TERCE
In which William has an instructive conversation with the abbot.
The cellarer was a stout1 man, vulgar in appearance but jolly, white-haired but still strong, small but quick. He led us to our cells in the pilgrims’ hospice. Or, rather, he led us to the cell assigned to my master, promising3 me that by the next day he would have cleared one for me also, since, though a novice4, I was their guest and therefore to be treated with all honor. For that night I could sleep in a long and wide niche5 in the wall of the cell, in which he had had some nice fresh straw prepared.
Then the monks7 brought us wine, cheese, olives, bread, and excellent raisins8, and left us to our refresh?ment. We ate and drank heartily9. My master did not share the austere10 habits of the Benedictines and did not like to eat in silence. For that matter, he spoke11 always of things so good and wise that it was as if a monk6 were reading to us the lives of the saints.
That day I could not refrain from questioning him further about the matter of the horse.
“All the same,” I said, “when you read the prints in the snow and the evidence of the branches, you did not yet know Brunellus. In a certain sense those prints spoke of all horses, or at least all horses of that breed. Mustn’t we say, then, that the book of nature speaks to us only of essences, as many distinguished12 theologians teach?”
“Not entirely13, dear Adso,” my master replied. “True, that kind of print expressed to me, if you like, the idea of ‘horse,’ the verbum mentis, and would have expressed the same to me wherever I might have found it. But the print in that place and at that hour of the day told me that at least one of all possible horses had passed that way. So I found myself halfway14 between the perception of the concept ‘horse’ and the knowledge of an individu?al horse. And in any case, what I knew of the universal horse had been given me by those traces, which were singular. I could say I was caught at that moment between the singularity of the traces and my ignorance, which assumed the quite diaphanous15 form of a univer?sal idea. If you see something from a distance, and you do not understand what it is, you will be content with defining it as a body of some dimension. When you come closer, you will then define it as an animal, even if you do not yet know whether it is a horse or an ass2. And finally, when it is still closer, you will be able to say it is a horse even if you do not yet know whether it is Brunellus or Niger. And only when you are at the proper distance will you see that it is Brunellus (or, rather, that horse and not another, however you decide to call it). And that will be full knowledge, the learning of the singular. So an hour ago I could expect all horses, but not because of the vastness of my intellect, but because of the paucity16 of my deduction17. And my intellect’s hunger was sated only when I saw the single horse that the monks were leading by the halter. Only then did I truly know that my previous reasoning, had brought me close to the truth. And so the ideas, which I was using earlier to imagine a horse I had not yet seen, were pure signs, as the hoofprints in the snow were signs of the idea of ‘horse’; and sins and the signs of signs are used only when we are lacing things.”
On other occasions I had heard him speak with great skepticism about universal ideas and with great respect about individual things; and afterward18, too, I thought this tendency came to him from his being both a Briton and a Franciscan. But that day he did not have the strength to face theological disputes, so I curled up in the space allotted19 me, wrapped myself in a blanket, and fell sound asleep.
Anyone coming in could have mistaken me for a bundle. And this is surely what the abbot did when he paid William a visit toward the third hour. So it was that I could listen, unnoticed, to their first conversation.
And so Abo arrived. He apologized for the intrusion, repeated his welcome, and said that he had to speak with William privately20, about a very serious matter.
He began by congratulating his guest on the skill demonstrated in the business of the horse, and asked how he had been able to give such confident informa?tion about an animal he had never seen. William explained to him briefly21 and with detachment the path he had followed, and the abbot complimented him highly on his acumen22. He said he would have expected nothing less from a man preceded by a reputation for great wisdom. He said he had received a letter from the abbot of Farfa that not only spoke of William’s mission for the Emperor (which they would discuss in the coming days) but also added that in England and in Italy my master had acted as inquisitor in some trials, where he had distinguished himself by his perspicacity23, along with a great humility24.
“I was very pleased to learn,” the abbot continued, “that in numerous cases you decided25 the accused was innocent. I believe, and never more than during these sad days, in the constant presence of the Evil One in human affairs”—and he looked around, imperceptibly, as if the enemy were lurking26 within those walls—“but I believe also that often the Evil One works through second causes. And I know that he can impel27 his victims to do evil in such a way that the blame falls on a righteous man, and the Evil One rejoices then as the righteous man is burned in the place of his succubus. Inquisitors often, to demonstrate their zeal28, wrest29 a confession30 from the accused at all costs, thinking that the only good inquisitor is one who concludes the trial by finding a scapegoat31. …”
“An inquisitor, too, can be impelled32 by the Devil,” William said.
“That is possible,” the abbot admitted with great circumspection33, “because the designs of the Almighty34 are inscrutable, and far be it from me to cast any shadow of suspicion on such worthy35 men. Indeed, it is as one of them that I need you today. In this abbey something has happened that requires the attention and counsel of an acute and prudent36 man such as you are. Acute in uncovering, and prudent (if necessary) in covering. If a shepherd errs37, he must be isolated38 from other shepherds, but woe39 unto us if the sheep begin to distrust shepherds.”
“I see your point,” William said. I had already had occasion to observe that when he expressed himself so promptly40 and politely he was usually concealing41, in an honest way, his dissent42 or puzzlement.
“For this reason,” the abbot continued, “I consider that any case involving the error of a shepherd can be entrusted43 only to men like you, who can distinguish not only good from evil, but also what is expedient44 from what is not. I like to think you pronounced a sentence of guilty only when ...”
“... the accused were guilty of criminal acts, of poisoning, of the corruption45 of innocent youths, or other abominations my mouth dares not utter …”
“… that you pronounced sentence only when,” the abbot continued, not heeding46 the interruption, “the presence of the Devil was so evident to all eyes that it was impossible to act otherwise without the clemency’s being more scandalous than the crime itself.”
“When I found someone guilty,” William explained, “he had really committed crimes of such gravity that in all conscience I could hand him over to the secular47 arm.”
The abbot was bewildered for a moment. “Why,” he asked, “do you insist on speaking of criminal acts with?out referring to their diabolical48 cause?”
“Because reasoning about causes and effects is a very difficult thing, and I believe the only judge of that can be God. We are already hard put to establish a relation?ship between such an obvious effect as a charred49 tree and the lightning bolt that set fire to it, so to trace sometimes endless chains of causes and effects seems to me as foolish as trying to build a tower that will touch the sky.
“Let us suppose a man has been killed by poisoning. This is a given fact. It is possible for me to imagine, in the face of certain undeniable signs, that the poisoner is a second man. On such simple chains of causes my mind can act with a certain confidence in its power. But how can I complicate50 the chain, imagining that, to cause the evil deed, there was yet another intervention51, not human this time, but diabolical? I do not say it is impossible: the Devil, like your horse Brunellus, also indicates his passage through clear signs. But why must I hunt for these proofs? Is it not already enough for me to know that the guilty party is that man and for me to turn him over to the secular arm? In any case his punishment will be death, God forgive him.”
“But I have heard that in a trial held at Kilkenny three years ago, in which certain persons were accused of having committed loathsome53 crimes, you did not deny diabolical intervention, once the guilty parties had been identified.”
“Nor did I affirm it openly, in so many words. I did not deny it, true. Who am I to express judgments54 on the plots of the Evil One, especially,” he added, and seemed to want to insist on this reason, “in cases where those who had initiated55 the inquisition, the bishop56, the city magistrates57, and the whole populace, perhaps the. accused themselves, truly wanted to feel the presence of the Devil? There, perhaps the only real proof of the presence of the Devil was the intensity58 with which everyone at that moment desired to know he was at work. …”
“Are you telling me, then,” the abbot said in a wor?ried tone, “that in many trials the Devil does not act only within the guilty one but perhaps and above all in the judges?”
“Could I make such a statement?” William asked, and I noticed that the question was formulated59 in such a way that the abbot was unable to affirm that he could; so William took advantage of his silence to change the direction of their dialogue. “But these, after all, are remote things. I have abandoned that noble activity and if I did so, it was because the Lord wished it ...”
“No doubt,” the abbot admitted.
“... and now,” William continued, “I concern myself with other delicate questions. And I would like to deal with the one that distresses61 you, if you will speak to me about it.”
I felt the abbot was pleased to be able to conclude that discussion and return to his problem. He then began telling, with very careful choice of words and with long paraphrases62, about an unusual event that had taken place a few days before and had left in its wake great distress60 among the monks. He was speaking of the matter with William, he said, because, since William had great knowledge both of the human spirit and of the wiles63 of the Evil One, Abo hoped his guest would be able to devote a part of his valuable time to shedding light on a painful enigma64. What had happened, then, was this: Adelmo of Otranto, a monk still young though already famous as a master illuminator65, who had been decorating the manuscripts of the library with the most beautiful images, had been found one morning by a goatherd at the bottom of the cliff below the Aedificium. Since he had been seen by other monks in choir66 during compline but had not reappeared at matins, he had probably fallen there during the darkest hours of the night. The night of a great snowstorm, in which flakes67 as sharp as blades fell, almost like hail, driven by a furious south wind. Soaked by that snow, which had first melted and then frozen into shards68 of ice, the body had been discovered at the foot of the sheer drop, torn by the rocks it had struck on the way down. Poor, fragile, mortal thing, God have mercy on him. Thanks to the battering69 the body had suffered in its broken fall, determining from which precise spot it had fallen was not easy: certainly from one of the windows that opened in rows on the three stories on the three sides of the tower exposed to the abyss.
“Where have you buried the poor body?” William asked.
“In the cemetery70, naturally,” the abbot replied. “Perhaps you noticed it: it lies between the north side of the church, the Aedificium, and the vegetable garden.”
“I see,” William said, “and I see that your problem is the following. If that unhappy youth, God forbid, com?mitted suicide, the next day you would have found one of those windows open, whereas you found them all closed, and with no sign of water at the foot of any of them.”
The abbot, as I have said, was a man of great and diplomatic composure, but this time he made a move?ment of surprise that robbed him totally of that deco?rum suited to a grave and magnanimous person, as Aristotle has it. “Who told you?”
“You told me,” William said. “If the window had been open, you would immediately have thought he had thrown himself out of it. From what I could tell from the outside, they are large windows of opaque71 glass, and windows of that sort are not usually placed, in buildings of this size, at a man’s height. So even if a window had been open, it would have been impossible for the unfortunate man to lean out and lose his balance; thus suicide would have been the only conceiv?able explanation. In which case you would not have allowed him to be buried in consecrated72 ground. But since you gave him Christian73 burial, the windows must have been closed. And if they were closed—for I have never encountered, not even in witchcraft74 trials, a dead man whom God or the Devil allowed to climb up from the abyss to erase75 the evidence of his misdeed—then obviously the presumed suicide was, on the contrary, pushed, either by human hand or by diabolical force. And you are wondering who was capable, I will not say of pushing him into the abyss, but of hoisting76 him to the sill; and you are distressed77 because an evil force, whether natural or supernatural, is at work in the abbey.”
“That is it ...” the abbot said, and it was not clear whether he was confirming William’s words or accepting the reasons William had so admirably and reasonably expounded78. “But how can you know there was no water at the foot of any window?”
“Because you told me a south wind was blowing, and the water could not be driven against windows that open to the east.”
“They had not told me enough about your talents,” the abbot said. “And you are right, there was no water, and now I know why. It was all as you say. And now you understand my anxiety. It would already be serious enough if one of my monks had stained his soul with the hateful sin of suicide. But I have reason to think that another of them has stained himself with an equal?ly terrible sin. And if that were all ...”
“In the first place, why one of the monks? In the abbey there are many other persons, grooms79, goatherds, servants. ...”
“To be sure, the abbey is small but rich, the abbot agreed smugly. “One hundred fifty servants for sixty monks. But everything happened in the Aedificium. There, as perhaps you already know, although, on the ground floor are the kitchen and the refectory, on the two upper floors are the scriptorium and the library. After the evening meal the Aedif?cium is locked, and a very strict rule forbids anyone to enter.” He guessed William’s next question and added at once, though clearly with reluctance80, “Including, naturally, the monks, but …”
“But?”
“But I reject absolutely—absolutely, you understand—?the possibility that a servant would have had the cour?age to enter there at night.” There was a kind of defiant81 smile in his eyes, albeit82 brief as a flash, or a falling star. “Let us say they would have been afraid, you know ... sometimes orders given to the simple?minded have to be reinforced with a threat, a sugges?tion that something terrible will happen to the disobedi?ent, perforce something supernatural. A monk, on the contrary ...”
“I understand.”
“Furthermore, a monk could have other reasons for venturing into a forbidden place. I mean reasons that are ... reasonable, even if contrary to the rule. …”
William noticed the abbot’s uneasiness and asked a question perhaps intended to change the subject, though it produced an even greater uneasiness.
“Speaking of a possible murder, you said, ‘And if that were all.’ What did you mean?”
“Did I say that? Well, no one commits murder with?out a reason, however perverse83. And I tremble to think of the perversity84 of the reasons that could have driven a monk to kill a brother monk. There. That is it.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else that I can say to you.”
“You mean that there is nothing else you have the power to say?”
“Please, Brother William, Brother William,” and the abbot underlined “Brother” both times.
William blushed violently and remarked, “Eris sacerdos in aeternum.”
“Thank you,” the abbot said.
O Lord God, what a terrible mystery my imprudent superiors were broaching85 at that moment, the one driven by anxiety and the other by curiosity. Because, a novice approaching the mysteries of the holy priest?hood86 of God, humble87 youth that I was, I, too, under?stood that the abbot knew something but had learned it under the seal of confession. He must have heard from someone’s lips a sinful detail that could have a bearing on the tragic88 end of Adelmo. Perhaps for this reason he was begging Brother William to uncover a secret he himself suspected, though he was unable to reveal to anyone—and he hoped that my master, with the powers of his intellect, would cast light on—what he, the abbot, had to shroud89 in shadows because of the sublime90 law of charity.
“Very well,” William said then, “may I question the monks?”
“You may.”
“May I move freely about the abbey?”
“I grant you that power.”
“Will you assign me this mission coram monachis?”
“This very evening.”
“I shall begin, however, today, before the monks know what you have charged me to do. Besides, I already had a great desire—not the least reason for my sojourn91 here—to visit your library, which is spoken of with admiration92 in all the abbeys of Christendom.”
The abbot rose, almost starting, with a very tense face. “You can move freely through the whole abbey, as I have said. But not, to be sure, on the top floor of the Aedificium, the library.”
“Why not?”
“I would have explained to you before, but I thought you knew. You see, our library is not like others. …”
“I know it has more books than any other Christian library. I know that in comparison with your cases, those of Bobbio or Pomposa, of Cluny or Fleury, seem the room of a boy barely being introduced to the abacus93. I know that the six thousand codices that were the boast of Novalesa a hundred or more years ago are few compared to yours, and perhaps many of those are now here. I know your abbey is the only light that Christianity can oppose to the thirty-six libraries of Baghdad, to the ten thousand codices of the Vizir Ibn al-Alkami, that the number of your Bibles equals the two thousand four hundred Korans that are the pride of Cairo, and that the reality of your cases is luminous94 evidence against the proud legend of the infidels who years ago claimed (intimates as they are of the Prince of Falsehood) the library of Tripoli was rich in six million volumes and inhabited by eighty thousand com?mentators and two hundred scribes.”
“You are right, heaven be praised.”
“I know that many of the monks living in your midst come from other abbeys scattered95 all over the world. Some stay here a short time, to copy manuscripts to be found nowhere else and to carry them back then to their own house, not without having brought you in exchange some other unavailable manuscript that you will copy and add to your treasure; and others stay for a very long time, occasionally remaining here till death, because only here can they find the works that enlight?en their research. And so you have among you Germans, Dacians, Spaniards, Frenchmen, Greeks. I know that the Emperor Frederick, many and many years ago, asked you to compile for him a book of the prophecies of Merlin and then to translate it into Arabic, to be sent as a gift to the Sultan of Egypt. I know, finally, that such a glorious abbey as Murbach in these very sad times no longer has a single scribe, that at St. Gall96 only a few monks are left who know how to write, that now in the cities corporations and guilds97 arise, made up of laymen98 who work for the universities, and only your abbey day after day renews, or—what am I saying?—it exalts99 to ever greater heights the glories of your order. …”
“Monasterium sine libris,” the abbot recited, pensively100, “est sicut civitas sine opibus, castrum sine numeris, coquina sine suppellectili, mensa sine cibis, hortus sine herbis, pratum sine floribus, arbor101 sine fouis. … And our order, growing up under the double command of work and prayer, was light to the whole known world, depository of knowledge, salvation102 of an ancient learn?ing that threatened to disappear in fires, sacks, earth?quakes, forge of new writing and increase of the ancient. ... Oh, as you well know, we live now in very dark times, and I blush to tell you that not many years ago the Council of Vienne had to reaffirm that every monk is under obligation to take orders. ... How many of our abbeys, which two hundred years ago were resplendent with grandeur103 and sanctity, are now the refuge of the slothful? The order is still powerful, but the stink104 of the cities is encroaching upon our holy places, the people of God are now inclined to com?merce and wars of faction105; down below in the great settlements, where the spirit of sanctity can find no lodging106, not only do they speak (of laymen, nothing else could be expected) in the vulgar tongue, but they are already writing in it, though none of these volumes will ever come within our walls—fomenter of heresies107 as those volumes inevitably108 become! Because of mankind’s sins the world is teetering on the brink109 of the abyss, permeated110 by the very abyss that the abyss invokes111. And tomorrow, as Honorius would have it, men’s bodies will be smaller than ours, just as ours are smaller than those of the ancients. Mundus senescit. If God has now given our order a mission, it is to oppose this race to the abyss, by preserving, repeating, and defending the treasure of wisdom our fathers entrusted to us. Divine Providence112 has ordered that the universal government, which at the beginning of the world was in the East, should gradually, as the time was nearing fulfillment, move westward113 to warn us that the end of the world is approaching, because the course of events has already reached the confines of the universe. But until the millennium114 occurs definitively115, until the triumph, how?ever brief, of the foul116 beast that is the Antichrist, it is up to us to defend the treasure of the Christian world, and the very word of God, as he dictated117 it to the prophets and to the apostles, as the fathers repeated it without changing a syllable118, as the schools have tried to gloss119 it, even if today in the schools themselves the serpent of pride, envy, folly120 is nesting. In this sunset we are still torches and light, high on the horizon. And as long as these walls stand, we shall be the custodians121 of the divine Word.”
“Amen,” William said in a devout122 tone. “But what does this have to do with the fact that the library may not be visited?”
“You see, Brother William,” the abbot said, “to achieve the immense and holy task that enriches those walls”—and he nodded toward the bulk of the Aedificium; which could be glimpsed from the cell’s windows, tower?ing above the abbatial church itself—“devout men have toiled123 for centuries, observing iron rules. The library was laid out on a plan which has remained obscure to all over the centuries, and which none of the monks is called upon to know. Only the librarian has received the secret, from the librarian who preceded him, and he communicates it, while still alive, to the assistant librarian, so that death will not take him by surprise and rob the community of that knowledge. And the secret seals the lips of both men. Only the librarian has, in addition to that knowledge, the right to move through the labyrinth124 of the books, he alone knows where to find them and where to replace them, he alone is responsible for their safekeeping. The other monks work in the scriptorium and may know the list of the volumes that the library houses. But a list of titles often tells very little; only the librarian knows, from the collocation of the volume, from its degree of inaccessibility125, what secrets, what truths or falsehoods, the volume contains. Only he decides how, when, and whether to give it to the monk who requests it; sometimes he first consults me. Because not all truths are for all ears, not all falsehoods can be recognized as such by a pious126 soul; and the monks, finally, are in the scriptorium to carry out a precise task, which requires them to read certain volumes and not others, and not to pursue every foolish curiosity that seizes them, whether through weakness of intellect or through pride or through dia?bolical prompting.”
“So in the library there are also books containing falsehoods. ...”
“Monsters exist because they are part of the divine plan, and in the horrible features of those same mon?sters the power of the Creator is revealed. And by divine plan, too, there exist also books by wizards, the cabalas of the Jews, the fables127 of pagan poets, the lies of the infidels. It was the firm and holy conviction of those who founded the abbey and sustained it over the centuries that even in books of falsehood, to the eyes of the sage52 reader, a pale reflection of the divine wisdom can shine. And therefore the library is a vessel128 of these, too. But for this very reason, you understand, it cannot be visited by just anyone. And furthermore,” the abbot added, as if to apologize for the weakness of this last argument, “a book is a fragile creature, it suffers the wear of time, it fears rodents129, the elements, clumsy hands. If for a hundred and a hundred years everyone had been able freely to handle our codices, the majority of them would no longer exist. So the librarian protects them not only against mankind but also against nature, and devotes his life to this war with the forces of oblivion, the enemy of truth.”
“And so no one, except for two people, enters the top floor of the Aedificium. ...”
The abbot smiled. “No one should. No one can. No one, even if he wished, would succeed. The library defends itself, immeasurable as the truth it houses, deceitful as the falsehood it preserves. A spiritual labyrinth, it is also a terrestrial labyrinth. You might enter and you might not emerge. And having said this, I would like you to conform to the rules of the abbey.”
“But you have not dismissed the possibility that Adelmo fell from one of the windows of the library. And how can I study his death if I do not see the place where the story of his death may have begun?”
“Brother William,” the abbot said, in a conciliatory tone; “a man who described my horse Brunellus with?out seeing him, and the death of Adelmo though knowing virtually nothing of it, will have no difficulty studying places to which he does not have access.”
William bowed. “You are wise also when you are severe. It shall be as you wish.”
“If ever I were wise, it would be because I know how to be severe,” the abbot answered.
“One last thing,” William asked. “Ubertino?”
“He is here. He is expecting you. You will find him in church.”
“When?”
“Always,” the abbot said, and smiled. “You must know that, although very learned, he is not a man to appreci?ate the library. He considers it a secular lure130. ... For the most part he stays in church, meditating131, praying. …”
“Is he old?” William asked, hesitating.
“How long has it been since you saw him?”
“Many years.”
“He is weary. Very detached from the things of this world. He is sixty-eight. But I believe he still possesses the spirit of his youth.”
“I will seek him out at once. Thank you.”
The abbot asked him whether he wanted to join the community for the midday refection, after sext. William said he had only just eaten—very well, too—and he would prefer to see Ubertino at once. The abbot took his leave.
He was going out of the cell when from the court?yard a heartrending cry arose, like that of someone mortally wounded, followed by other, equally horrible cries. “What is that?” William asked, disconcerted. “Nothing,” the abbot answered, smiling. “At this time of year they slaughter132 the pigs. A job for the swineherds. This is not the blood that should concern you.”
He went out, and he did a disservice to his reputation as a clever man. Because the next morning ... But curb133 your impatience134, garrulous135 tongue of mine. For on the day of which I am telling, and before its night, many more things happened that it would be best to narrate136.
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promising
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novice
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niche
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monk
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monks
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raisins
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heartily
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austere
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spoke
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distinguished
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entirely
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halfway
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diaphanous
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paucity
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deduction
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afterward
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allotted
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privately
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briefly
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acumen
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23
perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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24
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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25
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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26
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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27
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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28
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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29
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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30
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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31
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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32
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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34
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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35
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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36
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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37
errs
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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39
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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40
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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41
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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42
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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43
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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45
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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46
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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47
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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48
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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49
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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50
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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51
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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52
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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53
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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54
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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55
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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56
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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57
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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58
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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59
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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60
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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61
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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62
paraphrases
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| n.释义，意译( paraphrase的名词复数 )v.释义，意译( paraphrase的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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64
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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65
illuminator
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| n.照明者 | |
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66
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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67
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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68
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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69
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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70
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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71
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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72
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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73
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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74
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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75
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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76
hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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77
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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78
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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80
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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81
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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82
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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83
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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84
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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85
broaching
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| n.拉削；推削；铰孔；扩孔v.谈起( broach的现在分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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86
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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87
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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88
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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89
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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90
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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91
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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92
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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93
abacus
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| n.算盘 | |
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94
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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95
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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96
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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97
guilds
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| 行会，同业公会，协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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98
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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99
exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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100
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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101
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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102
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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103
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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104
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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105
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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106
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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107
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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108
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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109
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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110
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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111
invokes
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| v.援引( invoke的第三人称单数 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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112
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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113
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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114
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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115
definitively
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| adv.决定性地，最后地 | |
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116
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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117
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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118
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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119
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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120
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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121
custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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122
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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123
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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124
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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125
inaccessibility
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| n. 难接近, 难达到, 难达成 | |
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126
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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127
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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128
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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129
rodents
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| n.啮齿目动物( rodent的名词复数 ) | |
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130
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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131
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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132
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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133
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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134
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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135
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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136
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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