The Alteration

by Kingsley Amis

  'True.' Anthony looked up from the drawerful of cravattas he was turning over. 'It's an instinct from our nature, and wonderfully strong. It doesn't touch our reason, so we can't talk of why as we do in other matters. Consider that we eat because if we fail to we die, but it isn't that that makes us eat, it's hunger, a feeling in us.'

  'Is this like hunger, a feeling in us that makes us uncomfortable? Like thirst?'

  'Well...'

  'Does it grow until we can think of nothing else?'

  'No.'

  'I shall never understand.'

  'I'm sorry, my dear, but I might as easily explain the colour red to a blind man.'

  'So it appears. We might do better with what else I have to ask, if you're not tired of questions.'

  'Of course not. Say, then.'

  'You've done it, haven't you, Anthony? You've mated? Let's be straight—you've fucked a girl? I'll say nothing to papa, by Our Lady's crown.'

  'See you keep your oath. Yes, I have.'

  'So. Try to explain to me how it is.'

  Anthony had been carefully tying a pale green cravatta at the looking-glass on his toilet-table; now he stopped doing this and turned to face his brother. 'Isn't it best that I don't?' he asked gently. 'It's a part of life that you can never meet with.'

  'Then I must discover as much as I can from one who has met with it.'

  'In Heaven's name, why? It could only—'

  'I want to know where I'm placed. As far as I can. I beg you, dear Anthony.'

  'If you must... Simply, it's the most intense pleasure the human body can feel.'

  'Pleasure?'

  'Of course pleasure. Why so surprised?'

  'I'm not surprised. At least, I've heard it said before. But I can't-'

  'No mystery there at all.' Anthony spoke sharply, but Hubert recognised that the sharpness was not directed at him. 'They do their best to keep it hidden.'

  'Who are they?'

  'Everyone in our polity. The priests, the accursed friars and monks—though they see to it they're in no ignorance themselves. The preceptors, even the surgeons. All those set in authority over us. The whole of Church and State in every land throughout the world.'

  Hubert said nothing, not wanting to prolong this unhelpful digression.

  'They conduct a tyranny and call it the Kingdom of God on Earth. Oh, let it go—there's one place they can never reach. That pleasure is safe.'

  'Does it happen all the time, the pleasure? During the...'

  'There is some all the time, but the big pleasure's at the end. When, as you said, something comes.'

  'How long does it last?'

  'A few seconds.'

  'Oh.'

  'It seems much longer. It seems to last for an indefinite time.'

  'I see.'

  Anthony was brushing his hair. 'Let me try again. What's your favourite food?'

  'Chocolate ice-cream,' said Hubert without hesitation.

  'Can you imagine an ice-cream so wonderful that it made you call aloud?'

  'I think so. And it's like that... down there.'

  'Yes. Now imagine... You've played with yourself down there, haven't you?'

  'Oh yes.'

  'And you like girls. You want to kiss them.'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, think of kissing a girl while it feels like playing with yourself but it's like the wonderful ice-cream.'

  'I must have done something like that before, many times. But it's so vague. I can't really think of a girl when I do that, and I can't think of that when I see a girl, even a very pretty one. I can't bring them together.'

  '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-physical: 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 ser
ve 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?'

  '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?'