f inverted Nietzsche; also a self-portrait in
part of the dramatist--there is the self-seeking scamp Launhart who
succeeds with the very ideas which Hetman couldn't make viable, ideas
in fact which brought about his disaster. They are two finely
contrasted portraits, and what a grimace of disgust is aroused when
Launhart tells the woman who loves Hetman: "O Fanny, Fanny, a living
rascal is better for your welfare than the greatest of dead prophets."
What Dead-Sea-fruit wisdom! The pathos of distance doesn't appeal to
the contemporary soul of Wedekind. He writes for the young, that is,
for to-morrow.

The caprice, the bizarre, the morbid in Wedekind are more than
redeemed by his rich humanity. He loves his fellow man even when he
castigates him. He is very emotional, also pragmatic. The second act
of his Franziska, a Karnevalgroteske, was given at the Dresden
Pressfestival, February 7, 1913, with the title of Matrimony in the
Year 2000, the author and his wife appearing in the leading roles with
brilliant success. It contains in solution the leading motives from
all his plays and his philosophy of life. It is fantastic, as
fantastic as Strindberg's Dream Play, but amusing. In 1914 his
biblical drama, Simson (Samson), was produced with mixed success.

Translated Wedekind would lose his native wood-note wild, and
doubtless much of his dynamic force--for on the English stage he would
be emasculated. And I wonder who would have the courage to produce his
works.

Musik, for example, if played in its entirety might create a profound
impression. It is pathetically moving and the part of the unhappy
girl, who is half crazy because of her passion for her singing-master,
is a role for an accomplished actress. If the public can endure
Brieux's Damaged Goods, why not Musik? The latter is a typical case
and is excellent drama; the French play is neither. For me all the man
is summed up in the cry of one of his characters in Erdgeist: "Who
gives me back my faith in mankind, will give me back my life." An
idealist, surely.

The last time I saw him was at the Richard Strauss festival in
Stuttgart, October, 1912. He had changed but little and still reminded
me of both David Belasco and an Irish Catholic priest. In his eyes
there lurked the "dancing-madness" of which Robert Louis Stevenson
writes. A latter-day pagan, with touches of the perverse, the
grotesque, and the poetic; thus seems to me Frank Wedekind.