en, to the accompaniment of his guitar, there
was a distinct individuality in his speech and gesture very attractive
to the public.

But as an actor Wedekind is not distinguished, though versatile. I've
only seen him in two roles, as Karl Hetman in his play of Hidalla (now
renamed after the leading role), and as Ernest Scholtz in The Marquis
of Keith. As Jack the Ripper in The Box of Pandora I am glad to say
that I have not viewed him, though he is said to be a gruesome figure
during the few minutes that he is in the scene. His mimetic methods
recalled to me the simplicity of Antoine--who is not a great actor,
yet, somehow or other, an impressive one. Naturally, Wedekind is the
poet speaking his own lines, acting his own creations, and there is,
for that reason, an intimate note in his interpretations, an
indescribable sympathy, and an underscoring of his meanings that even
a much superior actor might miss. He is so absolutely unconventional
in his bearing and speech as to seem amateurish, yet he secures with
his naturalism some poignant effects. I shan't soon forget his Karl
Hetman, the visionary reformer.

Wedekind, like Heine, has the faculty of a cynical, a consuming
self-irony. He is said to be admirable in Der Kammersaenger. It must
not be forgotten that he has, because of a witty lampoon in the
publication Simplicissimus, done his "little bit" as they say in
penitentiary social circles. These few months in prison furnished him
with scenic opportunities; there is more than one of his plays with a
prison set. And how he does lay out the "system." He, like Baudelaire,
Flaubert, and De Maupassant, was summoned before the bar of justice
for outraging public morals by the publication of his play, The Box of
Pandora, the sequel to Erdgeist. He had to withdraw the book and
expunge certain offensive passages, but he escaped fine and
imprisonment, as did his publisher, Bruno Cassirer. He rewrote the
play, the second act of which had been originally printed in French,
the third in English, and its republication was permitted by the
sensitive authorities of Berlin.

If a critic can't become famous because of his wisdom he may
nevertheless attain a sort of immortality, or what we call that
elusive thing, by writing himself down an ass. The history of critical
literature would reveal many such. Think of such an accomplished
practitioner as the late M. Brunetiere, writing as he did of Flaubert
and Baudelaire. And that monum