while we talk together, that I wasn't paying you empty compliments just now. I meant every word.'
'I knew it at the time, sir.'
'Good. You intend to continue as singer, I hope, when you're a man?'
'My lord the Abbot and Father Dilke would like me to. Master Morley thinks otherwise.'
'And you yourself?'
'I have no opinion, sir. And I need have none for some time yet. But... I do want to see something of the world. Rome, of course. Then Vienna, Naples, Salzburg, Barcelona. And further away—India and Indo-China. The Bishop of Hannoy told my father that it's like the Garden of Eden there.'
'Well, nobody is better enabled to travel around than a famous singer... I noticed you didn't put anywhere in the New World on your list.'
'Oh, I should have, sir. Mexico, Quebec, New Orl&ns... and Arnoldstown, of course.'
The New Englander chuckled, but his eyes were keen. 'Thank you, my boy. You may not know it, but you're right—that's one place you have to visit. And there are plenty of others in my country: New Amsterdam, Haverford, Wyclif City... Enough: I mustn't go on.'
'Please do, sir. What's it like in your country? We hear so many strange things of it which can't be true. Not all of them.'
'It's beautiful, Hubert, which nobody believes who hasn't seen it. And various, because it's so extensive. Seven hundred miles from north to south, four hundred miles across in places, three times France. In the north-east in winter, everything freezes solid for three months; in the south, there are palm trees and lions and swamps and. alligators...'
Hubert's inner eye saw much more than that. There passed before it a series of images drawn from story-pamphlets and the drawings in them, from photograms and facsimiles, from talk among his mates: a lake of blue water that stretched to the horizon, a tall mountain isolated on a broad plain, a river crowded with boats of all sizes, a whaling-fleet putting to sea, a city of wooden houses, a forest of enormous trees, a party of men in furs hunting a grizzly bear, a blue-uniformed cavalry squadron at the charge, a cluster of strange tents among which moved dark-haired women with babies on their backs, a farmhouse all alone in a green hollow. All this was so intense that Hubert missed some of what was being said to him, until a striking word recalled him to it.
'Our inventors are the finest in the world: not long ago, two of them...' Van den Haag stopped, then earnestly continued, 'We have no king, only a First Citizen. That man over there is the head of our Church, but by his dress and by how he lives you couldn't tell him from a village pastor. And of course we have laws, strict laws, but each of us is free to decide what to do with his life. But I go on again.'
'No, you interest me greatly, sir.'
'Another time. This place, this Chapel. Is it your school or your home or both? Or what is it to you? Forgive me, but there's nothing like it in my country. We have no need of it.'
'It's my school, sir, and it's as much my home as any school could be. My father and mother live in London, and I often go to them, but the Abbot is like a second father to me, and some of my friends are like brothers. And there's my work, and all the life here, and the farm.' Through the rear window, some moving object could be dimly seen in the distance, beyond the corn-mill, the fish-ponds, the dove-cote: a small, whitish, four-legged shape that hurried, steadied itself, hurried again and disappeared among some bushes. 'I think I'm the luckiest person I know.'
After a pause, van den Haag said, 'My embassy is in London, of course, but I have a house in Coverley. My family and I would much welcome a visit from you, Hubert. Perhaps you might care to meet my daughter, who's just your age. If you'd sing for us... Would you like to do that? Would you be allowed to?'
'Yes, sir-yes to both questions. You're very kind.'
'I'll fix it with the Abbot. To whom I must say a few more words before I take my leave.'
Later that evening, in a small dormitory he shared with three other clerks, Hubert Anvil was pressed for details of his visit to the Abbot's parlour.
'This New Englander you saw,' said Decuman, the strong boy with the thin, down-turned mouth whom the other three half-willingly accepted as their leader-'I expect he carried a pistol and smoked a cigar and spat on the floor and said 'Goddam'?'
'I beg you, no blasphemy, Decuman.' This was Mark, who looked a little like a fair-haired mole.
'By St Veronica's napkin, I'll blaspheme to my heart's content in this room. And I wasn't blaspheming myself anyway—1 was talking about what somebody else might have said.'
'Oh, very well. Your soul is your own affair.'
'Let Hubert tell his tale,' said the fourth boy, Thomas, the dark, fine-featured, quietly-spoken one.
Hubert nodded gratefully. 'To answer you, Decuman—no, there was nothing of that sort. Do you think anybody would spit on the Abbot's floor?'
'A New Englander might. They have bounce enough for anything.'
'Well, this one didn't. He was a gentleman.'
'A gentleman! Shit!'
'He was very correct in his talk and manners and he loves music and he invited me to his house to meet his daughter.'
'Now we see, don't we? Little wonder he made himself popular. Hubert dreams of a young miss in a deerskin frock who'll feed him cookies and teach him the lasso and rub noses with him.'
'And a very pleasant dream it is,' said Thomas.
'And if the girl needs eyeglasses badly enough it may come true.'
