Language- Truth and Illusion - Meyer

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Language: Truth and Illusion in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"Author(s): Ruth MeyerSource: Educational Theatre Journal, Vol. 20, No. 1, 20th-Century American Theatre Issue(Mar., 1968), pp. 60-69Published by: The Johns Hopkins University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3204876 .

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RUTH

MEYER

Language:

Truth and Illusion

in

Who's

Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?

AS

GEORGE

TRIES

TO

DETERMINE

WHETHER

GUEST

NICK

IS

"STUD"

OR

"HOUESBOY,"

Martha

pleadingly

accuses

him

of

the

inability

to

judge:

"Truth

or

illusion,

George;

you

don't know

the

difference"

(202).1

And

the

audience,

too,

at this

point

near the end

of the

play

may

readily

concede

that

they

along

with

George

have

lost

contact

with

the

neat distinctions between

truth

and illusion.

For

indeed

in Edward Albee's

Who's

Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?

the

distinction

be-

tween

truth

and illusion

is

not

readily

perceived.

If

one

accepts

as

truth

that

which the

characters

say

is

true and

ignores

their

later

contradictions,

he

can

find

a

fairly

clear-cut differene

between

truth

and illusion.

Daniel McDonald

seems

to

distinguish

between

truth and

illusion on

merely

this

literal

basis.

Such

over-simplification

leads

to statements such

as

"Honey

rejoices

in her

husband's

career and in her own

youthful

enthusiasm."2 In

actuality,

the

only

enthusiasm

she

exhibits

in

the

play

is for

"[dancing]

like the wind"

(126)

and

drinking

brandy.

Similarly

McDonald's

statement

that

"Martha mortifies

her

husband

by

revealing

his

part

in

the death

of

his

parents"3

ignores

two

basic facts:

George

claims

this

happened

to

a friend

of

his,

and he also attributes

circumstances

similar

to

the

murder

to

the death

of

their

imaginary

son.

Truth

and illusion

is

indeed a

major

theme of the

play,

but

on

a more com-

plex

level than this.

A more

perceptive

evaluation

is

given

by

Robert

Brustein:

Albee seems less

interested

in the real

history

of his

characters

than in

the

way

they

conceal

and

protect

their

reality:

the

conflict

is also

a

kind

of

game,

with strict

rules,

and what

they

reveal about each other may not be true. This comedy of concealment reminds me of Piran-

dello,

and

even

more

of

Jean

Genet.

For

George

and Martha

. .

. shift

their

identities

like

reptiles

shedding

skins.4

Language

is

a

principal

means

by

which

Albee

achieves this

"comedy

of

con-

cealment."

The

dialogue

of the characters

which

both

reveals

and conceals

identity

establishes

the

ambiguity

between truth

and

illusion

and

in

part

ac-

counts

for

the

violent

disagreement

among

the

critics

as to the

"message"

of the

Miss

Meyer

is

an

assistant

professor

of

English

at

Morningside

College,

Sioux

City,

Iowa.

1

Edward

Albee,

Who's

Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?

(New

York:

Pocket

Books,

Inc.,

1962).

Subsequent

references

in

the

text

to

the

play

will

be

designated

Virginia

Woolf

and

page

number.

2Daniel

McDonald,

"Truth

and

Illusion

in

Who's

Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?"

Renascence,

XVII,

64.

3Ibid.,

p.

65.

4

"Albee

and

the Medusa

Head,"

New

Republic,

CXLVII

(November

3,

1962),

29.







Language:

Truth

and

Illusion in

Who's

Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?

61

play.

For

example,

George's

use

of cliches reveals

a

characteristic of

his

person-

ality;

at

the

same

time,

it

protects

him

from

any exposure

of real

identity.

In

order

to

discuss

illusion,

one

should

first define and

identify

truth;

to

dis-

cuss

exaggeration,

there must first

be a norm. "Truth"

is

generally

considered

a

verifiable

fact,

"illusion" a

false

mental

image,

thus

one

that is

unverifiable.

It

is

from

definitions as

clear cut

as

these that

difficulties

arise,

because

through-

out

the

play

there is

a

constant

interpenetration

of

truth and

illusion;

similarly,

so

many

false

roles

are

assumed

by

the

characters

during

the

night's

performance

that

no

definite

norm can

be

established.

Although language

is the

principal

means

of

creating

the

ambiguity,

it

is

not

the

only

means,

as seen in

the

frequent

stage

directions

concerning

facial

expression

and

stance.

Throughout

the

play,

situations

and

experiences

are hinted at: Did

George

actually

experience

the death

of

his

father

and

mother

as

related

in his

novel,

the

novel

Martha

claims

he said

"really happened"? (137)

Does

Martha's father

actually

"not

give

a

damn"

for

her,

as

George

says? (225)

Did

George

sail

past

Majorca,

or

for

that

matter,

did

the

moon,

after

going

down,

"pop

. .. back

up

again"?

(199)

Has

Honey

been

committing

secret

abortions,

as

George

hints?

(177)

Is Nick "stud"

or

"houseboy,"

and

is

liquor

the

only

excuse for his

failure

to

"hump

the hostess"?

(188,197)

Albee's

dexterity

in

creating

ambiguity

is

perhaps

best

demonstrated

by

the

scene in

which

George

confronts

Honey

with her fear of

having

children.

The

audience is

already

aware

that Nick married

Honey during

her

false

pregnancy;

it

is also

aware that

she

"[gets]

sick

.

.

.

occasionally,

all

by

[herself]"

(119).

Having

heard

Honey's

admission of

"I

...

don't

... want

...

any

...

children.

I'm afraid I don't want to be hurt .

...

,"

George

sums

up

the

evidence:

"I

should have known . .

.

the whole business

.

. .

the headaches

.

. . the

whining

... the

...."

He

quickly

concludes:

"How

do

you

make

your

secret

little

mur-

ders

stud-boy

doesn't

know

about,

hunh?

Pills? . . ."

(177)

Honey

has admitted

fear

of

having

children;

she

doesn't "want

to be

hurt."

Through

the

use of

"hurt,"

ambiguity

is

already

created;

does she fear

the

physical

pain

of child-

birth

or the

psychological pain,

unverifiable but

nonetheless

very

real,

involved

in

being

a

parent?

George's

quick

conclusion

furthers

the

ambiguity;

unfortun-

ately,

many

critics

pounce

on

George's

accusation as

the revelation

of a

truth.

Alfred

Chester,

however,

has noted

a

significant

factor in this

scene: "So

the

truth is out at last. But what truth?" Chester continues:

...

we

realize

that,

after

all,

Honey

has said

nothing,

and

George's

mind

has

said

it

all...

But

somehow

George

has hit

home

. .

.

We

begin

to

realize

that the

"truth" about

Nick

and

Honey's

reproductive

dilemma

will never

be revealed as

an

objective

fact.5

Even

at the

start of the

play

the

focus is on the

language

of the

characters.

With the first

lines,

Albee

establishes

a

device he will

use

throughout

the

play.

Martha's drunken

"Jesus

H.

Christ"

is

not

only

shocking

but

is also

distorted.

The "H."-a

good

old

American

middle

initial,

no

doubt-is

sufficiently

un-

familiar

to

draw

attention to

itself.

Walter Kerr

points

out

that

Albee

"peppers

us with them [Jesus Christ's and God damn's] as a kind of warning rattle, to

5"Edward Albee: Red

Herrings

and

White

Whales,"

Commentary,

XXXV

(April

1963),

299.







make

sure

that our

ears

will

be attentive

when

he

decides

really

to

burn them-

with

something

else."6

This

may

be

evidenced

by

the

incongruity

of

George's

term

"Chastity"

(199)

applied

with

knowing

inaccuracy

to Martha

after her

attempted

adultery

with Nick

or

his

"Whatever love wants"

(19,

italics

mine)

as she badgers him to greet their guests. Calling Martha "Chastity" does not

make her

chaste;

referring

to

her

as

"love"

does

not

make

her loved.

But her

adultery

attempt

has

been

unsuccessful,

and

there

is

some sort

of

mutual

con-

cern,

a rather

distorted

love,

existing

between

George

and

Martha.

Through

the

use of

a term

which in

context

seems

highly

inappropriate,

Albee focuses on

the

fine

distinction

between truth

and

illusion.

As

has

already

been

noted,

the

ambiguity

between

truth and illusion

is

a

major

concern

of

the

play.

The

occupation

of the characters

is

significant:

col-

lege

professors

and their

wives have achieved a

level

of education

that

would

imply

precise

and

fluent

use of

language

and also an awareness

of the use

of

cliches.

Albee exploits both of these factors, principally through George, who

early

in

the

play

evidences

an

exaggerated

concern

for

precise

diction

and

later

retreats

from

painful

reality by

assuming

a

false

role,

the

falseness

of

which is

indicated

mainly

by

dialogue. Litany-like

repetitions support

the

ambiguity,

since

a

litany

is

an

artificially

structured

response

and

may

not

represent

the

truth

of

the

moment.

The

false roles and the

litany-like

repetitions

culminate

in the

oldest

and

most

universal

of

rituals-the

Mass,

but

even

this

in

the

context

of the

play

furthers

rather than

resolves

the

ambiguity.

In

the

play

the characters

themselves

acknowledge

a

concern with

language.

They

are

aware

that

certain

levels of

speech

belong

to

certain

groups.

As

George

warns

Martha

not to

start

in

on the

"bit"

(about

their

"child")

(18),

Martha

replies,

"The

bit?

The

bit?

What kind

of

language

is

that?"

and

then,

"You

imitating

one

of

your

students,

for

God's

sake?"

George

warns

Nick and

Honey

that

"Martha's

a

devil with

language" (21).

Martha defends her

intellect

by

clarifying

her statement

that

biology

is less

"abstruse" than math

and taunts

George

with

"Don't

you

tell

me words"

(63).

As

George

recovers

from

their

round of

Humiliate the

Host,

he

badgers

them with "I

mean,

come

on

We

must

know

other

games,

college-type

types

like us

.

.

.

that can't

be

the

.

.

.

limit

of

our

vocabulary,

can it?"

(139) By

emphasizing

the

importance

of

"vocabulary'

to

"games,"

George acknowledges

the

centrality

of

language

to

their

existence,

since

much

of

their existence consists in

playing games.

At the same

time,

since

their games involve mainly the concealment of the truth about themselves,

through

the

assumption

and

abandonment of

false

dialogue

and false

roles,

George's

statement comes

very

near to

identifying

Albee's

technique

in

creating

the

ambiguity

between

truth and

illusion.

It

thus

seems

fairly

evident that

George

and Martha

are

quite

aware

of

the

language they

use. And

there

is,

particularly

on

George's

part,

a

willingness

to

haggle

over

vocabulary

and

to search for the accurate

word.

George

argues

with Nick over whether

a

bunch

of

geese

are

a

"gaggle"

or

a

"gangle"

(113),

6"Along

Nightmare

Alley," Vogue,

CXVI

(April

i,

1963),

119.

Certainly

not all critics

share Mr. Kerr's evaluation of the

dialogue.

For

example,

John

McCarten,

who

assesses

the

play as "vulgar mishmash," writes: "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? could be cut in half by

the

elimination

of

the

'God-damn's,'

'Jesus

Christ's,'

and

other

expressions

designed,

presumably,

to

show

us

that this

is

really

modern

stuff."

See

"Long Night's

Journey

Into

Daze,"

The New

Yorker,

XXXVIII

(October

2o,

1962), 85.

62

RUTH

MEYER







Language:

Truth

and

Illusion

in

Who's Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?

bickers

again

with

him

over whether

Honey

is

"slim-hipped"

or

"frail"

(89),

points

out

the

inadequacies

of

"courting"

(23)

when

used

to

refer

to his

time

spent

with Martha

prior

to their

marriage,

and uses

"Life" because

of

"lack

of a

better

word"

(ioo).

His

exaggerated

precision

in

use of

language

becomes

for him the norm, or as near to a norm as we will find amid the slippery truth

presented

in

the

play.

Nevertheless,

he

is

amused that

Nick

will admit

to

being

"testy"

(99),

but

resents

being

told

that

he

is

"upset."

He knows that

"Got

the

ice"

is

correct,

albeit

a

bit

archaic-like Martha

(166).

His

awareness

of

the

stupidity

of

conventional

euphemisms

comes to

a

peak

when

he

tells

Martha

to

show

Honey

"where

we

keep

the

. .

euphemism" (20),

a

phrase

totally

lost

on

Honey's

liquor-fogged

brain.

Despite

the

fact

that

she tells

George

he

doesn't

need

to

"tell

her

words,"

Martha is much

less

precise

in

her

use

of

them.

Almost

in

a

manner

remi-

niscent

of Holden

Caulfield,

she

adds

an

"or

something"

to her

phrases.

She

says that Nick is "in the math department, or something" (9). As Nick points out

the error in

her

quotation

of

her

father's favorite

phrase,

she

admits, "Well,

maybe

that

isn't

what he

says

.

.

.

something

like

it"

(55). Similarly,

she

accuses

Nick

that he

"Plucked

[her]

like a

goddamn

... whatever-it-is

...

creeping

vine"

(185),

and

then

calls,

"What

are

you

doing: hiding

or

something?"

(185)

Martha

"swings

wild"

(193),

as

Nick

observes;

she hits

her

target,

but

she

frequently

takes

in

the

surrounding

area

as

well.

She

shoots,

but

frequently

with buckshot-

the

whole

area,

or

something,

is

riddled

with her fire.

Never does

she

evidence

George's

concern

with

precision

in

speech.

Her references to

Bette

Davis,

who

is

married

to

Joseph

Cotton

or

something,

is

merely

a result

of

her

carelessness

with language; her reference to Nick and Honey (prior to their arrival) as

"What's

their

name"

is,

as

she

puts

it,

the

result

of

meeting

"fifteen

new

teachers

and

their

goddamn

wives"

(63).

The

contrast between

Martha's

disregard

for

precision

and

George's

meticulous

and

exaggerated

insistence

upon

the

right

word seems

clear.

And

yet

at

times

George,

too,

pretends

to

slip.

As

he

tells

Nick

that "since

I

married

. . .

uh,

What's

her name

. . .

uh,

Martha"

(32)

it

is

not because of

the

forgetfulness

or

confusion

which

causes

Martha

to

use

"What's their name" in

reference

to

Nick

and

Honey.

How better

to

show

detachment

and

disregard

of

someone

or

some-

thing

than

either

to

forget

the

name

or to

get

it

wrong.

As

he

discusses

the

proposed

scientific

advances with

Nick,

he

says,

"You're

the

one's

going

to

make

all

that

trouble

. .

.

making everyone

the

same,

rearranging

the

chromozones,

or

whatever

it is"

(37).

Contempt

could

scarcely

be

more

clearly

expressed.

When we

consider

George's

occasional

disregard

for

precision

in

light

of

his

usual

even

though

exaggerated

concern for

accuracy,

we

see

Albee's

device

of

presenting

a

masked

truth-for

example,

George's

contempt

for

science.

Be-

cause

the

norm

is

an

exaggerated

one,

and

therefore

not an

unquestionable

norm,

the

ambiguity

between

truth and

illusion

remains.

Much of the

dialogue

of the

play

consists of

cliches,

and

Albee

uses

them in

a manner

that

contributes

to

the

truth/illusion

situation.

Albee,

like

Ionesco,

is a master of the

cliche,

but

while

Ionesco

demonstrates

the

inadequacies

of

language to describe phenomena, Albee demonstrates the

adequacy

and

power

of

words. The

power

of words is

perhaps

best

demonstrated

by

their

ability

to

both

reveal and conceal

truth,

frequently

at

the

same

time. In

Virginia

Woolf,

63







Albee

often

reveals a

significant

facet

of

his

characters

through

a

slanted clichE,

one

that

has

been

tampered

with

in order

to indicate

a

special

meaning.

The

effectiveness of

this device rises

out of

the contrast between

what

one

expects

to

hear

and the

significantly

pointed

distortion.

But since

any

cliche

by

its

very

nature is seldom considered a particular and applicable truth, even the distor-

tion

of

one has an

air

of

ambiguity

about

it.

Albee,

nonetheless,

comes

closer

to

presenting unambiguous

truth

through

the use

of

cliches

than

in

any

other

in-

stance

in

the

play.

This

use

of

cliches

may

be

seen in

the

following

incidents.

As

Martha

taunts

George

at the

beginning

of

the

play

with

"Georgie-Porgie,

put-upon

pie" (12),

the

slanted

cliche reveals

George's

position;

he is made

the

unwilling

host

for

a

2:00

A.M.

after-party party. Similarly by

switching

from

"musical chairs"

in

George's

statement

to

Nick that

"Musical

beds

is

the

faculty

sport"

(34),

Albee foreshadows

the

night's

activities.

A

slanted cliche

appears

again

as

Martha assures Nick that a "friendly little kiss" won't matter since "It's all in

the

faculty"

(163).

And as Martha recalls her life at

the

opening

of

Act

III,

she

bemoans

the fact that

she

was

"left

to

her own vices"

(185),

a

fairly appropriate

statement

considering

her action

just

prior

to

this.

One other slanted

cliche

is

particularly

important

to

the

play,

George's

ac-

cusation that

Martha

is

a "child

mentioner"

(140).

"Child

molester"

is what

an audience would

anticipate,

and for

a

flesh-and-blood

child

it

would

be the

appropriate

term.

But

just

as

appropriate

to an illusion is

the

word

"mentioner,"

for

talking

of

ideas

corresponds

to

touching

objects.

Thus the illusion that some

critics7 feel

has

been

sprung

at

the end of the

play

has

been

foreshadowed

by

Albee's slanted cliche only halfway through the play.

Albee

also uses

cliches

as

they

are

normally

used,

but

attaches

great

importance

to

them

by

showing

that,

rather

than

being

devoid of

meaning

because

they

are

usually

not a

consciously

thought

out

expression,

they express,

because

of

their

very spontaneous

composition,

significant meaning.

Personalities are

revealed

by

balancing

a

cliche

with

a

responding

literal

application

of it. As Martha

says

that

George's Dylan

Thomas-y quality

"gets

[her]

right

where

[she]

lives,"

George

applies

this

quite

literally

and comments

on

Martha's

obsession

with

sex

by responding,

"Vulgar

girl " (24)

In

the same

manner,

a few

moments

later

Martha,

in

ridiculing George

for

not

taking

advantage

of

being

the

son-in-

law of the president of the college, says "some men would give their right arm

for

the

chance "

(28)

Taking

the

cliche

literally again,

George

corrects

her

by

remarking,

"Alas,

Martha,

in

reality

it

works

out

that

the sacrifice

is

usually

of

a somewhat

more

private portion

of the

anatomy."

As

George

and

Martha

bicker over

why

Honey got

sick-neither of

them

acknowledges

that

the

brandy

she's been

downing

all

night might

have

some-

thing

to

do with it-Martha

nags

at

George

to

apologize

for

making

Honey

throw

up.

George

rejects

his

responsibility

for this:

"I did not make

her

throw

up."

As

Martha

continues

her

assault,

"Well,

who

do

you

think did

.

.

.

Sexy

over

there?

You

think

he made his own

little wife sick?" To which

George-

"helpfully,"

Albee

directs-concludes,

"Well,

you

make me sick"

(118).

The

7

Richard

Schechner,

"Who's

Afraid

of

Edward Albee?" Tulane

Drama

Review,

VII

(Spring

1963),

8.

64

RUTH

MEYER







Language:

Truth

and

Illusion

in

Who's

Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?

cliche

goes

both

ways:

figuratively,

he is "sick" of

Martha;

literally,

Nick

might

have

made

Honey physically

ill. In a

similar

situation,

George

is able to turn

Nick's

threat of

"You're

going

to

regret

this

[telling

the real

basis for Nick and

Honey's

marriage]"

to

futility

by admitting, "Probably.

I

regret

everything"

(150). In these instances, by taking literally and giving specific application to a

cliche

which

usually

functions in a

figurative

and

general

manner,

Albee comes

closest to

presenting

unambiguous

truth.

Although

Martha

still

considers herself

the

Earth

Mother,

ironically

since she

is

beyond

menopause,

it is

George

who

is

the

Creative Force

in the

play.

One

might

call him

a

director

who

attempts

to

set

things

in motion

yet

remain

de-

tached. In

the

movie,

he

openly

announces:

"I'm

running

this

show."

His

attempt

to

assume

the

role

of

director is an

integral part

of the

truth/illusion

situation,

for as

he

vacillates

between

detachment

and

involvement,

his

statements

attain

their

ambiguity.

He

is

presented

with

his audience-the

new

biology

professor

and

his

wife.

As

the

guests

wait

at

the

door,

George

assumes his

controlling

roll

by

admonish-

ing

Martha

not to

"start

in

on

the

bit

[about

their

"son"]"

(18). Obviously

he

intends to run

the

show,

to

direct the

conversation.

Despite

his

attempts

to

re-

main

an

outside

creator,

from

time to time

he

is

involuntarily

drawn

into

the

action itself.

There

are

four

major

painful

confrontations for

George,

all times

during

which

he

contributes

to

the

ambiguity

between

truth

and illusion

by adopting

a

false

stance.

Involved

in

the

false

stance

is

not

only language,

but

gesture

and

action as well; all function in George's attempt to remain a director, and each

interacts and

supports

the

others. The first

is

the

revelation

that

Martha

beat

him

in a

boxing

match,

a

revelation

made

more

painful

and

more

personally

degrading

by

the fact that

Nick

was

"inter-collegiate

state

middleweight

cham-

pion."

Just

prior

to

this,

George

has

resisted

Martha's

goading

to

gush

over

Nick's

having

received

his

masters when

he

was

"twelve-and-ahalf."

Albee

notes

that

George

is

to strike

"a

pose,

his

hand over

his

heart,

his

head

raised,

his

voice

stentorian"

and

announce:

"I am

preoccupied

with

history" (40-50).

Under

the

guise

of an

actor,

using

words

which in

another context would seem

normal,

not

pretentious,

he

states the truth.

But because

it

is

obviously

an

act,

he

can

admit the truth with

no

involvement.

(Later, p.

178,

he

admits,

sincerely

this

time,

that

he

has turned to a

contemplation

of

the

past.)

After

being

able

to

admit

the

truth,

he

is

confronted

with

Martha's

"Hey George,

tell 'em about

the

boxing

match

we

had."

His

only response

when

caught

without

the

defense

of

role-playing

is to

exit

"with a sick look

on

his

face"

(57).

But

he is

not

gone

long.

He

returns,

as

an actor with a

gun.

His

"Pow

You're dead

Pow You're

dead "

is

again

his

assumption

of a

role,

because

he had been

pushed

to

involve-

ment and

disgrace.

To

understand the

Chinese

parasol

which

substitutes

for

a

bullet,

we

need

only

to

consider

his

stentorian

pose

for

the admission

of his

life's

focus;

the

"Pow

You're dead " is

as much of a

reality-in

his mind and

intention-as

his

preoccupation

with

history.

Both

are masked in

false

dialogue

and action. His role as director has been challenged, he is forced to involvement,

and

he

meets

this

challenge by

ostentatiously playing

a

part.

He

retreats

to the

realm of illusion

in

the

face of what is

for him a

painful

truth. But

the

degree

65







to which this is

an

illusion

is difficult

to determine

because,

as

has

already

been

pointed

out,

the

norm

is

by

no means

clearly

established.

As

in

the

first

conflict,

Martha is

the

instigator

in the second

conflict.

During

George

and

Nick's

get-acquainted

session

while

Martha and

Honey

were

up-

stairs,

George

has told of an

experience

that

happened

to one of his friends

during

their

youth.

Now Martha

brings

up

the

fact that

George

has written

a

novel

dealing

with

this

experience,

one

which

elicited

from

her

father the

judg-

ment: "You

publish

that

goddamn

book and

you're

out

. .

. on

your

ass "

(135)

George's

pained

"Desist

Desist "

gets only

laughter

from

Martha

and a

mocking

"De . . . sist " from

Nick.

His

equally

false

formal

dialogue,

"I

will

not

be

made

mock

of "

again

gets

only

a

mocking

response

from Nick.

George

is

pushed

to

the

breaking point

as

Martha

concludes,

supposedly quoting

George's

statement

to

her

father,

"No, Sir,

this

isn't

a novel

at all . . .

this

is the

truth

.

. .

this

really

happened

. .

.

to

me "

(137)

He

lunges

at

Martha,

grabbing

her

by

the

throat. His threat, "I'll kill you," now is carried out; the Chinese parasol is

replaced

by grasping

hands.

In

both

instances,

however,

George

has

first

relied

on or

been

pushed

to

dialogue

which

is unnatural for

him,

which

both

masks

and reveals

his

intention.

Similarly

in

the

third

crisis,

the one

in

which Martha

challenges George

to

intervene

in

her

proposed

adultery

with

Nick,

George

retreats to

the

most ob-

vious of all

detached

roles-reading

a

commentary

on

the situation.

This retreat

is

preceded

by

a reliance on

making

literal

application

of

a

cliche,

the

humor of

which

allows

him

to

remain a

director,

a

detached

person

controlling

or at least

only

viewing

the antics

of

the

others.

Consider

the

scene

near the end of

Act

II

as Martha seeks to get George:

Martha:

I'm

entertaining.

I'm

entertaining

one

of

the

guests.

I'm

necking

with

one of the

guests.

George:

Oh,

that's

nice. Which one?

(170)

Grammatically,

Martha's

speech

has

left

her

vulnerable

for

George's

bitter

question.

It

also affords

him

a chance to be

"seemingly

relaxed and

preoccupied"

as the

directions

indicate. Humor

becomes

his

shield.

And

later,

as he

reads:

Martha:

Oh,

I see

what

you're

up

to,

you lousy

little.

...

George:

I'm

up

to

page

a hundred

and . . .

again he finds refuge behind a humorous literal application of her statement.

By taking

the

cliche

referring

abstractly

to

anticipated,

frequently

unorthodox

action

and

applying

it

literally

to

the

present

situation,

George

does reveal the

truth-he is

"up

to

page

a hundred and

.

. ." But

he also creates for himself

an

escape

from

the truth of Martha's

proposed

adultery.

As

Martha's

fury

rises,

she

says:

Martha:

Why, you

miserable

. ..

I'll show

you.

Georgia:

No

.

.

.

show

him,

Martha,

he hasn't

seen it.

As

in

the

preceding quotation,

George

protects

himself

from the

threat

of

Martha's statement. At the same time, he caustically degrades Martha's sexual

attractiveness,

the

very

things

she

is

trying

so

desperately

to

prove

to

him

and

to

herself.

And

George's

final

deadly, revealing

reversal

of

accusation

shows

the

skill

66 RUTH

MEYER







Language:

Truth

and

Illusion

in

Who's Afraid

of

Virginia

Woolf?

with

which

George

is

able

to

shatter the

moral

illusion

under which the

others

operate

while

protecting

his

own:

Nick: You're

disgustingl

George:

Because

you're

going

to

hump Martha,

I'm

disgusting?

(172)

As

with

humor,

so

the

quotation

from the

book serves

as a screen

for

his

emotions.

"'And the

west,

encumbered

by

crippling

alliances,

and

burdened

with

a

morality

too

rigid

to

accomodate

itself

to the

swing

of

events,

must.

.

.

eventual-

ly

...

fall'

"

(174).

This,

by

the

context

surrounding

it,

should

be

a

sort

of

thesis

statement of

the

play.

But

who

actually

has the

"crippling

appliances,"

whose

morality

is

"too

rigid"?

George,

because the

circumstances

of

his

novel

really

happened

and

he

cannot

ignore

or

depreciate

them?

Martha,

because she

is

the

president's

daughter

and is bound

to the

college,

the

faculty,

and its

sports?

Or

perhaps

does

it have

application only

in the

literal,

the universal-the

West?

Once again, a "great truth" has been

presented-almost.

And again, the ambig-

uity

is

a

direct

result

of

the

language.

Finishing

the

quotation,

George

"gathers

all

the

fury

he

has

been

containing

within himself

...

he

shakes

.

.

.

with

a

cry

that

is

part

growl,

part

howl,

he

hurls

[the

book]

at

the

chimes"

(174).

Once

again,

false

dialogue

has masked

temporarily

his

involvement

and

pain.

The

final

encounter is

one

manipulated by George:

the death

of and Mass for

their

"son."

George begins

the action

by appearing

in

the kitchen

doorway,

snapdragons

covering

his

face;

Albee

notes that

he should

speak

in a

"hideously

cracked

falsetto":

"Flores;

flores

para

los

muertos. Flores"

(195)

(Flowers;

flowers

for

the

dead.

Flowers),

he

announces

to

Martha and

Nick.

Here is

Al-

bee's most

complete

interposing

of

dialogue

which in another context would not

be

unusual,

but

which in

this context

again

both reveals

and

conceals.

As

with

the

reading,

so with

the

foreign

language;

George

can

say

exactly

what he

means

without

being

involved.

George

shifts roles at

this

point;

his

face

"gleeful,"

he

opens

his

arms

to

Nick

and

says, "Sonny

You've come

home

for

your

birth-

day

At

last "

A

moment

later,

"Affecting

embarassment"

Albee

directs,

"I

.

.

.

I

brung

ya

dese

flowers,

Mart'a,

'cause I

...

wull,

'cause

you'se

.

.

. awwwwww

hell. Gee"

(196).

George

is

therefore

able,

actor that

he

is,

to

argue quite

convincingly-concrete

examples

and

all-with

great

logic

that the "moon

may

very

well have

gone

down... but it came back

up"

(199).

The

argument

is no more

superficial

than

any

other

transactions at this

point.

From this Martha moves to a

taunting jibe

about

George's parents

and the

novel;

next

they

focus

on whether

Nick is a

"stud"

or

"houseboy."

The

main

elements

of

conflict are

thus

reinstated

in

the

drama;

the

stage

is

ready

for the battle-and

George

again

assumes a role

to

escape

the

pain,

this time the role of a

priest.

Albee's

"message,"

if

indeed

the

play gives

one,

is

largely

determined

by

the

attitude

George

assumes

in

reciting

the

Mass.

Is the murder of the

son an act

of

revenge,

as the

conclusion of

Act

II

would lead us

to

believe?

Or is

it,

on

the

contrary,

an

act

of

compassion,

the

act of

an

uninvolved director

freeing

his

actors of their illusions? If Virginia Woolf elicits disagreement from critics con-

cerning

dialogue,

the motivation for

George's

action

has

called

forth a

stand

from

nearly everyone writing

about the

play;

an

account

of

their

opinions

would

67







be

little

more

than

a

list

under

"Revenge"

and

"Compassion."

Rather

than

merely tally

up

the

votes,

let

us look

at two

performances

of the

play.

In the

recording8

of the New York

play,

George's (Arthur Hill's)

voice

indi-

cates

a

determined,

almost

angry attempt

to

kill,

once

and

for

all

time,

this

cherished illusion. "Requiescat in Pace" sounds as though it were to be followed

by

the

stomp

of

a

foot and

perhaps

a

quick

"Damn it " not

altogether

unantici-

pated

at

this

point

in

the

play.

There

has been

no

switch from

the

revenge

mo-

tive;

this is

the

thing

that will

"get"

Martha;

therefore

George

does

it,

does

it

well,

does

it

determinedly,

does

it almost with

glee.

In

a

presentation

of

the

play

by

the

Repertory

Theatre

at the

University

of

Nebraska a

rather

striking

difference was

apparent.

Martha's rendition

of

the

"child's"

life

was

not

merely

a

defense

or

a

justification

of

his

existence;

it

was a

confession: "I

have

tried,

O

God,

I

have tried

. .

.

through

one

failure after

another

...."

(227)

On

her

knees,

in a

voice

of

restrained

agony,

she becomes

the figure of man tormented with sudden awareness of his condition. But to the

confession

there

can

be no

Absolution. Martha the confessant receives

counsel

but no

pardon.

And

this

it

seems

is

central

to

understanding

the

character of

George throughout

the

play.

To

give

Absolution,

the Confessor must be

con-

secrated,

set

apart,

uninvolved. This

George

would

like

to

be,

tries

to

be,

but

is

not.

Creator

he is:

his

novel,

though

unpublished

and

scorned

by "respectable"

New

Carthage

standards,

is

the

mark in

the

academic

jungle

of a

creative

mind.

The

past

histories

(Nick

and

Honey's marriage

and the

part played

by

"Jesus

money,

Mary money,"

for

example) originate

in

his mind

(143).

The actions off-

stage (Honey's being

curled

up

fetus-like

on

the bathroom

floor,

for

example)

reach

us

through George's

reports (167).

Therefore he can function

at

times

as

a

director.

But

as

we

have

seen,

he does

not have

the

ability

to

remain

separate

from

his

creation;

his

retreat

behind

false

dialogue

does not

protect

him

from

the

slings

and

arrows

which

plague

the others.

He

is

not

set

apart;

he

is

not,

therefore,

able

to

give

Absolution to

Martha.

Significantly

he can

only

say,

"We

couldn't

[have children]"

(238).

It

seems,

considering

the

pattern

that

Albee

has established

in

the

play

itself,

that

the

presentation

of

George

as

a

compassionate,

but

deeply

involved

person

is

more consistent with the whole.

George's

action

is

no

longer

one of

revenge,

nor

is it

solely

one of

freeing

Martha

from

illusion,

illusion which she

may

or

may

not

be better

off

without.

He

is

painfully

involved;

the altar

upon

which he

celebrates

the

Mass

holds

a

part

of him:

"There are

very

few

things

in

this

world

that

I

am sure

of

...

but

the

one

thing

in

this

whole

stinking

world

that

I am sure of

...

is

my

partnership,

my

chromosomological

partnership

in

the .

. . creation of

our

.

.

.

blond

eyed,

blue

haired

.

.

.

son"

(72).

He

is

director become

actor

in a

play

he

had

hoped

to

control,

an

unconsecrated

priest

playing

one more

painful

game.

The

interpenetration

of

truth

and illusion

is nowhere more

vividly

presented:

he did

create

the

"son,"

but

paradoxically

the

"son"

does not

exist.

Just

as we cannot

separate

the

discussion

of

language

in

the

play

from

the

characters, so can we not

separate

Albee's

manipulation

of

language

from the

8

Columbia

Records

No.

DOL

287.

68

RUTH MEYER







Language:

Truth

and Illusion

in

Who's

Afraid of

Virginia

Woolf?

overall

meaning

of

the

play.

Repeatedly

Albee

pounces

on the

word

"know,"

showing

how

little

we

really

do

know

of

another's

experience.

Communication

is

frequently

a

theme

of

Albee's

works,

and

Virginia

Woolf

is

no

exception.

The

fact

that there

may

be a

discrepancy

between what

someone

says

happened

and

what did happen, as well as our inability to appreciate an unexperienced situa-

tion,

receives

attention

in

the

play.

Truth

for the

person

merely observing

a

particular

situation

may

not

be

truth for the one

experiencing

it;

what

is

truth

for

one

may

seem

illusion

to

the

other.

Early

in

Act

I

George

clears

up

a

humor-

ous

confusion

of

pronoun

references

by

reminding

Nick

that

George's

wife

is

Martha.

"Yes ...

I

know,"

Nick

responds. George

counters: "If

you

were

married

to Martha

you

would

know

what

it

means.

(Pause)

But

then,

if

I

were

married

to

your

wife

I

would know

what

that

means,

too

. . . wouldn't

I?"

(36)

This

scene is

picked

up

later as

Nick

reminds

George,

".

.

.

your

wife is

Martha."

"Oh,

yes

. .

. I

know

(with

some

rue)"

(89).

Similarly,

as

Martha

sums

up

the

story of her quick marriage to the "lawn mower" with "It was very nice," Nick

is

quick

to

agree:

"Yes. Yes."

Martha's

response,

"What

do

you

mean,

yes, yes?

How

would

you

know?"

(78)

again

focuses on

the

inability

of

one

to

know

another's

experience,

and

hence

to

know the

"truth."

There

is,

then,

no

clear

cut

distinction between truth

and illusion

in

the

play.

Although

non-existant

and

known

by

George

and Martha

to

be

non-existant,

the

"son" is

nevertheless

a

reality

in

their

lives,

a

reality

by

which

they

define

their

relationship

to each

other.

Similarly George's

"murder" of his

parents may

be

real in

his

mind

only,

but

it,

too,

is a

reality

which

shapes

his life. The

same

could

be said

of

Honey's hysterical

pregnancy

or

Nick's

"potential."

Although we have seen the exorcism of an illusion, there is no truth revealed

in its

place. Reality,

Albee

seems

to

be

saying,

is a

painful

interpenetration

of

verifiable fact

and

imagination,

with

the

"fact"

of

the

mind

often

far

more real

than that of

the

body.

When

Martha accuses

George

of

not

knowing

the

difference

between truth and

illusion,

he

admits,

"No:

but

we

must

carry

on

as

though

we did."

In

this

play,

set

in

one

room which becomes a world in

itself

with

its own

games,

its own

rules,

"All

truth,"

as

George

admits,

"[becomes]

relative"

(222).

And

language

is a

major

device in the

play by

which

the

relativity

and

ambiguity

of

truth

are

accomplished.

69

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