A Cigarette-Makers Romance | Page 3

reddens with anger when she
remembers the money, and her fat hands would dash the insolent little
figure into the street, if her mercantile understanding did not suggest
the possibility of ultimately selling it for something. In view of such a
fortunate contingency, and whenever she is alone, she carefully dusts
the thing and puts it away in the cupboard in the corner, well knowing
that Fischelowitz will return in an hour, will take it out, set it in its
place, wind it up and watch its performance with his everlasting,
good-humoured, satisfied smile. In public she ventures only to abuse
the doll. In the silent watches of the night she directs her sharp
speeches at Christian himself. Not that she is altogether miserly, nor by
any means an ill-disposed person. Had she been of such a disposition
her husband would not have married her, for he is a very good man of
business and a keen judge of other wares besides tobacco. She is a good
mother and a good housewife, energetic, thrifty, and of fairly even
temper; but that particular piece of generosity which resulted in the
acquisition of a red-coated puppet in exchange for fifty marks fills her
heart with anger and her plump brown fingers with an itching desire to
scratch and tear something or somebody as a means of satisfying her
vengeance. For the poor fellow-countryman was one of the Count's
friends, and Akulina Fischelowitz abhors the Count and loathes him,
and the Wiener Gigerl was the beginning of the end.
While Christian is watching his doll, and Akulina is seated behind the
counter, her hands folded upon her lap, and her eyes darting unquiet
glances at her husband, the Count is busily occupied in making
cigarettes in the dingy back shop among a group of persons, both
young and old, all similarly occupied. It is not to be expected that the
workroom should be cleaner or more tastefully decorated than the
counting-house, and in such a business as the manufacture of cigarettes
by hand litter of all sorts accumulates rapidly. The "Famous Cigarette
Manufactory of Christian Fischelowitz from South Russia" is about as
dingy, as unhealthy, as untidy, as dusty a place as can be found within
the limits of tidy, well-to-do Munich. The room is lighted by a window
and a half-glazed door, both opening upon a dark court. The walls,
originally whitewashed, are of a deep rich brown, attributable partly to
the constant fumes and exhalations of tobacco, partly to the fine brown

dust of the dried refuse cuttings, and partly to the admirable
smoke-giving qualities of the rickety iron stove which stands in one
corner, and in which a fire is daily attempted during more than half the
year. There are many shelves upon the walls too, and the white wood of
these has also received into itself the warm, deep colour. Upon two of
these shelves there are accumulations of useless articles, a cracked
glass vase, once the pride of the show window, when it was filled to
overflowing with fine cut leaf, a broken-down samovar which has seen
tea-service in many cities, from Kiew to Moscow, from Moscow to
Vilna, from Vilna to Berlin, from Berlin to Munich; there are fragments
of Russian lacquered wooden bowls, wrecked cigar-boxes, piles of
dingy handbills left over from the last half-yearly advertisement, a
crazy Turkish narghile, the broken stem of a chibouque, an old hat and
an odd boot, besides irregularly shaped parcels, wrapped in crumpled
brown paper and half buried in dust. Upon the other shelves are
arranged more neatly rows of tin boxes with locks, and reams of still
uncut cigarette paper, some white, some straw-coloured.
Round about the room are the seats of the workers. One man alone is
standing at his task, a man with a dark, Cossack face, high cheek-bones,
honest, gleaming black eyes, straggling hair and ragged beard. In his
shirt-sleeves, his arms bare to the elbow, he handles the heavy swivel
knife, pressing the package of carefully arranged leaves forward and
under the blade by almost imperceptible degrees. It is one of the most
delicate operations in the art, and the man has an especial gift for the
work. So sensitive is his strong right hand that as the knife cuts through
the thick pile he can detect the presence of a scrap of thin paper
amongst the tobacco, and not a bit of hardened stem or a twisted leaf
escapes him. It is very hard work, even for a strong man, and the
moisture stands in great drops on his dark forehead as he carefully
presses the sharp instrument through the resisting substance, quickly
lifts it up again and pushes on the package for the next cut.
At a small black table near by sits