ep 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 a Polish girl, poorly dressed, her
heavy red-brown hair braided in one long neat tress, her face deadly
white, her blue eyes lustreless and sunken, her thin fingers actively
rolling bits o