A Delicate Balance
Edward Albee
BY EDWARD ALBEE
The Zoo Story
The Death of Bessie Smith
The Sandbox
The American Dream
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
The Ballad of the Sad Cafe
Tiny Alice
Malcolm
A Delicate Balance
Everything in the Garden
Box and Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-Tung
All Over
Seascape
Listening
Counting the Ways
The Lady from Dubuque
Lolita
The Man Who Had Three Arms
Finding the Sun
Marriage Play
Three Tall Women
Fragments (A Sit-Around)
The Play About the Baby
The Goat or, Who is Sylvia?
Occupant
At Home at the Zoo
Me, Myself & I
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Copyright
This edition first published in the United States and the UK in 2013 by
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Copyright © 1966 by Edward Albee
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ISBN 978-1-4683-0751-1
For John Steinbeck
Affection and admiration
INTRODUCTION
A DELICATE BALANCE
—A Non-reconsideration
My mind is going, I suspect; I have no idea how long I’ve known most of my friends; the names of most people are beyond me, and I cannot recall the emotional or physical experience of the writing of most of my plays, or how long ago the experience I cannot recall occurred.
The only senses I fully retain—and very sharply these—are picture images and sounds. Hearing two bars of almost any piece of serious music has me naming the composer, the piece, and often the date of composition and opus number—or K., or Hoboken, or whatever. Seeing a painting for a second time—in a new context, of course—has me instantly recalling on what wall it hung, in what room, in what country, when I saw it first.
But names and events … that’s another matter. Once I looked straight at my mother and couldn’t figure out who she was. (Well, I guess we’ve all had that one!)
So … is it really thirty years since the first production of A Delicate Balance? It seems like yesterday, as they say? No, certainly not … but thirty years?
The play has not changed; that I can see. I’ve had to rewrite only two lines—making it clear that topless bathing suits (for women, of course) are not made anymore, and changing “our dear Republicans as dull as ever” to “as brutal as ever” (that second change long overdue).
The play does not seem to have “dated”; rather, its points seem clearer now to more people than they were in its lovely first production. Now, in its lovely new production (I will not say “revival”; the thing was not dead—unseen, unheard perhaps, but lurking), it seems to me exactly the same experience. No time has passed; the characters have not aged or become strange. (The upper-upper middle-class WASP culture has always been just a little bizarre, of course.)
The play concerns—as it always has, in spite of early-on critical misunderstanding—the rigidity and ultimate paralysis which afflicts those who settle in too easily, waking up one day to discover that all the choices they have avoided no longer give them any freedom of choice, and that what choices they do have left are beside the point.
I have become odder with time, I suppose (my next play but one will be about a goat, for God’s sake), but A Delicate Balance, bless it, does not seem to have changed much—aged nicely, perhaps. Could we all say the same.
—Edward Albee
Montauk, N.Y.
August 1996
Contents
By Edward Albee
Copyright
Introduction
ACT ONE
FRIDAY NIGHT
ACT TWO
SCENE ONE
EARLY SATURDAY EVENING
SCENE TWO
LATER THAT NIGHT
ACT THREE
EARLY SUNDAY MORNING
A Delicate Balance opened in New York City on September 12, 1966, at the Martin Beck Theatre.
JESSICA TANDY as AGNES
HUME CRONYN as TOBIAS
ROSEMARY MURPHY as CLAIRE
CARMEN MATHEWS as EDNA
HENDERSON FORSYTHE as HARRY
MARIAN SELDES as JULIA
Directed by ALAN SCHNEIDER
The Lincoln Center Theatre production of A Delicate Balance opened in New York City on April 21, 1996, at the Plymouth Theatre.
ROSEMARY HARRIS as AGNES
GEORGE GRIZZARD as TOBIAS
ELAINE STRITCH as CLAIRE
ELIZABETH WILSON as EDNA
JOHN CARTER as HARRY
MARY BETH HURT as JULIA
Directed by GERALD GUTIERREZ
CHARACTERS
AGNES
A handsome woman
in her late 50’s
TOBIAS
Her husband, a few years older
CLAIRE
Agnes’ sister, several years younger
JULIA
Agnes’ and Tobias’ daughter 36, angular
EDNA AND HARRY
Very much like Agnes and Tobias
THE SCENE
The living room of a large and well-appointed suburban house. Now.
ACT ONE
(In the library-living room. AGNES in a chair, TOBIAS at a shelf, looking into cordial bottles)
AGNES
(Speaks usually softly, with a tiny hint of a smile on her face: not sardonic, not sad … wistful, maybe)
What I find most astonishing—aside from that belief of mine, which never ceases to surprise me by the very fact of its surprising lack of unpleasantness, the belief that I might very easily—as they say—lose my mind one day, not that I suspect I am about to, or am even … nearby …
TOBIAS
(He speaks somewhat the same way)
There is no saner woman on earth, Agnes.
(Putters at the bottles)
AGNES
… for I’m not that sort; merely that it is not beyond … happening: some gentle loosening of the moorings sending the balloon adrift—and I think that is the only outweighing thing: adrift; the … becoming a stranger in … the world, quite … uninvolved, for I never see it as violent, only a drifting—what are you looking for, Tobias?
TOBIAS
We will all go mad before you. The anisette.
AGNES (A small happy laugh)
Thank you, darling. But I could never do it—go adrift—for what would become of you? Still, what I find most astonishing, aside, as I said, from that speculation—and I wonder, too, sometimes, if I am the only one of you to admit to it: not that I may go mad, but that each of you wonders if each of you might not—why on earth do you want anisette?
TOBIAS (Considers)
I thought it might be nice.
AGNES (Wrinkles her nose)
Sticky. I will do cognac. It is supposed to be healthy—the speculation, or the assumption, I suppose, that if it occurs to you that you might be, then you are not; but I’ve never been much comforted by it; it follows, to my mind, that since I speculate I might, some day, or early evening I think more likely—some autumn dusk—go quite mad, then I very well might.
(Bright laugh)
Some autumn dusk: Tobias at his desk, looks up from all those awful bills, and sees his Agnes, mad as a hatter, chewing the ribbons on her dress …
TOBIAS (Pouring)
Cognac?
AGNES
Yes; Agnes Sit-by-the-fire, her mouth full of ribbons, her mind aloft, adrift; nothing to do with the poor old thing but put her in a bin somewhere, sell the house, move to Tucson, say, and pine in the good sun, and live to be a hundred and four.
(He gives her her cognac)
Thank you, darling.
TOBIAS (Kisses her forehead)
Cognac is sticky, too.
AGNES
Yes, but it’s nicer. Sit by me, hm?
TOBIAS (Does so; raises his glass)
To my mad lady, ribbons dangling.
AGNES (Smiles)
And, of course, I haven’t worn the ribbon dress since Julia’s remarriage. Are you comfortable?
TOBIAS
For a little.
AGNES
What astonishes me most—aside from my theoretically healthy fear—no, not fear, how silly of me—healthy speculation that I might some day become an embarrassment to you … what I find most astonishing in this world, and with all my years … is Claire.
TOBIAS (Curious)
Claire? Why?
AGNES
That anyone—be they one’s sister, or not—can be so … well, I don’t want to use an unkind word, ’cause we’re cozy here, aren’t we?
TOBIAS (Smiled warning)
Maybe.
AGNES
As the saying has it, the one thing sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a sister’s ingratitude.
TOBIAS
(Getting up, moving to a chair)
The saying does not have it that way.
AGNES
Should. Why are you moving?
TOBIAS
It’s getting uncomfortable.
AGNES (Semi-serious razzing)
Things get hot, move off, huh? Yes?
TOBIAS (Not rising to it)
I’m not as young as either of us once was.
AGNES (Toasting him)
I’m as young as the day I married you—though I’m certain I don’t look it—because you’re a very good husband … most of the time. But I was talking about Claire, or was beginning to.
TOBIAS
(Knowing shaking of the head)
Yes, you were.
AGNES
If I were to list the mountain of my burdens—if I had a thick pad and a month to spare—that bending my shoulders most, with the possible exception of Julia’s trouble with marriage, would be your—it must be instinctive, I think, or reflex, that’s more like it—your reflex defense of everything that Claire …
TOBIAS
(Very nice, but there is steel underneath)
Stop it, Agnes.
AGNES (A little laugh)
Are you going to throw something at me? Your glass? My goodness, I hope not … that awful anisette all over everything.
TOBIAS (Patient)
No.
AGNES (Quietly daring him)
What then?
TOBIAS (Looking at his hand)
I shall sit very quietly …
AGNES
… as always …
TOBIAS
… yes, and I shall will you to apologize to your sister for what I must in truth tell you I thought a most …
AGNES
Apologize! To her? To Claire? I have spent my adult life apologizing for her; I will not double my humiliation by apologizing to her.
TOBIAS (Mocking an epigram)
One does not apologize to those for whom one must?
AGNES (Winking slowly)
Neat.
TOBIAS
Succinct, but one of the rules of an aphorism …
AGNES
An epigram, I thought.
TOBIAS (Small smile)
An epigram is usually satiric, and you …
AGNES
… and I am grimly serious. Yes?
TOBIAS
I fear so.
AGNES
To revert specifically from Claire to … her effect, what would you do were I to … spill my marbles?
TOBIAS (Shrugs)
Put you in a bin somewhere, sell the house and move to Tucson. Pine in the hot sun and live forever.
AGNES (Ponders it)
Hmmm, I bet you would.
TOBIAS (Friendly)
Hurry, though.
AGNES
Oh, I’ll try. It won’t be simple paranoia, though, I know that. I’ve tried so hard, to … well, you know how little I vary; goodness, I can’t even raise my voice except in the most calamitous of events, and I find that both joy and sorrow work their … wonders on me more … evenly, slowly, within, than most: a suntan rather than a scalding. There are no mountains in my life … nor chasms. It is a rolling, pleasant land … verdant, my darling, thank you.
TOBIAS (Cutting a cigar)
We do what we can.
AGNES (Little laugh)
Our motto. If we should ever go downhill, have a crest made, join things, we must have that put in Latin—We do what we can—on your blazers, over the mantel; maybe we could do it on the linen, as well …
TOBIAS
Do you think I should go to Claire’s room?
AGNES (Silence: then stony, firm)
No.
(TOBIAS shrugs, lights his cigar)
Either she will be down, or not.
TOBIAS
We do what we can?
AGNES
(Silence)
So, it will not be simple paranoia. Schizophrenia, on the other hand, is far more likely—even given the unlikelihood. I believe it can be chemically induced …
(Smiles)
if all else should fail; if sanity, such as it is, should become too much. There are times when I think it would be so … proper, if one could take a pill—or even inject—just … remove.
TOBIAS (Fairly dry)
You should take drugs, my dear.
AGNES
Ah, but those are temporary; even addiction is a repeated temporary … stilling. I am concerned with peace … not mere relief. And I am not a compulsive—like … like some … like our dear Claire, say.
TOBIAS
Be kind. Please?
AGNES
I think I should want to have it fully … even on the chance I could not … come back. Wouldn’t that be terrible, though? To have done it, induced, if naturally looked unlikely and the hope was there?
(Wonder in her voice)
Not be able to come back? Why did you put my cognac in the tiny glass?
TOBIAS (Rising, going to her)
Oh … I’m sorry. …
AGNES
(Holding her glass out to him; he takes it from her)
I’m not a sipper tonight; I’m a breather: my nose buried in the glass, all the wonder there, and very silent.
TOBIAS
(Getting her a new cognac)
I thought Claire was much better tonight. I didn’t see any need for you to give her such a going-over.
AGNES (Weary)
Claire was not better tonight. Honestly, Tobias!
TOBIAS
(Clinging to his conviction)
I thought she was.
AGNES (Putting an end to it)
Well, she was not.
TOBIAS
Still …
AGNES
(Taking her new drink)
Thank you. I have decided, all things considered, that I shall not induce, that all the years we have put up with each other’s wiles and crotchets have earned us each other’s company. And I promise you as well that I shall think good thoughts—healthy ones, positive—to ward off madness, should it come by … uninvited.
TOBIAS (Smiles)
You mean I have no hope of Tucson?
