the Promotion of Social Purity and the Mothers’ Congress, not only in the campaigns against prostitution but in attempts to regulate theatres, dance halls and the new cinemas. As in Britain, voluntary groups began to press for municipal and legislative intervention. Some moral reformers also came to realize the need for practical services to support and retrain prostitutes. The Florence Crittenton homes provided a refuge for young girls as well as training them in domestic service and nursing.30
If the reformers’ zeal could be coercive and repressive, the social-purity movement nonetheless contained several subversive sub-texts. Some moral campaigners demanded equal moral standards for men and women, while their efforts to curb incest, rape and violence within families broached the question of the extent to which relations within the family were to be regulated. Moreover, by marshalling powerful emotive arguments, they generated a public discussion of hitherto unmentionable topics such as venereal disease. The social purity regulators, like their antithesis the free lovers, contrived to bring sex into the public arena.
When social-purity women spoke out on platforms and in committees, it was evident that the boundary between women actively asserting their allotted ‘female’ role of moral purification in a public context, and breaking through the prevailing conventions about the woman’s sphere, could be frangible. Indeed, Chant’s efforts to close brothels led to her being castigated as a ‘new woman’.31
From the 1880s¸ moral reformers who went into the urban slums to rescue the poor from drink, vice and family violence could find themselves moving on to other social issues. In both countries, social purity contributed to the emergence of broader reform coalitions which sought to tackle urban problems in the early 1900s.32 The attempt to redeem could shake assumptions. When the future campaigner against lead contamination, Alice Hamilton, braved a brothel in Toledo to rescue a prostitute, she found, instead of the victim she had expected, ‘a woman of mature years, handsome, dignified, entirely mistress of herself’ in a house that was ‘luxurious but vulgarly ugly’. The meeting was an occasion for mutual incomprehension. The young idealistic reformer heard the calculating voice of a tradeswoman. ‘I might make a good saleswoman . . . for I spend my time persuading men to spend money on what they don’t really want.’ For her part, the prostitute was appalled by Hamilton’s altruistic settlement life in the Chicago slums: ‘That is not the sort of thing I could possibly do,’ she observed with disgust.33 The reformers’ values could also be challenged. From 1910 the upper-middle-class Bostonian Fanny Quincy Howe regularly corresponded with a Jewish prostitute and morphine addict, Maimie Pinzer, who told Howe she regarded divorce as ‘a lot of foolishness and a marriage ceremony the worst lot of cant I ever heard’.34 Such encounters resulted in a steep learning curve.
As moral reform fused with wider action in communities, perspectives could subtly alter. By 1915, when the radical Mary Beard wrote Woman’s Work in Municipalities, reformers were looking at preventative action and trying to understand the social and cultural bases of moral problems. So while club women in Pittsburg, Kansas were busy securing the censorship of ‘all films depicting scenes of crime, drinking scenes, and suggestive “love scenes”’, more imaginative reformers sought not simply to ban, but to influence the content of the new leisure industry in an effort to ensure pleasurable improvement.35
The new approach of positive intervention also led them to embark on sex education. Beard reported that by 1914, women’s meetings were being held to discuss teaching ‘sex hygiene’. Speaking to the Council of Jewish Women, Dr Rosalie Morton pointed out that women must take on the issue in their own homes rather than leaving the topic of sex to men alone. In the past she claimed women had been ‘too sentimental, they have been too ignorant of their limitations in the world of practical affairs; they have lacked well-balanced judgment as to how it was best to teach, how it was best to help’.36 The Women’s Municipal League of Boston began to give sex lectures, ‘realizing the physical misery which is resulting from ignorance in regard to matters of sex, and the spiritual degradation following the wrong conception of the high purpose of the sex function, to which must be added the loss of efficiency in human ability’. The League believed that there were too many dangers to justify ‘a further continuance of . . . silence’.37
Sex was a social issue, not simply a personal one. In both the US and Britain, sex hygienists approached the topic in terms of efficiency and regulation. Warning of the dangers of promiscuity in lurid terms, their emphasis was on the interests of the body politic, which they equated with the heterosexual family and parenthood. Nonetheless they too were part of a profound cultural shift. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, private intimacies were coming out into the public gaze and becoming a topic for public discourse.
This transposition presented a dilemma about how to discuss sexual practices and relationships. The free lovers Ezra and Angela Heywood advocated words in common use. Angela Heywood wrote in 1887: ‘Such graceful terms as hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, fucking, throbbing, kissing, and kin words are telephone expressions, lighthouses of intercourse centrally immutable to the situation; their aptness, euphony and serviceable persistence make it as impossible and undesirable to put them out of pure use as it would be to take oxygen out of air.’38 Common usage or not, the Heywoods had to write ‘c—, c— and f—’ or go to jail.39
In 1897 the British free lovers in the Legitimation League were puzzling over the existence of ‘two forms of speech or language in connection with sex matters’. One was scientific and the other ‘the bald, rugged phrases of the gutter and the market-place’. In an article headed ‘Wanted: A New Dictionary’, the League asserted that raising ‘the discussion of sex matters to a higher plane’ required the ‘formulation of a vocabulary’.40 This anxiety about language partly expressed a recognition of the practical threat they faced. They had to position themselves on the ‘higher plane’ if a line between sexual radicalism and obscenity was to be drawn. This strategy was not always successful. In the late 1890s the police were hounding the League; they seized Havelock Ellis’s Studies in the Psychology of Sex: Sexual Inversion, despite its academic tone, because it was published by a press used by the League. A later generation of women sex reformers, the birth controllers Margaret Sanger and Marie Stopes, adapted this ‘higher plane’ tactic by developing a high-flown prose style.
For ‘advanced’ women the search for a new language of sexuality was part of a wider struggle for a self-defined cultural space. Between 1885 and 1889, the female members of the Men and Women Club in London found themselves confronted by a group of radical men, who had adapted Darwinian evolutionary theories in an abstract and distanced manner to the discussion of sexual questions. The men set the terms of debate. One woman member, Maria Sharpe, reflected that she and the other women ‘even in general discussion . . . had to learn a partially new language before they could make themselves intelligible’.41 While the women in the club expressed frustration in curbing their subjectivity, they also discovered that ‘objectivity’ could provide a useful cover for personal feelings. Yet Sharpe still felt embarrassed when she returned the books she was reading on prostitution in the British Museum.
The free thinkers and anarchists in the US created a similarly hard-won space for the study and discussion of sexuality. In 1891 Lizzie Holmes affirmed the value of the voice Lucifer gave to radical women, and upheld women’s own experiences against received knowledge:
It is the mouthpiece, almost the only mouthpiece in the world, of every poor, suffering, defrauded, subjugated woman. Many know they suffer, and cry out in their misery, though not in the most grammatical of sentences. . . . A simple woman may know nothing of biology, psychology, or of the evolution of the human race, but she knows when she is forced into a relation disagreeable or painful to her. Let her express her pain; the scientists may afterwards tell why she suffers, and what are the remedies, if they can.42
The creation of an explicitly female counter-cultural space in which to articulate wants and desires continued to preoccupy
