Sophie got up and began to walk down the path Hermes had taken. She had the
brown envelope with the pages on Plato in her hand. Wherever the path diverged she
took the wider one.
Birds were chirping everywhere—in the trees and in the air, in bush and thicket.
They were busily occupied with their morning pursuits. They knew no difference
between weekdays and Sundays. Who had taught them to do all that? Was there a tiny
computer inside each one of them, programming them to do certain things?
The path led up over a little hill, then steeply down between tall pine trees. The
woods were so dense now that she could only see a few yards between the trees.
Suddenly she caught sight of something glittering between the pine trunks. It
must be a little lake. The path went the other way but Sophie picked her way among
the trees. Without really knowing why, she let her feet lead her.
The lake was no bigger than a soccer field. Over on the other side she could see
a red-painted cabin in a small clearing surrounded by silver birches. A faint wisp of
smoke was rising from the chimney.
Sophie went down to the water’s edge. It was very muddy in many places, but
then she noticed a rowboat. It was drawn halfway out of the water. There was a pair
of oars in it.
Sophie looked around. Whatever she did, it would be impossible to get around
the lake to the red cabin without getting her shoes soaked. She went resolutely over to
the boat and pushed it into the water. Then she climbed aboard, set the oars in the
rowlocks, and rowed across the lake. The boat soon touched the opposite bank.
Sophie went ashore and tried to pull the boat up after her. The bank was much steeper
here than the opposite bank had been.
She glanced over her shoulder only once before walking up toward the cabin.
She was quite startled at her own boldness. How did she dare do this? She had
no idea. It was as if “something” impelled her.
Sophie went up to the door and knocked. She waited a while but nobody
answered. She tried the handle cautiously, and the door opened.
“Hallo!” she called. “Is anyone at home?”
She went in and found herself in a living room. She dared not shut the door
behind her.
Somebody was obviously living here. Sophie could hear wood crackling in the
old stove. Someone had been here very recently.
On a big dining table stood a typewriter, some books, a couple of pencils, and a
pile of paper. A smaller table and two chairs stood by the window that overlooked the
lake. Apart from that there was very little furniture, although the whole of one wall
was lined with bookshelves filled with books. Above a white chest of drawers hung a
large round mirror in a heavy brass frame. It looked very old.
On one of the walls hung two pictures. One was an oil painting of a white house
which lay a stone’s throw from a little bay with a red boathouse. Between the house
and the boathouse was a sloping garden with an apple tree, a few thick bushes, and
some rocks. A dense fringe of birch trees framed the garden like a garland. The title of
the painting was “Bjerkely.”
Beside that painting hung an old portrait of a man sitting in a chair by a
window. He had a book in his lap. This picture also had a little bay with trees and
rocks in the background. It looked as though it had been painted several hundred
years ago. The title of the picture was “Berkeley.” The painter’s name was Smibert.
Berkeley and Bjerkely. How strange!
Sophie continued her investigation. A door led from the living room to a small