The old rascal is, in truth, something of a magician. But though he has the power to endow his puppets with a certain degree of humanity, there is a limit to his skill, and the poor objects of his mischievous arts are but partially humanised--a kind of apish mockery of human flesh and blood. At bottom they are puppets still. In worst case, because the most gifted with humanity, is the luckless Pétrouchka. More nearly does the texture of his rag approximate to flesh, the thin sawdust of his stuffing to red and pulsing blood. Vaguely there stir within him the passions and emotions of a man--blind feelings to which he strives mutely, ineffectually, to give expression. He has learned to suffer--and no more. The black rectangular chamber which the newly rising curtain shows us is that portion of the squalid puppet-box which forms Pétrouchka’s home. Through the door that flies open the showman’s clumsy boot is seen, and the flimsy figure of the hapless doll, ridiculous in his pied and motley clothes, is impelled through the opening by a cruel kick. For a time he lies in a huddled heap upon the floor, then woefully picks himself up, striving to collect his feeble wits. His pitiful frame is fired by yearnings which he does not comprehend. Aimless impulses stir him to spasmodic, inconclusive movements. He is the sport of he knows not what. In a sudden access of panic he darts to the door, seeking escape from his prison-like box to the life and gaiety of the outer world, from which he has been so rudely torn. There, but a moment ago, he was dancing, and if the applause was mingled with laughter at his ungainly antics, at least it was applause such as the ears of even a half-witted doll can greedily drink in. But the door is shut. It lies flush, lacking handle or latch, with the wall, and Pétrouchka’s puppet hands, with fingers stiffly glued together and muffled in black babyish gloves, fumble at it in vain effort. Pathetically he totters the length of the walls, groping wildly with his futile arms for an outlet. At last he finds one--a portion of the wall collapses--but it is only a hole pasted over with paper, into which the rickety figure of Pétrouchka nearly disappears. It is no real outlet, it leads nowhere, and dimly the poor puppet realises that even here his hopes and aspirations are baulked. He is a prisoner, close pent. Mournfully he bemoans his wretched lot, his bitter discontent not lightened by ignorance of what he truly wishes in its stead. [Illustration]