We have already mentioned the theory that La Traviata constitutes some kind of isolated autobiographical confession. Only in the sense that all an artist's work is part of his biography can this be regarded as true. We will however review the question briefly – if only to disprove it. Some of the facts surrounding this case are quite significant, as they offer almost our only glimpse of Verdi's more intimate side; they cannot illuminate La Traviata, but they do at least allow for a greater understanding of the composer and his small social world.

As we have said earlier, Verdi did not immediately return to Italy after the London première of I Masnadieri, but remained for some time – perhaps too long, some have considered, given the current situation on the eve of 1848 – in Paris, where he began to live with Giuseppina. Towards the end of 1847, after the première of Jérusalem at the Opera, he moved with Giuseppina to a rented house at Passy. Here, for the first time in ten years, he seems to have found a little peace. There were a few trips to Italy – one in the spring of 1848, another in January 1849 – and Verdi went alone, leaving Giuseppina in Paris.

With a phrase left half finished, a subject without a predicate, this book closes: ‘The soprano aria “Me pellegrina ed orfana” …’. These are the final words Gabriele Baldini put down on paper, and the page remained in his typewriter on 15 June 1969 when, three days before his death, he was taken to the clinic.

He began continuous, systematic work on the book in the summer of 1967, though several important sections had been completed some time before. For example, the greater part of the Ernani chapter – one of the book's most important – had been published in 1962 in the Parmesan journal Palatina (nos. 21–2) under the title ‘I “verdi anni” di Verdi’, and included the following annotation: ‘This essay is part of a larger study of the composer at present in progress.’ In the spring of 1967, I was involved in the preparation of programmes for Rome's Teatro dell'Opera, and published a large extract from the article. Baldini revised it for that occasion, and almost all his corrections remain in the final text. But with Baldini the idea of ‘continuous’ work needs qualification: the variety of his interests, together with his inherent dislike of thinking, judging or remembering anything without committing it to paper, stimulated him to immense creative energy. The English scholar en titre was for decades also a diarist, arts reviewer, music, cinema, television and theatre critic, record reviewer, and so on ad infinitum. We should not imagine that in his last two years this Verdi project, however elaborate, constituted the only, or even the primary task of his working life.

But the journey to Milan was not merely a honeymoon. Verdi also wished to re-establish his contacts in a city where, as he must have realised, he would be offered his first chance of success, particularly since Massini had promised to perform the opera which he had recently finished on Piazza's libretto.

The duties of maestro di cappella called him back to Busseto, and his conscientiousness in fulfilling these can be seen in the annual reports of pupils who gave public concerts, and in his constant appearances at the head of the worthy Philharmonic Society during the frequent musical events which took place in the city and surrounding countryside.

This period also includes his first publications: in the winter of 1838 the Milanese publisher Canti brought out Verdi's first printed work, the Sei Romanze (Six Romances). They are true chamber music although, as Oberdorfer points out,

The new overture to Rossini's Barbiere, written by the fifteen-year-old Verdi and publicly performed at the Busseto theatre, has never been heard by anybody capable of evaluating it in the context of the composer's later career. Its audience was prominent citizens – the associates of the Philharmonic Society. No critic has made any great claims for it, or for any other Verdi composition performed during that period, such as Le lamentazioni di Geremia for baritone solo, translated into Italian by Evasio Leoni, or I delirii di Saul, a kind of cantata for baritone and orchestra based on words by Alfieri. According to Barezzi, the latter, ‘composed at the tender age of fifteen’, was ‘the first work of any value, and displayed a vivid imagination, as well as knowledge and discrimination in the distribution of the instruments’. Canon Giuseppe Demalde, the inspector of schools in Busseto, added that it was ‘a real jewel, a precious stone, a great piece to which no established Maestro would disdain to lend his name’. Vague praises, of course, of little critical value, which could probably have been applied to all the other Verdi compositions which date from this period, like the various pieces for flute, clarinet, bassoon or horn, ‘with orchestral accompaniment and ripieno’, and those for voice and piano, piano solo or organ, of which Barezzi says there were an infinite number.

With Il Trovatore Verdi seems to take an enormous leap, to raise himself above all previous work. It is unclear whether the composer was aware of this. The documents which concern the opera's preparation and first performance, between the end of 1852 and the beginning of 1853, do not contain many favourable comments. In a letter to Luccardi, Verdi goes into some detail:

The Venice opera was La Traviata. The general impression is that Verdi was above all pleased to have finished with Il Trovatore, as this allowed him to concentrate on his new opera, in which he resumed the style of Rigoletto. It is possible that Verdi considered Il Trovatore an annoying interruption, an opera which could not be relied on too heavily; and since the company of singers who performed the première was defective, lacking above all an adequate mezzo-soprano, later comments are also sparse. The opera was, however, a great success.

Six years passed between the première of La Traviata, chronologically the last great Verdi opera we have discussed, and that of Un ballo in maschera, which was given on 17 February 1859 at the Teatro Apollo, Rome, the theatre which had earlier given the first performances of Il Trovatore. The two Roman operas are bound together by strange links, which I shall later attempt to unravel. But at this point we might usefully try to develop (not explain, as nothing can be explained in artistic creation) the ideas which held Verdi's attention during this long interval – a period which saw the composition of two minor operas: Aroldo, a revision of the Stiffelio which had failed at Trieste, and I vespri siciliani, which followed the unfortunate Jérusalem in attempting (dubiously as far as artistic convictions were concerned) to win over the despised bastion of the Paris Opéra.

The critics usually submit that Verdi composed I vespri siciliani against his will, that he was prevented from full involvement by a clumsy, stolid, confused libretto provided by the ‘Scribe workshop’ – it was in fact a typical commercial item, and was also signed by a collaborator, Duveyrier – and by the necessity of writing music to be sung in French, in what remained a hostile atmosphere.

Following old Rolla's advice, Verdi sought lessons with Lavigna, and these began towards the end of July 1832. By 8 August Seletti could report to Barezzi on Verdi's progress:

From 1802 onwards, Lavigna was employed at La Scala as maestro al cembalo – which means that he was responsible for the preparation and rehearsal of operas.