age?" cried Szilard in amazement. "Why, where
do they come from?"

"Nobody knows where they came from or whither they mean to go, your
honour."

"How many of them are there then, and who is their manager?"

"Well, it seems that there is only one man among them and he is half a
child; all the others are women and girls, even to the ticket taker and
the prompter."

"And what sort of pieces do they act?"

"Oh, all sorts, your honour. Those of the women who have the deepest
voices dress up as men, stick on beards and mustaches and act much
better than men would, because they don't get drunk."

"And they are able to make a living here? Who goes to the theatre then?"

"Well, the rustics about here come if there is anything to grin at. They
don't give money because they have none themselves; but they bring corn,
potatoes, sausages and hams and the actors live upon the proceeds as
best they can. When they have made any debts they cannot pay they simply
bolt on the first fine night and go somewhere else."

"But don't they leave their decorations or their wardrobe in pledge
behind them?"

At this the landlord laughed aloud as if it were a capital joke.

"Decorations, wardrobes, indeed! Why their stage curtain consists of a
large piece of threadbare sackcloth pasted over with tricolored paper on
which they have painted the national coat of arms. Their wardrobe too is
of the very simplest description. When they play a piece in which kings
and queens appear, they borrow the gold bespangled dresses of the rich
Servian women of the district to serve them as royal mantles. All they
require besides is a little tinsel, some spangles and some
pasteboard--and there you are! The manager, as I have said, is still but
a child, but so ingenious is he that he can make moonshine out of a
yellow gourd and produce thunder and lightning,--but that is a
professional secret. It is true they have only six pieces in all, and
when they have played these through they begin them all over again. The
public, naturally, does not like to see the same piece twice, so the
manager gives the piece another title, changes the titles of all the
characters and represents the piece over again as a brand new one."

"I should like to see to-day's representation," said Szilard, whose
curiosity had been excited by this peculiar description.

"I'll fetch your honour a play bill immediately," said the innkeeper.

Off went mine host returning in a few moments