Sitting along Regent's Canal on our day off, I was working through the day's reading assignment from A Tale of Two Cities. At this point in the novel, Charles Darnay has been imprisoned for one year and three months. Lucie, his wife, learns from her father that Darnay can sometimes get access to an upper prison window at three in the afternoon. Every day for two hours, Lucie waits outside that window, often with her daughter, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. She's even tormented by a wood-sawyer, who taunts her, pretending to cut people's heads off.
Just as I was engrossed in this moment, a loud group passed me, snapping me out of the plot (I've never been good at reading through noise). As I wait for them to walk by, I notice a raft of coots (birds similar to ducks), floating along the canal. There were two adults and six babies. Usually, waterfowl don't grab my attention since I often see them at home. But the water was so strikingly clear, and the birds were so close that I could see their webbed feet paddling furiously beneath the surface. Yet above the water? Completely serene. It was like the avian equivalent of running a marathon while keeping a calm composure. And right in front of my eyes, I saw Lucie Manette in these Coots.
If the characters from A Tale of Two Cities were birds, Lucie Manette would undoubtedly be a Coot. Throughout her life, she exudes calm, quiet strength. So much strength and a nurturing ambiance that three men want to marry her in the early chapters. But beneath that composed exterior, she carries immense emotional weight. She lost her son, spent most of her life believing her father was dead, only to find him in a broken state, and faces the imprisonment of her husband. Like the coot, she is constantly in motion beneath the surface, doing all she can to keep herself and those afloat. Occasionally, we get a glimpse through the clear water, and we can see how hard things are. When learning that her husband is imprisoned (for the first time), she had "fallen into a stupor on the floor". While we don't always have clear water, I know that she is the coot paddling hard, even when she seems calm.
After finishing my chapter, I walked through Regent's Park. I saw a man with a striking Hyacinth Macaw wandering around the park. The Macaw would fly in a circle around the park, then perch on his arm. Looking back, he embodies Charles Darney. Macaws can fly freely, but they're also creatures of captivity. Sometimes they soar, and sometimes they are caged. At this point in the book, Darney has been released from prison, only to be re-arrested shortly after. His brief freedom feels like the Macaw's flight through the park. It was exhilarating and beautiful to be reunited with his wife, but the reunion was inevitably short-lived. The hyacinth macaw itself is a vulnerable species, but tragically, many other macaws, including the Spix Macaw (featured in Rio), are almost extinct. This is due to habitat loss, climate change, and exploitation through the exotic pet trade. Its uncertain future mirrors Darnay's, because at this part of the book, I was unsure if Darnay would live. While Darney's future is predetermined, I will do my best to prevent the macaws from going extinct in my lifetime.
Earlier in the week, I stumbled upon a lone swan in the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. Quick backstory on swans: There is a noble tale that a mother swan gave birth to a brood of young chicks. As they grew up, they became violent toward the mother and attempted to peck her eyes out. In anger, she retaliates, killing her young. After three days, she regrets her actions and lets her blood drip on the young. They revive, and she dies. I'm sure you can see the symbolism of Jesus here, but there is also symbolism with Sydney Carton. After finishing A Tale of Two Cities, I found out that Carton died in place of Darnay, choosing to do so because he loved Lucie, Darnay's wife. He sacrificed his life because of his love for Lucie. His death is a form of resurrection, the same as the swans was.
Birds have always been a part of my life. My parents and grandparents taught me to notice and appreciate the world around me, especially birds. This love led me to volunteer at the World Bird Sanctuary, a role I have held for the past three years. One of the birds that has touched me deeply is the American Crow, also known as Aesop.
Aesop earned her name through being the "soppy crow". She had an obsession with baths, taking as many as seven a day. But she was more than her quirks. She was brilliant; she learned how to recycle, paint on canvases, and even accept donations. If there were a lull in donations, she would stick her head in the bin, remove a bill, make eye contact with me, redonate the bill, and demand a reward. Aesop passed away a couple of weeks ago, and I still feel the weight of her absence.
Now, Katie, what does any of this have to do with A Tale of Two Cities? I'm so glad you asked. Not only do I see birds in the characters of A Tale of Two Cities, but I also see the author. On a visit to Charles Dickens' home, I learned something rather funny. Not only was he the first person to install a shower in his house rather than a bath, but he also had a pet Raven named Grip. Although ravens are slightly different from crows, both are remarkably intelligent and known for their personalities. In many ways, Charles Dickens embodies Aesop the American Crow through being social, clever, and craving connections. Aesop craved connection. She loved back scratches from her favorite people. Dickens, considered a reformer of his time, often gave public readings of his work, seeking to engage directly with his audience. May they both rest peacefully, having brought such joy to those who knew them and their work.
As I think about the birds I've seen, I'm in awe of how seamlessly the birds can fly into the pages of Dickens's world and mine. Whether it was the coot's quiet endurance, the Macaw's fragile freedom, the swan's selfless sacrifice, or the crow's cleverness, each creature revealed something more human than expected. Literature and nature aren't all that different. They teach us to notice what moves beneath the surface, and to find meaning in every flutter, silence, and sacrifice.