During the trying period of the rehearsals for Dom Sébastien new and grave signs of Donizetti's physical deterioration became apparent. For a long time he had worked at a strenuous pace, but all through 1843 he labored practically without respite, against time one cannot help but feel. His inexorable disease was passing out of its relatively latent phase. Sometimes he would have lapses of memory and would become acutely embarrassed when they were called to his attention. Sometimes in mid-sentence he would lose track of his thought and stare in a queer, fixed manner. His temper would explode in sudden bursts of fury that would leave him shaken and confused. The Parisian music-publisher Léon Escudier recounts an episode during the rehearsals of Dom Sébastien when Stolz objected to standing around with nothing to do during Camoëns's offstage barcarolle of Act 5 and the management ordered the number to be cut in half, whereupon Donizetti's furious protests brought on some sort of seizure and he had to be helped home, barely able to stand. At first he seemed to recover from these alarming symptoms, but each new recurrence gravely troubled his friends.

He arrived in Vienna from Paris on 30 December 1843. Now he was taking digitalis on a doctor's prescription. His Viennese doctors prescribed baths and applications of boiling mustard to his neck. Although he tried to carry on his career, it was becoming increasingly apparent that his ability to concentrate was impaired.

Anna Bolena. With this opera seria in two acts Donizetti emerged at long last as one of the leading operatic composers of his day. The traditional view of Anna Bolena as a sudden leap into excellence, as the point at which, all at once, Donizetti discarded his older derivative style, is highly misleading. Rather it is the logical culmination of all his previous experience. The appreciable amount of his earlier music that he adapted for Anna Bolena, music from Otto mesi, Il paria and Imelda as well as Enrico di Borgogna, argues for a consistent and steady development rather than a radically new departure.

Anna Bolena richly deserved its success, and part of it was due to the exceptionally favorable circumstances under which it was composed. For the first time Donizetti had a satisfactory libretto from Felice Romani. The two Romani texts he had set earlier, the hopeless semiseria Chiara e Serafina and the elegant but old-fashioned buffa Alina, were not in the same class as the libretto for Anna, whose superiority lies in its clear focus upon its tragic heroine and in its opportunities for pathos and for clearly motivated interaction. A great advantage to Donizetti during the period of composing Anna was the friendly co-operation of Pasta who was to be the prima donna.

The more lenient French censorship was not, of course, the only attraction beckoning Donizetti to Paris. Principally he was drawn there by the prestige that a Parisian success could add as a crowning touch to a composer's career. And from a purely practical point of view he did not scorn the fatter fees paid there, nor the prospects of more favorable terms with publishers. Neither was he immune to the thought that there musical properties enjoyed better protection than they did in Italy, where for more than a decade he had been complaining about both the loss of income and the distortion of his music at the hands of the pirates.

The steps leading to Donizetti's going to Paris had been carefully planned for at least three years. At the time of Marin Faliero, in the early months of 1835, he had engaged an agent to represent his interests in Paris – the loquacious and improvident Michele Accursi – and he had acquired a Paris banker in the person of August de Coussy, whose wife Zélie would alternately fawn over and tyrannize Donizetti. He was at pains to cultivate his contacts in Paris, particularly those with people active in the musical life of the city.

Italian librettists during the first half of the nineteenth century were typically associated with the particular city in which they worked. More often than not the operas they contributed to were first performed in those cities. Exceptions to this practise attracted attention. Donizetti's use of librettos by the Neapolitan Cammarano for operas that were introduced in Venice was most unusual, and he was constantly under pressure to use a Venetian poet. On the other hand, Italian operas introduced outside of Italy, in Paris or Vienna for instance, characteristically employed texts written in Italy; that of Don Pasquale, however, was written in great part by an Italian émigré living in Paris.

More new operas were written and produced between 1800 and 1850 than in any other half-century since operas had been written at all. During this period the public's practically insatiable appetite for novelties meant that most operas were commissioned, conceived, composed and produced in a matter of a few months. For the librettist the pressure of time was a constant restriction. Even greater pressure was exerted, directly and indirectly, by the local censors; they were supposed to approve librettos even before the composers started to set them, but practical expediency often meant that this proviso was circumvented or ignored. The existence of censorship clearly affected the plots even at the stage of preliminary planning and discussion; for instance, weddings in operas of this period are represented by the signing of civil contracts rather than as religious ceremonies.

Poliuto and Les martyrs. Although La fille du régiment had its first performance at the Opéra-Comique in February 1840 and Les martyrs would not be performed until the following April, the roots of the latter work go back to 1838. Donizetti composed Poliuto before his departure from Naples, where it had advanced as far as preliminary rehearsals before the king's prohibition forestalled its actual performance. Donizetti wrote Poliuto, like L'assedio di Calais, with more than half an eye to its potential for being recast as a French grand opera. He expanded and altered the score into Les martyrs in 1839 in Paris. Since about eighty percent of the French version in four acts is made up of Poliuto, and since the three-act Italian score enjoys the greater currency, it makes sense to discuss Poliuto before examining the alterations and change of emphasis it later underwent.

The literary source of Poliuto is Corneille's tragédie chrétienne, Polyeucte (1641–2). Cammarano's libretto converts Corneille's spiritual drama, with its carefully observed unities, into a Romantic melodrama, adding the motive of Poliuto's jealousy (which does not occur in the French original) to turn the action, at least in part, into a stock tenor–soprano–baritone triangle. Donizetti may have played some part in this emendation of Corneille, for he had complained in a letter to Toto Vasselli, speaking of Poliuto: ‘there is little love interest in it’.

Chronologically, Il Trovatore followed Rigoletto, and was itself followed by La Traviata. Il Trovatore was finished in July 1852, and successfully staged at the Teatro Apollo in Rome on 19 January 1853 (negotiations for a first performance at the San Carlo in Naples had fallen through). Less than two months later, on 6 March, La Traviata failed miserably at La Fenice in Venice. Although we can see from the sketches and autographs preserved at Sant'Agata that La Traviata was hurriedly composed – the orchestration was completed in twelve days – it must in some sense have already been in the composer's mind from at least the end of May 1852, when he signed an agreement with the directors of La Fenice for delivery of a new opera.

Even though it is not justifiable to say that Verdi composed Il Trovatore and La Traviata simultaneously, the two operas were certainly both in his mind during the entire second half of 1852 as he waited for them to be performed, even though one was on the point of completion and the other was not. The two operas resemble each other in no important respect, but the presence of two almost identical pieces (‘Ai nostri monti’ and ‘Parigi, o cara’) in an identical concluding situation suggests compositional processes which, in certain substantial areas, ran parallel.

Books about composers and their music by non-musicians are usually viewed with mistrust, especially when the subject is first and foremost a composer of opera – a form which lends itself to all manner of ignorant fantasising by the musical layman. The present study, however, is an exception to the rule. Gabriele Baldini makes up for his lack of technical knowledge by a life-long familiarity with the works which he discusses, a wide acquaintance with opera in general, and – most important of all – a thorough understanding of the problems of ‘music theatre’. Add to this a lively but well-disciplined mind, an immense culture and a direct and economical prose style; and the result, as may be imagined, is a book packed on every page with stimulating and provocative theories and observations. Its most serious shortcoming is its incompleteness (it stops short near the beginning of La forza del destino). Baldini on Falstaff would have been worth much.

The book cannot be recommended to those in search of an orthodoxy. Many of the judgements are idiosyncratic, some even perverse; none are – to put it vulgarly – ‘half baked’. We purists may deplore his defence of the theatrical habit of slicing cabalettas in half; but, having read it, while still retaining our preference in the matter, we may wonder whether the practice is quite as damaging to the musical architecture as is sometimes claimed.

As we have already mentioned, the rhythm of Verdi's creative life slowed down after Ballo, and was eventually counted in decades. For the next forty years and more, Verdi remained in public opinion the composer of Nabucco, Ernani, Rigoletto, La Traviata and Il Trovatore. These operas continued to be performed, and were invariably given the warmest possible welcome. But the younger generation criticised him for not being influenced by foreign music, for not regarding himself as a part of the European tradition. With the sole exception of the last two operas, nothing Verdi wrote during this long period responded adequately to these people's demands. The three operas which followed Ballo represented a crisis for both the public and the critics: they were too complicated and even abstruse for the former, yet the latter saw them as tied to ancient, worn-out conventions. Aida and the Requiem made both groups alter their opinions, while Otello and Falstaff were an apotheosis, something so overwhelming as to submerge almost everything which had gone before. By today's standards these opinions are, of course, unacceptable and equivocal, but they fall neatly into place in the context of the late nineteenth century's delight in polemics, and its superficial manners.

All we know about an opera entitled Rocester (sic), which Verdi, in a letter of 1837, was hoping to have performed at Parma, is that the librettist was called Piazza. It is even possible that Rocester was identical to Oberto, and that its title reflects early flirtations with a remote setting, later to be abandoned.

Whatever the case, Oberto was not performed until some years later, on 17 November 1839 at La Scala, Milan, and this thanks to the mediation of the impresario Merelli. Merelli also made it his business to give the composer an especially favourable contract; instead of expecting the young man personally to finance the staging of his opera, which was still usual, at least among beginners, he generously offered to divide the profits. In the end, the contract did not turn out too badly, because although, in Verdi's own words, the opera did not have ‘enormous success’, it did ‘fairly well, with enough performances for Merelli to see profit in staging a few extra outside the subscription Period’, and it was eventually shown a total of fourteen times. Piazza's libretto was revised by Temistocle Solera, who later collaborated with Verdi on Nabucco, I Lombardi, Giovanna d'Arco and Attila.

We have already discussed several times how Verdi gradually moved farther and farther away from the possibility of composing a King Lear as he included various aspects of it into his operas. In one sense Verdi's complete work might be compared to an immense King Lear, with the cabaletta playing the role of the fool. I Masnadieri also constitutes a stage in this frustrated search: not so much in the central subject as in the irrationality of the feelings which tear Francesco Moor apart. This brings us to the sub-plot of King Lear, and the relationship between Gloucester and his two sons, which finds a very clear, perhaps intentional parallel in Massimiliano Moor and his two sons, Francesco and Carlo. But to feel the force of this relationship one must remain within its closed, elemental, primitive irrationality.

We know how amazed Muzio was by London, but Verdi's reaction is not recorded. As Muzio wrote to Barezzi:

The origins of Nabucco are steeped in an aura of legend, mostly because this opera marks the emergence of Verdi's individual style. In fact it began at the lowest ebb of his fortunes, after the young man had been practically booed off the stage, and had sent all the furniture from his Milanese home back to Busseto: he must have considered it useless and too painful to remain there alone after all the tender associations had been rooted out. The handwritten, almost too detailed list of furniture which Verdi sent to Barezzi has come down to us, and provides a brief glimpse into the sadness of this move:

The furniture remained at Busseto, and Verdi put it out of his life, like his destroyed family. He returned to Milan, to feed his melancholy and lack of confidence, and also to attend a revival of Oberto, which did not however repeat its original success:‘ … the music (especially in the first act) seemed to many more insipid this year than last’.

Giuseppe Verdi had humble origins, but his parents were not, as is often written and believed, peasants. Small tradespeople would be a more accurate description. This fact is not without significance. In the town register of Busseto we read that ‘[…] est comparu Verdi Charles, âgé de vingt ans, Aubergiste domicilié à Roncole, lequel nous a présenté Enfant du sexe Masculin … de lui déclarant et de la Louise Uttini, fileuse […]’

They were, then, an inn-keeper and a spinner, and if with these titles they were trying to exaggerate their social standing – as far as we know, Carlo Verdi was less an ‘inn-keeper’ than what we might nowadays term a small-time barman – this only emphasises their middleclass character. As if to stress the point, the occupations of the two witnesses are added: ‘Romanelli Antoine, âgé de cinquante un ans, Hussier de la Mairie, et Carità Hyacinthe, âgé de soixante un ans, Concierge’. Some may object that the latter could have been assembled on the spur of the moment, as often occurs today; but while this is certainly the custom in large cities, which are in some sense corrupted, it was not followed in small communities, where it was almost easier to follow the letter of the law, especially the Napoleonic Code, recently established and particularly severe during that period.

Luisa Miller was composed in Paris and Busseto in 1849 to a libretto by Salvatore Cammarano, based on Schiller's Kabale und Liebe. It was first performed on 8 December at the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, and though initially the success was mediocre, later performances were more warmly received. With this opera Verdi opened a completely new phase of his artistic career.

Things did not of course happen overnight, with no antecedents: Luisa Miller develops ideas which had already been important in the ‘galley years’: but there is something here which is essentially different from any previous opera. On the surface, we might find similarities between Luisa and I due Foscari, because in both there is a crowded economy of musical action within a tender, intimate circle of family relationships; but in terms of artistic value the opera is comparable only to Nabucco, Ernani and Macbeth. It is, in short, the fourth Verdi opera which may be taken completely seriously: and up to this point he had written fourteen.

As often occurs, the subject matter and the libretto which Cammarano drew from it do not help us to understand Verdi's intentions. Situations like the one which closes Luisa Miller may have been horrifying, but they were not as remote, abstract or rhetorical as those usually favoured by Verdi up to this point (and this includes, in my opinion, even the geometric symmetry of Ernani and the supernatural elements of Macbeth).

The essential reason why Verdi decided to set to music a Macbeth, arranged and adapted by him for the operatic stage and with a libretto by Piave, had nothing to do with his particular interest in Shakespearean tragedy. It primarily concerned the choice of singer who would ‘create’ the principal role. Had Moriani been available Verdi would certainly have composed I Masnadieri, in which he envisaged a long, elaborate tenor part; if on the other hand the management – in this case Lanari – could guarantee the baritone Varesi, then the composer would put I Masnadieri to one side and tackle Macbeth which, as well as having a large baritone part, required almost no contribution from the tenor and would thus be in no danger even if the latter part were entrusted to a mediocre performer.

We should remember that all this took place before a single note of either I Masnadieri or Macbeth had been written. Verdi was not deciding on a particular artistic direction, still less whether to confront a great tragic theme. We are dealing with an opera of the kind written to suit specific singers. Nothing could be put down on paper until these had been engaged: later on the music would or would not come, of its own accord.

First, a note on Gabriele Baldini's title for this book: Abitare la battaglia. A literal English version would be To Live the Battle, and at least on the surface the Italian phrase has no more powerful association or literary resonance than its translation. On the dust jacket of the Italian edition appears part of a letter the author wrote to a friend only a few weeks before his death. It sheds some light on the problem:

Clearly the phrase carried a weight of personal significance: the Italian publishers even suggest that the ‘battaglia’ should be regarded as Baldini's rather than Verdi's. This ambiguity of meaning and intention set the translator a severe initial problem. In Italy, where Baldini's reputation as a scholar of English Literature (he was professor of the subject at Rome University), as a specialist in Elizabethan drama, and as a literary critic and journalist was widespread, such an ‘imaginative’ title could naturally be balanced against die expectations created by the author's name; there was little possibility of misunderstanding.

The libretto of Un ballo in maschera is as absurd as that of Il Trovatore, but it has an additional element, lacking in the earlier work. In Ballo Verdi for the first time brings to fruition (not extensively or grandly, but still significantly) his propensity towards comedy. The comic sense had made an appearance in Rigoletto: the Duke cannot be understood without his inclination towards laughter (or better towards smiling). In creating his new opera, Verdi added this disturbing element to Il Trovatore's lucid vision.

The libretto of Ballo is the only Verdian operatic text not to carry a signature, and the explanation for this lies in more than one direction. The librettist was a person of some distinction, and could have taken offence at seeing so little of his own work in the final text. On the other hand, Ballo presented Verdi with his greatest opportunity of approaching the technique of Wagner, who wrote his own libretti. The libretto of Ballo was not written by Verdi in the same sense that Wagner wrote the text of Die Meistersinger, but neither was it similar to Rigoletto and La Traviata, which both made use of die amanuensis Piave. It was written by the composer for want of anything better, because although Somma dedicated great efforts to it he was no Piave, and retained his literary pride.