Footprints of pilgrimage

The simplicity of the Abbey of Sant’Antimo, both on the outside and the interior,
imprints itself upon the mind, writes B. N. Goswamy

IT's a beautiful summer’s day." So begins an engaging account by a modern ‘pilgrim’ of sorts as he leaves the crowds of the great Italian city of Siena behind. Big cities with their ‘art monuments greyed over with pollution’ hold no attraction for him, he writes. But he knows that there are, in that wonderful medieval setting, tiny little worlds of quiet to explore: villages, churches, estates, farms, abbeys and castles.

"I allow my eyes to guide me as I cross the bare clay hills, famous throughout the world for their warm ochre, yellow and green colouring. These areas tell stories — thousands of years old — about princes, counts, bishops and saints, artists and craftsmen, painters and peasants."

Just a few weeks back, my family and I found ourselves in nearly the same situation. We had left the lovely little medieval town of Cortona, in the very heart of Tuscany, to go and see Siena but — trust it or not — could not find a single parking space in the entire town, parking garages, marked spaces along the roads, side streets, all included. That is when our gracious hosts and friends, Professor and Mrs Spillman, who were leading the group, suggested that we drive further and go and see instead ‘a quiet little place of worship’: the Abbey of Sant’Antimo. We had no idea of what the place might turn out to be like, but when we reached it, everything about it simply took our breath away: the setting, the architecture, the sense of history that one could breathe almost instantly in the atmosphere.

The simple-looking but not small abbey — all stone walls, beige in colour, some of them worn with age, some not in a perfect state — nestles in a valley, in the midst of fields filled with olive plants and orderly vineyards, surrounded by low rolling hills that are alive with vegetation as far as the eye travels. As one approaches it, one notices the palpable air of quiet all around the structure. Noble restraint is the term that springs to mind. One can almost visualise the overpowering feeling of solitude that must descend upon it as evening falls. Or the feeling of freshness as dawn breaks. Those who lived here, and died — priests and princes and peasants — must have experienced it each day of their lives.

Sant’Antimo is not one of the most-often spoken of saints of the Catholic Church — he is obviously not St Anthony — but this extraordinary abbey preserves his name. Tradition has it that his relics were moved here from Rome in the 4th century. The place became an imperial abbey under Charlemagne, the great Roman emperor: several large donations followed and marked prestige came to be attached to the establishment. Slowly the abbey, under the care of Benedictine monks, found itself inserted into the system of the great European pilgrimage itineraries, the place offering refuge and assistance to travellers and pilgrims. Architecturally the structure could be termed simply as Romanesque — bearing the imprint of the French style, as mediated by local idioms — but the description does not do it justice. The layout is of the basilica type, with three naves, walkways and radial chapels — as literature available at the abbey tells us — and it has an uncommon feature in the slope of the central nave, which rises gently. But all this detail interests possibly only the specialist, the researcher. For the common visitor, which included us, it is the simplicity of the place, both on the outside and the interior, which imprints itself upon the mind. Clearly, the abbey has seen better days — its fortunes having fluctuated over the centuries — but nothing, neither time nor dwindling resource, seems to have succeeded in sullying its air of solemnity: unfussy graciousness, if one so likes.

As we entered the church quietly — the place almost demands reverence — there were no other visitors, barring a stray couple or two. But in a corner at left was a simply dressed man, who looked neither like a priest nor a member of the establishment, completely absorbed in playing a gentle piece on an oboe. He was seemingly unaware of his surroundings or any other people around him. It looked as if he had just broken into music seeing the setting — like a dhrupad singer might do on the stepped banks of the Narmada in Maheshwar — and deciding to pay it his homage. We stood in the opposite corner and listened. It was curiously moving. `A0

We lingered inside for a while, taking in the sights that the interior offered, including some fine carvings on the capitals one of which featured the biblical scene of Daniel in the den of lions. But just as we were leaving, we noticed a little placard, which gave the timings at which the priests chant inside the Church each day. This was great temptation, for we were not even aware that the church was in worship, being actually in daily use. And then as we decided to stay, we saw a group of priests — seven in number — dressed in coarse white robes, enter and take their places on the raised platform at one end of the building. Slowly, they kneeled, heads bent, knees resting on wooden benches, and began to chant. The most wonderful sounds filled the air, their voices soaring and spiralling in the air towards the tall ceiling above. Clearly, Gregorian chants: quiet passion and grace. Suddenly one felt transported back in time: it was as if centuries were sliding by.

I do not know what it is about places like these that makes the experience of being there so affecting. But surely there is something. History perhaps? The thinning texture of time? An awareness of past devotions?

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