by Edward Albee
CHARLIE (Defiance; rue)
Well, I used to.
NANCY
The man who married a dumb wife; not you! Was that Molière? Beaumarchais?
CHARLIE
Anatole France.
NANCY
Was it?
CHARLIE
(Continuing from before)
I used to go way down; at our summer place; a protected cove. The breakers would come in with a storm, or a high wind, but not usually. I used to go way down, and try to stay. I remember before that, when I was tiny, I would go in the swimming pool, at the shallow end, let out my breath and sit on the bottom; when you let out your breath—all of it—you sink, gently, and you can sit on the bottom until your lungs need air. I would do that—I was so young—sit there, gaze about. Great trouble for my parents. “Good God, go get Charlie; he’s gone and sunk again.” “Will you look at that child? Put him in the water and he drops like a stone.” I could swim perfectly well, as easy as walking, and around the same time, but I used to love to sink. And when I was older, we were by the sea. Twelve; yes, or thirteen. I used to lie on the warm boulders, strip off …
(Quiet, sad amusement)
… learn about my body; no one saw me; twelve or thirteen. And I would go into the water, take two stones, as large as I could manage, swim out a bit, tread, look up one final time at the sky … relax … begin to go down. Oh, twenty feet, fifteen, soft landing without a sound, the white sand clouding up where your feet touch, and all around you ferns … and lichen. You can stay down there so long! You can build it up, and last … so long, enough for the sand to settle and the fish come back. And they do—come back—all sizes, some slowly, eyeing past; some streak, and you think for a moment they’re larger than they are, sharks, maybe, but they never are, and one stops being an intruder, finally—just one more object come to the bottom, or living thing, part of the undulation and the silence. It was very good.
NANCY
Did the fish talk to you? I mean, did they come up and stay close, and look at you, and maybe nibble at your toes?
CHARLIE (Very shy)
Some of them.
NANCY (Enthusiastic)
Why don’t you go and do it! Yes!
CHARLIE (Age)
Oh, no, now, Nancy, I couldn’t.
NANCY
Yes! Yes, you could! Go do it again; you’d love it!
CHARLIE
Oh, no, now, I …
NANCY
Go down to the edge; go in! Pick up some stones …
CHARLIE
There’re no coves; it’s all open beach.
NANCY
Oh, you’ll find a cove; go on! Be young again; my God, Charlie, be young!
CHARLIE
No; besides, someone’d see me; they’d think I was drowning.
NANCY
Who’s to see you?! Look, there’s no one in the … no, those … people, they’ve come out, the ones were in the water, they’re … well, they’re lying on the beach, to sun; they’re prone. Go on down; I’ll watch you from here.
CHARLIE
(Firm, through embarrassment)
No! I said no!
NANCY
(Undaunted; still happy)
Well, I’ll come with you; I’ll stand by the edge, and if anyone comes by and says, “Look, there’s a man drowning!” I’ll laugh and say, “La! It’s my husband, and he’s gone down with two stones to sit on the bottom for a while.”
CHARLIE
No!
NANCY
The white sand clouding, and the ferns and the lichen. Oh, do it, Charlie!
CHARLIE
I wouldn’t like it any more.
NANCY (Wheedling, taunting)
Awwww, how long since you’ve done it?!
CHARLIE (Mumbles)
Too long.
NANCY
What?
CHARLIE (Embarrassed; shy)
Not since I was seventeen?
NANCY
(This time pretending not to hear)
What?
CHARLIE
(Rather savage; phlegm in the throat)
Too long.
(Small pause)
Far too long?
(Silence)
NANCY (Very gentle; not even urging)
Would it be so very hard now? Wouldn’t you be able to? Gently? In some sheltered place, not very deep? Go down? Not long, just enough to … reconfirm.
CHARLIE (Flat)
I’d rather remember.
NANCY
If I were a man—What a silly thing to say.
CHARLIE
Yes. It is.
NANCY
Still, if I were … I don’t think I’d let the chance go by; not if I had it.
CHARLIE (Quietly)
Let it go.
NANCY
Not if I had it. There isn’t that much. Sex goes … diminishes; well, it becomes a holiday and rather special, and not like eating, or going to sleep. But that’s nice, too—that it becomes special—
(Laughs gaily)
Do you know, I had a week when I thought of divorcing you?
CHARLIE
(Quite surprised, vulnerable; shakes his head)
No.
NANCY
Yes. You were having your thing, your melancholia—poor darling—and there I was, brisk and thirty, still pert, learning the moles on your back instead of your chest hairs.
CHARLIE (Relieved, if sad)
Ah. Then.
NANCY (Nods)
Um-hum. Then. Rereading Proust, if I have it right. Propped up in bed, all pink and ribbons, smelling good, not all those creams and looking ten years married as I might have, and who would have blamed me, but fresh, and damned attractive, if I have to say it for myself; propped up in bed, literate, sweet-smelling, getting familiar with your back. One, two, three moles, and then a pair of them, twins, flat black ones …
CHARLIE (Recalling)
That time.
NANCY (Nods)
… ummmm. The ones I said should go—still think they should—not that it matters: they haven’t done anything. It was at the … center of your thing, your seven-month decline; it was then that I thought of divorcing you. The deeper your inertia went, the more I felt alive. Good wife, patient, see him through it, whatever it is, wonder if it isn’t something you haven’t done, or have; write home for some advice, but oh, so busy, with the children and the house. Stay neat; don’t pry; weather it. But right in the center, three and a half months in, it occurred to me that there was nothing wrong, save perhaps another woman.
CHARLIE (Surprised; hurt)
Oh, Nancy.
NANCY
Well, one has a mind, and it goes about its business. If one is happy, and content, it doesn’t mean that everyone else is; never assume that. Maybe he’s found a girl; not even looking, necessarily; maybe he turned a corner one afternoon and there was a girl, not prettier even, maybe a little plain, but unencumbered, or lonely, or lost. That’s the way it starts, as often as not. No sudden passion over champagne glasses at the fancy ball, or seeing the puppy love again, never like that except for fiction, but something … different, maybe even a little … less: the relief of that; simpler, not quite so nice, how much nicer, for a little.
CHARLIE
Nothing like that.
NANCY (Laughs a little)
Well, I know.
CHARLIE
Nothing at all.
NANCY
Yes, but the mind. And what bothered me was not what you might be doing—oh, well, certainly; bothered, yes—not entirely what you might be doing, but that, all of a sudden, I had not. Ever. Had not even thought of it. A child at thirty, I suppose. Without that time I would have gone through my entire life and never thought of another man, another pair of arms, harsh cheek, hard buttocks, pleasure, never at all.
(Considers that)
Well, I might have, and maybe this was better. All at once I thought: it was over between
us—not our life together, that would go on, and we would be like a minister and his sister—the … active part of our life, the rough-and-tumble in the sheets or in the grass when we took our picnics, that all of that had stopped between us, or would become cursory, and I wouldn’t have asked why, nor would you have said, or if I had—asked why—you would have said some lie, or truth, would have made it worse, and I thought back to before I married you, and the boys I would have done it with, if I had been that type, the firm-fleshed boys I would have taken in my arms had it occurred to me. And I began to think of them, Proust running on, pink and ribbons, looking at your back, and your back would turn and it would be Johnny Smythe or the Devlin boy, or one of the others, and he would smile, reach out a hand, undo my ribbons, draw me close, ease on. Oh, that was a troubling time.
CHARLIE (Sad remembrance)
You were never one for the boys, were you?
NANCY (She, too)
No.
(Pause)
But I thought: well, if he can turn his back on me like this—nice, isn’t it, when the real and the figurative come together—I can turn, too—if not my back, then … back. I can have me a divorce, I thought, become eighteen again.
(Sudden thought)
You know, I think that’s why our women want divorces, as often as not—to be eighteen again, no matter how old they are; and daring. To do it differently, and still for the first time.
(Sighs)
But it was only a week I thought about that. It went away. You came back … eventually.
CHARLIE
(A statement of fact that is really a question)
You never thought I went to anyone else.
NANCY
She said to me—wise woman—“Daughter, if it lasts, if you and he come back together, it’ll be at a price or two. If it lasts there’ll be accommodation, wandering; if he doesn’t do it in the flesh, he’ll think about it; one night, in the dark, if you listen hard enough, you’ll hear him think the name of another woman, kiss her, touch her breasts as he has his hand and mouth on you. Then you’ll know something about loneliness, my daughter; yessiree; you’ll be halfway there, halfway to compassion.”
CHARLIE (After a pause; shy)
The other half?
NANCY
Hm?
(Matter-of-fact)
Knowing how lonely he is … substituting … using a person, a body, and wishing it was someone else—almost anyone. That void. Le petit mort, the French call the moment of climax? And that lovely writer? Who talks of the sadness after love? After intimate intercourse, I think he says? But what of during? What of the loneliness and death then? During. They don’t talk of that: the sad fantasies; the substitutions. The thoughts we have.
(Tiny pause)
One has.
CHARLIE (Softly, with a timid smile)
I’ve never been with another woman.
NANCY (A little laugh)
Well, I know.
CHARLIE (Laughs ruefully)
I think one time, when you and I were making love—when we were nearly there, I remember I pretended it was a week or so before, one surprising time we’d had, something we’d hit upon by accident, or decided to do finally; I pretended it was the time before, and it was quite good that way.
NANCY (Some wonder)
You pretended I was me.
CHARLIE (Apology)
Well … yes.
NANCY
(Laughs delightedly; thinks)
Well; perhaps I was.
(Pause)
So much goes, Charlie; we shouldn’t give up until we have to.
(Gentle)
Why don’t you go down; why don’t you find a cove?
CHARLIE (Smiles; shakes his head)
No.
NANCY
It’s something I’ve never done; you could teach me. You could take my hand; we could have two big stones, and we could go down together.
CHARLIE
(Not a complaint; an evasion)
I haven’t got my suit.
NANCY
Go bare! You’re quite presentable.
CHARLIE
(Mildly put off, and a little pleased)
Nancy!
NANCY (Almost shy)
I wouldn’t mind. I’d like to see you, pink against the blue, watch the water on you.
CHARLIE
Tomorrow.
NANCY
Bare?
CHARLIE
We’ll see.
NANCY (Shrugs)
I’m used to that: we’ll see, and then put off until it’s forgotten.
(Peers)
I wonder where they’ve gone.
CHARLIE (Not interested)
Who?
NANCY
Those people; well, those that were down there.
CHARLIE
Gone in.
NANCY
The water? Again?
CHARLIE
No. Home.
NANCY
Well, I don’t think so. I thought maybe they were coming up to us.
CHARLIE
Why?
NANCY
They … looked to be. I mean, I thought … well, no matter.
CHARLIE
Who were they?
NANCY
You know my eyes. I thought they were climbing, coming up to see us.
CHARLIE
If we don’t know them?
NANCY
Some people are adventurous.
CHARLIE
Mmmmm.
NANCY
I wonder where they’ve gone.
CHARLIE
Don’t spy!
NANCY (Looking down)
I’m not; I just want to … Lord, why couldn’t my ears be going instead? I think I see them halfway up the dune. I think I can make them out; resting, or maybe sunning, on an angle for the sun.
CHARLIE
A lot of good you’d be under water.
NANCY
(Considers what she has seen)
Rather odd.
(Dismisses it)
Well, that’s why you’ll have to take me if I’m going to go down; you wouldn’t want to lose me in the fernery, and all. An eddy, or whatever that is the tide does underneath, might sweep me into a cave, or a culvert, and I wouldn’t know what to do. No, you’ll have to take me.
CHARLIE
You’d probably panic … if I took you under.
(Thinks about it)
No; you wouldn’t; you’d do worse, most likely: start drowning and not let on.
(They both laugh)
You’re a good wife.
NANCY (Offhand)
You’ve been a good husband … more or less.
CHARLIE (Not aggressive)
Damned right.
NANCY
And you courted me the way I wanted.
CHARLIE
Yes.
NANCY
And you gave me the children I wanted, as many, and when.
CHARLIE
Yes.
NANCY
And you’ve provided a sturdy shoulder and a comfortable life. No?
CHARLIE
Yes.
NANCY
And I’ve not a complaint in my head, have I?
CHARLIE
No.
NANCY (Slightly bitter)
Well, we’ll wrap you in the flag when you’re gone, and do taps.
(A fair silence)
CHARLIE (Soft; embarrassed)
We’d better … gather up; … We should go back now.
NANCY
(Nudges him on the shoulder)
Ohhhhhhhh …
(CHARLIE shakes his head, keeping his eyes averted.)
NANCY
Ohhhhhhhhh …
CHARLIE
I don’t want to stay here any more. You’ve hurt my feelings, damn it!
NANCY (Sorry)
Ohhh, Charlie.
CHARLIE (Trying to understand)
You’re not cruel by nature; it’s not your way. Why do you do this? Even so rarely; why?
NANCY
(As if it explained everything)
I was being petulant.
CHARLIE
(More or less to himself, but not sotto voce)
I have been a good husband to you; I did court you like a gentleman; I have been a good lover …
NANCY (Light)
Well, of course I have no one to compare you with.
CHARLIE (Preoccupied; right on)
… you have been comfortable, and my shoulder has been there.
NANCY (GAILY)
I know; I know.
CHARLIE
You’ve had a good life.
NANCY
Don’t say that!
CHARLIE
And you’ll not pack it up in a piece of cloth and put it away.
NANCY
No! Not if you won’t! Besides, it was hyperbole.
CHARLIE (Slightly testy)
I knew that. Not if I won’t, eh? Not if I won’t what?
NANCY
Pack it up in a piece of cloth and put it away. When’s the last time you were stung by a bee, Charlie? Was it that time in Maine … or Delaware? When your cheek swelled up, and you kept saying, “Mud! Get me some mud!” And there wasn’t any mud that I could see, and you said, “Well, make some.”
CHARLIE
Delaware.
NANCY
After all the years of making you things, my mind couldn’t focus on how to make mud. What is the recipe for that, I said to myself … What sort of pan do I use, for one; water, yes, but water and … what? Earth, naturally, but what kind and … oh, I felt so foolish.
CHARLIE (Softer)
It was Delaware.
NANCY
So foolish.
CHARLIE (Mildly reproachful)
The whole cheek swelled up; the eye was half closed.
NANCY (Pedagogic)
Well, that’s what a bee sting does, Charlie. And that’s what brings on the petulance—mine; it’s just like a bee sting, and I remember, though it’s been years.
CHARLIE (To reassure himself)
Crazy as a loon.
NANCY
No; not at all. You asked me about the petulance—why it comes on me, even rarely. Well, it’s like the sting of a bee: something you say, or do; or don’t say, or don’t do. And it brings the petulance on me—not that I like it, but it’s a healthy sign, shows I’m still nicely alive.
CHARLIE (Not too friendly)
Like when? Like what?
NANCY
What brings it on, and when?
CHARLIE (Impatient)
Yes!
NANCY
Well, so many things.
CHARLIE
Give me one.
NANCY
No; I’ll give you several.