William hesitated a moment. “I heard him say Penitenziagite.”
Ubertino was silent. He waved one hand, as if to drive off a bothersome thought. “No, I don’t believe so. You know how these lay brothers are. Country people, who have perhaps heard some wandering preacher and don’t know what they are saying. I would have other reproaches to make to Salvatore: he is a greedy animal and lustful. But nothing, nothing against orthodoxy. No, the sickness of the abbey is something else: seek it among those who know too much, not in those who know nothing. Don’t build a castle of suspicions on one word.”
“I would never do that,” William answered. “I gave up being an inquisitor precisely to avoid doing that. But I like also to listen to words, and then I think about them.”
“You think too much. Boy,” he said, addressing me, “don’t learn too many bad examples from your master. The only thing that must be pondered—and I realize this at the end of my life—is death. Mors est quies viatoris—finis est omnis laboris. Let me pray now.”
TOWARD NONES
In which William has a very erudite conversation with Severinus the herbalist.
We walked back down the central nave and left. I was still troubled by the conversation with Ubertino.
“That man is . . . odd,” I said.
“He is, or has been, in many ways a great man. But for this very reason he is odd. It is only petty men who seem normal. Ubertino could have become one of the heretics he helped burn, or a cardinal of the holy Roman church. He came very close to both perversions. When I talk with Ubertino I have the impression that hell is heaven seen from the other side.”
I did not grasp his meaning. “From what side?” I asked.
“Ah, true,” William acknowledged the problem. “It is a matter of knowing whether there are sides and whether there is a whole. But pay no attention to me. And stop looking at that doorway,” he said, striking me lightly on the nape as I was turning, attracted by the sculptures I had seen on entering. “They have frightened you enough for today. All of them.”
As I turned back to the exit, I saw in front of me another monk. He could have been William’s age. He smiled and greeted us cordially. He said he was Severinus of Sankt Wendel, and he was the brother herbalist, in charge of the balneary, the infirmary, the gardens, and he was ours to command if we would like to learn our way better around the abbey compound.
William thanked him and said he had already remarked, on coming in, the very fine vegetable garden, where it looked to him as if not only edible plants were grown, but also medicinal ones, from what he could tell, given the snow.
“In summer or spring, through the variety of its plants, each then adorned with its flowers, this garden sings better the praises of the Creator,” Severinus said, somewhat apologetically. “But even now, in winter, the herbalist’s eye sees through the dry branches the plants that will come, and he can tell you that this garden is richer than any herbal ever was, and more varicolored, beautiful as the illuminations are in those volumes. Furthermore, good herbs grow also in winter, and I preserve others gathered and ready in the pots in my laboratory.
And so with the roots of the wood sorrel I treat catarrhs, and with the decoction of althea roots I make plasters for skin diseases; burrs cicatrize eczemas; by chopping and grinding the snakeroot rhizome I treat diarrheas and certain female complaints; pepper is a fine digestive; coltsfoot eases the cough; and we have good gentian also for the digestion, and I have glycyrrhiza, and juniper for making excellent infusions, and elder bark with which I make a decoction for the liver, soapwort, whose roots are macerated in cold water for catarrh, and valerian, whose properties you surely know.”
“You have widely varied herbs, and suited to different climates. How do you manage that?”
“On the one hand, I owe it to the mercy of the Lord, who set our high plain between a range that overlooks the sea to the south and receives its warm winds, and the higher mountain to the north whose sylvan balsams we receive. And on the other hand, I owe it to my art, which, unworthily, I learned at the wish of my masters. Certain plants will grow even in an adverse climate if you take care of the terrain around them, and their nourishment, and their growth.”
“But you also have plants that are good only to eat?” I asked.
“Ah, my hungry young colt, there are no plants good for food that are not good for treating the body, too, provided they are taken in the right quantity. Only excess makes them cause illness. Consider the onions. Warm and damp, in small quantities they enhance coitus (for those who have not taken our vows, naturally), but too many bring on a heaviness of the head, to be combatted with milk and vinegar. A good reason,” he added slyly, “why a young monk should always eat them sparingly. Eat garlic instead. Warm and dry, it is good against poisons. Even if they say that eating too many of them at night induces bad dreams. Far less, however, than certain other herbs that even provoke evil visions.”
“Which?” I asked.
“Aha, our novice wants to know too much. These are things that only the herbalist must know; otherwise any thoughtless person could go about distributing visions: in other words, lying with herbs.”
“But you need only a bit of nettle,” William said then, “or roybra or olieribus to be protected against such visions. I hope you have some of these good herbs.”
Severinus gave my master a sidelong glance. “You are interested in herbalism?”
“Just a little,” William said modestly, “since I came upon the Theatrum Sanitatis of Ububchasym de Baldach . . .”
“Abul Asan al-Muchtar ibn-Botlan.”
“Or Ellucasim Elimittar: as you prefer. I wonder whether a copy is to be found here.”
“One of the most beautiful. With many rich illustrations.”
“Heaven be praised. And the De virtutibus herbarum of Platearius?”
“That, too. And the De plantis of Aristotle.”
“I shall be happy,” Severinus concluded, “to have some frank conversation with you about herbs.”
“I shall be still happier,” William said, “but would we not be breaking the rule of silence, which I believe obtains in your order?”
“The Rule,” Severinus said, “has been adapted over the centuries to the requirements of the different communities. The Rule prescribed the lectio divina but not study, and yet you know how much our order has developed inquiry into divine and human affairs. Also, the Rule prescribes a common dormitory, but at times it is right that the monks have, as we do here, chances to meditate also during the night, and so each of them is given his own cell.
The Rule is very rigid on the question of silence, and here with us, not only the monk who performs manual labor but also those who write or read must not converse with their brothers. But the abbey is first and foremost a community of scholars, and often it is useful for monks to exchange the accumulated treasures of their learning. All conversation regarding our studies is considered legitimate and profitable, provided it does not take place in the refectory or during the hours of the holy offices.”
“Had you much occasion to talk with Adelmo of Otranto?” William asked abruptly.
Severinus did not seem surprised. “I see the abbot has already spoken with you,” he said. “No. I did not converse with him often. He spent his time illuminating. I did hear him on occasion talking with other monks, Venantius of Salvemec, or Jorge of Burgos, about the nature of his work. Besides, I don’t spend my day in the scriptorium, but in my laboratory.” And he nodded toward the infirmary building.
“I understand,” William said. “So you don’t know whether Adelmo had visions.”
“Visions?”
“Like the ones your herbs induce, for example.”
Severinus stiffened. “I told you: I store the dangerous herbs with great care.”
“That is not what I meant,” William hastened to clarify. “I was speaking of visions in general.”
“I don’t understand,” Severinus insisted.
“I was thinking that a monk who wanders at night about the Aedificium, where, by the abbot’s admission . . . terrible things can happen . . . to those who enter during forbidden hours—well, as I say, I was thinking he might have had diabolical visions that drove him to the precipice.”
“I told you: I don’t visit the scriptorium, except when I need a book; but as a rule I have my own herbaria, which I keep in the infirmary. As I said, Adelmo was very close to Jorge, Venantius, and . . . naturally, Berengar.”
Even I sensed the slight hesitation in Severinus’s voice. Nor did
