Affinity

by Sarah Waters

  The emergence of spirit-mediumship, he said, is a very grave thing, still imperfectly understood. The person I was thinking of would know herself prey to all manner of changes of the body and the mind. She was being led to the threshold of another world and invited to look across it; but while there would be ‘wise guides’ there, ready to counsel her, there would also be ‘base, obsessing spirits’. Such spirits might appear to her charming and good—but they would seek only to use her, for their own gain. They would want her to lead them to the earthly treasures they had lost, and pined for . . .

  I asked, How could she guard herself, from spirits like that?—He said she must take care, in the choosing of her earth-friends. He said, ‘How many young women have there been, driven to despair—driven to madness!—by the improper application of their powers? They might be invited to call on the spirits for sport—they must not do that. They might be persuaded to sit too frequently, in carelessly got-together circles—that will tire and corrupt them. They might be encouraged to sit alone—that is the very worst way, Miss Prior, that they could apply their powers. I knew a man once—a young man, quite a gentleman, I knew him because I was taken to him by a hospital chaplain, a friend of mine. The gentleman was admitted to the chaplain’s ward after being found almost dead from a badly cut throat; and he made my friend a curious confession. He was a passive writer—do you know the term? He had been encouraged by a thoughtless friend to sit with pen and paper, and after a time there had come spirit-messages to him, through the independent motion of his arm . . .’

  That, said Mr Hither, is a fine spiritualist trick; he said I would find many mediums doing that, to a sensible degree. The young man he spoke of now, however, was not sensible. He began to sit at night, alone—after that, he found that the messages came faster than ever. He began to be roused from sleep. His hand would wake him, twitching upon the coverlet. It would twitch until he put a pen in it and permitted it to write—then he would write upon paper, upon the walls of his room, upon his own bare flesh! He would write until his fingers blistered. The messages he believed at first to come from his own dead relatives—‘But you can be sure, no good soul would torment a medium like that. The writings were the work of a single base spirit.’

  This spirit finally revealed itself to the gentleman in the most horrible way. It appeared to him, Mr Hither said, in the shape of a toad, ‘and it entered his own body, here’—he touched his shoulder, lightly—‘at the joint of the neck. Now that low spirit was inside him, and had him in his power. It proceeded to prompt him, Miss Prior, to commit a host of filthy deeds; and the man could do nothing . . .’

  This, he said, was a torture. At last the spirit had whispered to the man that he should take a razor, and cut off one of his own fingers with it. And the man did take the razor; but instead of his hand, he put it to his throat—‘He was trying, you see, to get the spirit out, and it was that, that had led to him being admitted to the hospital. They saved his life there; but the obsessing spirit had him in his power still. His old base habits returned, and he was declared deranged. They have him now, I think, on the ward of an asylum. Poor man! How differently his story would have turned out—do you see?—if he had only sought out those of his own kind, who could have counselled him wisely . . .’

  I remember him lowering his tone as he spoke these last few words, and seeming to gaze at me very meaningfully—I thought then that he might have guessed I had Selina Dawes in mind, since I had shown such interest in her last time. We stood a moment in silence. He seemed to hope that I would speak. But I could not, there was not time—for we were disturbed now by Miss Kislingbury, who pushed at the reading-room door and called Mr Hither to her. He said, ‘Just a moment, Miss Kislingbury!’, and he put his hand upon my arm, murmuring, ‘I wish we might talk further. Should you like that? You must be sure to come another time—will you? And find me out, when I have less to occupy me here?’

  I, too, was sorry that he must leave me. After all, I should like to know more of what he thinks about Selina. I should like to know how it must have been for her, to have been obliged to see those scarlet things he spoke of. I know she was afraid—but she was fortunate, she told me once: she did have wise friends, to guide her, to take her gifts and shape them and make them rare.

  So I think she believes. But who did she have, really? She had her aunt—who made a turn of her. She had Mrs Brink, of Sydenham—who brought strangers to her, and had a curtain hung, that she might sit behind it and be tied with a velvet collar and a rope; who kept her safe, for her own mother’s sake—and for Peter Quick to find her.

  What did he do to her, or prompt her to do, that led her to Millbank?

  And who has she now to guard her there? She has Miss Haxby, Miss Ridley, Miss Craven. In all the gaol, there is no-one to be kind to her, no-one at all, save mild Mrs Jelf.

  I heard Mr Hither’s voice, and Miss Kislingbury’s, and another visitor’s; but the reading-room door stayed shut, no-one came. I was still standing before the cabinet of spirit-moulds; now I stooped to study them again. The hand of Peter Quick’s sat in its old place upon the lowest shelf, its blunt fingers and its swollen thumb close to the glass. It seemed solid to me, last time I looked at it; to-day, however, I did what I had not done then, and moved to the side of the cabinet to study it from there. I saw then how the wax ended, neatly, at the bone of the wrist. I saw how absolutely hollow it was. Inside it, marked out very clearly upon the yellowing surface of the wax, are the creases and whorls of a palm, the dents of knuckles.

  I have been used to thinking of it as a hand, and very solid; more properly, however, it is a kind of glove. It might have been cast there a moment before, and still be cooling from the closeness of the fingers that had dropped it.—The idea made me nervous, suddenly, of the empty room. I left it, and came home.

  Now Stephen is here, I can hear him talking to Mother, his voice is raised and rather peevish. He has a case that was due to come before the courts to-morrow, but the client has fled to France, and now the police cannot pursue him. Stephen must give the matter up, and lose his fee.—There comes his voice again, louder than before.

  Why do gentlemen’s voices carry so clearly, when women’s are so easily stifled?

  24 November 1874

  To Millbank, to Selina. I went to her—I went to one or two other women first, and made a show of putting down the details of their talk inside my book—but I went to her at last, and when I did she asked me at once, How had I liked my flowers? She said she had sent them to remind me of Italy, to make me think of the warm days there. She said, ‘The spirits carried them. You may keep them for a month, they won’t wither.’

  I said they frightened me.

  I stayed with her for half an hour. At the end of that time there came the slamming of the ward gate and the sound of footsteps—Selina said quietly then: ‘Miss Ridley,’ and I moved to the bars, and when the matron passed the cell I signalled to her that she might release me. I stood very stiffly, saying only, ‘Good-bye, Dawes.’ Selina had placed her hands before her, and her face was meek; now she curtseyed to me and answered: ‘Good-bye, Miss Prior.’ I know she did it for the matron’s sake.

  I stood and watched Miss Ridley then, as she drew closed the gate to Selina’s cell. I watched the turning of the key in the stiff prison lock. I wished the key were mine.

  2 April 1873

  Peter says I must be fastened in my cabinet. He came to the circle tonight & put his hand upon me very hard, & when he went beyond the curtain he said ‘I cannot come among you until I have fulfilled a task I have been given. You know I am sent to you to show the truths of Spiritualism. Well, there are disbelievers in this city, people that doubt the existence of spirits. They mock the powers of our media, they think our media leave their places & walk about the circles in disguise. We cannot appear where there are doubts & unbeliefs like that.’ I heard Mrs Brink say then ‘There are no doubters here Peter, you may come among us as you always have’, & he answered
‘No, there is something that must be done. Look here, & you will see my medium, & you will tell & write of this & then perhaps the unbelieving will believe.’ Then he caught hold of the curtain & drew it slowly back -

  He had never done such a thing before. I sat in my dark trance, but felt the circle gazing at me. A lady asked ‘Do you see her?’ & another answered ‘I see the shape of her in her chair.’ Peter said ‘It hurts my medium to have you look at her while I am here. The doubting makes me do this, but there is another thing that I can do, it will make a test. You must open the drawer in the table & bring me what you find there.’ I heard the drawer open & then a voice say ‘There are ropes here’ & Peter said ‘Yes, bring them to me.’ Then he bound me to my seat saying ‘You must do this now at each dark circle. If you do not do this I will not come’. He tied me at the wrists & at the ankles & he put a band across my eyes. Then he went into the room again & I heard a chair scrape & he said ‘Come with me.’ He brought a lady to me, it was a lady named Miss d’Esterre. He said ‘Do you see Miss d’Esterre, how my medium is fastened? Put your hand upon her & tell me if those bonds are tight. Take off your glove.’ I heard her glove drawn off & then her fingers came upon me, with Peter’s fingers pressing them & making them hot. She said ‘She is trembling!’ & Peter said ‘It is for her sake I do this.’ Then he sent Miss d’Esterre back to her seat & he leaned to me, whispering ‘It is for you I do this’ & I answered ‘Yes, Peter.’ He said ‘I am all your power’ & I said I knew it.

  Then he put a band of silk across my mouth & then drew the curtain closed & went among them. I heard a gentleman say then ‘I don’t know Peter, I can’t be quite easy about this. Won’t it harm Miss Dawes’s powers for her to be fastened like that?’ Peter laughed. He said ‘Well, she would be a very poor medium if all it took to weaken her were 3 or 4 silk cords!’ He said that the cords held my mortal parts but as for my spirit, that could never be bound or locked. He said ‘Don’t you know that it is the same for locksmiths with spirits as with love? Spirits laugh at them.’

  When they came & unfastened me however, they found that the ropes had chafed my wrists & ankles & made them bleed. Ruth saw that & said ‘O, what a brute that spirit is, to do this to my poor mistress.’ She said ‘Miss d’Esterre, will you help me take Miss Dawes to her own room?’ Then they led me here & Ruth put ointment upon me, Miss d’Esterre holding the jar. Miss d’Esterre said she was never so surprised as when Peter came to take her to the cabinet. Ruth said he must have seen a little sign about her, something to lead him straight to her, some sort of specialness that none of the other ladies have. Miss d’Esterre looked at her, & then at me. She said ‘Do you think so?’ She said ‘I do feel, sometimes,’ then she looked at the floor.

  I saw Ruth’s eyes, looking at her, & then Peter Quick’s voice might have come whispering the words in my own head. I said ‘Ruth is right, Peter certainly seems to have picked you out for something. Perhaps you ought to come & see him a second time, more quietly. Should you like that? Shall you come another day? & then, shall I see if I can’t call him back, for just the 2 of us?’ Miss d’Esterre said nothing, only sat looking at the pot of ointment. Ruth waited, then said ‘Well, think of him tonight, when you are alone & your room is quiet. He did like you. It may be, you know, that he shall try & visit you without his medium to help him. But I think you had better meet him here, with Miss Dawes, than on your own in your dark bedroom.’ Miss d’Esterre said then ‘I shall sleep in my sister’s bed.’ Ruth said ‘Well, but he shall still find you there.’ Then she took the ointment & put its lid on it, saying to me ‘There miss, you are made all better now.’ Miss d’Esterre went back downstairs, saying nothing.

  I thought of her then, when I went in to Mrs Brink.

  28 November 1874

  To Millbank to-day—a horrible visit, I am ashamed to write of it.

  I was met at the gate of the women’s gaol by the coarse-faced matron Miss Craven: they had sent her to me as a chaperon in place of Miss Ridley, who had business elsewhere. I was glad to see her. I thought: That is good. I shall have her take me to Selina’s cell, and Miss Ridley and Miss Haxby need never know of it . . .

  Even so, we did not go immediately to the wards, for as we walked she asked me, Was there not another part of the gaol I should like to be shown first? ‘Or are you keen,’ she said dubiously, ‘to go only to the cells?’ Probably it was a novelty to her to lead me about, and she hoped to make the most of it. But as she spoke, she seemed to me a little knowing—and then I thought that, after all, she might have been charged with the watching of me and I ought to take care. So I said that she should lead me where she pleased; that I imagined that the women on the wards would not mind waiting for me, a little longer. She answered, ‘I am sure they won’t, miss.’

  Where she took me, then, was to the bathroom, and the prison clothes stores.

  There is not much to say about them. The bathroom is a chamber with one large trough in it, in which the women are obliged, on their arrival, to sit and soap themselves, communally; to-day, there being no new prisoners, the bath was empty save for half a dozen blackjack beetles, that were nosing at the lines of grime. In the clothes store there are shelves of brown prison gowns and white bonnets, in every size, and boxes of boots. The boots are kept tied at the laces, in pairs. Miss Craven held up a pair she thought would fit me—monstrous great things they were, of course, and I thought she smiled as she held them. She said that prison shoes were the stoutest of all, stouter even than soldiers’ boots. She said that she heard of a Millbank woman once who beat her matron and stole her cloak and keys, then made her way quite to the gate, and would have escaped, except that a warder who looked at her there saw the shoes on her, and knew her by them for a convict—then the woman was taken again, and put in the darks.

  She told me this, then cast the boots she held back into their box, and laughed. Then she led me to another storeroom, that they call there the ‘Own-Clothes Room’. This is the place—I hadn’t thought before, that there must of course be such a place there—where are kept all the dresses and hats and shoes, and bits of stuff, which the women carry with them into Millbank when they arrive.

  There is something wonderful and terrible about this room and all that it contains. Its walls are arranged—after the Millbank passion for queer geometry—in the shape of a hexagon; and they are lined entirely, from floor to ceiling, with shelves, that are filled with boxes. The boxes are made of a buff kind of card, studded with brass and with brass corners: they are long and narrow, and bear plates with the prisoners’ names upon them. They resemble nothing so much as little coffins; and so the room itself, when I first stepped into it, made me shudder—it looked like a children’s mausoleum, or a morgue.

  Miss Craven saw me flinch, and put her hands upon her hips. ‘Rum, ain’t it?’ she said as she looked about her. She said, ‘Do you know what I think, miss, when I come in here? I think: buzz, buzz. I think, Now I know just how a bee or a wasp feels, when it comes back home to its own little nest.’

  We stood together, gazing at the walls. I asked her, Was there really a box there for every woman in the gaol? and she nodded: ‘Every one, and some to spare.’ She stepped to the shelves, pulled out a box quite randomly, and set it down before her—there was a desk there, with a chair at it. When she drew off the lid of the box there rose a vaguely sulphurous scent. She said they must bake all the clothes they store, for most come in verminous, but that ‘some frocks, of course, can bear that better than others’.

  She lifted out the garment that lay within the box she held. It was a thin print gown, that had clearly not been much improved by its fumigation, for its collar hung in tatters and its cuffs seemed singed. Beneath it there was a set of yellowing undergarments, a pair of scuffed red leather shoes, a hat, with a pin of flaking pearl, and a wedding ring, grown black. I looked at the plate on the box—Mary Breen, it said. She is the woman I visited once, who had the marks of her own teeth upon her arm, that she said we
re rats’ bites.

  When Miss Craven had closed this box and returned it to its place upon the shelf I moved closer to the wall, and began to look, quite carelessly, across the names; and she continued to finger the boxes, lifting the lids of them and gazing inside. ‘You would think it wonderful,’ she said, peering into one, ‘what few sad little bits some women come to us with.’

  I stepped to her side and looked at what she showed me: a rusty black dress, a pair of canvas slippers, and a key on a length of twine—I wondered what the key unfastened. She closed the box and gave a low tut-tut: ‘Not so much as a hankie for her head.’ Then she worked her way along the row, and I moved with her, peeping in at all the boxes. One held a very handsome dress, and a velvet hat with a stiff, stuffed bird upon it, complete with beak and glittering eye; yet the set of underthings beneath were so blackened and torn they might have been trampled by horses. Another contained a petticoat splattered with grim brown stains that I saw, with a shudder, must be blood; another made me start—it held a frock and petticoats and shoes and stockings, but also a length of reddish-brown hair, bound like the tail of a pony or like a queer little whip. It was the hair that had been cut from its owner’s head when she first came to the prison. ‘She will be keeping it for a hair-piece,’ said Miss Craven, ‘for when she is let out. Much good, however, it will do her! It is Chaplin—do you know her? A poisoner, she was, and went almost to the rope. Why, her fine red head will have turned quite grey, before she gets this back again!’

  She closed the box and thrust it back, with a practised, peevish gesture; her own hair, where it showed beneath her bonnet, was plain as mouse-fur. I remembered then how I had seen the reception matron rubbing at the shorn locks of Black-Eyed Sue the gipsy girl—and I had a sudden, unpleasant vision, of her and Miss Craven whispering together over the severed tresses, or over a frock, or the hat with the bird upon it: ‘Try it on—why, who is to see you? How your young man would admire you in that! And who will know who wore it last, four years from now?’