Hosanna: Palm Sunday dawns in Beauvais

Before the French Revolution, Beauvais, about an hour north of Paris on the train, was one of the “villes sonnantes” – the “ringing towns” – whose belfries regulated the daily rhythm of morn and eve, life and death, and everything in between. The best calculations suggest that there were 135 bells in 16^th-century Beauvais, between the confraternities and canonries, parish churches and monasteries and convents.

Renaissance maps tell the full story. The Jacobins were here, along with the Ursulines, Sisters of Charity and three types of Franciscans: the Minims, Capuchins and Cordeliers. There were dozens of churches, chief among them the Cathedral of St Peter. So strategic was Beauvais that its bishops were also its counts; they later became peers of France and had the privilege of carrying the royal mantle at the coronations of its kings.

They were something of a mixed bunch: Pierre Cauchon approved the execution of Jeanne d’Arc, who now has her own chapel in the cathedral; Odet de Chatillon abandoned his faith for Calvinism at the Reformation, despite being a cardinal; François-Joseph Rochefoucauld, now a beatus, was martyred by the revolutionaries in 1792; François-Jean-Hyacinthe Feutrier served as minister for ecclesiastical affairs in the Martignac cabinet of 1828-1829.

The cathedral was, briefly, famous for being the tallest building in the world between 1569 and 1573 – until its tower collapsed. It was not a new phenomenon, for Beauvais Cathedral has for centuries represented both sides of the coin of human endeavour: ambition and folly. So keen was Beauvais to have a better cathedral than anywhere else – anywhere in this case being mainly Amiens – that its builders pushed the Gothic form to its limits and beyond.

It still has the highest choir in Christendom, standing at a precarious 160 feet. I say precarious, because for almost all of its existence bits have been falling off. Soaring arches have had to be subdivided and ambitious plans abandoned; the new pointed arch could only support so much. After the fall of the tower work was abandoned; the planned nave was never built, which at least saved a few bays of the original 10^th-century basilica.

Huge wood-and-metal braces now hold the structure together; ongoing work has seen the cancellation of masses in the cathedral for as long as it lasts. It seems something of a cop-out – it’s not as if the choir isn’t enormous – but the powers that be have decided that for now divine worship will take place elsewhere. Inevitably, being France, there was canned music playing when I visited; on the day before Palm Sunday it was Christmas carols.

There is some fantastic medieval glass, and the modern offerings that flank it in the ambulatory behind the high altar are – on the whole – sensitively done. The sun casts kaleidoscopic patterns across the pale grey walls; the département des oeuvres has resisted over-restoration, at least for now. A mad astronomical clock, commissioned by one of the nineteenth-century holders of the see, whirrs and clunks and chimes away each quarter hour.

Good art also makes its presence felt, mainly in the former bishop’s palace, which also survived the non-completion of the projected nave – and the indignities of the First Republic. My stand-out piece of the permanent collection is an enormous abstract Annunciation by George Desvallières (d. 1950). Gabriel speaks with his hands hovering over Mary as at the epiclesis during Mass; she receives his news kneeling and with arms outstretched in strong, intentional obéissance.  

The building now houses the Musée Départemental De l’Oise, affectionately known as Le Mudo. At the moment Renaissance: Portes de la modernité is on display until 30 November, with some fine European work that runs to as late as the early seventeenth century. It is a serious show, but it’s hard not to chuckle when one remembers the French for “crescent moon” and then encounters a finely carved “Vierge au croissant”.

Speaking of croissants, there’s decent food as well. Although both restaurants listed in the Michelin Guide are closed for the down-season, there are plenty of unpretentious local eateries serving simple, honest fare. White asparagus is already on sale in the market square, and I found first-rate andouillette in a little bistro next to la mairie. Wine goes without saying, of course, but also plenty of excellent abbey-beer.

Alas, the fine weather has broken at last; Palm Sunday has dawned with full, grey skies – more Rorate Caeli than Pueri Hebraeorum. The remaining bells have begun; between the wind-buffeted cherry-blossom and drooping wisteria the residents of sleepy Beauvais attend to their affairs while the sun struggles to break through the clouds. Over it all the truncated cathedral, riteless, looms.

While branches of box, olive and laurel are processed – in French at St-Étienne and Latin at Notre-Dame de Marissel, where the Institute of Christ the King has its local base – it chants its own silent Hosanna. It is one of frailty and folly, hubris and nemesis: Babel in our midst. Le Dimanche des Rameaux is upon us; Christ has entered Jerusalem; the Passion has been proclaimed; Holy Week has begun. “Is it nothing to you?” Stat crux dum volvitur orbis, and I need to find somewhere to watch Le Boat Race.

Serenhedd James is Editor of the Catholic Herald

The post Hosanna: Palm Sunday dawns in Beauvais first appeared on Catholic Herald.

The post Hosanna: Palm Sunday dawns in Beauvais appeared first on Catholic Herald.