TERCE
In which the visitors witness a brawl1 among vulgar persons, Aymaro of Alessandria makes some allusions2, and Adso meditates3 on saintliness and on the dung of the Devil. Subsequently William and Adso go back to the scriptorium, William sees something interesting, has a third conversation on the licitness of laughter, but in the end is unable to look where he wishes.
Before climbing up to the scriptorium, we stopped by the kitchen to refresh ourselves, for we had partaken of nothing since rising. I drank a bowl of warm milk and was heartened at once. The great south fireplace was already blazing like a forge while the day’s bread baked in the oven. Two herdsmen were setting down the body of a freshly slaughtered6 sheep. Among the cooks I saw Salvatore, who smiled at me with his wolf’s mouth. And I saw that he was taking from a table a scrap8 of chicken left over from the night before and stealthily passing it to the herdsmen, who hid the food in their sheepskin jerkins with pleased grins. But the chief cook noticed and scolded Salvatore. “Cellarer, cellarer,” he said, “u must look after the goods of the abbey, not squander10 them!”
“Filii Dei they are,” said Salvatore, “Jesus has said that you do for him what you do for one of these pueri!”
“Filthy Fraticello, fart of a Minorite!” the cook shouted at him. “You’re not among those louse-bitten friars of yours any morel The abbot’s charity will see to the feeding of the children of God!”
Salvatore’s face turned grim and he swung around, in a rage: “I am not a Minorite friar! I am a monk11 Sancti Benedicti! Merdre à toy, Bogomil de merdre!”
“Call Bogomil that whore you screw at night, with your heretic cock, you pig!” the cook cried.
Salvatore thrust the herdsmen through the door and, passing close to us, looked at us, worried. “Brother,” he said to William, “you defend the order that is not mine; tell him the filii de Francesco non sunt hereticos!” Then he whispered into an ear, “Ille menteur, puah!” and he spat12 on the ground.
The cook came over and roughly pushed him out, shutting the door after him. “Brother,” he said to William with respect, “I was not speaking ill of your order or of the most holy men who belong to it. I was speaking to that false Minorite and false Benedictine who is neither flesh nor fowl13.”
“I know where he came from,” William said, concili?atory. “But now he is a monk as you are and you owe him fraternal respect.”
“But he sticks his nose in where he has no business only because he is under the cellarer’s protection and believes himself the cellarer. He uses the abbey as if it belonged to him, day and night.”
“How at night?” William asked. The cook made a gesture as if to say he was unwilling14 to speak of things that were not virtuous15. William questioned him no further and finished drinking his milk.
My curiosity was becoming more and more aroused. The meeting with Ubertino, the muttering about the past of Salvatore and his cellarer, the more and more frequent references to the Fraticelli and the heretic Minorites I had heard in those days, my master’s reluc?tance to speak to me about Fra Dolcino ... A series of images began to return to my mind. For example, in the course of our journey we had at least twice come upon a procession of flagellants. Once the local popu?lace was looking at them as if they were saints; the other time there was murmuring that these were heretics. And yet they were the same people. They walked in procession two by two, through the streets of the city, only their pudenda covered, as they had gone beyond any sense of shame. Each carried a leather lash17 in his hand and hit himself on the shoulders till blood came; and they were shedding abundant tears as if they saw with their own eyes the Passion of the Saviour18; in a mournful chant they implored19 the Lord’s mercy and the intercession of the Mother of God. Not only during the day but also at night, with lighted tapers20, in the harsh winter, they went in a great throng21 from church to church, prostrating22 themselves humbly23 before the altars, preceded by priests with candles and banners, and they were not only men and women of the populace, but also noble ladies and merchants. ... And then great acts of penance24 were to be seen: those who had stolen gave back their loot, others confessed their crimes. ...
But William had watched them coldly and had said to me this was not true penitence25. He spoke26 then much as he had only a short while ago, this very morning: the period of the great penitential cleansing27 was finished, and these were the ways preachers now organized the devotion of the mobs, precisely28 so that they would not succumb29 to a desire for penance that—in this case—really was heretical and frightened all. But I was unable to understand the difference, if there actually was any. It seemed to me that the difference did not lie in the actions of the one or the other, but in the church’s attitude when she judged this act or that.
I remembered the discussion with Ubertino. William had undoubtedly30 been insinuating31, had tried to say to him, that there was little difference between his mystic (and orthodox) faith and the distorted faith of the heretics. Ubertino had taken offense32, as one who saw the difference clearly. My own impression was that he was different precisely because he was the one who could see the difference. William had renounced33 the duties of inquisitor because he could no longer see it. For this reason he was unable to speak to me of that mysterious Fra Dolcino. But then, obviously (I said to myself), William has lost the assistance of the Lord, who not only teaches how to see the difference, but also invests his elect with this capacity for discrimination. Ubertino and Clare of Montefalco (who was, however, surrounded by sinners) had remained saints precisely because they knew how to discriminate34. This and only this is sanctity.
But why did William not know how to discriminate? He was such an acute man, and as far as the facts of nature went, he could perceive the slightest discrepancy35 or the slightest kinship between things. ...
I was immersed in these thoughts, and William was finishing his milk, when we heard someone greet us. It was Aymaro of Alessandria, whom we had met in the scriptorium, and who had struck me by the expression of his face, a perpetual sneer36, as if he could never reconcile himself to the fatuousness37 of all human beings and yet did not attach great importance to this cosmic tragedy. “Well, Brother William, have you already be?come accustomed to this den16 of madmen?”
“It seems to me a place of men admirable in sanctity and learning,” William said cautiously.
“It was. When abbots acted as abbots and librarians as librarians. Now you have seen, up there”—and he nodded toward the floor above—“that half-dead Ger?man with a blind man’s eyes, listening devoutly38 to the ravings of that blind Spaniard with a dead man’s eyes; it would seem as though the Antichrist were to arrive every morning. They scrape their parchments, but few new books come in. ... We are up here, and down below in the city they act. Once our abbeys ruled the world. Today you see the situation: the Emperor uses us, sending his friends here to meet his enemies (I know something of your mission, monks39 talk and talk, they have nothing else to do); but if he wants to control the affairs of this country, he remains40 in the city. We are busy gathering41 grain and raising fowl, and down there they trade lengths of silk for pieces of linen42, and pieces of linen for sacks of spices, and all of them for good money. We guard our treasure, but down there they pile up treasures. And also books. More beautiful than ours, too.”
“In the world many new things are happening, to be sure. But why do you think the abbot is to blame?”
“Because he has handed the library over to foreign?ers and directs the abbey like a citadel43 erected44 to defend the library. A Benedictine abbey in this Italian region should be a place where Italians decide Italian questions. What are the Italians doing today, when they no longer have even a pope? They are trafficking, and manufacturing, and they are richer than the King of France. So, then, let us do the same; since we know how to make beautiful books, we should make them for the universities and concern ourselves with what is happen?ing down in the valley—I do not mean with the Emperor, with all due respect for your mission, Brother William, but with what the Bolognese or the Florentines are doing. From here we could control the route of pil?grims and merchants who go from Italy to Provence and vice45 versa. We should open the library to texts in the vernacular46, and those who no longer write in Latin will also come up here. But instead we are controlled by a group of foreigners who continue to manage the library as if the good Odo of Cluny were still abbot. ...”
“But your abbot is Italian,” William said.
“The abbot here counts for nothing,” Aymaro said, still sneering47. “In the place of his head he has a bookcase. Wormeaten. To spite the Pope he allows the abbey to be invaded by Fraticelli. … I mean the hereti?cal ones, Brother, those who have abandoned your most holy order ... and to please the Emperor he in?vites monks from all the monasteries48 of the North, as if we did not have fine copyists and men who know Greek and Arabic in our country, and as if in Florence or Pisa there were not sons of merchants, rich and generous, who would gladly enter the order, if the order offered the possibility of enhancing their fathers’ prestige and power. But here indulgence in secular49 matters is recog?nized only when the Germans are allowed to ... O good Lord, strike my tongue, for I am about to say improper50 things!”
“Do improper things take place in the abbey?” William asked absently, pouring himself a bit more milk.
“A monk is also human,” Aymaro declared. Then he added, “But here they are less human than elsewhere. And what I have said: remember that I did not say it.”
“Very interesting,” William said. “And are these your personal opinions, or are there many who think as you do?”
“Many, many. Many who now mourn the loss of poor Adelmo, but if another had fallen into the abyss, some?one who moves about the library more than he should, they would not have been displeased51.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have talked too much. Here we talk too much, as you must have noticed already. Here, on the one hand, nobody respects silence any more. On the other, it is respected too much. Here, instead of talking or remaining silent, we should act. In the golden age of our order, if an abbot did not have the temper of an abbot, a nice goblet52 of poisoned wine would make way for a successor. I have said these things to you, Brother William, obvi?ously not to gossip about the abbot or other brothers. God save me, fortunately I do not have the nasty habit of gossiping. But I would be displeased if the abbot had asked you to investigate me or some others like Pacificus of Tivoli or Peter of Sant’Albano. We have no say in the affairs of the library. But we would like to have a bit of say. So uncover this nest of serpents, you who have burned so many heretics.”
“I have never burned anyone,” William replied sharply.
“It was just a figure of speech,” Aymaro confessed with a broad smile. “Good hunting, Brother William, but be careful at night.”
“Why not during! the day?”
“Because during the day here the body is tended with good herbs, but at night the mind falls ill with bad herbs. Do not believe that Adelmo was pushed into the abyss by someone’s hands or that someone’s hands put Venantius in the blood. Here someone does not want the monks to decide for themselves where to go, what to do, and what to read. And the powers of hell are employed, or the powers of the necromancers, friends of hell, to derange53 the minds of the curious. ...”
“Are you speaking of the father herbalist?”
“Severinus of Sankt Wendel is a good person. Of course, he is also a German, as Malachi is a German. ...” And, having shown once again his aversion to gossip, Aymaro went up to work.
“What did he want to tell us?” I asked.
“Everything and nothing. An abbey is always a place where monks are in conflict among themselves to gain control of the community. At Melk, too, but perhaps as a novice54 you were not able to realize it. But in your country, gaining control of an abbey means winning a position in which you deal directly with the Emperor. In this country, on the other hand, the situation is different; the Emperor is far away, even when he comes all the way down to Rome. There is no court, not even the papal court now. There are the cities, as you will have seen.”
“Certainly, and I was impressed by them. A city in Italy is something different from one in my land. ... It is not only a place to live, it is also a place to decide, the people are always in the square, the city magistrates56 count far more than the Emperor or the Pope. The cities are like ... so many kingdoms. ...”
“And the kings are the merchants. And their weapon is money. Money, in Italy, has a different function from what it has in your country, or in mine. Money circu?lates everywhere, but much of life elsewhere is still dominated and regulated by the bartering57 of goods, chickens or sheaves of wheat, or a scythe58, or a wagon59, and money serves only to procure60 these goods. In the Italian city, on the contrary, you must have noticed that goods serve to procure money. And even priests, bishops62, even religious orders have to take money into account. This is why, naturally, rebellion against power takes the form of a call to poverty. The rebels against power are those denied any connection with money, and so every call to poverty provokes great tension and argument, and the whole city, from bishop61 to magistrate55, considers a personal enemy the one who preaches poverty too much. The inquisitors smell the stink63 of the Devil where someone has reacted to the stink of the Devil’s dung. And now you can understand also what Aymaro is thinking about. A Benedictine abbey, in the golden period of the order, was the place from which shep?herds5 controlled the flock of the faithful. Aymaro wants a return to the tradition. Only the life of the flock has changed, and the abbey can return to the tradition (to its glory, to its former power) only if it accepts the new ways of the flock, becoming different itself. And since today the flock here is dominated, not with weapons or the splendor64 of ritual, but with the control of money, Aymaro wants the whole fabric65 of the abbey, and the library itself, to become a workshop, a factory for making money.”
“And what does this have to do with the crimes, or the crime?”
“I don’t know yet. But now I would like to go upstairs. Come.”
The monks were already at work. Silence reigned66 in the scriptorium, but it was not the silence that comes from the industrious67 peace of all hearts. Berengar, who had preceded us by only a short time, received us with embarrassment68. The other monks looked up from their work. They knew we were there to discover something about Venantius, and the very direction of their gaze drew our attention to a vacant desk, under a window that opened onto the interior, the central octagon.
Although it was a very cold day, the temperature in the scriptorium was rather mild. It was not by chance that it had been situated69 above the kitchen, whence came adequate heat, especially because the flues of the two ovens below passed inside the columns supporting the two circular staircases in the west and south towers. As for the north tower, on the opposite side of the great room, it had no stair, but a big fireplace that burned and spread a happy warmth. Moreover, the floor had been covered with straw, which muffled70 our footsteps. In other words, the least-heated corner was that of the east tower, and in fact I noticed that, although there were few places left vacant, given the number of monks at work, all of the monks tended to avoid the desks located in that part. When I later realized that the circular staircase of the east tower was the only one that led, not only down to the refectory, but also up to the library, I asked myself whether a shrewd calculation had not regulated the heating of the room so that the monks would be discouraged from investigating that area and the librarian could more easily control the access to the library.
Poor Venantius’s desk had its back to the great fireplace, and it was probably one of the most desired. At that time I had passed very little of my life in a scriptorium, but I spent a great deal of it subsequently and I know what torment72 it is for the scribe, the rubricator, the scholar to spend the long winter hours at his desk, his fingers numb71 around the stylus (when even in a normal temperature, after six hours of writing, the fingers are seized by the terrible monk’s cramp73 and the thumb aches as if it had been trodden on). And this explains why we often find in the margins74 of a manuscript phrases left by the scribe as testimony75 to his suffering (and his impatience), such as “Thank God it will soon be dark,” or “Oh, if I had a good glass of wine,” or also “Today it is cold, the light is dim, this vellum is hairy, something is wrong.” As an ancient proverb says, three fingers hold the pen, but the whole body works. And aches.
But I was telling about Venantius’s desk. It was rather small, like the others set around the octagonal courtyard, since they were meant for scholars, whereas the larger ones under the windows of the outer walls were meant for illuminators and copyists. Venantius also worked with a lectern, because he probably consulted manuscripts on loan to the abbey, of which he made a copy. Under the desk was a low set of shelves piled with unbound sheets, and since they were all in Latin, I deduced they were his most recent translations. They were written hastily and did not represent the pages of a book, for they had yet to be entrusted77 to a copyist and an illuminator76. For this reason they were difficult to read. Among the pages were a few books, in Greek. Another Greek book was open on the lectern, the work on which Venantius had been exercising his skill as translator in the past days. At that time I knew no Greek, but my master read the title and said this was by a certain Lucian and was the story of a man turned into an ass9. I recalled then a similar fable78 by Apuleius, which, as a rule, novices79 were strongly advised against reading.
“Why was Venantius making this translation?” William asked Berengar, who was at our side.
“The abbey was asked to do it by the lord of Milan, and the abbey will gain from it a preferential right to the wine production of some farms to the east of here.” Berengar pointed80 with his hand toward the distance. But he promptly81 added, “Not that the abbey performs venal82 tasks for laymen83. But the lord who has given us this commission went to great pains to have this precious Greek manuscript lent us by the Doge of Venice, who received it from the Emperor of Byzantium, and when Venantius had finished his work, we would have made two copies, one for the lord of Milan and one for our library.”
“Which therefore does not disdain84 to add pagan fables85 to its collection,” William said.
“The library is testimony to truth and to error,” a voice then said behind us. It was Jorge. Once again I was amazed (but I was to be amazed often in the days that followed) by the old man’s way of suddenly, unexpectedly appearing, as if we did not see him and he did see us. I wondered also why on earth a blind man was in the scriptorium, but I realized later that Jorge was omnipresent in all corners of the abbey. And often he was in the scriptorium, seated on a stool by the fireplace, and he seemed to follow everything going on in the room. Once I heard him ask from his place, in a loud voice, “Who is going upstairs?” and he turned to Malachi, who was going toward the library, his steps silenced by the straw. The monks all held him in high esteem86 and often had recourse to him, reading him passages difficult to understand, consulting him for a gloss88, or asking counsel on how to depict89 an animal or a saint. And he would look into the void with his spent eyes, as if staring at pages vivid in his memory, and he would answer that false prophets are dressed like bish?ops and frogs come from their mouths, or would say what stones were to adorn90 the walls of the heavenly Jerusalem, or that the Arimaspi should be depicted91 on maps near the land of Prester John—urging that their monstrosity not be made excessively seductive, for it sufficed to portray92 them as emblems93, recognizable, but not desirable, or repellent to the point of laughter.
Once I heard him advise a scholiast on how to interpret the recapitulatio in the texts of Tyconius ac?cording to the thought of Saint Augustine, so that the Donatist heresy94 could be avoided. Another time I heard him give advice on how, in making commentary, to distinguish heretics from schismatics. Or again, he told a puzzled scholar what book to seek in the library catalogue, and more or less on what page he would find it listed, assuring him that the librarian would certainly give it to him because it was a work inspired by God. Finally, on another occasion I heard him say that such-and-such a book should not be sought because, though it did indeed exist in the catalogue, it had been ruined by mice fifty years earlier, and by now it would crumble95 to powder in the fingers of anyone who touched it. He was, in other words, the library’s memory and the soul of the scriptorium. At times he admonished96 monks he heard chatting among themselves: “Hurry, and leave testimony to the truth, for the time is at hand!” He was referring to the coming of the Anti?christ.
“The library is testimony to truth and to error,” Jorge said.
“Undoubtedly Apuleius and Lucian were reputed to be magicians,” William said. “But this fable, beneath the veil of its fictions, contains also a good moral, for it teaches how we pay for our errors, and, furthermore, I believe that the story of the man transformed into an ass refers to the metamorphosis of the soul that falls into sin.”
“That may be,” Jorge said.
“But now I understand why, during that conversation of which I was told yesterday, Venantius was so interest?ed in the problems of comedy; in fact, fables of this sort can also be considered kin7 to the comedies of the ancients. Both tell not of men who really existed, as tragedies do; on the contrary, as Isidore says, they are fictions: ‘fabulas poetae a fando nominaverunt, quia non sunt res factae sed tantum loquendo fictae. …’ ”
At first I could not understand why William had embarked97 on this learned discussion, and with a man who seemed to dislike such subjects, but Jorge’s reply told me how subtle my master had been.
“That day we were not discussing comedies, but only the licitness of laughter,” Jorge said grimly. I remem?bered very well that when Venantius had referred to that discussion, only the day before, Jorge had claimed not to remember it.
“Ah,” William said casually98, “I thought you had spok?en of poets’ lies and shrewd riddles99. ...”
“We talked about laughter,” Jorge said sharply. “The comedies were written by the pagans to move spectators to laughter, and they acted wrongly. Our Lord Jesus never told comedies or fables, but only clear parables100 which allegorically instruct us on how to win paradise, and so be it.”
“I wonder,” William said, “why you are so opposed to the idea that Jesus may have laughed. I believe laughter is a good medicine, like baths, to treat humors and the other afflictions of the body, melancholy101 in particular.”
“Baths are a good thing,” Jorge said, “and Aquinas himself advises them for dispelling102 sadness, which can be a bad passion when it is not addressed to an evil that can be dispelled103 through boldness. Baths restore the balance of the humors. Laughter shakes the body, dis?torts the features of the face, makes man similar to the monkey.”
“Monkeys do not laugh; laughter is proper to man, it is a sign of his rationality,” William said.
“Speech is also a sign of human rationality, and with speech a man can blaspheme against God. Not every?thing that is proper to man is necessarily good. He who laughs does not believe in what he laughs at, but neither does he hate it. Therefore, laughing at evil means not preparing oneself to combat it, and laughing at good means denying the power through which good is self-propagating. This is why the Rule says, ‘The tenth degree of humility104 is not to be quick to laughter, as it is written: stultus in risu exaltat vocem suam.’ ”
“Quintilian,” my master interrupted, “says that laugh?ter is to be repressed in the panegyric105, for the sake of dignity, but it is to be encouraged in many other cases. Pliny the Younger wrote, ‘Sometimes I laugh, I jest, I play, because I am a man.’ ”
“They were pagans,” Jorge replied. “The Rule for?bids with stern words these trivialities: ‘Scurrilitates vero vel verba otiosa et risum moventia aeterna clausura in omnibus locis damnamus, et ad talia eloquia discipulum aperire os non permittimus.’ ”
“But once the word of Christ had triumphed on the earth, Synesius of Cyrene said that the divinity could harmoniously106 combine comic and tragic107, and Aelius Spartianus said of the Emperor Hadrian, man of lofty behavior and of naturaliter Christian108 spirit, that he could mingle109 moments of gaiety with moments of gravity. And finally Ausonius recommended moderate use of the serious and the jocose110.”
“But Paulinus of Nola and Clement111 of Alexandria put us on guard against such foolishness, and Sulpicius Severus said that no one ever saw Saint Martin in the grip of wrath112 or in the grip of hilarity113.”
“But he recalled some replies of the saint spiritualiter salsa,” William said.
“They were prompt and wise, not ridiculous. Saint Ephraim wrote an exhortation114 against the laughter of monks, and in the De habitu et conversatione monachorum there is a strong warning to avoid obscenity and witti?cisms as if they were asp venom115!”
“But Hildebertus said, ‘Admittenda tibi ioca sunt post seria quaedam, sed tamen et dignis ipsa gerenda modis.’ And John of Salisbury authorized116 a discreet117 hilarity. And finally Ecclesiastes, whom you quoted in the pas?sage87 to which your Rule refers, where it says that laughter is proper to the fool, permits at least silent laughter, in the serene118 spirit.”
The spirit is serene only when it contemplates119 the truth and takes delight in good achieved, and truth and good are not to be laughed at. This is why Christ did not laugh. Laughter foments120 doubt.”
“But sometimes it is right to doubt.”
“I cannot see any reason. When you are in doubt, you must turn to an authority, to the words of a father or of a doctor; then all reason for doubt ceases. You seem to me steeped in debatable doctrines121, like those of the logicians of Paris. But Saint Bernard knew well how to intervene against the castrate Abelard, who wanted to submit all problems to the cold, lifeless scrutiny122 of reason not enlightened by Scripture123, pronouncing his It-is-so and It-is-not-so. Certainly one who accepts dan?gerous ideas can also appreciate the jesting of the ignorant man who laughs at the sole truth one should know, which has already been said once and for all. With his laughter the fool says in his heart, ‘Deus non est.’ ”
“Venerable Jorge, you seem to me unjust when you call Abelard a castrate, because you know that he in?curred that sad condition through the wickedness of others. ...”
“For his sins. For the pride of his faith in man’s reason. So the faith of the simple was mocked, the mysteries of God were eviscerated124 (or at least this was tried, fools they who tried), questions concerning the loftiest things were treated recklessly, the fathers were mocked because they had considered that such ques?tions should have been subdued125, rather than raised.”
“I do not agree, venerable Jorge. Of us God de?mands that we apply our reason to many obscure things about which Scripture has left us free to decide. And when someone suggests you believe in a proposition, you must first examine it to see whether it is acceptable, because our reason was created by God, and whatever pleases our reason can but please divine reason, of which, for that matter, we know only what we infer from the processes of our own reason by analogy and often by negation126. Thus, you see, to undermine the false authority of an absurd proposition that offends reason, laughter can sometimes also be a suitable instrument. And laughter serves to confound the wick?ed and to make their foolishness evident. It is told of Saint Maurus that when the pagans put him in boiling water, he complained that the bath was too cold; the pagan governor foolishly put his hand in the water to test it, and burned himself. A fine action of that sainted martyr127 who ridiculed128 the enemies of the faith.”
Jorge sneered129. “Even in the episodes the preachers tell, there are many old wives’ tales. A saint immersed in boiling water suffers for Christ and restrains his cries, he does not play childish tricks on the pagans!”
“You see?” William said. “This story seems to you offensive to reason and you accuse it of being ridiculous! Though you are controlling your lips, you are tacitly laughing at something, nor do you wish me to take it seriously. You are laughing at laughter, but you are laughing.”
Jorge made a gesture of irritation130. “Jesting about laughter, you draw me into idle debate. But you know that Christ did not laugh.”
“I am not sure of that. When he invites the Pharisees to cast the first stone, when he asks whose image is ob the coin to be paid in tribute, when he plays on words and says ‘Tu es petrus,’ I believe he was making witti?cisms to confound sinners, to keep up the spirits of his disciples131. He speaks with wit also when he says to Caiaphas, ‘Thou hast said it.’ And you well know that in the most heated moment of the conflict between Cluniacs and Cistercians, the former accused the latter, to make them look ridiculous, of not wearing trousers. And in the Speculum stultorum it is narrated132 of the ass Brunellus that he wonders what would happen if at night the wind lifted the blankets and the monks saw their own pudenda. ...”
The monks gathered around. laughed, and Jorge became infuriated: “You are drawing these brothers of mine into a feast of fools. I know that among the Franciscans it is the custom to curry133 the crowd’s favor with nonsense of this kind, but of such tricks I will say to you what is said in a verse I heard from one of your preachers: Tum podex carmen extulit horridulum.”
The reprimand was a bit too strong. William had been impertinent, but now Jorge was accusing him of breaking wind through the mouth. I wondered if this stern reply did not signify, on the part of the elderly monk, an invitation to leave the scriptorium. But I saw William, so mettlesome134 a moment earlier, now become meek135.
“I beg your pardon, venerable Jorge,” he said. “My mouth has betrayed my thoughts. I did not want to show you a lack of respect. Perhaps what you say is correct, and I was mistaken.”
Jorge, faced by this act of exquisite136 humility, emitted a grunt137 that could express either satisfaction or forgiveness; and he could only go back to his seat, while the monks who had gradually collected during the argument scattered138 to their places. William knelt again at Venantius’s desk and resumed searching through the paper. With his humble139 reply, William had gained a few seconds of quiet. And what he saw in those few seconds inspired his investigation140 during the night that was to come.
But they were really only a few seconds. Benno came over at once, pretending he had forgotten his stylus on the desk when he had approached to hear the conversa?tion with Jorge; and he whispered to William that he had to speak with him urgently, fixing a meeting place behind the balneary. He told William to leave first, and he would join him in a short while.
William hesitated a few moments, then called Malachi, who, from his librarian’s desk near the catalogue, had followed everything that had happened. William begged him, in view of the injunction received from the abbot (and he heavily emphasized this privilege), to have someone guard Venantius’s desk, because William con4?sidered it important to his inquiry141 that no one ap?proach it throughout the day, until he himself could come back. He said this in a loud voice, and so not only committed Malachi to keep watch over the monks, but also set the monks themselves to keep watch over Malachi. The librarian could only consent, and William and I took our leave.
As we were crossing the garden and approaching the balneary, which was next to the infirmary building, William observed, “Many seem to be afraid I might find something that is on or under Venantius’s desk.”
“What can that be?”
“I have the impression that even those who are afraid do not know.”
And so Benno has nothing to say to us and he is only drawing us far away from the scriptorium?”
“We will soon find out,” William said. In fact, a short while later Benno joined us.
收听单词发音 |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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3
meditates
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的第三人称单数 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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4
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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5
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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6
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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8
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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9
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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10
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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11
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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12
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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13
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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14
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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15
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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16
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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17
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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18
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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19
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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21
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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22
prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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23
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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24
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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25
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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26
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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27
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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28
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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29
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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30
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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31
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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32
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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33
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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34
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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35
discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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36
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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37
fatuousness
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| n.愚昧，昏庸，蠢 | |
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38
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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39
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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40
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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41
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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42
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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43
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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44
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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45
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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46
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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47
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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48
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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49
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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50
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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51
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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52
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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53
derange
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| v.使精神错乱 | |
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54
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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55
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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56
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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57
bartering
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的现在分词 ) | |
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58
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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59
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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60
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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61
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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62
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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63
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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64
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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65
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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66
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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67
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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68
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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69
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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70
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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71
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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72
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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73
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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74
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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75
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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76
illuminator
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| n.照明者 | |
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77
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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79
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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80
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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81
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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82
venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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83
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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84
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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85
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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86
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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87
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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88
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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89
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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90
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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91
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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92
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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93
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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94
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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95
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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96
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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97
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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98
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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99
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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100
parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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101
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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102
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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103
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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105
panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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106
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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107
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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108
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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109
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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110
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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111
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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112
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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113
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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114
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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115
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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116
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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117
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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118
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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119
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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120
foments
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| v.激起，煽动（麻烦等）( foment的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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122
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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123
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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124
eviscerated
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| v.切除…的内脏( eviscerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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126
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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127
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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128
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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131
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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132
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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134
mettlesome
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| adj.（通常指马等）精力充沛的，勇猛的 | |
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135
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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136
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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137
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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138
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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139
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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140
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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141
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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