The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays | Page 6

that that makes them that obstinate. (_With the ghost of a twinkle_) She's feart o' the neighbors, though.
JOHN (_stolidly_). A' women are feart o' the neighbors.
DAVID (_reverting_). Puir wee man. I telt ye he was greetin', John. He's disappointed fine. (_Pondering_) D' ye ken whit I'm thinkin', John?
JOHN. Whit?
DAVID. I'm thinkin' he's too young to get his ain way, an' I'm too auld, an' it's a fine thocht!
JOHN. Aye?
DAVID. Aye. I never thocht of it before, but that's what it is. He's no' come to it yet, an' I'm past it. (_Suddenly_) What's the most important thing in life, John?
(JOHN _opens his mouth--and shuts it again unused._)
DAVID. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye're wantin' a' the time?
JOHN. Different things.
DAVID (_satisfied_). Aye--different things! But ye want them a', do ye no'?
JOHN. Aye.
DAVID. If ye had yer ain way ye'd hae them a', eh?
JOHN. I wud that.
DAVID (_triumphant_). Then is that no' what ye want: yer ain way?
JOHN (_enlightened_). Losh!
DAVID (_warming to it_). That's what life is, John--gettin' yer ain way. First ye're born, an' ye canna dae anything but cry; but God's given yer mither ears an' ye get yer way by just cryin' for it. (_Hastily, anticipating criticism_) I ken that's no exactly in keeping with what I've been saying aboot Alexander--but a new-born bairnie's an awfu' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets it past its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettling to oor poor human understandings. Ye'll notice the weans cease gettin' their wey by juist greetin' for it as shin as they're old enough to seek it otherwise.
JOHN. The habit hangs on to them whiles.
DAVID. It does that. (_With a twinkle_) An' mebbe, if God's gi'en yer neighbors ears an' ye live close, ye'll get yer wey by a dispensation o' Providence a while longer. But there's things ye'll hae to do for yerself gin ye want to--an' ye will. Ye'll want to hold oot yer hand, an' ye will hold oot yer hand; an' ye 'll want to stand up and walk, and ye will stand up and walk; an' ye'll want to dae as ye please, and ye will dae as ye please; and then ye are practised an' lernt in the art of gettin' yer ain way--and ye're a man!
JOHN. Man, feyther--ye're wonderful!
DAVID (_complacently_). I'm a philosopher, John. But it goes on mebbe.
JOHN. Aye?
David. Aye: mebbe ye think ye'd like to make ither folk mind ye an' yer way, an' ye try, an' if it comes off ye're a big man an' mebbe the master o' a vessel wi' three men an' a boy under ye, as I was, John. (_Dropping into the minor_) An then ye come doon the hill.
JOHN (_apprehensively_). Doon the hill?
DAVID. Aye--doon to mebbe wantin' to tell a wean a bit story before he gangs tae his bed, an' ye canna dae even that. An' then a while more an' ye want to get to yer feet an' walk, and ye canna; an' a while more an' ye want to lift up yer hand, an' ye canna--an' in a while more ye're just forgotten an' done wi'.
JOHN. Aw, feyther!
DAVID. Dinna look sae troubled, John. I'm no' afraid to dee when my time comes. It's these hints that I'm done wi' before I'm dead that I dinna like.
JOHN. What'n hints?
DAVID. Well--Lizzie an' her richt's richt and wrang's wrang when I think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.
JOHN (_gently_). Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther.
DAVID. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I've gied in. I'm a philosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's done wi'.
JOHN. Aw, feyther!
DAVID (_getting lower and lower_). It's gey interesting, philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about is the philosophy of growing old--because that's what we're a' doing, a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he's juist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stane still--unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not a stane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didna break up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an' then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' him a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.--It's yon losing yer grip bit by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes a philosopher, John.
JOHN. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I'd be better able to follow ye.
(LIZZIE _enters quietly and closes door after her._)
JOHN. Is he asleep?
LIZZIE. No, he's no' asleep, but I've shut both doors, and the neighbors canna hear him.
JOHN. Aw, Lizzie--
LIZZIE (_sharply_). John--
DAVID. Whit was I tellin' ye, John, about weans gettin' their ain way if the neighbors had ears an' they lived close? Was