The Alteration

       'You must try harder. If you want what you tell me you want.' Now Anthony's manner changed, as if he was moving from what he thought he should say to what he really wanted to say. 'But there are other things that are wonderful. A woman's body, a woman's skin, is the most delightful thing to touch that was ever made. Look at Eve in that painting there.'

       'Yes,' said Hubert, not doing as invited.

       'That should give you a notion. And yet all this is only a kind of beginning. Something strange, something unique takes place.'

       'The soul is transformed?'

       'Who said so?'

       'I forget. I must have found it in a book.'

       'It's meaningless to me. How can what we know nothing of be transformed? No, I speak of the entirely physical. Or the super-physicaclass="underline" a state of bodily cognisance 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 what 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, Qerk 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 recognise 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?'