Affinity

by Sarah Waters

  I said, ‘I have seen the chain-room, and the dark cell. The chain-room has shackles in it, and strait-coats, and hobbles. The hobbles fasten a woman’s wrists and ankles to her thighs, and when she is put in them she must be fed from a spoon, like a baby, and if she soils herself, she must remain in her own slops—’ Mother’s voice came again, sharper than before, and Stephen’s joined it. I said, ‘The dark cell has a gate across it, and a door, and then another door, padded with straw. The women are put in it with their arms fastened, and the darkness smothers them. There is a girl in it now, and—do you know, Mr Dance, the most curious thing?’ I leaned to him, and whispered: ‘It is really I who should have been put there!—not her, not her at all.’

  He looked away from me, to Mrs Wallace, who had exclaimed when I had whispered. Someone said nervously, What could I mean? What could I mean by saying that?

  ‘But didn’t you know,’ I answered, ‘that they send suicides to gaol?’

  Now Mother spoke quickly. ‘Margaret was ill, Mr Dance, when her poor father died. And in her illness—such an accident! —she muddled the dosing of her medicine—’

  ‘I took morphia, Mr Dance!’ I cried, ‘and should have died, if they had not found me. It was careless of me to be found, I suppose. But it was nothing to me—do you see?—if they saved me and knew. Don’t you think that queer? That a common coarse-featured woman might drink morphia and be sent to gaol for it, while I am saved and sent to visit her—and all because I am a lady?’

  I was, perhaps, as mad as I had ever been; and yet, I spoke out of a fearful kind of clarity that might have sounded, I suppose, like a show of temper. I looked about the table and now no-one would gaze at me, no-one save Mother—and she looked at me as if she did not know me. She only said very quietly at last, ‘Helen, will you take Margaret to her room?’ And she rose, and then all the ladies rose, and then the gentlemen rose to bow them out. The chairs made a wretched sound upon the floor, and the plates and glasses all rocked upon the table. Helen came to me. I said, ‘You needn’t put your hand on me!’ and she flinched—in fear, I suppose, of what I might say next. But she put her arm about my waist and led me from my seat, past Stephen and Mr Wallace and Mr Dance, and Vigers at the door. Mother took the ladies up to the drawing-room and we followed a little way behind them, then went past them. Helen said, ‘What is it, Margaret? I never saw you like this—so unlike yourself.’

  I was a little calmer now. I said she must not mind it, that I was only weary, and my head hurt, and my gown pinched. I wouldn’t let her into the room with me, but said she must go back and help Mother. I would sleep, I said, and be better by morning. She looked doubtful, but once I put my hand against her face—only in kindness, and to reassure her!—and I felt her flinch from me again, and knew she was afraid of me, and of what I might do or say that might be overheard. Then I laughed; and then she did go down—gazing back at me all the time she walked, her face growing smaller and paler and vaguer in the stairwell shadows.

  I found this room quite dark and still, the only light in it the dull glow of the ashy fire, a piece of street-light at the edge of the blind. I was glad of the darkness, I didn’t think of taking a taper to the lamp. I only stepped from the door to the window, from the window to the door; and I put my fingers to the hooks of my tight bodice, meaning to loosen it. But my fingers were clumsy—the gown only slid a little way along my arms, and so seemed to grip me tighter. And still I paced. I thought, It isn’t dark enough! I wanted it darker. Where is it dark? I saw the half-open door of my closet; even in there, however, there was a corner that seemed darker than the rest. I went to it, and crouched in it, and placed my head upon my knees. Now my gown had me gripped like a fist, so that the more I wriggled to undo it, the tighter it grew—at last, There is a screw at my back, I thought, & they are tightening it!

  Then I knew where I was. I was with her, and close to her, so close—what did she say once? closer than wax. I felt the cell about me, the jacket upon me—

  And yet, I seemed to feel my eyes bound, too, with bands of silk. And at my throat there was a velvet collar.

  I cannot say how long I crouched there. Once there were footsteps on the stairs, a gentle knocking, and a whisper—‘Are you awake?’ It might have been Helen, it might have been one of the girls, I don’t think it was Mother. Whoever it was I did not answer her, and she didn’t come, but must have thought me sleeping—I wondered vaguely, Why would she think that, seeing an empty bed? Then I heard voices in the hall, Stephen whistling for a cab. I heard Mr Dance’s laughter in the street beneath my window, the front door closed and bolted, Mother calling something sharp as she walked from room to room, seeing the fires out. I covered my ears. When I listened next there was only the sound of Vigers moving in the room above my own, and then the sawing and the sighing of the springs of her bed.

  When I tried to rise, I staggered: my legs were bent with cold and cramp and wouldn’t straighten, and the gown still pinned me at the elbows. But when I did stand, the dress fell easily. I cannot say if I was still in the grip of the medicine, or out of it, but I believed for a moment that I might be sick. I made my way through the darkness and washed my face and mouth, and then I stood bent above my bowl until the surge of sickness had passed. There were two or three coals still faintly glowing in the grate, and I went and held my hands to them, then lit a candle. My lips, my tongue, my eyes felt quite unlike my own, and I think I meant to go to the glass, to see how I was changed. But when I turned I saw the bed, and that there was something at its pillow; and then my fingers shook so violently the candle fell.

  I thought I saw a head there. I thought I saw my own head there, above the sheet. Now I stood frozen in fright, certain that I lay inside the bed—had perhaps been asleep through all the crouching in the closet, and would now wake, and rise, and come to where I stood, and embrace myself. I thought: You must have light! You must have light! You cannot let her come at you in the darkness! I stooped and found the candle—got it lit, held it with both hands, so that it wouldn’t gutter and go out—and I went to the pillow, and gazed at what was there.

  It was not a head. It was a curling rope of yellow hair, as thick as my two fists. It was the hair that I had tried to steal from Millbank Prison—it was Selina’s hair. She had sent it to me, from her dark place, across the city, across the night. I put my face to it. It smelt of sulphur.

  I woke, at six this morning, believing I could hear the Millbank bell. I woke as one might wake from death, still gripped by darkness, still sucked at by the soil. I found Selina’s hair beside me, its gloss a little marred where the plait had loosened—I had taken it with me into my bed. Seeing it, and remembering the night, I trembled; but I was clever enough to rise with it and put a scarf about it and place it out of sight, in the drawer where I keep this. The carpet seemed to tilt like the deck of a ship as I ran across it; it seemed to tilt even as I lay still and quiet. When Ellis came, she went at once for Mother, and though Mother came frowning, ready to scold, she saw me pale and shivering and wretched, and gave a cry. She sent Vigers for Dr Ashe, and when he came I found I couldn’t keep from weeping. I told him it was my monthly time, only that. He said I must take not chloral now but laudanum, and that I must keep to the house.

  When he was gone Mother had Vigers heat a plate for me to press to my stomach, for I told her it ached. Then she brought the laudanum. It tastes pleasanter, at least, than my last medicine.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I would not have had you sit with us last night, if I had known how ill you were.’ She said they must be more careful, in the future, as to how they let me pass my days. Then she brought Helen, and Stephen, and I heard them whispering. Once I think I slept, and then woke weeping and crying out, and couldn’t shake the confusion from me for half an hour. After that I began to be afraid of what I should say if a fever came on me while they stood and watched. At last I said that they must only leave me, and I would be well again. They answered: ‘Leave you? What nonsense! L
eave you, to be ill alone?’—I think Mother meant to sit with me all night. In the end I made myself lie still and calm, and they agreed I should do well enough with one of the girls to watch me. Now Vigers is to keep beyond the door till dawn. I heard Mother tell her to be sure I do not stir and tire myself—but, if she has caught the turning of these pages, she hasn’t come. Once, to-day, she came quietly to the room, bringing a cup of milk that she had boiled, then made sweet and thick with molasses and an egg. She said that if I took a cup of that a day, then I would soon grow better. But I could not drink it. After an hour she took the cup away, her plain face grown sad. I have eaten nothing but water and a little bread; and I have lain, with the shutters still drawn, in candle-light. When Mother lit a brighter lamp, I shrank from it. It made my eyes smart.

  26 May 1873

  This afternoon, as I sat very quietly in my own room, I heard the door-bell sound, & Ruth brought someone to me. It was a lady named Miss Isherwood, that came to a dark circle last Weds. She looked at me & she burst out weeping, saying she had not slept a single night since that night, & it was all because of Peter Quick. She said he touched her upon her face & hands & she can still feel his fingers there, they left invisible marks that weep a fluid or a rheum, that she feels flowing from her like water. I said ‘Give me your hand. Can you feel this rheum upon your hand now?’ She said she could. I watched her for a moment, then said ‘So can I.’ Then she stared at me & I laughed. Of course, I knew what her trouble was. I said ‘You are like me, Miss Isherwood, & don’t know it. You have powers! You are so full of spirit-matter it is seeping from you, that is the fluid you feel, it wants to rise. We must help it do so, & then your powers will grow strong as they were meant to. They only want what we call development. If we neglect this thing, then your powers will wither, or else they will twist inside you & make you sick.’ I looked at her face, which was awfully pale. I said ‘I think you have felt those powers begin to twist a little already, haven’t you?’ She said she had. I said ‘Well, they shall not harm you any more. Don’t you feel a little better, now I have touched you? Think how I shall help you, with Peter Quick’s hand to guide my own.’ I told Ruth she must prepare the parlour, & I rang for Jenny & said she must be sure to keep from that room & the rooms about it for an hour.

  Then I waited, then took Miss Isherwood downstairs. We passed Mrs Brink. I said Miss Isherwood had come for a private sitting, & when she heard that she said ‘O, Miss Isherwood, how fortunate you are! But you won’t, I hope, let my angel grow too weary?’ Miss Isherwood said she wouldn’t. When we went to the parlour we found that Ruth had hung the curtain but, there having been no time to make up a jar of phosphorised oil, she had only left a lamp burning very low. I said ‘Now, we shall keep this lamp lit, & you must tell me when you think Peter Quick has come. He will come you see if you have powers, it is only for the dark circles that I must sit behind a curtain, to protect me from the emanations that come from ordinary eyes.’ We sat for I should say 20 minutes, Miss Isherwood keeping very nervous all that time, until finally there came a knocking at the wall & she whispered ‘What is that?’ I said ‘I am not sure.’ Then the knocking grew louder & she said ‘I think he is here!’ & Peter came out of the cabinet shaking his head & groaning, saying ‘Why have you brought me at this queer time?’ I said ‘There is a lady here who needs your help. I believe she has the power to bring spirits but that power is weak & needs developing. I believe you have called her to this work.’ Peter said ‘Is it Miss Isherwood? Yes, I can see the signs I put upon her. Well Miss Isherwood, this is a very great task, it is not a thing to be undertaken lightly. What you have you know is sometimes called a fatal gift. The things that happen in this room will sound queer to the ears of unsensitive people. You must keep the spirits’ secrets or risk their boundless wrath. Can you do that?’ Miss Isherwood said ‘I think I can sir. I think that what Miss Dawes says must be true. I think I have a nature that is very like hers, or could be made like it.’

  I looked at Peter then, & saw him smile. He said ‘My medium’s nature is very special. You believe that to be a medium you must hold your spirit aside to let another spirit come. That however, is not how it is. You must rather be a servant of the spirits, you must become a plastic instrument for the spirits’ own hands. You must let your spirit be used, your prayer must be always May I be used. Say that, Selina.’ I said it, then he said to Miss Isherwood ‘Tell her to say it.’ She said ‘Say it Miss Dawes’ & I said again ‘May I be used.’ He said ‘Do you see? my medium must do as she is bid. You think she is awake but she is entranced. Tell her to do another thing.’ I heard Miss Isherwood swallow, then she said ‘Will you stand up Miss Dawes?’ but Peter said at once ‘You must not ask Will you, you must command her.’ Miss Isherwood said then ‘Stand up Miss Dawes!’ & I stood, & Peter said ‘Say another thing.’ She said ‘Join your hands, open & shut your eyes, say Amen’ & I did all these things & Peter laughed, his voice growing higher. He said ‘Tell her to kiss you.’ She said ‘Kiss me Miss Dawes!’ He said ‘Tell her to kiss me!’ & she said ‘Miss Dawes, kiss Peter!’ Then he said ‘Tell her to take off her gown!’ Miss Isherwood said ‘O, I cannot do that!’ He said ‘Tell her!’ & then she told me. Peter said ‘Help her with the buttons’, & when she did she said ‘How fast her heart beats!’

  Then Peter said ‘Now you see my medium unclothed. That is how the spirit appears when the body has been taken from it. Put your hand upon her, Miss Isherwood. Is she hot?’ Miss Isherwood said I was very hot. Peter said ‘That is because her spirit is very near the surface of her flesh. You must also become hot.’ She said ‘Indeed I feel very hot.’ He said ‘That is good, but you are not hot enough for development to happen, you must let my medium make you hotter. You must take off your gown now & you must grasp Miss Dawes.’ I felt her do all this, my eyes being still shut tight, because Peter had not said that I might open them. I felt her arms come about me & her face come close to mine. Peter said ‘How do you feel now Miss Isherwood?’ & she answered ‘I am not sure, sir.’ He said ‘Tell me again, what must your prayer be?’ & she said ‘May I be used.’ He said ‘Say it then.’ She said it, & then he said she must say it faster, which she then did. Then he came & put his hand upon her neck & she gave a jog. He said ‘O, but your spirit is still not hot enough! It must grow so hot you will feel it melting, you will feel mine come & take its place!’ He put his arms about her & I felt his hands on me, now we had her hard between us & she began to shake. He said ‘What is the medium’s prayer Miss Isherwood? What is the medium’s prayer?’ & she said it, over & over & over until her voice grew faint, & then Peter whispered to me ‘Open your eyes.’

  11 December 1874

  I have continued to wake all week to that impossible sound, the sound of the Millbank bell ringing the women to their labour. I have imagined them rising, pulling on their woollen stockings and their linsey gowns. I have imagined them standing at their gates with their knives and trenchers, warming their hands against their mugs of tea, then settling to their work and feeling their hands grow cold. Selina, I think, is among them again, for I have felt the darkness lift a little from that portion of me that has shared her cell. But I know she is wretched; and I have not been to her.

  At first it was fear, and shame, that kept me from her. Now it is Mother. She has grown querulous again, as I have grown well. The day after the doctor’s visit she came to sit with me, saw Vigers bring another plate, and shook her head—‘You wouldn’t be ill like this,’ she said, ‘if you were married.’ Yesterday she stood and watched while I was bathed, but would not let me dress. She says I must keep to my room, in a bed-gown. Then Vigers came from the closet carrying the walking-suit I have had made for Millbank: it had been put there and forgotten on the night of the supper, and she meant I suppose to tidy it. I saw it, saw the lime upon it, and remembered Miss Brewer staggering against the wall. Mother looked once at me, then nodded to Vigers. She told her to take the gown and clean it, then put it away. And when I s
aid that she must wait—that I would need the gown for Millbank—Mother said, I surely did not mean to continue with my visits, now that this had happened?

  Then she said to Vigers, more quietly: ‘Take the gown and go.’ And Vigers looked once at me, then went. I heard her footsteps, fast, upon the staircase.

  And so, we had the same dreary argument. ‘I won’t let you go to Millbank,’ said Mother, ‘since going there makes you so ill.’ I said she could not stop me from going if I still chose to. She answered, ‘Your own sense of propriety should prevent you. Your own sense of loyalty, to your mother!’

  I said that there was nothing improper about my visits, nor anything disloyal, how could she think it? She said, was it not disloyalty, to shame her as I had at the supper-party before Mr Dance and Miss Palmer? She said she had known it all along, and now Dr Ashe had said as much: the visits to Millbank had made me ill again, just as I had been growing well. I had had too much freedom, my temperament did not suit it. I was too susceptible, visiting the rough women of the gaol made me forget the proper way of things. I had too many blank hours and grew fanciful—&c. &c.

  ‘Mr Shillitoe,’ she said at last, ‘has sent a note, enquiring after you.’ It turned out that a letter came the day after my visit. She said she would write an answer to it, saying I was too ill to return.

  I had argued and grown weak. Now I saw how it was with her and felt a surge of temper. I thought: Damn you, you bitch!—I heard the words hissed very plainly in my head, as by a second, secret mouth. They were so plain I flinched, thinking that Mother must hear them too. But she had only crossed to the door and not looked back; and when I saw how firm her step was, then I knew how I must be. I took my handkerchief and wiped my lips. I called, that she need not write the letter. I would send a note to Mr Shillitoe myself.