The writer and translator Antonia White loved cats and they loved her. Amongst her published books are two children’s stories about the kittens Minka and Curdy. These were the two much loved cats owned by White later in her life: one a marmalade kitten Curdy – lively and mischievous, the other Minka an elegant and imperious Siamese that White was offered and couldn’t resist.
White is mainly known for her semi-autobiographical writing especially for ‘Frost in May’ the powerful account of her childhood experience at a convent school after her father’s sudden conversion to Catholicism. As a young adult she experienced a severe mental breakdown. She was committed to Bethlem, a public asylum, where she spent the next year of her life. After she left hospital, she spent a number of years in psychoanalysis, but struggled the rest of her life with mental illness which she referred to as “The Beast”. The last novel in the series about her life, ‘Beyond the Glass’ describes this very painful time.
Much can be said about her complicated personal life, her religious beliefs and doubts, the difficulties in her relationship with her two daughters, and with different partners and friends, but her love of cats remained a constant source of comfort. The description of what happened at both her funeral service and memorial service then seems entirely fitting:
On 16th April 1980 at West Grinstead Roman Catholic Church Antonia White’s funeral service took place – including a Mass in Latin. The service had just begun when a handsome black cat walked through the open doors. As recorded in the biography by Jane Dunn:
‘Antonia’s friends and family watched, transfixed. Tall, erect, it made a deliberate promenade up the aisle, circled under the coffin and then trolled into the neighbouring pews. Everyone there knew of Antonia’s passion for cats, her extraordinary ability to empathize with them and the transforming nature of the love they inspired.’
Many were convinced Antonia was present in the cat, even the Catholic priest recognised a significance in its appearance, the cat having walked around the church, looking at everything then waited outside. As the coffin was laid in the earth the same cat once more appeared, walked round the grave ‘gazed down into the void and withdrew with dignity.’
‘For most present, this was too much to be pure coincidence. Antonia had approached death wracked with spiritual doubt and full of fear: for those who cared for her during this last struggle some consolation was needed. Here, perhaps, in the role of emissary, the cat had come to tell them all was well.’
A month or so later a large memorial service was held in London, and at the reception afterwards another black cat appeared ‘with as much sense of its own right to be there’. It had greeted the guests on arrival and mingled with them as they drank wine and talked of the past – and of the cat, and the first cat. The poet Kathleen Raine felt that Antonia was somehow part of these ceremonies of farewell:
‘I hope she saw us all at that funeral, which was so very much in her own style, both the truth of her faith and the human comedy. And the cat! And the second cat! … that is just too much to doubt – she sent us those cats, surely with love and perhaps laughter as well. To tell us all was well with her.’