The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays | Page 5

harm in it.
DAVID (_expostulating with some cause_). But I cudna say there was nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's nae harm--
LIZZIE. Och. (_Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble._) Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander?
(_Shuts door with a click._)
DAVID (_standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger_). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disna argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a wee thing hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chatty an' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' me that fond o' women's society.
(_He lowers himself into his chair._)
JOHN. They're all like it.
DAVID (_judiciously_). I wudna go sae far as to say that, John. Ye see, I've only kent they twa to study carefully--an' it's no fair to judge the whole sex by just the twa examples, an' it were--(_Running on_) But it's gey hard, an' I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht. (_Removes glasses and blinks his eyes._) Aweel.
JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn--
DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn's nicht.
JOHN. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last nicht.
DAVID (_bitterly_). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun' it out.
JOHN. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic.
DAVID (_between anger and tears, weakly_). I canna help it. I'm black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richt an' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women.
JOHN. We has to gie in to them though.
DAVID. Aye. That's why.
(_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again and settles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spill from the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends to throw the light to the old man's advantage._)
DAVID. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him?
JOHN (_erect on hearth-rug_). Who?
DAVID. Wee Alexander.
JOHN. No.
DAVID. Greetin' his heart out.
JOHN. Och, he's no greetin'. Lizzie's wi' him.
DAVID. I ken fine Lizzie's wi' him, but he's greetin' for a' her. He was wantin' to hear yon story o' the kelpies up to Cross Hill wi' the tram--(_Breaking his mood impatiently_) Och.
JOHN (_crossing to table and lighting up there_). It's gettin' dark gey early. We'll shin be haein' tea by the gas.
DAVID (_rustling his paper_). Aye--(_Suddenly_) There never was a female philosopher, ye ken, John.
JOHN. Was there no'?
DAVID. No. (_Angrily, in a gust_) An'there never will be! (_Then more calmly_) An' yet there's an' awful lot o' philosophy about women, John.
JOHN. Aye?
DAVID. Och, aye. They're that unreasonable, an' yet ye canna reason them down; an' they're that weak, an' yet ye canna make them gie in tae ye. Of course, ye'll say ye canna reason doon a stane, or make a clod o' earth gie in tae ye.
JOHN. Will I?
DAVID. Aye. An' ye'll be richt. But then I'll tell ye a stane will na answer ye back, an' a clod of earth will na try to withstand ye, so how can ye argue them down?
JOHN (_convinced_). Ye canna.
DAVID. Richt! Ye canna! But a wumman will answer ye back, an' she will stand against ye, an' yet ye canna argue her down though ye have strength an' reason on your side an' she's talkin' naething but blether about richt's richt an' wrang's wrang, an' sendin' a poor bairn off t' his bed i' the yin room an' leavin' her auld feyther all alone by the fire in anither an'--ye ken--Philosophy--
(_He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again. JOHN, intensely troubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a foot. The wails of ALEXANDER can be heard muffled by a farther door. JOHN calls off._)
JOHN. Lizzie.
(_Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a "Shsh."_)
JOHN. Yer feyther's greetin'.
LIZZIE (_with a touch of exasperation_). Och, I'm no heedin'! There's another wean in there greetin' too, an' I'm no heedin' him neither, an' he's greetin' twicet as loud as the auld yin.
JOHN (_shocked_). Ye're heartless, wumman.
LIZZIE (_with patience_). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but there's too much heart in this family, an' someone's got to use their heid.
(DAVID _cranes round the side of his chair to catch what they are saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanly firmness._)
LIZZIE. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see, don't ye--
(_A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up. LIZZIE rushes to silence him._)
LIZZIE. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're murderin' him.
(_The door closes behind her._)
DAVID (_nodding for a space as he revolves the woman's attitude_). Ye hear that, John?
JOHN. Whit?
DAVID (_with quiet irony_). She's vexed I should be disappointed. The wumman thinks she's richt! Women always think they're richt--mebbe it's