EVER SINCE HIS unfortunate testimony during the Eulenburg trial four years earlier, Hirschfeld’s been insistently criticized for the role he played. Even colleagues and friends continue to fault him—above all for attesting to von Moltke’s “psychic” homosexuality, and then for reversing himself. Not only has the press vilified him, but membership enrollment in the Scientific Humanitarian Society has taken a plunge as fear spreads that Hirschfeld might publicly reveal information about the private lives of other men. Hirschfeld himself considers resigning the directorship, but settles instead on an opposite strategy—accelerating his lecture schedule, traveling more widely than ever to deliver speeches, and assiduously devoting his spare time to writing.
The publication in 1910 of his enormous book Transvestites is the first major product of his onerous work schedule. It opens up a whole new field of study, is widely reviewed—and, inevitably, becomes the subject of considerable new controversy. Based on extensive and careful interviews, Hirschfeld’s most original—and most offensive—contribution is his conclusion that cross-dressing among males occurs at least as often among heterosexuals as homosexuals (a conclusion later research will confirm). The unexpected finding is for Hirschfeld himself a cautionary lesson in the dangers of over-categorizing the many varieties of sensual expression. As he recognizes, it’s a tendency he himself has been prone to in the past, though less so lately.
Instead, he’s come increasingly to feel that, in regard both to gender and sexual orientation, it’s more accurate to emphasize a subtle continuum rather than a rigid set of dualistic categories. He de-emphasizes his earlier notion of a “Third Sex,” in favor of a fluid spectrum of preferences—prefiguring Alfred Kinsey’s famous gradations in scale from zero to six (zero being “exclusively heterosexual” and six being “exclusively homosexual”) with three designating an equal bisexual attraction to both genders, a valid orientation Hirschfeld never reduces to a “cop-out” or “cover.”
In regard to gender, Hirschfeld posits another radical view—though he never pursues it with the same vigor that marks his investigations into sexual orientation. Every individual, he suggests, potentially contains all the qualities of temperament and intellect traditionally divided up as either “male” or “female.” It’s a view not widely heard again until the 1960s counter-cultural revolution, when “androgyny” is commonly cited as the ideal state of being.
One day an invitation arrives that represents something of an epiphany for Hirschfeld. It comes from the greatly respected Dr. Iwan Bloch, chairman of the newly formed Medical Society for Sexual Science and Eugenics, of which Hirschfeld is himself a member. Iwan Bloch’s own book, The Sexual Life of Our Time, has achieved significant notoriety of late. At the time of its first appearance in 1907, the book was condemned in police court and taken off the shelves; after a successful appeal it was then reissued, though on condition that it be sold only to legal and medical professionals. Rapidly escaping those confines, Sexual Life had become a widely discussed and acclaimed work.
In the book, Bloch expresses agreement with Hirschfeld that homosexuality is a congenital, natural variant—though like Hirschfeld he acknowledges that certain environmental factors—experiences in school, say, or prison, or the military—can awaken a predisposition that might otherwise have remained dormant. Neither man includes among external factors what will later became the two favorite explanations of American psychiatry: that homosexual behavior is a normal stage in development that all individuals pass through during adolescence (that must be passed through); and the discordant notion that homosexuality occurs as the result of a particular (and pathological) family configuration: an absent or hostile father in combination with an overly solicitous or invasive mother. Both notions—and the tension between them—still linger in the culture.
Though Iwan Bloch in The Sexual Life of Our Time praises Hirschfeld as “the greatest, the most knowledgeable and experienced sexologist” of the day, that opinion isn’t unanimously held among other specialists. Benedict Friedlaender and Adolf Brand are Hirschfeld’s long-standing detractors; in their publication, Der Eigene, they regularly deplore “effeminacy” and excoriate Hirschfeld for failing to champion the ancient Greek pattern of cross-generational male-male sexuality. Another prominent opponent, Albert Moll, far from idealizing homosexuality, deplores it as pathological and denounces homosexuals as inherently mendacious and deceitful.
Sigmund Freud’s position is equivocal; he shifts inconclusively in his attitude both toward homosexuality and Hirschfeld, its leading advocate. Initially Freud looks favorably on Hirschfeld’s work, contributes articles to a journal he edits, and treats him as an honored guest at the 1911 meeting of the Psychoanalytical Association. Yet when Hirschfeld resigns from the Association, Freud says it’s “no great loss,” describing him as “a flabby, unappetizing fellow, incapable of learning anything.”
Freud’s writings on homosexuality are skimpy and irresolute—except for the decisive stands he takes against treating homosexuality as a disease or subjecting its adherents to punishment. He feels that homosexuality in adults might have a biological component, yet suggests that such behavior is no more pathological than the various perversions that characterize adult heterosexuals. Freud’s bottom-line view seems to have been that homosexuality should only be seen as a neurotic “disturbance” when its practitioners prove unable or unwilling to meet cultural expectations of reproduction.
The Medical Society’s invitation delights Hirschfeld. Here is a rare opportunity, he feels, to discuss with a friendly fellow specialist in front of a reasonably well-informed audience—one more likely to be well-disposed than most—some of the central questions currently emerging in the new field of sexology. On the evening of the debate, the auditorium quickly fills to capacity, with an overflow crowd lingering in the anteroom in the hope of gaining belated admission.
Both men are given laudatory introductions by Professor Eugen Steinach, the renowned Viennese biologist who has himself embarked on a well-publicized series of cross-gender animal transplants. The results have led Steinach and others to the view that a greater knowledge of glandular secretions is critical to an understanding of sexual behavior—a theory Hirschfeld himself has found intriguing.
After Steinach makes his formal introduction of the two speakers and suggests that Hirschfeld inaugurate the exchange, Hirschfeld, in turn, invites Steinach—“whose pioneering researches,” he tells the audience, “have done so much to inform all specialists in sexology”—to become an integral part of a three-way discussion. When Steinach nods his agreement, Hirschfeld then turns to the audience:
“I recognize some of you,” he cheerfully begins, “as fellow colleagues and researchers, and I assume others in this audience, if not themselves researchers, are nonetheless keenly interested in recent developments in sexology. Do let us also have your contributions—or complaints,” he chuckles—“as this colloquy progresses. Let us convert the rather formal structure which typifies such events as this into an open forum where a wide variety of viewpoints can be heard. After all, this burgeoning field is still in its infancy and none of us has produced definitive answers.”
From his chair on the stage, Steinach, smiling genially, calls out, “Quite wrong, Hirschfeld! I, for one, have reached definitive answers—which I shall be happy to share shortly.” A jolly tut-tutting is heard from the audience, along with a few loud, seemingly derogatory whistles.
Wondering if he hasn’t inadvertently turned a formal discussion into a raucous free-for-all, Hirschfeld rather nervously starts to address the audience:
“It’s a great pleasure for me to share this platform with two such distinguished men of science as Iwan Bloch and Eugen Steinach,” Hirschfeld begins. He then itemizes their extraordinary personal qualities, the seminal importance of their writings, and the large number of awards each has already accumulated.
“And yet”—here Hirschfeld smiles deferentially—“though I am the least accomplished of the three men who occupy this stage—that is, for the time being”—a few polite guffaws from the audience—“there are certain aspects of their work about which I have doubts, or perhaps I should say questions. Let me begin with Dr. Bloch, whose remarkable book, The Sexual Life of Our Time, I urge every person to read and study.
“You and I agree, Dr. Bloch—and please correct me if I misstate the extent of that agreement—that homosexuality is not a choice—that neither youthful experimentation nor, say, an extended stay in an all-male environment, like on shipboard or in a prison, can alone provide a satisfactory explanation for why some men and not others will engage in sexual activities with other men. No, such behavior has its roots in biology. It is the natural and benign predisposition of a minority of people. And here, of course, I include—as few in our field do, I might add in deserved chastisement—not only male homosexuals but also lesbians.” Hirschfeld briefly turns his back to the audience in order to face Iwan Bloch, seated behind him. “Am I accurately describing our shared views, Dr. Bloch?”
“Yes, thus far,” Bloch replies pleasantly. “Though when you use the word ‘natural’ I find myself hesitating a bit.”
“If I may explain that further—?” Hirschfeld asks.
“Certainly,” Bloch responds.
“In using the word ‘natural,’ I want to draw attention to the fact that homosexuality occurs worldwide and apparently through much of the animal kingdom, thus proving that such behavior is an intrinsic feature of nature. As an illustration of how common homosexuality is, need I mention the recent rumors of ‘homosexual orgies,’ featuring Cardinal Rafael Merry del Val, within the Vatican—that presumed bastion of celibacy and holiness. Homosexuality is everywhere!”
Someone from the audience calls out, “Spoken like the Jew you are!” There’s a shocked silence.
The mild-mannered Bloch instantly jumps up: “Spoken like the bigot you are!” A scattering of boos and applause arises in the audience. “I apologize for my vehemence,” Bloch goes on, “but I cannot countenance blatant anti-Semitism. We are supposedly engaged in rational discourse. In the presence of subjective prejudice, scientific truth will always suffer.”
Another man in the audience raises his hand. Hirschfeld acknowledges him, and the young man rises from his seat: “I’d like to join in apologizing to Dr. Hirschfeld for the inexcusable lack of civility to which he’s just been subjected, and also to—”
“—that’s very kind, thank you very much,” Hirschfeld smilingly interjects.
“However,” the man continues, “I rise for a second reason as well. I am currently a student in the new field of anthropology, which the eminent Dr. Franz Boas has done so much to foster. If you would be good enough to allow me just one minute—”
Steinach calls out from his seat: “Exactly one minute. I’ll time it.” He ostentatiously holds up his watch. “Ready? Go!”
Flustered, the young man clears his throat and starts: “Well, you see, I’m just at the beginning of my studies, of course, but the point I want to make is about biology. You claim sexual orientation is a biological phenomenon. That’s not what we’ve learned in our anthropology studies. Homosexuality is found in many cultures, but not in the forms we’re familiar with in the West. One tribe in—”
Steinach calls out: “—thirty seconds! Better hurry!”
“—Male-male sex around the world is almost always cross-generational, as it was in Periclean Athens—not between two adult men. In one tribal culture in New Guinea every young boy swallows the semen of an adult male on a regular basis; it’s the prescribed route, the only route, to achieving adult manhood. The culture enforces that behavior, not biology. And it isn’t a small minority of the boys, it’s all of them. Besides, once those boys grow up, they marry women, have children—and never again have sex with other men. So contrary to what the panelists have been saying, homosexuality outside of the West is definitely a cultural, not a biological phenomenon. And it isn’t confined to a small minority in a given culture. Our mores are quite parochial when compared to—”
Steinach shouts him down: “—that’s it! You’re done! Time’s up! I gave you an extra thirty seconds. And wasted time it was! As far as I’m concerned, everything you’ve said is hogwash! When anthropology becomes a science, be sure to let us know!”
The audience breaks into laughter and applause. The young man nervously sits down.
Dr. Bloch speaks up. “Thank you, young man, for being brave enough to confront us with evidence that, if proven valid, will indeed cause us to rethink many of our assumptions and conclusions. As of now, it seems, such evidence from anthropology hasn’t been replicated, nor stood the test of time—the very definitions of ‘Science.’ So we must reserve judgment. But I thank you for calling our attention to this new field. Now if Dr. Hirschfeld and I can return to—”
Hirschfeld breaks in: “—I would only add that I very much agree with Dr. Bloch and I will look further into these new studies.”
Bloch continues: “ . . . if we can return to our earlier discussion about what is or is not ‘natural.’ I would ask Dr. Hirschfeld if he continues to hold to the view that homosexual men constitute a ‘third sex,’ all of whose members exhibit traits—like effeminacy—traditionally associated with the female gender. In my opinion, if we limit the homosexual impulse to a small number of people, then how can Dr. Hirschfeld simultaneously claim that homosexuality is found everywhere?”
“If Hirschfeld believes that all homosexual men are effeminate,” Steinach unexpectedly chimes in, “I can only conclude that he hasn’t met many homosexual men.”
There are sounds of laughter from the audience, and some applause, but “shushing” neighbors soon restore order.
Hirschfeld remains unruffled. “Both of you are right to criticize views I held more firmly at the start of my work than I do currently. In the beginning, as I now see, I was too much drawn to rigid categories, too bound up with the traditional view, for example, that profound and intrinsic differences separate men from women. Just so with ‘heterosexual’ and ‘homosexual’ individuals. I’m now more inclined to the idea of a continuum. Just as some women—I might mention Helene Stöcker—”
A loud “boo” echoes from the audience at the mention of Stöcker’s name. Hirschfeld ignores it.
“—a woman like Helene Stöcker has an intellect and a gift for fundamental analysis, equal, if not superior, to any man I’ve ever known.”
The “booing” grows louder. This time Hirschfeld addresses it directly. “My dear friends,” he says, his voice calm and cordial, “almost every opinion we discuss today is subject to challenge. This is new territory. I urge us all tonight to discuss our legitimate differences with, if possible, the utmost civility. None of us pretends to have final answers.”
“I do—as I said earlier!” Steinach interjects. “But”—here he smiles broadly, immensely pleased with himself—“I’ll pretend, when the time comes, to hold those views with due humility.”
There’s scattered laughter from the audience. “And that time,” Hirschfeld carefully responds, “will arrive shortly. I now realize—as Professor Steinach suggests—that the conventional equation of homosexuality with effeminacy fails to account for the many homosexual men who are indistinguishable from the manly demeanor of so-called ‘normal’ men. I might add that I’ve found the same with lesbians. To outward appearances, there is nothing at all ‘mannish’ about the many women I know who are erotically drawn to other women. Yet I continue to feel that what we might call ‘psychic’ homosexuality is common to those whose constitutional biology is—”
A voice booms out from the audience: “—as you wrongly claimed about Count von Moltke—ruining his life!”
Hirschfeld is startled—and mute. Iwan Bloch moves quickly to fill the silence: “If I may, Doctor Hirschfeld?”
“By all means, my dear Doctor . . .” Hirschfeld moves to the side of the podium to enable Bloch to have open access to the audience.
“I would offer one point of clarification. The proliferation of inquiries into homosexuality has had, in my view, one deleterious byproduct. And that is an increasing reluctance among heterosexual men openly to dis-play the profound love they feel for their closest friends. It has become fashionable these days to mock as ‘old-fashioned romanticism’ what was once considered perfectly permissible, even exalted, expressions of love between two members of the same sex.”
The audience vigorously applauds.
“Love and sex,” Bloch continues, “are not the same phenomenon. A loving relationship does not inevitably lead to the development of sexual passion. Nor is sexual attraction necessarily a byproduct of affection. My main point is simply this: love between men ought to be possible without branding it ‘homosexual.’ What we are gaining in freedom of sexual expression is occurring in tandem with a growing unwillingness among heterosexual men to declare—even to feel—profound emotional attachment to certain members of their own gender. Not so long ago, in the circles that surrounded Goethe and Schiller, loving male friendship was widely hailed as among the crowning achievements of German culture.”
Bloch resumes his seat to substantial applause, and Hirschfeld, himself applauding, resumes his place at the podium. “A point well taken, Dr. Bloch.”
Professor Steinach now rises in his seat. “—If I may join the love fest . . .” He strides towards the front. “You, Hirschfeld, may be in full agreement with Bloch, but both of you have lost sight of the one critical dimension to any discussion of love and sex.”
“I see I’m about to become the moderator rather than the inaugural speaker at this event,” Hirschfeld good-naturedly says. “Before I yield the podium to you, Professor Steinach, let me quickly say that although my views and Dr. Bloch’s are in essential agreement, I would want to add—and here he might not agree with me—that in some cases, a highly developed friendship does come to include an erotic dimension. Whether that attraction then leads to sexual acts is up to the two people involved.” Hirschfeld, with a bow to Steinach, moves himself to the side of the podium.
“In adding that, Dr. Hirschfeld,” Steinach replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you make my rebuttal more imperative still. What neither you nor Bloch has addressed in this discussion is the one element central to the biology of homosexuality—namely, the role played by hormones!” Steinach’s stentorian voice reverberates loudly. “It’s like discussing Ibsen’s A Doll’s House without ever mentioning Nora!” he thunders.
“My experiments with hormonal and gonadal transplants is not yet complete,” Steinach continues, “but I’ve already learned enough to become convinced that the solution to most disputes in the field of sexology lies in the endocrine glands. Allow me to allude briefly to some of my more telling work. When my laboratory in Vienna transplanted male testes into female rats and guinea pigs, and ovaries into males, the results were astonishing, confirming absolutely the biological origin both of gender and of sexual orientation.”
Steinach pauses for maximum effect. From the sidelines Hirschfeld, aware of Steinach’s experiments, and impressed by them, encourages him to go into more detail.
“Gladly,” Steinach replies, having intended to proceed to specifics anyway. “There are glandular juices, male hormones and female hormones, that are—and this point I cannot over-emphasize—antagonistic to each other. When my laboratory transplanted ovaries into male rats, those rats promptly acted in ways intrinsic to females—they offered their non-existent teats to suckle babies and offered their rumps for mounting by adult males.”
The audience noisily stirs. Steinach smiles with satisfaction. “Yes,” he says, “I don’t wonder that you find these results provocative. They will revolutionize our understanding! In my lab we are currently concluding negotiations for an adult heterosexual man to voluntarily provide one of his testicles for transplant into an effeminate, passive homosexual man. I fully expect that the homosexual man will be totally cured. I might add—”
Hirschfeld interrupts: “—‘Cured’? But homosexuality is not a disease. We’re afflicted not with faulty endocrine glands but with social hostility and the pain it induces in homosexuals.”
“Yes, yes, so you say,” Steinach replies, as if swatting away a fly. “What I say”—his eyes gleam triumphantly—“is that homosexuals have faulty biological equipment. And I will prove it! Homosexual men are the result either of excessive secretions from female glands, or insufficient secretion from male ones—and sometimes both. Moreover, I’m confident of our ability to cure impotence in heterosexual males! Testicular transplants between potent and impotent normal—that is, heterosexual—men will vitally rejuvenate the impotent man’s sexual drive!”
“More likely these transplants of yours will cure the participants of any sexual desire!” a male voice shouts, then rises in his seat. “If I may add a word?”
Steinach, annoyed, gives a brisk half-nod: “You just have! Very well . . . but keep your comments brief.”
“I only want to say that you use the words ‘effeminate’ and ‘passive’ as if they were synonyms. You’re confusing two distinct behaviors, as any homosexual man—or heterosexual woman—would be quick to tell you!”
“Are you an expert in the field?” Steinach sniffily asks. “Do you have the credentials, sir, to challenge the findings of science?”
“I have the common sense!” the man shoots back. “Society tells women that they’re incapable of understanding math and science, but that doesn’t make it true—look at Marie Curie!”
The name produces scattered applause, and several shouts of “That’s right!” and “Good for you!”
“And many men,” Steinach’s antagonist continues, “have no capacity for math and science.”
“Individual variations,” Steinach replies, flushing with anger, “do not negate group commonalities. May I inquire, sir, where you did your training in endocrinology?”
“I observe people in daily life,” the man calls up to the stage.
“Splendid,” Steinach acidly replies. “You come from that same so-called school of common sense that claims—absurdly claims—that women are in every way equal in capacity to men, and homosexuals to heterosexuals.”
“Not ‘equal,’ not the same,” the man shouts, “but different—marvelously different.”
With the audience becoming more boisterous, Hirschfeld moves to Steinach’s side and gestures for quiet. The crowd simmers down.
“Thank you,” Hirschfeld says, “We very much appreciate your enthusiastic engagement with the topics under discussion, but in the name of reasoned debate we must insist on orderly procedures. I myself,” Hirschfeld continues, “have been struck by the potential contribution which the new field of endocrinology can make to our understanding of gender and sexual behavior. Yet”—he smiles rather nervously in Steinach’s direction—“I myself do not believe that we sufficiently understand the effects of internal secretions on external behavior to draw final conclusions. We do not even know, for instance, whether the testicular secretions of homosexual men differ either in quality or quantity from those of heterosexual men. Further study, I’d suggest, is necessary, though Professor Steinach’s experiments unquestionably hold out great promise. I myself happen to believe that his work will be confirmed in future studies.”
Suddenly Dr. Bloch speaks up from his seat. “If I may add a few words—?”
“Of course,” Hirschfeld responds, ushering himself and a reluctant Steinach off to the side, freeing up the podium for Bloch. When he reaches it, he speaks quickly, as if in fear that Steinach will come thundering back to center stage.
“What I wish to add,” Bloch says, “is simply this: Though all three of us agree that sexual behavior is rooted in biology, only Hirschfeld and I maintain that homosexuals are no less capable than heterosexuals of leading healthy, productive lives. Steinach apparently feels that homosexuality is aberrant, a biological mistake, and—convinced that there’s no such thing as a contented, productive homosexual—envisions a time when corrective hormonal secretions can be introduced into homosexual bodies, thereby changing them into contented heterosexuals. I find that an objectionable—not to say, inhumane—goal and would deplore such an eventuality.”
Bloch moves away from the podium, but before Steinach can reach it, scattered members of the audience are on their feet, some applauding Bloch, some angrily shouting him down. When the pandemonium subsides, each of the three speakers proceeds to restate, sometimes in more nuanced form, their basic positions. By the end of the third summary, many members of the audience have left the auditorium, though those remaining continue both to compliment and to challenge the speakers. The discussion continues at a high pitch for an additional hour and a half.
Magnus Hirschfeld rarely goes out at night. Fear isn’t the issue, though his short, squat physique makes him something of an obvious target for assailants of various kinds. There’s also the danger, the more his public reputation grows as Berlin’s foremost advocate for homosexual rights—and a Jew, no less—that he could be deliberately singled out for a roughing up. If Hirschfeld has many reasons to be wary, he never curtails his movements; like a doe in the tigers’ lair, he moves skittishly through treacherous terrain. No, he stays home most evenings for the simple reason that his desk is always piled high with letters that need answering, articles that must be written, journals that have piled high, and minutes of meetings that require amendment.
On this particular evening, Dr. Georg Merzbach, a member of the Scientific Humanitarian Committee, has invited him to dinner at Café Kranzler on the corner of Unter den Linden and Friedrichstrasse. Merzbach has recently returned from a lecture tour in the United States on the subject of homosexuality and has coaxed Hirschfeld to the café with the promise of “exciting news, unexpected developments.”
Kranzler’s is a little too fashionable for Hirschfeld’s simple tastes, but he’s accepted the invitation out of curiosity. He knows Merzbach as a reliable observer, if given now and then to hyperbole. Hirschfeld himself hasn’t been to America for some 15 years, not since traveling with a friend to the World’s Columbian Exposition in 1893, where, as a young man of 25 who’d just completed his compulsory military service and hadn’t yet settled on a career in medicine, he’d been dutifully awestruck.
Making his way through the city streets during the hustle and bustle of the dinner hour, a time when he’s usually at home, Hirschfeld is astonished, even a little fearful, at what seems to him a sudden uptick in the pace of daily life. He isn’t imagining it. The first decade of the 20th century has seen Berlin transformed. Droschke carriages and horse-drawn streetcars have mostly given way to elevated trains and electric buses. Hirschfeld’s begun to grow accustomed to the radio and the teletype machine, but not to the new craze for “shopping”—Berliners use the English word—that seems not only to have passionately seized the population but to have resulted in huge department stores like Tietz’s or the still more expansive Wertheim’s draping their ubiquitous advertisements over—so it appears—half the buildings in the city.
By the time he’s seated at Kranzler’s, Hirschfeld feels grateful for the comparative peace and quiet. But the dinner doesn’t start well, with Merzbach complaining loudly about an uncomfortable boil on his neck, compounded by a “ghastly” hangover. Hirschfeld suggests lanolin for the boil, and a glass of bitters for the hangover. His sympathy—or the bitters—soon improves Merzbach’s mood.
True to his promise, he does have much to report. After ordering from the menus, Merzbach launches into an energetic account of his visit with A.A. Brill, the highly regarded American psychoanalyst who studied with Freud in Vienna and currently heads the psychiatry clinic at Columbia University. Merzbach reports that he talked at length with Brill about his ongoing study of homosexual men, and tells Hirschfeld that Brill has become convinced a great injustice is being done, most of it deriving from the mistaken belief of his fellow psychiatrists that homosexual men are “degenerates.”
“Good for him!” Hirschfeld says. “Most psychoanalysts—no, most scientists—don’t know the difference between an anomaly and a pathology. Being in a minority isn’t the same as being a degenerate. Darwin said it long ago—natural variations are essential to the entire evolutionary process.”
“Brill is fully aware of our work on the Scientific Humanitarian Committee,” Merzbach tells Hirschfeld. “He’s no less indignant than we are at the Committee’s inability to win repeal of Paragraph 175. When I told him that we already have thousands of signatories to the petition, and mentioned that Einstein, Rainer Maria Rilke, Käthe Kollwitz, and Stefan Zweig are among them, Brill expressed astonishment at the Reichstag’s failure to act.”
“Surely Brill realizes,” Hirschfeld cautions, “that the depth of prejudice in Germany is no less profound than in the United States.”
“Brill speaks highly of you personally. He credits you with having inspired his development of what he calls ‘adjustment therapy.’”
“I assume he means encouraging the patient to accept his or her sexuality as unproblematic.”
“Except for the problems caused by society’s prejudice.”
“Yes—put the blame where it belongs.”
“Though Brill studied under Freud he doesn’t agree with his view that homosexuality results from early childhood experiences.”
“Freud isn’t that categorical. He leaves room for the possibility of biological factors.”
The correction doesn’t register; Merzbach is too consumed by his own news. “Brill wants his patients to understand that their homosexuality is a natural variant. To the extent they’re uncomfortable with it, they need to understand that social disapproval is the cause, and not anything inherent to being homosexual.” The further Merzbach gets into his report, the more enthusiastic he becomes—and the louder his voice grows.
“A sensible man. Would that there were more like him.”
“Brill said that you and Edward Carpenter in England are leading the struggle to view homosexuality in a more accurate light.”
“It’s nice to be praised once in a while. We get so much of the opposite. Though I’m not sure Carpenter would be altogether pleased at being bracketed with me.”
Their dinner having been served, Hirschfeld savors his first bite. “Ah—the sturgeon is superb. Say what you will about Kranzler’s—their prices are steep but their food warrants it.”
“I don’t understand what you mean about Carpenter. He also believes homosexuality is biological.”
“His position is more complicated. He feels closer—at least in some moods—to the views of Friedlaender and the Community of the Special.”
“Friedlaender’s views are absurd!” Merzbach nearly shouts. “He thinks we’re some kind of chosen people!”
Hirschfeld reflexively bristles, aware that as a Jew “chosen people” is a double-edged sword. “Carpenter thinks so too. Though he does go back and forth. I hear Bernard Shaw has recently given him a tongue-lashing on the matter, enraged, apparently, at Carpenter’s notion that ‘intermediates’ could possibly represent some sort of cultural vanguard. Well, perhaps we do . . .”
“Sounds like you’re ‘going back and forth’ yourself. But really, Hirschfeld, the ‘vanguard’ view is quite mistaken. Homosexuals are just like everybody else—same hopes, needs, dreams . . .”
“Think of it this way, my dear Merzbach. Any group of people with a historical experience different from the norm will have a different—or at least somewhat different—set of values and perspectives. Being outside the mainstream, we’re able to see that its values are not ‘universal truths,’ fixed for all time—like the notion, say, that the separate spheres men and women currently occupy are biologically determined. Contrary to Krafft-Ebing, the similarities between men and women are far greater than the dissimilarities. Genitalia aside, of course.” (I wonder why I added that, Hirschfeld thinks to himself. I’ve seen so many variations, like undescended testes or vestigial penises, I’m sometimes not sure what finally counts in assigning infants to one category or another).
Merzbach wrinkles up his face in distaste: “I can’t agree with you about Kranzler’s. These marinated mushrooms taste more like pickles. But never mind . . . The point I wish to make, Hirschfeld, is that lots of heterosexuals grow up as outsiders, too.”
“True, and a valuable caution. We need to talk less about group characteristics and more about individual ones. I don’t want to embrace any theory that implies the innate superiority of one group of people over another. When we get down to the level of the individual, terms like ‘male’ and ‘female’ or ‘heterosexual’ and ‘homosexual’ are far too abstract to be descriptively useful . . . We need to talk of continuums, not categories. But I’m rambling . . .”
Merzbach is still mulling over Hirschfeld’s earlier point. “When Friedlaender talks about individual complexity,” Merzbach finally says, “he means men are complex. He equates women with oxen—interchangeable oxen!”
In his agitation, Merzbach has raised his voice to such a pitch that people at the two adjoining tables look over at them disapprovingly. Hirschfeld, amused, gives the enflamed patrons a courtly nod.
“Well,” he says quietly, turning back to Merzbach, “cheerful tolerance is probably the most useful attitude. We’re all stumbling around in the same pit of ignorance . . . I speak more confidently in public about the ‘Third Sex’ than I sometimes feel. The theory isn’t nuanced enough . . .”
“It isn’t a virtue to persuade people to a given view and then tell them you’re not sure you believe it.” Merzbach’s tone is censorious.
“Tell me more about Brill.”
“You have the gist of it. The rest might not please you as much.”
“My dear Merzbach, do continue. I’m hardly a stranger to criticism!”
“Brill rejects the view—having worked with countless homosexual patients—that homosexuality is the result of a hereditary defect or a degenerative psyche. He’s publicly stated that among his patients he hasn’t found one who could reasonably be called a ‘degenerate.’”
“Why wouldn’t I like that? It’s exactly what I believe.”
“No, no, not that part. Brill also insists that most inverts are contented with their lives. They see no reason to consult a physician and no reason to join any public agitation over Paragraph 175. They simply want to be left alone.”
“But will blackmailers and the law leave them alone? Surely Brill knows that the answer is no. If Prince Eulenburg and Count Moltke were forced to stand trial, what chance do men of lesser rank have?”
After a pause, Hirschfeld adds, “Now that some time has elapsed, I must tell you that I’m not comfortable with the role I played during Moltke’s trial.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard some of the grumbling about it.”
“Of course. And I’ve come to more or less agree with it. I’ve gone over the matter many times in my mind. I’m no longer as sure as I sounded on the stand that certain features of an individual’s psyche are sufficient to describe the person as homosexual. I now incline more to the view that behavior—actual sexual experience—is the critical indicator. I’m ‘inclined,’ though not yet convinced. After all, any number of men have come to me for counseling who don’t hesitate to call themselves ‘homosexual’ even though they’re too frightened to search for a partner or, on finding one, are too panicky to sustain an erection. We have so much more to learn before any of us can draw the kind of confident conclusions that I did at the trial.”
“We all make mistakes. At least you acknowledge yours. May I return to Brill?” Merzbach asks grumpily.
Hirschfeld gives a little yelp of dismay. “I’m so sorry, my dear Merzbach. I’m being much too self-absorbed. Yes, of course, do tell me what else the great man had to say.”
“He believes”—Merzbach lowers his voice to a confidential whisper and leans in toward Hirschfeld—“that physicians in Germany are more benign in their view of homosexuality than are those in England or the United States.”
“Oh?” Hirschfeld sounds surprised. “On what grounds does Brill base his opinion?”
“Well, my dear Magnus, it seems that most physicians—especially in the States—show little or none of the compassion of someone like Krafft-Ebing, who claims we should be pitied, not punished.”
“The Americans are great believers,” Hirschfeld responds, “in will power. Anybody who wants to change their sexual pattern, they claim, can change it—they’re too morally lazy to make the effort. America’s unique confidence in the power of the individual is what makes them so intolerant—of poverty as well as homosexuality!”
“According to Brill, they’ve developed some pretty nasty ‘cures’ to deal with homosexuals who refuse to dedicate themselves to the hard work of becoming ‘normal.’ Including bladder washing and rectal massage!”
“The latter sounds rather enjoyable,” Hirschfeld says playfully.
Finding no humor in the remark, Merzbach ignores it.
“And if those treatments fail,” he continues—here his voice again ris-es—“the same physicians then strongly recommend CASTRATION!” From the adjoining tables heads once again turn.
“My dear Georg,” Hirschfeld cautions, “they’ll be tossing us out if you don’t modulate your voice.” Merzbach exhales and sits back.
“Since some physicians in Germany also recommend castration, Brill gives us too much credit.”
“I know of no such case,” Merzbach replies rather testily. He’s still offended by Hirschfeld’s off-handed impishness. Hoping to tease him out of it, Hirschfeld asks, brow furrowed with import, for more details on rectal massage, a technique, he says, previously unknown to him.
Still sounding wounded, Merzbach explains how American and English physicians massage the patient’s prostate as a way of killing “homosexual cells, then to be replaced with heterosexual cells.”
Hirschfeld can’t help himself: “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” he says.
“Whichever tickles your fancy,” Merzbach replies sternly.
“Has anyone ever seen a ‘homosexual’ cell under the microscope—or a ‘heterosexual’ one, for that matter?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Merzbach seems determined to hold on to his sense of injury. “You’ve cleared your plate, I see. Would that mine had been so tasty,” he captiously adds. Tired of placation, Hirschfeld decides to change the subject entirely.
“I haven’t told you, but I leave early in the morning for Italy. Regrettably, I must cut our pleasant visit short.”
“Italy?!” Merzbach is taken off guard. “For heaven’s sake, why?”
“I’ve gone often to Italy. The countryside is beautiful, the people equally so. I always find their easy-going warmth restorative. And frankly, I’ve been feeling worn out lately. The language that the Reichstag’s Advisory Committee used this time around to reject action on Paragraph 175 has been troubling me. After all our work, they still refer to us as ‘those sick people not worthy of our esteem or sympathy.’ It’s made me quite depressed. And here is Brill thinking we’re so advanced . . .”
“We always knew it would be a long fight,” Merzbach offers, without much conviction.
“On this trip I hope to fulfill a longstanding dream of mine—to go to Aquila and lay flowers on the grave of our great forebear, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs.”
“Really?! How remarkable! I commend you, my dear Hirschfeld. It’s a gesture worthy of your kind heart.”
“Nonsense. It’s a purely personal journey, benefiting no one but me.”
Traveling alone, Hirschfeld arrives at the hillside town of Aquila on April 18, 1909. Situated high in the Apennines, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, the picturesque town is a maze of narrow side streets that abruptly open out into large piazzas lined with small buildings and churches dating back to the Renaissance. So say the guidebooks—accurately enough. Though they make no mention of Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, Hirschfeld has long since become familiar with his story. Born into a pious, conservative family that included a long line of Lutheran pastors, Ulrichs distinguished himself at the University of Göttingen in theology and law, winning prizes for his Latin essays. After two years studying history at Berlin University he passed a rigorous set of exams for the civil service, and for a brief period served as legal adviser to the district court of the Kingdom of Hanover.
Ulrichs then took the momentous step—all but unique at the time—of openly declaring his homosexuality to family and friends; henceforth, he told them, he intended to devote himself entirely to studying the subject of same-sex male attraction. His family proved just as unique, supporting his determination to live honestly and to apply his gifts to the subject that most compelled his attention. The Hanoverian government proved far less tolerant than the Ulrichs family. When Karl Heinrich made the remarkable decision in 1867 to give a formal presentation on his chosen subject to the professional Association of Jurists—which represented lawyers, officials, and academics from the 39 principalities of the German Confederation (unified by Bismarck in 1871)—Ulrichs was greeted with horror, catcalls, and the threat of dismissal.
He resigned instead. Relying on a small inheritance, he began to publish a series of articles and pamphlets that challenged traditional views of male “Urnings”—the term Ulrichs invented and which was widely used for a time, giving way in the early 20th century to Karl Kertbeny’s alternate designation, “homosexuals.” In his articles Ulrichs contested the longstanding view of “sodomitical” behavior as resulting from decadent sexual excess or masturbation. He offered instead an alternative theory, the one Hirschfeld would later, with modifications, adopt: men attracted to other men constituted a “third sex,” a predilection grounded in biology, not pathology; as the ancient Greeks had long ago assumed, the attraction was a natural phenomenon, not—as the dominant cultural view currently had it—the product of willful perversion.
The Uranian male, according to Ulrichs, was genitally intact but had an innately “feminine” nature. Sexual organs, in other words, did not determine sexual desire (or personality)—a view that would have profound implications for those who would later declare a transgender identity. Ulrichs subsequently modified his original thesis, acknowledging that some Urnings were entirely “masculine”—as traditionally defined—in their nature as well as their attractions; he also acknowledged, though he dwelt on neither matter, that the same was true for some women (Urninden), and that bisexuality (Uranodionism) constituted a genuine—that is, biological—reality.
That which is innate, Ulrichs argued, cannot be legitimately criminalized—no more than could other minority features like green eyes or red hair. All were natural variants, requiring no moral judgment. Nor, Ulrichs further contended, should male Urnings be stigmatized by citing passages from the Bible; what the Good Book denounced, he insisted—long before 20th-century “Biblical Criticism” adopted a comparable attitude—is male prostitution, not male love and lust.
At the time Ulrichs wrote, criminal laws varied widely in Europe. The French Revolution had produced a liberal code in 1791 that removed consensual sexual relations among adults entirely from state control. Following France’s lead, other European countries—pre-eminently the Netherlands, Spain, and many Italian states—rescinded their anti-sodomy statues. By the early 19th century all of Europe, including the German principalities, had disavowed the death penalty for sodomy; only Great Britain lagged behind, not dropping the death sentence until 1868.
Among the German states, Bavaria led the way in its legal tolerance of same sex relations. Those prescribing the most severe penalties included Austria (alone in criminalizing sex between women), Saxony, and Prussia. The conservative criminal code that Prussia adopted following German unification in 1871 proved widely influential. In 1868 the renowned Berlin physician, Rudolf Virchow—the same Virchow who’d been an acquaintance of Hirschfeld’s father—had led a commission to study Prussia’s anti-sodomy statute in preparation for a general revision of its legal code, and had concluded that it was “unable to offer reasons why sex between men should be punished by law when other forms of illicit relations,” such as fornication or adultery, were not. But Prussian authorities rejected the Virchow report, and the principality retained its stringent anti-sodomy law.
What also remained common currency throughout much of the 19th century was the widespread notion that “sodomites” could be easily recognized by certain physical characteristics. A man who played the “passive” role in anal sex was said to have a funnel-shaped sphincter muscle and sagging buttocks. The “active” sodomite purportedly had an arrow-pointed penis (never to be confused with Cupid’s arrow of love). Active and passive alike were thought peculiarly susceptible to a wide variety of ailments: their degenerate behavior led, as night followed day, to physical decay.
Ulrichs’s writings were sometimes censored or banned outright (as in Prussia in 1864), but by then freedom of the press in Europe was sufficiently recognized to allow for word of his theories gradually to spread. The number of copies of his works in print was never substantial, but what was printed tended to fall into influential hands. Richard von Krafft-Ebing, the most notable of Hirschfeld’s predecessors, cited Ulrichs’s work in his best-selling and highly influential Psychopathia Sexualis, first published in 1886. Ulrichs’s views also reached such pioneering sexologists as Havelock Ellis in England and Iwan Bloch in Germany. Even Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels commented on Ulrichs pamphlets, though negatively—setting the disparaging tone adopted ever after by the orthodox Old Left, which simultaneously champions revolutionary economic change and stand-pat sexual politics.
Italy, with its comparatively relaxed attitude towards “licentiousness,” had for some time become a refuge for German and English homosexuals. And so it was with Ulrichs. After an extended tour of the country and three years residence in Naples (where “intemperance” related to murder, not sex), Ulrichs discovered the town of Aquila in the Abruzzo region and settled there in 1880. He sometimes talked of returning to Germany, but he remained in Aquila until his death in 1895.
Hirschfeld regarded Ulrichs as the pioneering figure, his theories the groundbreaking inspiration for his own work. He adopted many of Ulrichs’s views—including his seminal insistence, not current since the Greeks, that male-male sexual attraction was an entirely natural, if not universal, phenomenon (Unlike Ulrichs, Hirschfeld developed a keen interest in female-female relations, and in feminism, as well). Over time Hirschfeld amends and supplements Ulrichs’s views, but they continue to remain among his foundational assumptions.
Arriving in Aquila mid-day, Hirschfeld checks into a pensione close to the town’s central cluster of markets and stalls—and to the cemetery where Ulrichs lies buried. He can feel his excitement building, but wants to husband it a while longer—much like the gourmand who delays entering a restaurant in order to savor the awareness that a churning stomach will be satisfied. Hirschfeld decides on a leisurely stroll through the market area.
One shop catches his eye. It’s filled with pastries—an irresistible temptation for the diabetic Hirschfeld; the sight of a plate full of German linzer tortes in the shop’s window instantly erases whatever resistance he might ordinarily have mustered. Vacation is no time, he tells himself, to be worrying about his waistline, expansive though it is. The small shop contains only two tables, and on entering Hirschfeld notices a rather elegantly dressed elderly man seated at one of them. When the man looks up, Hirschfeld nods pleasantly in his direction, which in turn produces an animated response.
“Do forgive my boldness, sir,” the gentleman says, rising halfway out of his chair. “But may I inquire if you’re a stranger to these parts?”
“I am indeed,” Hirschfeld replies, torn between politeness and the pressing need to direct the proprietor’s attention to the coveted platter of tortes. When he points to his choice, the proprietor picks up one of the tortes to wrap.
“No, no,” Hirschfeld urgently signals—“two, please.” Up to now all three parties have been speaking Italian—Hirschfeld hesitantly. He becomes uncomfortably aware that the elderly gentleman is now at his side.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man says, holding out his hand. “I am the Marchese Doctor Persichetti. I don’t wish to be rude, but am I correct in noting a German accent?”
“Yes, you are,” Hirschfeld responds somewhat warily. “I’m afraid my Italian is decidedly sub-par.” Persichetti? he thinks to himself. That sounds vaguely familiar. I wonder why?
“I ask,” Persichetti says, switching at once to German, which he speaks fluently, “because a dear friend of mine, now alas deceased some dozen years, was German by birth, though he spent the last years of his life here in Aquila.”
Good Lord! Hirschfeld realizes with a flash—Persichetti! Of course—Ulrichs’s friend and benefactor. What an astonishing coincidence! To Persichetti, he blurts out, “Do you mean Karl Heinrich Ulrichs?”
It’s Persichetti’s turn to be astonished. “You knew him?!” he gasps.
“No, not personally. But his writings have long been inspirational for me. I doubt I’d be on my current path in life were it not for Ulrichs’s pioneering work. My name is Magnus Hirschfeld. Is there any chance you may have heard of me?”
“Not only heard of you, my dear Hirschfeld, but read you!” Persichetti sits back down again, seemingly overcome with emotion. “I mean—good heavens!—you published Ulrichs’s letters to his family!”
“No, not me—the Scientific Humanitarian Committee.”
“Of which you are the head, are you not?”
“Of which I am the director, yes.”
“This is too extraordinary!”
Hirschfeld takes Persichetti’s hand and kisses it. “And for me, immense good fortune!” The two men then embrace, tears forming in Persichetti’s eyes. “Almost no one in Aquila speaks of him now. They seem not to know or care that a great man once lived among them. I alone am left to bear testimony.”
“Not so in the world at large. More and more people understand that Ulrichs is the great forerunner. My sole reason for coming to Aquila is to find my dear comrade’s grave and mark it with some fitting tribute.”
“I will lead you to it, it will be my great joy to do so. But first, will you not come to my home—it’s quite nearby—and sit a while? I have so much to tell you . . .”
“With great pleasure, my dear Persichetti, great pleasure . . .”
The two end up talking together for many hours, with Persichetti doing most of it, delighting Hirschfeld with anecdote after anecdote, telling him much about Ulrichs’s “very respectable but too modest” manner. Hirschfeld joyfully drinks in the abundance of new information, taking care to remember as many details as possible to repeat to his colleagues back in Berlin. At various points, Persichetti takes down one of Ulrichs’s works from the bookshelves in order to find an apt quotation to illustrate some point. In general, Hirschfeld nods in agreement with his pronouncements, though now and then he feels the need gently to add a modifying comment to some passage Persichetti clearly regards as unvarnished Truth.
“Let us not forget Casper,” Hirschfeld offers at one point, after Persichetti has fervently credited Ulrichs with single-handedly birthing the scientific study of Urnings.
The remark seems to startle Persichetti. “Casper? Who is Casper?”
“Johann Ludwig Casper—surely you know of him?” Hirschfeld instantly regrets the question.
“I most certainly do not,” Persichetti indignantly replies. “Who is this ‘Casper’? Why do you bring him up when we are discussing Ulrichs?”
Hirschfeld realizes that appeasement, not information, is the called-for response. “No direct connection, no, none at all. Casper edited a medical magazine in Berlin, wrote some pieces for it in the 1850s claiming that Urnings could not be identified by any external feature like effeminacy . . . That’s all . . . though he agreed Urnings were a natural, biological phenomena . . .”
“I assure you Karl Heinrich knew nothing of this Casper person,” Persichetti huffs, failing to conceal his annoyance. “That name never once came up.”
“No, no, of course not,” Hirschfeld’s reassurance is headlong. “Ulrichs’s ideas originated with him, not with anyone else . . .”
“Quite so.”
The matter is gradually smoothed over, but later on a still more discomforting moment arrives when Hirschfeld suggests that Ulrichs’s notion that male Urnings have “a woman’s soul” may require some additional complication.
“What we are now beginning to understand,” Hirschfeld says, aware that the remark might also antagonize the old man but feeling plagued by a sense of integrity, “is that what we call ‘effeminacy’ in men should not always be equated with having ‘a woman’s soul,’ nor for that matter with same gender sexual attraction.” Failing to credit the scowl beginning to settle on Persichetti’s brow, Hirschfeld unwisely continues: “We now have considerable evidence that some men with an over-abundance of traditional masculine qualities, such as muscular sport or military valor, are in fact sexually attracted only to other men, whereas some men who seem drawn only to so-called womanly pursuits are quite heterosexual in their—”
“—My dear Hirschfeld!” Persichetti interrupts, clearly upset. “I may not be abreast of the latest research being conducted in Germany’s great cities and universities, but I do know my own experience, and from that I can affirm the absolute correctness of Ulrichs’s observations on—”
“—I beg of you, dear Persichetti, do not excite yourself. I assure you that the theoretical modifications I mention remain at the level of speculation. The science of sexology is not well enough advanced to make categorical assertions of any kind.”
“Ulrichs’s assertions were categorical—and beyond dispute, no matter what today’s pseudo-science might say.” Persichetti is now as agitated as he is adamant. Hirschfeld prudently decides to shift the conversation back to a discussion of Ulrichs the man.
“I can assure you, my dear Marchese, no one admires Karl Ulrichs more than I. From what you’ve told me, he was as modest as he was brilliant. And like all true saints led a life of utmost simplicity.”
“I let him have two upstairs rooms in a ramshackle old house I own—not this one. The only furniture in it was a bed and a table close to the window, where dear Ulrichs sat to do his writing.” Perischetti’s tone is tight-lipped, though he seems to have thawed somewhat. “Did you know that he wrote everything in Latin? He even edited a literary journal in Latin called Alaudae—The Lark. Its circulation was small, but its influence considerable.
“Some of his writings are only now being translated and published. I suspect more and more will be uncovered in the years to come. We still have much to learn from him.”
Persichetti seems lost in his memories: “He cooked for himself, you know. I kept remonstrating with him about how little he ate. I’d invite him to dinner every Sunday to make sure he had at least one substantial meal. He was a remarkable conversationalist. Knew everything—astronomy, botany, theology, everything. Come!” Persichetti abruptly announces, “I will show you his rooms.”
And he does. They’re ramshackle to the point of barrenness. Hirschfeld finds it difficult to imagine how a gentleman scholar could have survived in such spartan circumstances. He knows that he could not.
“I wonder why he never considered moving to Berlin?”
“He had everything he needed right here,” Persichetti tersely responds. “He wanted solitude, not frivolity.”
Hirschfeld smiles. “I assure you, we are not very frivolous in Berlin. Well, at least I am not. Though opportunities do exist. Outdoor spots, like the Tiergarten or Unter den Linden, where men of—”
“—absurd!” Persichetti angrily interjects. “Such foolishness would never appeal to a man of Ulrichs’s noble character!” The tour of Ulrichs’s lodgings abruptly ends.
“I will give you instructions for locating Ulrichs’s grave,” Persichetti says sternly, avoiding eye contact with Hirschfeld. “I cannot join you after all. The walk is tiring, and I am quite exhausted from your visit. Let me warn you, though, that you will find the grave overgrown with weeds and debris. No one visits it. The people Karl Ulrichs fought for never come to see him.”
“All that will change,” Hirschfeld reassures the old man, knowing that another embrace will not accompany his departure. “The world will yet appreciate all that Ulrichs has done.”
Persichetti shakes his head in disbelief, tears in his eyes. Then he quietly, but firmly, takes his leave. Hirschfeld does find the grave. It’s no more than a flat metal plate, nearly obliterated with detritus. He carefully cleans it off, then places on the headstone the simple bouquet of flowers he’s purchased in the town.