Antal Szerb

A Dog Named Madelon

Short story

Unattainable, oh human desire.
Unattainable faery, delusory aim
Vörösmarty

János Bátky, Ph.D., cultivated a variety of countermeasures against the greyness of workaday life. In his childhood he sometimes succeeded in convincing himself that the chocolate he was eating was actually salami. Later in life he developed a great fondness for cocktails. Gin and vermouth conjured up the mighty spirit of extinct evergreens. Red wine laced with curaçao evoked a maiden of sixteen who must surely be married by now. He consistently managed to forget women's faces.
Let's see, what does Jenny look like, he mused one autumn afternoon in London as he stood contemplating the ivy-covered walls of the petite Welsh Methodist church. The churches of London have a miraculous way of preserving the provinciality of true faith in the midst of automobiles.
Being a methodical man, he quickly jotted down the aphorism before redirecting his thoughts to Jenny. He still had five minutes left before six. It might prove catastrophic if he can't remember Jenny's face by then. Although she had a tendency to wear dark blue suits, this could not be relied upon with the certainty of an axiomatic truth. Doubtless she had some unmistakable Jenny-ness about her, but this distinction was as faint as the difference between two varieties of tea. Ultimately, all women were Jennies.
"Hullo, is it you?" said Jenny, arriving.
The question was most appropriate. "The first and most difficult task of every rendezvous is ascertaining identity," Bátky made a note, this time only mentally. Here was an unfamiliar lady who said silly things and was angry because she did not find me at the agreed-upon meeting place. Bátky allowed Jenny to vent her anger before asking:
"Won't you come up to my place for tea?"
"No, I won't," replied Jenny, petrified as always whenever this prospect arose. And they ended up having tea at Bátky's flat, as always.
Jenny spoke about the customers. An old gentleman had purchased a Georgian fire-rake, a Madonna carved from wood, and a small African sculpture. But the time he took to make up his mind! Crocodiles were still a big item.
Oh and there were two young men, they must have been artists, because they told her she looked like an Italian painting. What was the name of that famous Italian painter?
"Giovinezzo Giovinezzi," offered Bátky.
That's the one. And they also invited her to dinner. But she refused. A decent woman does not do things like that.
Jenny worked in an antique shop.
And Lady Rothesay came by again.
"Oh, she did?" responded Bátky, somewhat stirred awake. Rothesay... how lovely. A historical name. One ancestor was hanged by James I of Scotland, possibly in St Albans. He would look it up at home.
"Tell me, what is Lady Rothesay like?"
"Oh, she's most peculiar. Yes, you could definitely say that. She comes in, points at something, say a candelabra, and off she goes with it..."
Bátky relapsed into his thoughts.
At his flat, while Jenny was making tea (that was what she liked best in their encounters), he looked up the Rothesays. One had indeed been hanged. His mind's eye envisioned a lake in Scotland, the traditional greyhounds in front of the castle; the melancholic Earl collects ivories and is a clandestine drunk in the wee hours in the window casement. His Lady is a Catholic at heart and receives Jesuits disguised as physicians, admitted through a secret door. Passing clouds assume ominous shapes.
After tea Jenny sat passively awaiting her womanly fate. Bátky was silent.
If instead of Jenny this were Lady Rothesay, I would ask, "Mylady, how could you do this? How could you risk your reputation like this? Next door Mrs Bird is constantly spying on us... And anyway... how could a Rothesay, whose ancestor was hanged under such tragic circumstances, humble herself by condescending to me, to the level of a commoner, an ordinary historian? The Earl's hounds are on our trail... Fly, Mylady, at once, while there's still time..." And on the way out, as she stands in the doorway with proud head raised, I would say: "Oh Mylady, stay, if only for the fraction of a second longer, come what may..."
And he threw himself at Jenny's feet. Somewhat embarrassed, she stroked his hair.
Then everything proceeded as usual.
Once again Jenny managed to leave some item of her apparel behind, and when she came back to claim it she found Bátky in a terminally acrid mood. He had been reflecting on how his whole life has been wasted on a series of horrid little Jennies, while ever since he was a boy he had yearned for a Lady Rothesay. For him history possessed an eroticism such as others found in the dressing rooms of actresses, and the true, great love of his life would have to have at least several centuries of history in her family tree. Instead, he had Jenny... It was all lies and masturbation.
"What's the matter?" Jenny asked.
"Nothing. Except I don't want to see you any more. Women with hands scrubbed red should stay at home. And you need to lose some weight in your thighs. Just go away."
For days on end he loitered on those streets of eternal repose where he imagined the English aristocracy resided when they sojourned in London. He watched the occasional large vans bearing the names of prominent London provisioners. He found the thought of an impending fashionable soirée titillating. Here and there he managed to chat with the family members of door-keepers.
"Invisibility is the hallmark of aristocracy," he scribbled. After some reflection, he added, "Blonde ladies may not be fond of fish, but are ecstatic if you offer them spider crabs."
But waking one Sunday he felt depressed by his aristocratic solitude and set out for Regent's Park to add one of the strolling shopgirls to his repertoire of women. His attention was mainly captivated by the squirrels that entertained the public in incredibly large numbers; he also watched the dogs. A most fascinating black dog marched past him, sort of like a Scottie, but much larger and far more devilish; probably some novel invention. It came with a lady in tow, dragged along by the relentless canine. The dog seemed to be looking for something, anxiously sniffing the trail. At last it halted in front of a memorial. It then set about the real purpose of this walk with the delirious excitement of those who have attained a goal. But some internal obstruction seemed to hinder the execution of this plan which promised to be a drawn-out process. The dog went through a series of most peculiar contortions and doubled over as it circled around, providing a most painful spectacle. Several little boys looked on with great interest, providing a running commentary. The lady nervously turned away from the sight.
"If you would like me to, I will take care of your dog," volunteered Bátky. "Perhaps you would prefer to feed the squirrels meanwhile."
"Not a bad idea," replied the lady, and handed over the leash.
"Excuse me," Bátky shouted after her, "what is your dog's name?"
"Madelon," said the lady, and strolled off.
That evening Bátky returned to his small apartment in possession of a dog. He had lost the lady in the crowd. Then he remembered that dogs have excellent instincts and let Madelon lead him. They walked out to Hampstead Heath, and admired a pond created on the hilltop where London ends. Madelon ambled along in silence, and seemed somewhat distracted. They must have walked for hours on end. It was late evening when they reached Golder's Green, the city limits. Here Madelon turned around and started back in the direction of the city. That was when Bátky realized that the dog had tricked him. He hailed a taxi and took Madelon home at the cost of sacrificing next day's lunch.
He had a restless night. The dog refused to eat or drink. She eyed Bátky's furniture with suspicion, then retired to a corner and howled. Toward dawn Bátky could stand it no longer and went out to an all-night tea-house where he slept for an hour or two, laying his head on the marble tabletop.
In the morning the sun rose in the sign of the dog. Bátky went home and found Madelon still alive, sound asleep on his bed. She looked like a black shawl with a fringe. As soon as she caught sight of Bátky, she growled moodily. She still refused to eat.
Bátky plopped down into an armchair and attempted to think in a rational manner. What was he to do with Madelon? Should he donate her to the Kensington Museum, where there were so many stuffed dogs on display? But his humane heart protested against this solution. Should he keep her and try to make friends with her? Human will was capable of wonders. Little by little he resigned himself to this thought.
We'll get used to each other, he thought. I have always longed for a pet, so I wouldn't be so alone. Too bad Madelon will only leave the bed to water the marble slate in front of the fireplace.
With bowed head he acknowledged the complaints of the tipsy charwoman. He was used to being misunderstood.
Why, in a month or two I'll have this dog taking walks with me. We'll be strolling along in Regent's Park one fine spring afternoon, and run into the lady who gave me Madelon. "Madam," I will say, "as you can see I have faithfully guarded what you have trusted to me. Madelon has grown somewhat bigger since then, perhaps she's even put on some weight, but not enough to spoil her figure. You can tell she has spent the last few months in intellectual company.
I don't think it proved detrimental..."
And one thing will lead to another; we might go and have tea, then to the movies, who knows.-The lady, as far as he could remember, was comely and prepossessing, with extraordinarily upright bearing. And dressed simply but tastefully. Obviously married to a young but prosperous tobacco merchant. Her father a respectable, greying accountant at a large insurance company. She lives in a small house somewhere, possibly in East Ealing, on a street that has sixty identical houses on each side, with identical lives in each of them. Oh, the English middle classes with their afternoon tea, restful winter evenings by the fireplace, a few words dropped every half hour, mostly about the Prince of Wales...
In the afternoon his doorbell rang. Bátky shook himself out of his reverie about the middle class and opened the door. The lady, herself, stood in front of him.
"I've come for Madelon," she said.
"Oh! Oh! And Oh again!" said Bátky, lost in the contemplation of fate's unpredictable ways. "Won't you please come in and have a seat? Madelon is still alive. But how did you find me? London, after all, is so huge..."
"It was very easy," the lady replied. "Yesterday you gave me this book to hold while you took care of Madelon. There was an envelope inside, addressed to János Bátky, Francis Street, London...and I concluded that must be you. I came in the afternoon to make sure I'd find you home. I would like to apologise...
I can imagine what Madelon must have been like at night... Poor man!"
"Oh, we were just starting to be friends," said Bátky modestly. "I caressed her all night, because I imagined that your hands must have touched her at times."
"How charming of you," said the lady and took off her hat.
Only now did Bátky realize that she was beautiful. I've always had a weakness for tobacco merchants' wives. Her hair has the colour of the finest Virginia tobacco.
They made tea, and while the lady poured two cups Bátky seized the moment to scribble on a slip of paper: "Love affairs have a tendency to begin in September or January."
After tea he sat at the lady's feet and rested his head on her lap. He imagined being at home with her in East Ealing. Family portraits on the wall, including one of grandfather with muttonchop whiskers. Christmas carols playing on the phonograph. Everything so serene and unchanging. The British Empire stands on unshakeable foundations. Madelon plays with a kitten in front of the fireplace.
The lady's lips tasted of home-made strawberry jam. As she undressed her movements were calm and gentle, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow will be another day. Her entire being radiated such self-confidence that Bátky forgot to marvel at this unexpected conquest. It would seem that this was the thing to do after tea. Just like Jenny...
"I'll come by again," said the lady as evening fell.
"I'll be delighted," Bátky replied with conviction. "Will you tell me your name?"
"Oh! I thought you recognized me. You might have seen my picture in the magazines. I am Lady Rothesay."
With that, she took her leave.
This parting note grated on Bátky's ears, for he held truthfulness in others in the highest regard. He usually broke off a liaison with ladies who claimed to be at the dentist when they in fact had been with another man. Why should she be ashamed of being the wife of a young but prosperous tobacco merchant?
The English were such incorrigible snobs. If I had a little house in East Ealing with grandpa and his muttonchops hanging on the wall, I wouldn't think of denying it.
Her lie depressed him so much that he refused to fall in love with the lady. His solitude again descended over him like a slowly lowered ceiling. The streets of London were always gloomy; a fine rain was mizzling; on Camden Hill aged gentlemen were strolling toward eternal rest. In Kensington alone there must have been two million elderly ladies. Life makes no sense at all. Somewhere, perhaps inside a castle in Scotland, or on a dark avenue of centenarian trees, an earl's unbalanced wife was contemplating suicide.
One day the lady stood at his doorstep again.
Once more they spent a pleasant aftenoon together. Bátky was in an intimate and sentimental mood, and spoke about Budapest, where the cafés cast cozy lamplight upon the pavement, the waiters know exactly which newspapers you prefer to read, and mysterious indigents shovel the white snow at night.
"What is your name?" he asked, expecting an honest answer this time.
"I told you before. I am Lady Rothesay."
Bátky became cool and detached. He realized that he could never get close to this woman and what is love without a true meeting of souls?
"Tomorrow I am leaving for France," he said, "where my father is a watchman at the Cathedral of Nôtre Dame."
"When will you return?" the lady asked.
"I won't be coming back," was Bátky's grim reply.
"As you wish," said the lady with a shrug, and hurried down the stairs.
A few days later the Sunday Pictorial once again carried a photo of Lady Rothesay. It was the same woman.
"Women are unfathomable," wrote Bátky on a slip of paper, which he care-fully kept.

Translated by John Bátki