(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  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 civil
ized 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.

  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 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 love-making 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 yourself 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 about 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?”