Madame Verona Comes Down the Hill

By Dimitri Verhulst

“A timeless novel about love, loss and village life” from the award-winning Dutch author of The Misfortunates and Problemski Hotel (Aesthetica).
 
Years ago, Madame Verona and her husband built a home for themselves on a hill in a forest above a small village. There they lived in isolation, practicing their music, and chopping wood to see them through the cold winters. When Mr. Verona died, the locals might have expected that the legendary beauty would return to the village, but Madame Verona had enough wood to keep her warm during the years it would take to make a cello—the instrument her husband loved—and in the meantime she had her dogs for company. And then one cold February morning, when the last log has burned, Madame Verona sets off down the village path, with her cello and her memories, knowing that she will have no strength to climb the hill again. Poignant, precise and perfectly structured, this is a story of one woman’s tender and enduring love—as a wife, and as a widow.
 
“An intimate, unsentimental portrayal of European rural life . . . In Verhulst’s landscape, nature is ruthless, amoral and never benign, and human memory a cruel mirage . . . His best sentences are gorgeously resonant.”—The Herald
 
“Aging, bereavement and death are somber themes, yet this novel’s treatment of them is agreeably entertaining . . . this tale of enduring love is often preposterous, sometimes poignant and, above all, consistently charming.”—The Independent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781846274633

Dimitri Verhulst

DIMITRI VERHULST is the award winning author of poetry, plays, and fifteen novels. He has won the Libris Prize, one of the most prestigious literature prizes in the Dutch language, and his work has appeared in 25 languages. His novel Problemski Hotel has been inscribed in the List of the Unesco Collection of Representative Works and the movie based on The Misfortunates won the Prix Art et Essai at The Cannes Film Festival. He lives in Sweden.

Book preview

I

Somewhere, in one of the many narrative repositories that have been set up here and there for us to draw on when the world needs a story, it must be possible to find the fable that tells us that people, on their arrival in the realm of the dead, must lay claim to a trait, one only, that characterizes the life they have just led. After all, we need to be able to imagine the afterworld as a pleasant place – that’s a precondition of these fables, and you would have to be quite naïve to believe that an eternal sojourn in a single location with everyone who has ever and will ever die could remain pleasant for very long. According to the fable in question, the wandering souls are grouped according to shared characteristics, from which we can immediately conclude that it must be especially busy in those parts of the hereafter that are filled with people who strove during their lifetime to accumulate as much money as possible, possess fire, become a famous guitarist, famous in any discipline at all, or where the resurrected population consists of all those who let their self-esteem depend on the number of their amorous conquests.

Of course, this fable about the hereafter is actually a fable about life, which is why even notorious atheists can derive a great deal of pleasure from considering it as a hypothetical situation. On that icy day in late February, for instance, Madame Verona thought about what she would shortly confess to eternity’s fabled gatekeeper as the chief characteristic of the life that had surrendered its last toehold and was now slipping away from her. It wasn’t so much that she was thinking about what to tell him – she had no doubts on that score – it was how to put it that bothered her.

*

The one characteristic element with which she would summarize her eighty-two years of existence was that dogs had always sought out her company. There must have been something about her, even when she was very young, that made dogs feel safe around her. As a girl she was often snuffled by passing quadrupeds that immediately begged to be patted, offering to shake hands the way ridiculous people had taught them to. Even more intelligent breeds known for their distrust of children caught a whiff of whatever it is that makes dogs wag their tails, and guard dogs that had been trained to foam at the mouth at the sight of a stranger abandoned all xenophobia in her presence. In the summer, when many a holidaymaker dumped the family pet on a convenient roadside, she encountered starving dog after starving dog, and would have taken them all home with her if not for the presence there of a mother who could scream entire octaves at the mere thought of a dog. The only thing her mother had ever permitted her was a childish or, more accurately, girlish dedication to guinea pigs, and even then mother dear would have probably suffered a heart attack if one of the creatures had ever escaped its cage. And there was no question of a mother like hers being able to sympathize with the immature grief of a child digging a hole in the back garden to accommodate the shoe or cigar box that would be lowered into it after the last rites that only children administer to dead animals.

Madame Verona had not seen her parental home since the day her mother was lowered into that same merciful earth, after which the house was sold to people who showed no interest in the history of their new dwelling. But if she had just once succumbed to a nostalgic impulse to sniff up the atmosphere of her tender years, she could have strolled through the garden knowing it was rooted in a small animal cemetery. It was highly unlikely that anything would be left of the countless cavy cadavers or the birds that had ended up there after leaving a greasy spot on a windowpane, but with a little effort she could have recalled which animal was sleeping the sleep of sleeps under which shrub. More than that, she could have remembered what all those little creatures had been called: Mimi, Cuddles, Fluffy, Skittles, Bill, Dolly, or whatever names thirteen-year-old girls give their pets and later feel a mistaken sense of embarrassment about.

Nonetheless, in the case of Madame Verona, we should differentiate between a relatively standard love of animals and the power over dogs she enjoyed throughout her life. Although it is questionable whether ‘enjoyed’ is the right word in this context. After stubbornly bringing yet another pitiful stray home with her (wrong again: she didn’t bring them, the dogs simply followed her), she endured her mother’s predictably hysterical outburst and then delivered the animal in question to the shelter, realizing that imprisonment there was the price of a full stomach and hoping against hope that this dog might be adopted by wiser owners. That last bit is a figure of speech, as it is common knowledge that there is absolutely no point in buying or adopting a dog in the hope of calling yourself its owner; it’s always the dog that chooses the owner, even if that means waiting patiently for rain to rust the chain and long days spent marching.

It is hard to say when exactly Madame Verona first became aware of her abnormal appeal for dogs, but she was around twenty when she travelled independently for the first time and ascertained that her peculiarity was just as potent in foreign countries. Of course, many people have been tickled by an unsolicited offer of simple canine friendship and honoured by an animal showing up to present itself as a confidant, even if it’s almost always more trouble than it’s worth.

She, for instance, suddenly found herself with a sheepdog as compagnon de route on a hiking trip through Portugal. The dog asked nothing of her, he simply followed along behind, days on end, through and over the gentle hills around Coimbra. At night, under the stars, he stretched out on the hard ground that bent her tent pegs, and in the morning he simply resumed her path, after first stretching his front legs in an ancient yawn that displayed every last one of his rotten yellow stalactites and stalagmites. He made no attempt to demand a share of her meals. And she didn’t give him anything either, hoping he would go back to wherever he had come from. Puddles were all he needed and, fortunately, there were plenty of those. Finally, a couple of weeks and many miles later, a stone’s throw from Porto airport, knowing she couldn’t take him home with her, she rejected him with a pointing finger and feigned anger that didn’t come close to convincing him. Then, for the first time, he let her hear his bark, and the sound cut her to the bone. It was a paltry, worn-out yap, no longer capable of impressing even a sheep. Then he turned, in all his loneliness, hoping that a destination would reveal itself.

*

When Madame Verona’s thoughts turned to the

Reviews for Madame Verona Comes Down the Hill

[limelite_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Elegiacal and melancholy novella about grief, set on a mythic hill in a small mountain village where one woman's loyalty to the memory of love for her husband is recorded in small acts of devotion to the stray dogs who have always sought her out and to the memory of that rarest of things in life -- a soul mate.At the same time, this is not a sad book; rather, it is a triumphant one in that Madame Verona wills and is able to dictate the time and place of her own last moments of life. She does not brood nor mope during her remaining span of years but she does honor what she had with her composer husband by finding ways to cultivate the memories of their happiness.Two artists -- at least one of them was able to excel in the "art of dying."

[bagpuss-3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As ever, I’m woefully behind with my reviews, having read this about two months ago! I seem to have rated it 4/5, but I can’t actually remember that much about it – and it was a library book so I can’t even dip into it to remind myself of it - oh dear! I remember that I enjoyed the very poetic writing. Essentially it’s a love story about Madame Verona and her husband – and how she copes after his death. The villagers expect her to become more involved in village life after his death, but she stays isolated, knowing that she has enough wood for the fire to last for the rest of her life. Once that wood runs out Madame Verona will come down the hill, but not until then.

It was originally written in Dutch (the author was born in Belgium) but I think the translation must do it justice, because, as I said, I found the writing to be lovely - apart from that I don't have much to add, sadly!

[labfs39 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If the love of your life were to die while you were still young, how would you choose to live the remainder of your life? Madame Verona, as she is known to the villagers, is not a native of the hamlet at the foot of the mountain. She and her husband have bought a remote house and surrounding woods because "'this is a house you could die in and it's a house you could be unhappy in. We'd be mad not to take it'". Deeply in love, the couple didn't realize how soon their off-hand remark would come to be. When the abandoned were still lovers, they had sworn that they didn't want to live without each other, they had given each other power of attorney over the meaning of their existence and the disappearance of one would have cried out for the disappearance of the other. With the elderly that is often a natural process: if one drops dead, the other hurries to the grave without any extra effort on their part. But young adults are not yet capable of dying like swans; their hearts are able to bear grief... For Madame Verona, who always has a stray dog at her heals, it is the dog's needs that keep her moving forward, step by step, "and so, before she knew it, Madame Verona had been drawn into living on for her allotted span."The majority of the story is told from the perspective of members of the village. Vignettes of life in the little community are wonderfully pastoral and funny, and their interactions with and opinions of Madame Verona are simple and askew. The story moves between the villagers' perspective and Madame Verona's memories and present thoughts to create a pastiche that is charming but not cloying. Without melodrama, the author writes of love and grief and life in a way that encompasses the noble and the mundane.Being from a small town myself, I couldn't help but chuckle at the oddities and tall tales of the villagers, and I loved the simple and sonorous language of the book. Often, I would read passages aloud and savor the sounds and images. In less than 150 pages, I was entertained and touched by the lives and loves of the characters. Warm and gentle, this novel was a wonderful holiday read.

[shereadsnovels · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The book is set in the tiny and remote village of Oucwegne, a place that is slowly dying due to the lack of girls being born in recent generations. Madame Verona and her musician husband Monsieur Potter live in an isolated house at the top of a steep hill overlooking the village. As they get older, it becomes more and more difficult to walk up and down the hill. When Monsieur Potter hangs himself from a tree after being diagnosed with cancer, he leaves his wife enough firewood to last another twenty years. During those twenty years, Madame Verona lives alone with only an assortment of stray dogs for company, waiting for a luthier (cello-maker) to build her a cello using the wood of the tree from which her husband hanged himself. Eventually she places the last log on the fire and, as the title suggests, comes down the hill, knowing she won’t have the strength to go back up ever again.The problem I had with the book is that there's very little action, there's no suspense as we know what's going to happen right from the beginning, and there’s almost no dialogue. However, this is more to do with my own personal reading preferences rather than a criticism of the book itself – it’s not supposed to be a thriller after all. Most of the 145 pages are devoted to a string of humorous anecdotes describing life in an isolated village where only six people attend church, the men are obsessed with playing games of table football and a cow was once elected mayor. Most of the characters Verhulst describes are portrayed as eccentric and not particularly likeable. It’s easy to see why Madame Verona was in no hurry to rejoin the community, preferring to stay on the hill with her memories of her husband. The final few chapters, though, were poignant and moving and will be understood by anyone who has lost someone they love.This book has been translated from the original Dutch, but even in translation Dimitri Verhulst's writing is poetic and thought-provoking. If you can appreciate the beautiful writing for its own sake and are happy to read a book where nothing really happens, then you would probably enjoy Madame Verona. I would be prepared to try more of Verhulst's books because he does have a very nice style, but this one just didn’t appeal to me.

[bookomaniac-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Mooi, poëtisch, met af en toe verwijzingen naar Marquez. Wat een contrast met zijn Helaasheid!

[gaskella_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Madame Verona lives at the top of a hill on the outskirts of an isolated village. A musician, she has lived alone since the death of her composer husband, with just stray dogs for company. While she has a stock of wood to burn she feels no need to rejoin the small but dwindling community in the village while she waits for the luthier to make her a cello - it will take twenty years for the wood to season. The men of the village rather wish she'd chosen a different course, for there are few women in these parts. Eventually the cello is finished, she plays it for her dead husband, and then, when the last log is gone, she comes down the hill knowing she'll never climb back up.This little novel is a real gem. Written by a Belgian and superbly translated, in between the melancholy tale of Madame Verona's life are rich and humorous episodes of village life. A village where prowess in Table Football is taken really seriously, and where a cow can be elected Mayor. It is a story crying out to be made into an arty film - a great little love story with a superb backdrop - I loved it. (Book supplied by the Amazon Vine programme; 9/10)

[tadad_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the story of Madame Verona, octogenarian, cellist and piano teacher. For decades, she has lived alone at the top of a steep hill outside a tiny, almost forgotten village. Her husband, Monsieur Potter, who died long ago, was the great passion of her life, a passion that—despite the confident predictions of the village men who hope to share a widow's bed—has not faded with the passing of the years. She is alone, except for the stray dogs that keep adopting her, but never lonely. One freezing cold February day, after placing the last log from the lifetime's supply of firewood her husband cut for her onto the fire, she walks down that steep hill, knowing that she will never make it back up, and sits down on a park bench to reflect.Through the chronicler's voice, she tells us stories of her youth, the beautiful young music student and the dashing composer. She tells us stories of the tiny town, that once installed a cow…not just any cow, mind you, but a Blonde d'Aquitaine…as mayor, and where a shopkeeper retires when one of her deadbeat patrons unexpectedly pays his account. She shares her thoughts on heaven and the nature of forests.This was recommended to me based upon my great delight in Chingiz Aïtmatov's Jamilia. There is a certain aspect to each that reminds me of traditional tales but the former book seemed more a folktale while this had a tiny something of the parable to it. The language in Verhulst's book certainly requires closer attention; it is beautifully poetic but not always as simple as it seems. And that's the charm of this book in which very little happens: it's a satisfying blend of thoughtfulness, humor, poignancy and love story.