Antal Szerb - Love in a Bottle

Once tea was over Jenny sat passively awaiting her womanly fate. Bátky remained silent.

“Now,” he was thinking, “if this Jenny were Lady Rothesay, I would say to her: ‘My lady, how can you do this? How could you gamble thus with your good name, when Mrs Bird next door is forever spying on us?… And besides… how could a Rothesay, whose ancestor was hanged in such tragic circumstances, lower herself to the level of someone like me, a base commoner, a mere academic? But hark!.. the Earl’s bloodhounds are closing in… you must fly, my lady, fly this instant! And as she was leaving, standing in the doorway with her proud head high, he would declare: ‘Oh my lady, stay, if only for a fleeting moment longer! Stay, whatever cruel Fate may bring…’”

And he threw himself at Jenny’s feet. Somewhat embarrassed, she stroked his hair. She had seen it all many times before.

Then everything took its usual course.

Yet again, Jenny managed to forget some item of her clothing, and when she called back she found Bátky in a terminally bitter mood. He had been reflecting on the way his whole life had been frittered away on a procession of frightful little Jennys, when ever since boyhood he had yearned for a Lady Rothesay. History held the sort of erotic charge for him that others found in actresses’ dressing rooms — a truly great passion required three or four centuries’ historical background at the very least. As for Jenny… it was all just lies and onanism.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just don’t bother coming here again. Women with scrubby red hands should stay at home. And get some of that fat off your thighs. Why don’t you just disappear?”

For whole days he mooched about the eternally silent streets where he imagined the English aristocracy resided when in London. Occasionally a large delivery truck would pass through, bearing the name of some famous London firm. “That can only mean a soirée somewhere,” he thought, and his pulse quickened. Once or twice he managed to exchange a few words with the wife and dependents of a doorman.

“The most striking feature of the aristocracy is their invisibility,” he confided to his notebook. After further thought he added: “Blondes are generally averse to fish, but go into ecstasies when served spider crabs.”

By Sunday his aristocratic solitude had begun to oppress him, and he took himself off to Regent’s Park with the idea of adding one of the strolling shop girls to his repertoire of conquests. Most of the time he spent watching the squirrels. There were vast numbers of them entertaining the crowd. There were also dogs. One especially interesting black creature, not unlike a Scottish terrier but much bigger and altogether more diabolical-looking (no doubt some newfangled breed) trotted by in front of him. It was followed by a woman, whom it was dragging along in some agitation. It seemed to be looking for something, sniffing the ground with an air of busy anxiety. Finally it paused before a sort of memorial. With all the happy excitement of a purpose about to be fulfilled it prepared to transact its real business. But some inner obstruction appeared to be frustrating the process, which threatened to become rather drawn out. The dog circled round in a series of bizarre bodily contortions that were painful to behold. A crowd of little boys watched with great interest, providing an expert running commentary. The lady turned her back on the scene in some distress.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, if you like,” said Bátky. “Perhaps you might go and feed the squirrels.”

“Good idea,” she replied, and handed him the leash.

“Excuse me,” he called after her. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Madelon,” she replied, and strolled away.

When Bátky arrived back at his tiny flat that evening he was richer by a dog. He had lost the woman in the crowd. It occurred to him that dogs have very sure instincts, and he decided to entrust himself to her guidance. They went for a stroll on Hampstead Heath, where they paused to admire the artificial lake at the top of the hill. Madelon trotted along in happy silence. They walked for hours. It was late evening by the time they reached Golders Green, where the city proper ends. Here the dog made an abrupt turn and calmly set off back towards town. Bátky realised she had tricked him. Sacrificing the money for the next day’s lunch he hailed a taxi and took her home.

It was a difficult night. She refused to eat or drink. She eyed his furniture suspiciously, then crawled into a corner and howled. Towards dawn he could stand it no longer. He went out to an all-night tearoom, laid his head on the marble table top and caught a few hours’ sleep.

The sun rose next morning in the sign of the dog. Bátky went home. The animal was still alive. She lay on his bed, sleeping soundly, and looking for all the world like a lady’s black shawl with a fringe. The instant she set eyes on him she growled testily. And she still wouldn’t eat.

He flopped into an armchair and attempted to order his thoughts. What was to be done with her? He thought of offering her to the Kensington Museum — they had several stuffed dogs on display — but his kindly heart baulked at the idea. Perhaps he should keep her, train her, and try to make friends with her? Human will-power could sometimes bring about wonders. By degrees he reconciled himself to the notion.

“We’ll get used to one another,” he told himself. “I’ve always longed for a pet, to stop me being so lonely. It’s a pity the only time she’ll ever get off the bed will be to wet the marble slab by the fireplace.”

Whenever the tipsy cleaning lady scolded him he just listened in silence with his head hanging down. He was used to being misunderstood.

“No doubt, after a month or two, I’ll get her to come walking with me. One fine spring afternoon we’ll be strolling in Regent’s Park and we’ll happen to meet the lady I had her from. ‘Madam,’ I shall say, ‘as you see, I have faithfully watched over that which you entrusted to me. Madelon has grown a little since then, it is true, and yes, she has put on a little weight, perhaps, but not enough to harm her figure. Obviously she’s spent the last few months in serious intellectual company. I don’t believe it’s done her any harm.’

“And one thing would lead to another, we’d go and have tea, then to the cinema, who knows…?” The lady, so far as he could remember, was rather attractive and engaging, with wonderfully square shoulders… simply dressed, but in excellent taste. Obviously the wife of a young but successful tobacco merchant… her father a respectable greying functionary in a large insurance company… all living in a little house somewhere, East Ealing perhaps, in one of those streets with sixty addresses on either side of the road, all exactly the same, with more or less identical lives being led inside them. Oh, the English lower middle classes, with their five-o’clock teas, their tranquil winter evenings by the fire, the single words let drop once every half-hour, most probably about the Prince of Wales…

In the afternoon the bell rang. Bátky roused himself from his reverie about the middle classes and opened the door. There stood the lady.

“I’ve come for Madelon,” she said simply.

“Oh… oh… and oh again!” he said, lost in contemplation of the strange workings of fate. “Do take a chair. Madelon is still alive. But how ever did you find me? London is so large…”

“It was very easy,” she replied. “You gave me this book to hold yesterday, while you took care of her. There was a letter inside addressed to János Bátky, Francis Street, London… I thought that must be you. I came in the afternoon hoping to find you at home. I really must apologise… I can imagine what Madelon got up to in the night… you poor man!”