‘Yes, sir.’
The priest stroked his bluish upper lip to cover traces of a smile: he had wondered a little how his master would reach his preferred theme from such an unfamiliar starting-point.
‘The case is no better with our spiritual lords,’ continued Tobias. ‘Some of them are positively worm-eaten with tolerance. The Holy Office must bestir itself and set out to eradicate the ulcers that afflict us. When was the last scientist examined? I think at the very least a letter to the Editor of the Gazette ...’
Before long, Master Anvil had finished with science and scientists for the moment and, after grace and a word with Father Lyall, left the room. Anthony embraced his mother and also departed. The two servants who had attended all this time in total silence came forward and began to clear the table.
Margaret Anvil had likewise said nothing throughout. This was normal and, in a general sense, so regarded by her. What seemed to be exceptional about her relations with her husband was their intimacy in private. He treated her as she imagined he would a valued friend, telling her of his activities, asking about her own, sharing little jokes. In the marriage-bed itself he showed her every consideration: never once had he had his way with her against her will. He was a good man and she was proud to be his wife.
Except in the fullness of her figure, Margaret did not look her forty-two years. She had a fine natural complexion, auburn hair touched no more than lightly with grey, and excellent teeth. A man might have taken her for a countrywoman unless he observed the severe set of her mouth and the diffident glance that went oddly with it. When she rose from her chair her height was noticeable, as was also the richness of her quilted turquoise breakfast-gown against the plain black, white and grey worn by everyone else present.
As usual, Father Lyall was at the door, and as usual he said respectfully that he would attend her in due course in her sitting-room. But, not as usual, she looked up at him as she passed, and found him looking at her in a way that she could have defined only by saying that it was not respectful.
Ten minutes later, by arrangement, the priest came to his master’s library on the first floor. It looked like the abode of someone distinguished for both worldliness and piety, being expensively panelled and carpeted, furnished with massive teak and leather, hung with Indian brocades and Siamese silks, and yet profuse in large canvases of scriptural scenes, devotional statuary, brass-edged volumes of theology and hagiography. The two interests were most fully combined in the great solid-silver Crucifixion on the east wall and, below it, the plush-upholstered ebony priedieu, well placed (it had occurred to Lyall in a refractory mood) for any occupant whose spiritual needs might at any time suddenly become too urgent to allow recourse to the more than adequate chapel at the other end of the house.
Tobias was behind his vast oak desk. ‘Sit down, please, Father.’
‘Thank you, master,’ said Lyall, deciding on an upright chair as the least unconducive to his making some show of sacerdotal austerity. ‘May I know a little more about what you require of me this morning?’
‘I’ll tell you what little more I know myself. I await a visit from the Abbot of St Cecilia’s Chapel, whom you’ve met, and his Chapelmaster, a certain Father Dilke, whom I think you haven’t? No—well, they don’t reveal their purpose, but it must be something that touches Hubert.’
‘Some misdemeanour?’
‘The natural inference, but I’m inclined to doubt it. A misdemeanour grave enough to bestir the Abbot would have fetched me there, not him here. Accident or other misfortune he rules out.’
He wants something from you, then, thought Lyall, but said only, ‘And you need me here to . . .’
‘To perform your usual function, my dear Father Lyall.’ The momentarily heightened intentness of the glance that came from under those heavy brows suggested that some more than superficial understanding of that function might be common to both men.
‘Just so, sir.’
‘And the Abbot specifically requests your presence . . . Come.’
A servant appeared, announced the two visitors, and soon brought them in. There were greetings and the necessary introductions. Bowls of chocolate were offered and declined. First inspecting it carefully, the Abbot settled back in one of the deep chairs, and Dilke sat on the edge of another.
‘I hope your journey was tolerable, my lord?’
‘Oh, better than that, master. Far, far better. These new parlour-baruches are really very pleasantly appointed, and the rapid completes the journey well within the hour.’
‘Impressive.’
‘I think so. Let me at once open to you the matter of our interview, if I may.’ The Abbot paused long enough to quench thoroughly any doubts he might have had about whether he could assume that it was indeed legitimate for him to go on. ‘Your son Hubert: he’s well and happy and in good favour. And more than that. Yes, more than that. It’s a question of his abilities as a singer. Now you’ve heard me say many times in the past that these are exceptional, outstanding, prodigious, and the like—terms of the highest praise, that is, and honestly intended, but lacking in value because they lack any fair measure or comparison. That has recently been supplied. Hubert is, simply is, the best boy singer in living memory and one of the best singers of any age to be found anywhere.’
After a silence, Tobias said, rather mechanically, ‘The Lord be thanked for His gracious gift.’
‘Amen,’ said the Abbot. ‘But that’s not all I came to tell you. No. Master Anvil, I hope you see it as our sacred duty to preserve this divine gift that has been entrusted to our stewardship. Such is my own view, you understand.’
‘And mine too, my lord. Of course.’
‘Good. I’m pleased. Now: there’s only one way whereby to bring it about that the gift we’ve mentioned shall be preserved. This is what it is. Surgery. An act of alteration. Simple, painless, and without danger. Then, afterwards, a glorious career in the service of music, of God and of God’s Holy Church. Any other course,’ said the Abbot, looking quite hard at Tobias, ‘would be a positive disservice thereto. The career I spoke of is assured, as certainly as any such matter can be. I tell you altogether openly, master, I’d give much to have a son with such an opportunity before him.’
‘You say Hubert’s future . . .’ Tobias’s voice was less distinct than usual and he cleared his throat before going on. ‘You say his future is assured.’
‘I repeat, as far as it can be. If you’d like details of my information . . .’
‘No. No. My lord—suppose for a moment that this surgery is not carried out, what then? Hubert’s voice will break, yes. But couldn’t he continue then as a—a male singer, a tenor or . . .?’
The Abbot started to turn to Father Dilke, who said rapidly,
‘There are two answers to that, Master Anvil, sir. One is that a mature treble or soprano of this kind is something rather out of the common these days. There’s only a handful of them in all England and perhaps a hundred and fifty in the whole world. We at St Cecilia’s have had none for . . . some time. Most places must make shift with boys of Hubert’s age or a couple of years older. But who could count the number of those you call male singers? And many of them are of great excellence, whereas Hubert will come to stand alone. An abundance of music exists that only he will be able to sing as it deserves, as (I think I can say) God would have it sung.’ Dilke glanced at the Abbot, who nodded approvingly. ‘Your indulgence, master, but this is my conviction.’
‘I understand you, Father. Is that your two answers or only the first?’
‘The second, sir, is that, if a voice like Hubert’s is allowed to break, it never afterwards recovers its distinction. In my father’s time there was a boy called Ernest Lough. Does the name . . .?’
‘I know nothing of these matters, but continue.’
‘Lough was a clerk at one of the London churches, where he became famous for his performance in Hear my Prayer, in effect an anthem by Bartley of no great import in itself—all
the same, folk would come from Coverley and further on purpose to hear him. My father used to say he had purity rather than power . . . Well, later he showed himself a most accomplished musician and sang as a baritone, but he never attained the mark that he—’
‘Enough, Father: I take the point.’
There was silence again. Furtively, Lyall looked from one to the other of the two visitors. The Abbot pursed his lips, leaned forward, and said with a smile,
‘You give your consent, then, master?’
‘What is this consent?’
‘Your signature to a simple document authorizing the surgery I spoke of. I have it with me here.’
‘One moment, my lord, if you please. There are some circumstances I must take into account. First: has my son been told anything of what you tell me?’
‘Not yet. It was felt, I felt, that you might care to let him know yourself.’
‘I see. Now: this act of alteration may be safe enough in itself, but can we be satisfied of its consequences? The chief consequence is not in doubt; I ask if there are any others we should notice. I think for instance of the physical health of such a person.’
‘Oh, unimpaired. There is, I believe, a slight tendency to stoutness in later life, but reasonable moderation should forestall that. And the chief consequence you mention shouldn’t trouble one such as you, with another son to continue the family name and line.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Tobias was a little abrupt; then his manner grew thoughtful or reluctant, and when he went on it was in a similar style. ‘My lord Abbot: when I was a young man, there was a common saying that there were only three ways in which a man of the people could buy himself out of his condition: by letting his son go for a prizefighter, an acrobat or a singing eunuch and possessing himself of the spoils. It may not be true now, it may not have been true then, but it’s still believed. Some of us have to live in the world, and it’s a cruel place, and I should hate to have it said that I’d behaved like an ambitious cobbler or a greedy coal-miner or a . . .’
‘We all have to live in the world, master,’ said the Abbot rather sternly, ‘and we make with it what accommodation we can. What if you should be reprehended for having sold your child? You and I know that the truth would be different, and not you and I alone. Are petty slanders so hard to bear?’
‘No such consideration would sway me from my duty to God,’ said Tobias.
‘Or to His Holy Church,’ said Father Lyall, but not aloud. The Abbot caught Dilke’s eye. ‘Nobly and piously spoken.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Tobias gave a deep sigh. ‘May I see your document? Most concise, isn’t it? Three clauses only, and a . . . There seems to be space here for a second signature.’
‘That of the habitual confessor of the family in question, the parish priest or, as in the present case, private chaplain. A wise and necessary precaution against fraud or folly. That’s not needed between you and me, master, but there is the legal requirement. Your Father Lyall will do the office, which is why I asked for his attendance on us here, do you see.’
Tobias gave a satisfied nod and picked up an ink-stylus from the tray on his desk. ‘Well, then . . .’
‘Wait,’ said Father Lyall.
‘What is it, Father?’ asked Tobias, frowning. ‘It’s all quite clear.’
‘I won’t sign, sir, and I advise you not to either.’
‘Why?’ The Abbot sat up from the depths of his chair. ‘Why do you give such advice?’
Lyall felt he could not say he was not sure which of two things was harder to put up with, the Abbot’s conversational style, with its bland coherence and assumption of severely limited cogitative powers in the hearer, or his recurrent look of pleased surprise as each fresh piece of evidence of his wisdom or moral worth turned up, but between them they were likely to implant in certain minds a hardy seed of revolt. There were other things Lyall felt he could not say: that he intended to enjoy using to the full this unexpected gift of a fragment of power, a small weapon against the Church’s self-perpetuating hierarchy, and, by way of a footnote, that the look Dame Anvil had sent him at the end of breakfast was an encouragement to any and every sort of assertive behaviour. And he did not say that there might be some sort of natural case against mutilating a child for the greater glory of music or God or His Church or anything else whatever, because no such thought occurred to him. So what he did say was,
‘We have in our hands the mortal life of a child of God, my lord. Are we to dispose of so much of it after such little consideration?’
‘What further consideration would you have us give, Father?’ The Abbot sounded honestly puzzled.
‘I don’t know, sir. It’s not five minutes since I first heard of this proposal—how can I weigh it fairly? I ask for a postponement during which I can consult my conscience.’
‘I’m advised that time is pressing.’
‘But Hubert isn’t yet eleven years old, and surely all of us have heard boy trebles of thirteen or fourteen whose voices were still unimpaired. Must we be so precipitate?’
‘Father, be so good as to give me credit for knowing something of this matter, which has arisen before in my experience. Those of thirteen or fourteen have gone beyond the age at which alteration will have the desired effect. By then, it’s too late. We haven’t years to spare, as you seem to imply.’
‘But we must have days to spare, at least.’
‘Can I be of help, my lord?’ asked Dilke. ‘As one in holy orders and—I hope—of good repute, well conversant with the matter in hand . . .’
The Abbot smiled faintly. ‘You are all you say, Father, and more besides, but this provision is quite specifically laid down in the relevant Act of Convocation. The crucial word is “habitual” attached to “confessor”. You’ve never once, I believe, had occasion to confess Master Anvil, and Hubert seldom. We must abide by the letter.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
There was silence once more. Twice in quick succession the window-frames shook slightly at the passage of express-omnibuses or other large vehicles: the traffic in Tyburn Road was heavy that day. Tobias looked grim, also apprehensive, no doubt at the prospect of again being asked to sign the document and having to cross either his own spiritual guide or the Abbot. Lyall was already regretting his hardihood, and would have withdrawn his objections on the spot if offered any reasonably dignified means of escape. But the Abbot gave him a cold glance and said,
‘Would a week be long enough for you to finish consulting your conscience, Father?’
‘Yes, my lord, I’m sure it would.’
‘Let it be a week, then.’
Nothing was said of the possibility that at the end of that time Lyall’s position would be unchanged, and it might well have seemed to be ruled out by the making of an arrangement that Hubert should visit his home at the week-end to be told what was in store for him. As soon as they were alone, Tobias said to Lyall, in wonder rather than anger,
‘In Christ’s name, Father, what do you mean to do?’
‘No more than I said, Master Anvil.’
‘Your conscience and so on. How will you deal with it?’
‘Prayer and meditation are sure to guide me.’
‘A week of that?’
‘There are other things to be done, master.’
‘What things?’
Rather than have nothing to say, Lyall said, ‘Naturally I must consult Dame Anvil.’
‘My wife? Consult my wife?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But’—Tobias spoke as one stating a seldom-contested fact—‘a woman’s opinion on a matter of this kind is of no import whatever.’
‘Hubert is her son, master.’
‘He’s my son too: that’s what signifies . . . But again, Father, what do you mean to do? Abbot Thynne is a very eminent man. You can’t simply defy him.’
‘We shall see.’
‘All too clearly, perhaps. But I don’t think you mean to continue to defy him. I thin
k this is a sort of game. All you mean is to savour the thrill of defiance without any actual risk. Let me know when you’ve had enough of your game. You place me in a most uncomfortable posture.’
Good observation but bad policy, thought the priest, and said, with as much fervour as he could summon, short of sounding ridiculous, ‘This is no game, Master Anvil.’
Tobias raised his eyebrows. ‘Bravely spoken, Father Lyall. Well, I must be about my business. When you’re not praying or meditating or consulting my wife, I ask you to bear in mind who it is that employs you.’
A more than usually smart express, its walnut panels stained a dark crimson and its front and rear trimmed with placcas that bore the initials CD (Corpus Diplomaticum), was twisting its way along King Stephen II Street in Coverley through the horse-drawn traffic. Its only passenger was Hubert Anvil. He wore chapel dress with the permitted addition—since he was on extramural precept for the afternoon—of a coloured scarf, and was sitting well forward with the window down in order to see and be seen. The foot-passengers, the other vehicles, the great shops and grand public buildings were all a delight to somebody who lived most of his life within the same stone walls, but Hubert also wanted to be the subject of questioning glances, signs that it was being said or thought of him, ‘Who’s that young boy in the handsome express? How can he be of so much mark? What high mission of Church or State is he upon?’
Nothing of the sort showed itself. There was little to be seen of the gentry, and that only for moments at a time: the tall old man in the vermilion jacket and pink breeches entering a teahouse, the two ladies with bright bonnets and sashes halted at a jeweller’s window—none could have reason to spare him a glance. As for the people, they strolled along by the thousand in their greyish or brownish tunics and trews, their glances moving over him with the same indifference they showed towards everything and everybody, even one another. They betrayed no envy of the attire or adornments of their betters, nor any resentment of the expensive inns and ristorantes they passed and would never enter or of the displays of fine goods they would never own or consume. Well, after all, they were the people, resigned to their God-appointed lot, too coarse of soul and sense to want what their betters enjoyed as a right: offer any one of them a bottle of first-harvest Chichester, say, instead of his usual mug of swipes, and he would not thank you. That, at any rate, was Hubert’s father’s view. Hubert himself was less sure that that was an end of the matter; and if it was not, he reflected now, there was something unworthy in his presenting himself as though for admiration, something close to a sin of pride. He sat back against the cushions of the express.