(1961) The Chapman Report (16 page)

as 325 artificial and so-called universal languages have been invented in the last five centuries. The most popular of these, as you may know, is Esperanto, which was invented by a Polish eye doctor in 1887. But I was seeking the least popular of these languages, one long extinct, and I found one that I felt was just right. This is the language of Solresol, conceived in 1817 and based on the seven notes of the scale. Well, I adapted Solresol to our surveys, adding various symbols to its forgotten alphabet. I have never found a human being, not even a veteran linguist or cryptographer, who could read Solresol, let alone our adaptation of it. This is the language we use to record your answers. So you know that your answers to our questions are, and will always be, confidential.

“When we leave The Briars two weeks from now, to return to Reardon College, we will have your Solresol answers with us. They will be deposited in specially rented safes of the Father Marquette National Bank off the campus. They will be removed only once, to be fed into a machine I designed, ten by twenty feet in size, known to us as the STC machine-STC standing for Solresol Translating Compiling machine. Your questionnaires will go directly into the mouth of this mechanism, the Solresol symbols will be photographed, and then, through an intricate electronic process, they will be translated into numerals for computing and totaling. Nothing is put into English until we have our totals, and then our results are published for the good of all. But, by then, each private answer has been absorbed by the whole, lost in the anonymity of the whole, and in no way can the final results ever embarrass a single person or be traced to a single individual.”

Listening, Sarah thought, I suppose it is safe, the way he explains it. And it is for a good cause. Maybe if they’d had something like this years ago, my life would have been different. Dr. Chapman looks like a man you can trust. His eyes are friendly. Of course, what can you tell about any man until you know him? When I was immature, I liked Sam a lot; thought I did. Look how he turned out. And Fred, the first time I met Fred, he irritated me. So sure of himself and bossing everyone, yet look what he’s really like. No one on earth is more decent or loving than he. There’s no man like him anywhere.

Sarah stared at Dr. Chapman, seeing him, not hearing him: I suppose, for science, it would be all right to admit the truth to him. But why risk telling the truth to anyone? Of course, if I told

a lie when I was interviewed-no, he’d find out, he’s a scientist, and he’d see through it and that might get me in -trouble. But why even volunteer at all? Because it would be riskier not to do it than to do it. I would be the only one, and everyone would know and begin to ask questions. Oh, hell, why is everything so-simple, so complicated finally? I guess I am mixed up, because I was going to tell Fred yesterday and this morning about the lecture and interviews, and I didn’t. Why didn’t I? I suppose I was afraid he would object. He and that damn wife. If he were living with her, I could understand. But he’s practically a bachelor. What has he got to lose if it gets out? All right, his boy, but neither of them hardly ever see the boy, and he’s practically grown up, anyway. I’m the one who should be worried. But I’m not. I just don’t care, I guess. In a way, I wish it were out. I’d like everyone to know. I’m so proud of Fred. There’ll never be anyone else, for the rest of my life. Isn’t it strange? I went with Jewish boys only. I guess the way I was raised. I always thought the others were different. That’s what Mom used to say. Goyem. I’m glad Mom isn’t here. I shouldn’t say that. But I am, really. Maybe I shouldn’t tell Dr. Chapman. Maybe he won’t ask. What if someone could read the Solresol language? What if it got out? How could I face Jerry and Debbie? If they were grown up and experienced, they could understand; I could explain. But this way. No, I’ll just have to wait. It’s hard. How does that STC machine work? I wonder how many other women are like me? Right here. Of course, Mrs. Webb just went and left her husband. I guess she still sees that car dealer. Why doesn’t she marry him? And Naomi Shields. I heard about her. But that’s different. That’s not love. Oh, I’m so tired of the sneaking off and worrying. I wonder how they write it in that language?

Mary Ewing McManus was disappointed. She had expected a man of Dr. Chapman’s experience to be more practical. She had felt that she would listen to him and come away with something that she could use. But so far there was nothing like that at all. Only generalities. Of course, there were some interesting things she could repeat to Norman and her father at dinner. And some funny things, too. She tried to remember one of them. But she couldn’t.

Mary realized that she was staring at the back of Kathleen’s head. She admired Kathleen’s shining black hair, and the short bob, and the cream-white neck, and wished that she could be as

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 repeatI 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 feat-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 co-operate 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 co-operated 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 dirt)’ 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 sup pose 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.