‘It’s meaningless to me. How can what we know nothing of be transformed? No, I speak of the entirely physical. Or the super-physical: a state of bodily cognizance compared with which all other states are—how can I put it?—unsubstantial and heavisome and bloodless. The man and the woman are so close that nothing else exists for them and they become almost one creature. They’re closer to each other than they can ever be to God.’ Anthony paused, his dark eyes apparently vacant, his mouth a little open. ‘Perhaps you think I blaspheme.’
‘No, I don’t think that.’
‘What if I do blaspheme? They blaspheme the name of man and woman. And while we live, man and woman compose the world.’
After another pause, Hubert said, ‘Thank you, Anthony.’
‘For what service?’
‘For doing as much as you could to answer my questions.’
‘Mind this,’ said Anthony in his sharp tone. ‘Resign yourself to whatever must happen. Whatever you think or feel or discover, you’re to suffer alteration. They . . . they’ll see to that. You can do nothing.’ Then his manner changed once more, ‘My poor Hubert. Think of your blessings. Papa said you’re to be famous. And consider that to lose what you’ve never had is only half a loss. And, if it signifies, I’ll be with you whenever you want me.’
‘It signifies, my dear.’
Hubert went over and kissed his brother on the cheek and the two held each other for a moment. Soon afterwards they parted: Anthony had an appointment (with a girl, clearly) and Hubert went back to his room. He felt that at one point in their conversation he had been only a phrase or so away from the understanding he sought, but he could no longer remember which, and now he doubted whether that feeling had been valid. He could have wished that Anthony had spent a little longer on trying to find helpful details and comparisons, but, again, it was impossible to imagine what could have been helpful. Red was the colour of blood and fire and not of trees or the sky, of the dress of soldiers and cardinals and not of monks or servants; think of the sun, not the sea, an organ, not a choir, hard work, not indolence. Yes, but what was it like to look at something red? To know nothing whatever of women or girls and to know of them what a ten-year-old boy might know were different: as different as blindness and total colour-blindness. He went over in his mind the best part of what Anthony had said, with additions of his own. Kissing a girl—kissing Hilda van den Haag—he had forgotten how it had felt to be about to kiss her, and had to imagine it—kissing Hilda with no clothes on while it felt like playing with himself but like the wonderful ice-cream and she behaved like a very friendly cat—that would have to do for now, and perhaps parts of it were right.
Anthony had said very little that could be judged true or false: indeed, only one such remark stayed in Hubert’s mind. This was the statement that there was nothing that he, Hubert, could do to avoid alteration, and it was false. But the thought of doing it filled him with fear, and under that stress he could not make up his mind whether to do it or not. So he knelt beside his bed and prayed for courage.
Hubert went back to St Cecilia’s Chapel by the early-morning rapid on Monday. He took with him a letter-packet from his father to the Abbot, on whom, at the ten o’clock interim, he called as instructed to deliver it. After a brief wait he was admitted to the cabinet by Lawrence, the servant. At once the Abbot dismissed his secretary, to whom he had been dictating, sent Lawrence off to fetch Father Dilke, and in a kind voice asked Hubert to sit down. Then he opened and read the letter. At one point the habitual gravity of his expression grew deeper. At last he looked up.
‘Well, Clerk Anvil . . . Hubert, your father lets me know that you fully understand what is to befall you.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Do you also understand that it’s a sign of God’s special favour for you to be able to serve Him in this way and that you must be grateful?’
‘My father used almost those exact words, my lord.’
‘And you understand them.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And you believe them. You recognize God’s favour and you are grateful.’
‘I think so, my lord.’
‘It’s not enough to think so, Hubert,’ said the Abbot, still kindly. ‘He who only thinks he’s grateful feels gratitude with only half a heart.’
‘I’m sorry, my lord. I mean . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I know it’s glorious to have God’s favour and I’m as grateful for it as I can be, but I can’t prevent myself from wishing it had taken another form.’
‘You’d choose among God’s gifts?’
‘Oh no, my lord, not that. I try all I can not to wish what I wish, but it’s too hard for me.’
The Abbot looked sad. He had not yet answered when there was a knock at the door and Father Dilke came in. After bowing to the Abbot with a very serious face, he gave Hubert an affectionate smile and laid his hand on his shoulder instead of just motioning to him to sit down again.
‘God bless you, Hubert.’
‘May He bless you besides, Father.’
‘I came as soon as I could, my lord.’
‘Naturally. Consider this for a moment if you will.’
Father Dilke took and quickly read the proffered letter from Tobias Anvil. His face changed in the reading, more markedly than the Abbot’s had done. ‘This is unfortunate,’ he said.
‘Or worse.’
‘Oh, I think not, sir. Master Anvil’s course is clear and easy.’
‘We’ll confer upon it later. Our excuses, Hubert—we speak of a matter that doesn’t touch you in the least degree. Now, Father: it appears that Hubert, while (what shall I say?) sensible of what it signifies to be elected for God’s service by the means we all know, finds it difficult to respond contentedly to everything this will entail. Is my account fair, Hubert?’
‘Yes, my lord. But may I ask a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Isn’t it quite certain that I’m to be altered?’
‘Quite certain,’ said the Abbot steadily. ‘Then . . . how can it matter what my feeling is? If I said I’d sooner be beheaded, what difference would it make?’
The Abbot’s steadiness hardened into sternness. ‘Creature of God, what is at stake here is not your feeling but your immortal soul. Its salvation might depend on whether you go to be altered in gladness, in free and joyful acceptance of God’s will, or with contumacy of spirit and mundane vexation. Give your counsel, Father.’
Dilke blinked his eyes for some moments before he spoke. Then he said, ‘My dear Hubert. You know that my lord Abbot and I love you and wish you nothing but good. Were there anything in what has been designed that might not tend to your welfare in this world and the next, you would find none more implacable in opposition to it than my lord and me. The action in itself is harmless. A part of your body will be gone, and the animal that is in all of us must shrink from that, but reason tells us it is not to be feared. Your celibacy will be absolute. Is that such a sacrifice? At least it’s not a rare one. Every year thousands of young folk in England alone vow themselves to celibacy of their own free will. And in their case . . . What is it?’
‘Forgive me, Father,’ said Hubert, ‘but I find there a substantial difference. A monk does indeed become a monk of his own free will. He chooses to. My celibacy is to be necessitated.’
‘But you are a child.’ The Abbot was patient. ‘A child has no competence to choose, except whether or not to commit a sin. Such is the only choice he may make. You know that, Hubert.’
‘Yes, my lord, I know it.’
‘May I ask you to be so good as to continue, Father?’
‘Yes, my lord. I meant to grant that there is a difference between this case and that of a monk, but to state that it’s a rather different difference from the one he cites. A monk, Hubert, is subject to fleshly temptation; you can never be. And that temptation can be a dire burden; you’ll never have to bear it. Weigh that.’
Hubert d
id as he was told. He thought of saying that there was, or would be, a third difference between himself and the generic monk: the latter could choose to break his vow of celibacy at least as freely as he had taken it. But that that monk never did break that vow was always taken for granted, except by those like Decuman, according to whom no monk did much else. It seemed wise, then, to nod sagely at Father Dilke.
‘Very good. Now, all I’ve done so far has been to deny what might be thought contrarious. I must go on to affirm your advantages. First, those of this world. In your altered state, but only in that state, you’ll become one of the foremost singers of this century, one the like of whom hasn’t been known to anyone now living. Can you conceive of a more precious gift?’
Hubert could without difficulty, but had no reason to think he could ever attain it, so this time he shook his head.
‘And you’ll use your gift directly to the greater glory of God. That is to be given a second gift, no less rare if not rarer than the first, and infinitely more precious. Do you believe that God rewards those who glorify Him?’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Hubert, and meant it.
‘And do you then accept to perform His will joyfully and gratefully?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Hubert meant that too, but would not have cared to affirm that he would still be meaning it the day after.
The Abbot gave Dilke a nod of considerable approval. ‘Let us pray,’ he said.
The two clerics and the boy knelt down on the scrubbed oak boards: there were no elegances here in the cabinet. All made the Sign of the Cross.
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.’
‘Repeat after me, Hubert,’ said Dilke. ‘Most loving and merciful God, hear Thou the voice of Thy child.’
‘Most loving and merciful God, hear Thou the voice of Thy child.’
‘Implant Thou in my mind and heart the full meaning of Thy grace . . .’
After one or two more clauses Hubert’s attention had wandered, but not into the void. It was firmly fixed on the thought that he must now after all submit to what was required of him by authority. To have refused to pray would have been terribly difficult, but to have failed to refuse meant that any scheme of defiance would amount to breaking a promise to God, and that was not only dangerous but dishonourable. Well, this way was easier: it meant an end to the search for something he would not recognize if it were put into his hand. And surely God would cherish one who kept faith with Him.
‘. . . sitque tecum benedictio Domini,’ said the Abbot.
‘Amen,’ said Hubert.
‘So when is this to be?’ asked Decuman.
‘A week from this morning.’
‘So soon?’
‘It must be soon,’ said Hubert in a blank tone. ‘Father Dilke made that plain. The changes in our bodies begin before we see signs of them, and by then it’s too late.’
There was silence in the little dormitory, as there had been more than once after Hubert had made his announcement. It was a still night: the two candle-flames scarcely wavered. Decuman took his time over stuffing back into his canvas bag the considerable remains of the boys’ illicit second supper; the salame and biscottos had been palatable enough, but appetite seemed to have failed. At last Thomas looked over at Hubert.
‘Are you content?’
‘I change from hour to hour. Sometimes I see myself being acclaimed at Chartres or St Peter’s or at our own opera house. And then I think of fifteen or twenty years’ time, when all of you will have children and I’ll have none. But mostly I can face the prospect.’
‘Face it!’ Mark sat up straight in his bed. ‘You’re called to God’s service and you’re to be a celebrated man besides and you talk of being able to face it. You should be—’
‘It’s very well for the likes of you,’ said Thomas rather fiercely. ‘You cackle of God at every turn. If you were the—’
‘Quiet, the two of you,’ snarled Decuman, shaking his fist. ‘Do you want the Prefect in here? This must be conferred on in an orderly fashion, one speaker at a time. So . . . say, Mark.’
‘What more shall I say? Except that even if Hubert were not to be a celebrated man he should still be grateful that God has chosen him.’
Decuman curled up his mouth. ‘Wish-wash. The Abbot and Father Dilke have chosen him.’
‘The Abbot and Father Dilke are the mortal instruments through whom God has made His will known,’ said Mark. ‘Do you expect Him to send an angel with a trumpet?’
‘If He did, we should at least find out for certain what His will was. As it is, we have to take the word of two men who each stand to gain considerably from bringing forward somebody who’ll become a great singer.’
‘Gain! How gain?’
‘Not in riches, you noodle—in credit, in mark, in fame. They’re men like any others.’
‘Decuman, I must warn you for the sake of your soul to cease this impious cackle. My lord Abbot and the good and learned Father are not like any others. They’re priests, and one of their powers as such is that they can discover God’s will.’
‘You mean they’ve known Him longer than we have.’
‘Schismatic!’
‘Oh, bugger a badger.’
Thomas broke in. ‘Leave God’s will and consider Hubert’s. I want to ask him—Hubert, can’t you stay as you are and continue as singer like one of us?’
‘I can, but I should be no more likely to become a great singer than any other clerk in this place.’
‘And you mean to become great?’
‘Well . . . good. As good as possible.’
‘Then surely you should be glad to be altered. Already you sing wonderfully well, and to do anything wonderfully well must be wonderfully pleasant. And now you can become a great singer or as good a singer as possible or the sort of singer you must very much want to be. Would you throw that away for the sake of . . . being able to fuck, which you might not even like? Can anyone be sure of liking it? From what I hear of it, I’m not sure.’
Mark nodded his little head rapidly. ‘Tom’s right, Hubert. At least, his reason goes the same way as mine. Answer me. Are you a Christian?’
‘Yes.’
‘From where does your gift of singing come?’
‘From God.’
‘And what will He think of you if you doubt the value of his gift?’
‘You talk like the Abbot.’
‘Thank you, Decuman. Well, Hubert? Say.’
There was silence. Somebody in the next dormitory laughed and was immediately hushed. The cry of what might have been an animal came from far off, too far for it to be identified. Decuman leaned forward in his bed, his upper lip raised from his teeth.
‘Now attend to me, Hubert,’ he said. ‘And you other two attend. Near my father’s house in Barnet there’s a monastery, at a place called Hadley a little outside the town. Last year, a monk was caught in an act of unchastity—adultery or fornication, I don’t know. The Prior showed him great lenience. Instead of bringing him before the Consistory, he awarded him a summary punishment of twenty lashes and warned him that, if he offended again, nothing could save him. Four months later, the noodle did offend again and was again caught. The Consistory examined him for flagrant and incorrigible unchastity, found him guilty, and handed him over to the Secular Arm. It was quick after that; he went to the pulley.’
‘Oh, Mother of God,’ said Thomas.
‘May She comfort his soul,’ said Decuman, staring grimly at the other three as he made the Sign of the Cross. ‘Attend further, you. This man knew all along the penalty he faced. Perhaps the first time he was rash or indiscreet. Not the second time. He preferred the risk of being pulled to pieces to not fucking. That tells us something, yes? We still don’t truly know what it’s like, but we do know how much he wanted to do it.’
‘Those who are altered never want to do it,’ said Hubert.
‘The worse for them. From knowing how much that wretched monk wanted to do it, we know how import
ant it is. More important than anything else.’
‘Men do such things in war,’ said Mark. ‘I mean they face such hazards.’
‘Very well, very well. This is as important as war, then, and we already know how important war is. War against the Infidel, Mark. So, Hubert, not only will you never do it, you’ll never so much as want to do it. Never so much as want to do a thing of such tremendous importance. You’ll live only half a life, my dear.’
‘Singing is important,’ said Hubert.
‘When did a man hazard his life sooner than not sing?’
‘You offer poor comfort,’ said Thomas.
‘I mean to offer none. And I’ve another story to tell. What do you know of Austell Spencer?’
Thomas acted as spokesman. ‘A . . . an altered singer, once of this Chapel. Dead some years ago by an accident here.’
‘Dead in 1964,’ said Decuman, with a nod of something like satisfaction, ‘at the age of twenty-one, having fallen from the belfry-tower. A rare misfortune indeed, with no reason for his presence in the tower and nobody else there at the time. Yes, I asked among the servants as soon as I heard of him, when I first entered as a clerk, but I forgot the tale until now. Austell Spencer committed the unforgivable sin . . .’
The other three gasped and Mark crossed himself.
‘ . . . because he so much regretted that he’d been altered.’
‘You guess,’ said Thomas.
‘I know. He left a letter to the Abbot, but not in a packet—he must have wanted everyone to hear. Someone saw the letter and told someone who told the buttery-boy, who told me for a ha’penny. Austell Spencer said that his alteration had been in vain. His voice had fallen off and he could no longer find high notes with any surety. He was about to lose his post, or that was what he thought, that was what he wrote to the Abbot. He was fit for no other function and had given away his manhood for nothing. What should he do but kill himself, Hubert?’
‘This was only one man,’ said Thomas before Hubert could speak. ‘He might have been mad or—’
‘The only one we know of,’ said Decuman. After a pause, he went on, ‘Now for more discomfort. Granted that your voice does hold, Hubert, what would you be at twenty-one, thirty-one, forty-one? Not merely a man who has never fucked. Not merely a man with no wife and no children: there are plenty of such and it’s no shame to them. You would not be a man at all, but a human ox. Those you met would be respectful to your face, but behind your back what would they say? What would they think of you? Wait—there’s one thing you might not have heard. Now an altered man doesn’t change as he grows up, he gets no hair on his face, his complexion stays the same, like a boy’s, and of course his voice stays like a boy’s, yes? Or like a woman’s. What you might not have heard, Hubert, any of you—I only heard it from somebody my brother brought to the house who keeps doubtful company in Rome—well, it seems there are certain oddities who, instead of just chasing after boys or other men, chase eunuchs because they’re men who look and speak like boys or women. How that’s desirable I can’t tell, but to these types it is. So, Hubert, even friendship would be difficult for you. Any man you deal with might be an oddity of this sort, or be said to be. Behind your back.’