Avignon
Monday, April 23, 2012

After weeks of wet weather elsewhere, it seems impossible that the sun should be shining brightly, but it is: the south is blessed.

Speaking of blessings, yesterday's Mass at Nortre Dame des Doms, the church adjoining the Palais des Papes, was elegant and something special. A group of Slovak Catholic priests and nuns were visiting, so the church's normal contingent, four priests plus a nun or two, was supplemented by an equal contingent of Slovakian religious. The Mass will be conducted in Latin, French and Slovakian, with the liturgy in Latin, the readings in French, and also Slovakian.

The French prelates all wear white, the Slovakians black, reflecting their Orthodox roots. They process from the side of the altar up the set of stairs to the altar. One of the French priests, the eldest of all, his legs weak, has to be helped to a chair before the Mass starts. He sits at the altar, wearing a black biretta with a red pompom, as one of the Princes of the Church --another term for "Cardinal"-- would. Later, the French nun leading the singing tells me that he is not even a bishop --it is just that his head is cold, so he wears the hat. --Which he doffs, whenever the congregation bows or genuflects.

The church gradually fills, but by the time the Mass starts is standing room only. I arrived early, so I get a seat next to two Slovakian nuns a few rows from the altar, a perfect viewing gallery. To the left of me sit an elderly man and his grandson, a lively boy of perhaps three years. In front of him sits his wife and a granddaughter, and in front of her their son and daughter-in-law and another granddaughter. The boy is lively and happy to walk softly between the rows throughout the long Mass, which takes ninety minutes. His grandfather, is also fascinating to watch. Tall and dressed with a sobriety that suggests la vielle France --a world where men were the heads of families and took the responsibility seriously, if autocratically-- he chants the Latin liturgy by heart. He is, I think cut of the same tough cloth as the elderly priest, who has to be helped to walk to the pulpit, but once there, launches into his reading, voice at full throttle.

There is great use of incense: when the Host is elevated, a priest kneels on the stairs below the altar and swings the cense to bathe the sacrament in the smoke. The trio of bells are gently shaken during the Eucharistic prayer and before the egress at the end of the Mass, the censer is loaded again and swung ahead of the principal celebrants as they walk the center aisle towards the door, where they wait to greet the faithful. Walking out of the church in this direction, framed by the portal, is a large white stone crucifix bathed in the noon sunshine. It is juxtaposed against a niche of fine woods at the church's opposite end, at the altar, into which five oval portraits of the Avignon Popes have been set. The Church's flight to Avignon required some retrenchment insofar as the size of the new Vatican, but not in its magnificence, which persists. There is great use of incense: when the Host is elevated, a priest kneels on the stairs below the altar and swings the cense to bathe the sacrament in the smoke. The trio of bells are gently shaken during the Eucharistic prayer and before the egress at the end of the Mass, the censer is loaded again and swung ahead of the principal celebrants as they walk the center aisle towards the door, where they wait to greet the faithful. Walking out of the church in this direction, framed by the portal, is a large white stone crucifix bathed in the noon sunshine. It is juxtaposed against a niche of fine woods at the church's opposite end, at the altar, into which five oval portraits of the Avignon Popes have been set. The Church's flight to Avignon required some retrenchment insofar as the size of the new Vatican, but not in its magnificence, which persists.

***

After lunch on the square in front of the Palace of the Popes, I take the bus to Villeneuve. The maid making my bed has told me not to miss it, and to take advantage of the good weather Sunday. I do as I am told, and after a bus ride of thirty minutes, I am in Avignon Villeneuve. The fort here encloses an abbey known for its gardens, so I make the trek up the bumpy cobblestoned path to the fort on the height and buy a ticket to see the abbey, which is dedicated to Saint Casarie.

Saint Casarie was the wife of Valens, who became a bishop. She became a hermit and lived on the hill where the monastery was founded in recognition of her sanctity. The ruins of the original church, the gardens, and the view across the fields --which today extends as far as Mont Ventoux-- were well worth the trip. The rose garden is on many lists of "most beautiful gardens in France": the flowers are flanked by a border of rosemary.

I walk through the section of the abbey which features a resume of its history, and see the in the Collegiale in Villeneuve a portrait of Saint Casarie can be seen. I walk down to town, a matter of a few minutes, and find the church. It is jam-packed at five o'clock, almost every seat taken. I am welcomed inside by two gentlemen handing out leaflets --a free concert is about to begin. It is in celebration of an anniversary of French-Italian cultural cooperation and features Homilus, a choir from Avignon, singing liturgical chants from several centuries. The concert will be a "good hour" the gentlemen inform me. I have a bus to make in ninety minutes, but enough time, I figure, to make it to the bus stop by 6:15 p.m., in time to make the 6:23.

I am so glad I attended: the choir is spectacular. The French do this kind of singing very well, the precision liturgical music requires, the "bending" of tonalities being almost a specialty. Homilus' concert is a soothing hour of music performed in a space as old as some of the music sung, and I leave the church on light feet.

Unfortunately, my bus never shows up, so having light feet is a good thing, because I ultimately have to walk back to Avignon. Dreading what this might entail, I set off on a narrow road, stopping whenever I see another soul to ask whether I am on the right path for the bridge. However, the walk is actually a matter of twenty minutes, and --there is the famous Pont d'Avignon over the Rhone. Any French student of the 1950s learned the famous song:

Sur le pont
D'Avignon
L'on y danse
L'on y danse

Sur le pont
D'Avignon
L'on y danse
Tout en ronde.

The walk is an easy one, and I make my way back to the walls of Avignon, entering through one of its majestic gates. I realize that one thing I might do while here (I leave Thursday), is bicycle the circumference of the old city's gates: I had intended to rent a bicycle Monday, so this is more than possible.