As she stooped to enter the cave, Sophie’s expression divided into two moments, as though half of her had preceded the other half. In one sense she had expected better, and in another worse. She found it awful and touching, as inhospitable as any grotto and yet believable as a dwelling. It took her a few moments to adjust to the dirt, to move in such a way as not to soil her dress without letting it show. Once she had overcome her awkwardness, she began to feel at home in the coolness of the cave, and, to Reichardt’s delight, bobbed delightfully when she accepted her first cup of tea. Elsa reacted differently. She took one look inside the cave, pulled a face, and elected to remain outside helping Álvaro prepare the tea.
Once the tablecloth and the food were spread out, the picnic turned out to be agreeably eccentric. Elsa and Sophie held their little tin mugs as if they were china teacups, sipped their tea slowly, and munched modest mouthfuls, fingers in front of their lips. Reichardt wolfed down everything in sight, spilling crumbs all over the place and belching, admittedly less explosively than usual considering there were ladies present. Lamberg said nothing, his cheeks bulging with lumps of bread as he ate. Álvaro spoke more loudly than Elsa would have liked, guffawed prodigiously, egging the excited Franz into the middle of the tablecloth, from which his master shooed him away gently so that he would not step on the ladies’ skirts. The organ grinder was a silently attentive host, intervening here and there, giving the impression of accompanying everyone while scarcely uttering a word. Sophie, who noticed his behaviour immediately, admired the harmonious atmosphere the old man had managed to create amid this diverse group of picnickers whilst passing almost unnoticed. Hans, who had been worried she would disapprove of the cave or his friends’ appearance, breathed a sigh of relief. And, were it not for who he was and for his age, he could have sworn the organ grinder was flirting with her a little.
Once they had finished their tea, the organ grinder proposed a round of dreams. Hans explained the ritual to Sophie who seemed to think it a delightful diversion. As no one elected to start, the organ grinder recounted the first dream. Last night, he said, I dreamt about a group of fellows eating soup in a tavern. The table was in darkness except for one or two red faces. Suddenly one of the men hurls a spoonful of soup into the air, the soup flies out of the dream then lands back into the spoon as if it were a die. Then the man drinks it and says: Six. And the same occurs with each spoonful. That, Álvaro surmised, means you wanted some luck. Don’t talk rot, said Reichardt, it means he wanted something to eat! The last interesting dream I had, said Hans, was a week ago. I dreamt I was on an island. But this was a strange island because it wasn’t surrounded by sea. What, no water at all? Lamberg asked curiously. No, replied Hans, no sea, no water, nothing. The island was surrounded by an enormous void. So, how did you know it was an island? said Lamberg. Good question, said Hans, and I don’t know how, I just knew it was an island. And I wanted to leave, I wanted to leave for some other islands I could see in the distance. But it was impossible, I didn’t know how to get to them and I became scared. Then I began running round in circles, like a headless chicken, until the island gradually began sinking. And I had to choose between leaping into the void and going down with my island. So what did you do, for Christ’s sake? Reichardt asked. I woke up, Hans grinned. Good! the organ grinder said approvingly, very good! And what about you, ladies, haven’t you any dreams to offer us? Elsa shook her head and lowered her eyes. Sophie looked at him a little embarrassed and said: I don’t know, well, I never dream much, last night, this is silly, but last night …
After the end of the round, Sophie told them a fable she remembered reading as a child. What if the dreams of those who love one another are woven together as they sleep by silken threads, she said, threads that move the characters in their dreams from above like puppets, controlling their fantasies so that when they wake up they are thinking of one another? What rot! Reichardt barked. I believe it, Hans rallied. I don’t, said Lamberg. What if the threads get tangled and you wake up thinking about the wrong person, Álvaro jested. Elsa looked at him, disconcerted. The organ grinder, who had been nodding thoughtfully, declared suddenly: Like a great handle, you mean? The handle of dreams! Yes, Sophie smiled, that’s exactly it.
Hans had slipped away for a moment in order to relieve himself amid the pine trees, when he heard Sophie call his name. He stood waiting for her, kissing her neck as she arrived. Hans, my love, she said, breathless from running, your old man is wonderful, a real character! We must bring him to the salon so that everyone can see him. No, not to the salon, he said. Why? Sophie asked, are you ashamed of people meeting him? Of course not, Hans said earnestly, lying, but the organ grinder isn’t a fairground attraction. He’s my friend. He’s a wise old man. He likes a quiet life. Well, she said, returning his kiss, there’s no need to get annoyed, just promise me we’ll come here again. Elsa doesn’t like it, said Hans. I know, she nodded, she’s ill at ease, although I’m not sure that that’s due to the cave. You mean … Hans probed. Him, of course, Sophie replied laughing.
That night, the interminable wall Hans dreamt of was the same one Sophie saw herself scaling, daunted by how tall it was and surprised at being naked, without knowing what awaited her on the other side. Above the wall, the branch of a hollow tree trembled beneath Álvaro’s weight. He lay curled up in an awkward ball, balancing precariously. At the foot of the hollow tree, Elsa was burying a violin in the hole in which the organ grinder sat playing dice with a man with no face, swathed in black wool.
What are we translating today? Sophie asked as she came in. Realising she was in the mood for work, Hans struggled to ignore the erection in his breeches. This effort excited her, for she had arrived in a state of desire and felt like tormenting him a little. But Hans’s self-restraint was such that Sophie ended up thinking he preferred to work.
That afternoon they weren’t going to translate. At any rate not from one language into another — a certain Mr Walker had written to Hans on behalf of the European Review asking him for an essay on contemporary German poetry. The fee was good and they paid half up front, which was rare. Hans had accepted without a second thought. He suggested to Sophie that they write the essay together. Walker says he’d like us to include a woman poet, he explained. You can tell Herr Walker, she retorted, that our best poets will be included on their own merits, thank you very much.
Sophie began writing down a list of names: I would mention Jean Paul, Karoline von Günderrode, the Schlegel brothers, Dorothea, of course, and Madame Mereau. We could also talk about the lays of von Arnim — doesn’t he have a castle near here? — and those of Clemens Brentano. Not forgetting his sister Bettina’s delightful ones (I haven’t read any of them, confessed Hans), too bad, Monsieur, because there’s a most enlightening one by her which ends: