The Alteration

by Kingsley Amis

  There was a sigh that seemed to come from everywhere at once, a deeper silence than before, and then again the Prefect's bell.

  'Into your beds, miserable sinners. Dowse your lights, and if after one minute I see the smallest gleam the offender will receive a foretaste of the pains of Hell. Into your beds... Dowse your lights..."

  Hubert lay under the rough blankets and waited in the dark. What happened next, whether anything happened next, was up to Decuman. Perhaps he was tired after the day's events, which had necessitated a good deal of standing and waiting about. Hubert hoped not: he himself was still too elated to think of sleep. Minutes went by before Decuman spoke.

  'Hubert.'

  It was enough; he got out of bed, rummaged sightlessly in the closet, hung the kerchief on its inconspicuous nail so that it covered the squint in the door, and prodded the rolled bolster-cover into position along the sill.

  'Done.'

  He was back in bed before Decuman had relit one of the candles with a phosphorus and the other two boys had sat up.

  'Now let's see what we have here.' Decuman brought a small canvas bag out from somewhere under his blankets, and successively from the bag four slices of bread and four pieces of cheese. With gestures of conscious lordliness he tossed one of each to his three companions. There was a minute of eating noises. Then, still eating, he said, 'Well, Thomas?'

  In the same theatrical spirit as Decuman, Thomas looked warily over at the door, then produced from his bedding a small, battered, coverless book, which he held in the air like a trophy.

  'How did you come by it?'

  'Ned, the brewer's boy. Of course he can't read, so he must act as a go-between, but he refuses to say where his goods come from.'

  'Hit him,' suggested Decuman.

  'You hit him. He's fourteen.'

  'So. How much did you pay?'

  'Sixpence.'

  'By St George's sacred balls! We expect something hot for that.'

  'We have it—this is as hot as shit.'

  'Read us some,' said Hubert.

  'Think what you do,' said Mark.

  Decuman slowly clenched his fist and glared at Mark. 'You may remain as you are and listen, or you may lie and pretend to sleep and listen, but listen you will. Read, Tom.'

  'I think it would be best if I told you the first part in short. It's not easy and I had to go slow.'

  'Very well,' said Decuman. 'First let us know what it's called.'

  'The Man in the High Castle, by Philip K. Dick.'

  'A strange name. It is TR, I suppose?'

  'If you count CW as TR.'

  'CW, is it? Yes, indeed I do. Say, then.'

  'The story starts in this year, 1976, but a great many things are different.'

  'Are they so? We all know what CW is. Get on. What things?'

  'I'll tell you if you stop interrupting. Invention has been set free a long time before. Sickness is almost conquered: nobody dies of consumption or the plague. The deserts have been made fertile. The inventors are actually called scientists, and they use electricity.'

  'Such profaneness,' said Mark, listening with close attention.

  'They send messages all over the Earth with it. They use it to light whole cities and even to keep folk warm. There are electric flying-machines that move at two hundred miles an hour.'

  'Flying-machines always appear—this is no more than ordinary TR,' growled Decuman. 'You said it was CW.'

  TR, or Time Romance, was a type of fiction that appealed to a type of mind. It had readers among schoolboys, collegiates, mechanics, inventors, scribes, merchantmen, members of Convocation and even, it was whispered, those in holy orders. Though it was formally illegal, the authorities were wise enough to know that to suppress it altogether a disproportionate effort would be necessary, and contented themselves with occasional raids and confiscations. Its name was the subject of unending debate among its followers, many of whom would point to the number of stories and novels offered and accepted as TR in which time as such played no significant part. The most commonly suggested alternative, Invention Fiction, made a beguiling acronym, but was in turn vulnerable to the charge that invention was no necessary ingredient of TR. (Science was a word and idea considered only in private: who would publish a bawdy pamphlet under the heading of Disgusting Stories?) CW, or Counterfeit World, a class of tale set more or less at the present date, but portraying the results of some momentous change in historical fact, was classified as a form of TR by plenty of others besides Decuman, if on no firmer grounds than that writers of the one sometimes ventured into the other.

  Thomas answered Decuman's objection. 'Wait: what has happened is first of all that the Holy Victory never took place.'

  'What impiety,' said Mark, his little eyes wide.

  'Prince Arthur didn't father Stephen II or anybody else on the Blessed Catherine of Aragon. When Arthur died, Henry the Abominable married her and continued the dynasty. No Holy Expedition, because there was no true heir to set at its head. No War of the English Succession and so, of course, no Holy Victory. England became altogether Schismatic under the next king, Henry IX, and so, instead of being a place of exile and punishment for Schismatics and common criminals,'—Thomas's brown eyes were fixed on Decuman-'New England was at first a colony under the English Crown, then, in 1848, declared itself an independent republic, and now, in 1976, it's the greatest Power in the world, under the name of the Union of—'

  'Wish-wash!' said Decuman loudly, pulled himself up and repeated quietly, 'Wish-wash. That mean little den of thieves and savages the greatest Power in the world?'

  Hubert spoke up. 'It's not so little, Decuman, even as things are. Seven hundred miles long, my friend was telling me, bigger than-'

  'And as things aren't it's bigger still,' said Thomas with some firmness. 'It conquered Louisiana and Quebec and took away the top part of Mexico and it covers the whole of North America except New Muscovy and Florida. Now: the Old World is different too. As well as England, all sorts of other places become Schismatic: Brunswick-Brandenburg, Helvetia, Denmark and the Netherlands. You remember the other day we learned about the Three Northern Popes, starting with Germanian I in 1535, and how when he was elected he said he wasn't worthy, but would serve for the sake of the unity of Christendom? Well, in this type's world, he was never reconciled to Rome—he never even went there: he stayed in Almaigne for the rest of his life as plain Martin Luther. And so, of course, Hadrian VII was never anything but Sir Thomas More.'

  'The Martin Luther in the story—why did he never go to Rome?' asked Hubert after a pause.

  'It says here he was afraid to. He thought they might burn him as a heretic'

  Decuman stroked his nose. 'The real Martin Luther had more courage and more wit. He went to Rome and said, "If you burn me you'll have to burn thousands of other folk too, not only in my country. But if you make me Pope and promise the English it's their turn next and so on, all my followers will come round—and if I have to I'll declare a Holy War on Henry and restore Prince Stephen." It must have been like that. Something like that.'

  'The Holy Father is appointed by God,' said Mark, crossing himself. 'Not by arrangements between-'

  'The Holy Father is a man,' said Decuman, 'and so are the members of the College of Cardinals. They plot and scheme like other men.'

  'Schismatic!'

  'Fuck a fox. Go on, Tom.'

  'I haven't read much further. How somebody called Zwingli preached Schismaticism to the Helvetians. Rather heavisome, I thought. But there are some good grins here and there. One for you, Hubert—Mozart died in 1799, just after finishing Die Monderforschung, but your friend Beethoven lived until 1835 and wrote twenty symphonies.'

  'I don't call that a grin.'

  'Well, the author enjoys it.' Thomas turned a page. 'Oh yes. There's a famous book which proves that mankind is descended from a thing like an ape, not from Adam and Eve. Can you give me ths title?'

  The others shook their heads.

 
'The Origin of Species!'

  Even Mark joined in the laughter, which was quickly shushed by Decuman.

  'Who is the man in the high castle?' asked Hubert.

  'He hasn't come in yet,' said Thomas, 'but he must be wicked and very powerful. A sorcerer, perhaps.'

  In the Abbot's refectory, dinner was over. The servants had taken away the sixteenth-century pewter plate, piled the fires and filled the baskets with apple logs, left fresh candles and departed: only Lawrence remained on call.

  Mirabilis unbuttoned his jacket and glanced ruefully down at his paunch. On its inside were rather large amounts of sorrel soup, salmon trout, Gloucestershire lamb baked with rosemary and served with new potatoes and young carrots, geranium cream and, inevitably, Stilton cheese, together with a couple of pints of audit ale. When entertaining foreign visitors, the Abbot made rather a point of providing only the best English fare. In a spirit of polite response, Mirabilis passed over the offered claret and malmsey in favour of the walnut cordial that, like the ale, was made on the premises. He sipped and looked into the delicate Waterford glass.

  'The herb is still a secret?'

  'I'm afraid so.' The Abbot spoke with what sounded like real and deep regret, adding in alleviation, 'It grows only in the country hereabouts.'

  'Very distinctive... What of his intelligence, my lord?'

  'Ah, we think highly of it, Fritz, and I trust I can say we do what we can to foster it. We've put him in company with three slightly older lads, one of them a confounded rogue, but all capable of thought. And his studies prosper, notably his Latin: a safe guide.'

  'He seemed to me a little... stolid. Not dull, but not active.'

  'That's his looks,' said Father Dilke. 'Poor Hubert-when you first see him it's hard to believe that a quick mind lives in that head, but it does. If I put a point to him at practice, he grasps it before half my words are out.'

  'Oh, musically, of course, that's obvious.'

  Morley had said nothing in the last few minutes. Now he spoke up with some asperity. 'But musical intelligence is intelligence, master. We should need only the music of Valeriani, for example, to know that he was a most unusually intelligent man. And, in what at the moment is naturally a smaller way, the same is true of Anvil. Perhaps nobody has told our distinguished guest that Anvil, apart from possessing a remarkable voice and remarkable powers of execution and interpretation, is also a composer quite out of the common. Later, perhaps, the Abbot will permit me to play you one or two of Anvil's studies for piano-forte. They will answer all your questions about his intelligence.'

  'This at ten years old?'

  'Ten or so. He's a prodigy, sir. Could anyone less have come to understand his way from Bach to Wagner in eighteen months?'

  'Was hat er gesagt?' muttered Viaventosa.

  'Anvil ist ein begabter Komponist.'

  'Nein, wirklich?'

  'And at the keyboard it's the same, Master Morley?'

  'In honesty no, sir. Serviceable and deft, deft enough to guide his compositions, little more. There's no conflict there.'

  'But there's conflict here, yes?'

  Whether by accident or not, the form of words seemed to fit the fact. Morley looked grim, almost glowering. Dilke faced him, his long fingers pinching repeatedly at the point where his nose met his brows. The Abbot's handsome face was watchful. (Viaventosa was fairly busy with a bunch of hothouse grapes.)

  'Have you considered this as I asked you to, Sebastian?'

  'Yes, my lord.'

  'Say, then, but in short if you will. It must be decided tonight. I should much prefer it so.'

  Morley nodded. His red complexion looked redder than ever in the light from fire and candles. 'Anvil would surely prove a composer of repute, an ornament to Coverley and to England and with a place in the history of his art. But-'

  'And a credit to you, master,' said Dilke in a friendly tone.

  'No, Father. He was there all the time; I was merely the one who found him. Now: if it were to happen that Anvil should continue as composer, it might be that he would go beyond mere repute. He might take—he might one day have taken his place with Weber, Schumann, even Valeriani. I can't give you chances: I'm not an operator. All I can tell you is that it would have been fully possible. Is that short enough for you, my lord?'

  'Yes, Sebastian, and thank you. But you speak as if the outcome were already resolved.'

  'So it is, my lord.' The harshness of Morley's voice was more than usually evident. He gave the two visitors an odd look, one in which hostility was mingled with something like compassion.

  'Are you quite yourself, old friend?'

  'A touch of melancholia, my lord-it's my nature. Forgive me, I beg you.'

  'Why, of course. What have you to say, Father?'

  'Very little out of my own mouth, my lord. Hubert is the finest boy singer I've ever heard as regards both musicianly and physical endowment. But my experience is rather limited. Master Morley's word will stand of itself; mine needs support.' Dilke spoke as one stating a fact. 'And God has seen to it that there are those on hand who can give that support. Master Mirabilis, would you care to repeat to the company what you said to me earlier?'

  'Gladly, Father. Indeed, I'll extend it. I state roundly that I've listened to the work of every singer of mark in Christendom, in most cases several or many times: I couldn't live in Rome for twenty-five years without doing so. Your Clerk Anvil surpasses any other of his condition. He has six or seven superiors who have what only the years and experience can bring. And Wolfgang here has something to add to what I say.'

  'I heard Fritz when he was ten years old,' squeaked Viaven-tosa, expressing his own sentiments in the terms his friend had coached him in, 'and this boy is better. Not much, but he is better. I remember well. and I am sure.'

  'Thank you, masters,' said Dilke after a short silence.

  The Abbot looked grave. 'It seems,' he said, 'it seems to me that we have a possibility on one side and something not so far from a fact on the other.'

  'We'll find that possibility is closed,' said Morley, quietly now. 'But if it had ever come to fruition, we'd have had something immense. And even if not... A composer belongs to the world and to posterity; a singer by comparison can reach only a few and his voice dies with him, leaving no record behind except in the words of those who heard him. My regrets, masters, but it's true. It's true.' His voice tailed off.

  Viaventosa had followed part of this. He nodded, frowning, his eyes shut.

  'But are we faced with a choice?' asked Dilke. 'Surely Anvil can be composer and singer by turns?'

  Morley said, 'An active career as singer has always in effect ruled out serious composition.'

  'But an active career with violin or piano-forte hasn't always.'

  'Conceded. What of it?'

  'Anvil may be the first exception,' said Dilke, with a quick glance at the Abbot. 'Another possibility, eh?'

  'We need none of your Jesuitries tonight, Father.'

  'That'll do.' The Abbot's troubled look-perhaps it had never been more than a look-was gone. He poured himself claret with a small flourish. 'You've put your case, Sebastian, and I commend you most strongly for your moderation. Yes, I do. But you could scarcely have argued otherwise. The decision is clear. Anvil goes to the surgeon as soon as the formalities are complete.'

  Morley shrugged his broad shoulders. After a moment he said, 'Certain of those formalities may not be simple matters of form. The boy's father is of high condition.'

  'A London merchantman, with an older son near marrying age,' said Dilke. 'Uh, what of it, master?'

  'This of it: he will know, or will soon discover, that boys chosen for this treatment are normally of low parentage. He may see the proposal as a slur upon him, and his consent is of course required by law.'

  'True,' said the Abbot: 'Clerk Anvil's case is in that way somewhat exceptional, but then so are his talents. He will be celebrated and rich before very long. That should carry weight with the father. A
nd if not, as a pious man, which I myself know him to be, he'll have in mind his duty to God. Or can easily be put in mind of it.'

  'There'll be no difficulty, my lord,' said Dilke, carefully choosing a sweetmeat from the silver bowl before him.

  Later the Abbot said privately to Mirabilis, 'If I may ask you, Fritz—do you think we were right?'

  'In what respect?'

  'The decision about Anvil's future isn't an ordinary one, you see. There can be no going back afterwards.'

  'No indeed, my lord, but I still don't quite understand.'

  'It's simply that not even the wisest of us is infallible. Suppose that in a few years Anvil's powers decline. There was such a case—at any rate, if it should so turn out, what do we say to ourselves then?'

  'What you have just said, that none of us is infallible. Let me put your mind at peace, my lord. There are these, these declines you mention, but they're very rare, too rare to be allowed for, and your duty to music and to God is too great. No, whatever should happen, anybody who knows the full truth must see that you were right in your decision.'

  'Thank you, dear Fritz, that's what I wanted to hear.'

  Later yet, Lawrence escorted his master's two guests across the quadrangle to the gate and assisted them into the small four-wheeled carriage that was waiting there. Mirabilis gave the man a sixpence-he enjoyed overtipping on his travels-and watched him and his lantern disappear. All St Cecilia's, all that could be seen, was dark. The driver whipped up his horse and they moved off between the tall hedgerows. The going was quiet, quiet enough for Mirabilis to be able to hear without difficulty the little rapid snorts and sniffs coining from his companion. They held a familiar message, and experience suggested that it should be heeded without undue delay.