A surprising Easter with Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper.
It happened on our first trip to Europe. We left Bern, Switzerland, early Good Friday morning and arrived in Milan, Italy, shortly after noon. Bern had been cold, and we had traveled through blowing snow. But as we pulled into the Milan station where we were to change trains, the cloudless sky and radiant sunshine warmed our hearts and our bodies. The Easter weekend looked promising. We were heading south to Rome, and I looked forward to an unforgettable Easter. I could picture Michelangelo’s dome atop Saint Peter’s Basilica, and his glorious Sistine Chapel.
The huge Milan station was jammed with travelers. My husband joined the throngs near the ticket windows marked for Rome and points south, while I stayed with the luggage. I stood near the wall and watched life flowing around me.
Elderly women, clad in long, black dresses and worn coats, stood there quietly, wisps of gray hair under the black scarves on their heads framing careworn faces. Shabbily dressed old men shuffled by, their thin shoulders sagging from the weight of cardboard-box “suitcases” tied with rope. Family groups animatedly discussed their plans. Joyful young people laughed and shouted. The atmosphere seemed charged with excitement.
Then I saw my husband hurrying toward me, his face glum. “There aren’t any seats on any train going in any direction,” he sputtered. “A snowstorm in the mountains closed roads. This is a big holiday weekend, so everyone is taking the trains. Unless you want to stand all the way to Rome, we’ll have to stay here for a couple of days.”
A couple of days! That meant we wouldn’t be in Rome for Easter. I protested. He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. Then I realized I was acting like a spoiled child, and I tried to hide my disappointment. “Oh, well,” I said, “Rome will be awfully crowded.”
We were in Europe on vacation following a series of family crises. It was supposed to be a therapeutic and inspirational change for both of us. Now it seemed that this, too, would end in disappointment.
My husband went to look for a hotel, and I waited again with the luggage. But the festive mood of the crowd was contagious. By the time he returned, my spirits had lifted, and he, too, was feeling more optimistic.
On the way to the hotel, I thought about Milan’s many features, which include one of the largest cathedrals in the world and, of course, the La Scala Opera House. “And didn’t Leonardo da Vinci paint his Last Supper here?” I wondered aloud. Maybe Easter in Milan wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
Early the next afternoon we strolled along the Corso Magenta toward the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. A sign alongside the narrow walk indicated that Leonardo da Vinci had owned vineyards here. I felt a tingle of excitement. The legendary Leonardo had no doubt walked these same ancient, cobblestoned streets. When we reached the church, we waited with five or six other people until the caretaker opened the doors to the Cenacolo Vinciano, the dining hall in which Leonardo had painted his masterpiece. We entered a large room, nearly devoid of furnishing, except for murals on the front and back walls. I spent a few minutes studying the Crucifixion, which had been painted by one Giovanni Montorfano, a contemporary of da Vinci, on the back wall of the room. It is a painting I suspect might have received greater recognition had it not been in a position to be compared with Leonardo’s masterpiece.
Finally I turned to look at the Last Supper. My heart sank. Was this mildewed, cracked wall with its faded colors and flaking paint all that remained of “the most sublime of all human paintings”? I’d heard of its deterioration, but I hadn’t expected this. For the second time in two days I felt bitter disappointment.
I saw my husband on the other side of the room, so I joined him. Then I turned to look again at the Last Supper. I was amazed. The shabbiness that had been so disillusioning seemed to fade, and I began to discern a spiritual beauty in the fresco. So perfect was the three-dimensional perspective the artist had created that I had the odd sensation that I was actually standing on the threshold of the Upper Room as Jesus and the apostles shared the sacrament. (I have since read that Leonardo intended the painting to appear as an actual extension of the dining hall.)
My eyes blurred with tears. Suddenly the real meaning of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday seemed clear. In all the years that I had attended church services and participated in Holy Communion, nothing had ever moved me as this blemished painting did.
Today, the Last Supper is being lovingly and painstakingly restored. Art experts have been working with magnifying glasses to clean and renew the fresco, inch by inch. In removing the grime of five centuries, they have discovered golden rims on the wine glasses and bits of fish and bread on the plates. By the time the work is completed, in late 1984 or early 1985, they hope to reveal the fresco as Leonardo painted it.
The memory of that experience remains luminous, especially at Easter time. A snowstorm in “sunny Italy” on April 20 must surely be an unusual occurrence. For me, it was an unusual blessing.
Mrs. Belleranti is a free-lance writer living in Cudahy, Wisconsin.
