Death, Dying, Grief and Mourning

            "Death is always the same,
                               but each man dies in his own way."

Carson McCullers, Clock Without Hands, 1960

   

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An Anthology by  Adrienne Nater

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Katherine Mansfield, Dove’s Nest/The Canary 1923

 

Death of the Canary

Death of the Canary:

. . . You see that big nail to the right of the front door? I can scarcely look at it even now and yet I could not bear to take it out. I should like to think it was there always even after my time. I sometimes hear the next people saying, "There must have been a cage hanging from there." And it comforts me; I feel he is not quite forgotten.

. . . You cannot imagine how wonderfully he sang. It was not like the singing of other canaries. And that isn’t just my fancy. Often from the window, I used to see people stop at my gate and listen, or they would lean over the fence by the mock-orange for quite a long time – carried away. I suppose it sounds absurd to you – but it really seemed to me that he sang whole songs with a beginning and an end to them.

For instance, when I’d finished the house in the afternoon, and changed my blouse and brought my sewing on the verandah here, he used to hop, hop, hop from one perch to another, tap against the bars as if to attract my attention, sip a little water just as a professional singer might, and then break into a song so exquisite that I had to put my needle down to listen to him. I can’t describe it; I wish I could. But it was always the same, every afternoon, and I felt that I understood every note of it.

. . . I loved him. How I loved him! Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must. Of course there was always my little house and garden, but for some reason they never were enough. Flowers respond wonderfully, but they don’t sympathize. Then I loved the evening star. Does that sound foolish? I used to go into the backyard, after sunset, and wait for it until it shone above the dark gum tree. I used to whisper "There you are, my darling." And just in that first moment it seemed to be shining for me alone. It seemed to understand the . . . something which is like longing, and yet it is not longing. Or regret – it is more like regret. And yet to regret for what? I have much to be thankful for.

. . . But after he came into my life I forgot the evening star; I did not need it any more. But it was strange. When the Chinaman who came to the door with birds to sell held him up in his tiny cage, and instead of fluttering, fluttering, like the poor little goldfinches, he gave a faint, small chirp, I found myself saying just as I had said to the star over the gum tree, "There you are, my darling." From that moment he was mine.

. . . It surprises me even now to remember how he and I shared each other’s lives. The moment I came down in the morning and took the cloth off his cage he greeted me with a drowsy little note. I knew what it meant "Missus! Missus!"

Then I hung him on the nail outside while I got my three young men their breakfasts, and I never brought him until we had the house to ourselves again. Then, when the washing-up was done, it was quite a little entertainment. I spread a newspaper over a corner of the table and when I put the cage on it he used to beat his wings despairingly, as if he didn’t know what was coming. "You’re a regular little actor," I used to scold him. I scraped the tray, dusted it with fresh sand, filled his seed and water tins, tucked a piece of chickweed and half a chili between the bars. And I am perfectly certain he understood and appreciated every item of this little performance. You see by nature he was exquisitely neat. There was never a speck on his perch. And you’d only to see his enjoy his bath to realize he had a real small passion for cleanliness. His bath was put in last. And the moment it was in he positively leapt into it. First he fluttered one wing, and then the other, then he ducked his head and dabbled his breast feathers. Drops of water were scattered all over the kitchen, but still he would not get out. I used to say to him, " Now that’s quite enough. You’re only showing off." And at last out he hopped and, standing on one leg, he began to peck himself dry. Finally he gave a little shake, a flick, a twitter and he lifted his throat – Oh, I was always cleaning the knives at the time, And it almost seemed to me the knives sang too, as I rubbed them bright on the board.

. . . Company, you see – that was what he was. Perfect company. If you have lived alone you realize how precious that is. Of course there were my three young men who came in to supper every evening, and sometimes they stayed in the dining-room afterwards reading the paper. But I could not expect them to be interested in the little things that made my day. Why should they be? I was nothing to them. In fact, I overheard them on evening taking about me on the stairs as "the Scarecrow." No matter. It doesn’t matter. Not in the least. I quite understand. They are young. Why should I mind? But I remember feeling so especially thankful that I was not quite alone that evening. I told him. After they had gone out. I said, "Do you know what they call Missus?" And he put his head on one side and looked at me with his little bright eye until I could not help laughing. It seemed to amuse him.

. . . Have you kept birds? If you haven’t all this must sound, perhaps, exaggerated. People have the idea that birds are heartless, cold little creatures, not like dogs and cats. My washerwoman used to say on Mondays when she wondered why I didn’t keep "a nice fox terrier," "There’s no comfort, miss in a canary. Untrue. Dreadfully untrue. I remember one night. I had had a very awful dream – dreams can be dreadfully cruel – even after I had woken up and could not get over it. So I put on my dressing-gown and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was a winter night and raining hard. I suppose I was still half-asleep, but through the kitchen window, that hadn’t a blind, it seemed to me the dark was staring in, spying.

And suddenly I felt it was unbearable that I had no one to whom I could say "I’ve had such a dreadful dream," or – or " Hide me from the dark." I even covered my face for a minute. And then there came a little "Sweet! Sweet!" His cage was on the table, and the cloth had slipped so that a chink of light shone through. "Sweet! Sweet!" and the darling little fellow again softly, as much as to say, "I’m here, Missus! I’m here!" That was so beautifully comforting that I nearly cried.

. . . And now he’s gone. I shall never have another bird, another pet of any kind. How could I? When I found him, lying on his back, with his eye dim and his claws wrung, when I realized that never should I hear my darling sing, something seemed to die in me. My heart felt hollow, as if it was his cage. I shall get over it. Of course. I must. One can get over anything in time. And people always say I have a cheerful disposition. They are quite right. I thank my God I have.

. . . All the same, without being morbid, and giving way to – to memories and so one, I must confess that there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don’t mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down, deep down part of one, like one’s breathing. However hard I work and tire myself I have only to stop to know it is there, waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can never know. But isn’t it extraordinary that under his sweet, joyful little singing it was just this – sadness? – Ah, what is it? – that I heard.

 

 

   
 

Adrienne Nater, 2008

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