they contented? Do they show any gratitude? Not at all.
Scarcely a day passes that I don't hear of some fresh soldiering. And,
what is worse, they have stirred up some of my own people--the
carpenters, stone-cutters, gang bosses and so on. Every now and then my
inspectors find some rotten libel cut on a stone--something to the
effect that I am overworking them, and knocking them about, and holding
them against their will, and generally mistreating them. I haven't the
slightest doubt that some of these inscriptions have actually gone into
the pyramid: it's impossible to watch every stone. Well, in the years to
come, they will be dug out and read by strangers, and I will get a black
eye. People will think of Cheops as a heartless old rapscallion--_me_,
mind you! Can you beat it?"

_V.--THE ARTIST_

_V.--The Artist. A Drama Without Words_

CHARACTERS:

A GREAT PIANIST
A JANITOR
SIX MUSICAL CRITICS
A MARRIED WOMAN
A VIRGIN
SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-THREE OTHER WOMEN
SIX OTHER MEN

PLACE--_A City of the United States._

TIME--_A December afternoon._

(_During the action of the play not a word is uttered aloud. All of the
speeches of the characters are supposed to be unspoken meditations
only._)

_A large, gloomy hall, with many rows of uncushioned, uncomfortable
seats, designed, it would seem, by some one misinformed as to the
average width of the normal human pelvis. A number of busts of
celebrated composers, once white, but now a dirty gray, stand in niches
along the walls. At one end of the hall there is a bare, uncarpeted
stage, with nothing on it save a grand piano and a chair. It is raining
outside, and, as hundreds of people come crowding in, the air is laden
with the mingled scents of umbrellas, raincoats, goloshes, cosmetics,
perfumery and wet hair._

_At eight minutes past four,_ THE JANITOR, _after smoothing his hair
with his hands and putting on a pair of detachable cuffs, emerges from
the wings and crosses the stage, his shoes squeaking hideously at each
step. Arriving at the piano, he opens it with solemn slowness. The job
seems so absurdly trivial, even to so mean an understanding, that he
can't refrain from glorifying it with a bit of hocus-pocus. This takes
the form of a careful adjustment of a mysterious something within the
instrument. He reaches in, pauses a moment as if in doubt, reaches in
again, and then permits a faint smile of conscious sapience and
efficienc