A Cigarette-Makers Romance | Page 5

expression of his face at the time in
question was grave and thoughtful, as though he were thinking of
matters weightier to his happiness, if not more necessary to his material
welfare than his work. He saw his fingers moving, he watched each
honey-coloured bundle of cut leaf as it was rolled in the parchment
tongue, and with unswerving regularity he made the motions required
to slip the tobacco into the shell. But, while seeing all that he did, and
seeing consciously, he looked as though he saw also through the

familiar materials shaped under his fingers, into a dim distance full of a
larger life and wider interests.
The five occupants of the workshop had been working in silence for
nearly half an hour. The two girls on the one side and the two men on
the other kept their eyes bent down upon their fingers, while Johann
Schmidt, the Cossack, plied his guillotine-like knife in the corner. This
same Johann Schmidt, whose real name, to judge from his appearance,
might have been Tarass Bulba or Danjelo Buralbash, and was probably
of a similar sound, was at once the wit, the spendthrift and the
humanitarian of the Fischelowitz manufactory, possessing a number of
good qualities in such abundant measure as to make him a total failure
in everything except the cutting of tobacco. Like many witty, generous
and kind-hearted persons in a much higher rank of existence, he was
cursed with a total want of tact. On the present occasion, having sliced
through an unusually long package of leaves and having encountered
an exceptional number of obstacles in doing so, he thought fit to pause,
draw a long breath and wipe the perspiration from his sallow forehead
with a pocket-handkerchief in which the neutral tints predominated.
This operation, preparatory to a rest of ten minutes, having been
successfully accomplished, Tarass Bulba Schmidt picked up a tiny
oblong bit of paper which had found its way to his feet from one of the
girls' tables, took a pinch of the freshly cut tobacco beside him and
rolled a cigarette in his palm with one hand while he felt in his pocket
for a match with the other. Then, in the midst of a great cloud of
fragrant smoke, he sat down upon the edge of his cutting-block and
looked at his companions. After a few moments of deep thought he
gave expression to his meditations in bad German. It is curious to see
how readily the Slavs in Germany fall into the habit of using the
language of the country when conversing together.
"It is my opinion," he said at last, "that the most objectless existences
are those which most exactly accomplish the object set before them."
Having given vent to this bit of paradox, Johann inhaled as much
smoke as his leathery lungs could contain and relapsed into silence.
Vjera, the Polish girl, glanced at the tobacco-cutter and went on with

her work. The insignificant girl beside her giggled vacantly. Dumnoff
did not seem to have heard the remark.
"Nineteen hundred and twenty-three," muttered the Count between his
teeth and in Russian, as the nineteenth hundred and twenty-third
cigarette rolled from his fingers, and he took up the parchment tongue
for the nineteenth hundred and twenty-fourth time that day.
"I do not exactly understand you, Herr Schmidt," said Vjera without
looking up again. "An objectless life has no object. How then--"
"There is nothing to understand," growled Dumnoff, who never
counted his own work, and always enjoyed a bit of conversation,
provided he could abuse something or somebody. "There is nothing in
it, and Herr Schmidt is a Landau moss-head."
It would be curious to ascertain why the wiseacres of eastern Bavaria
are held throughout South Germany in such contempt as to be a byword
for dulness and stupidity. The Cossack's dark eyes shot a quick glance
at the Russian, but he took no notice of the remark.
"I mean," he said, after a pause, "exactly what I say. I am an honest
fellow, and I always mean what I say, and no offence to anybody. Do
we not all of us, here with Fischelowitz, exactly fulfil the object set
before us, I would like to ask? Do we not make cigarettes from
morning till night with horrible exactness and regularity? Very well.
Do we not, at the same time, lead an atrociously objectless existence?"
"The object of existence is to live," remarked Dumnoff, who was fond
of cabbage and strong spirits, and of little else in the world. The
Cossack laughed.
"Do you call this living?" he asked contemptuously. Then the
good-humoured tone returned to his voice, and he shrugged his bony
shoulders as he crossed one leg over the other and took another puff.
"Nineteen hundred and twenty-nine," said