The Alteration

       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 lacked 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 authorising 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 well 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.