An Unopened Letter

Showing That the God of Domestic Felicity is a Fairly Fragile One at Best

FRANZ MOLNAR

THE scene is a large room, very elaborately furnished. All the affointments sfeak of luxury and excellent taste. Pieces of antique furniture line the walls. On the floor there are beautiful carfets and rugs. It is early in the morning of a sflendid spring day. The radiators are still humming, but this is, so to sfeak, their swan song, for the next day they are to be shut off. The husband is seated beside a table, reading the newsfafers. He is smoking a cigar. One can easily see that he is satisfied with the sfring, with his newsfafer, with his cigar, and, in fact, with the whole scheme of life. One can also fercreive, on second glance, that he is a little bored. Suddenly the outside bell rings. He springs to answer it in advance of the maid. The fostman is revealed as the great door ofens.

USBAND: Letters?

POSTMAN: Yes, sir. (Gives him a neat stack of letters.)

HUSBAND: Thank you. (Goes into the room and futs the mail on the table.)

WIFE'S VOICE: (From the inside room) Who rang?

HUSBAND: The postman, dear.

WIFE'S VOICE: IS there anything for me? HUSBAND: I'll see, my dear. Please hurry and get dressed.

WIFE: Presently. (The closing of a closet door is heard.)

HUSBAND: (Looking over the mail and humming a song with a self-satisfied air) Here is the new catalogue of the Braun Bank, offering a fresh stock issue. Excellent. A circular: Name your favourite moving picture actress and get a prize. Fine. Let's get on. A dun for my club dues. And here's an engagement announcement. (Shouting towards the next room) Ilona . . .

WIFE: What is it?

HUSBAND: Miss Laner is engaged to be married.

WIFE: TO whom?

HUSBAND: A fellow called Borsodi.

WIFE: Aren't there any letters for me?

HUSBAND: One minute, one minute. (Sorts through the file.)

WIFE: Who is this man Borsodi?

HUSBAND: Borsodi? Borsodi? Oh, just a nice young fellow. (He has extracted one letter from the file and is looking at it curiously. The following remarks he makes fartly aloud and fartly in his mind.) What is this? A letter for my wife. Well! Heavy gray paper. Emphatically a male handwriting . . . Where does it come from? From Budapest. The city! Very interesting. I've never seen this handwriting before. (Gazing at length, at the envelofe.) Very suspicious. (He begins to feel decidedly uncomfortable.) The right thing would be to hand this letter over to my wife without a word, without a question, and without the slightest suspicion; and never to reveal by any look or word that this letter interests me more than any of the mail or even Miss Laner's engagement. That would be the right thing. But . . . (Still looking at the letter.) Yes, that would be the right thing.

WIFE: Mary, lay out my brown velvet slippers and clean my black ones and bring-them back..

HUSBAND: It seems she is going to take some time more to get dressed. As I remarked, that would be the proper thing to do. However, the really sensible thing to do would be to . . (Makes a motion as if to tear ofen the offensive envelofe.) Yes, that would be the really wise thing. She has only got as far as her slippers—not even that, for she doesn't seem to have made up her mind between the brown and the black. She won't be out for some time yet. On the other hand . . . But it is my right! (He refeats the motion, but goes no further.) Let us think this over carefully. The fact that it is addressed to the house would seem to exclude the possibility that it contains something that I should not know. There wasn't any concealment about it—it came quite openly, together with the Braun Bank and Miss Laner. However, there still remain two circumstances against it. One is that 1 am supposed to be out of town, for the day before yesterday I wrote from Orsove that I should not be able to get back until the day after tomorrow. So it is not impossible that I am like the husband in the comedy who arrives earlier than expected and happens in just at the wrong moment,— just in time to catch his wife with another man. This-time I have caught her, if I have really caught her at all, by mail. The other circumstance is that she has already enquired twice if she did not get a letter. Consequently, she expects a letter. It is true that she is always interested in the mail, but she certainly seems to be more than ordinarily insistent this morning. She's asked twice already. Suspicious!

WIFE: Isn't there a letter for me?

HUSBAND: (Turning pale) Well . . . (He fauses.)

WIFE: (With emphasis) I asked you if there is not a letter for me!

HUSBAND: (Having made uf his mind) No. (He hastily conceals the letter in his coat focket.)

WIFE: Mary, button my frock, please.

HUSBAND: I have no time to lose. (Reaching for his focket) It actually burns my pocket! It burns a hole in it, not outwardly but into my very flesh! The first time I have ever descended to rifle her mail! To take one of her letters! Take? To steal it! I actually stole it. I despise myself. And I deserve to despise myself, even if I should not open the letter. But I'm in it too deeply now to withdraw or to hesitate. I have already lied to her and stolen her letter. The infringement of her privacy is not a less criminal act. What a filthy thing it is to spy on one's wife! And, all the while, she may be innocent. When I open the letter, what shall I find? Perhaps only a request from some charitable association for funds, a petition from some merchant for her custom, an appeal for assistance from some poor relation, or an invitation to something or other. Then, torn and tortured by my conscience, I shall either be obliged to confess everything and make myself ridiculous, or remain in my villainy and throw the letter in the fire to save my face. In that case I'll buy her an expensive present—perhaps I can get something that will look expensive without costing too much . . .

WIFE: I don't think I'll wear this dress after all, Mary. Get out the dark blue one.

HUSBAND: SO I'll have some time yet to think it over.

WIFE: But never mind, Mary. I'll put this one on, after all.

MARY: It's very warm outside, Madame.

WIFE: Well, fetch the blue one.

HUSBAND: Oh, dear! Good little Mary! And now, to decide. Let us look on the other side of the medal. The letter may begin: "My only sweet-He gulfs.) It would be a bitter surprise. (In sfite of himself, he is rather enjoying the susficion.) Or it might begin: "My darling little squirrel". That would be much worse. For any one to call my wife "My only sweetheart" would be bad enough, but at least the term is one of respect. But to call her a "squirrel" would be to prove that she is the conquered toy of some philandering male, and that would be too disgraceful. It would be too terrible to think of my angel occupying the place of a squirrel in some other man's heart. I couldn't bear it!

WIFE: Mary, just let me have the blue one after all.

HUSBAND: (To himself) Just go on changing your mind. You don't suspect that you are perhaps saving your happiness by being unable to decide which frock to wear. Let us get on: it might say anything. For example: "My beloved angel, I am on my knees, expecting your coming this afternoon to our secret rendez-vous." Or, otherwise: "My sweet little squirrel, this afternoon, if you like, you can creep up my shoulders in our little lair." The implication is unpleasant in both cases, apart from the tone of address. Whatever shall I do?

I am totally unprepared for such an emergency. I never had any idea I should have to go through a situation of this kind, in my own home. All this day I shall go through hell, with stop-overs at all the stations between here and there. And to think I had never suspected her! In all the plays and novels, the husband suspects his unfaithful wife for months before the discovery. He notices her "strange behaviour", her "extraordinary moods", that "the Countess has had no appetite for weeks", and that "a pall of melancholy had settled over her usually happy disposition." And the suspicion grows slowly in the heart of the husband until it is gradually strengthened to the point of certainty. One adopts the idea of suspicion. One adopts it, but one does not simply fall into it. Before one acts, one needs to consider the circumstances very carefully. One must have absolute certainty, absolute and undeniable proof, and then suddenly descend upon the criminal and catch her red-handed, or redcheeked, as the case may be. Or, better one does nothing of the kind. A clever man burns his bridges before him. A bridge leading to unhappiness—that is exactly it. I am going to burn this letter. I don't want to know. I don't care what it says. I'll throw the letter in the fire, and by the time my wdfe appears in whatever frock she finally chooses to wear, the whole thing will be ended. Only the ashes of my possible unhappiness will remain. That's the only wise thing to do ... (He rises and, taking the letter from his pocket, starts to go towards the fireplace, where the logs are burning furiously. His wife enters precisely at this unfortunate moment. The husband, with a gesture of culpable alarm, endeavours clumsily to thrust the incriminating letter back into his pocket.)

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WIFE: Is that a letter you are trying to hide from me?

HUSBAND: (Stupidly) I?

WIFE: Yes, you! You have put a letter in your pocket, and you're trembling like a murderer on trial. I saw it quite clearly. It was a woman's writing on the envelope.

HUSBAND: It was not. It was a man's handwriting.

WIFE: (Witheringly) Don't lie to me! You aren't clever enough. Anybody could see by your face that you are lying. Give me that letter.

HUSBAND: I shan't.

WIFE: Give it to me at once!

HUSBAND: (Tragically) Never! (He darts to the fireplace).

WIFE: What are you doing?

HUSBAND: I'm going to burn that letter. (Attempts to do so.)

WIFE: (Catching his arm) You are going to do nothing of the kind! I want to see that letter. I want to know who writes you letters, the kind of letters that your wife may not see.

HUSBAND: That you may not see! Why, it's not for me ... I mean it's for me . . . but . . .

WIFE: Stop stuttering. You're absurd. You have no talent for lying, and you ought to know it by this time. The best thing you can do is to confess everything at once and hand over that woman's letter to me.

HUSBAND: (Who has remained in his heroic posture near the fireplace) No, by Jove! I shan't! I'd rather burn my hand than give you that letter. (With a sudden movement he withdraws his arm from her restraining grasps and hurls the letter into the fire. After a moment it bursts into flame.)

WIFE: (Almost shrieking) You threw it in!

HUSBAND: (Gulping painfully) So it seems.

WIFE: (Weeping) You've destroyed my happiness. You may say anything now, but I shall never believe you again, as long as I live. I shall always think of you as having a secret, a horrible secret, a ... a mistress . . . though if you had shown me the letter, it mightn't have been so bad. Perhaps only some private affair of a friend . . . but now I shall always think you are deceiving me. You will never be able to undo the harm that you've done. Never . . .

HUSBAND: Upon my word of honour . . .

WIFE: It's no use now. I can't believe you. You were frightened, and you threw it in the fire. You had good reasons. Don't tell me anything. (She rushes, weeping, from the room.) You've killed my happiness.

(He shrugs his shoulders, takes his hat and stick, and departs by the street door.)

CURTAIN