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Updated: June 7, 2025
Fischelowitz looked after him a few seconds, as though expecting that he would turn back and say something more, and then walked briskly in the direction of his shop. He found Akulina standing at the door which led into the workroom, in such a position as to be able to serve a customer should any chance to enter, and yet so placed as to see the greater part of her audience.
A head in a white nightcap looked out from the first story. "What do you want at this hour of the night?" asked the owner of the nightcap, already in a rage. "I want Herr Fischelowitz, who lives in this house," answered the Cossack, firmly. "Do you live here? Are you shut out?" "No we only want " "Then go to the devil!" roared the infuriated German, shutting his window again with a vicious slam.
Again and again he tugged vigorously at the brass knob until he could hear the bell tinkling far above. No other sound followed, however, in the silence of the night, though he strained his ears for the faintest echo of a distant footfall and the slightest noise indicating that a window or a door was about to be opened. He wondered whether Fischelowitz had come home.
"Then what does matter?" inquired the Cossack over his shoulders, "If Vjera has cut off her hair," he said, turning again to Fischelowitz, "she has had a good reason for it. It is none of your business, nor mine either." So saying he was about to go back to his work again. "Upon my word!" exclaimed the tobacconist. "Upon my word! I do not understand what has got into the fellow."
And now, Herr Fischelowitz, with my best thanks for your intervention this morning, I will leave you. After the vicissitudes to which I have been exposed during the last twelve hours, my appearance is not what I could wish it to be. I have the pleasure to wish you a very good morning." Shaking his companion heartily by the hand, the Count bowed civilly and turned into an unfrequented street.
The Count now entered from the back shop, calm and collected, as though not expecting anything extraordinary. The Russian Consul took off his hat and bowed with great politeness and the Count returned the salutation with equal civility. Fischelowitz and Akulina stood in the background anxiously watching events. The lawyer also bowed and then, turning his face to the light, held his hand out.
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.
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.
"It is very queer," observed Fischelowitz, suddenly thrusting his hands into his pockets and beginning to whistle softly as he looked through the shop window. "When I tell you that it is not my handwriting, you ought to be satisfied " Akulina began. "And yet none of us are," interrupted the Cossack with a laugh. "Strange, is it not?"
"One fact remains," she said, in conclusion, "he promised you upon his honour last night that he would pay you the fifty marks to-day, and, in my opinion, since he has been the means of your losing the Gigerl after all, he ought to be made to pay the money." "And where can he get fifty marks to pay me?" inquired Fischelowitz with careless good-humour.
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