Ahead to Burgundy, back in time

Two modern-day pilgrims enjoy the timeless beauty of medieval churches

Author: By Robert Garrett, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, November 2, 1997

Page: M4

Section: Travel

``What's that?'' he said, as if searching for the right words for such a sight. Brendan is typically not at a loss to describe the world around him: He's a word guy, an expatriate American writer who lives in Paris with his wife and cat. I had persuaded him to take a few days off from work on his latest novel to visit a couple of medieval churches and see some nice landscape. And all he could say now was, ``Is that what I think it is?''

Many of us hope that travel will bring such moments, when some fantastic place swims up on the horizon and leaves us speechless. The otherworldly view that caught our attention is much the same as it was in the 12th century, when pilgrims began flocking to the church of St. Madeleine at Vezelay (pronounced VAY-zeh-lay). Back then, it was part of the pilgrimage route that the faithful, and adventurous, could follow all the way to Santiago de Compostela in Spain.

Our own itinerary was far less ambitious. After Vezelay, we would visit the Cathedral of St. Lazarus at Autun, another shrine in the area, which has some of the most splendid sculpture of the medieval age. From Paris down the A6, Vezelay is a fairly short drive once you get off the highway, and its proximity to this major road accounts in part for its continued popularity with visitors. Vezelay is on the northern edge of the Morvan Park, a hilly preserve known for its charming villages, lakes, and nature walks. Autun is just below the southeast corner of the park.

To put us in a meditative mood for Vezelay, we had gotten off the highway at Auxerre and then taken the scenic route from Avallon. (Watch carefully for the signs in the center of Avallon pointing to the ``Vallee de Cousin''; the road is easy to miss.) Brendan had thumbed through a guidebook that touted this back way as a serene detour that follows a ``gurgling'' stream. With car window rolled down, he said, ``I was waiting to hear that gurgle, and there it is.'' Yes, here was serenity, enough to wash away the anxieties of most city dwellers.

After getting on route D957, we swooped down the long valley that approaches Vezelay, climbed part way up the incline on the other side, and parked the car at the bottom of the village. I had been here more than 20 years ago, but had forgotten the dramatic walk up the hill to the church. Crowds of tourists were trekking the narrow street to St. Madeleine's, yet the mood was relaxed and unhurried. The steepness of the path made everyone's pace deliberate. Looking up, I kept noticing how close above the village the blue sky and bright puffy clouds seemed.

Just inside the west entrance to the church, we were greeted by Vezelay's famous figure of Christ, carved on the tympanum above the inner portals. Christ's arms are open in a blessing. His fingertips shower the apostles with sanctifying grace as they go forth to spread the faith. This is medieval Christianity at the height of its proselytizing vigor, and the apostles jump to life as if jolted by lightning. Christ looms above them, majestic yet fearsome, his enormous hand looking as if it could move heaven and Earth with a flick of the wrist.

Depicted above and below this scene are the pagan inhabitants of the world -- weird creatures, including men with pig snouts and wolf heads, who await the transforming power of salvation. It's difficult to pick out the details as you look up at these pre-Christian people, but the image of Christ as an irresistible savior is clear enough.

Christian zeal was carried a bit far at Vezelay, the site where two crusades were launched in the Middle Ages against the infidel. Nowadays, it would be difficult to imagine a more peaceful place. We had lunch in the grove of trees behind the church, on the shady backside of the village, looking down upon the valley from where we had come. Admiring the panorama, we ate a baguette and cheese, then consulted a map for the next leg of our pilgrimage.

The drive to Autun took us deeper into the past, for the medieval cathedral and town are built on the ruins of a prominent city of Roman Gaul founded by Augustus in 15 BC. By late afternoon, we arrived quite literally at the gates of the city -- an impressive and surprisingly intact Roman gateway through which both pedestrian and car traffic now passes. Autun and the area around it are littered with Gallo-Roman remains: a second gate on the other side of town, a Roman theater, a temple, and a burial mound. A long section of ancient Roman ramparts, rebuilt during the Middle Ages, threads its way around part of the town.

Although tired from the long day's drive, we strolled up the gently sloping hill to the cathedral, expecting that it might close at sunset but curious to see it, at least from outside. We were in luck. On that particularly warm summer evening, the doors were wide open, and the carvings atop the columns inside were dramatically lit. What's more, while Autun attracts its share of tourists, it's somewhat off the beaten track, and on our visit, we had the cathedral virtually to ourselves.

A common popular belief is that medieval church artists chose to labor anonymously at their craft in humble service to God. Actually, a number of artists' signatures have been found at various churches, usually positioned discreetly on capitals or on the bottom of columns. One bold example is in plain sight, an inscription chiseled prominently just below the feet of Christ on the tympanum of Autun cathedral's west portal. ``Gislebertus hoc facit,'' it boasts -- ``Gislebertus made this.''

In fact, Gislebertus made nearly all the sculpture at Autun, from about 1125 to 1135. Nowhere else was one artist the creator of a major sculptural program. The church fathers who commissioned him must have prized his talents to have encouraged such artistic expression. For us today, Autun offers a unique chance to see the full range of what was on the mind of a medieval artist.

One of the great set pieces of medieval art is the ``Last Judgment,'' and the apocalyptic vision above the west portal at Autun is especially harrowing. Trumpeting angels call the souls from their graves. On Christ's right, the elect shrug off their long slumber, looking startled as they are welcomed into paradise. A few of them cling to an angel's robe like children after a nap.

On Christ's left, the damned are sent to hell. Demons with spidery bodies pluck their victims and feed them into a caldron. Elsewhere, a soul is weighed on the scales of justice, and a devil seems to be enjoying a sadistic laugh as he tips the scales in his direction. Among the nightmarish images, one strikes our modern eyes as surreal in its horror -- a pair of gigantic hands appears out of nowhere to fasten in a crushing grip around the head of a screaming sinner.

It's very likely that medieval sculpture was originally painted, and I tried to imagine the garish effect of bright colors such as red, yellow, blue, and gold on this savage melodrama. I must have been gawking at the scene in my own private trance, for in a few minutes my travel companion appeared beside me in mock concern. ``You really like those little devils, don't you?'' said Brendan. ``Be careful they don't come after you.''

Like me, Brendan grew up Catholic and can remember one or two hellish encounters with nuns, so he was entitled to kid me all he wanted. I later found him lost in contemplation himself, in one of the side chapels. It's sometimes easy to forget that cathedrals that attract tourists for their art are also working churches. A rack of devotional candles lit the chapel, and my friend was standing quietly near them, as if basking in their light.

As I wandered about the interior of the cathedral and craned my neck to see the sculpture on the capitals above me, another side to the art of Gislebertus unfolded. On the west portal, the vision of official theology is uncompromising. Yet Gislebertus was also an artist of great heart. You can see this in the sympathetic portrait of Joseph on one of the capitals, as he peers around a corner at the nativity scene, clearly flustered at all the fuss. Like most of us, he's a minor character in the drama of life.

In the depiction of the ``Dream of the Magi,'' an angel warns the sleeping magi to flee the murderous Herod. The angel gently touches one of the kings, who opens one eye as if still dreaming. The sculpture at Autun is full of small gestures like this one. Gislebertus could reach for the big, splashy effect, but it's the sense of intimacy and recognizable emotion that's so captivating. Beyond the dogma of divine justice, beyond heaven and hell, beyond good and evil, this is art with a human face.

As we left the church, the light was fading, and we paused to take in the view from the cathedral porch. The buildings of the ancient town press up close to the west facade of the church. I felt satisfied and calm just standing there looking at the timeless scene of rooftops and sky. My fatigue from the day's travel had lifted. We decided to eat dinner at a modest restaurant only a few paces from the cathedral doors. In warm weather, the tourists drink wine at outdoor tables and gaze up at the famous church portal and the sculpture of Christ ushering in eternity.

In the morning, we returned to the cathedral and visited the ``salle capitulaire,'' the church gallery to the right of the main altar. During structural renovations of the cathedral in the 19th century, a number of sculptures were replaced with copies. The originals are in the gallery, displayed near eye level where they can be examined at close range.

I also paid a quick visit to the Rolin Museum, near the cathedral, with its selection of Gallo-Roman sculpture and everyday objects, including many of the pagan gods once worshiped in Autun. Also on exhibit is a large sculpture of Eve by Gislebertus, shown as she is about to offer Adam the apple. This portrait of our biblical parents was once positioned on the lintel over the cathedral's north doorway. The figure of Adam is missing, and Eve was, too, for many years, until the carving of her was found embedded in the wall of a nearby building and put on view in the museum.

Traditionally, Eve is associated with guilt and tragedy, but what comes through here is sensuality and joy. She's cupping her hand to say something to Adam, a whisper that led to the fall from paradise. Tough luck for the human race, yet a moment of surprising radiance and warmth as seen in this sculpture. As I got ready to drive off into the countryside again, I couldn't help thinking about the look of optimism in Eve's face. For all the suffering of paradise lost, her glance seems to say, this is not such a bad old world after all.