THE Puppet has always exercised upon the human mind a curious fascination. There is a lure in the antics of the animated doll so reminiscent of, yet so unlike, ourselves which most find irresistible. Punch and Judy with their attendant satellites furnish, of course, a classic case in point.
The reason is that the puppet show discharges all the functions of the ordinary theatre, with this advantage—that it gives its spectators the privilege of feeling as the gods upon Olympus. With amused and tolerant eye they watch the petty strife of puny creatures who, but for the lack of high divinity, would be life-like effigies of themselves. It may be that “the proper study of mankind is man,” but the occupation is pleasurable only when it can be pursued with such detachment as, in the most complete form, the puppet show makes possible. The travesty of human passions which the mimic stage affords is near enough the truth to intrigue the fancy, while sufficiently remote from reality to leave equanimity undisturbed. No wonder all men show a kindly regard for the queer little figures that provide parodies of themselves which are shrewd, but not too apposite!
Pétrouchka, it is understood, is roughly the Russian counterpart of our familiar Punch, though he would seem to have really but little in common with the riotous Falstaffian character of the English hero. In the ballet named after him, however, Pétrouchka represents not so much certain human traits as himself, the essential puppet. In its trivial way the theme thus presented is a big one. A ballet woven round the puppet stage would have been in any case attractive. To take us behind the scenes and show the mingled comedy and tragedy of the puppet world was a true dramatic inspiration. In the result “Pétrouchka” is an achievement perhaps finer than even its authors had intended.
Not only in their miming, but in their scenery also, the Russians have a subtle art of suggesting local atmosphere. There is a bleak, grey quality about the background to the scene with which “Pétrouchka” opens that conveys an instant sense of Russian cold—a dull frigidity which not all the gay and vivid hues of the parti-coloured crowd thronging the stage can thaw, which, indeed, the latter merely enhance, as they in turn are intensified by contrast against so perfect a foil. One has a sense of opaque, leaden skies, of snow impending.
It is fair-time, the last few days of high revelry before the Lenten fast begins. Carnival is in full swing, and folk of every station are making merry amongst the booths and raree-shows that
have been set up in the market-place. A spirit of careless jollity prevails, and as the mingled nature of the moving throng betrays, the licence of carnival time has broken down all barriers of ceremonious restraint. Coachmen, Cossacks, nurse girls and grisettes rub shoulders freely with ladies and their escorts, smart officers and sober burgesses.
Itinerant vendors offer their wares among the promenaders, and an eager rogue sets up, for tempting of the revellers’ purses, the clumsy peep-show which he carries on his back. The coins begin to roll in as the gaping sightseers gather round, but his harvest is interrupted by the greater attractions of a dancing girl, who begins upon a strip of carpet laid with care upon the ground a posturing dance, to the accompaniment of strains from a hurdy-gurdy turned by her male companion. She likewise is not allowed to hold the field undisputed, for a rival—also attended by a portable organ—establishes herself hard by. The pair vie with each other in elegant poses and slow rhythmic movements, while the thin strains of the opposing hurdy-gurdies dolefully assail the ear.