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rieures, et les nerfs moteurs qui font aboutir les mouvements
du centre aux extrémités. Mais on connaît mal la connexion
qui est entre eux : les uns ne se développent guère sans que
les autres se développent aussi. Un coureur qui entraîne
ses cuisses à une plus forte détente se trouve, une fois entraîné,
avoir aussi les cuisses plus sensibles. Les presdigitateurs qui
veulent apprendre à leurs doigts à agir vers le dos de la main
leur font d'abord accomplir passivement les mouvements
souhaités, touchent et picottent les muscles qui doivent agir.
Je crois de même qu'un acteur qui veut faire l'éducation de
son front doit commencer par se masser le front avec les mains,
par tapoter et toucher du bout du doigt, puis guider dans leurs
mouvements, les muscles qu'il veut faire agir. Qu'il n'es-
saie jamais de surmonter ce qu'il prendrait pour de l'agace-
ment, et qui est en réalité une fatigue locale : il en tirerait,
vu le voisinage des muscles des yeux, une migraine épouvan-
table. Mais bientôt sa propre souplesse l'étonnera ; il se verra
comme les lions et les autres fauves qui font ce qu'ils veulent
de la peau de leur front. Je vois venir une objection, surtout
de la part des femmes, et je m'empresse de la prévenir; le front
ne sera jamais déformé si l'on prend soin de faire toujours
l'un après l'autre les mouvements les plus opposés ; on évi-
tera que la peau ne se distende grâce au claquement de linge
mouillé et aux lotions astringentes.

En ce moment il arrive que la vie pratique modèle le front
des acteurs d'une façon différente de ce qu'ils doivent montrer
dans leurs rôles. C'est ainsi que Menjou, qui ne joue que des
rôles peu énergiques, mais qui dans le privé déchiffre beau-

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coup de musique et doit faire fort attention parce qu'il a les yeux faibles, a les sourcils un peu trop musclés pour ses rôles.

JEAN PRÉVOST.

CONRAD VEIDT

THE STUDENT OF PRAGUE.

A small room, a stuffy atmosphere; a provincial Swiss lake-side cinema; the usual shuffle and shuffle and the unaccustomed (to the urbane senses) rattle of paper bags. Crumbs. "Mlle. must not smoke here." Of course I might have known that, I never smoke in these places, what made me this time ? Something has been touched before I realise it, some hidden spring; there is something wrong with this film, with me, with the weather, with something. The music ought, it is evident, to be making my heart spring but I don't like student songs and these Heidelbergish melodies especially leave me frigid. There's something wrong and I have seen those horses making that idiotic turn on the short grass at least eight times. What is it ? I won't stay any longer. The music *ought* to be all right—my slightly readjusted ears make that slight concession. I wish I had stayed at home, or why didn't I go in-

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stead to that other little place, it's better ventilated, across
the way. And so on. This storm that doesn't break. I
have no reaction to anything. . . . O *that's* what the little
man is after.

For I see now. There is a rhythm within the rhythm,
there is a story within the story. The little man (it is curiously
he whom I personally met before in Joyless Street, disguised
now out of recognition) beckons at the top of a sandy hill.
The little tree twists and bends and makes all the frantic
gestures of the little tree at the cross-roads under which Faust
conjured devils. That's it precisely. This has something
behind it, in it, through it. That little man means more than
that. He isn't an absurd little obvious Punchinello. He is
a symbol, an asterisk, an enigma. Spell the thing backwards,
he seems to be saying, spell it right side to or back side to or
front or behind and you'll see. . . his little leer means some-
thing. The horses filing again, in obvious procession, mean
something. They are going to spell something, make a mys-
tic symbol across short grass, some double twist and knot
and the world will go to bits. . . something is going to happen.

I have forgotten the paper bags. The music *does* fit in.
I have forgotten the lilt and rise and lilt and fall of the violin
that doesn't in the least know that the piano is existing.
That's it exactly. The piano and the violin live in separate
elements, so this and this. The little obvious Italian Pun-
chinello doesn't in the least mind being jeered at. He wants
to be jeered at. He has opened doors to the uninitiate.
*They* don't know that that umbrella tucked so ridiculously

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under his left arm-pit, means something. I know that it
means something but I don't know what (outside the obviously
obvious) it does mean. There is a world within a world,
the little man gesticulates. The horses have all gone. . .the
music has come right.

Students sing under summer trees. Students have filed
under summer trees and seated in a garden make obvious
opera bouffe groups with beribboned guitars. Students sing
in a garden. . .grey eyes cut the opera bouffe to tatters. The
student of Prague has entered.

His visage, his form, the very obvious and lean candour
of him spell something different. He is and he isn't just this
person sitting under a tree. The little man gesticulating at
the top of a sandy hill has given one the clue to this thing.
This is and isn't Conrad Veidt or this is and isn't. Baldwin
the famous fencer. His eyes cut the garden, the benches,
the sun-light (falling obviously) to tatters. How did this
man get here ? Steel and fibre of some vanished lordlihood.
Conrad Veidt has entered.

A gesture, a tilt of a chin, the downward sweep of a wide-
rimmed student's cap and the world has altered. With the
same obvious formality and the same obvious banality as
the little Italian conjurer, the least hunch of shoulder of this
famous artist has some hidden meaning. He is lean and wild.
He is firm and sophisticated and worldly. He will break
from his skin like a panther from a tight wicker box. He is
tight in his personality and behind his personality his mind
glints like his own steel. Conrad Veidt impersonating the

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famous Baldwin may not be the Conrad Veidt of *The Hands of Orlac*, or *Nju*. I have seen only this film. But I don't want to see another Conrad Veidt if it must abuse my mind of this one.

The story is obvious. The English literary critical papers accompany their "still" of the famous mirror scene with some such explanatory blurb : this is the Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of German legend. Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, how apt, certainly. Doctor Jekyll however shuddered in horror at the sodden parody of himself that Hyde presented. This Jekyll and Hyde are alike elegant, alike poised, alike at home in the world of fact and in the supernatural. For by a magnificent trick of sustained camera magic we have Baldwin the famous fencer student selling his shadow, rather his brave reflection to the little obvious Italian magician of the first reel. The little Punchinello obtains it, by a trick; gold poured and poured Danae shower, upon the bare scrubbed table of the student's attic, "for something in his room". The student has lifted his magnificent blade ruefully and cynically has decided (as that is the only object worth a sou in the bare attic) to be done with it. It is not that blade that our friend Punchinello's after. He beckons with his obvious buffoon gesture toward the mirror. Baldwin regards (in its polished surface) the face of Baldwin. Tall, alert, with that panther grace, like some exquisite lean runner from an archaic Delphic frieze, Baldwin regards Baldwin. It is true there should be Baldwin upon Baldwin, Veidt upon Veidt, elegantly pursuing (across some marble entablature) Baldwin upon stripped Baldwin,

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Veidt upon naked Veidt. In that, the little Punchinello
shows his aptitude for beauty. Such charm, such lean and
astute physical intellectuality should be repeated. Gold,
flowing from a leather cornucopialike wallet has dripped
(Danae shower) from the bare table and Baldwin has sold
"something" (not his fine blade) "in this room" to this mys-
terious little person. The bargain has been made. Baldwin
regards the purchase. With elegant lithe movement, with
uncomparable agility, the reflection steps forward. Bald-
win on the bare floor, quivers slightly, makes one of those
perfect hieratic steps to one side. But the image doesn't
answer him. The image, the "purchase" has another master.
The little ridiculous Punchinello with his repellant friendliness
lures it forward. As the distant horses made turn and doub-
le eights across windy grass, directed by this obvious jester,
so now this rare thing. The image of Baldwin strides steadily
forward and following our magician, leaves the chamber empty.

There is of course a love story connected with all this.
Punchinello has promised our hero a fortune or rather an
heiress and that's what the horses were solemnly about.
They were making circles and double eights and abracada-
bra-like turns on the short grass in order finally to spill the
big-boned but somehow impressive heroine into (literally)
the arms of our steely hero. The hero having so fallen to the
charms of the impressive, beautifully modelled lady, must
methinks have clothes for his wooing, peg-top trousers, all
the paraphernalia that goes with the rather 1860-ish type of
get-up. Arms, legs, cloth moulds those arms, legs that were

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somehow out of elbow for all their statuesque divinity in the
simple student. The student (grey eyes tearing tapestries,
satin and old lace this time) now is able to present the lady-
of-the-manor with suitable 1860-ish baskets of heavy blossoms.
(His small early discarded violet-cluster and that violet-seller
is another story, a leit-motive that merges and melts subtly
with this other nobler matter.) The real lady of his affection
is affianced (I believe is the word) to a gentleman in some sort
of aldermanic or diplomatic-circles, knee breeches. This per-
son flicking our hero across the cheek bones with the usual
gauntlet, is summoned for the usual purposes at dawn or
sunset. Anyhow as might have been expected, the hero
having been forestalled by the father of his beloved, has pro-
mised in best Prague style only to prick his adversary. As
again might have been expected, owing, we are led to imagine
to the machinations of the Punchinello, the wheel of the car-
riage bearing our hero to the rendez vous is broken by the
usual lonely cross-road and Baldwin, stumbling forward to
keep his appointment, his honour so being called to question,
is met dramatically by his one (in the world) possible rival.
Face to face under a great tree, sweeping branches, mysterious
yet naturalist décor. Hyde meets Jekyll. Or Jekyll meets
Hyde. It's impossible to choose between them, though at
this exact moment, sympathies are with the spectre. Per-
haps that is because he wears the attributes of the student
fencer in which Conrad Veidt first appeared, the student cap
pulled so forcefully and drastically over those steely eyes and
the beautiful leather boots. However time is short. We

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know what is bound to happen. The spectre in all the accoutrements of the gentleman duellist, strides forward leaving the man gasping at his predicament. He beholds in, as it were, ambush the inevitable dénouement.

There are gaspings, now direct disapprobation, cuttings, a gentleman, as the world knows, does not break his parole d'honneur and all the paraphernalia. Jekyll (or Hyde) the man anyhow is dropped anyhow by the vast circle that has been entertained royally in his drawing rooms. His beloved can not meet him, the murderer of her betrothed. The Student of Prague, the famous fencer Baldwin is cut by fencing companies, societies. What you will. He is thrown into the arms of the common Alma Tademesque little violet seller. Things march from worse to still worse. This is what comes of selling one's shadow to a stranger. There is, as is obvious, the really clever stalking of the shadow and the merging and cross-currents of two images. We never lose sight of the identity of either; this too is a triumph. The spectre is the slim gaunt creature in the early student get-up, the man is the somewhat out at heels distrait discarded gentleman. The spectre grows in distinction, in power apparently. The man diminishes. The spectre remains the Student of Prague and Baldwin, his begetter is hounded by this Frankenstein. Doors are no impediment. The spectre in triumph of film-photography glides discreetly through and into the most sacred milieu. Baldwin the man, sinks into the scum of fetid cells. The spectre and the little early mistress, the small common, yet uncommonly pretty, violet-girl sink with him.

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Baldwin becomes violent, destructive. The spectre shares his evil end, gloats in it. Yet apart. . .having some life outside humanity. . .following, following, till we want to scream, "strangle him get rid of him, one or the other, let this duality perish if Baldwin perish with it."

Baldwin does so finally perish, having lured the shadow back into the frame of the mirror in the now deserted attic. He shoots the spectre only to find himself bleeding with the bullet wound. The bullet aimed so adroitly at the breast of the image in the mirror has, by some psychic affinity, entered his own heart. So dies Baldwin. Across our vision however there is something that will never die. It can't go. It lives among other things, in the haunting melody (the music finally did come right) of *du meine Herzen, du mein Ruhe*. Baldwin (before the final dénouement) has finally, in wind and storm (this might have been well pictured to the Erlkönig motif) broken into the garden and the manor of his mistress. We find her great-eyed and adequate, without charm but with some fine distinction in 1860-ish surroundings ; great mirrors, heavy candelabra, the wide French windows and the sweeping of wind-blown branches. There is authentic swish and swirl of branches and has anything ever been more subtly dramatic than the entering of broken rose-petals and damp leaves with the opening of that wide door ? Baldwin, the man become a shadow, stands before his Lady. We see in a moment, she is that. What she lacks in charm is supplied by the ardour of her lover. He is at her knees, at her feet. He will explain. He will and he will and he will. We know

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what is about to happen. He lures her to a mirror. It is
not he but his missing shadow that has done this. She stares
straight into nothingness. There is the dramatic pause, the
ten seconds that might be ten minutes, the ten minutes that
might be ten years and the lady is lying like some dramatic
beautiful Niobe (fainting ? dead ?) marble, sculptured on the
floor. The beauty of that scene is one that must always re-
main, that must always come back, it seems now, with wind
and wind-swept branches. The screen has purified and idealiz-
ed, is a medium for purity and idealization. No one could
remain unmoved before the sheer technical beauty of that
interior. There are volumes of de Regnieresque subtleties
in it. This on the screen. There is the intolerable beauty
of the Erlkönig come (for all its apparent unrelation) true.
There are the things we can't say or paint at the sight of win-
dows half-opened at dawn, of windows half-closed in moon-
light. There is the spirit of the garden, the spirit of the water,
the lake, the sea, the wind, the ghost itself of all our lives
come visually before us. (Du meine Herzen, du mein Ruhe
sings the violin now and we can't for the life of us notice that
it is out of key with the piano.) There is beauty and unful-
fillment and the struggle of the spirit and the body and the
spirit become body and the body become spirit and the con-
tant strife between Lucifer and the angel Michael.

Michael stands before us and Lucifer. This time there is
no mistaking. The spectre is an evil thing now, wishing to
snatch, we see it, the living spark of divinity from the man
become shadow. Baldwin has flung himself and his secret

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at the heart of his "Frieden" his "Ruhe". Du bist mein Grab,
we remember the song continues and we see now its applica-
tion. He has betrayed the secret of the under-world to a
mortal and the spectre, looking athletic and determined, has
his hand on the bell rope. He will ring and the man knows
that he must vanish. It is the man now who is completely
at the will of the shadow.

Du meine Herzen, du mein Ruhe. Baldwin climbing back
to his old poor surroundings knows that he is conquered.
Baldwin the apparent man, that is. There is something indom-
itable left, symbolized by the little silver cross that his Lady
has given him on that first dramatic meeting in the bare fields.
He had saved her life (for all there was distorted magic in
it) and the little cross was his reward. Tapestries, laden
baskets, the minuet and ladies with lovely ankles, all that
came, was swept aside by the pursuing shadow and lost sim-
ply. A vision is not so easily relinquished, says the tried
soul. I have lost everything says Baldwin but not one thing.
Raising himself on one elbow along the splintered glass, he
realises that his death has brought him his fulfillment. More
than his lady, more than his steel blade, himself. Baldwin,
dying, clasps a broken edge of triangulated glass to his stained
breast. Containing his image simply.

A tiny provincial lake-side cinema... a small room, by luck I have got a front seat on the little balcony at the room's rear. Languages filter into my consciousness. French? German? I have been following the sub-titles in these languages. A tired language, an effete language, not French,

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not German, is remarking, "These Germans over-do things. . . look at Faust now. . .and this is just as morbid." Another language resembling only in bare particulars that one (is it the same language ?) is remarking, "gee, why don't they have more live-stuff these days. Though they did advertise Doug Fairbanks last week." Languages filter into me, languages and the music fanfaring away at some familiar sideshow rate and "the show is over" is indicated by a sudden, crude blare of extravagant electricity. "Say—you can see electricity's cheap here." Languages. . .languages. . .dead languages, living languages. A small voice, a wee voice that has something in common with all these voices yet differs intrinsically from all these voices, will whisper there within me. "You see I was right. You see it will come. In spite of 'Gee' and 'Doug Fairbanks' and 'we must have something cheerful', it must come soon : a universal language, a universal art open alike to the pleb and the initiate."

H. D.

# MIND-GROWTH
OR MIND-MECHANIZATION ?

## THE CINEMA IN EDUCATION

An interesting viewpoint which, though not altogether in accordance with our own beliefs, yet states one side of the educational question

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