Back by popular demand - Republished from December’s Mid-Month Supplemental…

The scenery from Geneva to Milan is magnificent, except of course for the numerous tunnels we passed through, the longest of these being St. Gothard and Locarno. Our route followed the northern shore of Lake Geneva through Lausanne and Vevey along the Rhone River between the Jungfrau to the north and Matterhorn to the south. Some of the higher peaks were covered with snow, yet equally appealing to the eye were the quaint hamlets nestled in the green of the mountainsides. The chalets we could see from a distance were like dreamy visions of Alpine architecture. Our train moved rapidly and when we emerged from the Locarno Tunnel we knew we were in Italy and we soon caught passing views of Lake Maggiore. Our train stopped at a number of towns which had beautiful scenic mountains as backdrops. One of these towns was Stressa, where Mussolini was finally captured from the Germans by Italian partisans at the end of World War II.

Walking into the giant basilica terminal in Milan was almost like a homecoming for me because I had been here before, in fact only a year ago, and therefore it seemed almost as familiar to me as Thirtieth Street Station in Philadelphia. It was in the vicinity of this busy stazione that we began our search for a room under the false assumption that since it was October finding a vacancy would be child’s play compared to what it would be during the summer at the height of the tourist season. Surprisingly, it took more than two hours of making inquiries at I don’t know how many hotels and pensions before we found a room in a hotel on Via L. Settala only a couple of blocks from the Corso Buenos Aires, a main thoroughfare leading into the center of town.

Our room was on the ground floor and what we needed more than anything else as soon as we entered it was a few hours of sound sleep. When we awakened it was already ten o’clock and dark outside. Now we wanted to do some walking and find something to eat. By staying on the Corso Buenos Aires, which as one approaches closer to the center of the city becomes Corso Venezia, we shortly found ourselves in the vicinity of the Piazza del Duomo, the La Scala Opera House, and the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. The gigantic cathedral stood majestically in the darkness with few people and even fewer pigeons on the piazza. What was also particularly memorable at this late hour were the teen-agers on roller skates (not roller blades) in the glass-roofed arcade of the Galleria, zinging back and forth over the marble floor in the center of which was a circle inscribed with the initials SPQR (Senatus Populusque Romanus, the Senate and the People of Rome), the trademark of a mighty empire in the heyday of Pax Romana. As fast as the skaters rolled across the colored floor, not one ever collided with an elder stroller. Milan, we decided, was very much alive despite the clock’s proximity to midnight. We would come back the next morning and go sightseeing in this area.

My having been here the year before failed to diminish my excitement as I stood in front of the facade of the Duomo. It is Italy’s most auspicious contribution to Gothic architecture. Its sheer size reduces the human flow of visitors streaming in and out of its portals to the dimension of ants. Its nooks and crannies and arches are so peopled with statues of canonized notables that one is immediately convinced of the accuracy of those critics who have characterized Italian architects as possessing the souls of sculptors. Someone has counted 2,245 statues in all. Begun under the auspices of the Visconti aegis (indicated by the nest of vipers on the central stained glass window in the apse) in 1386, its construction continued over a period of 450 years. We walked in solemn awe down the nave, believing that the worshiper capacity mentioned by our guide book forty thousand was far too modest a figure for this monumental edifice to the Trinity. The impressive artwork, along with the milling crowds, are simply reduced to anonymity by the elephantine proportions of this five-aisled church containing what is purported to be the largest rose window in the world.

Whereas last year I didn’t make a tour of the roof of the cathedral, this time Katy and I spent nearly an hour enjoying the never-never land of ornate turrets, tracery, and spires, while occasionally peering down at the splendid panorama of buildings in Milan itself. Unlike Henry James, and probably because the day was not as clear as the one on which he rambled over the top of the cathedral amidst its acres of white stone filigree, we could not fathom so much as a hinted glimpse of the Alps to the north. Our failure could also be attributed to the fact that there was no carbon monoxide smog in his day.

The American-style cafeteria on the tenth floor of a department store across from the Duomo was closed. I had eaten there last year and remembered that the food was excellent. We strolled through the Galleria again and and looked at the expensive clothing in the windows of the stores. We were on our way to the Piazza della Scala to see the famous opera house, which is entered through the Museo Teatrale alla Scala, containing a marvelous collection of memorabilia of singers, composers and conductors associated with this neoclassical eighteenth-century building that was badly damaged by bombs during the Second World War and carefully restored in the years immediately following the war. The theater, with its tiers of elegant red velvet private boxes, reminded me of Stendhal’s Italian Journal descriptions of the many evenings he spent here more than 170 years ago, attending operas and making eyes at beautiful Italian aristocratic ladies. It was here that he met Lord Byron for the first time and noted that the already world-renowned English poet of Childe Harold could not yet speak Italian.

On leaving the theater we again passed through the museum and made a second inspection of its exhibits, which include such musical relics as Verdi’s piano, a death mask of the composer, the pen he wrote with, pencil drawings of his final hours, costumes of famous divas, plaster castings of hands belonging to famous conductors. Also displayed were innumerable photographs and painted portraits, along with striking busts of Rossini, whose corpulence even in this partial likeness gives evidence of his love of food as much as for writing music, and Puccini, who by comparison must have been gastronomically austere.

The last important visitation on our Milano agenda was Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Last Supper.” In the center of La Scala Plaza is a large full-length statue of Leonardo wearing a gown and a berretto. Milan is proud of its connection with this greatest of all Renaissance men, whose official status in the Sforza menage was that of artist-in-residence, military engineer, and muscian; in fact, in his letter of recommendation to Ludovico “il Moro” Sforza, the last of his family to rule the duchy, Lorenzo de Medici exalted Leonardo’s talent as an exquisite lute player (and it should also be added that he not only made his own instruments but also wrote his own music).

To reach the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, in whose refectory, appropriately, da Vinci painted his “Cenacolo,” we headed for the Castello Sforzesco and when we came to the Piazza del Cairoli I recalled that it was from here that I took a subway train to the railroad station last year. It was also here, just across the wide street from the castle, that I caught my buses for Pavia. Last year I walked around the immense courtyard of the castle but did not go inside to see Michelangelo’s “Pieta Rondanini” or the picture gallery with the works of Mantegna, Bellini, Lotto, and Lippi. Since we were already well into the afternoon, Katy was more interested in seeing Leonardo’s masterpiece than spending time at the castle; therefore on we went up the Via Carducci until we came to the Corso Magenta, which took us right to the Piazza Santa Maria delle Grazie where a tourist line stood beneath the warm sun awaiting admittance to the monastery refectory. We took our place at the tail end of the queue.

What can one say about such a masterpiece of masterpieces as “The Last Supper” since virtually everything that can be said about it has already been said? Would the Canacolo Vinciano be better suited to a gallery in the Louvre? I think not, despite the rather bare, much-reconstructed room in which it has reposed since it was originally painted. In the seventeen-nineties the French soldiers of the revolutionary army used the refectory as a stable and towards the end of World War II an American air force bomb all but destroyed it, though miraculously the wall on which the fresco was painted remained upright even if not unscathed by the flying debris. But as to the fresco itself, apart from these external vicissitudes, it had begun to flake even while da Vinci was still alive, since like so many projects he undertook , he was experimenting in this instance too by applying oil paint to dry plaster. Quite obviously the immortality of his works was a much less important factor in his mind than with most artists. Unlike Michelangelo and Raphael, who looked upon man as the central figure in the universe, da Vinci was motivated by a larger, almost Oriental view, which regards man as simply one element among a countless host of elements composing this elusive world of ours.

I am sure that many tourists come away from the Cenacolo Vinciano with a sense of disappointment, for what they see is a faded rendition of Jesus sitting at an elongated table with his twelve disciples. Some of them must surely wonder how this only partially perceptible painting could remain as one of the most revered works of art in our civilization for nearly five hundred years. Of course it cannot be given a cursory glance, even lasting several minutes, in order to be appreciated. One must prepare oneself for the experience either by reading about it or talking to some knowledgeable person before going to see it, and then, when in its presence, lingering in front of it for as long as possible. Familiarity with a great work of art breeds appreciation even if one is unable to articulate one’s feeling precisely.

The art historian tells us that “The Last Supper” represents the epitome of the high Renaissance. Here is a subject that has inspired many painters. But none of them have approached the unique quality of communication that da Vinci was able to achieve. With the coming of the Renaissance, the human figure in itself, rather than as a symbol, became important. Artists began to represent people as they saw them, no matter what the subject of their work happened to be. Shortly before Leonardo in the fifteenth century, Andrea del Castagno, for example, painted a version of “The Last Supper” in which each of the thirteen figures are depicted with the skill of a brilliant observer. But when da Vinci’s turn came, at the instigation of “il Moro,” he captured for all time one of the most dramatic moments in Christendom as Jesus announced to his much agitated disciples, “One of you shall betray me.” The individuality of each disciple is unmistakably clarified and yet, as never before or since, they are drawn together in a sodality of the moment that is intensely moving.

There are six of them on each side of Jesus, who is the central figure framed by the window and the arch over the window, and they are grouped in threes connected by outstretched arms or leaning torsos or heads. The agitation of the disciples is contrasted with the calm composure of Jesus. At the end of the table sits Judas motionless, yet ready to withdraw as a shadow falls upon his face. This picture has been called “a masterly say in classical composition.” It is a harmonious whole. Every plane is parallel to the line of the table. The organization of the thirteen men and every vertical and horizontal line coming together at right angles is remarkable. I was seeing it for the second time. On both occasions there were indications that the restorers were painstakingly at work. On our way out we looked at a photograph of the refectory immediately after it was hit by the bomb and were amazed that the wall had survived while the rest of the building had to be completely rebuilt.

Katy was tired and even though I would have been happy to walk back to our hotel we hailed a taxi and gave ourselves over to the wildest automobile ride we have had since our encounter with the mountain roads of Crete five years ago. Our driver weaved through the heavy traffic of Milan like a broken-field runner on wheels or some Hollywood stunt artist. I whispered to Katy that I expected him to hit another car and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than he scraped the fender of a brand new Fiat while trying to beat a traffic light. Nevertheless, he speeded on, but so did the car he hit, right behind us. Aware that he was being pursued he employed every driving skill he knew as an experienced taxi operator to shake the car off, which, by the way, was being driven by a much made-up young sophisticated-looking lady. His efforts proved to no avail, regardless of the number of corners he turned or narrow side streets he slipped down. It was virtually bumper to bumper all the way to the Corso Buenos Aires, at which point we persuaded him to drop us off, since we were now only about three blocks from our hotel. He pulled over to the curb and stopped and we got out breathing sighs of relief as we watched the enraged young lady park her dented Fiat only inches from the rear bumper of the taxi and emerge onto the sidewalk. As we slowly walked away we began to feel sorry for our little runt of a driver, who wasn’t much over five feet tall, because the lady turned out to be a dark-haired Amazon somewhere between six and seven feet high with murder in her eyes. This macho acrobat behind the wheel was actually trembling beneath the fiery gaze of the towering gorgon who was singeing Milan’s polluted air with a fusillade of Italiano expletives.

Would she tear him limb from limb? We didn’t wait to see, but quickly turned our backs on the fracas and preoccupied ourselves with our departure from Mediolanum that same evening.

I use the Roman name for Milan even though there is little enough surviving from those early days, perhaps only the Roman columns close to the Porto Ticinese, not far from the Duomo. For a brief time during the fourth century Mediolanum was actually the capital of the western Roman Empire under the Emperor Maximian. It was thought that by moving the capital from Rome to this city close to the Alps, a barbarian invasion through the passes of the mountains could be blunted more effectively before it gained any real momentum. And though the city was once only second only to Rome itself in its proliferation of elegant buildings, the ravages of countless invaders over the centuries have all but obliterated every vestige of its ancient heritage.

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