Affinity

( 41 )

Overview

?Gothic tale, psychological study, puzzle narrative?This is gripping, astute fiction that feeds the mind and senses.??The Seattle Times

An upper-class woman recovering from a suicide attempt, Margaret Prior has begun visiting the women?s ward of Millbank prison, Victorian London?s grimmest jail, as part of her rehabilitative charity work. Amongst Millbank?s murderers and common thieves, Margaret finds herself increasingly fascinated by on apparently innocent inmate, the ...

See more details below
Paperback (Reprint)
$13.10
BN.com price
(Save 18%)$16.00 List Price

Pick Up In Store

Reserve and pick up in 60 minutes at your local store

Other sellers (Paperback)
  • All (70) from $1.99   
  • New (11) from $7.95   
  • Used (59) from $1.99   
Affinity

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$12.99
BN.com price

Overview

“Gothic tale, psychological study, puzzle narrative…This is gripping, astute fiction that feeds the mind and senses.”—The Seattle Times

An upper-class woman recovering from a suicide attempt, Margaret Prior has begun visiting the women’s ward of Millbank prison, Victorian London’s grimmest jail, as part of her rehabilitative charity work. Amongst Millbank’s murderers and common thieves, Margaret finds herself increasingly fascinated by on apparently innocent inmate, the enigmatic spiritualist Selina Dawes. Selina was imprisoned after a séance she was conducting went horribly awry, leaving an elderly matron dead and a young woman deeply disturbed. Although initially skeptical of Selina’s gifts, Margaret is soon drawn into a twilight world of ghosts and shadows, unruly spirits and unseemly passions, until she is at last driven to concoct a desperate plot to secure Selina’s freedom, and her own.

As in her noteworthy deput, Tipping the Velvet, Sarah Waters brilliantly evokes the sights and smells of a moody and beguiling nineteenth-century London, and proves herself yet again a storyteller, in the words of the New York Times Book Review, of "startling power."

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Waters Runs Deep

Sarah Waters's first novel, Tipping the Velvet, had a brilliantly literary tone and a fresh new voice that garnered her a diverse audience, great critical acclaim, and laudatory reviews. Waters's look at the intimate relationships between several women in late 19th-century London tapped into the feminine mystique in a uniquely compelling way, touching on the effects of the sociopolitical upheaval of that time and the women's inherent sensuality. Now, in another story about women pulling together and coming together, this promising new writer produces yet another tour de force with Affinity, a haunting tale of ghosts, spiritualism, betrayal, and survival. Though the time period is essentially the same, this time Waters chooses a seedier, darker setting: the women's ward at London's Millbank prison.

Twenty-something Margaret Prior comes from one of London's finer families, but that doesn't protect her from suffering a very common malady: a broken heart. She attempts suicide by overdosing on laudanum and as part of her therapy following this attempt, she volunteers to visit inmates on the women's ward at nearby Millbank prison. Here she finds herself mingling with a wide array of women whose social backgrounds range from street beggars to London's upper crust. Their stories are as equally diverse and intriguing as they are suspect, from the petty thieves who stole food to assuage their hunger to cold-blooded murderers who killed for little more than revenge.

Although the plights of these sad women help take Margaret's mind off her broken heart, she can't completely put her lover out of her mind. Complicating that problem are two things. The first is that Margaret can talk to no one about her affair and is forced to keep her battered emotions bottled up inside to avoid a heinous scandal. The second is the stress of proximity, for her lover is another woman, one who is about to marry Margaret's brother. Desperate to get past her pain, Margaret throws herself into the prison environment and soon becomes curiously drawn to one young woman who, like most of the others, declares her innocence. But this woman, Selina Dawes, is intriguingly different.

For one thing, Selina claims to be a spiritualist and blames the crime for which she is being punished -- fraud and battery -- on a ghost. At first Margaret thinks this is just another story -- albeit a more inventive one than most -- designed to cover up true guilt. But before long, Margaret has reason to rethink things. First she delves into Selina's background and discovers several things that lend credence to Selina's claims. Then mysterious things start to happen that seem to support the existence of a spiritual world. Selina demonstrates her intimate knowledge of happenings in Margaret's life -- things she has no way of knowing. Plus, certain items appear -- a bloody collar and a braided hank of hair -- and disappear -- Margaret's favorite, treasured locket. Convinced that Selina is indeed innocent, and growing more captivated by this enigmatic woman with each passing day, Margaret thinks up a plan for escape from Millbank, one that will allow her and Selina to be together. But her plans go horribly awry and set both women on a devastating course of hope and betrayal that will leave one of them forever changed.

Waters tells her story in a circular fashion that switches back and forth in both time and points of view. Through the two women's respective journals, readers experience both Margaret's day-to-day relationship with Selina and the past events in Selina's life that led up to her conviction and imprisonment. In this manner, Waters plumbs the vast array of emotions inherent in the women themselves and in their relationship with one another, exposing heightened passions, frightening vulnerabilities, and a truly mesmerizing world of the supernatural.

Waters's expansive knowledge of the period brings turn-of-the-century London brilliantly alive. Her flair for colorful, vivid imagery makes the sights, sounds, smells, and feel of the dank prison seem frighteningly real, the horridly grim conditions adding layers of subtle character to its many denizens. Waters is clearly a writer of remarkable talent and, from its riveting opening scene to its shocking ending, Affinity is the perfect showcase for that talent.

—Beth Amos

Nancy Chinn
Waters has perfect pitch in her representations of bourgeois Victorian life, the puritanical misery of prisons in the 1870's, and the spiritualist subculture...she has created a compelling character in a deeply absorbing book.
The Advocate
Nancy Willard
There are two kinds of mystery novels. The first gives us the crime and the clues; the guilty party is then unmasked and the mystery solved. In the other, the crime is solved but not the mystery, which arises from a dark corner of the human condition. Sarah Waters's remarkable second novel, Affinity, is both of these -- and also a wrenching love story.
The New York Times Book Review
USA Today
Readers must seek the answers in Affinity, which turns into a powerful plot-twister. The book is multidimensional: a naturalistic look at Victorian society; a truly suspenseful tale of terror; and a piece of elegant, thinly veiled erotica.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781573228732
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
  • Publication date: 1/28/2002
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 368
  • Sales rank: 251,143
  • Product dimensions: 5.23 (w) x 8.04 (h) x 0.99 (d)

Meet the Author

Sarah Waters

Sarah Waters is the author of Tipping the Velvet, a New York Times Notable Book; Affinity, which won her the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award; Fingersmith and The Night Watch, both of which were shortlisted for both the Orange Prize and the Man Booker Prize; and The Little Stranger, which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, a finalist for the Shirley Jackson Award and a New York Times Notable Book. She has also been named one of Granta's best young British novelists. She lives in London.  

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt



Chapter One


24 September 1874


Pa used to say that any piece of history might be made into a tale: it was only a question of deciding where the tale began, and where it ended. That, he said, was all his skill. And perhaps, after all, the histories he dealt with were rather easy to sift like that, to divide up and classify—the great lives, the great works, each one of them neat and gleaming and complete, like metal letters in a box of type.

    I wish that Pa was with me now. I would ask him how he would start to write the story I have embarked upon to-day. I would ask him how he would neatly tell the story of a prison—of Millbank Prison—which has so many separate lives in it, and is so curious a shape, and must be approached, so darkly, through so many gates and twisting passages. Would he start it with the building of the gaols themselves? I cannot do that, for though I was told the date of it this morning I have forgotten it now; besides which, Millbank is so solid and so antique, I can't believe that there was ever a time when it did not sit upon that dreary spot beside the Thames, casting its shadow on the black earth there. He might begin it, then, with Mr Shillitoe's visit to this house, three weeks ago; or, he might begin it at seven this morning, when Ellis first brought me my grey suit and my coat—no, of course he would not start the story there, with a lady and her servant, and petticoats and loose hair.

    He would start it, I think, at the gate of Millbank, the point that every visitor must pass when they arrive to make their tour of thegaols. Let me begin my record there, then: I am being greeted by the prison porter, who is marking my name off in some great ledger; now a warder is leading me through a narrow arch, and I am about to step across the grounds towards the prison proper—

    Before I can do that, however, I am obliged to pause a little to fuss with my skirts, which are plain, but wide, and have caught upon some piece of jutting iron or brick. I daresay Pa would not have bothered with the detail of the skirts; I will, however, for it is in lifting my eyes from my sweeping hem that I first see the pentagons of Millbank—and the nearness of them, and the suddenness of that gaze, makes them seem terrible. I look at them, and feel my heart beat hard, and I am afraid.

    I had a plan of Millbank's buildings from Mr Shillitoe a week ago, and have had it pinned, since then, on the wall beside this desk. The prison, drawn in outline, has a curious kind of charm to it, the pentagons appearing as petals on a geometric flower—or, as I have sometimes thought, they are like the coloured zones on the chequer-boards we used to paint when we were children. Seen close, of course, Millbank is not charming. Its scale is vast, and its lines and angles, when realised in walls and towers of yellow brick and shuttered windows, seem only wrong or perverse. It is as if the prison had been designed by a man in the grip of a nightmare or a madness—or had been made expressly to drive its inmates mad. I think it would certainly drive me mad, if I had to work as a warder there. As it was, I walked flinchingly beside the man who led me, and paused once to glance behind me, then to gaze at the wedge of sky that showed above. The inner gate at Millbank is set at the junction of two of the pentagons and so, to reach it, one must walk along a narrowing slip of gravel, and feel the walls on either side of one advancing, like the clashing rocks of the Bosporous. The shadows there, flung from the jaundiced bricks, are the colour of bruises. The soil in which the walls are set is damp and dark as tobacco.

    This soil makes the air there very sour; it grew sourer still, as I was shown into the gaol and had the gate made fast behind me. My heart beat even harder then, and continued to thump while I was made to sit in a plain little room, watching warders cross the open door, seeing them frown and murmur. When Mr Shillitoe came to me at last, I took his hand. I said, `I am glad to see you! I had begun to worry that the men might take me for a convict just arrived, and lead me to a cell, and leave me there!' He laughed. There were never confusions like that, he said, at Millbank.

    We walked together then, into the prison buildings: for he thought it best to take me straight to the female gaol, to the office of the governess or principal matron there, Miss Haxby. We walked, and he explained our route to me, and I tried to match it with my memory of my paper plan; but the organisation of the prison, of course, is so peculiar, I soon grew lost. The pentagons that hold the men, I know we did not enter. We only passed the gates that lead to those gaols from the hexagon-shaped building at the prison's middle, the building in which they have their store-rooms, and the surgeon's house, and Mr Shillitoe's own offices, and the offices of all his clerks, and the infirmaries and chapel. `For you see,' he said to me once, nodding through a window at a set of yellow smoking chimneys he said were fed by the fires of the prison laundry, `you see, we are quite a little city here! Quite self-sustaining. We should do very well, I always think, under a siege.'

    He spoke rather proudly, but smiled at his own pride; and I smiled when he did. But if I had grown fearful, having the light and air shut out behind me at the inner gate, then now, as we passed further into the gaol, and that gate was put behind us at the end of a dim and complicated path I should never be able to retrace alone—now, I grew nervous again. Last week, sorting through the papers in Pa's study, I came across a volume of the prison drawings of Piranesi, and spent an anxious hour, studying them, thinking of all the dark and terrible scenes I might be confronted with to-day. Of course, there was nothing to match the things I had imagined. We passed only along a succession of neat, whitewashed corridors, and were greeted at the junction of these by warders, in dark prison coats. But, the very neatness and the sameness of the corridors and the men made them troubling: I might have been taken on the same plain route ten times over, I should never have known it. Unnerving, too, is the dreadful clamour of the place. Where the warders stand there are gates, that must be unfastened, and swung on grinding hinges, and slammed and bolted; and the empty passages, of course, echo with the sounds of other gates, and other locks and bolts, distant and near. The prison seems caught, in consequence, at the heart of some perpetual private storm, that left my ears ringing.

    We walked until we reached an antique, studded door that had a wicket in it, which proved to be the entrance to the female gaol. Here we were greeted by a matron, who made Mr Shillitoe a curtsey; and, she being the first woman I had encountered there, I made sure to study her carefully. She was youngish, pale, and quite unsmiling, and dressed in what I was soon to see was the uniform of the place: a grey wool dress, a mantle of black, a grey straw bonnet trimmed with blue, and stout black flat-heeled boots. When she saw me gazing at her she curtseyed again—Mr Shillitoe saying, `This is Miss Ridley, our chief matron here', and then, to her: `This is Miss Prior, our new Visitor.'

    She walked before us, and there came a steady chink, chink of metal; and I saw then that, like the warders, she wore a wide belt of leather with a buckle of brass and, suspended from the buckle, a chain of polished prison keys.

    She took us, via more featureless corridors, to a spiral staircase that wound upwards through a tower; it is at the top of the tower, in a bright, white, circular room, filled with windows, that Miss Haxby has her office. `You will see the logic of the design of this,' said Mr Shillitoe as we climbed, growing red and breathless; and of course, I saw it at once, for the tower is set at the centre of the pentagon yards, so that the view from it is all of the walls and barred windows that make up the interior face of the women's building. The room is very plain. Its floor is bare. There is a rope hung out between two posts, where prisoners, when they are taken there, are obliged to stand, and beyond the rope is a desk. Here, sitting writing in a great black book, we found Miss Haxby herself—`the Argus of the gaol', as Mr Shillitoe called her, smiling. When she saw us she rose, took off her spectacles and, like Miss Ridley, made a curtsey.

    She is a very small lady, and her hair is perfectly white. Her eyes are sharp eyes. Behind her desk, screwed tight to the limewashed bricks, there is set an enamel tablet bearing a piece of dark text:


Thou hast set our misdeeds before Thee, and our secret sins in the light of Thy confidence.


It was impossible, on entering that room, not to long to walk at once to one of its curving windows and gaze at the view beyond it, and when Mr Shillitoe saw me looking he said, `Yes, Miss Prior, come closer to the glass.' I spent a moment then, studying the wedge-shaped yards below, then looking harder at the ugly prison walls that faced us, and at the banks of squinting windows with which they are filled. Mr Shillitoe said, Now, was that not a very marvellous and terrible sight? There was all the female gaol before me; and behind each of those windows was a single cell, with a prisoner in it. He turned to Miss Haxby. `How many women have you on your wards, just now?'

    She answered, that there were two hundred and seventy.

    `Two hundred and seventy!' he said, shaking his head. `Will you take a moment, Miss Prior, to imagine those poor women, and all the dark and crooked paths through which they have made their way to Millbank? They might have been thieves, they might have been prostitutes, they might have been brutalised by vice; they will certainly be ignorant of shame, and duty, and all the finer feelings—yes, you may be sure of it. Villainous women, society has deemed them; and society has passed them on, to Miss Haxby and to me, to take close care of them ...'

    But what, he asked me, was the proper way for them to do that? `We give them habits that are regular. We teach them their prayers; we teach them modesty. Yet, of necessity, they must spend the great part of their days alone, with their cell walls about them. And there they are—' he nodded again to the windows before us `—perhaps for three years, perhaps for six or seven. There they are: shut up, and brooding. Their tongues we still, their hands we may keep busy; but their hearts, Miss Prior, their wretched memories, their own low thoughts, their mean ambitions—these, we cannot guard. Can we, Miss Haxby?'

    `No, sir,' she answered.

    I said, And yet, he thought a Visitor might do much good with them?

    He knew it, he said. He was certain of it. Those poor unguarded hearts, they were like children's hearts, or savages'—they were impressible, they wanted only a finer mould, to shape them. `Our matrons might do this,' he said; `our matrons' hours, however, are long, and their duties hard. The women are sometimes bitter with them, and sometimes rough. But, let a lady go to them, Miss Prior, let a lady do that; let them only know that she has left her comfortable life, solely to visit them, to take an interest in their mean histories. Let them see the miserable contrast between her speech, her manners, and their own poor ways, and they will grow meek, they will grow softened and subdued—I have seen it happen! Miss Haxby has seen it! It is a matter of influence, of sympathies, of susceptibilities tamed ...'

    So he went on. He had said much of this before, of course, downstairs, in our own drawing-room; and there, with Mother frowning, and the clock upon the mantel giving its slow tut-tut, it had sounded very well. You must have been sadly idle, Miss Prior, he had said to me then, since your poor father's death. He only called to take a set of books that Pa had once had from him; he didn't know that I had not been idle, but ill. I was glad he did not know it, then. Now, however, with those bleak prison walls before me, and with Miss Haxby gazing at me, and Miss Ridley at the door, her arms across her breast and her chain of keys swinging—now I felt more fearful than ever. For a moment I wished only that they might see the weakness in me, and send me home—as Mother has sent me home sometimes when I have grown anxious at a theatre, thinking I should be ill and have to cry out while the hall was so still.

    They did not see it. Mr Shillitoe talked on, about Millbank's history, about its routines, its staff and its visitors. I stood and nodded at his words; sometimes Miss Haxby also nodded. And then, after a time, there sounded a bell, from some part of the prison buildings; and hearing that, Mr Shillitoe and the matrons all made a similar movement, and Mr Shillitoe said that he had spoken longer than he had meant to. That bell was the signal that sent the prisoners to the yards; now he must leave me to the matrons' care—he said I must be sure to go to him another time, and tell him how the women seem to me. He took my hand, but when I made to walk with him towards the desk he said, `No, no, you must stand a little longer there. Miss Haxby, will you come to the window and watch with Miss Prior? Now, Miss Prior, keep your eyes before you, and you shall see something!'

    The matron held the door for him, and he was swallowed by the gloom of the tower staircase. Miss Haxby had drawn near, and now we turned to the glass, Miss Ridley stepping to another window to gaze from that. Below us stretched the three earth yards, each separated from its neighbour by a high brick wall that ran, like the spoke on a cart-wheel, from the governess's tower. Above us hung the dirty city sky, that was streaked with sunlight.

    `A fair day, for September,' said Miss Haxby.

    Then she gazed again at the scene below us; and I gazed with her, and waited.

    For a time, all was still: for the yards there, like the grounds, are desperately bleak, all dirt and gravel—there is not so much as a blade of grass to be shivered by the breezes, or a worm or a beetle for a bird to swoop for. But after perhaps a minute or so I caught a movement in the corner of one of the yards, and then a similar movement in the others. It was the opening of doors, and the emergence of the women; and I don't think I ever saw such a queer and impressive sight as they made then, for we watched them from our high window and they looked small—they might have been dolls upon a clock, or beads on trailing threads. They spilled into the yards and formed three great elliptical loops, and within a second of their doing that, I could not have said which was the first prisoner to have entered the ground, and which the last, for the loops were seamless, and the women all dressed quite alike, in frocks of brown and caps of white, and with pale blue kerchiefs knotted at their throats. It was only from their poses that I caught the humanity of them: for though they all walked at the same dull pace, there were some, I saw, with drooping heads, and some that limped; some with bodies stiff and hugged against the sudden chill, a few poor souls with faces lifted to the sky—and one, I think, who even raised her eyes to the window that we stood at, and gazed blankly at us.

    There were all the women of the gaol there, almost three hundred of them, ninety women to each great wheeling line. And in the corner of the yards stood a pair of dark-cloaked matrons, who must stand and watch the prisoners until the exercise is complete.

    Miss Haxby, I thought, gazed at the plodding women with a kind of satisfaction. `See how they know their places,' she said. `There must be kept a certain distance, look, between each prisoner.' If that distance is breached, the offending woman is reported and loses privileges. If there are women who are old or sick or feeble, or if there are very young girls—'We have had girls in the past—haven't we, Miss Ridley?—of twelve and thirteen'—then the matron sets them walking in a circle of their own.

    `How quietly they walk!' I said. She told me then that the women must keep silent, in all parts of the prison; that they are forbidden to speak, to whistle, to sing, hum `or make any kind of voluntary noise' unless at the express request of a matron or Visitor.

    `And how long must they walk for?' I asked her then.—They must walk for an hour. `And if it should rain?'—If it should rain, the exercise must be forfeited. Those were bad days for the matrons, she said, for then the long confinement made the women `fidget and turn saucy'. As she spoke she peered harder at the prisoners: one of the loops had begun to slow, and now mined out of sequence with the circles in the other yards. She said, `There is'—and here she named some woman—'making the pace of her line grow slack. Be sure to speak with her, Miss Ridley, when you make your round.'

    I thought it marvellous that she could tell one woman from another; when I told her that, however, she smiled. She said, that she had seen the prisoners walking the yards every day of their terms there, `and I have been seven years as principal at Millbank, and before that was chief matron here'—before that, she told me, she was ordinary matron, at the prison at Brixton. All in all, she said, she had spent twenty-one years in gaol; which was a longer sentence than many convicts serve. And yet, there were women walking down there, too, who would outsuffer her. She had seen them come; she dared to say she would not be there to see them leave ...

    I asked if such women didn't make her work the easier, since they must know the habits of the gaol so well? She nodded. `Oh yes.' Then: `Is that not true, Miss Ridley? We prefer a longer-server, do we not?'

    `We do,' answered the matron. `We like the longer-servers, with the one offence behind them—that is,' she said to me, `your poisoners, your vitriol-throwers, your child-murderers, that the magistrates have turned kind on and kept from the rope. Had we a gaolful of such women, we might send our matrons home and let the convicts lock themselves up. It is the petty regulars, the thieves and prostitutes and counterfeiters, that vex us most—and they are devils, miss! Bred to mischief, most of them, and look for nothing better. If they know our habits, they know only what they can get away with, know what tricks will trouble us the most. Devils!'

    Her manner stayed very mild, through all this speech; but her words made me blink. Perhaps it was only the association of the chain of keys—which still swung, and sometimes tumbled unmusically together, on the chain of her belt—but her voice seemed to me to be tainted with steel. It was like a bolt in its cradle: I imagine she might draw it back, harsh or gently; I am sure she could never make it soft. I looked at her for a second, then turned again to Miss Haxby. She had only nodded at the matron's words, and now she almost smiled. `You may see,' she said, `how sentimental my matrons grow over their charges!'

    She kept her sharp eyes upon me. `Do you think us harsh, Miss Prior?' she asked after a moment. She said I would, of course, form my own opinion of the characters of her women. Mr Shillitoe had asked me to be Visitor to them, and she was grateful to him, and I was to pass my time with them as I thought proper. But she must say to me, as she would say to any lady or gentleman who came to walk her wards: `Take care'—she gave the words a dreadful emphasis—`Take care, in your dealings with Millbank's women!' She said I must take care, for example, of my possessions. Many of her girls were pickpockets in their former lives, and if I were to place a watch or a handkerchief in their way, then I would tempt them into their old habits: she asks me therefore not to place such items in their way, just as I would `keep my rings and trinkets hidden from the eyes of a servant, so as not to worry her with the prospect of the taking of them'.

    She said, too, that I must take care in how I speak to the women. I must tell them nothing of the world beyond the prison walls, nothing of what happens in it, not even so much as a notice from a newspaper—especially not that, she said, indeed, `for newspapers are forbidden here'. She said I might find a woman seeking me out as an intimate, a counsellor; and if she does that, then I must counsel her `as her matron would—that is, in thinking shamefully on her crime, and in making her future life a better one'. But I must make no woman any kind of promises while she is kept in the gaol; nor must I carry objects or information between a woman and her family or friends outside.

    `If a prisoner were to tell you that her mother was ill and about to die,' she said; `if she were to cut off a lock of her hair and plead with you to take it, as a token, to the dying woman, you must refuse it. For take it, Miss Prior, and the prisoner will have you in her power. She will hold the knowledge against you, and use it to make all manner of mischief.'

    She said there had been one or two notorious cases like that, in her time at Millbank, that had ended very miserably for all concerned ...

    Those, I think, were all her cautions. I thanked her for them—though, all the time she spoke, I found myself terribly mindful of the smooth-faced silent matron who stood nearby: it was like thanking Mother for some piece of hard counsel, while Ellis took the plates away. I gazed again at the circling women, saying nothing, thinking my own thoughts.

    `You like to look at them,' Miss Haxby said then.

    She said she had never had a visitor yet that didn't like to stand at that window and watch the women walk. It was as curative, she thought, as gazing at fish in a tank.

    After that, I moved from the glass.

    I think we talked a little longer, about the routines of the gaol; but soon she looked at her watch and said Miss Ridley might now take me on my first tour of the wards. `I am sorry I cannot show you them myself,' she said. `But look here,'—nodding to the great dark volume on her desk—`here is my work for the morning. This is the prisoners' Character Book, that I must fill with all the reports my matrons make me.' She drew on her spectacles, and her sharp eyes grew sharper. `I shall see now, Miss Prior,' she said, `how good our women have been this week—and how wicked!'

    Miss Ridley led me from her, down the shady tower staircase. On the floor below we passed another door. I said, `What rooms do you keep here, Miss Ridley?' She said that those were Miss Haxby's own apartments, in which she took her dinners and also slept—and I wondered then how it must be, to lie in that quiet tower, with the gaol outside one's windows, rearing up on every side.

    I look at the plan beside my desk, and see the tower marked out upon it. I think I see, too, the route Miss Ridley took me on now. She walked very briskly, picking out her unswerving way through those monotonous passages—quite like a compass needle, continually swinging north. There are three miles' worth of such passages across the prison as a whole, she told me; but when I asked her, were the corridors not very difficult to tell apart?, she snorted. She said that when women come to Millbank to be matrons, they put their heads upon their pillows in the night and seem to be walking, walking, walking down the same white corridor. `That happens for a week,' she said. `After that, the matron knows her way all right. After a year, she wishes she might grow lost again, for the novelty.' She herself has been matron there longer even than Miss Haxby. She could be blinded, she said, and still perform her duties.

    Here she smiled, but very sourly. Her cheek is white and even, like lard or wax, and her eyes are pale, with heavy lashless lids. Her hands, I noticed, are kept very clean and smooth—I should say she takes a pumice-stone to them. Her nails are clipped neatly, quite to the quick.

    She didn't speak to me again until we reached the wards—that is, until we arrived at a set of bars, which admitted us to a long, chill, silent, cloister-like passage, that held the cells. This passage was, I think, about six feet wide. There was sand upon the floor of it and, upon the walls and ceiling, more lime-wash. High on the left—too high even for me to gaze from—there was a row of windows, barred and thickly glassed; and all along the opposite wall were doorways: doorway after doorway after doorway, all just the same, like the dark, identical doorways one sometimes has to choose between in terrible dreams. The doorways let a little light into the passage, but also something of an odour. The odour—I had caught it at once, in the outer corridors, and I smell it even now, as I write this!—it is vague, but terrible. It is the stifled reek of what they call there `nuisance-buckets', and the lingering exhalations I suppose of many ill-washed mouths and limbs.

    This was the first ward, Ward A, Miss Ridley told me. There are six wards altogether—two to each floor. Ward A houses the newest set of women, that they term Third Class.

    She led me then into the first of the empty cells, gesturing as she did so to the two doors fixed at the mouth of it. One of these was of wood, with bolts upon it; the other was an iron gate, with a lock. They keep the gates fastened during the days, and have the wooden doors thrown back: `That lets us see the women as we walk,' said Miss Ridley, `and keeps the air of the cells less foul.' As she spoke, she pushed both doors closed, and the room at once grew darker and seemed to shrink. She put her hands upon her hips, and gazed about her. These were very decent cells, she said: good-sized, and `built quite solid', with a double layer of brick between them. `That stops a woman from calling to her neighbour ...'

    I turned away from her. The cell, though dim, was white and very harsh upon the eye, and so bare that, if I close my own eyes now, I find I see again all that was in it, very clearly. There was a single small high window, made of wire and yellow glass—this was one of the windows, of course, that I had gazed at with Mr Shillitoe from Miss Haxby's tower. Beside the door was an enamel plaque bearing a list of `Notices to Convicts' and a `Convicts' Prayer'. Upon a bare wood shelf there was a mug, a trencher, a box of salt, a Bible and a religious book: The Prisoner's Companion. There was a chair and table and a folded hammock and, beside the hammock, a tray of canvas sacks and scarlet threads, and a `nuisance-bucket' with a chipped enamel lid. Upon the narrow window-sill there was a prison comb, its ancient teeth worn down or splintered, and snagged with curling hairs and crumbs of scalp.

    The comb, it turned out, was all there was to distinguish that cell from the ones about it. The women may keep nothing with them of their own, and what they are issued with—the mugs and plates and Bibles—must be kept very neat, and laid out in line with a prison pattern. Walking the length of the ground-floor wards with Miss Ridley, gazing in at all those bleak and featureless chambers, was very miserable; I found I was made giddy, too, by the geometry of the place. For the wards, of course, follow the pentagon's exterior walls, and are queerly segmented: each time we arrived at the end of one white and monotonous passage, it was to find ourselves at the beginning of another just the same, only stretching off at an unnatural angle. Where two corridors meet there is a spiral staircase. At the junction of the wards there is a tower, where the matron of each floor has a little chamber of her own.

    All the time we walked there came, from beyond the windows of the cells, the steady tramp, tramp of the women in the prison yards. Now, as we reached the furthest arm of the second ground-floor ward, I heard another ringing of the prison bell, that made the marching rhythm slow, then grow uneven; and after a moment there came the banging of a door, the rattling of bars, and then the sound of boots again, crunching on sand this time, and echoing. I looked at Miss Ridley. `Here come the women,' she said, without excitement; and we stood and listened as the sound grew loud, then louder, then louder still. It seemed, at last, impossibly loud—for we of course had turned three angles of the floor and, though the women were near, we could not see them. I said, `They might be ghosts!'—I remembered how there are said to be legions of Roman soldiers that can be heard passing, sometimes, through the cellars of the houses of the City. I think the grounds at Millbank might echo like that, in the centuries when the prison no longer stands there.

    But Miss Ridley had turned to me. `Ghosts!' she said, studying me queerly. And as she spoke, the prisoners turned the angle of the ward; and then they were suddenly terribly real—not ghosts, not dolls or beads on a string, as they had seemed before, but coarse-faced, slouching women and girls. Their heads went up when they saw us standing there, and when they recognised Miss Ridley their expressions grew meek. Me, however, they seemed to study quite frankly.

    They looked, but went neatly to their cells, and then sat. And behind them came their matron, locking the gates on them.

    This matron's name, I think, is Miss Manning. `Miss Prior is making her first visit here,' Miss Ridley said to her, and the matron nodded, saying, they had been told to expect me. She smiled. I had taken on a pretty task, she said, calling on their girls! And should I like to speak with one of them now?—I said I might as well. She led me to a cell she had not fastened yet, and beckoned to the woman that had entered it. `Here, Pilling,' she said. `Here is the new Lady Visitor, come to take a bit of interest in you. Up, and let her see you. Come on, look slippy!'

    The prisoner came to me and made a curtsey. Her cheek was flushed and her lip slightly gleaming from her brisk circling of the yard. Miss Manning said, `Say who you are and why you are here', and the woman said at once—though stumbling slightly, over the pronunciation of it—`Susan Pilling, m'm. Here for thieving.'

    Miss Manning showed me then an enamel tablet that hung from a chain beside the entrance to the cell: this gave the woman's prison number and class, her crime, and the date she was due to be released. I said, `How long have you been at Millbank, Pilling?'—She told me, seven months. I nodded. And what age was she? I thought she might be two or three years short of forty. She said, however, that she was twenty-two; and I hesitated at that, then nodded again. How, I asked next, did she care for the life there?

    She replied that she liked it well enough; and that Miss Manning was kind to her.

    I said, `I am sure she is.'

    Then there was a silence. I saw the woman gazing at me, and think the matrons also had their eyes upon me. I thought suddenly of Mother, scolding me when I was two-and-twenty, saying I must talk more when we went calling. I must ask the ladies after the health of their children; or after the pleasant places they had visited; or the work they had painted or sewn. I might admire the cut of a lady's gown ...

    I looked at Susan Pilling's mud-brown dress; and then I said, how did she like the costume she must wear? What was it—was it serge, or linsey? Here Miss Ridley stepped forward, and caught hold of the skirt and lifted it a little. The gown was of linsey, she said. The stockings—these were blue with a crimson stripe, and very coarse—were of wool. There was one under-skirt of flannel, and another of serge. The shoes, I could see, were stout ones: the men made those, she told me, in the prison shop.

    The woman stood stiff as a mannequin as the matron counted off these items, and I felt myself obliged to stoop to a fold in her frock and pinch it. It smelt—well, it smelt as a linsey frock would smell when worn all day, in such a place, by one perspiring woman; so that what I next asked was, how often were the dresses changed?—They are changed, the matrons told me, once a month. The petticoats, under-vests and stockings they change once a fortnight.

    `And how often are you allowed to bathe?' I asked the prisoner herself.

    `We are allowed it, m'm, as often as we like; only, not exceeding two times every month.'

    I saw then that her hands, which she kept before her, were pocked with scars; and I wondered how often she was used to bathing, before they sent her to Millbank.

    I wondered, too, what in the world we would discuss, if I was put in a cell with her and left alone. What I said, however, was: `Well, perhaps I will visit you again, and you can tell me more about how you pass your days here. Should you like that?'

    She should like it very much, she said promptly. Then: did I mean to tell them stories, from the Scripture?

    Miss Ridley told me then that there is another Lady Visitor who comes on Wednesdays, who reads the Bible to the women and later questions them upon the text. I told Pilling that, no, I would not read to them, but only listen to them and perhaps hear their stories. She looked at me then, and said nothing. Miss Manning stepped forward, and sent her back into her cell and locked the gate.

    When we left that ward it was to climb another winding staircase to the next floor, to Wards D and E. Here they keep the women of the penal class, the troublesome women or incorrigibles, who have made mischief at Millbank or been passed on or returned from other institutions for making mischief there. In these wards, all the doors are bolted up; the passage-ways, in consequence, are rather darker than the ones below, and the air is more rank. The matron of this floor is a stout, heavy-browed woman named—of all names!—Mrs Pretty. She walked ahead of Miss Ridley and me and, with a sort of dull relish, like the curator of a wax museum, paused before the cell doors of the worst or most interesting characters to tell me of their crimes, such as—

    `Jane Hoy, ma'am: child-murderer. Vicious as a needle.

    `Phoebe Jacobs: thief. Set fire to her cell.

    `Deborah Griffiths: pickpocket. Here for spitting at the chaplain.

    `Jane Samson: suicide—'

    `Suicide,' I said. Mrs Pretty blinked. `Took laudanum,' she said. `Took it seven times, and the last time a policeman saved her. They sent her here, as being a nuisance to the public good.'

    I heard that, and stood gazing at the shut door, saying nothing. After a moment the matron tilted her head. `You are thinking,' she said confidentially, `how do we know she ain't in there now, with her hands at her own throat?'—though I was not, of course, thinking that. `Look here,' she went on. She showed me how, at the side of each gate, there is a vertical iron flap which can be opened any time the matron pleases, and the prisoner viewed: they call this the `inspection'; the women term it the eye. I leaned to look at it, and then moved closer; when Mrs Pretty saw me do that, however, she checked me, saying that she oughtn't to let me put my face to it. The women were that cunning, she said, and they had had matrons blinded in the past. `One girl worked at her supper-spoon until the wood was sharp and—' I blinked, and stepped hurriedly back. But then she smiled, and gently pressed the flap of iron open. `I daresay Samson shan't harm you,' she said. `You might just take a peep, if you are careful ...'

    This room had iron louvres across its window and so was darker than the cells below, and instead of a hammock it had a hard wood bed. On this the woman—Jane Samson—was seated, her fingers plucking at a shallow basket that she had placed across her lap, that was heaped with coir. She had unpicked perhaps a quarter of the bundle; and there was another, larger, basket of the stuff beside the bed, for her to work on later. A bit of sun struggled through the bars across her window. Its beams were so clotted with brown fibre and with swirling particles of dust, she might, I thought, have been a character in a fairy-tale—a princess, humbled, set to work at some impossible labour at the bottom of a pond.

    She looked up once as I observed her, then blinked, and rubbed at her eyes where the coir-dust prickled them; and then I let the inspection close, and stepped away. I had begun to wonder, after all, whether she might not try to gesture to me, or call out.

    I had Miss Ridley take me away from that ward then, and we climbed to the third and highest floor there and met its matron. She proved to be a dark-eyed, kind-faced, earnest woman named Mrs Jelf. `Have you come to look at my poor charges?' she said to me, when Miss Ridley took me to her. Her prisoners are mainly what are termed there Second Class, First Class and Star Class women: they are permitted to have their doors fixed open as they work, like the women on Wards A and B; but their work is easier, they sit knitting stockings or sewing shirts, and they are allowed scissors and needles and pins—this is considered, there, a great gesture of trust. Their cells, when I saw them, had the morning sun in them, and so were very bright and almost cheerful. Their occupants rose and curtseyed when we passed by them, and again seemed to study me very frankly. At last I realised that, just as I looked for the details of their hair and frocks and bonnets, so they looked for the particulars of mine. I suppose that even a gown in mourning colours is a novel one, at Millbank.

    Many of the prisoners on this ward are those long-servers about whom Miss Haxby had spoken so well. Mrs Jell now also praised them, saying they were the quietest women in the gaol. Most, she said, would go on from there, before their time, to Fulham Prison, where the routines were a little lighter. `They are like lambs to us, aren't they, Miss Ridley?'

    Miss Ridley agreed that they were not like some of the trash they kept on C and D.

    `They are not. We have one here—killed her husband, that was cruel to her—as nicely-bred a woman as you could ever hope to meet.' The matron nodded into a cell, where a lean-faced prisoner sat patiently teasing at a tangled ball of yarn. `Why, we have had ladies here,' she went on. `Ladies, miss, quite like yourself.'

    I smiled to hear her say it, and we walked further. Then, from the mouth of a cell a little way along the line there came a thin cry: `Miss Ridley? Oh, is that Miss Ridley there?' A woman was at her gate, her face pressed between the bars. `Oh, Miss Ridley mum, have you spoke in my behalf yet, before Miss Haxby?'

    We drew closer to her, and Miss Ridley stepped to the gate and struck it with her ring of keys, so that the iron rattled and the prisoner drew back. `Will you keep silence?' said the matron. `Do you think I don't have duties enough, do you think Miss Haxby don't have business enough, that I must carry your tales to her?'

    `It is only, mum,' said the woman, speaking very quickly and stumbling over the words, `only that you said you would speak. And when Miss Haxby came this morning she was kept half her time by Jarvis, and would not see me. And my brother has brought his evidence before the courts, and wants Miss Haxby's word—'

    Miss Ridley struck the gate again, and again the prisoner flinched. Mrs Jell murmured to me: `Here is a woman who will pester any matron that passes her cell. She is after an early release, poor thing; I should say, however, that she will be here a few years yet.—Well Sykes, will you let Miss Ridley pass?—I should step a little further down the ward, Miss Prior, or she will try and draw you into her scheme.—Now Sykes, will you be good and do your work?'

    Sykes, however, still pressed her case, and Miss Ridley stood chiding her, Mrs Jelf looking on, shaking her head. I moved away, along the ward. The woman's thin petitions, the matron's scolds, were made sharp and strange by the acoustics of the gaol; every prisoner I passed had raised her head to catch them—though, when they saw me in the ward beyond their gates, they lowered their gazes and returned to their sewing. Their eyes, I thought, were terribly dull. Their faces were pale, and their necks, and their wrists and fingers, very slender. I thought of Mr Shillitoe saying that a prisoner's heart was weak, impressionable, and needed a finer mould to shape it. I thought of it, and became aware again of my own heart beating. I imagined how it would be to have that heart drawn from me, and one of those women's coarse organs pressed into the slippery cavity left at my breast ...

    I put my hand to my throat then and felt, before my pulsing heart, my locket; and then my step grew a little slower. I walked until I reached the arch that marked the angle of the ward, then moved a little way beyond it—just far enough to put the matrons from my view, but not enough to take me down the second passage. Here I put my back to the lime-washed prison wall, and I waited.

    And here, after a moment, came a curious thing.

    I was close to the mouth of the first of the next line of cells; near to my shoulder was its inspection flap or `eye', above that the enamel tablet bearing the details of its inmate's sentence. It was only from this, indeed, that I knew the cell was occupied at all, for there seemed to emanate from it a marvellous stillness—a silence, that seemed deeper yet than all the restless Millbank hush surrounding it. Even as I began to wonder over it, however, the silence was broken. It was broken by a sigh, a single sigh—it seemed to me, a perfect sigh, like a sigh in a story; and the sigh being such a complement to my own mood I found it worked upon me, in that setting, rather strangely. I forgot Miss Ridley and Mrs Jelf, who might at any second come to guide me on my way. I forgot the tale of the incautious matron and the sharpened spoon. I put my fingers to the inspection slit, and then my eyes. And then I gazed at the girl in the cell beyond—she was so still, I think I held my breath for fear of startling her.

    She was seated upon her wooden chair, but had let her head fall back and had her eyes quite closed. Her knitting lay idle in her lap, and her hands were together and lightly clasped; the yellow glass at her window was bright with sun, and she had turned her face to catch the heat of it. On the sleeve of her mud-coloured gown was fixed, the emblem of her prison class, a star—a star of felt, cut slant, sewn crooked, but made sharp by the sunlight. Her hair, where it showed at the edges of her cap, was fair; her cheek was pale, the sweep of brow, of lip, of lashes crisp against her pallor. I was sure that I had seen her likeness, in a saint or an angel in a painting of Crivelli's.

    I studied her for, perhaps, a minute; and all that time she kept her eyes quite closed, her head perfectly still. There seemed something rather devotional about her pose, the stillness, so that I thought at last, She is praying!, and made to draw my eyes away in sudden shame. But then she stirred. Her hands opened, she raised them to her cheek, and I caught a flash of colour against the pink of her work-roughened palms. She had a flower there, between her fingers—a violet, with a drooping stem. As I watched, she put the flower to her lips, and breathed upon it, and the purple of the petals gave a quiver and seemed to glow ...

    She did that, and I became aware of the dimness of the world that was about her—of the wards, the women in them, the matrons, even my own self. We might have been painted, all of us, from the same poor box of watery tints; and here was a single spot of colour, that seemed to have come upon the canvas by mistake.

    But I didn't wonder, then, about how a violet might, in that grim-earthed place, have found its way into those pale hands. I only thought, suddenly and horribly, What can her crime have been? Then I remembered the enamel tablet swinging near my head. I let the inspection close, quite noiselessly, and moved to read it.

    There was her prison number and her class, and beneath them her offence: Fraud & Assault. The date of her reception was eleven months ago. The date of her release was for four years hence.

    Four years! Four Millbank years—which must, I think, be terribly slow ones. I meant to move to her gate then, to call her to me and have her story from her; and I would have done it, had there not come at that moment, from further back along the first passage, the sound of Miss Ridley's voice, and then of her boots, grinding the sand upon the cold flags of the ward. And that made me hesitate. I thought, How would it be, if the matrons were to look at the girl as I had, and find that flower upon her? I was sure they would take it, and I knew I should be sorry if they did. So I stepped to where they would see me, and when they came I said—it was the truth, after all—that I was weary, and had viewed all I cared to view for my first visit. Miss Ridley said only, `Just as you wish, ma'am.' She turned on her heel and took me back along the passage; and as the gate was shut upon me I looked once over my shoulder to the turning of the ward, and felt a curious feeling—half satisfaction, half sharp regret. And I thought: Well, she will still be here, poor creature! when I return next week.

    The matron led me into the tower staircase, and we began our careful, circling descent to the lower, drearier wards—I felt like Dante, following Virgil into Hell. I was passed over first to Miss Manning, then to a warder, and was taken back through Pentagons Two and One; I sent a message in to Mr Shillitoe, and was led out of the inner gate and along that wedge of gravel. The walls of the pentagons seemed to part before me now, but grudgingly. The sun, that was stronger, made the bruise-coloured shadows very dense.

    We walked, the warder and I, and I found myself gazing again at the bleak prison ground, with its bare black earth and its patches of sedge. I said, `There are no flowers grown here, warder? No daisies, no—violets?'

    No daisies, no violets, he answered; not even so much as a dandelion clock. They would not grow in Millbank soil, he said. It is too near the Thames, and `as good as marshland'.

    I said that I had guessed as much, and thought again about that flower. I wondered if there might be seams between the bricks that make the walls of the women's building, that a plant like that might thrust its roots through?—I cannot say.

    And, after all, I did not think of it for long. The warder led me to the outer gate, and here the porter found a cab for me; and now, with the wards and the locks and the shadows and reeks of prison life behind me, it was impossible not to feel my own liberty and be grateful for it. I thought that, after all, I had been right to go there; and I was glad that Mr Shillitoe knew nothing of my history. I thought, His knowing nothing, and the women's knowing nothing, that will keep that history in its place. I imagined them fastening my own past shut, with a strap and a buckle ...

    I talked with Helen to-night. My brother brought her here, but with three or four of their friends. They were on their way to a theatre, and very brilliantly dressed—Helen conspicuous amongst them, as we were, in her gown of grey. I went down when they arrived, but didn't stay long: the crowd of voices and faces, after the chill and stillness of Millbank and of my own room, seemed awful to me. But Helen stepped aside with me, and we spoke a little about my visit. I told her about the monotonous corridors, and how nervous I had grown being led through them. I asked her if she remembered Mr Le Fanu's novel, about the heiress who is made to seem mad? I said, `I did think for a while: Suppose Mother is in league with Mr Shillitoe, and he means to keep me on the wards, bewildered?' She smiled at that—but checked to see that Mother could not hear me. Then I told her a little about the women on the wards. She said she thought they must be frightening. I said they were not frightening at all, but only weak—`So Mr Shillitoe told me. He said I am to mould them. That is my task. They are to take a moral pattern from me.'

    She studied her hands as I spoke, turning the rings upon her fingers. She said I was brave. She said she is sure this work will distract me, from `all my old griefs'.

    Then Mother called, why were we so serious and so quiet? She listened shuddering when I described the wards to her this afternoon, and said that I am not to tell the details of the gaol when we have guests. Now she said, `You mustn't let Margaret tell you prison stories, Helen. And here is your husband waiting, look. You will be late for the play.' Helen went straight to Stephen's side, and he took her hand and kissed it. I sat and watched them; then slipped away and came up here. I thought, If I may not talk of my visit, then I can certainly sit and write about it, in my own book ...

    Now I have filled twenty pages; and when I read what I have written I see that, after all, my path through Millbank was not so crooked as I thought. It is neater, anyway, than my own twisting thoughts!—which was all I filled my last book with. This, at least, shall never be like that one.

    It is half-past twelve. I can hear the maids upon the attic stairs, Cook slamming bolts—that sound will never be the same to me, I think, after to-day!

    There is Boyd, closing her door, walking to draw her curtain: I may follow her movements as if my ceiling were of glass. Now she is unlacing her boots, letting them fall with a thud. Now comes the creak of her mattress.

    There is the Thames, as black as molasses. There are the lights of Albert Bridge, the trees of Battersea, the starless sky ...

    Mother came, half an hour ago, to bring me my dose. I told her I should like to sit a little longer, that I wished she would leave the bottle with me so I might take it later—but no, she wouldn't do that. I am `not quite well enough', she said. Not `for that'. Not yet.

    And so I sat and let her pour the grains into the glass, and swallowed the mixture as she watched and nodded. Now I am too tired to write—but too restless, I think, to sleep just yet.

    For Miss Ridley was right to-day. When I close my eyes I see only the chill white corridors of Millbank, the mouths of the cells. I wonder how the women lie there? I think of them now—Susan Pilling, and Sykes, and Miss Haxby in her quiet tower; and the girl with the violet, whose face was so fine.

    I wonder what her name is?

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 41 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(10)

4 Star

(20)

3 Star

(4)

2 Star

(5)

1 Star

(2)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 41 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 1, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    A Master of Deceptions

    This is the second novel I've read by Sarah Waters--the first was Fingersmith--and I find her to be a master at weaving tales of deception. Like Fingersmith, the story is set in England in the Victorian age, where the strictures of society are very hard on women, and in particular women whose sexual desires do not fit the "norm." This story, however, could be quite depressing, and was certainly slower paced than Fingersmith, taking a little more time to develop the plot, but well worth the investment. That the lead character was ultimately deceived might have been predictable, but exactly how and who else was involved was not, and I find it very doubtful that other reviewers could have seen it. I also would have liked to know more about the sister-in-law and was uncertain in the end who "Peter" was in the story. However, my only real complaint about Waters is that she cannot seem to write and get her books published faster than I can devour them. I highly recommend her.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted February 9, 2009

    okay

    Although well-written and an engaging read, it was too depressing without any redemption. There seemed nothing to be gained from such depressing ending.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Excellent Victorian tale

    By 1873, in her late twenties, upper class Margaret Prior tries kill herself to end her unhappy life following a failed love affair. She also fails at suicide and by the fall of 1874, as part of her recuperation, Margaret begins visiting London¿s Millbank Women¿s Prison, home of convicted murderers and thieves who almost all claim their innocence. <P> However, one individual, the spiritualist Selina Dawes, connects on an emotional level with Margaret. Selina has been imprisoned because of the death of an elderly patron at a seance she hosted. Selina begins to send tokens of her affection to Margaret via her ¿associate¿ Peter. Margaret finally decides to free her ¿future¿ lover and herself from the solid and imaginary walls that separate them even if it means risking her life. <P>AFFINITY is a powerful yet detailed Victorian tale centering on relationships, especially that forbidden by society between two women. The story line is drawn along two paths, Margaret¿s current diary and Selina¿s journal of her pre-incarceration days. Surprisingly, this technique works as readers obtain a juxtaposition glimpse at Selina from her own view and that of her wannabe lover. With homage to the authors of that era, Sarah Waters shows she is a rare talent who demonstrates that emotion and intellect do not often go hand in hand as human frailty intercedes. <P>Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 10, 2013

    Tacky

    I love Sarah Waters, so I was expecting this book to be similar to her other ones.. It sucked. I would have liked this book if she would have stayed true to her writing style.. She writes historical fiction, which I love. But in THIS particular novel, she tried this weird sci-fi/fantasy thing with the historical fiction vibes, and it was just weird.. For example, her portrayal of the ghost characters were almost laughably tacky.. The ghosts would appear and flirt with girls as if they were alive, and the ghosts would physically sit down and eat real tangible food! Also, the spirits somehow can physically pick things up and fly away with them for miles and nobody even notices. It's such a far-fetched cartoonish portrayal of ghosts & spirits, that im over halfway through but cant stand to read any more of it.. I feel like I'm watching the movie Casper on acid..

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 11, 2013

    Wow

    Wow

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 29, 2008

    they PLAYED aurora

    Another wonderfully written book from Waters based in the timeframe of upper-middle class Victorian England. Affinity's plot (albeit a liitle slow)developed well and its mix of present perception from Margarete's p.o.v along with past backstory written in the present tense from Selina's p.o.v was beautifully mixed together as journal entries and in living moments. Waters did an excelent job closing the book out. The twist at the end 'which some say was predictable-but not to me' was -without giving to much away- was'hard' to read. I won't say what happened to who but after finishing the book I know I felt like she should have written at least 100 pages more to continue the story on and to possibly hear that the character was able to come back from that traumatic experince. All in all a great summer read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 18, 2008

    An excellent book

    It is true that this book is nothing like Tipping the Velvet, or Fingersmith. It is much darker, and slower paced, but nonetheless--It is amazing. Its darkness is exactly what makes it so addictive, and why it is so hard to put down. The main character, Margaret Prior, is easy to relate to, and to sympathize with, so you can't help but long for her to have the happy ending she so desperately wants. It is not a good idea to pick up this book and immediately start comparing it to any of Waters' other books, because it is a completely different kind of work, and then will be dissapointing. But, if you go in just wanting a good read, then this book will deliver. It is simply beautiful, and extremely complicated to the very end. One of my favorite books of all time.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 4, 2007

    A drag...

    I hate to say it but this book was by far the worst read of my summer yet. If you're interested in prison life and the mistreatment of the women inmates in this time period this book is surely for you. Unfortunately the plot lagged and there was more descriptives on the prison than the actual story. The ending was quite predictable. In my opinion it wasn't the greatest book.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 18, 2006

    If you like Hawthorne like detail you'll love this

    Affinity is a book about forbidden love and spiritualism, or so the back says. However, in order to get to the fairly weak plot you have to wade through the excessive, often unecessary and boring details. The plot is inetresting enough for you to want to know how it ends but you'll likely be tempted to skip the middle to find out.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 23, 2004

    Absorbing

    I was in a dark mood the day I was browsed the shelves of B&N seeking a good read. Affinity seemed like the perfect read...it attracted me because of its dark tone, spiritualist theme and the main charactor's attraction to another woman (in a time when that was taboo). It took a chapter or two to get into the story (and that could've been because of my funk), but once I did I was hooked. I was surprised to find myself skimming through the parts of the story where Selina was practicing spiritualism so I could get to the parts where Margaret was visiting the Millbank prison. I couldn't wait to see how the relationship between the two women developed. I easilly felt as if I, too, were visiting the prison. And the ending....well, it wasn't at all preditable! I was in that bedroom with Margaret waiting minute to minute for Salina to make her appearance! I couldn't stop turning the pages.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 7, 2004

    Superb & shocking

    I had inquired on a website specifically for lesbian books wondering if there were any that were set in the time of Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre, and the like I was steered to Affinity. It was slow going at first but finally I got into it and could not put it down. I went through it in 3 days and was completely baffled at the ending. I did not see that tiger coming till the last couple chapters when it had already pounced on me.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 3, 2003

    A Gothic Novel that Leaves a Mark

    A story with gothic atmosphere, AFFINITY is set in 1875 London. The narrator, Miss Margaret Prior, is an upper class woman on the verge of turning 30, and when we become acquainted with her, she is making her first visit to Millbank Prison. She is to be the Lady Visitor¿someone who comes to visit and motivate the pathetic denizens locked up for everything from petty crimes and prostitution to murder. Very quickly she becomes compulsively interested in a young woman, Selina Dawes, a spiritualist and medium in jail for harming a young girl and for involvement in the death of her benefactress.####### Miss Prior¿s elaborate descriptions of Millbank, the incarcerated women, and her daily life at home soon reveal that she, too, is locked in her own private prison from which she has no way to escape. She¿s already had one ¿nervous¿ episode nearly resulting in her death. This followed the betrayal of a woman with whom she was smitten and the death of her dearly beloved father. She is a woman locked in a world with social mores that do not allow her to be herself¿nor even to know who her real Self is. Only Selina has managed to introduce a little magic into her life. ####### With each passing week, the story builds in intensity as Miss Prior visits the dismal Millbank and attempts to see Selina Dawes as often as possible. Though she fights it, little by little, she surrenders to her feelings for the other woman. Will Selina manage to escape and will Miss Prior assist? Is the young woman truly innocent and wrongly convicted? We get clues from periodic diary entries made by Selina, but the mystery of the spiritualist¿s past is not revealed until the end. ####### AFFINITY has a feel much like the gothic novels of old, and the style and tone made me wonder if Waters could possibly be the spiritual daughter of Emily Brontë and Mary Shelley. The story¿s impact quietly creeps up on the reader until the surprising denouement, which, though it seems to come out of the blue, I realized I should have seen coming. I found myself thinking of this novel and Miss Prior¿s horrendous predicament for weeks. AFFINITY leaves a mark. ~Lori L. Lake, Reviewer for Midwest Book Review, www.TheGayRead.com, and The Independent Gay Writer.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 13, 2003

    Absorbing - I could not put this down

    An interesting study of the life of women from very different segments of Victorian society. Poor Margaret had so few options open for her and was stifled by her society. No wonder she was looking for an escape, as was Selina from a real prison. So well written that I was a believer along with Margaret.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 13, 2001

    It's no 'Tipping the Velvet'

    I loved 'Tipping the Velvet' and I couldn't wait to read Waters' next novel. Unfortunately, 'Affinity' was terribly disappointing. This book was dark, bleak, depressing, and lifeless. There was no character development, no real plot, and the ending lacked imagination and zeal. I expected something a lot better from Waters.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 3, 2001

    Very Disappointing

    I thoroughly enjoyed Tipping the Velvet and had high expectations for this book. I hung in there long after I otherwise would have tired of waiting for some dramatic suspense, an interesting character development, or anything to develop that would maintain my interest. Nothing, unfortunately, happens to redeem this tedious, limp recitation of uninteresting events with a untenable twist at the end. I finally got bored waiting for the 'punch line', read the implausible ending and skipped some the interminable dreary lead up. This talented writer can do better.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 20, 2001

    Affinity

    I loved this book. Not only did it completely hold my interest,but it made me think about things that normally wouldn't cross my mind.The Victorian era, the prisons,the few choices women of that time had, and the set up of society as rich vs. poor.The characters were compelling, the story was good,and let me tell you, this is one book that is not at all predictable. Top notch, I thought.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 20, 2001

    Affinity

    I found this book to be not only informative on the subjects of the Victorian age,prisons,etc.It also made me ponder human nature,and the way society is set up Rich vs. Poor.The book was a pageturner in my opinion.It was also TOTALLY unpredictable !! Well worth the effort!!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 4, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 13, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 2, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 41 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)