The Alteration

       '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 his 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 did 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 contrafious. 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 recognise 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 men 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.'