"
"What, actors in this village?" 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.
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