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 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.