Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence

by Lodge, Kirsten; Rosen, Margo Shohl; Dashevsky, Grigory

  And I witnessed night-time magic—

  It was like a delirium!

  Their shudders and their moans,

  Everything the bed secretly conceals.

  In the morning I saw them—next to me!

  Still trembling in dream after dream!

  And, chained to their bed like a dog,

  Into the day I stared at the scene.

  Now I’ve been sent to the quarry,

  Wiping blood away, I crush granite.

  But I remember that night! I remember!

  If only I could live it all again!

  Valery Briusov, 1901

  Because she hadn’t studied hard,

  Heloise was flogged by Abelard

  With birch rods, many times.

  Her uncle heard the dear girl’s wails,

  A wrathful voice, the cruel flail,

  And rubbed his hands, satisfied.

  “Eloise knows quite a bit,

  But still her teacher must be strict,

  And put her in her place.

  The girl is clever for her age,

  Far wiser even than many a sage,

  But the paths to knowledge are fraught with pain.”

  Stupid canon! He does not see

  That the naughty girl is pleased

  To be lying across her sweetheart’s knees,

  Relishing his thrilling clouts

  And expressing in sweet shouts

  Her exquisite agonies.

  The canon will never understand:

  Abelard is so roused by his reprimand,

  And so dear is the flesh thus mortified,

  That not with hoarse anger, but with love

  The thrashing washes the girl with blood,

  And their diversion is sanctified.

  And, surrounded by joyous cherubim,

  A winged god smiles down at them,

  At the struggling, shapely legs,

  At the flashing, naked heels,

  At the fiery, scarlet weals,

  At the body where roses blaze.

  Fyodor Sologub, 1910

  The Republic of the Southern Cross

  Valery Briusov

  A Special Edition Feature in The Northern European Evening Bulletin

  Quite a number of accounts of the terrible catastrophe that has befallen the Republic of the Southern Cross have recently appeared. They are strikingly contradictory and relate not a few obviously fanciful and incredible events. The compilers of these accounts have evidently relied too heavily on the testimony of the rescued inhabitants of Star City—who, as is well known, were all stricken with a mental disorder. This is why we consider it beneficial and timely to bring together here all the reliable information currently available to us on the tragedy that has been played out at the South Pole.

  The Republic of the Southern Cross was founded forty years ago by a trust of steel mills located in the southern polar regions. In a directive dispatched to all the governments of the entire planet, the new state laid claim to all domains, both continental and insular, that lay within the boundaries of the Antarctic circle, as well as any parts of those lands falling outside of those boundaries. It declared its readiness to purchase these lands from states considering them to be under their protectorate. The new republic’s claims met with no objections from the world’s fifteen great powers. Disputes over certain islands that lay completely outside the Antarctic Circle, but abutted on the southern polar regions, required separate treaties. Once the various formalities were completed, the Republic of the Southern Cross was admitted into the family of world states and her representatives were officially recognised by their governments.

  The principal city of the Republic, Star City, was situated directly on the South Pole. On that imagined spot through which the earth’s axis passes and all the meridians come together stood the Town Hall, and the tip of its spire, high above the roofs of the city, pointed towards the celestial nadir. The city’s streets fanned out along the meridians from the Town Hall, and the meridian streets were intersected by others laid out in concentric circles. The height of all structures and the façades of all buildings were the same. The walls had no windows, as the buildings were illuminated from within by electricity. Electricity lit the streets as well. Because of the severe climate, a lightproof roof was built over the city, with powerful ventilators for constant air exchange. These parts of the planet know only one six-month-long day and one six-month-long night, but the streets of Star City were constantly flooded with bright, even light. Similarly, at all times of the year the outside temperature was artificially kept at precisely the same level.

  According to the last census, the number of people living in Star City had reached 2,500,000. The rest of the Republic’s population, numbered at 50,000,000, was concentrated around ports and factories. Millions of people were concentrated at these points as well, which all looked very much like Star City. Thanks to the sophisticated application of electrical power, the entrances to local harbours remained open all year round. Suspended electric railways linked the populated areas of the Republic, transporting tens of thousands of people and millions of tons of wares from one city to another every day. As for the country’s interior, it remained uninhabited. A traveller looking out of the window of his train would see only monotonous wilderness, totally white in the winter and smattered with scant grass during the three months of summer. All wild animals had long been exterminated, and there was nothing a person could live on there. All the more striking, then, was the intense life of the port cities and factory centres. To give an idea of what that life was like, it is sufficient to say that in recent years approximately seven tenths of all metal extracted from the earth was processed by the state factories of the Republic.

  To all outward appearances, the Constitution of the Republic seemed to be the realisation of the most extreme form of democracy. The only citizens enjoying full rights were those who worked in the metallurgical factories, comprising approximately 60% of the population. These factories belonged to the State. Factory workers were not only granted every conceivable convenience; they even enjoyed luxury. Aside from splendid rooms and exquisite meals, they had at their disposal a wide variety of cultural institutions and entertainments: libraries, museums, theatres, concerts, gymnasiums for every conceivable type of sport, and so on. The number of working hours in a day was utterly insignificant. The upbringing and education of children, medical and juridical assistance, and the celebration of various cults’ religious services were all provided for by the State. Generously afforded the satisfaction of every need, want and even whim, workers in state factories received no wages; but the families of citizens serving in a factory for 20 years, as well as those who died or were disabled during their working years, received a rich lifetime pension under the condition that they never quit the Republic. Representatives from among these same workers were chosen by popular vote to the Legislature of the Republic, which handled all questions of political life in the country, but without the right to alter its fundamental laws.

  However, this democratic façade disguised the purely autocratic tyranny of the former trust’s founding members. While allowing others to be delegates in the Legislature, they invariably put their own candidates in charge of the factories. The country’s economic life was concentrated in the hands of the Council of these factory directors. They received all orders and divided them among the factories; they acquired the materials and machines for work; they managed all the factories. Huge sums of money—billions—passed through their hands. The Legislature did nothing more than confirm the operational income and expense figures presented to it, although the balance of these figures far exceeded the entire budget of the Republic. The influence of the Council of Directors in international relations was enormous. Its decisions could bankrupt entire countries. The prices it set determined the salaries of millions of the working masses all over the world. At the same time—although indirectly—the Council’s influence on the Republic’s intern
al affairs was always decisive. The Legislature, in essence, was merely the humble executor of the will of the Council.

  To keep power in its own hands, the Council was obliged to mercilessly control every aspect of life within its borders. For all its seeming freedom, civic life was regulated down to the most insignificant details. Buildings in every city of the Republic were constructed according to one and the same plan, determined by law. The appointments of all rooms assigned to workers, for all their luxury, were strictly uniform. Everyone got the same food at exactly the same hours. A dress distributed from state warehouses was invariably—over the course of decades—of the same cut. After a certain hour, at a signal raised from the Town Hall, it was forbidden to leave one’s house. The country’s entire publishing industry was subordinate to a keen-eyed censor. Articles critical of the Council’s dictatorship were not permitted. But even so, the entire country was so convinced of this dictatorship’s beneficence that the typesetters themselves refused to set lines critical of the Council. The factories were full of the Council’s agents. At the least sign of dissatisfaction with the Council the agents, at hurriedly called meetings, quickly dissuaded the doubters with passionate speeches. Of course the overwhelming proof was that the life of workers in the Republic was an object of envy to the entire world. It has been claimed that in certain cases of persistent agitation, the Council did not disdain assassination. In any case, throughout the Republic’s entire existence not a single director hostile to the founding trustees was ever chosen by general election.

  The population of Star City was made up mostly of workers serving out their term. These were, so to say, state rentiers. The facilities provided to them by the state allowed them to live well. Therefore it is not surprising that Star City was considered one of the world’s most exciting cities. It was a goldmine for various entrepreneurs. The world’s renowned brought their talents to this place. Here were the best operas, best concerts and best art exhibitions, and the most informative newspapers were published here. Star City’s shops were amazing in their rich variety of goods, and the restaurants’ luxury and fine service were astounding; clubs and taverns enticed one with every form of debauchery invented by the ancient and modern world. However, life in Star City continued to be strictly regulated by the government. True, the furnishings of flats and styles of dress were not constrained, but the prohibition against going outside after curfew remained in force, strict censorship was preserved, and the Council maintained an extensive network of spies. Order was officially kept by the national guard, but it was backed by the secret police of the omniscient Council.

  This was, in its broadest outlines, how life was ordered in the Republic of the Southern Cross and its capital. The job of future historians will be to determine to what extent this order influenced the appearance and spread of the fateful epidemic that led to the destruction of Star City, and perhaps even to the entire fledgling state.

  The first cases of “contradiction” were noted in the Republic as much as 20 years ago. At that time the disease was sporadic and incidental in nature. However, local psychiatrists and neuropathologists found it interesting and described it in great detail; at an international medical congress in Lhassa at that time, several papers were devoted to it. As time went on, people more or less forgot about it, although there was never a shortage of infected patients in the psychiatric wards of Star City. The disease got its name from the way its victims constantly contradict their own desires, wanting one thing, but saying and doing another (the scientific name for the disease is mania contradicens). It usually begins with rather weakly presenting symptoms, primarily in the form of a peculiar aphasia. An infected person says “no” instead of “yes”; wanting to say some tender words, he instead showers his addressee with invective, and so on. In the majority of cases, the patient begins to contradict himself in his actions as well: intending to go to the left, he turns right; thinking he will raise his hat so he can see better, he pulls it down over his eyes, and so on. As the disease develops, these “contradictions” begin to fill the entire physical and mental life of the patient—manifesting, of course, in infinite variety according to the particularities of each individual. Generally, the patient’s speech becomes incomprehensible, and his actions absurd. The bodily functions, too, become disordered. Aware of the foolishness of his behaviour, the patient becomes extremely agitated, sometimes to the point of frenzy. A great many of them commit suicide, sometimes in a fit of madness, sometimes, on the contrary, in a lucid moment. Others die of cerebral haemorrhage. The disease is almost always fatal; cases of recovery are extremely rare.

  Mania contradicens took on epidemic proportions in Star City in the middle months of the current year. Until that time the number of people suffering from “contradiction” never exceeded 2% of the total of all cases of illness. But that proportion suddenly rose in May of this year (an autumn month in the Republic) to 25% and continued to grow in succeeding months, while the absolute number of infections was rising just as quickly. By mid-June approximately 2% of the entire population—that is, approximately 50,000 people—were officially diagnosed with “contradiction.” We have no statistics for after this period. The hospitals were overflowing. The contingent of doctors soon proved inadequate. Moreover, the doctors themselves, as well as their medical staff, began to fall victim to the disease. Quite soon the afflicted had no one to turn to for medical help, and an exact tally of cases became impossible. However, all eyewitness accounts agree that by July not a single healthy family was to be met with. Meanwhile, the number of healthy people was diminishing steadily, since a massive emigration from the city had started, as from a plague-stricken area, and the number of infected was escalating. Those who insist that by August everyone remaining in Star City was stricken with the psychological disorder are probably not far from the truth.

  One can trace the first manifestations of the epidemic in the local newspapers, which noted them in the rapidly lengthening column headed Mania contradicens. Since it is very difficult to diagnose the disease in its first stages, the chronicle of the first days of the epidemic is full of comical episodes. A conductor on the metro, stricken with the illness, paid passengers instead of taking their money. A street constable, whose job was to regulate the flow of traffic, spent an entire day snarling it. A man visiting the museum took down all the pictures and rehung them facing the wall as he made his way through the galleries. A newspaper corrected by a stricken copy-editor was found to be full of ridiculous absurdities. At a concert an infected violinist suddenly wrecked an orchestral performance with horrible dissonances, and so on. A long list of such instances provided fodder for the wit of local satirists. But several instances of another type altogether put a stop to the flow of jokes. The first was when a doctor infected with “contradiction” prescribed an unquestionably lethal medication to a little girl, who subsequently died. For about three days the papers were full of this event. Then two nannies at the city kindergarten slit the throats of forty-one children in a fit of “contradiction.” This news shook the whole city. And then, on that very same day, in the evening, two men with the disease rolled a machine gun out of the building that housed the city police and sprayed the peacefully passing crowd with a hail of bullets. There were as many as five hundred dead and wounded.

  After this there was a public outcry in all the papers and throughout the community, demanding that something must be done immediately to curb the epidemic. A special session of the conjoined City Council and Legislature resolved to call in doctors from other cities and countries immediately, to expand the capacity of existing hospitals, to open new ones and to establish wards everywhere for the isolation of “contradiction” patients; to print and disseminate 500,000 copies of a brochure on the new disease describing its symptoms and treatments; to provide for doctors and their assistants to be on special duty on every street; to make rounds of private homes to render first aid; and so on. It was also decided to run daily trains exclusively for the ill
on every route, since the doctors considered a change of scenery the best treatment for the disease. Similar measures were undertaken at the same time by various private associations, unions and clubs. A special “Society for Combating the Epidemic” was even organised, the members of which soon proved themselves truly self-sacrificing. But despite the fact that these and similar measures were carried out with untiring energy, the epidemic did not subside, but gained momentum with each passing day, striking young and old alike, men and women, people at work and those on holiday, the temperate and the dissolute. And soon the entire community was in the grip of an insuperable, elemental horror in the face of unprecedented disaster.

  People began to flee Star City. Certain significant persons left first, including dignitaries, directors, members of the Legislature and the City Council, who hurriedly sent their families away to southern cities in Australia and Patagonia. After them straggled those who had got caught in the city accidentally—foreigners who had willingly come to see “the most exciting city in the southern hemisphere,” artists of every profession, shrewd businessmen of various sorts, women of easy virtue. Then, as the epidemic made fresh progress, the merchants, too, abandoned the city. They hurriedly sold off their wares or left their shops to the mercy of fate. With these fled bankers, owners of theatres and restaurants, and newspaper and book publishers. Finally it came down to the ordinary, local residents. Former workers were forbidden by law to leave the Republic without special permission from the government, under threat of losing their pension. But people paid no heed to this threat as they tried to save their very lives. And they began to desert. The city’s civil servants fled, the officers of the people’s police fled, nurses fled from the hospitals, and so did the chemists and doctors. The urge to flee itself became a mania. Everyone fled who possibly could.