Whenever one carts away a heap of stones which have been lying undisturbed for years, or whenever one removes the shingle-roof of an ancient tenement, or drains off the water from a marshy place, one generally stumbles upon all sorts of hitherto undiscovered, curious beetles, odd looking moths and spiral-shaped, creeping things in these routed out lurking places, which nobody ever saw before or read of in the natural history books; and at such times a man bethinks him how wonderful it is of Mother Nature to provide even such holes and corners as these with living inhabitants which never see the light of day at all.

Once, while on circuit, Vamhidy was obliged to lie one night at a village within his jurisdiction whose inhabitants were a strong mixture of Hungarian, Servian and Wallachian ingredients. Arriving late, it was a long time before he could go to sleep, and he was awakened rather late next morning by an unusual hubbub. His bedchamber was only separated from the large drinking room by a door and through this door broke every now and then very peculiar sounds the meaning of which, on a first hearing, it was very difficult to explain.

It sounded as if a couple of women and a couple of men were roundly abusing one another, sometimes in a low tone and sometimes in a loud, and the most peculiar thing about the whole business was that two of them never spoke at once but each one of them allowed each of the others to have his say out to the end. All at once the noise grew more alarming and broken outbursts plainly suggested that someone in the adjoining room wanted to murder somebody else. Vamhidy leaped from his bed and was about to intervene when in came the landlord with his coffee.

"What is that row going on next door?" enquired Szilard irritably.

"Oh, I cry your honour's pardon," replied the innkeeper with a proud smile, "it is only our actors. They are rehearsing a new piece which they are going to act this evening. I hope your honour will condescend to go and see it—it will be real fine."

"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. 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 with a MS. play bill on which was written in large red letters: "HernÁni or Castilian Honour," followed by the names of the personages. HernÁni was naturally the manager himself, Leander BabÉrossy,[39] Elvira was to be played by Miss Palmira, the other gentlemen were simply indicated by N.N., X.X. or **. "They are all women you know," explained the innkeeper, "who don't want to advertise their names. The charge for the front seats is 2½d, for the second-class places, a penny."

"The gentry can sit where they please, I presume?"

"I suggested to the manager that he should write that on the play bill, but he replied that that would be an impertinence. I also advised him to take the play bill to your honour himself and was almost kicked out of the room for my pains. Did I take him for a bill poster? he said."

"This manager of yours seems to have a pretty good opinion of himself."

"Oh, he is frightfully proud, your honour. He will play no other pieces but sword pieces because, says he, they are classical. The poor fellow is so very young you know. When he grows a little older and learns to starve a bit he will soon lower his crest."

"I like him none the less for holding up his head. I will come to the play."

"But you must be there at seven o'clock sharp. He always begins punctually; whether there is any audience or not."

"The lad has character, I see; pray give him this"—and he handed the innkeeper half a sovereign. He quickly returned with the reply that the manager could not for the moment give change.

"But I meant him to keep the whole of it as an admittance fee."

"Ah, yes."

A short time afterwards, the innkeeper reappeared with a whole bundle of admission tickets for Szilard, saying that the manager thanked him for his sympathy, but as he was not in the habit of accepting presents from anyone, he assumed that his honour meant to engage the whole house for himself that evening and he, the manager, would therefore give a representation for his honour's sole benefit.

Szilard laughed heartily at this comical conscientiousness, and after dressing, he went about his official business with as much dispatch as possible in order to arrive at the play at seven o'clock sharp, for he was now the whole public and the public ought always to be punctual.

When he got to the room set apart for the performance he found that, despite the provisional abonnement suspendu 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 "HernÁni 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 knew he had only a free list public to deal with) exclaimed: "Whoever has seen this piece before and does not wish to see it again, will have his money returned to him on applying at the ticket office."

These words were no sooner uttered than Vamhidy leaped from his seat, rushed upon the stage, caught Franz Moor in his arms and kissed his painted face crying with a voice trembling with joy: "Coloman!"

Franz Moor hesitated for an instant, then tore off his Spanish beard, dropped his red wig, wiped the painted wrinkles from his forehead and Szilard saw before him a pale, melancholy, childish countenance.

Leander BabÉrossy was young Coloman, Henrietta's brother.

The representation naturally ceased at once. Szilard hustled the rediscovered "prodigal son" off the boards and never let him stop for an instant till he had got him safe and sound into his own private room. There he embraced him again, held him at arms' length and had a good look at him. The lad seemed to be twenty years old at the very least, yet really he was but fifteen. Play acting, want and premature shaving soon make a youth look old. Moreover, in his whole bearing, in all his movements, there was something precocious, a resolute, bold expression which made one forget that he was a mere child—a sort of cynicism not pleasant to behold.

Szilard soon had a good supper ready for him, which the youth fell to work upon without ceremony.

"My dear Leander," said Vamhidy when the meal was over, "no doubt it is a very fine thing when one can say that he is his own master, nor is it so difficult to attain to such a position after all. All that is wanted is a strength of character always true to itself. But you, my friend, have committed follies which might easily make of you something very different."

Coloman shrugged his shoulders.

"I have committed many follies no doubt, but I do not call to mind any which I should be afraid to confess."

Szilard began to fancy that his suspicions were groundless.

"People are talking of a certain bill which you have given in your sister's name?"

At these words Coloman cast down his eyes upon his plate and his whole face grew blood-red. In a scarcely audible voice he enquired: "And has Henrietta refused to honour that bill?"

Vamhidy sighed deeply. Then it was really true that this thoughtless child had committed the crime!

"My dear Coloman," said he, dropping the Leander now, "your sister is the martyr of her own devotion. She was most certainly ready to acknowledge the bill as her own; but you ought to have thought what sacrifices she will have to make now that her grandfather has cut her off with a shilling and her husband refuses to place such a considerable amount at her disposal."

"Good gracious!" cried the itinerant actor, thrusting his hands deep down into his empty pockets, "what then do these big wigs call considerable amounts. Very well, sir. I had no idea that the Baroness HÁtszegi was so very poor. I will try to recover the bill, and it shall be the first thing I will pay off with my benefit money."

Szilard could not help being struck by the terrible comicality of the idea.

"But, my dear young friend," said he, "if you had two benefits every year and got a clear forty florins at every one of them, it would take you at least a hundred years from to-day to discharge the amount."

"What?" cried Coloman with wide open eyes, and in his amazement seizing the candlestick instead of his fork.

"Why, don't you know that the bill is for 40,000 florins?"

"What?" thundered the young vagabond. And kicking aside his chair, he snatched up a knife lying by the side of his plate and, bareheaded as he was, rushed towards the door. Szilard had need of all his dexterity to catch him before he reached it and prevent him from rushing into the street like a madman.

"Let me murder him, let me murder that villain," he cried.

Szilard was a strong man so he easily disarmed the youth.

Then Coloman began to weep and fling himself on the ground. Szilard seized him by the arm and hoisted him on to a chair again.

"Be a man!" he cried. "Of whom do you speak?—whom do you want to kill?"

"That villain Margari."

"Then it was he who persuaded you to take this step?"

"I will tell you all about it, sir, and you shall judge me. When I left my grandfather's house, that Satan sought me out, affected sympathy for me and asked me what I meant to do. I told him I intended to go on the stage and he said I did well not to remain there. I had only a florin which I borrowed from one of the lacqueys, and I told this devil that I should require 20 florins at the very least. He promised to get them for me from a usurer but told me I should have to give a bill for forty. Do you think I cared what I signed then? Not long afterwards he came back again and said the usurer would give nothing on the strength of my signature, because I was a minor, but that if my sister's name stood upon the bill he would advance upon that because she was a married woman. Margari persuaded me to sign the bill in her name. What was forty florins to Henrietta? he said, a mere trifle. If I were to ask her, she would give me twice as much. Surely she would not proclaim me, whom she loved so much, a forger for the sake of a paltry 40 florins? But 40,000 florins, 40,000!—that is a frightful, a horrible villainy. I only made it forty."

And with that he began to dash his head against the wall like a madman.

"My dear Coloman, do pull yourself together," said Szilard, "what you have just told me is of the very greatest importance. Be quiet and don't tear out your hair! Are you aware that your infinitely good sister has honoured the 40,000 florin bill also in order to save you?"

The poor youth was thunderstruck at these words.

"And now you can imagine the embarrassment of the baroness, who has been disinherited and is nevertheless responsible for this very considerable sum without being at all sure that her husband will pay it for her."

"I will hang myself."

"That would be the most gigantic piece of folly you could commit. You must make good your fault. And now for a time we cease to be friends and I am simply an examining magistrate, and you are an accused prisoner who is about to make a voluntary confession before me. Pray sit right opposite to me and answer all my questions clearly and accurately—in fact tell me exactly what happened."

And Vamhidy produced paper and writing requisites, lit a pair of candles which he placed by his side and began the examination of the youth sitting in front of him.

By midnight the confession was duly written down.

When, however, Vamhidy proposed that Coloman should now come back to Pest and be reconciled to his relations, the youth hesitated: "We will see," said he.

"At any rate remain here with me then," continued Szilard. "Sleep in my room and take till to-morrow to think it over. I won't lock the door but you must give me your word of honour that you will not go out of that door without my knowledge."

"I give you my word upon it."

Then Szilard made the youth lie down and only went to rest himself when he was sure that Coloman was asleep.

Nevertheless on awaking next morning and looking round the room he could see no trace of Coloman, but there was a letter from him on the table as follows: "Dear old friend, I thank you for your extreme kindness to me, but I don't want to see my relations any more, not because I fear to meet them, but because I have a holy horror of the very atmosphere they breathe. My confession will suffice to rectify my fault. I am going on the tramp again. The linen tent is my home. And then—there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother. I have taken nothing with me but four cigar ends from the table, a liberty I hope you will pardon me. As I have given you my word that I would not go out of the door without your knowledge, I have been obliged to make my exit through the window. Adieu! Till death thy faithful admirer.COLOMAN."

A couple of hours later Vamhidy learnt from the innkeeper that the manager, without any previous leave-taking, had decamped leaving behind him his decorations and theatrical wardrobe as some compensation for his trifling debts. All he had taken away with him was what he actually had on his person—and Miss Palmira.

And now Szilard understood the meaning of the passage "there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother."

This vagabond comedian had an equally vagabond childish ideal, and when he had to make his choice, he flung his arm around her and fled away with her—into the wide, wide world.