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 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.
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