Kitabı oku: «The Intermediate Sex», sayfa 6
Appendix
“In this country [Britain] we have too long, from a sense of mock modesty, neglected the science relating to sex. In Germany this is not so. There we find workers who have elaborated for themselves a new science, and who have given to the world knowledge which is of the very utmost importance. We now know that there are females with strong male characteristics, and vice-versa. Anatomically and mentally we find all shades existing from the pure genus man to the pure genus woman. Thus there has been constituted what is well named by an illustrious exponent of the science ‘The Third Sex’.”—Dr. James Burnet, The Medical Times and Hospital Gazette, vol. xxxiv., No. 1497, 10th November, 1906. London.
“Every citizen of age to fulfil his duties as a citizen, whether he be a father or husband, teacher or pupil, master or servant, official or subordinate, has the right, and owes it as a duty, to know the facts of sexual inversion, to combat and to prevent debauchery, crime and vice, to learn and to teach others the place of inversion in Society, and its morals, the duties of the invert towards himself, and towards other inverts, towards the normal man, and towards women and children. And the duties of the normal man towards the invert are no less—no less difficult, no less indispensable.”—M. A. Raffalovich, “Uranisme et Unisexualité.” Paris, 1896.
“That sex inversion is not a chance phenomenon … appears from the fact that it has been observed at all times and in all places, and among peoples quite separate from each other.”—A. Moll, “Die Conträre Sexualempfindung,” 2nd Edition, p. 15. Berlin, 1893.
“Concerning the wide prevalence of sexual inversion, and of homosexual phenomena generally, there can be no manner of doubt. In Berlin, Moll states that he has himself seen between six hundred and seven hundred homosexual persons, and heard of some two hundred and fifty to three hundred others. I have much evidence as to its frequency both in England and the United States. In England, concerning which I can naturally speak with most assurance, its manifestations are well-marked for those whose eyes have been opened.… Among the professional and most cultured element of the middle class in England there must be a distinct percentage of inverts, which may sometimes be as much as five per cent., though such estimates must always be hazardous. Among women of the same class the percentage seems to be at least double—though here the phenomena are less definite and deepseated.”—Havelock Ellis, “Psychology of Sex,” vol. Sexual Inversion, pp. 29, 30. Philadelphia, 1901.
“According to the information of De Joux in ‘The Disinherited of Love,’ the number of Urnings in all Europe is about five millions; about 4.5 per cent. of all males in Europe are Urnings, while only 0.1 per cent. of females are Urningins. A malady therefore—if malady it should be called—which is so widespread certainly demands our deepest interest; and it is strange that it is only since the ’70’s that this subject has been discussed in scientific literature.
“It is owing to this ignorance that the public mind has been dominated, and still is dominated, by the prejudice, that psychical hermaphroditism and sex-inversion are nothing but crimes, wilful crimes, whereas they proceed necessarily out of the inborn nature of such individuals.”—Norbert Grabowsky, “Die verkehrte Geschlechtsempfindung,” p. 16. Leipzig, 1894.
Dr. Hirschfeld, in his “Statistischen Untersuchunge über den Prozentensatz der Homosexuellen,” gives the result of various statistical investigations on this subject; and their remarkable agreement enables him to speak with some confidence. He says (p. 41), “Now we know that we must reckon the numbers of those who vary from the normal, not by fractions of thousands but by fractions of hundreds. The fact that, as a result of these circular enquiries and commissions about the same figure has emerged (for the proportion of exclusively homosexual persons), namely, a figure in the neighbourhood of 1½ per cent.—this extraordinary agreement cannot possibly be a chance, but must rest on a law—a law of nature—namely, that only 90 to 95 per cent. of mankind are normally sexual by birth; that about 1½ to 2 per cent. are born pure homosexuals (say about 1,000,000 in Germany); and that between the two classes there remain some 4 per cent. who are bisexual by nature.”
And again (p. 60), “But what do these figures show? They show that of 100,000 inhabitants on the average only 94,600 are sexually normal, while 5,400 vary from the normal. Of these latter 1,500 are exclusively homosexual, and 3,900 bisexual. While of these last again 700 are predominantly homosexual; so that of 100,000 Germans, 2,200 (or 2.2 per cent.) are either exclusively or predominantly homosexual—making 1,200,000 for the whole German Fatherland.”
“Sexual inversion has usually been regarded as psycho-pathological, as a symptom of degeneration; and those who exhibit it have been considered as physically unfit. This view, however, is falling into disrepute, especially as Krafft-Ebing, its principal champion, abandoned it in the later editions of his work. None the less, it is not generally recognised that sexual inverts may be otherwise perfectly healthy, and with regard to other social matters quite normal. When they have been asked if they would have wished matters to be different with them in this respect, they almost invariably answer in the negative.”—O. Weininger, “Sex and Character,” ch. iv. Heinemann, London, 1906.
“It is a common belief that a male who experiences love for his own sex must be despicable, degraded, depraved, vicious, and incapable of humane or generous sentiments. If Greek history did not contradict this supposition, a little patient enquiry into contemporary manners would suffice to remove it.”—J. Addington Symonds, “A Problem in Modern Ethics,” p. 10.
“Mantegazza rightly insists that Urnings are found by no means only among the dregs of the people, but that they are rather to be noted in circles which in respect of culture, wealth, and social position rank among the first. Thus, among the aristocracy without doubt a great number of Urnings are to be found.”—A. Moll, op. cit. p. 76.
“In no rank are there so many Urnings as among servants. One may say that every third male domestic is an Urning.”—De Joux, “Die Enterbten des Liebesglückes,” p. 193. Leipzig, 1893.
“It is therefore certain, as we have seen, that many Urnings come from nervous or pathologically disposed families.… All the same, I must say that there is no proof to hand in all cases of sex-inversion among men, that the individuals concerned are thus hereditarily weighted. And besides, there is the consideration that the extension, according to some authors, of hereditary trouble is at present so great that one may prove a tendency to nervous or mental maladies in almost everybody.”—A. Moll, op. cit., p. 221.
“The truth is that we can no more explain the inverted sex-feeling than we can the normal impulse; all the attempts at explanation of these things, and of Love, are defective.”—Ibid, p. 253.
“Among the penchants of Urnings one finds not infrequently a great partiality for Art and Music—and indeed, for active interest in the same as well as passive enjoyment … the Actor’s talent is especially noticeable among some.… But it must not be thought that Urnings are only capable of a special activity of the imagination. On the contrary, there are undoubted cases in which they contribute something in the scientific direction.… Also in Poetry do Urnings occasionally show exceptional talent; especially in love-verses addressed to men.”—Ibid, p. 80.
“An examination of my cases [of Inverts] reveals the interesting fact that 68 per cent. possess artistic aptitude in varying degree. Galton found, from the investigation of nearly 1,000 persons that the average showing artistic tastes in England is only about 30 per cent.”—Havelock Ellis, “Sexual Inversion,” p. 173.
“In Antiquity, especially among the Greeks, there seem to have been numbers of men who in their emotional natures were hermaphrodites. I think that the study of psychical hermaphrodisy is most important, and will throw yet greater light on the psychology of Love itself. Observation so far already shows that the same individual at differing times can experience quite different sexual feelings.”—A. Moll, op. cit., p. 200.
“The Urning is capable, through the force of his love, of making the greatest sacrifices for his beloved, and on that account the love of the Urning has been often compared with Woman’s love. Just as the Woman’s love is stronger and more devoted than that of the normal man, just as it exceeds that of the Man in inwardness, so, according to Ulrichs should the Urning’s love in this respect stand higher than that of the woman-loving Man.”—Ibid, p. 118.
“Womanish men often know how to treat women better than manly men do. Manly men, except in most rare cases, learn how to deal with women only after long experience, and even then most imperfectly.”—O. Weininger, “Sex and Character,” ch. v.
“Is it really the case that all women and men are marked off sharply from each other, the women on the one hand alike in all points, the men on the other?… There are transitional forms between the metals and non-metals, between chemical combinations and simple mixtures, between animals and plants, between phanerogams and cryptogams, and between mammals and birds.… The improbability may henceforth be taken for granted of finding in Nature a sharp cleavage between all that is masculine on the one side and all that is feminine on the other; or that any living being is so simple in this respect that it can be put wholly on one side, or wholly on the other, of the line.”—Weininger, Ibid, introduction, p. 2.
“Upon this, Chéron made a rather strange observation. ‘We have,’ she said, ‘with regard to sexual distinctions, notions that were not dreamed of by the primitive simplicity of the people of the age now gone by. From the fact that there are two sexes, and only two, they for a long time drew false inferences. They concluded that a woman is simply a woman, and a man simply a man. In reality this is not so; there are women who are very much women, and women who are very little so. Such differences, concealed in former times by costume and mode of life, and masked by prejudice, stand out clearly in our society. And not only so, but they become more accentuated and apparent in each generation.’”—Anatole France, “Sur la Pierre Blanche,” p. 301.
“In every human being there are present both male and female elements, only in normal persons (according to their sex) the one set of elements is more greatly developed than the other. The chief difference in the case of homosexual persons is that in them the male and female elements are more equalized; so that when, in addition, the general development is of a high grade, we find among this class the most perfect types of humanity.”—Dr. Arduin, “Die Frauenfrage,” in Jahrbuch der Sexuellen Zwischenstufen, vol. ii., p. 217. Leipzig, 1900.
“The notion that human beings were originally hermaphroditic is both ancient and widespread. We find it in the book of Genesis, unless indeed there be a confusion here between two separate theories of creation. God is said to have first made man in His image, male and female in one body, and to have bidden them multiply. Later on He created the woman out of part of this primitive man.” (See also the myth related by Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium.)—Havelock Ellis, “Sexual Inversion,” p. 229.
“When the sexual instinct first appears in early youth, it seems to be much less specialised than normally it becomes later. Not only is it, at the outset, less definitely directed to a specific sexual end, but even the sex of its object is sometimes uncertain.”—Ibid, p. 44.
“In me the homosexual nature is singularly complete, and is undoubtedly congenital. The most intense delight of my childhood (even when a tiny boy in my nurse’s charge) was to watch acrobats and riders at the circus. This was not so much for the skilful feats as on account of the beauty of their persons. Even then I cared chiefly for the more lithe and graceful fellows. People told me that circus actors were wicked and would steal little boys, and so I came to look on my favorites as half-devil and half-angel. When I was older and could go about alone, I would often hang around the tents of travelling shows in hope of catching a glimpse of the actors. I longed to see them naked, without their tights, and used to lie awake at night, thinking of them and longing to be embraced and loved by them.”—Ibid, “case” ix., p. 62.
“I was fifteen years and ten-and-a-half months old when the first erotic dream announced the arrival of puberty. I had had no previous experience of sex-satisfaction, either in the Urning direction or in any other. This occurrence therefore came about quite normally. From a much earlier time, however, I had been subject partly to tender yearnings and partly to sensual longing without definite form and purpose—the two emotions being always separate from each other and never experienced for one and the same young man. These aimless sensual longings plagued me often in hours of solitude; and I could not overcome them. They showed themselves first, during my fifteenth year, when I was at school at Detmold, in the following two ways:—First, they were awakened by a drawing in Normand’s “Saülen-ordnungen,” of the figure of a Greek god or hero, standing there in naked beauty. This image, a hundred times put away, came again a hundred times before my mind. (I need not say it did not cause the Urning temperament in me; it merely awoke what was slumbering there already—a thing that any other circumstance might have done.) Secondly, when studying in my little room, or when I lay upon my bed before going to sleep, the thought used suddenly and irresistibly to rise up in my mind—“If only a soldier would clamber through the window and come into my room!” Then my imagination painted me a splendid soldier-figure of twenty to twenty-two years old; and I was, as it were, all on fire. And yet my thoughts were quite vague, and undirected to any definite satisfaction; nor had I ever spoken a word with a real soldier.”—K. H. Ulrichs, “Memnon,” §77. Leipzig, 1898. See also “A Problem in Modern Ethics,” p. 73.
“The friendships of this kind which I formed at School were two in number—I shall never forget the absorbing depth and intensity of them. I never talked about them to anyone else, they were much too sacred and serious for that, nor—strange as it may seem—did I ever speak of them to the boys themselves, or indeed, show any signs of affection towards them. If they had been told that I was devoted to their welfare, and willing to sacrifice myself and all I had to it (which was indeed the fact) they would have been simply astonished; more especially as they were both young boys not yet arrived at puberty.
“I am at present somewhat bitterly conscious that in these cases one of the strongest influences for good that ever came into my life was nine-tenths wasted. How much better it all might have been under more favourable surroundings it is impossible to imagine. Still, it was not without its good influence on me, though (owing to their complete ignorance of my feelings) it could have had none whatever on the boys. I was conscious of a bracing and inspiring effect on my whole nature, a confirmed health of body, and most of all, of a greatly increased capacity for work. And doubtless all this might have been intensified a thousand fold if I had been ever so little guided and encouraged by public opinion sanctioning these friendships.
“The Public School boy has after all strong feelings of honour and fairness: and I am sure much might be done by cultivating the Public Opinion of the school: making devoted and disinterested friendships highly thought of and praised, and condemning as base and mean the least attempt to befoul a young boy’s purity through a gross and selfish desire for personal gratification. School public opinion would, I am sure, tend quite readily to flow in such channels. But this would demand an openness of treatment of the whole question such as does not at present exist. That the greatest force the schoolmaster has at his command should be so ignored (and so needlessly) is more than absurd: it is monstrous. And it concerns him as a teacher quite as much as the boys themselves in their relations with each other. I believe that gaining a boy’s affection is the necessary preliminary to really teaching him anything. Otherwise you do not really teach him at all.”—Private letter.
“I could tell you a good deal of another equally strong friendship I formed (myself twenty-five, boy fourteen) which was one of the happiest events of my life. It was acknowledged on both sides, but perfectly restrained and pure: and we saw a great deal of each other during most of the school holidays for about a year. I could have done anything with that boy, my influence over him was for the time being I should say unlimited: and undoubtedly immense good accrued to us both.”—Ibid.
“In my own school-life—as a day scholar—I had two such friendships, though of course in a day school there was not the same possibility of their development. One was with an elder boy some five years my senior, and the other with a master some twelve years older than myself. I was a shy, timid youngster, and not having a robust physique did not enter much into the ordinary athletics of the school. My elder friend was a very delicate, gentle, refined boy with a purity and loftiness of mind in striking contrast to the filthy moral atmosphere of the school at that time, but he was never censorious or self-righteous. I feel that this friendship was the most powerful influence in my early life in keeping a high ideal of conduct before me—much more powerful than the influence of home, which I do not think I was at all conscious of.
“After he left school, for Cambridge, we used to write regularly to one another—long letters, hardly ever less than three sheets in length. I remember I used to think him the most handsome man I knew, but looking now at his photo, taken about that time and comparing it with others, I see that his features were inferior to many others of my school-fellows. At the end of his second year he died of consumption. It was during the Long Vacation, and I was abroad at the time. I remember I used to sit up late into the night writing very long letters to him about all I had seen, to interest him during his illness. I did not know how ill he really was, but I had a terrible fear that I should not see him again. When I got back and found he had just died the shock was awful. For weeks I felt as if I had not a friend in the whole world. I have never felt any loss so keenly either before or since.…
“The other friendship with my mathematical master, though not so intimate, was still of a very affectionate character. I feel I owe a great deal to it—he laid the foundation of my ideal of a teacher’s duty to his pupils.”—Private letter.
“It is not new in itself; this, the feeling that drew Jesus to John, or Shakespeare to the youth of the sonnets, or that inspired the friendships of Greece, has been with us before, and in the new citizenship we shall need it again. The Whitmanic love of comrades is its modern expression; Democracy—as socially, not politically conceived—its basis. The thought as to how much of the solidarity of labour and the modern Trade-Union movement may be due to an unconscious faith in this principle of comradeship, is no idle one. The freer, more direct, and more genuine relationship between men, which is implied by it, must be the ultimate basis of the reconstructed Workshop.”—C. R. Ashbee, “Workshop Reconstruction and Citizenship,” p. 160.
A case of passionate attachment between two Indian boys was told to the author of the present book by a master at a school in India. The boys—who were about sixteen years of age—were both at the same school, and were devoted friends; but the day came when they had to part. One was taken away by his parents to go to a distant part of the country. The other was inconsolable at the prospect. When the day arrived, and his companion was removed, he soon after went quietly to a well in the school precincts, jumped in, and was drowned. The news, sent on by wire, reached the departing friend while still on his journey. He said little, but at one of the stations left the train and disappeared. The train went on, but at a little distance out, the boy ran out of the bushes by the line, threw himself on the rails, and was killed.
The following is taken from one of the “cases” recorded by Havelock Ellis in his “Sexual Inversion”; “The earliest sex-impression that I am conscious of is at the age of nine or ten falling in love with a handsome boy who must have been about two years my senior. I do not recollect ever having spoken to him, but my desire, as far as I can recall, was that he should seize hold of and handle me. I have a distinct impression yet of how pleasurable even physical pain or cruelty would have been at his hands.”—Havelock Ellis, op. cit., “case” xiii., p. 71.
“When I was about sixteen-and-a-half years old, there came into the house a boy about two years younger than myself, who became the absorbing thought of my school-days. I do not remember a moment, from the time I first saw him to the time I left school, that I was not in love with him, and the affection was reciprocated, if somewhat reservedly. He was always a little ahead of me in books and scholarship, but as our affection ripened we spent most of our spare time together, and he received my advances much as a girl who is being wooed, a little mockingly perhaps, but with real pleasure. He allowed me to fondle and caress him, but our intimacy never went further than a kiss, and about that even was the slur of shame; there was always a barrier between us, and we never so much as whispered to one another concerning those things of which all the school obscenely talked.”—Same case, p. 73.
“At the age of twenty-one I began gradually to remark that I was not somehow like my comrades, that I had no pleasure in male occupations, that smoking, drinking, and card-playing gave me little satisfaction, and that I had a real death-horror of a brothel. And, as a matter of fact, I had never been in one, as on every occasion under some pretext or other I have succeeded in stealing off. I now began to think about myself; I felt myself frightfully desolate, miserable and unfortunate, and longed for a friend of the same nature as myself—yet without dreaming that there could be other such men. At the age of twenty-two I came to know a young man who at last cleared up my mind about sexual inversion and those affected with it, since he—an Urning, like myself—had fallen in love with me. The scales fell from my eyes, and I bless the day which brought light to me.… Towards woman in her sexual relation I feel a real horror, which the exercise of all my strongest powers of imagination would not avail to overcome; and indeed, I have never attempted to overcome it, since I am quite persuaded of the fruitlessness of such an attempt, which to me appears sinful and unnatural.”—Krafft-Ebing, “Psychopathia Sexualis,” 7th edition, “case” No. 122, p. 291. Stuttgart, 1892.
“I can no longer exist without men’s love; without such I must ever remain at strife with myself.… If marriage between men existed I believe I should not be afraid of a life-long union—a thing which with a woman seems to be something impossible.… Since, however, this kind of love is reckoned criminal, by its satisfaction I can be at harmony with myself but never with the world, and necessarily in consequence must ever be somewhat out of tune; and all the more so because my character is open, and I hate lies of all kinds. This torment, to have always to conceal everything, has forced me to confess my anomaly to a few friends, of whose understanding and reticence I am sure. Although oftentimes my condition seems to me sad enough, by reason of the difficulty of satisfaction and the general contempt of manly love, yet I am often just a little proud on account of having these anomalous feelings. Naturally, I shall never marry—but this seems to me by no means a misfortune, although I am fond of family life, and up to now have passed my time only among my own relations. I live in the hope that later I shall have a permanent loved one; such indeed I must have, else would the future seem gray and drear, and every object which folk usually pursue—honour, high position, etc.—only vain and unattractive.
“Should this hope not be fulfilled, I know that I should be unable, permanently and with pleasure, to give myself to my calling, and that I should be capable of setting aside everything in order to gain the love of a man. I feel no longer any moral scruples on account of my anomalous leaning, and generally have never been troubled because I felt myself drawn to youths.… Up to now it has only seemed to me bad and immoral to do that which is injurious to another, or which I would not wish done to myself, and in this respect I can say that I try as much as possible not to infringe on the rights of others, and am capable of being violently roused by any injustice done to others.”—Ibid, p. 249, “case” No. 110 (official in a factory, age 31).
“My thoughts are by no means exclusively of the body or morbidly sensual. How often at the sight of a handsome youth does a deeply enthusiastic mood come upon me, and I offer a prayer, so to speak, in the glorious words of Heine—”Du bist wie eine Blume, so hold, so schön, so rein“.… Never has a young man yet guessed my love for him, I have never corrupted or damaged the morals of one, but for many have I here and there smoothed their pathway; and then I stick at no trouble and make sacrifices such as I can only make for them.
“When thus I have a chance to have a loved friend near me, to teach, to support and help, when my unconfest love finds a loving response (though naturally not sexual), then all the unclean images fade more and more from my mind. Then does my love become almost platonic, and lifts itself up—only to sink again in the mire, when it is deprived of its proper activity.
“For the rest, I am—and I can say it without boasting—not one of the worst of men. Mentally more sensitive than most average folk, I take interest in everything that moves mankind. I am kindly-disposed, tender, and easily moved to pity, can do no injury to any animal, certainly not to a human being, but on the contrary am active in a human-friendly way, where and however I can.
“Though then before my own conscience I cannot reproach myself, and though I must certainly reject the judgment of the world about us, yet I suffer greatly. In very truth I have injured no one; and I hold my love in its nobler activity for just as holy as that of normally disposed men, but under the unhappy fate that allows us neither sufferance nor recognition, I suffer often more than my life can bear.”—Ibid, p. 268, “case” No. 114.
“To depict all the misery, all the unfortunate situations, the constant dread of being found out in one’s peculiarity and of becoming impossible in society—to give an idea of all this is truly more than pen or words can compass. The very thought, so soon as it arises, of losing one’s social existence and of being rejected by everybody is more torment than can be imagined. In such a case, everything, everything would be forgotten that one had ever done in the way of good; in the consciousness of his lofty morality every normally disposed man would puff himself up, however frivolously he might really have acted in the matter of his love. I know many such normal folk whose unworthy conception of their love is indeed hard for me to understand.”—Ibid, p. 269.
“The torturing images of betrayed love prevent my sleeping, so that I am forced, now and again, to have recourse to chloral. My dreams are only a continuation of actual life, and just as painful. How all this will end I really know not; but I suppose these root-emotions must take their own course.… The only reasonable end of the struggle is Death.”—A. Moll, “Conträre Sexualempfindung,” 2nd edition, p. 123 (quotation from a letter).
“Weary and worn, I have passed through every tempest of anguish and despair. Years of the most racking mental agony have gone over my head without killing me. Through the long night watches I have heard the unceasing hours toll. Sleep has never been thought of by me, but I have lain on my bed trying to read some book, or have knelt by my bedside and endeavoured to raise my heart and spirit in prayer for succour or forgiveness. At last, unable to hold out any longer, with mouth tight-closed and knitted brow the Charmer has deadened my senses for one or two brief hours; but only that I may wake to a stronger and clearer perception of my hopeless condition.
“How the days have got on I know not. How I can have lived so long through such misery I know not. But torture like this is cruelly slow, whilst it is sure. It is the nature of youth to be long-enduring where Love is put to the test and a kind of occasional flicker—a kind of mocking semblance of hope, as like to hope as the rushing meteor is to the enduring sun—helps to support the load of misery, and so to prolong it. I am hundreds of years old in this my wretchedness of every moment. I cannot battle against Love and crush it out—never! God has implanted the necessity of the sentiment in my heart; it is scarce possible not to ask oneself why has He implanted so divine an element in my nature, which is doomed to die unsatisfied, which is destined in the end to be my very death?”—From a manuscript left to the Author by an Urning.
