The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays, Gordon Bottomley et al. [kiss me liar novel english .TXT] 📗

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 I no' richt?

LIZZIE (answering for JOHN with some acerbity). Aye, ye were richt, feyther, nae doot; but we dinna live that close here, an' the neighbors canna hear him at the back o' the hoose.

DAVID. Mebbe that's why ye changed Alexander into the parlor an' gied me the bed in here when it began to get cold—-

LIZZIE (hurt). Aw, no, feyther; I brought ye in here to be warmer—

DAVID (placably). I believe ye, wumman—(with a faint twinkle)—but it's turned oot luckily, has it no'?

(DAVID waits for a reply but gets none. LIZZIE fetches needlework from the dresser drawer and sits above table. DAVID'S face and voice take on a more thoughtful tone.)

DAVID (musing). Puir wee man! If he was in here you'd no' be letting him greet his heart oot where onybody could hear him. Wud ye?

LIZZIE (calmly). Mebbe I'd no'.

JOHN. Ye ken fine ye'd no', wumman.

LIZZIE. John, thread my needle an' dinna take feyther's part against me.

JOHN (surprised). I'm no'.

LIZZIE. No, I ken ye're no meanin' to, but you men are that thrang—

(She is interrupted by a loud squall from DAVID, which he maintains, eyes shut, chair-arms gripped, and mouth open, for nearly half a minute, before he cuts it off abruptly and looks at the startled couple at the table.)

LIZZIE. Mercy, feyther, whit's wrang wi' ye?

DAVID (collectedly). There's naethin' wrang wi' me, Lizzie, except that I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story—

LIZZIE (firmly but very kindly). But ye're no' goin' to—

(She breaks off in alarm as her father opens his mouth preparatory to another yell, which however he postpones to speak to JOHN.)

DAVID. Ye mind whit I was saying aboot the dispensation o'
Providence to help weans till they could try for theirselves,
John?

JOHN. Aye.

DAVID. Did it no' occur to ye then that there ought to be some sort of dispensation to look after the auld yins who were past it?

JOHN. No.

DAVID. Aweel—it didna occur to me at the time—(and he lets off another prolonged wail).

LIZZIE (going to him). Shsh! Feyther! The neighbors will hear ye!!!

DAVID (desisting as before). I ken fine; I'm no' at the back of the hoose. (Shorter wail.)

LIZZIE (almost in tears). They'll be coming to ask.

DAVID. Let them. They'll no'ask me. (Squall.)

LIZZIE. Feyther—ye're no'behaving well. John—

JOHN. Aye?

LIZZIE (helplessly). Naething—feyther, stop it. They'll think ye're clean daft.

DAVID (ceasing to howl and speaking with gravity). I ken it fine, Lizzie; an' it's no easy for a man who has been respeckit an' lookit up to a' his life to be thought daft at eighty-three; but the most important thing in life is to get yer ain way. (Resumes wailing.)

LIZZIE (puzzled, to JOHN). Whit's that?

JOHN. It's his philosophy that he was talking aboot.

DAVID (firmly). An' I'm gaein' to tell wee Alexander yon bit story, tho' they think me daft for it.

LIZZIE. But it's no' for his ain guid, feyther. I've telt ye so, but ye wudna listen.

DAVID. I wudna listen, wumman! It was you wudna listen to me when I axed ye whit harm—(Chuckles.—Checking himself) No! I'm no gaein' to hae that ower again. I've gied up arguing wi' women. I'm juist gaein' tae greet loud an' sair till wee Alexander's brought in here to hae his bit story; an' if the neighbors—(Loud squall.)

LIZZIE (aside to JOHN). He's fair daft!

JOHN (aghast). Ye'd no send him to—

LIZZIE (reproachfully). John!

(A louder squall from the old man.)

LIZZIE (beating her hands together distractedly). He'll be —We'll—He'll—Och!!! (Resigned and beaten) John, go and bring wee Alexander in here.

(JOHN is off like a shot. The opening of the door of the other room can be told by the burst of ALEXANDER'S voice. The old man's wails have stopped the second his daughter capitulated. JOHN returns with ALEXANDER and bears him to his grandfather's waiting knee. The boy's tears and howls have ceased and he is smiling triumphantly. He is of course in his night-shirt and a blanket, which Grandpa wraps round him, turning toward the fire.)

LIZZIE (looking on with many nods of the head and smacks of the lips). There you are! That's the kind o' boy he is. Greet his heart oot for a thing an' stop the moment he gets it.

DAVID. Dae ye expect him to gae on after he's got it? Ah, but, Alexander, ye didna get it yer lane this time; it took the twa o' us. An' hard work it was for the Auld Yin! Man! (Playing hoarse)

I doot I've enough voice left for a—(Bursting out very loud and making the boy laugh.) Aweel! Whit's it gaein' to be—eh?

[CURTAIN] SPREADING THE NEWS[1]

Lady Gregory

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Lady Gregory and
of Messrs. G.P. Putnam's Sons, the publishers of Seven Short
Plays (1909), and other volumes of Lady Gregory's works.
Application for acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28
West 38th Street, New York City.]

CHARACTERS

BARTLEY FALLON
MRS. FALLON
JACK SMIT
SHAWN EARLY
TIM CASEY
JAMES RYAN
MRS. TARPEY
MRS. TULLY
JOE MULDOON, a policeman
A REMOVABLE MAGISTRATE

SCENE: The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall. MRS. TARPEY sitting at it. MAGISTRATE and POLICEMAN enter.

MAGISTRATE. So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and sheep and mud.
No system. What a repulsive sight!

POLICEMAN. That is so, indeed.

MAGISTRATE. I suppose there is a good deal of disorder in this place?

POLICEMAN. There is.

MAGISTRATE. Common assault?

POLICEMAN. It's common enough.

MAGISTRATE. Agrarian crime, no doubt?

POLICEMAN. That is so.

MAGISTRATE. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing into houses?

POLICEMAN. There was one time, and there might be again.

MAGISTRATE. That is bad. Does it go any farther than that?

POLICEMAN. Far enough, indeed.

MAGISTRATE. Homicide, then! This district has been shamefully neglected! I will change all that. When I was in the Andaman Islands, my system never failed. Yes, yes, I will change all that. What has that woman on her stall?

POLICEMAN. Apples mostly—and sweets.

MAGISTRATE. Just see if there are any unlicensed goods underneath—spirits or the like. We had evasions of the salt tax in the Andaman Islands.

POLICEMAN (sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of apples). I see no spirits here—or salt.

MAGISTRATE (to MRS. TARPEY). Do you know this town well, my good woman?

MRS. TARPEY (holding out some apples). A penny the half-dozen, your honor.

POLICEMAN (shouting). The gentleman is asking do you know the town! He's the new magistrate!

MRS. TARPEY (rising and ducking). Do I know the town? I do, to be sure.

MAGISTRATE (shouting). What is its chief business?

MRS, TARPEY. Business, is it? What business would the people here have but to be minding one another's business?

MAGISTRATE. I mean what trade have they?

MRS. TARPEY. Not a trade. No trade at all but to be talking.

MAGISTRATE. I shall learn nothing here.

(JAMES RYAN comes in, pipe in mouth. Seeing MAGISTRATE, he retreats quickly, taking pipe from mouth.)

MAGISTRATE. The smoke from that man's pipe had a greenish look; he may be growing unlicensed tobacco at home. I wish I had brought my telescope to this district. Come to the post-office; I will telegraph for it. I found it very useful in the Andaman Islands.

(MAGISTRATE and POLICEMAN go out left.)

MRS. TARPEY. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my apples this way and that way. (Begins arranging them.) Showing off he was to the new magistrate.

(Enter BARTLEY FALLON and MRS. FALLON.)

BARTLEY. Indeed it's a poor country and a scarce country to be living in. But I'm thinking if I went to America it's long ago the day I'd be dead!

MRS. FALLON. So you might, indeed.

(She puts her basket on a barrel and begins putting parcels in it, taking them from under her cloak.)

BARTLEY. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be buried in
America.

MRS. FALLON. Never fear, Bartley Fallon, but I'll give you a good burying the day you'll die.

BARTLEY. Maybe it's yourself will be buried in the graveyard of Cloonmara before me, Mary Fallon, and I myself that will be dying unbeknownst some night, and no one a-near me. And the cat itself may be gone straying through the country, and the mice squealing over the quilt.

MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of dying. It might be twenty years you'll be living yet.

BARTLEY (with a deep sigh). I'm thinking if I'll be living at the end of twenty years, it's a very old man I'll be then!

MRS. TARPEY (turns and sees them). Good-morrow, Bartley Fallon; good-morrow, Mrs. Fallon. Well, Bartley, you'll find no cause for complaining to-day; they are all saying it was a good fair.

BARTLEY (raising his voice). It was not a good fair, Mrs. Tarpey. It was a scattered sort of a fair. If we didn't expect more, we got less. That's the way with me always: whatever I have to sell goes down and whatever I have to buy goes