The Masked Man
Come, child! (He lays his arm upon that of Melchior and disappears with him over the graves.)
Moritz
(Alone.)
Now I sit here with my head under my arm.–The moon covers her face, unveils herself again and seems not a hair the cleverer.–I will go back to my place, right my cross, which that madcap trampled down so inconsiderately, and when everything is in order I will lie down on my back again, warm myself in the corruption and smile.
FROM A LENGTHY ESSAY IN “THE FRANKFURTER ZEITUNG.”
Wedekind's dramas are reminiscent of the pre-Shakespearian stage. But often enough one may recall Shakespeare himself.–But we do not wish to fall into the error of that unstable enthusiasm which always makes comparison with the very greatest when only something remarkable is in question. The aim of these lines is not to hail Wedekind as the Messiah of the drama, nor as the John of a coming Messiah. For all I care, he might be the devil himself. Only one thing is certain: he is a power without his like among us, and where such a power has worked once it produces after results. Power releases power. With this drink in their bodies the public will not long continue to support either lyrical lemonade on the stage nor the dregs of dramatic penury.
This poet, this artist is at the same time a knower of life. One cannot be mistaken! This is no joke. Behind all this swarm of jumping, dancing, tumbling, contending, inflamed, agitated discourse; behind all this pushing, roaring, foaming, gargling, flood of action, stands intuition of the world, stands the sense of life, as made manifest in the thoughts of Wedekind. It is no tearer, no eradicator, no falterer, who in this frightfully beautiful bustle of passion and inevitableness has given a picture of his own dissoluteness. He is a poet-animal trainer, who knows and rules his beasts. A man—if you please.