The Name of the Rose

by Umberto Eco

  The abbot looked at him with uneasy amazement, as if to signify that he was struck to see my master harbor a suspicion that he himself had briefly harbored, for more comprehensible reasons. He said then rapidly, “He was there. His place is in the first row, almost at my right hand.”

  “Naturally,” William said, “all this means nothing. I don’t believe anyone entering the choir passed behind the apse, and therefore the corpse could have been here for several hours, at least since the time when everyone had gone to bed.”

  “To be sure, the first servants rise at dawn, and that is why they discovered him only now.”

  William bent over the corpse, as if he were used to dealing with dead bodies. He dipped the cloth lying nearby into the water of the bucket and further cleansed Venantius’s face. Meanwhile, the other monks crowded around, frightened, forming a talkative circle on which the abbot imposed silence. Among the others, now making his way forward, came Severinus, who saw to matters of physical health in the abbey; and he bent down next to my master. To hear their dialogue, and to help William, who needed a new clean cloth soaked in the water, I joined them, overcoming my terror and my revulsion.

  “Have you ever seen a drowned man?” William asked.

  “Many times,” Severinus said. “And if I guess what you imply, they do not have this face: the features are swollen.”

  “Then the man was already dead when someone threw the body into the jar.”

  “Why would he have done that?”

  “Why would he have killed him? We are dealing with the work of a twisted mind. But now we must see whether there are wounds or bruises on the body. I suggest it be carried to the balneary, stripped, washed, and examined. I will join you there at once.”

  And while Severinus, receiving permission from the abbot, was having the body carried away by the swineherds, my master asked that the monks be told to return to the choir by the path they had taken before, and that the servants retire in the same way, so the ground would remain deserted. Thus we remained alone, beside the vessel, from which blood had spilled during the macabre operation of the body’s recovery. The snow all around was red, melting in several puddles where the water had been thrown; and there was a great dark stain where the corpse had been stretched out.

  “A fine mess,” William said, nodding toward the complex pattern of footprints left all around by the monks and the servants. “Snow, dear Adso, is an admirable parchment on which men’s bodies leave very legible writing. But this palimpsest is badly scraped, and perhaps we will read nothing interesting on it. Between here and the church there has been a great bustle of monks, between here and the barn and the stables the servants have moved in droves. The only intact space is between the barns and the Aedificium. Let us see if we can find something of interest.”

  “What do you expect to find?” I asked.

  “If he didn’t throw himself into the vessel on his own, someone carried him there, already dead, I imagine. And a man carrying another man’s body leaves deep tracks in snow. So look and see if you find around here some prints that seem different to you from the prints of those noisy monks who have ruined our parchment for us.”

  And we did. And I will say immediately that I was the one, God preserve me from all vanity, who discovered something between the jar and the Aedificium. They were human footprints, fairly deep, in a zone where no one had yet passed, and, as my master remarked at once, fainter than those left by the monks and the servants, a sign that more snow had fallen and thus they had been made some time before. But what seemed to us most noteworthy was that among those prints there was a more continuous trail, as of something dragged by the one leaving the prints. In short, a spoor that went from the jar to the door of the refectory, on the side of the Aedificium between the south tower and the east tower.

  “Refectory, scriptorium, library,” William said. “Once again, the library. Venantius died in the Aedificium, and most probably in the library.”

  “And why in the library exactly?”

  “I am trying to put myself in the murderer’s place. If Venantius had died, been killed, in the refectory, in the kitchen, or in the scriptorium, why not leave him there? But if he died in the library, then he had to be carried elsewhere, both because in the library the body would never have been discovered (and perhaps the murderer was particularly interested in its being discovered) and because the murderer probably does not want attention to be concentrated on the library.”

  “And why should the murderer be interested in the body’s being discovered?”

  “I don’t know. I can suggest some hypotheses. How do we know that the murderer killed Venantius because he hated Venantius? He could have killed him, rather than another, to leave a sign, to signify something else.”

  “Omnis mundi creatura, quasi liber et pictura . . .” I murmured. “But what would that sign be?”

  “This is what I do not know. But let us not forget that there are also signs that seem such and are instead without meaning, like blitiri or bu-ba-baff. . . .”

  “It would be atrocious,” I said, “to kill a man in order to say bu-ba-baff!”

  “It would be atrocious,” William remarked, “to kill a man even to say ‘Credo in unum Deum.’ . . .”

  At that moment Severinus joined us. The corpse had been washed and examined carefully. No wound, no bruise on the head.

  “Do you have poisons in your laboratory?” William asked, as we headed for the infirmary.

  “That depends on what you mean by poison. There are substances that in small doses are healthful and in excessive doses cause death. Like every good herbalist I keep them, and I use them with discretion. In my garden I grow, for example, valerian. A few drops in an infusion of other herbs calms the heart if it is beating irregularly. An exaggerated dose brings on drowsiness and death.”

  “And you noticed no signs of any particular poison on the corpse?”

  “None. But many poisons leave no trace.”

  We had reached the infirmary. Venantius’s body, washed in the balneary, had been brought there and was lying on the great table in Severinus’s laboratory; alembics and other instruments of glass and earthenware made me think of an alchemist’s shop (though I knew of such things only by indirect accounts). On some long shelves against the wall by the door was arrayed a vast series of cruets, ampoules, jugs, pots, filled with substances of different colors.

  “A fine collection of simples,” William said. “All products of your garden?”

  “No,” Severinus said, “many substances, rare, or impossible to grow in this climate, have been brought to me over the years by monks arriving from every part of the world. I have many precious things that cannot be found readily, along with substances easily obtained from the local flora. You see . . . aghalingho pesto comes from Cathay: I received it from a learned Arab. Indian aloe, excellent cicatrizant. Live arient revives the dead, or, rather, wakes those who have lost their senses. Arsenacho: very dangerous, a mortal poison for anyone who swallows it. Borage, a plant good for ailing lungs. Betony, excellent for fractures of the head. Mastic: calms pulmonary fluxions and troublesome catarrhs. Myrrh . . .”

  “The gift of the Magi?” I asked.

  “The same. But also good for preventing miscarriage. And this is mumia, very rare, produced by the decomposition of mummified cadavers; it is used in the preparation of many almost miraculous medicines. Mandragora, good for sleep . . .”

  “And to stir desires of the flesh,” my master remarked.

  “So they say, but here it is not used for that purpose, as you can imagine.” Severinus smiled. “And look at this,” he said, taking down an ampoule. “Tutty, miraculous for the eyes.”

  “And what is this?” William asked in a bright voice, touching a stone lying on a shelf.

  “That? It was given to me some time ago. It apparently has therapeutic virtues, but I have not yet discovered what they are. Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” William said, “but not as
a medicine.” He took from his habit a little knife and slowly held it toward the stone. As the knife, moved by his hand with extreme delicacy, came close to the stone, I saw that the blade made an abrupt movement, as if William had shifted his wrist, which was, however, absolutely still. And the blade stuck to the stone, making a faint metallic sound.

  “You see,” William said to me, “it attracts iron.”

  “And what is its use?” I asked.

  “It has various uses, of which I will tell you. But for the present I would like to know, Severinus, if there is anything here that could kill a man.”

  Severinus reflected a moment—too long, I would have said, considering the clarity of his answer: “Many things. As I said, the line between poison and medicine is subtle; the Greeks used the word ‘pharmacon’ for both.”

  “And there is nothing that has been removed recently?”

  Severinus reflected again, then, as if weighing his words: “Nothing recently.”

  “And in the past?”

  “Who knows? I don’t recall. I have been in this abbey thirty years, and twenty-five in the infirmary.”

  “Too long for a human memory,” William admitted. Then, abruptly, he said, “We were speaking yesterday of plants that can induce visions. Which ones are they?”

  Severinus’s actions and the expression on his face indicated an intense desire to avoid that subject. “I would have to think, you know. I have so many miraculous substances here. But let us speak, rather, of Venantius’s death. What do you say about it?”

  “I would have to think,” William answered.

  Prime

  In which Benno of Uppsala confides certain things, others are confided by Berengar of Arundel, and Adso learns the meaning of true penitence.

  The horrible event had upset the life of the community. The confusion caused by the discovery of the corpse had interrupted the holy office. The abbot promptly sent the monks back to the choir, to pray for the soul of their brother.

  The monks’ voices were broken. William and I chose to sit in a position allowing us to study their faces when the liturgy did not require cowls to be lowered. Immediately we saw Berengar’s face. Pale, drawn, glistening with sweat.

  Next to him we noticed Malachi. Dark, frowning, impassive. Beside Malachi, equally impassive, was the face of the blind Jorge. We observed, on the other hand, the nervous movements of Benno of Uppsala, the rhetoric scholar we had met the previous day in the scriptorium; and we caught his rapid glance at Malachi. “Benno is nervous, Berengar is frightened,” William remarked. “They must be questioned right away.”

  “Why?” I asked ingenuously.

  “Ours is a hard task,” William said. “A hard task, that of the inquisitor, who must strike the weakest, and at their moment of greatest weakness.”

  In fact, as soon as the office was over, we caught up with Benno, who was heading for the library. The young man seemed vexed at hearing himself being called, and he muttered some faint pretext about work to be done. He seemed in a hurry to get to the scriptorium. But my master reminded him that he was carrying out an inquiry at the abbot’s behest, and led Benno into the cloister. We sat on the inner wall, between two columns. Looking from time to time toward the Aedificium, Benno waited for William to speak.

  “Well, then,” William asked, “what was said that day when you were discussing Adelmo’s marginalia with Berengar, Venantius, Malachi, and Jorge?”

  “You heard it yesterday. Jorge was saying that it is not licit to use ridiculous images to decorate books that contain the truth. And Venantius observed that Aristotle himself had spoken of witticisms and plays on words as instruments better to reveal the truth, and hence laughter could not be such a bad thing if it could become a vehicle of the truth. Jorge said that, as far as he could recall, Aristotle had spoken of these things in his Poetics, when discussing metaphor. And these were in themselves two disturbing circumstances, first because the book of the Poetics, unknown to the Christian world for such a long time, which was perhaps by divine decree, had come to us through the infidel Moors. . . .”

  “But it was translated into Latin by a friend of the angelic doctor of Aquino,” William said.

  “That’s what I said to him,” Benno replied, immediately heartened. “I read Greek badly and I could study that great book only, in fact, through the translation of William of Moerbeke. Yes, that’s what I said. But Jorge added that the second cause for uneasiness is that in this book Aristotle was speaking of poetry, which is infima doctrina and which exists on figments. And Venantius said that the psalms, too, are works of poetry and use metaphors; and Jorge became enraged because he said the psalms are works of divine inspiration and use metaphors to convey the truth, while the works of the pagan poets use metaphors to convey falsehood and for purposes of mere pleasure, a remark that greatly offended me. . . .”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am a student of rhetoric, and I read many pagan poets, and I know . . . or I believe that their words have conveyed also truths naturaliter Christian. . . . In short, at that point, if I recall correctly, Venantius spoke of other books and Jorge became very angry.”

  “Which books?”

  Benno hesitated. “I don’t remember. What does it matter which books were spoken of?”

  “It matters a great deal, because here we are trying to understand what has happened among men who live among books, with books, from books, and so their words on books are also important.”

  “It’s true,” Benno said, smiling for the first time, his face growing almost radiant. “We live for books. A sweet mission in this world dominated by disorder and decay. Perhaps, then, you will understand what happened on that occasion. Venantius, who knows . . . who knew Greek very well, said that Aristotle had dedicated the second book of the Poetics specifically to laughter, and that if a philosopher of such greatness had devoted a whole book to laughter, then laughter must be important. Jorge said that many fathers had devoted entire books to sin, which is an important thing, but evil; and Venantius said that as far as he knew, Aristotle had spoken of laughter as something good and an instrument of truth; and then Jorge asked him contemptuously whether by any chance he had read this book of Aristotle; and Venantius said that no one could have read it, because it has never been found and is perhaps lost forever. And, in fact, William of Moerbeke never had it in his hands. Then Jorge said that if it had not been found, this was because it had never been written, because Providence did not want futile things glorified. I wanted to calm everyone’s spirit, because Jorge is easily angered and Venantius was speaking deliberately to provoke him, and so I said that in the part of the Poetics that we do know, and in the Rhetoric, there are to be found many wise observations on witty riddles, and Venantius agreed with me. Now, with us was Pacificus of Tivoli, who knows the pagan poets very well, and he said that when it comes to these witty riddles, no one surpasses the African poets. He quoted, in fact, the riddle of the fish, of Symphosius:

  Est domus in terris, clara quae voce resultat.

  Ipsa domus resonat, tacitus sed non sonat hospes.

  Ambo tamen currunt, hospes simul et domus una.

  “At this point Jorge said that Jesus had urged our speech to be yes or no, for anything further came from the Evil One; and that to mention fish it was enough to say ‘fish,’ without concealing the notion under lying sounds. And he added that it did not seem to him wise to take the Africans as models. . . . And then . . .”

  “Then?”

  “Then something happened that I didn’t understand. Berengar began to laugh. Jorge reproached him, and he said he was laughing because it had occurred to him that if one sought carefully among the Africans, quite different riddles would be found, and not so easy as the one about the fish. Malachi, who was present, became furious, took Berengar by the cowl, and sent him off to his tasks. . . . Berengar, you know, is his assistant. . . .”

  “And after that?”

  “After that, Jorge put an end to the arg
ument by going away. We all went off to our occupations, but as I was working, I saw first Venantius, then Adelmo approach Berengar and ask him something. From the distance I saw he was parrying their questions, but in the course of the day both went back to him. And then that evening I saw Berengar and Adelmo confabulating in the cloister before entering the refectory. There, that’s all I know.”

  “You know, in fact, that the two persons who have recently died in mysterious circumstances had asked something of Berengar,” William said.

  Benno answered uncomfortably, “I didn’t say that! I told you what happened that day, because you asked me. . . .” He reflected a moment, then hastily added, “But if you want to know my opinion, Berengar spoke to them of something in the library, and that is where you should search.”

  “Why do you think of the library? What did Berengar mean about seeking among the Africans? Didn’t he mean that the African poets should be more widely read?”

  “Perhaps. So it seemed. But then why should Malachi have become furious? After all, he’s the one who decides whether or not a volume of African poets is given out to be read. But I know one thing: anyone leafing through the catalogue of books will often find, among the collocations that only the librarian understands, one that says ‘Africa,’ and I have even found one that said ‘finis Africae,’ the end of Africa. Once I asked for a book that bore that indication, I can’t recall which book, though the title had aroused my curiosity; and Malachi told me the books with that indication had been lost. This is what I know. And this is why I say you’re right, check on Berengar, and check when he goes up into the library. You never can tell.”

  “You never can tell,” William concluded, dismissing him. Then he began strolling with me in the cloister and remarked that, first of all, Berengar had once again been the subject of his brothers’ murmuring; second, Benno seemed eager to direct us to the library. I observed that perhaps he wanted us to discover there things he, too, wanted to know; and William said this was probably the case, but it was also possible that in directing us toward the library he wanted to keep us away from some other place. Which? I asked. And William said he did not know, perhaps the scriptorium, perhaps the kitchen, or the choir, or the dormitory, or the infirmary. I remarked that the previous day it was he, William, who had been fascinated by the library, and his answer was that he wanted to be fascinated by the things he chose and not as others advised him. But the library should be kept under observation, he went on, and at this point it would not be a bad idea to try to get into it somehow. Circumstances now authorized his curiosity, within the bounds of politeness and respect for the customs and laws of the abbey.