Some three years ago I made a fortnight visit, as an aspirant, to the Institute of the Incarnate Word's European seminary, San Vitaliano, in Montefiascone, Italy (subsequently nicknamed by me as Mount Fiasco). It was all rather surreal.
The mark of a foolhardy traveller is that he makes assumptions. When I arranged my trip with the Novice master, I only thought it necessary to give him the date of my arrival. The trains would probably be frequent, and there would almost certainly be a line of taxis at Montefiascone station to take to the seminary. It was late afternoon when I boarded the train at Roma Termini, from an obscure platform hidden a ten walk from the main concourse, and the gray, mournful sky was darkening rapidly. All seemed well, until the train departed. There was no audible announcement of what station was next, no announcement at all. At first this was merely an inconvenience, I assumed that at night each station would have an easily-readable, illuminated sign, which would inform me of where I was. Alas, I could see no indication of our location at any of the dark, dreary, rural stations we passed through. I was starting to panic - how would I know which stop to get off at? Could I afford to spend a night in Viterbo, the terminus? How would I contact the seminary without internet access? For consolation I prayed five decades of the Rosary.
Our Lady provided, and as I went about the carriage seeking assistance, I came across one of the seminarians, who happened to be returning from some business in Rome, and who spoke English! We alighted at a tiny station, where the folly of my second assumption was laid bare. There were no taxis, practically no traffic at all. Montefiascone, as the name suggests, is build upon a very steep hill above Lake Bolsena, with the medieval old town at the summit. Being impractical to make a train go up such a slope, merely to descend it again to reach Viterbo, the station is at the foot of the hill, at the extremity of the place, almost isolated. The seminarians explained they normally either walked - some feat given that the road approaching the seminary must be at about a 50 degree angle - or hitch-hiked from the station. As it was a car was sent to pick us up.
The seminary is in the old town, it is an extremely long and narrow, eighteenth century building, which had previously served as a school, My first and lasting impression were of a set of low, worn steps, with a broken statue on one side, completely in darkness, save what light came from the windows of the refectory some distance away, leading to the front door; a stone, high-ceilinged corridor, dimly illuminated by a strip-light mounted on the wall; and a clean, bright, spartan room, containing four beds, two small tables, a hard, wooden chair, and a wardrobe, that was be mine for the stay. It was extremely cold, but I was grateful for having arrived safely (and without embarrassment!).
After a hour or so it was time for Vespers, and I was lead to the chapel, which was at the other end of the building. It was rather like snakes and ladders, we ascended one staircase, only to descend another, though the general trend was upwards. The chapel had white walls, and was covered from every angle by huge, halogen lights. After the dull, antique corridors, it seemed dazzlingly bright, discombobulating even. There was a special light focussed on a large, golden monstrance on the altar. To the left of the sanctuary, in the nave, stood a life size crucifix, with a tearful, praying Madonna in front of it, both modern, but tasteful. I later learnt that one of the seminarians had made them himself, and that he was then engaged in fashioning an iconostasis for the Byzantine chapel. The pews were very high, so that one was half sitting, half standing, the way one does on the stools of hipster coffee shops. This is a pleasant change for someone like me with very long legs. The kneelers were bare wood, as seems to be the custom in Italy. Padding is clearly a wanton decadence of Northern Europe. Much to my vexation the tabernacle was outwith the sanctuary, on what traditionalists would call the Epistle side. Overall, it was a very nice chapel, I'd take over most Scottish churches any day.
During my stay there passed the Feast of St Antony of Egypt (the Great), which is today. I read the admirable biography of him by St Athanasius whilst at San Vitaliano. Sadly, I've forgotten most of it apart from the exciting or silly bits. He was a hermit, greatly devoted to acts of penance, one of which was that he did not wash for three years. Satan took the form of wild beasts and tried to frighten and attack him. He used his gentleness and erudition to urge visitors to his hermitage against the evils of Arianism. The IVE Sisters (known as the SSVM) had a house near us, and good few of their number were Egyptians, so they were invited to share their patronal feast with us.
Rumour was had that we getting a priest to celebrate Mass according to some Coptic rite. All being ignorant of Oriental liturgies, we speculated as to what it would be like. The consensus was that it would be long. 'They'll take about forty minutes over every Amen, chanting a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-men', suggesting one, doing an impression of the sound one hears at the call to prayer at a mosque. Alas, we never found out. There was some last minute problem, and the Coptic priest could not attend. In lieu of his services a Roman rite, novus ordo, was celebrated in Arabic, complemented with Arabic hymns sang by the sisters. They provided us with hymn sheets with phonetic lyrics in Latin script, but only the sisters really bothered singing, which they did lustily. It was all rather surreal.
There then followed a most delightful meal, which more than made up for the liturgical disappointment. It was all Egyptian fare, savoury pastries and yoghurts, served with bitter tea the strength of diesel. I am very glad I got to experience it. That aspirancy was a useful time, both spiritually and practically, though I prefer to keep the former private and share the enjoyment of the absurdities with you.
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