The Dedalus Book of Decadence: (Moral Ruins)
Read The Dedalus Book of Decadence: (Moral Ruins) Online
Authors: Brian Stableford
For Jane
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Publishing History
First published by Dedalus in December 1990
Second edition with minor corrections in May 1993
Reprinted 2011
First ebook edition in 2011
Compilation, essay and French translations (unless otherwise stated) c copyright
Brian Stableford 1990
La Panthere, Les Vendages de Sodome c copyright Mercure de France 1900
Printed in Finland by Bookwell Ltd
Typeset by Refine Catch Ltd
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A C.I.P.
listing for this book is available on request.
INTRODUCTION
THE EVOLUTION OF AN IDEA
THE BIRTH OF DECADENCE
THE ATTRACTIONS OF DECADENCE
DECADENCE À LA MODE
THE DECADENCE OF DECADENCE
DECADENCE IN ENGLAND
DECADENCE IN OTHER NATIONS
THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF DECADENCE
A SAMPLER OF FRENCH DECADENT TEXTS
1.
TO THE READER by Charles Baudelaire
2.
THE GLASS OF BLOOD by Jean Lorrain
4.
THE GRAPE-GATHERERS OF SODOM by Rachilde
5.
AFTER THE DELUGE by Arthur Rimbaud
6.
DANAETTE by Remy de Gourmont
7.
LITANY TO SATAN by Charles Baudelaire
8.
THE BLACK NIGHTGOWN by Catulle Mendès
9.
THE DOUBLE ROOM by Charles Baudelaire
10.
THE POSSESSED by Jean Lorrain
12.
THE FAUN by Remy de Gourmont
13.
THE DRUNKEN BOAT by Arthur Rimbaud
15.
SPLEEN by Charles Baudelaire
16.
OLD FURNITURE by Catulle Mendès
17.
DON JUAN IN HELL by Charles Baudelaire
18.
DON JUAN’S SECRET by Remy de Gourmont
A SAMPLER OF ENGLISH DECADENT TEXTS
2.
THE COURT OF VENUS by Aubrey Beardsley
3.
SATIA DE SANGUINE by Algernon Charles Swinburne
4.
THE DYING OF FRANCIS DONNE by Ernest Dowson
5.
BAUDELAIRE by Eugene Lee-Hamilton
6.
THE BASILISK by R.
Murray Gilchrist
8.
THE OTHER SIDE by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock
9.
NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE by Ernest Dowson
10.
A SOMEWHAT SURPRISING CHAPTER by John Davidson
11.
THE TRANSLATOR AND THE CHILDREN by James Elroy Flecker
14.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE by Oscar Wilde.
15.
VINUM DAEMONUM by Lionel Johnson
16.
ABSINTHIA TAETRA by Ernest Dowson
1.
MAD EMPERORS:
THE EVOLUTION OF AN IDEA
The English word “decadence”, and its French counterpart
décadence
, derive from the Latin
cadere
, to fall.
But the kind of fall indicated thereby is a special one, as signified by the verbs to which the nouns are parent: the obsolete
decair
in Old French and “decay” in English.
To decay is to rot, to fall away from a state of health into a gradual ruination which is punctuated, but not begun or ended, by death.
A complete account of the evolution of the concept of decadence is unnecessary for the purposes of this introduction; there is a single crucial moment which can be appropriated as a starting point.
In 1734 Charles-Louis le Secondat, Baron de La Brède et de Montesquieu, published his
Considérations sur les causes de la grandeur des Romains et de leur décadence.
The essay was marred by a certain disregard for the full extent and exact implication of the factual evidence, but it was nevertheless an important work in that it sought to discover some kind of theoretical basis for historical explanation.
For Montesquieu, the slow disintegration of the Roman Empire was not to be seen as a series of unhappy accidents, but as the inevitable unfolding of a pattern governed by a quasi-scientific law.
Whatever its faults as proto-social science, Montesquieu’s work was rightly acclaimed as a bold
adventure of the intellect, and the case which he put forward was instantly enshrined as a modern myth.
Rome, it was henceforth accepted, had fallen because all empires must fall, and the map of that fall – which was also to serve as an explanation – was to be found in its
décadence
: in the simultaneous rotting of its cultural life and its military might.
The chief anti-hero of this new myth was Nero, who allowed the political fabric of the empire to become corrupt while he entertained his court with extended examples of his (imagined) literary genius.
Nero – according to legend, at least – was prepared to fiddle while the city burned; and the decadence of his morals was readily revealed by the fact that his mimicry of the affectations of the Greeks extended as far as marriage to a castrated male slave.
Montesquieu, in claiming that there was an underlying logic to the fate of Rome, implied that some such pattern would be repeated in other empires.
Civilization, in his view, carried the seeds of its own inevitable destruction, because a secure, rich and comfortable aristocracy was bound to be slowly enervated by addiction to luxury, until the time finally arrived when the barbarians without could no longer be kept at bay.
**********
The first translator of Montesquieu’s work into English did not retain the word “decadence” in its title, choosing to render
décadence
as “declension”, but the term had its effect nevertheless.
The British were passionately interested in Rome, on the grounds that they were by far the most successful of modern Imperialists, and it is hardly surprising that it was an
Englishman, Edward Gibbon, who undertook to repair the factual inadequacies of Montesquieu’s work and to offer a far more minute and scrupulous analysis of
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
The first volume of Gibbon’s work, published in 1776, quickly achieved notoriety because of the uncharitable treatment afforded to the birth and early evolution of Christianity by its concluding chapters; he saw the conversion of the crumbling empire to the new religion simply as one more stage of its declension.
For Gibbon, Rome had briefly achieved an altogether admirable ideal, and his account of its decline is redolent with a special sense of tragedy; for all its cynicism his was essentially a Jeremiad: a Book of Lamentations.
Thus was the myth of Rome’s decadence amplified and set in stone.
The British, of course refused to believe the lesson which Montesquieu’s science of history was trying to teach them, and would not accept that just as the Roman Empire had fallen, so in its time would theirs.
The French, by contrast were much more ready to believe in the inevitability of their own decline.
“Après nous, le déluge!”
as Louis XV was widely misreported to have said, became and remained a popular catch-phrase.
Gibbon died in 1794, four weeks after Napoleon Bonaparte took Toulon for the Revolutionary forces and set himself on the road which would lead to a fabulous (and doomed) adventure in European Imperialism.
For ten years, between his promotion to the rank of Emperor in 1804 and his exile to Elba in 1814 Napoleon was the modern Julius Caesar and Paris the new Rome; hope was briefly renewed again in 1815 but quickly foundered at Waterloo.
The
ancien régime,
whose corruption had been a favourite topic of the Revolutionists, was restored – decadence and all.
Europe’s year of revolutions, 1848, brought another Napoleon, but he too met his Waterloo at Sedan in 1870; in the following year Paris fell briefly under the control of the Commune, which revisited the city with a second dose of post-Revolutionary Terror.
In the aftermath of all this it became very easy to believe that the nation and all it had once represented was half-way down a slippery slope.
The time was ripe for a cultural movement which not only recognised and owned up to the decadence of the times, but accepted its inevitability and was unashamed.
**********
A certain dissatisfaction with the forms and mores of contemporary civilization had long been manifest in the world of French letters, most extravagantly exemplified and encouraged by the mid-eighteenth century writings of Jean-Jaques Rousseau.
Rousseau argued that men were naturally good, but that their goodness had been warped and corrupted by civilized life.
He became a fervent champion of Nature and the Noble Savage; he advised his fellows to beware of sophistication and put their trust instead in the moral influence of nature and the spontaneity of natural feeling.
He was not a particularly good advertisement for his own ideas, abandoning all his children to die in the foundling home, but he became the guru of the cult of
sensibilité
and an early hero of the Romantic movement in the arts.
The Romantics may have considered the crass civilization which has spawned them to be decadent, but they were careful to exclude themselves from their indictments.
The Romantics and their heroes were rebels against decadence who were perfectly certain that there was a better way.
By means of their reverence for Nature and their carefully nurtured “sensibility” they sought to
discover a new Utopia instead of a Dark Age; they could not believe that modern men were doomed to repeat the worst errors of their Roman forbears.
Though Romanticism set itself against the kind of conservative resistance to decadence which led to Victorianism in Britain, it shared some of the same nightmares.
Such deserters as there were from the common ground where Romanticism and Classicism overlapped seemed, initially, to be every bit as mad and monstrous as Nero; prominent among them was the infamous Marquis de Sade.
The Divine Marquis, ever generous with his hatreds, was no less contemptuous of Rousseau and his admirers than he was of the champions of official morality who comprised the twin hierarchies of Church and State.
Sade argued that just as the protestations of the godly were false and stupid, so too were Rousseauesque pleas on behalf of Natural Virtue; it was plain to anyone who cared to inspect the evidence that Nature had not an atom of in built virtue, and must sensibly be reckoned the enemy of mankind, more unreasonably oppressive than any mere political tyranny.
The only man who might be reckoned truly human, according to Sade, was a man bold enough to outrage Nature and Morality alike, who would dare to cultivate perversity and learn to love that which other men consider horrible.
How seriously one can take the constructive part of Sade’s argument is highly debatable, but the force of its destructive edge is undeniable.
Rousseau was indeed quite wrong; the Utopian hopes of the cult of sensibility were always fatuous.
It is entirely reasonable, therefore, that there should have grown up in opposition to the cult of the natural a cult of the artificial, which set out to denigrate everything which Rousseau’s followers revered.
The
adherents of that cult of artificiality were prepared to accept that the luxuries of civilization were indeed enervating, but argued that such luxuries were nevertheless very succulent, and must be savoured rather than denied.
In that proposition can be found the underlying philosophy of literary Decadence.
**********
In spite of the poverty of some of its philosophical pretensions, Romanticism flourished in the early part of the nineteenth century.
It had the good fortune to take up arms against an established order whose flaws were easily seen, while never having to make any practical demonstration of its own potential as a promoter of the common weal.
It offered an attractive cocktail of righteous wrath and numinous hope, whose power as a secular substitute for religious faith was quite sufficient to sustain itself against ordinary scepticism.
Inevitably, though, there were among those who embraced Romantic Ideals most ardently a few who found that those Ideals were impotent to deliver the goods.
These dissenters were in an awkward position, confounded by a double negation which had first accepted the corruption and decadence of civilization and had then acknowledged the failure of Romantic rebellion against that corruption.
The cult of artificiality offered an exit route from the double bind.
As second-rate comedians are fond of pointing out, no one was ever hurt by a fall, however steep; the abrupt halt at the end does all the damage.
Since the invention of the parachute, in fact, it has been possible for the adventurously-inclined to make a sport out of free-falling, to savour the aesthetics of descent.
This, in metaphorical terms, was the strategy of those writers we now call
Decadent; they accepted that their Imperially-ambitious societies were in a state of irrevocable decline, but they sought no scope for or virtue in Romantic rebellion, electing instead to explore and advertise the aesthetics of cultural free-fall.
But this intellectual move was not without its costs.
**********
The true Decadent believes that faith in any kind of progress is misplaced; there is no better world to come, which is still to be made by yet another revolution.
He accepts also that salvation is highly unlikely to be found at the personal level; the quest for ideal love cannot succeed because people are not naturally loving and monogamous at all, but fundamentally duplicitous, ever ready to betray those whom they claim to love.
Thus, the wholehearted Decadent renounces eutopia, euchronia and euspychia alike, and contents himself with making what adjustment he can to their irrevocable loss.
Decadence is not a happy state, and the Decadent does not bother to seek the trivial goal of contentment, whose price is wilful blindness to the true state of the world.
Instead, he must become a connoisseur of his own psychic malaise (which mirrors, of course, the malaise of his society).
He is the victim of various ills, whose labels become the key terms of Decadent rhetoric:
ennui
(world-weariness);
spleen
(an angry subspecies of melancholy);
impuissance
(powerlessness).
Gripped by these disorders, the Decadent is thoroughly apathetic, but his apathy is not so much a failing as a kind of curse visited upon him by the times in which he must live.
If it is to be reckoned as a king of sin – and we must remember that what we would nowadays call “clinical depression” was once reckoned by the
Catholic Church to be the sin of accidie – then it is a sin from which conventional morality offers no hope of redemption.
If the flame of his ashen spirit is to be reignited he must have recourse to new and more dangerous sensations: the essentially
artificial
paradises of the imagination.
He is likely to seek such artificial paradises by means of drugs – particularly opium and hashish, but also absinthe and ether – but he remains well aware that the greatest artifice of all is, of course, Art itself.
The Decadent is a pessimist, in both historical and personal terms, but he acknowledges that in the comfortable and luxurious artifices of civilization, no matter how hollow they may be, a good deal of pleasure is to be found.
He is therefore an unrepentant sensualist, albeit of a peculiarly cynical kind.
Such meagre rewards as life has to offer the honest and sensitive man, he thinks, are to be sought by means of a languid hedonism which is contemptuous of arbitrary and tyrannical rules of conduct and scornful of all higher aspirations.
Not all the writers called Decadent conform to this ideal type in every particular, of course, but the extent to which they resemble it – in the advocacy of their work and in the examples set by their private lives – is the extent to which they are worthy of the title.
