60
PARTISAN REVIEW
rugs under them in accordance with his recent experience. It is
as
if
he had a little dog that he wants to bed comfortably And as though
the balls, too, were tired and sleepy, their bouncings become lower
and more slow. When Blumfeld kneels down beside the bed and
lights under it with his night lamp, the balls are falling so faintly,
rolling here and there so slowly, that for a moment he thinks they
will lie forgotten there on the carpet forever. But then, of course,
they start up again as though in duty bound. It is quite possible,
however, that
if
Blumfeld looks under the bed early in the morning,
he will find there two quiet, harmless toy balls.
But apparently they can not even prolong their bouncing till
morning, for as soon as Blumfeld gets into bed, he can no longer
hear them at all. He strains to hear something, leans forward out
of the bed and listens-not a sound. The rugs can hardly work
so
well; the only explanation is that the balls are no longer bouncing.
Either they cannot get sufficient upspring from the soft rugs and have
therefore given up their bouncing for the time being, or-what
is
more probable-..::-they are never going to bounce again. Blumfeld
could get up to see how matters really stand, but in his contentment
that it is finally quiet, he prefers to stay where he is; he does not
want to disturb the now quiet balls with so much as a glance. He
gladly foregoes even his smoking, turns over on
his
side, and goes right
to sleep.
He does not remain undisturbed, however; as always, his sleep
is dreamless, but very restless. Countless times during the night he
is
aroused by the illusion that someone is knocking at the door. He
knows perfectly well that no one is knocking; who would want to
knock in the .middle of the night and on his, a lonely bachelor's door.
But though he knows this perfectly well, he still starts up each time
and stares intensely at the door for a moment, his mouth open, his eyes
wide, and strands of hair trembling on his moist forehead. He tries to
count how many times he is wakened; but dazed with the huge figures
he gets, he falls back to sleep again. He thinks he knows where the
knocking comes from ; it is not at the door, but someplace else entirely;
yet caught in the toils of sleep, he can not recall what his suspicions
are based on. He only knows that many tiny malicious rappings
gather together before giving out the big, violent knocking. He
would even gladly endure all the malice of the little rappings
if
he
could escape the knocking; but somehow it is too late, he can get no
hold here, he has missed his chance. Not once has he found his
voice; his mouth opens but only in silent yawns ; and raging at
his
impotence, he plunges his face into the pillows. And so the night
goes by.
