PRIME
In which William induces first Salvatore and then the cellarer to confess their past, Severinus finds the stolen lenses, Nicholas brings the new ones, and William, now with six eyes, goes to decipher the manuscript of Venantius.
We were coming out as Malachi entered. He seemed very annoyed to find us there and started to leave again. From inside, Severinus saw him and said, “Were you looking for me? Is it for—” He broke off, glancing at us. Malachi signaled to him, imperceptibly, as if to say, “We’ll talk about it later. …” We were going out as he was entering, and so all three of us were to the doorway1.
Malachi said, somewhat redundantly2, “I was looking for the brother herbalist. ... I ... I have a headache.” “It must be the enclosed air of the library,” William said to him, in a tone of considerate sympathy. “You should inhale3 something.”
Malachi’s lips twitched4 as if he wanted to speak again, but then he gave up the idea, bowed his head, and went on inside, as we moved off.
“What is he seeing Severinus for?” I asked.
“Adso,” my master said to me impatiently, “learn to use your head and think.” Then he changed the subject: “We must question some people now. At least,” he added, as his eyes explored the grounds, “while they’re still alive. By the way: from now on we must be careful about what we eat and drink. Always take your food from the common plate, and your beverage5 from the pitcher6 the others have filled their cups from. After Berengar we are the ones who know most. Except, naturally, the murderer.”
“But whom do you want to question now?”
“Adso,” William said, “you will have observed that here the most interesting things happen at night. They die at night, they wander about the scriptorium at night, women are brought at night into the abbey. ... We have a daytime abbey and a nighttime abbey, and the nighttime one seems, unhappily, the more interesting. So, every person who roams about at night interests us, including, for example, the man you saw last night with the girl. Perhaps the business of the girl does not have anything to do with the poisonings, and perhaps it has. In any case, I have my ideas about last night’s man, and he must be one who knows other things about the nocturnal life of this holy place. And, speak of the Devil, here he is, coming this way.”
He pointed7 to Salvatore, who had also seen us. I notice a slight hesitation8 in his step, as if, wishing to avoid us, he was about to turn around. But it was only for a moment. Obviously, he realized he couldn’t escape the meeting, and he continued toward us. He greeted us with a broad smile and a fairly unctuous9 “Benedicite.” My master hardly allowed him to finish and spoke10 to him sharply.
“You know the Inquisition arrives here tomorrow?” he asked him.
Salvatore didn’t seem pleased with this news. In a faint voice, he asked, “And me?”
“And you would be wise to tell the truth to me, your friend and a Friar Minor11 as you once were, rather than have to tell it tomorrow to those whom you know quite well.”
Attacked so brusquely, Salvatore seemed to abandon all resistance. With a meek12 air he looked at William, as if to indicate he was ready to tell whatever he was asked.
“Last night there was a woman in the kitchen. Who was with her?”
“Oh, a female who sells herself like mercandia cannot be bona or have cortesia,” Salvatore recited.
“I don’t want to know whether the girl is pure. I want to know who was with her!”
“Deu, these evil females are all clever! They think di e noche about how to trap a man. ...”
William seized him roughly by the chest.” Who was with her, you or the cellarer?”
Salvatore realized he couldn’t go on lying. He began to tell a strange story, from which, with great effort, we learned that, to please the cellarer, he procured13 girls for him in the village, introducing them within the walls at night by paths he would not reveal to us. But he swore he acted out of the sheer goodness of his heart, betraying a comic regret that he could not find a way to enjoy his own pleasure and see that the girl, having satisfied the cellarer, would give something also to him. He said all this with slimy, lubricious smiles and, winks14, as if to suggest he was speaking to men made of flesh, accustomed to such practices. He stole glances at me, nor could I check him as I would have liked, because I felt myself bound to him by a common secret, his accomplice15 and companion in sin.
At this point William decided16 to stake everything. He asked Salvatore abruptly17, “Did you know Remigio be?fore18 or after you were with Dolcino?”
Salvatore knelt at his feet, begging him, between sobs19, not to destroy him, to save him from the Inquisition. William solemnly swore not to tell anyone what he would learn, and Salvatore did not hesitate to deliver the cellarer into our hands. The two men had met on Bald Mountain, both in Dolcino’s band; Salvatore and the cellarer had fled together and had entered the convent of Casale, and, still together, they had joined the Cluniacs. As he stammered20 out pleas for forgiveness, it was clear there was nothing further to be learned from him. William decided it was worth taking Remigio by surprise, and he left Salvatore, who ran to seek refuge in the church.
The cellarer was on the opposite side of the abbey, in front of the granaries, bargaining with some peasants from the valley. He looked at us apprehensively21 and tried to act very busy, but William insisted on speaking with him.
“For reasons connected with your position you are obviously forced to move about the abbey even when the others are asleep, I imagine,” William said.
“That depends,” Remigio answered. “Sometimes there are little matters to deal with, and I have to sacrifice a few hours’ sleep.”
“Has nothing happened to you, in these cases, that might indicate there is someone else roaming about, without your justification22, between the kitchen and the library?”
“If I had seen anything, I would have told the abbot.”
“Of course,” William agreed, and abruptly changed the subject: “The village down below is not very rich, is it?”
“Yes and no,” Remigio answered. “Some prebenders live there, abbey dependents, and they share our wealth in the good years. For example, on Saint John’s Day they received twelve bushels of malt, a horse, seven oxen, a bull, four heifers, five calves23, twenty sheep, fifteen pigs, fifty chickens, and seventeen hives. Also twenty smoked pigs, twenty-seven tubs of lard, half a measure of honey, three measures of soap, a fishnet ...”
“I understand, I understand,” William interrupted him. “But you must admit that this still tells me nothing of the situation of the village, how many among its inhabitants have prebends, and how much land those who are not prebendaries possess to cultivate on their own. ...”
“Oh, as far as that goes,” Remigio said, “a normal family down there has as much as fifty tablets of land.”
“How much is a tablet?”
“Four square trabucchi, of course.”
“Square trabucchi? How much are they?”
“Thirty-six square feet is a square trabucco. Or, if you prefer, eight hundred linear trabucchi make a Piedmont mile. And calculate that a family—in the lands to the north—can cultivate olives for at least half a sack of oil.”
“Half a sack?”
“Yes, one sack makes five emine, and one emina makes eight cups.”
“I see,” my master said, disheartened. “Every locality has its own measures. Do you measure wine, for example, by the tankard?”
“Or by the rubbio. Six rubbie make one brenta, and eight brente, a keg. If you like, one rubbio is six pints24 from two tankards.”
“I believe my ideas are clear now,” William said, resigned.
“Do you wish to know anything else?” Remigio asked, with a tone that to me seemed defiant25.
“Yes, I was asking you about how they live in the valley, because today in the library I was meditating26 on the sermons to women by Humbert of Romans, and in particular on that chapter ‘Ad mulieres pauperes in villulis,’ in which he says that they, more than others, are tempted27 to sins of the flesh because of their poverty, and wisely he says that they commit mortal sin when they sin with a layman28, but the mortality of the sin becomes greater when it is committed with a priest, and greatest of all when the sin is with a monk29, who is dead to the world. You know better than I that even in holy places such as abbeys the temptations of the noontime Devil are never wanting. I was wondering whether in our contacts with the people of the village you had heard that some monks30, God forbid, had induced maid?ens into fornication.”
Although my master said these things in an almost absent tone, my reader can imagine how the words upset the poor cellarer. I cannot say he blanched31, but I will say that I was so expecting him to turn pale that I saw him look whiter.
“You ask me about things that I would already have told the abbot if I knew them,” he answered humbly32. “In any case, if, as I imagine, this information serves for your investigation33, I will not keep silent about anything I may learn. Indeed, now that you remind me, with regard to your first question ... The night poor Adelmo died, I was stirring about the yard ... a question of the hens, you know ... I had heard rumors34 that one of the blacksmiths was stealing from the chick?en coops at night. ... Yes, that night I did happen to see—from the distance, I couldn’t swear to it—Berengar going back into the dormitory, moving along the choir35, as if he had come from the Aedificium. ... I wasn’t surprised; there had been whispering about Berengar among the monks for some time. Perhaps you’ve heard …”
“No. Tell me.”
“Well ... how can I say it? Berengar was suspected of harboring passions that ... that are not proper for a monk. ...”
“Are you perhaps trying to tell me he had relations with village girls, as I was asking you?”
The cellarer coughed, embarrassed, and flashed a somewhat obscene smile. “Oh, no ... even less proper passions ...”
“Then a monk who enjoys carnal satisfaction with a village maid is indulging in passions, on the other hand, that are somehow proper?”
“I didn’t say that, but you’ll agree that there is a hierarchy36 of depravity as there is of virtue37. ... The flesh can be tempted according to nature and ... against nature.”
“You’re telling me that Berengar was impelled38 by carnal desires for those of his own sex?”
“I’m saying that such were the whisperings. ... I’m informing you of these things as proof of my sincerity39 and my good will. ...”
“And I thank you. And I agree with you that the sin of sodomy is far worse than other forms of lust40, which, frankly41, I am not inclined to investigate. ...”
“Sad, wretched things, even if they prove to have taken place,” the cellarer said philosophically42:
“Yes, Remigio. We are all wretched sinners. I would never seek the mote43 in a brother’s eye, since I am so afraid of having a great beam in my own. But I will be grateful to you for any beams you may mention to me in the future. So we will talk great, sturdy trunks of wood and we will allow the motes44 to swirl45 in the air. How much did you say a square trabucco was?”
“Thirty-six square feet. But you mustn’t waste your time. When you wish to know something specific, come to me. Consider me a faithful friend.”
“I do consider you as such,” William said warmly. “Ubertino told me that you once belonged to my own order. I would never betray a former brother, especial?ly in these days when we are awaiting the arrival of a papal legation led by a grand inquisitor, famous for having burned many Dolcinians. You said a square trabucco equals thirty-six square feet?”
The cellarer was no fool. He decided it was no longer worthwhile playing at cat and mouse, particularly since he realized he was the mouse.
“Brother William,” he said, “I see you know many more things than I imagined. Help me, and I’ll help you. It’s true, I am a poor man of flesh, and I succumb46 to the lures47 of the flesh. Salvatore told me that you or your novice48 caught them last night in the kitchen. You have traveled widely, William; you know that not even the cardinals49 in Avignon are models of virtue. I know you are not questioning me because of these wretched little sins. But I also realize you have learned something of my past. I have had a strange life, like many of us Minorites. Years ago I believed in the ideal of poverty, and I abandoned the community to live as a vagabond. I believed in Dolcino’s preaching, as many others like me did. I’m not an educated man; I’ve been ordained50, but I can barely say Mass. I know little of theology. And perhaps I’m not really moved by ideas. You see, I once tried to rebel against the overlords; now I serve them, and for the sake of the lord of these lands I give orders to men like myself. Betray or rebel: we simple folk have little choice.”
“Sometimes the simple understand things better than the learned,” William said.
“Perhaps,” the cellarer said with a shrug51. “But I don’t even know why I did what I did, then. You see, for Salvatore it was comprehensible: his parents were serfs, he came from a childhood of hardship and illness. ... Dolcino represented rebellion, the destruction of the lords. For me it was different: I came from a city family, I wasn’t running away from hunger. It was—I don’t know how to say it—a feast of fools, a magnificent carnival52. ... On the mountains with Dolcino, before we were reduced to eating the flesh of our companions killed in battle, before so many died of hardship that we couldn’t eat them all, and they were thrown to the birds and the wild animals on the slopes of Rebello ... or maybe in those moments, too ... there was an atmos?phere ... can I say of freedom? I didn’t know, before, what freedom was; the preachers said to us, ‘The truth will make you free.’ We felt free, we thought that was the truth. We thought everything we were doing was right. ...”
And there you took ... to uniting yourself freely with women?” I asked, and I don’t even know why, but since the night before, Ubertino’s words had been haunting me, along with what I had read in the scriptorium and the events that had befallen me. William looked at me, curious; he had probably not expected me to be so bold and outspoken53. The cellarer stared at me as if I were a strange animal.
“On Rebello,” he said, “there were people who through?out their childhood had slept, ten or more of them, in a room of a few cubits—brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters. What do you think this new situation meant to them? They did from choice what they had formerly54 done from necessity. And then, at night, when you fear the arrival of the enemy troops and you cling tight to your neighbor, on the ground, so as not to feel cold ... The heretics: you pitiful monks who come from a castle and end up in an abbey think that it’s a form of belief, inspired by the Devil. But it’s a way of living, and it is ... it was ... a new experience. ... There were no more masters; and God, we were told, was with us. I’m not saying we were right, William, and, in fact, you find me here because I abandoned them before long. But I never really understood our learned disputes about the poverty of Christ and ownership and rights. ... I told you, it was a great carnival, and in carnival time every?thing is done backward. As you grow old, you grow not wise but greedy. And here I am, a glutton55. ... You can condemn56 a heretic to death, but would you condemn a glutton?”
“That’s enough, Remigio,” William said. “I’m not questioning you about what happened then, but about what happened recently. Be frank with me, and I will surely not seek your downfall. I cannot and would not judge you. But you must tell me what you know about events in the abbey. You move about too much, night and day, not to know something. Who killed Venantius?”
“I do not know, I give you my solemn oath. I know when he died, and where.”
“When? Where?”
“I’ll tell you. That night, an hour after compline, I went into the kitchen. ...”
“How did you enter, and for what reasons?”
“By the door from the vegetable garden. I have a key I had the smiths make for me long ago. The kitchen door is the only one not barred on the inside. And my reasons ... are not important; you said yourself you don’t want to condemn me for my weaknesses of the flesh. ...” He smiled, embarrassed. “But I wouldn’t want you to believe I spend my days in fornication, either. ... That night I was looking for food to give to the girl Salvatore was to bring into the kitchen. ...”
“Where from?”
“Oh, the outside walls have other entrances besides the gate. The abbot knows them; I know them. ... But that evening the girl didn’t come in; I sent her back precisely57 because of what I discovered, what I’m about to tell you. This is why I tried to have her return last night. If you’d arrived a bit later you would have found me instead of Salvatore; it was he who warned me there were people in the Aedificium. So I went back to my cell. ...”
“Let’s return to the night between Sunday and Monday.”
“Yes, then. I entered the kitchen, and on the floor I saw Venantius, dead.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Yes, near the sink. Perhaps he had just come down from the scriptorium.”
“No sign of a struggle?”
“None. Though there was a broken cup beside the body, and traces of water on the ground.”
“How do you know it was water?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was water. What else might it have been?”
As William pointed out to me later, that cup could mean two different things. Either someone had given Venantius a poisoned potion to drink right there in the kitchen, or else the poor youth had already taken the poison (but where? and when?) and had come down to drink, to soothe58 a sudden burning, a spasm59, a pain that seared his viscera or his tongue (for certainly his must have been black like Berengar’s).
In any case, we could learn no more for the moment. Having glanced at the corpse60, terrified, Remigio asked himself what he should do and decided he would do nothing. If he sought help, he would have to admit he had been wandering around the Aedificium at night, nor would it do his now lost brother any good. Therefore, he resolved to leave things as they were, waiting for someone else to discover the body in the morning, when the doors were opened. He rushed to head off Salvatore, who was already bringing the girl into the abbey, then he and his accomplice went off to sleep, if their agitated61 vigil till matins could be called that. And at matins, when the swineherds brought the news to the abbot, Remigio believed the body had been discovered where he had left it, and was aghast to find it in the jar. Who had spirited the corpse out of the kitchen? For this Remigio had no explanation.
“The only one who can move freely about the Aedificium is Malachi,” William said.
The cellarer reacted violently: “No, not Malachi. That is, I don’t believe … In any case, I didn’t say anything to you against Malachi. …”
“Rest assured, whatever your debt to Malachi may be. Does he know something about you?”
“Yes.” The cellarer blushed. “And he has behaved like a man of discretion62. If I were you, I would keep an eye on Benno. He had strange connections with Berengar and Venantius. … But I swear to you, I’ve seen nothing else. If I learn something, I’ll tell you.”
“For the present this will do. I’ll seek you out again if I need you.” The cellarer, obviously relieved, returned to his dealings, sharply reproaching the peasants, who in the meantime had apparently63 shifted some sacks of seeds.
At that point Severinus joined us. In his hand he was carrying William’s lenses—the ones stolen two nights before. “I found them inside Berengar’s habit,” he said. “I saw them on your nose the other day in the scrip?torium. They are yours, aren’t they?”
“God be praised,” William cried joyously64. “We’ve solved two problems! I have my lenses and I finally know for sure that it was Berengar who robbed us the other night in the scriptorium!”
We had barely finished speaking when Nicholas of Morimondo came running up, even more triumphant65 than William. In his hands he held a finished pair of lenses, mounted on their fork. “William,” he cried, “I did it all by myself. I’ve finished them! I believe they’ll work!” Then he saw that William had other lenses on his nose, and he was stunned66. William didn’t want to humiliate67 him: he took off his old lenses and tried on the new ones. “These are better than the others,” he said. “So. I’ll keep the old ones as a spare pair, and will always use yours.” Then he turned to me. “Adso, now I shall withdraw to my cell to read those papers you know about. At last! Wait for me somewhere. And thank you, thank all of you, dearest brothers.”
Terce was ringing and I went to the choir, to recite with the others the hymn68, the psalms69, the verses, and the “Kyrie.” The others were praying for the soul of the dead Berengar. I was thanking God for having allowed us to find not one but two pairs of lenses.
In that great peace, forgetting. all the ugly things I had seen and heard, I dozed70 off, waking only as the office ended. I realized I hadn’t slept that night and I was distressed71 to think also how I had expended72 much of my strength. And at this point, coming out into the fresh air, I began to find my thoughts obsessed73 by the memory of the girl.
Trying to distract myself, I began to stride rapidly over the grounds. I felt a slight dizziness. I clapped my numbed74 hands together. I stamped my feet on the earth. I was still sleepy, and yet I felt awake and full of life. I could not understand what was happening to me.
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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redundantly
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| 多余地，冗余地 | |
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inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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hesitation
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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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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minor
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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accomplice
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decided
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abruptly
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fore
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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stammered
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apprehensively
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justification
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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pints
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defiant
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meditating
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tempted
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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investigation
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rumors
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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hierarchy
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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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impelled
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sincerity
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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mote
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| n.微粒；斑点 | |
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motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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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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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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