BLUMFELD, AN ELDERLY BACHELOR
63
lightful. There are only a few people in sight, for it is still very early.
Below
in
the entrance hall
in
front of the door leading to the base–
ment apartment of the charwoman, stands the little ten-year-old
boy. An exact image of his mother, none of her ugliness has been
forgotten in the face of her child. Bandy-legged, hands in his trouser
pockets, he stands there and wheezes, because he already has a goitre
and can breathe only with difficulty. Although Blumfeld usually
steps along more hurriedly when he meets the boy so as to spare
himselt!he spectacle as much as possible, today he almost feels like
stopping beside
him.
Even though the boy was brought into the
world by this woman and bears every mark of his origin, he is
nonetheless a child for the time being; there are still childish thoughts
in this misshapen head, and if one speaks to him sympathetically
and asks him some questions, he would probably answer in a clear
voice, innocently and with respect, and with a little effort one would
even
be
able to stroke these cheeks. Such are Blumfeld's thoughts,
but he passes
him
by nonetheless. In the street he notices that the
weather is more cheerful than he had thought while in his room.
The morning mists are separating, and blue streaks appear in the
wind-swept sky. Blumfeld owes it to the balls that he has left his
room much earlier than usual; he even left his newspaper unread
on the table, but he has gained a good deal of time thereby and can
now walk along slowly. It is remarkable how little worry the balls
have given him since he parted with them. So long as they followed
right behind him, one could have taken them for something actually
belonging to him, for something that by some judgment on his person
had somehow to be towed along with
him;
whereas now they were
only a toy at home in the closet. At this it occurs to Blumfeld that
perhaps he could best make the balls harmless by introducing them
to their real calling. The boy is still standing there in the hallway;
Blumfeld
will
give the balls to him, not, of course, by lending them to
him,
but by expressly making a gift of them, which surely amounts to
the same thing as ordering their destruction. And even should they
stay intact,
still,
in the hands of the boy they will mean much less
than if they remained in the closet; the whole house will see the boy
playing with them, and other children will join in, so that the general
opinion
will
hold, firm and irrefutable, that it is a question in this mat–
ter
of toy balls and not at all of Blumfeld's life partners. Blumfeld
runs back into the house. The boy has just gone down the cellar steps
and is trying to open the door below, so Blumfeld has to call him
and pronounce his name, which like everything else about him is
laughable. "Alfred, Alfred," he calls. The boy still loiters. "Come
along," Blumfeld cries out, "I have something to give you." The care-
