The cult of decadence is usually dismissed as an eccentricity of French literature, a final twitter of Romantic neurosis, convulsing the lunatic fringe of letters during the last third of the nineteenth century. However, the nineteenth century's preoccupation with decadence provides us with a key to the secret places of its thought, to all the obscure passages and backstairs behind the triumphant façade. Between 1814 and 1914, there was no sense of disaster, no tragic sense. Civilization had become a habit, a side product of political constitutions and applied science. History was viewed pragmatically: of what use were such traditional symbols as throne and altar? Both are essentially propitiatory, evidence of man's uneasy knowledge that power is dangerous and destiny implacable. And both seemed anachronisms in a world where (it was thought) human reason had solved or would solve all the old problems. The theory of decadence is very largely a protest against this comfortable belief. Had the decadents not written, we should hardly suspect that the nineteenth century suffered from the same doubts and hesitations as all other ages, before and since.
