NONES
In which William speaks to Adso of the great river of heresy1, of the function of the simple within the church, of his doubts concerning the possibility of knowing universal laws; and almost parenthetically he tells how he deciphered the necromantic2 signs left by Venantius.
I found William at the forge, working with Nicholas, both deeply involved in their task. On the counter they had laid out a number of tiny glass discs, perhaps originally intended as parts of a window; with instru?ments they had reduced some of these to the desired thickness. William was holding them up before his eyes, testing them. Nicholas, for his part, was issuing instruc?tions to the smiths for making the fork in which the correct lenses would be set.
William was grumbling3, irritated because so far the most satisfactory lens was an emerald color, and, as he said, he did not want parchments to seem meadows to him. Nicholas went off to supervise the smiths. As William tried out the various discs, I told him of my dialogue with Salvatore.
“The man has had various experiences,” he said. “Perhaps he actually was with the Dolcinians. The ab?bey really is a microcosm, and when we have Pope John’s envoys4 and Brother Michael here, we’ll be complete.”
“Master,” I said to him, “I understand nothing.”
“About what, Adso?”
“First, about the differences among heretical groups. But I’ll ask you about that later. Now I am tormented5 by the problem of difference itself. When you were speaking with Ubertino, I had the impression you were trying to prove to him that all are the same, saints and heretics. But then, speaking with the abbot, you were doing your best to explain to him the difference be?tween one heretic and another, and between the heretical and the orthodox. In other words, you reproached Ubertino for considering different those who were basically the same, and the abbot for consider?ing the same those who were basically different.”
William set the lenses on the table for a moment. “My good Adso,” he said, “we will try now to make some distinctions, and we may as well use the terms of the school of Paris for our distinguishing. So: they say all men have the same substantial form, am I right?”
“Of course,” I said, proud of my knowledge, “men are animals but rational, and the property of man is the capacity for laughing.”
“Excellent. But Thomas is different from Bonaventure, Thomas is fat while Bonaventure is thin, and it may even be that Hugh is bad while Francis is good, and Aldemar is phlegmatic7 while Agilulf is bilious8. Or am I mistaken?”
“No, that is the case, beyond any doubt.”
“Then this means there is identity in different men as to their substantial form, and diversity as to the accidents, or as to their superficial shape.”
“That is so, unquestionably.”
“When I say to Ubertino that human nature itself, in the complexity9 of its operations, governs both the love of good and the love of evil, I am trying to convince Ubertino of the identity of human nature. When I say to the abbot, however, that there is a difference be?tween a Catharist and a Waldensian, I am insisting on the variety of their accidents. And I insist on it because a Waldensian may be burned after the accidents of a Catharist have been attributed to him, and vice10 versa. And when you burn a man you burn his individual substance and reduce to pure nothing that which was a concrete act of existing, hence in itself good, at least in the eyes of God, who kept him in existence. Does this seem to you a good reason for insisting on the differences?”
“The trouble is,” I said, “I can no longer distinguish the accidental difference among Waldensians, Catharists, the poor of Lyons, the Umiliati, the Beghards, Joachi?mites11, Patarines, Apostles, Poor Lombards, Arnoldists, Williamites, Followers12 of the Free Spirit, and Luciferines. What am I to do?”
“Oh, poor Adso,” William said, laughing and giving me an affectionate slap on the nape, “you’re not really wrong! You see, it’s as if, over the last two centuries, and even earlier, this world of ours had been struck by storms of intolerance, hope, and despair, all together. ... No, that’s not a good analogy. Imagine a river, wide and majestic13, which flows for miles and miles between strong embankments, where the land is firm. At a certain point, the river, out of weariness, because its flow has taken up too much time and too much space, because it is approaching the sea, which annihilates14 all rivers in itself, no longer knows what it is, loses its identity. It becomes its own delta15. A major branch may remain, but many break off from it in every direction, and some flow together again, into one another, and you can’t tell what begets16 what, and sometimes you can’t tell what is still river and what is already sea. ...”
“If I understand your allegory, the river is the city of God, or the kingdom of the just, which is approaching the millennium17, and in this uncertainty18 it no longer remains19 secure, false and true prophets are born, and everything flows into the great plain where Armageddon will take place. ...”
“That isn’t exactly what I was thinking. I was trying to explain to you how the body of the church, which for centuries was also the body of all society, the people of God, has become too rich, and wide, and it carries along the dross20 of all the countries it has passed through, and it has lost its own purity. The branches of the delta are, if you like, so many attempts of the river to flow as quickly as possible to the sea, that is, to the moment of purification. My allegory was meant only to tell you how the branches of heresy and the movements of renewal21, when the river is no longer intact, are numer?ous and become mingled22. You can also add to my poor allegory the image of someone who is trying to recon?struct the banks of the river with brute23 strength, but cannot do so. And some branches of the delta silt24 up, others are redirected to the river by artificial channels, still others are allowed to flow, because it is impossible to restrain everything and it is better for the river to lose a part of its water and still maintain its course, if it wants to have a recognizable course.”
“I understand less and less.”
“So do I. I’m not good at speaking in parables26. Forget this story of the river. Try instead to understand that many of the movements you mentioned were born at least two hundred years ago and are already dead, yet others are recent. ...”
“But when heretics are discussed, they are all mentioned together.”
“True, and this is one of the ways heresy spreads and one of the ways it is destroyed.”
“Again I don’t understand.”
“God, how difficult it is. Very well. Imagine you are a reformer of morals and you collect some companions on a mountaintop, to live in poverty. And after a while you see that many come to you, even from distant lands, and they consider you a prophet, or a new apostle, and they follow you. Have they really come there for you or for what you say?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. Why otherwise?”
“Because from their fathers they have heard stories of other reformers, and legends of more or less perfect communities, and they believe this is that and that is this.”
“And so every movement inherits the offspring of others?”
“Of course, because the majority of those who flock after reformers are the simple, who have no subtlety27 of doctrine28. And yet moral reform movements originate in different places and ways and with different doctrines29. For example, the Catharists and the Waldensians are often mixed up. But there is a great difference between them. The Waldensians preached a moral reform with?in the church, the Catharists preached a different church, a different view of God and morality. The Catharists thought the world was divided between the opposing forces of good and evil, and they had built a church in which the perfect were distinguished30 from simple believers, and they had their sacraments and their rites31; they had built a very rigid32 hierarchy33, almost like that of our own Holy Mother, and they didn’t for a moment think of destroying every form of power. Which ex?plains to you why men in command, landowners, feu?dal lords, also joined the Catharists. Nor did they think of reforming the world, because the opposition34 be?tween good and evil for them can never be settled. The Waldensians, on the contrary (and along with them the Arnoldists, or Poor Lombards), wanted to construct a different world on an ideal of poverty, and this is why they received the outcasts and lived in community with the labor35 of their hands.”
“But why, then, are they confused and spoken of as the same evil weed?”
“I told you: what makes them live is also what makes them die. The movements grow, gathering37 simple people who have been aroused by other movements and who believe all have the same impulse of revolt and hope; and they are destroyed by the inquisitors, who attribute to one the errors of the other, and if the sectarians of one movement commit a crime, this crime will be attributed to each sectarian of each movement. The inquisitors are mistaken, rationally speaking, be?cause they lump contradictory38 doctrines together; they are right, according to others’ irrationality39, because when a movement of, say, Arnoldists springs up in one city, it is swelled40 by those who would have been or have been Catharists or Waldensians elsewhere. Fra Dolcino’s Apostles preached the physical destruction of clerics and lords, and committed many acts of violence; the Waldensians are opposed to violence, and so are the Fraticelli. But I am sure that in Fra Dolcino’s day there were many in his group who had previously41 followed the preachings of the Fraticelli or the Waldensians. The simple cannot choose their personal heresy, Adso; they cling to the man preaching in their land, who passes through their village or stops in their square. This is what their enemies exploit. To present to the eyes of the people a single heresy, which perhaps may suggest at the same time the renunciation of sexual pleasure and the communion of bodies, is good preaching technique: it shows the heretics as one jumble42 of diaboli?cal contradictions which offend common sense.”
“So there is no relationship among them, and it is the Devil’s deception43 that makes a simple man who would like to be a Joachimite or a Spiritual fall into the hands of the Catharists, and vice versa?”
“No, that is not quite it. Let’s try again from the beginning, Adso. But I assure you, I am attempting to explain to you something about which I myself am not sure I possess the truth. I think the mistake is to believe that the heresy comes first, and then the simple folk who join it (and damn themselves for it). Actually, first comes the condition of being simple, then the heresy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a clear conception of the people of God. A great flock-good sheep and bad sheep—kept in order by mastiffs—the warriors44, or the temporal power—the Emperor, and the overlords, under the guidance of the shepherds, the clerics, the interpreters of the divine word. The picture is straightforward45.”
“But false. The shepherds fight with the dogs, be?cause each covets47 the rights of the other.”
“True, and this is exactly what makes the nature of the flock unsure. Concerned as they are with tearing each other apart reciprocally, dogs and shepherds no longer tend the flock. A part of it is left outside.”
“What do you mean by outside?”
“On the margin48. Peasants: only they are not really peasants, because they have no land, or what land they have does not feed them. And citizens: only they are not citizens, because they do not belong to a guild49 or a corporation; they are the little people, prey50 of anyone. Have you sometimes seen groups of lepers in the countryside?”
“Yes, once I saw a hundred together. Misshapen, their flesh decaying and all whitish, hobbling on their crutches51, with swollen52 eyelids53, bleeding eyes. They didn’t speak or shout; they twittered, like mice.”
“For the Christian54 people they are the others, those who remain on the fringe of the flock. The flock hates them, they hate the flock, who wish all lepers like them would die.”
“Yes, I recall a story about King Mark, who had to condemn55 Isolda the beautiful and was about to have her ascend56 the stake when the lepers came and said to the King that the stake was a mild punishment and that there was a worse one. And they cried to him: Give us Isolda that she may belong to all of us, our illness enflames our desires, give her to your lepers. Look at our rags, glued to our groaning57 wounds. She, who at your side enjoyed rich stuffs lined with squirrel fur and jewels, when she sees the courtyard of the lepers, when she has to enter our hovels and lie with us, then she will truly recognize her sin and regret this fine pyre of brambles!”
“I see that for a novice58 of Saint Benedict you have done some odd reading,” William remarked. I blushed, because I knew a novice should not read romances, but they circulated among us young people in the monas?tery of Melk and we read them at night by candlelight. “But that doesn’t matter,” William continued, “you have understood what I meant. The outcast lepers would like to drag everything down in their ruin. And they become all the more evil, the more you cast them out; and the more you depict59 them as a court of lemures who want your ruin, the more they will be outcast. Saint Francis realized this, and his first decision was to go and live among the lepers. The people of God cannot be changed until the outcasts are restored to its body.”
“But you were speaking of other outcasts; it isn’t lepers who form heretical movements.”
“The flock is like a series of concentric circles, from the broadest range of the flock to its immediate60 surroundings. The lepers are a sign of exclusion61 in general. Saint Francis understood that. He didn’t want only to help the lepers; if he had, his act would have been reduced to quite a poor and impotent act of charity. He wanted to signify something else. Have you been told about his preaching to the birds?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that beautiful story, and I ad?mired62 the saint who enjoyed the company of those tender creatures of God,” I said with great fervor63.
“Well, what they told you was mistaken, or, rather, it’s a story the order has revised today. When Francis spoke36 to the people of the city and its magistrates64 and saw they didn’t understand him, he went out to the cemetery65 and began preaching to ravens66 and magpies67, to hawks68, to raptors feeding on corpses69.”
“What a horrible thing!” I said. “Then they were not good birds!”
“They were birds of prey, outcast birds, like the lepers. Francis was surely thinking of that verse of the Apoca?lypse that says: ‘I saw an angel standing70 in the sun; and -he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls71 that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and gather yourselves together at the supper of the great God; that ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty72 men, and the flesh of horses, and of them that sit on them, and the flesh of all men, both free and bond, both small and great!’ ”
“So Francis wanted to incite73 the outcasts to revolt?”
“No, that was what Fra Dolcino and his followers wanted, if anybody did. Francis wanted to call the outcast, ready to revolt, to be part of the people of God. If the flock was to be gathered again, the outcasts had to be found again. Francis didn’t succeed, and I say it with great bitterness. To recover the outcasts he had to act within the church, to act within the church he had to obtain the recognition of his rule, from which an order would emerge, and this order, as it emerged, would recompose the image of a circle, at whose mar6?gin the outcasts remain. So now do you understand why there are bands of Fraticelli and Joachimites who again gather the outcasts around themselves?”
“But we weren’t talking about Francis; we were talking about how heresy is produced by the simple and the outcast.”
“Yes. We were talking about those excluded from the flock of sheep. For centuries, as pope and emperor tore each other apart in their quarrels over power, the excluded went on living on the fringe, like lepers, of whom true lepers are only the illustration ordained74 by God to make us understand this wondrous75 parable25, so that in saying ‘lepers’ we would understand “outcast, poor, simple, excluded, uprooted76 from the countryside, humiliated77 in the cities: But we did not understand; the mystery of leprosy has continued to haunt us because we have not recognized the nature of the sign. Exclud?ed as they were from the flock, all of them were ready to hear, or to produce, every sermon that, harking back to the word of Christ, would condemn the behavior of the dogs and shepherds and would promise their pun?ishment one day. The powerful always realized this. The recovery of the outcasts demanded reduction of the privileges of the powerful, so the excluded who became aware of their exclusion had to be branded as heretics, whatever their doctrine. And for their part, blinded by their exclusion, they were not really interest?ed in any doctrine. This is the illusion of heresy. Every?one is heretical, everyone is orthodox. The faith a movement proclaims doesn’t count: what counts is the hope it offers. All heresies78 are the banner of a reality, an exclusion. Scratch the heresy and you will find the leper. Every battle against heresy wants only this: to keep the leper as he is. As for the lepers, what can you ask of them? That they distinguish in the Trinitarian dogma or in the definition of the Eucharist how much is correct and how much is wrong? Come, Adso, these games are for us men of learning. The simple have other problems. And mind you, they solve them all in the wrong way. This is why they become heretics.”
“But why do some people support them?”
“Because it serves their purposes, which concern the faith rarely, and more often the conquest of power.”
“Is that why the church of Rome accuses all its adversaries79 of heresy?”
“That is why, and that is also why it recognizes as orthodoxy any heresy it can bring back under its own control or must accept because the heresy has become too strong. But there is no precise rule: it depends on the individuals, on the circumstances. This holds true also for the secular80 lords. Sometimes the city magis?trates encourage the heretics to translate the Gospel into the vernacular81: the vernacular by now is the lan?guage of the cities, Latin the language of Rome and the monasteries82. And sometimes the magistrates support the Waldensians, because they declare that all, men and women, lowly and mighty, can teach and preach, and the worker who is a disciple83 after ten days hunts for another whose teacher he can become. ...”
“And so they eliminate the distinction that makes clerics irreplaceable! But, then, why does it happen that the same city magistrates rebel against the heretics and lend the church a hand in having them burned?”
“Because they realize the heretics’ growth could jeop?ardize also the privileges of the laity84 who speak in the ver?nacular. In the Lateran Council of 1179 (you see, these questions date back a hundred fifty years), Walter Map warned against what would happen if credence85 were given to those foolish and illiterate86 men the Waldensians. He said, if I recall properly, that they have no fixed87 dwelling88, they go about barefoot and possess nothing, holding everything as common property, following naked the naked Christ; they begin in this very humble89 way be?cause they are outcasts, but if you give them too much room they will drive out everyone else. This is why the cities favored the mendicant90 orders, and us Franciscans in particular: we fostered a harmonious91 balance between the need for penance92 and the life of the city, between the church and the burghers, concerned for their trade. ...”
“Was harmony achieved, then, between love of God and love of trade?”
“No, the movements of spiritual renewal were blocked; they were channeled within the bounds of an order recognized by the Pope. But what circulated under?neath was not channeled. It flowed, on the one hand, into the movements of the flagellants, who endanger no one, or into the armed bands like Fra Dolcino’s, or into the witchcraft93 rituals of the monks94 of Montefalco that Ubertino was talking about. ...”
“But who was right, who is right, who was wrong?” I asked, bewildered.
“They were all right in their way, and all were mis?taken.”
“And you,” I cried, in an access almost of rebellion, “why don’t you take a position, why won’t you tell me where the truth is?”
William remained silent for a while, holding the lens he was working on up to the light. Then he lowered it to the table and showed me, through the lens, a tool. “Look,” he said to me. “What do you see?”
“The tool, a bit larger.”
“There: the most we can do is look more closely.”
“But the tool remains always the same!”
“The manuscript of Venantius, too, will remain the same when, thanks to this lens, I’ve been able to read it. But perhaps when I’ve read the manuscript I’ll know a part of the truth better. And perhaps we’ll be able to make the life of the abbey better.”
“But that isn’t enough!”
“I’m saying more than I seem to be, Adso. This isn’t the first time I’ve spoken to you of Roger Bacon. Perhaps he was not the wisest man of all time, but I’ve always been fascinated by the hope that inspired his love of learning. Bacon believed in the strength, the needs, the spiritual inventions of the simple. He wouldn’t have been a good Franciscan if he hadn’t thought that the poor, the outcast, idiots and illiterate, often speak with the mouth of our Lord. The simple have some?thing more than do learned doctors, who often become lost in their search for broad, general laws. The simple have a sense of the individual, but this sense, by itself is not enough. The simple grasp a truth of their own, perhaps truer than that of the doctors of the church, but then they destroy it in unthinking actions. What must be done? Give learning to the simple? Too easy, or too difficult. The Franciscan teachers considered this problem. The great Bonaventure said that the wise must enhance conceptual clarity with the truth implicit95 in the actions of the simple. ...”
“Like the chapter of Perugia and the learned memo96?ries of Ubertino, which transform into theological deci?sions the summons of the simple to poverty,” I said.
“Yes, but as you have seen, this happens too late, and when it happens, the truth of the simple has already been transformed into the truth of the powerful, more useful for the Emperor Louis than for a Friar of the Poor Life. How are we to remain close to the experi?ence of the simple, maintaining, so to speak, their operative virtue97, the capacity of working toward the transformation98 and betterment of their world? This was the problem for Bacon. ‘Quod enim laicali ruditate turgescit non habet effectum nisi fortuito,’ he said: The experience of the simple has savage99 and uncontrollable results. ‘Sed opera sapientiae certa lege vallantur et in finem debitum efficaciter diriguntur.’ Which is to say that even in the handling of practical things, be they agriculture, mechanics, or the governing of a city, a kind of theology is required. He thought that the new natural science should be the great new enterprise of the learned: to coordinate100, through a different knowl?edge of natural processes, the elementary needs that represented also the heap of expectations, disordered but in its way true and right, of the simple. The new science, the new natural magic. According to Bacon, this enterprise was to be directed by the church, but I believe he said this because in his time the community of clerics was identified with the community of the learned. Today that is no longer the case: learned men grow up outside the monasteries and the cathedrals, even outside the universities. So I think that, since I and my friends today believe that for the management of human affairs it is not the church that should legis?late but the assembly of the people, then in the future the community of the learned will have to propose this new and humane101 theology which is natural philosophy and positive magic.”
“A splendid enterprise,” I said, “but is it possible?”
“Bacon thought so.”
“And you?”
“I think so, too. But to believe in it we must be sure that the simple are right in possessing the sense of the individual, which is the only good kind. However, if the sense of the individual is the only good, how will science succeed in recomposing the universal laws through which, and interpreting which, the good magic will become functional102?”
“Yes,” I said, “how can it?”
“I no longer know. I have had arguments at Oxford103 with my friend William of Occam, who is now in Avignon. He has sown doubts in my mind. Because if only the sense of the individual is just, the proposition that identical causes have identical effects is difficult to prove. A single body can be cold or hot, sweet or bitter, wet or dry, in one place—and not in another place. How can I discover the universal bond that orders all things if I cannot lift a finger without creating an infinity104 of new entities105? For with such a movement all the relations of position between my finger and all other objects change. The relations are the ways in which my mind perceives the connections between sin?gle entities, but what is the guarantee that this is universal and stable?”
“But you know that a certain thickness of glass corre?sponds to a certain power of vision, and it is because you know this that now you can make lenses like the ones you have lost: otherwise how could you?”
“An acute reply, Adso. In fact, I have worked out this proposition: equal thickness corresponds necessarily to equal power of vision. I have posited106 it because on other occasions I have had individual insights of the same type. To be sure, anyone who tests the curative property of herbs knows that individual herbs of the same species have equal effects of the same nature on the patient, and therefore the investigator107 formulates108 the proposition that every herb of a given type helps the feverish109, or that every lens of such a type magnifies the eye’s vision to the same degree. The science Bacon spoke of rests unquestionably on these propositions. You understand, Adso, I must believe that my proposi?tion works, because I learned it by experience; but to believe it I must assume there are universal laws. Yet I cannot speak of them, because the very concept that universal laws and an established order exist would imply that God is their prisoner, whereas God is some?thing absolutely free, so that if He wanted, with a single act of His will He could make the world different.”
“And so, if I understand you correctly, you act, and you know why you act, but you don’t know why you know that you know what you do?”
I must say with pride that William gave me a look of admiration110. “Perhaps that’s it. In any case, this tells you why I feel so uncertain of my truth, even if I believe in it.”
“You are more mystical than Ubertino!” I said spitefully.
“Perhaps. But as you see, I work on things of nature. And in the investigation111 we are carrying out, I don’t want to know who is good or who is wicked, but who was in the scriptorium last night, who took the eyeglasses, who left traces of a body dragging another body in the snow, and where Berengar is. These are facts. After?ward46 I’ll try to connect them—if it’s possible, for it’s difficult to say what effect is produced by what cause. An angel’s intervention112 would suffice to change every?thing, so it isn’t surprising that one thing cannot be proved to be the cause of another thing. Even if one must always try, as I am doing.”
“Yours is a difficult life,” I said.
“But I found Brunellus,” William cried, recalling the horse episode of two days before.
“Then there is an order in the world!” I cried, triumphant113.
“Then there is a bit of order in this poor head of mine,” William answered.
At this point Nicholas came back with an almost finished fork, holding it up victoriously114.
“And when this fork is on my poor nose,” William said, “perhaps my poor head will be even more or?derly.”
A novice came to say the abbot wished to see William, and was waiting for him in the garden. As we started off, William slapped his forehead, as if remembering only at this point something he had forgotten.
“By the way,” he said, “I’ve deciphered Venantius’s cabalistic signs.”
“All of them? When?”
“While you were asleep. And it depends on what you mean by ‘all.’ I’ve deciphered the signs that the flame caused to appear, the ones you copied out. The notes in Greek must wait till I have new lenses.”
“Well? Was it the secret of the finis Africae?”
“Yes, and the key was fairly easy. At his disposal Venantius had the twelve signs of the zodiac and eight other signs: for the five planets, the two luminaries115, and the earth. Twenty signs in all. Enough to associate with them the letters of the Latin alphabet, since you can use the same letter to express the sound of the two initials of ‘unum’ and ‘velut.’ The order of the letters, we know. What could be the order of the signs, then? I thought of the order of the heavens, placing the zodia?cal quadrant at the far edge. So, then: Earth, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, etc., and, afterward116, the signs of the zodiac in their traditional sequence, as Isidore of Seville classifies them, beginning with Aries and the vernal equinox, ending with Pisces. Now, if you try this key, Venantius’s message takes on a meaning.”
He showed me the parchment, on which he had transcribed117 the message to big Latin letters: “Secretum finis Africae manus supra idolum age primum et septimum de quatuor.”
“Is that clear?” he asked.
“The hand over the idol118 works on the first and the seventh of the four ...” I repeated, shaking my head. “It isn’t clear at all!”
“I know. First of all we have to know what Venantius meant by ‘idolum.’ An image, a ghost, a figure? And then what can this ‘four’ be that has a ‘first’ and a ‘seventh’? And what is to be done with them? Move them, push them, pull them?”
“So we know nothing and we are still where we started,” I said, with great dismay.
William stopped and looked at me with an expression not entirely119 benevolent120. “My boy,” he said, “you have before you a poor Franciscan who, with his modest learning and what little skill he owes to the infinite power of the Lord, has succeeded in a few hours in deciphering a secret code whose author was sure would prove sealed to all save himself ... and you, wretched illiterate rogue121, dare say we are still where we started?”
I apologized very clumsily. I had wounded my master’s vanity, and yet I knew how proud he was of the speed and accuracy of his deductions122. William truly had performed a job worthy123 of admiration, and it was not his fault if the crafty124 Venantius not only had concealed125 his discovery behind an obscure zodiacal alphabet, but had further devised an undecipherable riddle126.
“No matter, no matter, don’t apologize,” William interrupted me. “After all, you’re right. We still know too little. Come along.”
收听单词发音 |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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necromantic
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| 降神术的，妖术的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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envoys
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| 使节( envoy的名词复数 )； 公使； 谈判代表； 使节身份 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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annihilates
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| n.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的名词复数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的第三人称单数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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silt
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| n.淤泥，淤沙，粉砂层，泥沙层；vt.使淤塞；vi.被淤塞 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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37
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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38
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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irrationality
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| n. 不合理，无理性 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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45
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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covets
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的第三人称单数 ) | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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52
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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53
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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55
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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56
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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57
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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58
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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59
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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60
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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61
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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mired
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| abbr.microreciprocal degree 迈尔德（色温单位）v.深陷( mire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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64
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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65
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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66
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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68
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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70
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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71
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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72
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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73
incite
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| v.引起，激动，煽动 | |
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74
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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75
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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76
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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77
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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78
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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80
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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81
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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82
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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83
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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84
laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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85
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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86
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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87
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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88
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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89
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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90
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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91
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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92
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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93
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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94
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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95
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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memo
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| n.照会，备忘录；便笺；通知书；规章 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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98
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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99
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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100
coordinate
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| adj.同等的，协调的；n.同等者；vt.协作，协调 | |
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101
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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102
functional
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| adj.为实用而设计的，具备功能的，起作用的 | |
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103
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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104
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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105
entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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106
posited
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| v.假定，设想，假设( posit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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108
formulates
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| v.构想出( formulate的第三人称单数 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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109
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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110
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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111
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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112
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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113
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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114
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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115
luminaries
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| n.杰出人物，名人（luminary的复数形式） | |
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116
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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117
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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118
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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119
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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120
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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121
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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122
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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123
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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124
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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125
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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126
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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