And what a battle Rhine and his cohorts have encountered every inch of the way! During the early years, in fact, the research reports from his laboratory were far outnumbered by the articles of criticism directed against them. The first targets for criticism were the mathematical methods of evaluation used to determine whether the scores could be explained by chance. The decision which ended this part of the battle came in 1937, during the annual meeting of the American Institute of Mathematical Statistics, when the following press release was authorized:
“… the statistical analysis is essentially valid. If the Rhine investigation is to be fairly attacked, it must be on other than mathematical grounds.”
And a few months later Professor E. V. Huntington, distinguished Harvard mathematician, further clarified the mathematical issues involved in the ESP research in an article which appeared in the American Scholar.
Even so, it should come as no surprise that Rhine’s evidence doesn’t find the welcome mat spread before all the members of his own profession. Why should we expect Dr. Rhine to enjoy an immunity from the ridicule and strife that has plagued almost every pioneer from Giordano Bruno to Alexander Bell? Why should human nature suddenly go into reverse and smile upon a man who points out that all is not just as we have been taught for three centuries? Men of science are, after all, human beings, basically the same kind of beings who opposed Galileo, Mesmer, Newton, Pasteur, Semmelweis. Evidence which does not fit neatly into the current pattern is regarded, or perhaps disregarded, with disdain.
A Yale professor, Dr. G. E. Hutchinson, a member of the National Academy of Sciences, summarized the situation as follows:
“The reason why most scientific workers do not accept these results is simply that they do not want to, and avoid doing so by refusing to examine the full detailed reports of the experiments in question.”
The skirmishes, issues, and tests surrounding Rhine extended even to his bookselling efforts. The salesmen of his own publishing house had to be convinced. Take, for instance, the following account from a former executive of Farrar and Rinehart, the publisher of Rhine’s first popular book:
“Dr. J. B. Rhine’s first book for the general reader on extrasensory perception, called New Frontiers of the Mind, was to be published in the fall of that year [1937]. In spite of a couple of interesting articles in Harper’s Magazine, the knowledge of extrasensory perception at that time was confined to a small number of people who had followed the earlier Duke work with interest. Ninety-nine out of every hundred Americans were highly skeptical, and it became evident to the editorial department that in spite of the book’s selection by the Book-of-the-Month Club and in spite of a growing interest in the subject, the half dozen or so key salesmen of the firm’s staff were far from comforted. It was evident that unless something drastic were done, the book would be sold without full confidence and enthusiasm by our representatives. John Farrar’s solution of this problem was characteristically simple. He called me into his office, explained the problem as he saw it, and instructed me to give the sales force a demonstration of the truth of extrasensory perception….
“At the time of sales conference none of the now familiar Duke extrasensory perception testing cards were available and, in any event, any demonstration with them would have partially failed of its object since the cards were unfamiliar to the salesmen and would have been viewed as a piece of magician’s equipment rather than a fair test of the thesis of the book. Accordingly, I summoned the boys into a vacant office and had one of them produce a pack of cards which, like one or two other salesmen in my experience, he happened to have in his desk. I told them that I was going to prove that there was such a thing as extrasensory perception and I asked each of the six to shuffle the pack and cut it. They did so with a thoroughness which I can remember appallingly as I watched. I then told them the truth that there are fifty-two cards in a standard playing deck such as that one, that the chance that I would correctly identify the top card on the pack by suit was one in four and by suit and number one in fifty-two. I pointed out that the mathematics on the second card were somewhat more complicated. The chance of my being right by suit and number was of course one in fifty-one; the chance of being right by suit was slightly more than one in four. The chance of being right by suit and number of the first two cards in the sequence was, according to me, estimated to be one in fifty-two times one in fifty-one, a very large figure, which would be multiplied again by fifty if I were right about the third card, and so on. They admitted that these figures were correct, and I had them put the pack in front of me, closed my eyes and, as nearly as I can describe the process, learned that the first card was, as I remember it, the jack of diamonds. One of them turned the card over and it was the jack of diamonds, I must confess the fact that I was surprised at this point, but enormously heartened, and with new confidence, I proceeded to call off correctly the next four cards by suit and number. At the end of that time there was a very heavy silence in the room and I realized that the point had been made. Instantly I felt something begin to evaporate from whatever area of the mind is involved in a feat of this sort, and when one of them asked me “just one more to see if I could,” I knew I could not. However, I called the nine of clubs and the card was actually the ten of clubs and at that point I stopped….”
Rhine’s middle name should have been “careful.” He found time during our visit to elaborate on this “careful” principle. In the field of parapsychology, he warned, the word “careful” must be the watchword to an even greater extent than in any other endeavor. Parapsychologists, he indicated, must always tack up the “careful” slogan whenever they worked, much in the manner in which Thomas Watson of the International Business Machines company posts his “Think” signs.
Proof that he practiced what he preached was provided when I questioned him on the matter of spirit survival. “What do you think, Doctor—is there any part of a human being that survives after death?”
On his lips I could see the trace of a smile. But all I could hear was “careful” phraseology, which, when summed up, said, “We must reserve final judgment.”
“But at the moment,” I objected, “I’m not asking for a scientific verdict. I’m only asking for your personal opinion.”
This time the smile was more distinct, but the words remained “careful.” Many times, he pointed out, we see a piece of property that we should like to own, but we must not consider that the property belongs to us until the actual purchase has been made. I gave up.
At the time I was quizzing Dr. Rhine on the survival question I hadn’t the vaguest notion that one of my own hypnotic experiments—the discovery of Bridey Murphy—would eventually provide me with interesting evidence on this very issue of survival.
We spent several days at Duke. Then, having made our pilgrimage to the capital of parapsychology, we started home again, fully charged with determination to carry on with our experiments. Hazel had even made sketches of some of the laboratory equipment; maybe, she suggested, we could start our own junior laboratory at home. It sounded like a good idea.
Our intentions were good, therefore, as we arrived home. And we probably would be still running dual hypnosis experiments to this day if it were not for one little incident.
One day a man came walking into my office. He looked very much like any other man. But this fellow sent me racing across the long bridge—and into the biggest adventure of all.
PART THREE
The Big Step
CHAPTER 7
When I was a sophomore in high school I read Maugham’s Of Human Bondage. There I found a wonderfully articulate statement of the materialistic philosophy that had been crystallizing within me ever since I had been old enough to ask questions.
The principal character, Philip, had been given a Persian rug by an artistic reprobate, who assured our hero that by studying the carpet he would be able to comprehend the meaning of life. Long after the donor’s death Philip was still puzzled. How could the intrica
te and illusory pattern of a Persian rug solve the problem of life’s meaning? But later he suddenly got the point. The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning.
Ah, now there was a boy with common sense. This Philip character was practical. And since he had been created by no less a master than Somerset Maugham, I now had real authority for my own beliefs. It was just as Philip said: “The rain fell alike upon the just and the unjust, and for nothing was there a why and a wherefore.”
Why couldn’t everyone, I wondered, see just as Philip did that life was meaningless, without purpose—and that death peremptorily ended the whole show? And why all the argument about the possibility of life after death? Anyone could plainly see that a dead body was very dead indeed. How could anyone seriously believe otherwise? Three hundred years of science had failed to prove the immortality of a single soul. So why try to make something out of nothing?
I was fifteen years old then.
But this pattern of thinking had started as early as the first grade. If I hadn’t noticed it before, then I surely observed during my first year at school that there were glaring inequities among the kids in the class. Keith, for instance, was brilliant; he knew all the answers. He was taller and huskier than the others; any girl would willingly tell you that he was the best-looking boy in the class. And he was the best all-around athlete, could play anything. To top it all, his parents seemed to have plenty of money; he dressed better, lived in the biggest house, and his father drove the biggest car. Orlando, on the other hand, had been short-changed in every department. The poor lad was so dull that the most elementary exercise was beyond him. On the playground he was so clumsy that he soon picked up uncomplimentary nicknames. And there was no denying that he was unattractive to look upon, really an ugly kid. His clothes, because his family lived in poverty, were so shabby and ill-fitting as to draw derision. Then one day a truck ran over Orlando, and he died in pain a few weeks later.
I would ask my mother the “why” of these things. Why did the Keiths have everything while the Orlandos had been blessed with nothing but misery? My poor mother did her best to answer, but it was clear that she was bewildered too.
This was also the beginning of another kind of education. I was learning that the grownups didn’t have all the answers. Before this I had always been comforted by the feeling that no matter what the problem the grownups would have the solution. Now even that solace was fading away. Not only didn’t they have all the answers, but many that they did offer, I was later to learn, were dead-wrong.
In any event, in those days it seemed that any philosophy which embraced a meaningful pattern was strictly a myth. How could there be any sort of divine justice which would permit, apparently without reason, one person to have intelligence, health, beauty, and wealth while it consigned to another stupidity, sickness, ugliness, and penury? If there really were a larger plan, it seemed to me, it was either too ineffective or too imperfect to do anything about these grave inequities, and in either case there might as well be no plan.
I had gone to Sunday school every week. But I never did realize that we were actually expected to believe the Bible stories. I had always taken for granted that they were merely moral tales, like Aesop’s Fables. David’s slaying of Goliath, for instance, was just like the tortoise’s defeat of the hare. I didn’t comprehend that there was actually supposed to have been a real person named David. And when Moses struck a rock and water gushed out, that was solid proof that these were mere myths. Not even my father could get water from a rock. So a fable it had to be. And Sunday school, I figured, was just another parental device to keep us in school one more morning.
It never occurred to me that my parents were sending me to church to learn about immortality. When I quizzed my mother about related topics, I could tell that she was as puzzled as I. And as for my father, he was so busy working night and day, making it possible for me to wear clothes like Keith’s, that I was sure he had no time to think about any kind of philosophy. I came, therefore, to my own conclusion: Religion and immortality are fables. Life is an accident—an accident that begins at birth and ends in death.
That was a long time ago.
But it was not so terribly long ago that I was in college, and there my earlier convictions were confirmed. The most brilliant student I knew wasted no time in assuring me, and anyone else who would listen, that “religion is a have for the have-nots.” For the ignorant, for the downtrodden, for all the unfortunates, he steadfastly maintained, faith in immortality is something to cling to. A last hope. But we who were at the college level were supposed to be too enlightened to accept such a superstitious credo.
And if there were any college professors who had a different view, they managed to keep it a secret. Looking back, I grant that there must have been, as a matter of simple statistics, those who would not concede that religion is a “have for the have-nots.” But they never spoke up; perhaps the whole question was taboo. Or maybe it was reserved for the divinity school, and there was a gentleman’s agreement not to bring up this topic before ordinary students of finance. At any rate, it was clear that most of the instructors dreaded being drawn into any discussion concerning man’s true nature.
My “higher” education, therefore, only substantiated my first- grade concepts. I found myself quoting my atheistic companion, deriding those who could be so foolish as to believe there might be a meaning to life, and generally reveling in my smug “intellectual superiority.”
Just before graduation the last assignment in public speaking class provided an ideal opportunity to summarize my position. The subject of our final speech was to be a biography, anyone’s biography. Some in the class made the obvious conventional choices: Lincoln, Edison, Ford. A few clever lads came up with surprises like Rudolph Valentino and Jesse James.
But for me this was a chance to get a professional hearing for my cynical, iconoclastic views. So I selected a character who would fit my theme—Solomon Grundy.
Solomon Grundy
Born on Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday.
This is the end of Solomon Grundy.
As if Solomon’s career hadn’t been fleeting enough in the first place, I chopped him down still further. I gave him just three days. In my abridged version Solomon entered the world on Monday, took sick on Tuesday, and rigor mortis set in on Wednesday. No use keeping him around for a whole week.
Explaining that every man, whether it be Napoleon or the halfwitted campus caretaker, is a Solomon Grundy, I spent my allotted time in pointing out that all biographies were essentially the same. Man is born: he makes motions and noises; then he dies a meaningless death. So why should I not choose for my subject, I argued, the pattern for the lives of all men—Mr. Grundy?
When I finished the discourse I sat down and awaited the judgment of my professor. It came with two words: “Thoughtful composition.”
Here, I reasoned, was tacit approval of this brand of philosophy. And it had come from a man with several degrees. The higher the education, it seemed to me, the more confirmed became this sort of thinking.
It is no wonder, then, that my opinions as I left college began to harden into a “so what?” attitude, and the whole game appeared somewhat pointless. No matter what goal I set for myself, those two words—“so what?”—would loom over the goal posts. I would think of the end result, imagining that the job had already been accomplished, and then the “so what?” would pop up again. It wasn’t a very pretty picture; it led to the grave, nothing more.
Years later my experiences with hypnosis and subsequently with extrasensory perception hinted that there might be a glimmer of something more. But I still hadn’t gone far enough to make a real dent in all my previous conditioning.
This, then, was the background, the philosophical setting, when a man named Val West
on walked into my office.
CHAPTER 8
I had been answering the mail and was just removing a cylinder from the dictaphone when a voice behind me said, “Pardon me. My name is Weston. I’m with the Department of Commerce.”
I turned around. He was a six-footer, built like a wrestler who keeps himself in shape. He explained that his division was keeping a list of the steel products available from every distributor in his area. Such a list, during the post-war period of steel shortages, might be helpful in establishing allocations, in spotting various items for which defense industries were searching, and for general coordination.
He was in the office about fifteen minutes. But during that short time the telephone rang repeatedly and a parade of employees and others zipped in and out. Nevertheless, I managed to give him the information he wanted, and I thought that I had seen the last of him as he went out the door.
Five minutes later he was hustling back into my office, his eyes sparkling with obvious interest. He said, “I understand that you are interested in hypnotism and extrasensory perception.”
I wondered how he had suddenly picked up that bit of knowledge until he explained that he had encountered my father just before leaving the building and he reconstructed the conversation for me.
I admitted my hobbies to Weston, and the two of us promptly became engrossed in a general bull session. It turned out that he had long been interested in the same matters. And he had really been around. He had been in the Orient, was very well read; and as he was about fifteen years my senior, his education in these fields was somewhat more extensive than my own. To be sure, he had plenty to tell me. But in that madhouse getting it told was no simple task. Our conversation was chopped up by numerous in terruptions, until at last we gave up. But not before arranging to get together that week end.
The Search for Bridey Murphy Page 8
