Iris Murdoch - The Bell

Michael had seen this operation performed many times, but it never failed to fill him with uneasy excitement. Once or twice, under Peter’s direction, he had even handled the birds; but it made him too alarmed, it too much moved him with distress and pity, to hold in his hand those exceedingly light, exceedingly soft and frail bodies, and feel the quick terrified heart-beat. The only exhilarating moment was releasing the bird. But Michael was too much afraid that one might die in his hand, as they sometimes did if one held them too tight; and Peter reluctantly let him off any further lessons.

Peter came back and motioned his companions forward.“Come and look,” he said, “only don’t come too near. There’s one splendid catch. The little goldcrest in that cage. See him, the little fellow with the red and yellow streak on his head. The rest are sparrows and tits, I’m afraid. And one nuthatch in the far one.”

The birds were inspected while Peter photographed the goldcrest through the netting.

“Why ever do they go in?” Dora wondered.

“For food,” said Peter. “I lay down a little bread and nuts as bait. Then they try to get out by flying what seems the easier way into the second compartment, and then its still harder for them to escape. Some birds will even enter an unbaited trap out of sheer curiosity.”

“Again, like human beings,” said Michael.

“I won’t bother with the tits and sparrows this time,” said Peter. He lifted up one of the cages from the ground and in a quick flurry the birds rose with the wire and darted away.“I’ll ring the nuthatch and the goldcrest. Perhaps, Michael, you wouldn’t mind photographing the goldcrest while I’m holding him.”

Michael took the camera. Peter knelt down and opened the door at the end of the cage and put his hand in. The birds in the small compartment began to flutter madly. Peter’s brown hand seemed very large beside them. Fingers spread wide he cornered the little bird. His hand gently closed, folding its wildly agitated wings to its body and drawing it out. The small gold striped head appeared between Peter’s first and second fingers. Dora gave an exclamation of alarm, excitement, and distress. Michael knew how she felt. He got the camera ready. Peter took the light metal band from his pocket, so small that a magnifying glass would be needed to read its legend. He juggled the bird carefully in his hand until one tiny scaly leg and claw appeared between his fourth and little fingers. Then with his left hand he bent the flexible band around the bird’s leg, and lifting it up to his mouth closed the band deftly with his teeth. At the sight of Peter’s strong teeth closing so near to that tiny twig of a leg, Dora could bear it no longer and turned away. Michael took two photographs. Peter rapidly tossed the bird into the air and it vanished into the wood, bearing with it forever after to all whom it might concern the information that on that particular Saturday it had been at Imber. Peter then ringed the nuthatch and released the other birds. Dora was full of wonderment and distress and Paul was laughing at her. Michael looked at Toby. His eyes were wide and his lips moist and red where he had been biting them. Michael now laughed at Toby. It was extraordinary how affecting the whole business was.

While they examined the traps at closer quarters, turning them on their backs, Peter wandered away into the wood. Under the trees the light was fading faster, and great clouds of midges drifted about the clearing. Dora was waving her parasol and complaining of being bitten in spite of the citronella. Then a moment later everyone was electrified to hear clearly and unmistakably at quite close quarters the call of a cuckoo. They straightened up and looked at each other – and then burst out laughing. Peter was called back.

“Oh dear!” cried Dora. “I thought it really was one. What a shame!”

“I’m afraid the real cuckoo is in Africa by now, wise bird,” said Peter. He showed Dora the little instrument he used to make the sound. Then he took from his pocket other toys made of wood and metal, and reproduced in turn the song of the skylark, the curlew, the willow warbler, the turtle dove, and the nightingale. Dora was enchanted. She demanded to see and to try, seizing the small objects from Peter with little cries and self-conscious feminine twittering. Michael observing her thought she epitomized everything he didn’t care for about women; but he thought this with detachment, liking her all the same, and feeling too good-tempered at present to feel distaste for anyone.

“It’s as good as the real thing!” cried Dora.

“Nothing’s as good as the real thing,” said Peter.“It’s odd that even a perfect imitation, as soon as you know it’s an imitation, gives much less pleasure. I remember Kant says how disappointed your guests are when they discover that the after-dinner nightingale is a small boy posted in the grove.”

“A case of the natural attractiveness of truth,”said Michael.

“You’re full of pious remarks today, isn’t he?” said Peter. ““You must be practising for your sermon tomorrow.”

“It’s James tomorrow, thank heavens,” said Michael.“I’m next week.”

“I think the moral is don’t be found out. Don’t you agree, Toby?” said Peter, laughing.

They began to walk back. Paul asked Peter if he would mind taking a photograph of Dora. Peter was delighted, and finding an opening in the trees began elaborately to pose her sitting on a mossy stone and fingering a flower.

“Paul doesn’t realize what he’s in for!” said Michael to Toby. “When Peter gets hold of a human subject he’s at it for hours. It’s a revenge for the frustrations the birds are always making him suffer!”

Michael and Toby walked on together. From behind them they could hear the laughter of the other three and Dora’s voice protesting. Paul seemed quite restored to good humour now. Michael felt suddenly very happy. He felt as if he had gathered all these people benignly about him and as if he were in some way responsible for the beautiful evening, for the gaiety and innocence of it all. He found the word “innocence” coming naturally to his mind, and did not pause to ponder over it. How rarely now he had this sense of being, in the company of other people, at leisure and at ease. His thoughts then turned to Nick: but the sadness that followed seemed purged and sweet even, unable to break the spell of his present mood. He was glad to be walking along with Toby, talking idly and intermittently about nothing in particular. He felt on holiday.

“There’s an avenue in these woods,” said Michael, “a bit farther on from where we were, where you see nightjars sometimes. Ever seen a nightjar?”

“No, I’d love to!” said Toby. “Could you show me?”

“Surely,” said Michael. “Some evening next week we’ll go along. They’re very strange birds, hardly like birds at all. They make one believe in witches.”

They came quite suddenly out of the wood onto the wide expanse of grass near the drive. The great scene, the familiar scene, was there again before them, lit by a very yellow and almost vanished sun, the sky fading to a greenish blue. From here they looked a little down upon the lake and could see, intensely tinted and very still, the reflection in it of the farther slope and the house, clear and pearly grey in the revealing light, its detail sharply defined, starting into nearness. Beyond it on the pastureland, against a pallid line at the horizon, the trees took the declining sun, and one oak tree, its leaves already turning yellow, seemed to be on fire.

They both stopped, taking a deep breath, and looked in silence, enjoying the great space and the warm expanse of air and colour. Then from across the lake came sharply and delicately the voices of the madrigal singers. The voices plied and wove, supporting and answering each other in the enchanting and slightly absurd precision of thé madrigal. Most clearly heard was Catherine’s thin triumphant soprano, retaining and re-asserting the melody. It was too far away to catch the words, but Michael knew them well.