There is only one explanation of this fact: it is that the art of the society in which these versifiers lived is not a serious, important matter of life, but is a mere amusement. And all amusements grow wearisome by repetition. And, in order to make wearisome amusement again tolerable, it is necessary to find some means to freshen it up. When, at cards, ombre grows stale, whist is introduced; when whist grows stale, écarté is substituted; when écarté grows stale, some other novelty is invented, and so on. The substance of the matter remains the same, only its form is changed. And so it is with this kind of art. The subject-matter of the art of the upper classes growing continually more and more limited, it has come at last to this, that to the artists of these exclusive classes it seems as if everything has already been said, and that to find anything new to say is impossible. And therefore, to freshen up this art, they look out for fresh forms. Baudelaire and Verlaine invent such a new form, furbish it up, moreover, with hitherto unused pornographic details, and—the critics and the public of the upper classes hail them as great writers. This is the only explanation of the success, not of Baudelaire and Verlaine only, but of all the Decadents. For instance, there are poems by Mallarmé and Maeterlinck which have no meaning, and yet for all that, or perhaps on that very account, are printed by tens of thousands, not only in various publications, but even in collections of the best works of the younger poets. This, for example, is a sonnet by Mallarmé:— _A la nue accablante tu Basse de basalte et de laves A même les échos esclaves Par une trompe sans vertu._ _Quel sépulcral naufrage (tu Le soir, écume, mais y baves) Suprême une entre les épaves Abolit le mât dévêtu._ _Ou cela que furibond faute De quelque perdition haute Tout l’abîme vain éployé_ _Dans le si blanc cheveu qui traîne Avarement aura noyé Le flanc enfant d’une sirène._[78] (“Pan,” 1895, No. 1.) This poem is not exceptional in its incomprehensibility. I have read several poems by Mallarmé, and they also had no meaning whatever. I give a sample of his prose in Appendix I. There is a whole volume of this prose, called “_Divagations_.” It is impossible to understand any of it. And that is evidently what the author intended. And here is a song by Maeterlinck, another celebrated author of to-day:— _Quand il est sorti, (J’entendis la porte) Quand il est sorti Elle avait souri ..._