In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. This was beginning with God and the duty of every faithful monk1 would be to repeat every day with chanting humility2 the one never?-changing event whose incontrovertible truth can be asserted. But we see now through a glass darkly, and the truth, before it is revealed to all, face to face, we see in fragments (alas, how illegible) in the error of the world, so we must spell out its faithful signals even when they seem obscure to us and as if amalgamated4 with a will wholly bent5 on evil.
Having reached the end of my poor sinner’s life, my hair now white, I grow old as the world does, waiting to be lost in the bottomless pit of silent and deserted6 divinity, sharing in the light of angelic intelligences; confined now with my heavy, ailing7 body in this cell in the dear monastery8 of Melk, I prepare to leave on this parchment my testimony9 as to the wondrous10 and terri?ble events that I happened to observe in my youth, now repeating verbatim all I saw and heard, without ventur?ing to seek a design, as if to leave to those who will come after (if the Antichrist has not come first) signs of signs, so that the prayer of deciphering may be exer?cised on them.
May the Lord grant me the grace to be the transpar?ent witness of the happenings that took place in the abbey whose name it is only right and pious11 now to omit, toward the end of the year of our Lord 1327, when the Emperor Louis came down into Italy to restore the dignity of the Holy Roman Empire, in keeping with the designs of the Almighty12 and to the confusion of the wicked usurper13, simoniac, and heresi?arch who in Avignon brought shame on the holy name of the apostle (I refer to the sinful soul of Jacques of Cahors, whom the impious revered14 as John XXII).
Perhaps, to make more comprehensible the events in which I found myself involved, I should recall what was happening in those last years of the century, as I understood it then, living through it, and as I remem?ber it now, complemented15 by other stories I heard afterward—if my memory still proves capable of con3?necting the threads of happenings so many and confused.
In the early years of that century Pope Clement16 V had moved the apostolic seat to Avignon, leaving Rome prey17 to the ambitions of the local overlords: and gradually the holy city of Christianity had been transformed into a circus, or into a brothel, riven by the struggles among its leaders; though called a republic, it was not one, and it was assailed19 by armed bands, subjected to violence and looting. Ecclesiastics21, eluding22 secular23 jurisdiction24, commanded groups of malefactors and robed, sword in hand, transgressing25 and organizing evil commerce. How was it possible to prevent the Caput Mundi from becoming again, and rightly, the goal of the man who wanted to assume the crown of the Holy Roman Em?pire and restore the dignity of that temporal dominion26 that had belonged to the Caesars?
Thus in 1314 five German princes in Frankfurt elected Louis the Bavarian supreme27 ruler of the empire. But that same day, on the opposite shore of the Main, the Count Palatine of the Rhine and the Archbishop of Cologne elected Frederick of Austria to the same high rank. Two emperors for a single throne and a single pope for two: a situation that, truly, fomented28 great disorder29. ...
Two years later, in Avignon, the new Pope was elected, Jacques of Cahors, an old man of seventy-two who took, as I have said, the name of John XXII, and heaven grant that no pontiff take again a name now so distasteful to the righteous. A Frenchman, devoted30 to the King of France (the men of that corrupt31 land are always inclined to foster the interests of their own people, and are unable to look upon the whole world as their spiritual home), he had supported Philip the Fair against the Knights33 Templars, whom the King accused (I believe unjustly) of the most shameful34 crimes so that he could seize their possessions with the complicity of that renegade ecclesiastic20.
In 1322 Louis the Bavarian defeated his rival Frederick. Fearing a single emperor even more than he had feared two, John excommunicated the victor, who in return denounced the Pope as a heretic. I must also recall how, that very year, the chapter of the Franciscans was convened35 in Perugia, and the minister general, Michael of Cesena, accepting the entreaties36 of the Spirituals (of whom I will have occasion to speak), proclaimed as a matter of faith and doctrine37 the poverty of Christ, who, if he owned something with his apostles, possessed38 it only as usus facti. A worthy39 resolution, meant to safe?guard the virtue40 and purity of the order, it highly displeased41 the Pope, who perhaps discerned in it a principle that would jeopardize42 the very claims that he, as head of the church, had made, denying the empire the right to elect bishops43, and asserting on the contrary that the papal throne had the right to invest the emperor. Moved by these or other reasons, John condemned44 the Franciscan propositions in 1323 with the decretal Cum inter32 nonnullos.
It was at this point, I imagine, that Louis saw the Franciscans, now the Pope’s enemies, as his potential allies. By affirming the poverty of Christ, they were somehow strengthening the ideas of the imperial theologians, namely Marsilius of Padua and John of Jandun. And finally, not many months before the events I am narrating45, Louis came to an agreement with the defeated Frederick, descended46 into Italy, and was crowned in Milan.
This was the situation when I—a young Benedictine novice47 in the monastery of Melk—was removed from the peace of the cloister48 by my father, fighting in Louis’s train, not least among his barons49. He thought it wise to take me with him so that I might know the wonders of Italy and be present when the Emperor was crowned in Rome. But the siege of Pisa then absorbed him in military concerns. Left to myself, I roamed among the cities of Tuscany, partly out of idleness and partly out of a desire to learn. But this undisciplined freedom, my parents thought, was not suitable for an adolescent devoted to a contemplative life. And on the advice of Marsilius, who had taken a liking50 to me, they decided51 to place me under the direction of a learned Franciscan, Brother William of Baskerville, about to undertake a mission that would lead him to famous cities and ancient abbeys. Thus I became William’s scribe and disciple52 at the same time, nor did I ever regret it, because with him I was witness to events worthy of being handed down, as I am now doing, to those who will come after us.
I did not then know what Brother William was seeking, and to tell the truth, I still do not know today, and I presume he himself did not know, moved as he was solely53 by the desire for truth, and by the suspicion?—which I could see he always harbored—that the truth was not what was appearing to him at any given moment. And perhaps during those years he had been distracted from his beloved studies by secular duties. The mission with which William had been charged remained un?known to me while we were on our journey, or, rather, he never spoke54 to me about it. It was only by overhear?ing bits of his conversations with the abbots of the monasteries55 where we stopped along the way that I formed some idea of the nature of this assignment. But I did not understand it fully56 until we reached our destination, as I will tell presently. Our destination was to the north, but our journey did not follow a straight line, and we rested at various abbeys. Thus it happened that we turned westward57 when our final goal was to the east, almost following the line of mountains that from Pisa leads in the direction of the pilgrim’s way to Santiago, pausing in a place which the terrible events that took place there dissuade58 me from identifying more closely now, but whose lords were liege to the empire, and where the abbots of our order, all in agreement, opposed the heretical, corrupt Pope. Our journey lasted two weeks, amid various vicissitudes59, and during that time I had the opportunity to know (never enough, I remain convinced) my new master.
In the pages to follow I shall not indulge in descrip?tions of persons—except when a facial expression, or a gesture, appears as a sign of a mute but eloquent61 language—because, as Boethius says, nothing is more fleeting62 than external form, which withers63 and alters like the flowers of the field at the appearance of autumn; and what would be the point of saying today that the abbot Abo had a stern eye and pale cheeks, when by now he and those around him are dust and their bodies have the mortal grayness of dust (only their souls, God grant, shining with a light that will never be extinguished)? But I would like to describe William at least once, because his singular features struck me, and it is charac?teristic of the young to become bound to an older and wiser man not only by the spell of his words and the sharpness of his mind, but also by the superficial form of his body, which proves very dear, like the figure of a father, whose gestures we study and whose frowns, whose smile we observe—without a shadow of lust64 to pollute this form (perhaps the only that is truly pure) of corporal love.
In the past men were handsome and great (now they are children and dwarfs), but this is merely one of the many facts that demonstrate the disaster of an aging world. The young no longer want to study anything, learning is in decline, the whole world walks on its head, blind men lead others equally blind and cause them to plunge65 into the abyss, birds leave the nest before they can fly, the jackass plays the lyre, oxen dance. Mary no longer loves the contemplative life and Martha no longer loves the active life, Leah is sterile66, Rachel has a carnal eye, Cato visits brothels, Lucretius becomes a woman. Everything is on the wrong path. In those days, thank God, I acquired from my master the desire to learn and a sense of the straight way, which remains67 even when the path is tortuous68.
Brother William’s physical appearance was at that time such as to attract the attention of the most inatten?tive observer. His height surpassed that of a normal man and he was so thin that he seemed still taller. His eyes were sharp and penetrating69; his thin and slightly beaky nose gave his countenance70 the expression of a man on the lookout71, save in certain moments of sluggishness72 of which I shall speak. His chin also denot?ed a firm will, though the long face covered with freckles—such as I often saw among those born be?tween Hibernia and Northumbria—could occasionally express hesitation73 and puzzlement. In time I realized that what seemed a lack of confidence was only curiosity, but at the beginning I knew little of this virtue, which I thought, rather, a passion of the covetous74 spirit. I believed instead that the rational spirit should not in?dulge such passion, but feed only on the Truth, which (I thought) one knows from the outset.
Boy that I was, I was first, and most deeply, struck by some clumps76 of yellowish hair that protruded77 from his ears, and by his thick blond eyebrows78. He had perhaps seen fifty springs and was therefore already very old, but his tireless body moved with an agility79 I myself often lacked. His energy seemed inexhaustible when a burst of activity overwhelmed him. But from time to time, as if his vital spirit had something of the crayfish, he moved backward in moments of inertia80, and I watched him lie for hours on my pallet in my cell, uttering barely a few monosyllables, without contracting a single muscle of his face. On those occasions a vacant, absent expression appeared in his eyes, and I would have suspected he was in the power of some vegetal sub?stance capable of producing visions if the obvious tem?perance of his life had not led me to reject this thought. I will not deny, however, that in the course of the journey, he sometimes stopped at the edge of a meadow, at the entrance to a forest, to gather some herb (always the same one, I believe): and he would then chew it with an absorbed look. He kept some of it with him, and ate it in the moments of greatest tension (and we had a number of them at the abbey!). Once, when I asked him what it was, he said laughing that a good Christian18 can sometimes learn also from the infidels, and when I asked him to let me taste it, he replied that herbs that are good for an old Franciscan are not good for a young Benedictine.
During our time together we did not have occasion to lead a very regular life: even at the abbey we remained up at night and collapsed81 wearily during the day, nor did we take part regularly in the holy offices. On our journey, however, he seldom stayed awake after compline, and his habits were frugal82. Sometimes, also at the abbey, he would spend the whole day walking in the vegetable garden, examining the plants as if they were chrysoprases or emeralds; and I saw him roaming about the treasure crypt, looking at a coffer studded with emeralds and chrysoprases as if it were a clump75 of thorn apple. At other times he would pass an entire day in the great hall of the library, leafing through manu?scripts as if seeking nothing but his own enjoyment83 (while, around us, the corpses84 of monks85, horribly murdered, were multiplying). One day I found him strolling in the flower garden without any apparent aim, as if he did not have to account to God for his works. In my order they had taught me quite a differ?ent way of expending86 my time, and I said so to him. And he answered that the beauty of the cosmos87 derives88 not only from unity60 in variety, but also from variety in unity. This seemed to me an answer dictated89 by crude common sense, but I learned subsequently that the men of his land often define things in ways in which it seems that the enlightening power of reason has scant90 function.
During our period at the abbey his hands were always covered with the dust of books, the gold of still-fresh illumination, or with yellowish substances he touched in Severinus’s infirmary. He seemed unable to think save with his hands, an attribute I considered then worthier91 of a mechanic: but even when his hands touched the most fragile things, such as certain freshly illuminated92 codices, or pages worn by time and friable93 as unleavened bread, he possessed, it seemed to me, an extraordinarily94 delicate touch, the same that he used in handling his machines. I will tell, in fact, how this strange man carried with him, in his bag, instruments that I had never seen before then, which he called his wondrous machines. Machines, he said, are an effect of art, which is nature’s ape, and they reproduce not its forms but the operation itself. He explained to me thus the wonders of the clock, the astrolabe, and the magnet. But at the beginning I feared it was witchcraft95, and I pretended to sleep on certain clear nights when he (with a strange triangle in his hand) stood watching the stars. The Franciscans I had known in Italy and in my own land were simple men, often illiterate96, and I expressed to him my amazement97 at his learning. But he said to me, smiling, that the Franciscans of his island were cast in another mold: “Roger Bacon, whom I venerate98 as my master, teaches that the divine plan will one day encompass99 the science of machines, which is natural and healthy magic. And one day it will be possible, by exploiting the power of nature, to create instruments of navigation by which ships will proceed unico homine regente, and far more rapid than those propelled by sails or oars100; and there will be self-propelled wagons101 ‘and flying apparatuses102 of such form that a man seated in them, by turning a device, can flap artificial wings, ad modum avis volantis. And tiny in?struments will lift huge weights and vehicles will allow travel on the bottom of the sea.”
When I asked him where these machines were, he told me that they had already been made in ancient times, and some even in our own time: “Except the flying instrument, which I have never seen or known anyone who has seen,. but I know of a learned man who has conceived it. And bridges can be built across rivers without columns or other support, and other unheard-?of machines are possible. But you must not worry if they do not yet exist, because that does not mean they will not exist later. And I say to you that God wishes them to be, and certainly they already are in His mind, even if my friend from Occam denies that ideas exist in such a way; and I do not say this because we can determine the divine nature but precisely103 because we cannot set any limit to it.” Nor was this the only contra?dictory proposition I heard him utter; but even now, when I am old and wiser than I was then, I have not completely understood how he could have such faith in his friend from Occam and at the same time swear by the words of Bacon, as he was accustomed to doing. It is also true that in those dark times a wise man had to believe things that were in contradiction among them?selves.
There, of Brother William I have perhaps said things without sense, as if to collect from the very beginning the disjointed impressions of him that I had then. Who he was, and what he was doing, my good reader, you will perhaps deduce better from the actions he performed in the days we spent in the abbey. Nor do I promise you an accomplished104 design, but, rather, a tale of events (those, yes) wondrous and awful.
And so, after I had come to know my master day by day, and spent the many hours of our journey in long conversations which, when appropriate, I will relate little by little, we reached the foot of the hill on which the abbey stood. And it is time for my story to ap?proach it, as we did then, and may my hand remain steady as I prepare to tell what happened.
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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amalgamated
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| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complemented
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| 有补助物的，有余格的 | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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transgressing
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| v.超越( transgress的现在分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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fomented
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| v.激起，煽动（麻烦等）( foment的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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jeopardize
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| vt.危及，损害 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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63
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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75
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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82
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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84
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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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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expending
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| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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friable
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| adj.易碎的 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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102
apparatuses
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| n.器械； 装置； 设备； 仪器 | |
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103
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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104
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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