The Cab

In the Eyes of Love There is no Such Thing as an Unimportant Mistake

FRANZ MOLNAR

Author of "Liliom", Translated by Benjamin Glazer

THE people of this dialogue are a matron and a man. 1 use the word "matron" instead of "woman" or "lady" for the purpose of indicating her age. For there are five certain years of a woman's life in which she can most aptly be described as a matron.' The man, on the other hand, is mature enough to be called simply a man.

THE MATRON: It is a hundred years since I've seen you.

THE MAN: I regret it more than you.

THE MATRON: And I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that we have met again. For what can we talk about now save days and things long past? Things so old and dim that perhaps you have forgotten them altogether.

THE MAN: First you say it is a hundred years since we met, and now you refer to very ancient memories. You speak as if we were both at least sixty. ... I find that very significant.

THE MATRON : Of what ?

THE MAN: When a woman begins speaking to me of "things long past," I am always certain that she has something to tell me. References to the passage of time are generally such a convenient pretext, such a safe starting point for reminiscences.

THE MATRON: That's clever of you.

THE MAN: What is?

THE MATRON: Guessing that I have something to teli you. But when a man ventures a guess like that he is generally pretty certain that he plays a part in the story the woman has to tell.

THE MAN: And doI play a part in yours? THE MATRON: A most important one.

(There is a pause while he tries hard to remember. )

THE MAN: I can't think what you can mean. THE MATRON: I shall tell you, but I must ask you to be discreet.

THE MAN: But ... of course!

THE MATRON: I don't mean about the story. You can repeat it wherever you choose. But I must ask you to give me your word of honour not to tell when it happened.

(He offers his hand in a silent pledge.)

THE MATRON: It happened ten years ago. Here in Budapest. In October.

THE MAN : I don't remember anything especial.

THE MATRON: We were both at a reception one evening. Your hair was chestnut brown in those days. And mine was not as blonde as it is. Supper was served outdoors in the garden. My husband had gone to Berlin for two weeks, and so I had come to the party alone. At about one o'clock, when the conversation had begun to be a bit tiresome, I said good night to the hostess. You were standing nearby, looking ardently into my eyes. THE MAN: Yes ... I think I remember. THE MATRON: YOU had been annoying me all evening long. For three weeks past you had shown unmistakable signs of being in love with me. Not that you ever spoke about it. But the way you looked at me, and the way you behaved! First you would stand up; then you would sit down; then you would rush out; then you would slink back again. You behaved like an infatuated boy.

THE MAN(Laughs good-naturedly) Did I?

THE MATRON: And as I said to the hostess: "Dear Therese, I've got to be going home," you suddenly vanished. And when I came out of the vestibule into the street, suddenly, there you stood.

THE MAN: Yes.

THE MATRON: And asked me if you might escort me home.

THE MAN: Yes.

THE MATRON: I laughed at your impetuousness, and told you that what you asked was most imprudent, yet I consented. For two reasons. First, you were so sweet and naive about it that I didn't believe there was any ulterior significance in your request.

THE MAN: Oh!

THE MATRON: And, secondly, because . . . because I was almost in love with you myself.

(There is a long silence.)

HE MAN: Really?

THE MATRON: Really. Yes.

THE MAN: YOU were in love with me?

THE MATRON: NO. But almost. I was at the stage where the rest depended on you. A man and woman, as you know, can go along for a certain time without the faintest flicker of interest on her part, and then, suddenly, she becomes acutely aware of him, and waits breathlessly for him to make the next move.

THE MAN: Is that the way you felt about me?

THE MATRON: Just that way.

THE MAN: YOU never told me.

THE MATRON: No. A women never does.

THE MAN: What an ass I was!

THE MATRON(with a sigh) It doesn't matter now. To continue the story,—when you offered to take me home I was too surprised for the moment to know what to answer. Then, giving myself up to a reckless impulse, I said, "Yes". And you cried eagerly, "I'll go and get a cab!" That was your first mistake.

THE MAN: What was?

THE MATRON: Hurrying away to call a cab and leaving me alone for two whole minutes. You should never give a woman time to reflect and reconsider. I must have cared for you a great deal to survive it. . . . And then the cab came.

THE MAN: A funny old one-horse hansom cab.

THE MATRON: Exactly. I am glad you remember the kind it was. For the'whole matter turned on this cab. It was a cab, and not a fiacre. It was drawn by one horse, not two.

THE MAN: It was the only thing I could get.

THE MATRON: YOUought to have gotten something else. For what happened next?

THE MAN: We got into the cab.

THE MATRON : Exactly. And rode for twenty-five minutes until we reached my home. Do you realize the difference between a hansom and a four-wheeler?

THE MAN:Well . . . not exactly . . .

THE WOMAN: In the first place, the windows of a hansom rattle so fiendishly that you can't hear a word the person next to you is saying. Then, too, a hansom is cold and unfriendly in October. Whereas in a fourwheeler neither the wheels nor the windows rattle. The wheels are covered with rubber tires and the windows muffled with felt. Inside a four-wheeler it is so comfortable and quiet that one is in a frame of mind for indulging in the finer nuances of conversation. One can say quite ordinary words, for instance, and give them an intonation of subtle significance. . . . What was the first thing you said to me as we clattered along in that rickety old hansom of yours? "How have you been?" you remarked. It was an extremely brilliant question. And I tried to answer, "Well enough." But the window rattled, the wheels squeaked and the whole vehicle creaked so that I had to fairly shriek my answer: "Well. . . . w-e-l-l e-nough!" Quite different had -we been in a smooth, silent four-wheeler. For then I could have lowered my eyes and said my "well enough" in a tone so soft and full of shy, tender meaning that you would have taken courage to go on. With a mere inflection of my voice I could have told you how glad I was to be with you like this, and yet how frightened I was at my indiscretion, and so forth, and so forth. ... But, as it was, I had to bellow it out most uncivilly, and you took fright and were silent. For about five minutes we jolted along in absolute silence. Now in a quiet, cozy four-wheeler silence, too, has its uses. After a while you would undoubtedly have said to me, "Why are you so quiet?" And then perhaps I would have begun to cry.

HE MAN: Oh!

THE MATRON: But who notices silence in a hansom? It is perfectly natural not to want to talk amid all that clatter.

THE MAN: Of course. What an ass, what an ass I was!

THE MATRON: We reached my home, we formally said good bye, and that was the last I saw? of you until today. I don't blame you for avoiding me. I hadn't encouraged you in the least, but then, you see, I couldn't, without being utterly vulgar. And what I want you to know is that had you called a four-wheeler that night . . .

THE MAN: Oh!

THE MATRON: Isn't it strange how the loveliest things can be made or marred by a trifle? Don't look so glum. It is rather late to be pitying yourself—or me. And now, to punish you for your ancient error, I shall make you take me home to my husband.

THE MAN: Shall I call a cab?

THE MATRON: Please; it is beginning to rain.

THE MAN: This time . . . this time it will be appropriate for me to get a hansom.

THE MATRON: NO, no. A fiacre by all means. You must demonstrate, as I mean to, that the cosiest four-wheeler in the world is unavailing now. It seems that you are never equal to the situation. Here is a safe rule for you to go by: Whenever a man takes a woman home he should hitch as many horses as he can find to his carriage .... Hurry now.

(The Man moves off in search of a cab, smiling a little bitterly at the memory of bygone follies. The rain falls grey, autumnal.)