When I read in Mr Haldane’s _Daedalus_ the wonderful things that
Science was going to do for us, and in Mr Russell’s _Icarus_ how easily
both we and it might come to grief in consequence, it at once became
plain to me that of all the heroes of antiquity Tantalus would be the
one best fitted to prognosticate the probable future of Man. For, if
we interpret the history of Daedalus as meaning the collapse of Minoan
civilization under the strain imposed on its moral fibre by material
progress, and the fate of Icarus as meaning man’s inability to use the
powers of the air without crashing, one could gauge the probability
that history would repeat itself still further, and that man would
once more allow his vices to cheat him of the happiness that seemed so
clearly within his reach.
I determined, however, to confirm this intelligent forecast by
consulting Tantalus himself. To consult the oracle of a dead hero, it
was, I knew, only necessary to undergo the process of ‘incubation,’ a
sort of camping out on his tomb, in the skin of a sacrificial beast;
and fortunately the tomb of Tantalus had just been discovered in
Phrygia by the archæologists of the British School at Athens.
I set out, therefore, with great promptitude, and in due course,
arrived at the ruins of the tomb of Tantalus. They did not much
resemble a first-class hotel, and, of course, my idea of an
‘incubation’ was well laughed at, but I managed to find a pretty level
corner, more or less sheltered from the wind. Here I wrapped myself up
in my excellent rug, having decided to dispense with the more correct
method of ensconcing myself in the gory hide of a sacrificial ox. The
night was fine, though cold, and fortunately there were no mosquitoes,
nor any of the other insects one would inevitably have encountered in
the dwellings of the living. But the ground was very, very, hard, and
I tossed about for hours, regretting my classical education and the
psychical researcher’s rashness in trying foolish experiments.
At last I fell asleep, at least I suppose so. I also fell a great deal
further. I seemed to go right through my rocky bed, and to fall down,
down, down, interminably, through a sort of elastic space. When at last
the not wholly unpleasant motion stopped, I found myself in a vast,
grey, sandy plain, illuminated by a cold grey light as though of dawn.
The only thing to catch the eye was a small round hummock, not very far
from me. On it grew a mighty tree, with dark green pointed leaves and
drooping branches, surrounded by a gleaming white fence or paling. I
naturally walked towards it.
As I got near, I noticed that the white paling, which completely
enclosed the hummock, was composed of _bones_, or rather of every
imaginable sort of spine, tooth and sting, garnished with the saws
and swords of sawfish and swordfish, and all knit together into an
impenetrable _cheval de frise_ that prevented approach to the foot of
the tree. The soil all round this strange hedge had apparently been
trodden into deep mud by some creature that had walked round and round
the tree, and the water required for its manufacture was supplied by a
small spring which rose within the enclosure and flowed out through its
interstices.
As I walked round the tree to the further side of the hummock, I came
upon an extraordinary sight. I beheld a naked man trying to reach some
of the fruit that dangled down from the outer branches of the tree but
appeared to be just out of his reach, and so intent upon his design
that he did not notice my approach. He seemed a tall man, and the upper
part of his body was well formed. His features were good and regular,
though somewhat hard, and not intellectual; his resolute jaw bespoke
the man of action, accustomed to command and to be obeyed. So far, his
appearance would have done credit to any modern captain of industry.
But the lower half of his body appeared to be misshapen. His thighs
were so curved that he could not walk upright, but had to stoop and
lean forward as he slowly shambled along. Still more monstrous seemed
the feet, with which he churned up the mud around the fence; they were
enormous and hardly seemed human in their shape, though they were too
deeply plunged in the mud to permit one to see what exactly was wrong
with them.
This strange being, whom the bold intuition of the dream-consciousness
at once identified with Tantalus, was evidently trying to grasp the
fruit that hung from the lower branches of the tree. For a while his
efforts were vain, but then a gust of wind brought within his reach a
large conical shining red fruit he had long coveted. It was one of the
strange features of the tree that it was covered with fruit, and higher
up also with flowers, of the most various sizes, shapes, and colours.
He seized it triumphantly; but the effect was surprising. For he had
hardly touched it when it exploded, and covered him from head to foot
with its blood-red juice. He at once sank senseless to the ground. But,
after a while, he slowly recovered, and recommenced his old game. This
time, he attacked a large round yellowish fruit; but when he succeeded
in seizing it, it too exploded, and poured out upon him volumes of a
heavy yellow-green vapour. Again he collapsed, and this time his stupor
lasted longer.
By the time he began to stir again I had, I thought, grasped the
situation, and determined to intervene. So I drew near, and addressed
him: “Can I be mistaken in thinking that I see before me the far-famed
hero, Tantalus, boon companion of the gods?” “And their victim.”
“And what tree is this, I pray you, about which you busy yourself?”
“The Tree of Knowledge.” “And the water, which you have trampled
into mud, is what?” “The Elixir of Life.” “Then you seem to have all
the materials for a happy life. Why don’t you eat of the fruits of
the tree, and drink of the elixir?” “You have seen the results of my
efforts.” “I cannot but think you have been unfortunate in your choice
of the fruits: there are many that look much better higher up.” “And
how am I to get at them?” “Well, of course, you must break through
all these _debris_ of former animal life, which bar your access to
the trunk of the tree, and prevent you from drinking of the water of
life; after that, you can climb up the tree, and pick the best of the
fruits.” “And how am I to break through the barrier of bones?” “Even
though you appear to have no instruments, you can surely find a stone?”
“Where shall I find a stone in the Plain of Forgetfulness? And besides,
how should I climb the tree with these ... feet?” And he lifted up
one of his monstrous limbs. “Certainly you seem to be pretty badly
earth-bound,” said I, “but I will try to find you some stones.”
So off I set. I had not got far when a fierce blast struck me and
peppered me with sand. I struggled stoutly against it, but was nearly
choked. And then, suddenly, I awoke to find that day was dawning and
that the wind had gone round to the north, and was blowing in my face.
But I was well satisfied with my experiment. The interpretation of the
response I had obtained from Tantalus was too plain to need the aid of
a psycho-analyst.
I
Our best prophets are growing very anxious about our future. They
are afraid we are getting to know too much, and are likely to use
our knowledge to commit suicide, or rather, mutual murder, after the
fashion of the Kilkenny cats.
To these dismal forecasts it is reasonable to reply that there is
nothing novel in the present situation. The human race has always known
enough to wreck itself, and its abounding folly has always inspired
its wise men with the gravest apprehension for its future. Yet,
either by chance or providence, it has always known also how to avoid
destruction. It has never known enough to make itself happy; nor does
it know enough to do so now. Its future has always been precarious,
because it has always been uncertain whether it would use its knowledge
well or ill, to improve or to ruin itself. It has always had a choice
between alternative policies, and it has so now.
What sense then is there in making such a fuss about the present
crisis? It is a particularly plain case of the perennial choice of
Hercules. What is needed is just a little clear thinking and plain
speaking to a society more than usually debauched by a long regime of
flattery, propaganda, and subterfuge. Mankind _can_ make a fool of
itself, as it always could; if it does, its blood will be on its own
head. For it has knowledge enough to avoid the dangers that threaten
it, if it will use its knowledge properly.