_ arrangement, the place was
not quite empty, for the gratis public, the lenders of the theatrical
requisites and their families, the letters of lodgings to the actors and
other peaceful creditors, occupied a couple of benches, so that Szilard
had the opportunity of effacing himself and thus avoiding confusing the
_troupe_ by his solitary and imposing personality.

No sooner had the innkeeper's cuckoo clock struck seven than the ring of
the prompter's bell resounded behind the curtain (it sounded
suspiciously like a glass struck smartly with the back of a knife) and
by means of a highly ingenious piece of machinery the drop-curtain,
stuck over with the tricolored cardboard representing the national flag,
was hoisted up to the ceiling-beam, and the open stage was revealed.

The background was formed by a collapsible screen which was painted to
represent a room; in the foreground on one side was a paper window
painted black and white, and on the other side the cellar door,
metamorphosed into the portal of a Gothic palace. Through this entry the
whole of the _dramatis personae_ came and went, for it was the only one.

The piece acted was, naturally, not "Hernani or Castilian Honour," but
Schiller's "Robbers." Szilard recognized it at the very first three
words. He also noticed that the characters of Karl and Franz Moor were
acted by one and the same person (the manager himself, as he was
informed) with a simple change of voice and mask, and despite the
different disguises employed, it constantly seemed to Szilard as if he
had seen that caricature of a face somewhere else and the voice,
parodied as it now was, nevertheless seemed familiar to him. No less
familiar appeared the violent gestures of the young actor which
frequently endangered the side scenes.

Now as early as Scene 2 the noble public began to be aware of the
unheard of fraud practiced upon it; a murmuring, an agitation, a
whispering and a wagging of heads, and finally an impatient thumping of
sticks began to mingle with the bustle of the drama, till at last a
worthy cobbler, who had lent the _troupe_ three wooden benches and
received in return a free pass every day, suddenly bawled out: "Halloh
there, Mr. Manager! we have seen this piece once before. There's
politics in it."

Franz Moor, disturbed in his artistic interpretation by this sudden
onslaught, suddenly forgot himself, lost his cue and answering the
interpellator in his natural, everyday voice (he