ON AUGUST 16, 1968, I WAS HANDED A BOOK WRITTEN by a certain Abbé Vallet, Le Manuscrit de Dom Adson de Melk, traduit en fran?ais d’après l’édition de Dom J. Mabillon (Aux Presses de l’Abbaye de la Source, Paris, 1842). Supplemented by historical information that was actually quite scant1, the book claimed to reproduce faithfully a fourteenth-century manuscript that, in its turn, had been found in the monastery2 of Melk by the great eighteenth-century man of learning, to whom we owe so much information about the history of the Benedic?tine order. The scholarly discovery (I mean mine, the third in chronological3 order) entertained me while I was in Prague, waiting for a dear friend. Six days later Soviet4 troops invaded that unhappy city. I managed, not without adventure, to reach the Austrian border at Linz, and from there I journeyed to Vienna, where I met my beloved, and together we sailed up the Danube.
In a state of intellectual excitement, I read with fascination5 the terrible story of Adso of Melk, and I allowed myself to be so absorbed by it that, almost in a single burst of energy, I completed a translation, using some of those large notebooks from the Papeterie Jo?seph Gibert in which it is so pleasant to write if you use a felt-tip pen. And as I was writing, we reached the vicinity of Melk, where, perched over a bend in the river, the handsome Stift stands to this day, after sever6?al restorations during the course of the centuries. As the reader must have guessed, in the monastery library I found no trace of Adso’s manuscript.
Before we reached Salzburg, one tragic7 night in a little hotel on the shores of the Mondsee, my traveling-?companionship was abruptly9 interrupted, and the per?son with whom I was traveling disappeared—taking Abbé Vallet’s book, not out of spite, but because of the abrupt8 and untidy way in which our relationship ended. And so I was left with a number of manuscript note?books in my hand, and a great emptiness in my heart.
A few months later, in Paris, I decided10 to get to the bottom of my research. Among the few pieces of infor?mation I had derived11 from the French book, I still had the reference to its source, exceptionally detailed12 and precise:
Vetera analecta, sive collectio veterum aliquot operum & opusculorum omms generis, carminum, epistolarum, diplomaton, epitaphiorum, &, cum itinere germanico, adnotationibus & aliquot disquisitionibus R.PD. Joannis Mabillon, Presbiteri ac Monachi Ord. Sancti Benedicti e Congregatione S. Mauri—Nova Editio cui accessere Mabiloii vita & aliquot opuscula, scilicet Dissertatio de Pane13 Eucharistico, Azymo et Fermentato ad Eminentiss. Cardinalem Bona. Subiungitur opusculum Eldefonsi Hispaniensis Episcopi de eodem argumento Et Eusebii Romani ad Theophilum Gallum epistola, De cultu sanctorum ignotorum, Parisiis, apud Levesque, ad Pontem S. Michaelis, MDCCXXI, cum privilegio Regis.
I quickly found the Vetera analecta at the Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève, but to my great surprise the edition I came upon differed from the description in two details: first, the publisher, who was given here as “Montalant, ad Ripam P.P. Augustinianorum (prope Pontem S. Michaelis),” and also the date, which was two years later. I needn’t add that these analecta did not comprehend any manuscript of Adso or Adson of Melk; on the contrary, as anyone interested can check, they are a collection of brief or medium-length texts, whereas the story transcribed14 by Vallet ran to several hundred pages. At the same time, I consulted illustri?ous medievalists such as the dear and unforgettable étienne Gilson, but it was evident that the only Vetera analecta were those I had seen at Sainte Geneviève. A quick trip to the Abbaye de la Source, in the vicinity of Passy, and a conversation with my friend Dom Arne Lahnestedt further convinced me that no Abbé Vallet had published books on the abbey’s presses (for that matter, nonexistent). French scholars are notoriously careless about furnishing reliable bibliographical16 infor?mation, but this case went beyond all reasonable pessimism17. I began to think I had encountered a forgery18. By now the Vallet volume itself could not be recovered (or at least I didn’t dare go and ask it back from the person who had taken it from me). I had only my notes left, and I was beginning to have doubts about them.
There are magic moments, involving great physical fatigue19 and intense motor excitement, that produce visions of people known in the past (“en me retra?ant ces détails, j’en suis à me demander s’ils sont réels, ou bien si je les ai rêvés”). As I learned later from the delightful20 little book of the Abbé de Bucquoy, there are also visions of books as yet unwritten.
If something new had not occurred, I would still be wondering where the story of Adso of Melk originated; but then, in 1970, in Buenos Aires, as I was browsing21 among the shelves of a little antiquarian bookseller on Corrientes, not far from the more illustrious Patio22 del Tango of that great street, I came upon the Castilian version of a little work by Milo Temesvar, On the Use of Mirrors in the Game of Chess. It was an Italian translation of the original, which, now impossible to find, was in Georgian (Tbilisi, 1934); and here, to my great surprise, I read copious23 quotations24 from Adso’s manuscript, though the source was neither Vallet nor Mabillon; it was Father Athanasius Kircher (but which work?). A scholar—whom I prefer not to name—later assured me that (and he quoted indexes from memory) the great Jesuit never mentioned Adso of Melk. But Temesvar’s pages were before my eyes, and the episodes he cited were the same as those of the Vallet manuscript (the description of the labyrinth25 in particular left no room for doubt).
I concluded that Adso’s memoirs26 appropriately share the nature of the events he narrates27: shrouded28 in many, shadowy mysteries, beginning with the identity of the author and ending with the abbey’s location, about which Adso is stubbornly, scrupulously29 silent. Conjec?ture allows us to designate a vague area between Pomposa and Conques, with reasonable likelihood that the com?munity was somewhere along the central ridge30 of the Apennines, between Piedmont, Liguria, and France. As for the period in which the events described take place, we are at the end of November 1327; the date of the author’s writing, on the other hand, is uncertain. Inas?much as he describes himself as a novice31 in 1327 and says he is close to death as he writes his memoirs, we can calculate roughly that the manuscript was written in the last or next-to-last decade of the fourteenth century.
On sober reflection, I find few reasons for publishing my Italian version of an obscure, neo-Gothic French version of a seventeenth-century Latin edition of a work written in Latin by a German monk32 toward the end of the fourteenth century.
First of all, what style should I employ? The tempta?tion to follow Italian models of the period had to be rejected as totally unjustified: not only does Adso write in Latin, but it is also clear from the whole develop?ment of the text that his culture (or the culture of the abbey, which clearly influences him) dates back even further; it is manifestly a summation33, over several centuries, of learning and stylistic quirks34 that can be linked with the late-medieval Latin tradition. Adso thinks and writes like a monk who has remained impervious35 to the revolution of the vernacular36, still bound to the pages housed in the library he tells about, educated on patristic-scholastic texts; and his story (apart from the fourteenth-century references and events, which Adso reports with countless37 perplexities and always by hearsay) could have been written, as far as the language and the learned quotations go, in the twelfth or thirteenth century.
On the other hand, there is no doubt that, in translat?ing Adso’s Latin into his own neo-Gothic French, Vallet took some liberties, and not only stylistic liberties. For example, the characters speak sometimes of the proper?ties of herbs, clearly referring to the book of secrets attributed to Albertus Magnus, which underwent count?less revisions over the centuries. It is certain that Adso knew the work, but the fact remains38 that passages he quotes from it echo too literally39 both formulas of Paracelsus and obvious interpolations from an edition of Albertus unquestionably dating from the Tudor period. However, I discovered later that during the time when Vallet was transcribing40 (?) the manuscript of Adso, there was circulating in Paris an eighteenth century edition of the Grand and the Petit Albert, now irreparably corrupt41. In any case, how could I be sure that the text known to Adso or the monks42 whose discussions he recorded did not also contain, among glosses43, scholia, and various appendices, annotations44 that would go on to enrich subsequent scholarship?
Finally, was I to retain in Latin the passages that Abbé Vallet himself did not feel it opportune45 to translate, perhaps to preserve the ambience of the period? There were no particular reasons to do so, except a perhaps misplaced sense of fidelity46 to my source. ... I have eliminated excesses, but I have retained a certain amount. And I fear that I have imitated those bad novelists who, introducing a French character, make him exclaim “Parbleu!” and “La femme, ah! la femme!”
In short, I am full of doubts. I really don’t know why I have decided to pluck up my courage and present, as if it were authentic47, the manuscript of Adso of Melk. Let us say it is an act of love. Or, if you like, a way of ridding myself of numerous, persistent48 obsessions49.
I transcribe15 my text with no concern for timeliness. In the years when I discovered the Abbé Vallet volume, there was a widespread conviction that one should write only out of a commitment to the present, in order to change the world. Now, after ten years or more, the man of letters (restored to his loftiest dignity) can happily write out of pure love of writing. And so I now feel free to tell, for sheer narrative50 pleasure, the story of Adso of Melk, and I am comforted and consoled in finding it immeasurably remote in time (now that the waking of reason has dispelled51 all the monsters that its sleep had generated), gloriously lacking in any rele?vance for our day, atemporally alien to our hopes and our certainties.
For it is a tale of books, not of everyday worries, and reading it can lead us to recite, with à Kempis, the great imitator: “In omnibus requiem52 quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro.”
January 5, 1980
NOTE
ADSO’S MANUSCRIPT IS DIVIDED INTO SEVEN DAYS, AND each day into periods corresponding to the liturgical53 hours. The subtitles54, in the third person, were probably added by Vallet. But since they are helpful in orienting the reader, and since this usage is also not unknown to much of the vernacular literature of the period, I did not feel it necessary to eliminate them.
Adso’s references to the canonical55 hours caused me some puzzlement, because their meaning varied56 accord?ing to the place and the season; moreover, it is entirely57 probable that in the fourteenth century the instructions given by Saint Benedict in the Rule were not observed with absolute precision.
Nevertheless, as a guide to the reader, the following schedule is, I believe, credible58. It is partly deduced from the text and partly based on a comparison of the original Rule with the description of monastic life given by édouard Schneider in Les Heures bénédictines (Paris, Grasset, 1925).
Matins (which Adso sometimes refers to by the older expression “Vigiliae”) Between 2:30 and 3:00 in the morning.
Lauds (which in the most ancient tradition were called “Matutini” or “Matins”) Between 5:00 and 6:00 in the morning, in order to end at dawn.
Prime Around 7:30, shortly before daybreak. Terce Around 9:00.
Sext Noon (in a monastery where the monks did not work in the fields, it was also the hour of the midday meal in winter).
Nones Between 2:00 and 3:00 in the afternoon.
Vespers Around 4:30, at sunset (the Rule pre?scribes eating supper before dark).
Compline Around 6:00 (before 7:00, the monks go to bed).
The calculation is based on the fact that in northern Italy at the end of November, the sun rises around 7:30 A.M. and sets around 4:40 P.M.
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scant
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monastery
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chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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Soviet
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| adj.苏联的，苏维埃的；n.苏维埃 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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sever
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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abrupt
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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pane
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transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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bibliographical
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| 书籍解题的，著书目录的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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forgery
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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labyrinth
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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narrates
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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summation
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| n.总和；最后辩论 | |
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quirks
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| n.奇事，巧合( quirk的名词复数 )；怪癖 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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transcribing
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的现在分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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glosses
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| n.（页末或书后的）注释( gloss的名词复数 )；（表面的）光滑；虚假的外表；用以产生光泽的物质v.注解( gloss的第三人称单数 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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annotations
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| n.注释( annotation的名词复数 )；附注 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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obsessions
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| n.使人痴迷的人（或物）( obsession的名词复数 )；着魔；困扰 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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liturgical
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| adj.礼拜仪式的 | |
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subtitles
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| n.说明字幕，印在外国影片上的对白翻译字幕，译文对白字幕；小标题，副标题( subtitle的名词复数 )；（电影的）字幕 | |
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canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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