of sex—he may divorce her, or be unfaithful, or turn to psychiatry or drink. On the other hand, the female does not marry mainly because she wishes to be possessed by a man—again, sexually. It is one of her motivations, of course, but not the basic one. In her attitude toward physical love, she is the more passive partner. She marries for security, social acceptance, conformity, children, companionship. She desires normal sexual outlets, but if they disappoint her, she will more often than not resist the extreme measures of a divorce, a lover, an analyst, a bottle. If physical love dissatisfies, she will repress it, suffer and survive the emotional ill effects, and sublimate her needs in other equally important comforts like children, home, social life, and so forth."
Dr. Chapman waited while the reporters busily scribbled. When most of them had caught up, he continued.
"Based on our findings, I suspect that men have created a fictional world of women—women who do not really exist in today's America. This is one of the many significant points I hope to bring out, and support with evidence, in A Sex History of the American Married Female, which we plan to release to the public next spring. Consider the mediums of entertainment and escape—I refer specifically to novels, plays, motion pictures, television. The men who are the writers in these mediums most often project heroines who hunger to receive sexual love, who cannot have enough of it, who respond erotically and without inhibition. Those are the American women of fiction. But our interviews indicate that they are not the women of fact. These women of fiction, invented by men, are performing as men think women should—or wish they would. But the women my colleagues and I have met are quite the opposite. They are real, and most of them—the majority—can take sex or leave it alone; they do not daydream about it and excite themselves as men do; they are not stimulated by nude or semi-nude men; they are not overcome by handsome, virile men. In novels and motion pictures, they are. Men seem to think they are. But it is not so. Facts are facts. It is not true."
They were all writing. The girl reporter's forehead was furrowed. She held up one hand. Dr. Chapman nodded.
"Speaking for the distaff side," she said, "if what you are saying is true, Dr. Chapman, why do so many women like sex novels—I mean, those books seem to sell—and the rental libraries—doesn't that show women are interested?"
Dr. Chapman puckered his lips and studied the ceiling. "I'm glad you asked that," he said at last. "Of course, I don't have the facts. Do those books really sell? Are they mainly read by women? I don't know. But let us assume that is the case. It probably is. The answer, from my point of view, is this—and though it may sound contradictory to all I have said, it is not. Many women are preoccupied with sex, but in ways different than their husbands or lovers imagine. Women are attracted to romantic fiction not so much for identification or stimulation as to satisfy an irritating curiosity. First, because men place so high a premium on sexual attraction, and the rewards for possessing this attraction are so great in our society, women find that they must devote themselves to it, whether they are interested or not. Second, most American females have fallen for male propaganda. They are told, daily, that they are supposed to behave and feel the way men want them to behave and feel, yet they know they are not so behaving and feeling. It troubles them. It worries them. It gives them inferiority. And this, coupled with the whole defect in our culture—I refer to the purposeless, pointless road most women travel in their marriages, but this is another area and I will not go into it—makes women feel unfulfilled. What is wrong with them? They ask themselves this. They want to know. So they devote themselves to books, plays, movies, envying the women they read about, the women they can't be, the women who don't really exist. A large share of these wives think they are unusual, undersexed, odd. They are none of these things. They are average. They are the twenty-fifth to seventy-fifth percentile of all women. I think our survey—" he became aware of Grace Waterton in the doorway signaling to Paul. He returned his gaze to the reporters—"will dramatically prove this point. I am confident it will do much to relax tension among women in America."
"Speaking for myself," said the girl reporter, "one thing isn't clear—"
Paul was on his feet, beside Dr. Chapman, bending to him. "Pardon me, Doctor," he interrupted. "They're all assembled; they've been waiting—" .
Dr. Chapman nodded, and briskly came to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said to the girl reporter and the others, "but you remember I said I would have to terminate this when the lecture could begin? These women were kind enough to appear. I don't want to keep them waiting." He smiled winningly. "Of course, you're invited to stay for my little talk. But to save you time—I know you want to file your stories—Paul Radford here has advance copies of it."
"Thanks for all of us, Dr. Chapman," the rangy reporter called after him.
"It was a pleasure," said Dr. Chapman from the door. He waited for Ackerman, and then placed his hand on the fat man's shoulder. "Why don't you find a seat, Emil? The briefing won't take more than an hour. Then we can have lunch."
They went out together. Paul picked the pile of mimeographed transcripts off the glass-topped dressing-room table and began to pass them out.
Dr. Chapman had been speaking, in his easy, informal manner, for ten minutes, and the anxiety in the auditorium had visibly lessened. So far, the women found, there was no invasion of privacy, no shock, nothing to fear. This was an affable, nice man chatting with them. His personality was as reassuring as that of any elderly physician at a bedside.
Kathleen Ballard had been sitting stiffly in her seat, hardly aware of the meaning of Dr. Chapman's introductory remarks, so intent was she on resenting and rejecting him. But gradually now, her antagonism was being blunted by his friendly manner and tame speech. For the first time since he had begun, she sank back in her seat and tried to understand what he was saying.
Dr. Chapman had one elbow on the lectern, and his head intimately inclined toward the microphone as he spoke. "There was a day, not too long ago, when prudery was the fashion—you could not refer to a piano's legs, and when you wanted breast of chicken you asked for bosom of chicken, and women had no complaints between shoulders and thighs other than liver complaints. Two world wars changed all of that. Sex was brought into the open and honestly discussed. The persons responsible for this revolution were Susan B. Anthony, Sigmund Freud, Andrew J. Volstead, and General Tojo. By this, I mean that female emancipation, psychiatric airing of the libido, over-reaction to the Eighteenth Amendment, and two wars that sent American young men and women abroad to absorb the sexual mores and customs of other cultures have done much to destroy prudery.
"Yet, prudery is far from dead, and sex still remains a secret and shameful function. Although women have acquired a certain degree of freedom through employment equality, the right to divorce, the use of contraceptives, the control of venereal disease, the shift of living from rural to urban areas where activity tends to be more anonymous, though women have acquired all of these weapons of freedom, they still are not free. An unhealthy attitude toward sex persists. And too many women suffer from too little knowledge about a subject that occupies—whether they like it or not—a major and crucial part of their lives.
"Consequently, sex is the one aspect of human biology most in need of scientific inquiry. Now, pioneer steps have been made in the right direction. The misconception persists that I invented the modern sexual survey. Or that Dr. Alfred C. Kinsey did so before me. This is not so. The profession of sex investigator, historian, pollster—what will you—is relatively modern, but older than you may imagine. The real innovators in this special field of inquiry were Max Joseph Exner, who questioned 948 college students or graduates in 1915; Katherine B. Davis, who questioned 2,200 women in 1920; Gilbert V. Hamilton, who questioned 200 women and men in 1924; Robert L. Dickinson, who studied 1,000 marriages before 1931; Lewis M. Terman, who examined 792 couples in 1934; and a host of others.
"A brief review of my predecessors in the field may be enlightening and comforting. In 1915, a year dominated by the sinking of the Lusitania, the first transcontinental phone call made by Alexander Graham Bell, the premiere of The Birth of a Nation in this city, the jailing of Margaret Sanger by the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice, a year dominated by names such as Woodrow Wilson, Jess Willard, William Jennings Bryan—in that year there was published a thirty-nine-page pamphlet, Problems and Principles of Sex Education, by Max Joseph Exner. The pamphlet announced the results of what was probably the first formal sex study in our history. Exner's questionnaire went to 948 college men. They were asked, among other things, 'Have you at any time indulged in any sexual practice?' Eight out of ten replied that they had indulged in some sexual practice or another—four out of ten admitting to sexual intercourse with women, and six out of ten confessing to what was then delicately referred to as 'self-abuse.' Although Exner had conducted his poll to prove that sex education was harmful, the results of his survey had quite the opposite effect. Unwittingly, he had established a new method of acquiring information on a subject hitherto taboo.
"Five years later, in 1920, the year Sacco and Vanzetti were arrested, Harding was nominated for President, and F. Scott Fitzgerald published his first flapper novel, a woman named Katherine B. Davis undertook a courageous study of female sexual behavior which she would later publish as Factors in the Sex Life of Twenty-Two Hundred Women. Katherine B. Davis developed an eight-page questionnaire concerning female sexual habits from childhood to menopause, and she sent it to 10,000 members of women's clubs, as well as to college alumni. She inquired about everything from frequency of sexual desire to emotional experiences with other women. Of the 10,000 women solicited, there were 2,200 usable replies, and 1,073 of these were from married women. The compiled answers to each question were published in statistical tables. Interestingly enough—remember, this was when Mother or Grandmother was a girl—sixty-three young ladies admitted to having sexual intercourse daily, and 116 confessed that they were unhappy with their husbands.
"In 1924, Dr. Gilbert V. Hamilton, the psychiatrist, did a secret investigation of 200 women and men in New York City. He saw each subject in a private consulting room, had the subject sit in an easy chair fastened to the wall (for, in their eagerness to discuss sex, the subjects often edged the chair almost into his lap), and presented each with white cards—forty-seven cards for a woman, forty-three for a man—on which questions were listed. There were eleven questions on orgasm, five on the variations of the sexual act, eleven on intercourse, fifteen on homosexuality, and so on. Some of the questions, considering the period when they were asked, were extremely valuable. For example, Hamilton asked all women, `If by some miracle you could press a button and find that you had never been married to your husband, would you press that button?' And again, 'Are you and your husband more or less friendly and affectionate during the first twenty-four hours after the sex act?'
"Robert L. Dickinson, the Freudian psychiatrist, published his marital findings in 1931. His questions were elaborate, and conducted under his personal supervision. Lewis M. Terman, working in California during 1934 and 1935, tested 792 couples with nine general questions.
"Now, I have said that there were a host of others doing equally useful groundwork, most of it unknown to the lay public. I speak of Ernest W. Burgess and Paul Wallin testing 1,000 engaged couples in Illinois between 1940 and 1950, and Harvey J. Locke and his associates working in Indiana and California between 1939 and 1949. I speak also of such sex investigators as Clifford Kirkpatrick working in Minnesota, Clarence W. Schroeder working in Illinois, and Judson T. Landis in Michigan.
"Of course, the great popularizer in this little-known field was Dr. Alfred C. Kinsey, of Indiana University, who died in 1956. The two surveys done under his direction were begun back in 1938. Exactly ten years later, in 1948, he reported on the sexuality of 5,300 males in his 820-page book, Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. Five years after that, he published a similar book about the human female, employing thirteen associates and assistants in his survey. Although he came under heavy bombardment from others in his field or allied fields, Kinsey was a pure scientist and a great one. No sexologist of the past brought more patience or knowledge to his work. Kinsey must be credited for refining interview techniques and contributing mightily to national enlightenment.
"If I may be so immodest as to mention my own already published findings, I have tried to bring this work, originated by Exner and Davis and improved by Dickinson and Kinsey, along another giant step. I have had the extreme good fortune, of course, to be able to study the efforts of those who came before me, and, where possible, I have tried to avoid the pitfalls they encountered. In my earlier samplings, I began an unusual program dealing with specifics rather than generalities. Instead of a survey on all young people, I determined to devote myself to one type—the adolescent. Instead of a survey on all types of males, I determined to concentrate on one type—the single or unmarried male. Instead of a survey on all types of females, I decided to question only one type—the married or once married female. This is a process I strongly favored, for, in this way, I was able to zero in on one type at a time, to narrow down, to pin-point, thus promising more detailed and accurate results—results that I felt would prove more useful to science and the public at large. I am convinced that this is one major contribution I have made to sex education.
"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 percent 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 percent 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 I'll 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 Goldsmith 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 the 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 any-one 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 dawn 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 some-thing 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 beautiful for Norman. Of course, Naomi was as pretty, but in a more obvious way. What distinguished Kathleen was the quiet air of sadness, of inner suffering, that surrounded her and kept all at a distance. And now, Kathleen was going to be in a book. Mary had read about the book in one of the columns. The Boynton Ballard story. It would make her love story immortal. How thrilling it was to be so near to her, to know her. Like being a part of important history. Just as listening to Dr. Chapman was a part of history.
She determined to concentrate on Dr. Chapman's lecture. Maybe he would say something useful yet. She wanted to be the best wife on earth. That was all that mattered. To make Norman happy. He seemed so moody lately, and the way he snapped at Dad after dinner last night. It was so unlike him. "Newspapers have called us pollsters," Dr. Chapman was saying. Well, that wasn't very useful. Nevertheless, Mary decided to keep listening.
"However," said Dr. Chapman, "we prefer to call ourselves investigators and statisticians of sex. We are that and nothing more. I want to repeat—I cannot repeat it too often—we are not your conscience, we are not your fathers, brothers, moral advisers. We are not here to say aye or nay to your conduct, to tell you if you are good or bad. We are here only to collect a partial history of your lives—that part of your history most often private—so that our findings will help you and all the human family."
Dr. Chapman paused, coughed, found the glass of water and swallowed a gulp. When he resumed speaking, his voice had the slightest edge of abrasive hoarseness.
"Many of you may find the idea of discussing intimate sexual details with a stranger—though he be hidden from you by a folding screen, though he be a scientist—an embarrassing idea. You will ask yourselves: How can I reveal to a stranger what I have not told any living person, not my husband, or relatives, or friends? This fear is natural to all of us. For, in some cases, if our true but hidden sexual behavior from childhood to maturity were known, it might lead to social disgrace and shame, to domestic grief and divorce. I am imploring you to put this fear aside. You are an individual, a unique entity, but your sexual behavior is anything but unique. In all my experience, I have never once heard a sex history that I have not heard repeated time and again. Requested, as you will be, to volunteer facts that you have kept hidden months, years, a lifetime, I remind you to imagine that you are speaking not to a man but to an uncritical machine, to a recording device. And to remember, also, that the findings of this machine may well improve the very life you are now living."
Listening, Mary thought, Yes, Doctor, but how?
Although her neck ached, Teresa Harnish continued staring directly up, past the footlights, at the towering, impressive figure of Dr. Chapman above her. He was a marvel, she decided, a man infinitely more important than most men, rather a man in the image of Dr. Schweitzer, and everything he was saying was so right, so true, and would be cleansing and good for all the rest of the women in the hall. Teresa did not consider herself as part of the rest of the women in the hall. Rather, she allied her open-minded, advanced intelligence with the speaker. Dr. Chapman and she were civilizing the females of The Briars this day.
His wisdom, she had expected. It was his urbanity that charmed her. Twice, she had dipped into her small purse for the pocket-sized, white leather notebook—her Geoffrey book, she called it—in which she noted epigrams that so often came to mind, were overheard, or were read somewhere. Several times a week, usually after dinner, she would read them aloud to Geoffrey. His noble face always reflected appreciation. The two quotations she had culled from the text of Dr. Chapman's address—and already memorized for party use, if necessary—were most amusing. In the first instance, pretending to be the cracker-barrel philosopher, Dr. Chapman had quoted one Don Herold as saying: "Women are not much, but they are the best other sex we have." Who, she wondered, was Don Herold? In the second instance, Dr. Chapman had quoted Remy de Gourmont, novelist and critic: "Of all sexual aberrations, perhaps the most peculiar is chastity." It had delighted her. How very French.
She looked upward again, and thought for a moment that Dr. Chapman's eyes had met her own and understood the rapport between them. She adjusted her head band. But now, once more, he was gazing out over the audience. Of course. He dared not show favoritism.
"Many of you may be wondering, `Why does he approach us as a group? Why not preferably as individuals?'" Dr. Chapman said with a slight smile. "It would be a fair question, and it deserves reply. The approach to community groups, rather than scattered individuals, was a concept I decided upon at the outset of my bachelor survey. Of course, I foresaw that samplings of groups would save time and wasted motion. I was also aware that individuals would be less reluctant to cooperate if they were doing what everyone was doing. But the major reason for my approach to the group had a more scientific basis.
"Had I arrived in Los Angeles with my colleagues, and simply announced that I wished individuals to volunteer, I am sure I would have had as many women come forward as will eventually come forward from your organization. But, unfortunately, I would then be receiving only one type of woman —one who, on her own, was eager to discuss her sex life. This would be valuable, but it would not be representative of The Briars. For we would be recording the history of only one kind of female—one who was an exhibitionist or uninhibited or highly educated. For a fairer judgment, it would be necessary for us to know also the histories of women who were shy, fearful, fretful, withdrawn, ashamed, shocked. A cross-section of all married females could be obtained only by obtaining the co-operation of a large group, which would include every degree of interest and reticence. And that, my friends, is the reason I have come to your Women's Association, rather than each of you individually, for your help."
Listening, Teresa thought, How objective he is, how extremely sensible. I shall give him all the help that he needs. I shall be part of his group, although I wish I could let him know that I would have cooperated as an individual, too. Not because I am an exhibitionist. But, of course, he would perceive that at once. I would volunteer because his cause is good, and I owe it to human endeavor to help liberate my sex. I think I will even let my interviewer know this, so that he really understands me.
Suddenly, Teresa wondered, But what do they expect of me? Do they want to know how I feel or how I act? I suppose they want both. Well, Geoffrey and I are normal enough, heaven knows. We make love as people are supposed to make love, and we participate mutually and in a civilized manner. I wish they would interview Geoffrey, too. He would prove it. As to feelings, well, how does any woman feel about sexual intercourse? I want Geoffrey to be fulfilled. I'm certain he is fulfilled. He tells me that he is. Isn't that the aim and goal of love, and the role of woman? What was it that Bertrand Russell wrote? Ah, yes. "Morality in sexual relations, when it is free from superstition, consists essentially of respect for the other person, and unwillingness to use that person solely as a means of personal gratification, without regard to his or her desires." Well, amen.
I respect Geoffrey and his desires. And I'm sure that he respects me and mine. I think that's all that one should expect. If Dr. Chapman inquires, I will tell him so. There's simply too much dirtiness and vulgarity attached to sex—all that writing and talking about passion, and groaning, and biting, and being transported—who has ever been transported? Sex can be clean and orderly, and civilized. Ovid was a dirty old lecher. Sex can be accomplished without being ashamed of what you have done. Control and moderation, those are what count. We are not savages or animals, thank God. You do what must be done, and you keep your dignity, and your husband respects you that much more. All that reckless gossip about women losing themselves, behaving like whores—they're lying or, worse, faking.
Isn't it warm in here? I think I'll go to the beach in the morning and lie in Constable's Cove and just relax, not even read. That is, if those barbarians aren't there again. Especially that big animal. How uncouth. How insolent. Can you imagine any civilized woman allowing him to make love to her? I wonder if he has a girl? A harem, I'd venture. Cheap strumpets most likely, and maybe some dime-store clerks and wild school youngsters. I suppose it's those legs and that torso. He could be attractive, if he were a gentleman—but he'll never be one. A man like that needs a woman to help him, I mean a woman who's better than he is, to bring him up. I'm not saying me, but someone like me. I'm sure Dr. Chapman's questions will be about how one acts, not how one feels. An act is something definite. It can be recorded. Feelings are usually too mixed up.
Naomi Shields was conscious only of the dryness in her mouth. It had been almost an hour, and she was thirsty. Briefly, she considered leaving the auditorium to get a drink of water. But she realized that she was seated too far down front, and leaving would create a disturbance. Besides, she didn't want water anyway. She wanted gin. She had taken only two for breakfast, and the feeling of well-being had worn off.
She fumbled inside her purse for her cigarettes, then looked about to see if anyone else were smoking. No one was, so she supposed that it was not allowed. She closed her purse again, restlessly worrying it with her fingers. She glanced at Kathleen beside her, and at Ursula just beyond. Kathleen appeared absorbed in the lecture, and Ursula was busy with her note-taking. She envied both of them. She wished that she could become interested, engaged, absorbed, removed from herself. Most of all, she wished that she had stayed in bed this morning. Why had she come here at all? She had determined to reform, she realized, and this was part of the reformation, trying to be like others, being occupied, pursuing normal activity. If only that man wasn't so dull.
She tried to fasten on any single thing that Dr. Chapman had said. She could not recollect one. Was it that she was so damn bored with talk of sex? More and more, she had become impatient with men who ran off at the mouth about sex. That tiresome verbal seduction, that forensic love play. Christ, there was only one thing to say about sex: do you want to or don't you?
She sat erect, her breasts tightening, and stared ahead. The art of attention. That was part of pursuing normal activity. She must learn to listen. Grimly, she listened.
"Perhaps it will put your minds at ease," said Dr. Chapman, "to know the exact procedure you will face, if you volunteer. It is really quite simple and painless. As you leave this auditorium, you will find four tables in the foyer. You will go to the one bearing the initial of your surname, and sign your name and address to a volunteer pledge. By Monday morning, you will receive a post card stating the hour and the date of your interview. At the appointed time, you will come to this building and go to the upstairs corridor. There, my secretary, Miss Selby, will be waiting for you. She will lead you to one of three private offices upstairs. In the office, you will find a comfortable chair and a large screen dividing the room. Behind the screen, seated at a table, equipped only with pencil, questionnaire, and a knowledge of Solresol, will be one of the members of our team. You will not be able to see him, and he will not be able to see you.
"After you are settled down, the interviewer will ask your age, something of your background, and something of your marital situation. Then, he will ask you a series of questions. As I have already told you, these questions fall into three distinct categories. I will explain these categories to you now.
"The first category concerns only your sex performance and history. You might be asked, 'What is the frequency of your lovemaking with your husband at the present time?' or 'What was it when you were married?' Or you might be asked, 'When do you usually have intercourse with your husband, at night, in the morning, in the afternoon, in early evening?'
"The second category of questions concerns your psychological attitudes toward marital sex. You might be asked, 'If you learned tonight that your marriage was invalid because of a technicality, that you were legally free, would you want to legalize your marriage at once or to leave your spouse permanently?' Or you might be asked, 'Before your wedding, did you hope your husband would be a virgin, an experienced lover, or didn't you care?'
"The third category of questions concerns your reaction to sexual stimuli. At the proper time during the interview, you will be directed to open a leather box beside your chair, the SE box, we call it—Special Exhibits box. From it, you will be requested to remove certain artistic objects and study them. Then, you will be asked questions about your reactions to these visual stimuli. You may find yourself looking at a photograph of a nudist colony or the reproduction of an unsheathed male statue by Praxiteles and be asked, 'Are you erotically aroused by what you see, and to what extent?' Or you might find your-self reading a marked passage from an unexpurgated edition of D. H. Lawrence's classic Lady Chatterley's Lover and be asked, 'Does the passage you have just read excite you in any way and, if so, to what degree?'
"You may answer these three categories of questions as rapidly, as slowly, as fully, as briefly, as you desire. There may be 150 questions. Rarely more. The interview will probably take an hour and fifteen minutes. When it is terminated, you will be told so. You will then leave as you came—knowing that what you have revealed is part of a vast mass of data that will soon be fed into our STC machine, and that the total results will shed light into an area too long too dark. The entire operation is as uncomplicated as that. Neither more nor less will happen. I sincerely hope that you will volunteer for this good work—in full realization that your life, and the lives of generations to follow, will be healthier, wiser, happier, thanks to your moment of truth. You have been very kind to hear me out, and I thank you."
While joining her hands to the noisy applause all about, Naomi thought, Brother, you got me, if it'll make me healthier, wiser, happier, like hell it will. But why all that corny false modesty? Screen, dead language, safes, machines, secrecy? I've done nothing I'm ashamed of; I'm a woman, and I need it and I like it, and I bet there's thousands like me. How long did he say it would take? An hour and fifteen minutes? Brother, I could bend your fat little ear for twenty-four hours and fifteen minutes, nonstop.
"Naomi."
She turned quickly, and found Mary McManus standing over her, and realized that she alone was still seated. "Lunch still on?" Mary asked.
"Oh, yes." Naomi hurriedly got to her feet and followed Kathleen and Ursula into the crowded aisle.
Mary was waiting, as Naomi shuffled with the throng to the next row. Mary's eyes were bright. "Wasn't it exciting?”
“Thrilling," said Naomi. "Like a first pajama party."
Backstage, Dr. Chapman stood beside the water cooler, mopped his warm brow, then reached across for a paper cup and poured himself a drink. "Well, Emil," he said to Emil Ackerman, "how did I do?"
"I'm all primed to volunteer," said Ackerman, grinning. "It was even better than the speech you gave to the men a couple years ago."
Dr. Chapman smiled. "That's because this was about women. And you're a man."
"I guess I still am," agreed Ackerman.
"Well, if you think you've worked up an appetite by now—"
"I sure have," said Ackerman. "Only not for what you think."
He laughed an evil schoolboy laugh. Dr. Chapman acknowledged the joke with a slight curl of his lips, his eyes shifting quickly to observe if anyone nearby had overheard them. He did not like to be caught in situations where the pure scientist might seem mere mortal.
"Well, a good charred steak should settle you down," he said to Ackerman. Then, taking the fat man's arm, he hastily propelled him toward the stage door.
When Kathleen Ballard reached the foyer, she saw that long lines had already formed at each of the four tables. Emerging from the auditorium, she had allowed herself to be separated from Ursula, Naomi, and Mary. Now the nearest door was no farther than the tables. She felt sure that she could reach the door unnoticed.
She had begun to make her way through the press of the crowd when she heard her name called loudly. She froze, then turned. Grace Waterton was elbowing toward her.
"Kathleen, you weren't leaving?"
Kathleen swallowed. She felt dozens of eyes upon her and the heat on her cheeks. "No, I—well, yes, for a moment—there's such a line, and I have so much to do; I thought I'd come back in a half hour—"
"Nonsense! You come right along with me." Grace had her hand and was tugging her toward the table at the extreme left, the one marked "A to G." There were at least twenty women in the line, and more gathering quickly at the far end. "If you have things to do, the others will understand," continued Grace in her brass voice. "Oh, Sarah—"
Sarah Goldsmith, lighting a cigarette, was at the head of the line, waiting for the stout woman ahead of her, who was bent over the table signing her name and address. Now Sarah looked up.
"Sarah, be a sport. Kathleen here has a rush appointment. Would you let her squeeze in ahead?"
Sarah Goldsmith waved her cigarette. "Hello, Kathleen. Of course; go ahead."
"I really don't like to do this," said Kathleen apologetically. She turned to protest to Grace, but Grace was already yards off, breaking into clusters of women, herding them into line.
Sarah had stepped back, waiting. Kathleen moved in front of her. "I was coming back," she said lamely.
"Next," called Miss Selby from the table.
Kathleen faced the table, smiled uncertainly, accepted the proffered pen, and hastily signed her name and address to the long sheet.
"Did you enjoy the lecture?" asked Miss Selby.
"Yes," said Kathleen. She felt dull and a living lie. "It was very instructive."
She quickly returned the pen, stepped away, then remembered Sarah.
"Thanks, Sarah. How's the family?"
"Status quo. Nothing fatal this week, knock wood.”
“We must have lunch. I'll call you soon."
"I wish you would."
Free at last, yet less free than before (sentenced to some future terror with her name and address committed to the long sheet), Kathleen went quickly to the door and then through it.
Outside, on the sidewalk, she stood in the sun a moment, trying to remember where she had parked, and then remembering. The street ahead was happily still empty. She neither wanted to see anyone nor discuss the lecture with anyone. Slowly, she started down Romola Place.
From the second-story window of The Briars' Women's Association building, Paul Radford gazed into Romola Place. There was a lone woman directly below, walking slowly down the hill. He could not see her face, but her glossy hair was dark and short, and it seemed to shine in the orange sunlight. The beige sweater and skirt appeared expensive. Paul wished he could see her face.
He shifted his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, drawing steadily, blowing out the blue-gray smoke, and never taking his eyes off the lone woman. She was off the sidewalk now, crossing between cars, opening the door of a Mercedes. Holding the door ajar, she settled into the front seat, one leg in and one leg out. The skirt was drawn high over the long, slender, exposed leg, and from this distance, it looked good. Then the leg was withdrawn. The door slammed.
With a sigh for all the women unmet, Paul turned back into the room. He watched Horace and Cass at the table sorting the questionnaires.
"Looks like the old man sold them," Paul said at last. "The lecture's over, but only a few came out."
Horace continued to work silently. But Cass seemed hopeful. "Then this is the last stop," he said. He rattled a questionnaire in his hand. "Dammit, I'm sick to the gut of these questions."
"We're illuminating a dark area," said Paul with a grin.
"Shove it," said Cass. He glared at the questionnaire. He read aloud from it in a mocking tone. "Since you have engaged in an extramarital affair, or affairs, can you answer the following supplementary question: During the first occasion on which you had sexual intercourse with a male other than your husband, were you the aggressor, or were you seduced, or was the mating a mutual act?'" His eyes left the page, met Paul's, and his eyes were filled with anger. "Bitches," he said finally.
"Who?" asked Paul with a frown.
"Married women," said Cass. "All of them."
And he resumed sorting the questionnaires for the married women of The Briars.