ent to critical ineptitude,
Degeneration, by Max Nordau. A more modern instance is the judgment of
Julius Hart in the publication, _Tag_ (1901), concerning our
dramatist. He wrote: "In German literature to-day there is nothing as
vile as the art of Frank Wedekind." Fearing this sparkling gem of
criticism might escape the notice of posterity, Wedekind printed it as
a sort of motto to his beautiful poetic play (1902), Such Is Life.
However, the truth is that our poet is often disconcerting. His swift
transition from mood to mood disturbs the spectator, especially when
one mood is lofty, the next shocking. He has also been called "the
clown of the German stage," and not without reason, for his mental
acrobatics, his grand and lofty tumblings from sheer transcendentalism
to the raw realism, his elliptical style, are incomprehensible even
to the best trained of audiences. As Alfred Kerr rightfully puts it,
you must learn to see anew in the theatre of Wedekind. All of which is
correct, yet we respectfully submit that the theatre, like a picture,
has its optics: its foreground, middle distance, background, and
foreshortening. Destroy the perspective and the stage is transformed
into something that resembles staring post-Impressionist posters. The
gentle arts of development, of characterisation, of the conduct of a
play may not be flouted with impunity. The author more than the
auditor is the loser. Wedekind works too often in bold, bright primary
colours; only in some of his pieces is the modulation artistic, the
character-drawing summary without being harsh. His climaxes usually go
off like pistol-shots. Fruehlings Erwachen (1891), the touching tale of
Spring's Awakening in the heart of an innocent girl of fourteen, a
child, Gretchen, doomed to tragic ending, set all Germany by the ears
when it was first put on in the Kammerspielhaus, Berlin, by Director
Reinhardt at the end of 1906. During fifteen years two editions had
been sold, and the work was virtually unknown till its stage
presentation. Mr. Shaw is right in saying that if you wish to make
swift propaganda seek the theatre, not the pulpit, nor the book. With
the majority Wedekind's name was anathema. A certain minority called
him the new Messiah, that was to lead youth into the promised land of
freedom. For a dramatist all is grist that makes revolve the sails of
his advertising mill, and as there is nothing as lucrative as
notoriety, Wedekind must have been happy.

H