Tantalus

I rather anticipate that superficial critics who do not like the argument of this essay will accuse it of pessimism, a charge which perhaps means little more than that they do not like it. Nevertheless, it may be worth while to point out, (1) that pessimism is not a logical objection to a contention of which the truth cannot otherwise be questioned, and (2) that though the argument of Tantalus may be said generally to corroborate that of Daedalus and Icarus, yet its conclusion is much less pessimistic than theirs, because (3) it makes it very plain that the evils which threaten the future of mankind are in no case unavoidable. If it is called ‘pessimism’ to point out the methods by which men may escape destruction, because men do not care to adopt them, I suppose it must be ‘optimism’ to rush violently and open-eyed down a precipice, and to expect to be saved by a miracle. Certainly such would appear to be the belief upon which human affairs are at present conducted.

F.C.S.S.

TANTALUS

TANTALUS

PROLOGUE: THE ORACLE OF THE DEAD

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.