Lacking the initiative, the constructive power, which full intelligence alone can give, Pétrouchka can yet perceive his shortcomings. He passes himself in review, and finds satisfaction in nothing. His motions, gestures--who could admire such awkward angularity, such jerky, jumpy movements? Thus he reflects dolefully, as he strives experimentally to move his limbs with easy grace and rhythm. As to his clothes, such gaudy, parti-coloured gear is fit only for buffoons and clownish oafs, not for one who possesses (in how limited degree, poor fellow! he does not realise) the finer instincts. His motley shames him, his involuntary _gaucherie_ moves him to anger with himself. Nothing is right; and with a travesty of emotion which excites a smile while it moves to pity, Pétrouchka abandons himself to despair. It is Pétrouchka’s crowning agony that he believes himself in love. The object of his adoration is the Dancer, the radiant creature who occupies (in striped pantaloons and the sauciest of caps) the middle compartment of the puppet-box. Beyond lies the Blackamoor, a feared and hated rival. How vie with the latter’s rich and handsome dress, his dashing, martial bearing? The Blackamoor carries a sabre, and though it is Pétrouchka’s exquisite privilege at periodic intervals to belabour his dusky rival with the stick he borrows from their mutual master, the attack (for all the feeble spite with which it is delivered) is but a mimic one--a mere comic interlude in the dance with which the trio are wont to entertain the grinning public. Of what avail in private such brief and sham ascendancy against the subtle, meretricious attractions of his competitor for the fair one’s favour! Momentarily Pétrouchka’s gloom is lightened by the unexpected advent of the Dancer, come upon a visit to the apartment of her love-sick swain. At sight of her Pétrouchkas fears and doubts are dissipated on the instant. No deepening of the rosy patches on her cheeks encourages the extravagant demonstration of delight with which he greets her; nor does even a momentary softening relax the fixity of her stare. But Pétrouchka, poor fool! takes no [Illustration] note of this. He has learnt no art of restraint, and in the sudden revulsion of feeling effected by the apparition of his beloved, he rushes from one extreme to the other. Forgetful now of that _gaucherie_ he was deploring but a moment earlier, unconscious of the ridicule his foolish garb excites, the hapless creature is betrayed, by the ill-disciplined vehemence of his rudimentary emotions, into ludicrous and preposterous behaviour. The Dancer stands affrighted at the ecstatic transports of her would-be lover. Not in this antic fashion had she expected to be wooed. Deficient in the graces and allurements of a suppliant, Pétrouchka lacks equally the masterful methods of the bolder kind of suitor.