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energy.
    ‘Must we?’ complained Virginsky, hurrying to keep up. ‘I confess I can never make any sense of these shows.’
    ‘That is because you are watching with the wrong part of your mind. You approach it too rationally. It is not your fault. It is the fault of your generation, and it applies to everything you do.’
    ‘I am surprised to hear you, of all people, decry the use of too much rationality.’
    ‘You’re right, Pavel Pavlovich. I place great store by rationality. But it is like a muscle. One must exercise it, for sure. But one must also rest it from time to time.’
    It was a pantomime show, presented on the platform of a makeshift wooden theatre. The actor playing Pulchinella was dressed in the traditional white costume, his face half-covered by a black mask. The performance had reached the part where Pulchinella – in his peculiar high, rasping voice – has announced his intention to marry. It seemed that a bride had been selected for him, a ninety-nine-year-old woman, living for some reason in the Semyenovsky Regiment.
    ‘It makes no sense,’ complained Virginsky. But Porfiry, like the other spectators, was delighted when the promised bride did not materialise and instead Pulchinella was attacked by a dog.
    A seemingly random succession of characters came onto the stage in succession, to be attacked and fought off by Pulchinella. The action was chaotic. It culminated in the appearance of a devil, who it seemed had come to claim the incorrigible Pulchinella. A fight ensued, of course, ending with Pulchinella riding the devil like a horse. It was at this point, just as the drama was coming to its bewildering end, that Petrushka entered the stage.
    ‘Why?’ cried Virginsky, in exasperation. ‘I ask you in all seriousness, Porfiry Petrovich, what purpose is served by his entrance? Why do we need Petrushka when we have Pulchinella? And why now, when the thing is nearly over?’
    Porfiry waved away the objection.
    ‘He is entirely superfluous to the drama!’ But Virginsky appeared to be the only member of the audience who objected to Petrushka’s appearance, for it was met with frenzied cheering by all around.
    A canvas screen dropped down behind the actors, on which was depicted an enormous devil’s head, with an open mouth. One by one, the cast climbed through the hole, apart from Pulchinella, who was pulled through by the hands of the others, resisting to the last.

A rendezvous with no one
     
     
    Porfiry found the following letter waiting for him back at his chambers:
    Dear Sir,
     
I have chosen to write to you because of your involvement several years ago in the case of the student who murdered the old woman and her sister. Covering the case as a journalist, I was obliged to attend the trial, where I was favourably impressed by the humane way you conducted the prosecution, as I believe I made clear in the account I wrote for a certain publication at the time. Indeed, it might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.
     
I have an interesting story to tell you. Some sailors went swimming in the Winter Canal. Five men jumped in, but six men came out. How could that be?
     
If you would like to know the answer to this riddle, meet me at the Summer Garden, near the northern entrance, at three o’clock, today. It is my favourite time to visit the Summer Garden, when the statues emerge from their winter coffins. I would prefer not to visit you at your chambers because there are spies in every government department. If I am seen there it will mean certain death for me.
     
Of course, if this letter falls into the wrong hands, I will be dead by the time you come to meet me. Therefore I have greater cause than usual to hope that we shall meet this afternoon. How will you know me? Do not fear. I will know you. Please come alone. I’m afraid this must be one of those tiresome anonymous letters, of which I am sure you receive far too many.
     
     
    ‘Is it genuine?’ asked