100
PARTISAN REVIEW
pens and sometimes, without daring to raise their heads, would knock
loudly on the glass panes so as to draw the attention of the seamstresses
to what they felt was the wretched treatment they were receiving at
Blumfeld's hands.
The injustices that they themselves commit they can not see.
Thus, for instance, they almost always arrive at the office late. Blum–
feld, their superior, who from his earliest youth has always taken it
for granted that one should appear at least a half hour before the
office opens-neither ambition nor exaggerated conscientiousness
makes him feel this way, but simply a certain: sense of propriety–
Blumfeld has usually to wait for them more than an hour. Chewing
his breakfast roll, he stands ordinarily behind the desk in the outer
oflj.ce, closing the accounts in the little books of the seamstresses.
Before long he loses himself in his work and thinks of nothing else.
Then suddenly he is so startled that the pen in his hand continues to
tremble for some time after. One of the assistants rushes in as though
about to collapse; with one hand he supports himself against some–
thing and with the other clutches at his heaving breast-but the
whole show means nothing more than that he is offering an excuse
for being late, which is so silly that Blumfeld purposely lets it pass,
for
if
he did not, he would have to thrash the boy according to his
deserts. So instead, he simply looks at him for a moment, then points
with outstretched arm to the cubicle and turns back again to his work.
Now one might expect that the assistant would see his superior's kind–
ness and hurry to his post. But no, he does not hurry; he frisks along,
going on tip-toe, first one foot and then the other. Is he laughing at
his superior? Not even that. It is simply another case of that mixture
of fear and smugness, against which one is so defenseless. How else
explain the fact that today, when Blumfeld himself arrived unusually
late at ·the office, it is only after a long wait-he is in no mood for
checking over the books-that he now at last catches sight of the two
assistants strolling down the street. Through the clouds of dust that
the stupid attendant is driving before him with
his
broom, he notices
how contentedly they come along. With their arms around each
other's necks they appear to be telling one another important things,
which at best probably have some illicit connection with the business.
The nearer they come to the glass door, the slower they move. Finally,
one of them even takes hold of the latch, but he does not press
it
down; instead, they go on talking and laughing. "Come, open up for
our fine gentlemen," shouts Blumfeld, with a gesture to the attendant.
But when the assistants enter, he no longer feels like quarreling, ig–
nores their greetings, and goes back to his desk. He commences to
