During the first days on the island there is little forewarning of this eventual collapse of order. The boys are delighted with the prospect of some real fun before the adults come to fetch them. With innocent enthusiasm they recall the storybook romances they have read and now expect to enjoy in reality. Among these is The Coral Island, Robert Michael Ballantyne’s heavily moralistic idyll of castaway boys, written in 1858 yet still, in our atomic age, a popular adolescent classic in England. In Ballantyne’s tale everything comes off in exemplary style. For Ralph, Jack, and Peterkin (his charming young imperialists), mastery of the natural environment is an elementary exercise in Anglo-Saxon ingenuity. The fierce pirates who invade the island are defeated by sheer moral force, and the tribe of cannibalistic savages is easily converted and reformed by the example of Christian conduct afforded them. The Cord Island is again mentioned by the naval officer who comes to rescue Golding’s boys from the nightmare they have created, and so the adventure of these enfants terribles is ironically juxtaposed with the spectacular success of the Victorian darlings. The effect is to hold before us two radically different pictures of human nature and society. Ballantyne, no less than Golding, is a fabulist who asks us to believe that the evolution of affairs on his coral island models or reflects the adult world, a world in which men are unfailingly reasonable, cooperative, loving and lovable. We are hardly prepared to accept these optimistic exaggerations, though Ballantyne’s story suggests essentially the same flattering image of civilized man found in so many familiar island fables. In choosing to parody and invert this image Golding posits a reality the tradition has generally denied.
The character of this reality is to be seen in the final episode of Lord of the Flies. When the cruiser appears offshore, the boy Ralph is the one remaining advocate of reason, but he has no more status than the wild pigs of the forest and is being hunted down for the kill. Shocked by their filth, their disorder, and the revelation that there have been real casualties, the officer (with appropriate fatherly indignation) expresses his disappointment in this “pack of British boys.” There is no basis for his surprise, for life on the island has only imitated the larger tragedy in which the adults of the outside world attempted to govern themselves reasonably but ended in the same game of hunt and kill. Thus, according to Golding, the aim of the narrative is “to trace the defects of society back to the defects of human nature”; the moral illustrated is that “the shape of society must depend on the ethical nature of the individual and not on any political system however apparently logical or respectable.” And since the lost children are the inheritors of the same defects of nature which doomed their fathers, the tragedy on the island is bound to repeat the actual pattern of human history.
The central fact in that pattern is one which we, like the fatuous naval officer, are virtually incapable of perceiving: first, because it is one that constitutes an affront to our ego; second, because it controverts the carefully and elaborately rationalized record of history which sustains the ego of “rational” man. The fact is that regardless of the intelligence we possess—an intelligence which drives us in a tireless effort to impose an order upon our affairs—we are defeated with monotonous regularity by our own irrationality. “History,” said Joyce’s Dedalus, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” But we do not awake. Though we constantly make a heroic attempt to rise to a level ethically superior to nature, our own nature, again and again we suffer a fall—brought low by some outburst of madness because of the limiting defects inherent in our species.
If there is any literary precedent for the image of man contained in Gelding’s fable, it is obviously not to be found within the framework of a tradition that embraces Robinson Crusoe and Swiss Family Robinson and includes also those island episodes in Conrad’s novels in which the self-defeating skepticism of a Heyst or a Decoud serves only to illustrate the value of illusions. All of these offer some version of the rationalist orthodoxy we so readily accept, even though the text may not be so boldly simple as Ballantyne’s sermon for innocent Victorians. Quite removed from this tradition, which Golding invariably satirizes, is the directly acknowledged influence of classical Creek literature. Within this designation, though Golding’s critics have ignored it, is an obvious admiration for Euripides. Among the plays of Euripides it is, The Bacchae that Golding, like Mamillius of The Brass Butterfly, knows by heart The tragedy is a bitter allegory on the degeneration of society, and it contains the basic parable which informs so much of Golding’s work. Most of all, Lord of the Flies, for here the point of view is similar to that of the aging Euripides after he was driven into exile from Athens. Before his departure the tragedian brought down upon himself the mockery and disfavor of a mediocre regime like the one which later condemned Socrates. The Bacchae, however, is more than an expression of disillusionment with the failing democracy. Its aim is precisely what Golding has declared to be his own: “to trace the defects of society back to the defects of human nature,” and so account for the failure of reason and the inevitable, blind ritual-hunt in which we seek to kill the “beast” within our own being.
The Bacchae is based on a legend of Dionysus wherein the god (a son of Zeus and the mortal Semele, daughter of Cadmus) descends upon Thebes in great wrath, determined to take revenge upon the young king, Pentheus, who has denied him recognition and prohibited his worship. Dionysus wins as devotees the daughters of Cadmus and through his power of enchantment decrees that Agave, mother of Pentheus, shall lead the band in frenzied celebrations. Pentheus bluntly opposes the god and tries by every means to preserve order against the rising tide of madness in his kingdom. The folly of his proud resistance is shown in the defeat of all that Pentheus represents: the bacchantes trample on his edicts and in wild marches through the land wreck everything in their path. Thus prepared for his vengeance, Dionysus casts a spell over Pentheus. With his judgment weakened and his identity obscured in the dress of a woman, the defeated prince sets out to spy upon the orgies. In the excitement of their rituals the bacchantes live in illusion, and all that falls in their way undergoes a metamorphosis which brings it into accord with the natural images of their worship. When Pentheus is seen he is taken for a lion and, led by Agave, the blind victims of the god tear him limb from limb. The final humiliation of those who deny the godhead is to render them conscious of their crimes and to cast them out from their homeland as guilt-stricken exiles and wanderers upon the earth.
For most modern readers the chief obstacle in the way of proper understanding of The Bacchae, and therefore Golding’s use of it, is the popular notion that Dionysus is nothing more than a charming god of wine. This image descends from “the Alexandrines, and above all the Romans—with their tidy functionalism and their cheerful obtuseness in all matters of the spirit—who departmentalized Dionysus as ‘jolly Bacchus’… with his riotous crew of nymphs and satyrs. As such he was taken over from the Romans by Renaissance painters and poets; and it was they in turn who shaped the image in which the modern world pictures him.” In reality the god was more important and “much more dangerous”: he was “the principle of animal life… the hunted and the hunter—the unrestrained potency which man envies in the beasts and seeks to assimilate.” Thus the intention and chief effect of the bacchanal was “to liberate the instinctive life in man from the bondage imposed upon it by reason and social custom…” In his play Euripides also suggests “a further effect, a merging of the individual consciousness in a group consciousness so that the participant is “at one not only with the Master of Life but his fellow-worshipers… and with the life of the earth.” Dionysus was worshiped in various animal incarnations (snake, bull, lion, boar), whatever form was appropriate to place; and all of these were incarnations of the impulses he evoked in his worshipers. In The Bacchae a leader of the bacchanal summons him with the incantation, “O God, Beast, Mystery, come!” Agave’s attack upon the lion” (her own son) conforms to the codes of Dionysic rituaclass="underline" like other gods, this one is slain and devoured, his devotees sustained by his flesh and blood. The terrible error of the bacchantes is a punishment brought upon the land by the lord of beasts: “To resist Dionysus is to repress the elemental in one’s own nature; the punishment is the sudden collapse of the inward dykes when the elemental breaks through perforce and civilization vanishes.”