A Cigarette-Makers Romance | Page 2

intelligence our
brief passage across the stage is to be judged? Why then should the
present trouble our vanity so greatly? And if our play is of so little
importance, why should we care whether the scenery is romantic
instead of commonplace, or why should we make furious efforts to
shift a Gothic castle, a drawbridge, a moat and a waterfall into the
slides occupied by the four walls of a Munich tobacconist's shop?
There is not even anything especial in the appearance of the place to
recommend it to the ready pen of the word-painter. It is an
establishment of very modest pretensions situated in one of the side
streets leading to a great thoroughfare. As we are in Munich, however,
the side street is broad and clean, the pavement is well swept and the
adjoining houses have an air of solid respectability and wealth. At the
point where the street widens to an irregular shape on the downward
slope there is a neat little iron kiosque completely covered with brilliant
advertisements, printed in black Gothic letters upon red and yellow
paper. The point of vivid colour is not disagreeable, for it relieves the
neutral tints of brick and brown stone, and arrests the eye, long wearied
with the respectable parade of buildings. The tobacconist's shop is,
indeed, the most shabby, or, to speak more correctly, the least smartly
new among its fellow-shops, wherein dwell, in consecutive order, a
barber, a watchmaker, a pastry-cook, a shoemaker and a colour-man. In
spite of its unattractive exterior, however, the establishment of
"Christian Fischelowitz, from South Russia," enjoys a very
considerable reputation. Within the high, narrow shop there is good
store of rare tobaccos, from the mild Kir to the Imperial Samson, the
aromatic Dubec and the pungent Swary. The dusty window beside the
narrow door exhibits, it is true, only a couple of tall, dried tobacco
plants set in flower-pots, a carelessly arranged collection of cedar and
pasteboard boxes for cigars and cigarettes, and a fantastically
constructed Swiss cottage, built entirely of cigarettes and fine cut
yellow leaf, with little pieces of glass set in for windows. This effort of

architecture is in a decidedly ruinous condition, the little stuffed paper
cylinders are ragged and torn, some of them show signs of detaching
themselves from the cardboard frame upon which they are pasted, and
the dust of years has accumulated upon the bit of painted board which
serves as a foundation for the chalet. In one corner of the window an
object more gaudy but not more useful attracts the eye. It is the popular
doll figure commonly known in Germany as the "Wiener Gigerl" or
"Vienna fop." It is doubtful whether any person could appear in the
public places of Vienna in such a costume without being stoned or
otherwise painfully put to a shameful death. The doll is arrayed in
black shorts and silk stockings, a wide white waistcoat, a scarlet
evening coat, an enormous collar and a white tall hat with a broad brim.
He stands upon one foot, raising the other as though in the act of
beginning a minuet; he holds in one hand a stick and in the other a
cigarette, a relatively monstrous eye-glass magnifies one of his painted
eyes and upon his face is such an expression of combined insolence,
vulgarity, dishonesty and conceit as would insure his being shot at sight
in any Western American village making the least pretence to
self-respect. On high days and holidays Christian Fischelowitz inserts a
key into the square black pedestal whereon the doll has its being, and
the thing lives and moves, turns about and cocks its impertinent head at
the passers-by, while a feeble tune of uncertain rhythm is heard grating
itself out upon the teeth of the metal comb in the concealed mechanism.
Fischelowitz delights in this monstrosity, and is never weary of
watching its detestable antics. It is doubtful whether in the simplicity of
his good-natured heart he does not really believe that the Wiener Gigerl
may attract a stray customer to his counter and, in the long-run, pay for
itself. For it cost him money, and in itself, as a thing of beauty, it hardly
covers the bad debt contracted with him by a poor fellow-countryman
to whom he kindly lent fifty marks last year. He accepted the doll
without a murmur, however, in full discharge of the obligation, and
with an odd philosophy peculiar to himself, he does his best to get what
amusement he can out of the little red-coated figure without
complaining and without bitterness.
Christian's wife, his larger if not his better half, is less complacent. In
the publicity of the shop her small black eyes cast glances full of hate

upon the innocent Gigerl, her full flat face