AFTERWORD
In this book, as in my earlier biographies of great composers – Beethoven, Mozart, Johann Strauss the Younger – I have attempted to reveal the man behind the music, to draw as accurate a picture as possible of each figure when he was away from his music. In other words, I have striven to present a fully rounded individual, rather than solely a genius involved in the creative process.
Have I succeeded in the case of Giuseppe Verdi? Probably not. He was, as I have pointed out throughout the course of this book, enormously protective of his private life and notoriously unhelpful to biographers, interviewers and journalists. He knew he had no choice but to allow himself to be presented to the public, if for no other reason than to interest them in his work. But he would go no further in enlightening them than was absolutely necessary, and if that meant hiding certain facts and embellishing others, he was perfectly capable of doing so.
Those who have previously attempted to chronicle his life have acknowledged the difficulties they face. Consider these apologias from three twentieth-century biographers. Frank Walker writes: ‘Verdi has a way of escaping his biographers. The known facts of his long and busy career have been told and retold, but the man himself remains a distant figure, still protected by his habitual reserve and mistrust.’120
Claudio Sartori, with more than a hint of frustration, goes further: ‘Verdi does not and probably never will allow us a direct, intimate, human understanding of him. It can almost be said that Verdi, the man Verdi, does not exist.’121
Equally strongly, and using modern analogy, Massimo Mila says this: ‘Whosoever attempts to penetrate the mind of the man quickly finds himself in trouble. It is far easier to infiltrate the military secrets of the Pentagon or the Kremlin, than it is to reveal the soul of Verdi.’122
Indeed, as this book goes to press (May 2017), there is news that the Verdi-Carrara family, Verdi’s heirs, have handed over to the Italian state archives 5,300 pages of his notes which were packed in a trunk at Sant’Agata, most of which have never been seen before.
They will be examined by leading Verdi musicologists, then digitised and published online, and are certain to throw light on hitherto unknown aspects of his artistic process. I suspect, if he could know, Verdi would scowl, then shrug his shoulders and permit himself a small smile with twinkling eyes.
It has been said that no other great artist was quite so averse to publicity as Verdi. Even when he read inaccuracies about himself, he refused to correct them. As he himself might have said, his philosophy on life and art was simple. The artist creates; the public applauds or boos; the critics criticise. All that was perfectly fine. But his private life had nothing to do with any of it.
‘The bear would brook no intrusion in his den.’ He was reserved and aloof, which was inevitably interpreted as ‘boorishness, moroseness, or downright arrogance’.123
None of which, of course, has in any way impinged on the universal desire to learn more about this great artist, revered and honoured in his homeland more than any other composer.
Take the Milan Metro on the red line from the Duomo in the centre of the city to Buonarroti, six stops west, and you emerge onto one of the city’s most spacious squares. Not its most beautiful, but certainly one of the most noteworthy in Milan.
Although named the Piazza Buonarotti, it is actually more a roundabout than a square, the centre of which is dominated by a larger-than-lifesize statue of Giuseppe Verdi. He stands with his hands behind his back, head turned to his left, gazing off into the distance, oblivious to the discordant sounds of traffic below.
It is a little strange that his head is not turned to the right. If it had been, he would be gazing at what he called his greatest creation. Not a piece of music, but a broad and imposing three-storey building. The double windows have high decorative arches, and above the top floor a panel stands proud of the roof, proclaiming:
CASA DI RIPOSO
PER
MUSICISTI
FONDAZIONE VERDI
This was Verdi’s final gift to his profession, a home for retired musicians. But that is too general a description. He intended it specifically for musicians less talented than himself, whose careers had achieved little success or none at all, musicians who had fallen on hard times.
He was himself in old age, in his eighties, when the deed was drawn up. When he saw the words ‘Alms-House for Musicians’, he demanded they be struck out and replaced with ‘Rest Home’. The musicians there, ‘my less fortunate companions’, were to be called ‘guests’ and treated with dignity and respect.
Today the Casa Verdi, as it is known by everyone in Milan, houses as many as a hundred men and women, musicians all. Funded initially by Verdi himself, who left instructions that his royalties should continue to support the home for many years to come, other illustrious names have since given financial support, including Arturo Toscanini, and Vladimir Horowitz, who was married to Toscanini’s daughter.
A modern addition is young music students, who come to the Casa to take lessons from the residents, to talk about music and learn about the past. Thus, more than a century after his death, Verdi is providing more support for young musicians than he ever did in life.
He came to dislike his profession so intensely that far from encouraging young musicians he actively discouraged them. In his lifetime he never offered support of any kind – artistic or financial – to young musicians. His spirit, though, would surely approve of the Casa’s beneficence.
In one room of Casa Verdi is the face of the maestro himself. It is the bust made by the young sculptor Vincenzo Gemito – the same bust that Boito said thirty years later exactly captured Verdi’s mien as ‘the silence of death fell upon him’. A replica of the bust stands in the Villa Sant’Agata.
With characteristic irony, Italy’s greatest operatic composer said that of all his works, the one that pleased him most was the Casa he built to shelter those who had not been favoured by fortune, or had been unable to save their money. ‘Poor and dear companions of my life!’ as he wrote to his friend Giulio Monteverde, not a view he was otherwise often heard to express.
The building consists of four sides, enclosing a ‘garden of honour’, with a central path leading to a crypt where Verdi and his wife Giuseppina are buried side by side. They have simple tombs bearing only their names in a broad cross.
Set in a low wall at their feet and between their two tombs, perhaps rather surprisingly, is a small stone dedicated to Teresa Stolz. The inscription states:
TERESA STOLZ
CELEBRATA NEL CANTO
N. 1834 – M. 1902
SVE SPESE DECORO DI BRONZI DI MVSAICI
QVESIA TOMBA
RICORDO DI AMICIZIA DI VENERAZIONE
(Teresa Stolz/celebrated in song/born 1834 – died 1902/At her own expense she decorated with bronzes and mosaics/this tomb/in memory of friendship and of veneration)
The wording on the stone suggests that the plaque might have been put there on Teresa’s instructions, given that she had taken it on herself to beautify the crypt. I can find no reference to it in any of the literature, including the booklet published by the Casa di Riposo itself.
Teresa was herself buried in Milan’s main cemetery, where Verdi’s and Giuseppina’s coffins were first taken. She remains there to this day.
On the day my wife Nula and I went to the Casa Verdi, we were the only visitors. Inside the crypt the small gate was unlocked. We descended a few steps. It was extraordinarily emotional to stand alone by Verdi’s tomb, and contemplate this great artist and the profound gifts that he gave us. Not universally loved as a man in his lifetime – something that certainly did not trouble him – I am sure he would not be in the least surprised to learn of the esteem in which his works are held today.
The Po valley in northern Italy, where Verdi was born, which was in his blood, and where he lived all his life, is today a mixture of the agricultural, which Verdi knew, and the light industrial. Many an idyllic view is marred by factories and chimneys.
Turn off the main road between Milan and Parma, though, and you get some idea of the tranquillity and beauty that Verdi loved so much. But the modern is very close indeed. Stand in the front garden of the Villa Sant’Agata and you can clearly hear the roar of motorway traffic.
The villa itself, which Verdi cherished for more than half a century, which was his refuge and sanctuary, is now both a home and a memorial to its creator. It has been beautifully preserved, looking inside and out much as it did when Verdi and his wife lived there.
The gardens are as lush and exotic as they were in Verdi’s day. He spent at least as much time learning about flora and fauna as he did composing. He learned which plants would flourish, and imported them from around the world. A banana tree that he imported from the West Indies and planted himself still flourishes today. In his lifetime he stressed to biographers and interviewers that he was an agriculturalist and a botanist, rather than a musician.
The paths through the foliage are laid with sand brought in from the banks of the River Po. This was on Verdi’s instructions. He wanted no pebbles or stones that would make a noise and disturb his concentration while he walked.
The villa is today owned by direct descendants of the little cousin, Filomena, ‘Fifao’, whom Verdi and his wife adopted and brought up as their own daughter. By special decree Filomena was allowed to retain the name Verdi, so the occupants today are the Carrara-Verdi family.
They occupy part of the villa all year round, but five rooms on the ground floor have been preserved as Verdi and Giuseppina knew them, and are open to visitors. These include the couple’s bedrooms, both containing many original items of furniture. The bed in Giuseppina’s room is the bed she died in.
As I have written in the body of this book, Verdi’s bedroom was much more than merely the room where he slept. He kept his desk just two paces from his bed so he could get up in the middle of the night and compose. It also housed the piano at which he composed, as well as furniture he personally bought, and items particularly close to him, such as a small portrait of Giuseppina’s beloved toy Maltese dog Loulou. Loulou is buried in the garden of the villa. The inscription on the gravestone reads: ‘Alla Memoria d’un Vero Amico’ (‘To the memory of a true friend’). Loulou was undoubtedly one of the few beings on whom Verdi willingly lavished such praise.
A favourite item of mine is a note Verdi wrote, found after his death and enclosed now in a small glass case. Given what was to come in the succeeding century, we might compliment Verdi on his prescience. He wrote: Un tedesco che sa, sa troppo. Un russo che sa è un pericolo. (‘A German who knows, knows too much. A Russian who knows is a danger.’) We do not know what caused him to write it, but it surely accords perfectly with the character of this patriotic Italian.
Off the bedroom is an office where Verdi kept his accounts. It contains many piano scores, as well as the manuscript of Wagner’s Lohengrin on the side of which Verdi wrote his withering assessment of Wagner’s music.
There is a cabinet containing hunting rifles. Although Verdi was known to hunt occasionally, it was not something he particularly enjoyed, despite on one occasion asking a friend to source French rifles for him. When he found out that one of his employees had shot a rabbit for no reason, he sacked him.
Recreated in the villa is the small room of the Grand Hotel, Milan, in which Verdi died. The actual bed is there, covered in a white counterpane embroidered with an elaborate letter ‘V’. A glass case holds the shirt he was wearing at his death.
To enter these rooms, you actually step directly from the garden path into Verdi’s bedroom. When we visited, our guide explained as she unlocked the door that every time she entered she felt almost as if she was intruding.
This was Verdi’s room, where he slept and worked, and which remained as he knew it. She told us that before stepping across the threshold she always asked his permission. ‘Permesso, Verdi,’ she said quietly as we entered.
Our guide, Cristina Micconi, gave us a personal tour in English. Her commentary brought Verdi and Giuseppina alive for us. She, in turn, expressed pleasure that our enthusiasm for the great man matched hers. At one wonderfully spontaneous moment, she turned to us smiling and said, ‘I love him! I love him!’ A sentiment shared by Nula.
Since that visit, I have contacted Cristina many times with questions and queries that arose during the writing of this book. Unfailingly she responded swiftly, patiently providing me with all the information I needed. I am profoundly grateful to her. My understanding of the years at Sant’Agata was able to reach a degree of intimacy and knowledge that would have been impossible without Cristina’s help.
For anyone with the slightest interest in Verdi, the Villa Sant’Agata is a treasure trove, providing a unique insight into the man and his creative process, his interests away from music, and the manner in which he lived. We owe the Carrara-Verdi family an enormous debt for preserving it and allowing visitors to share it with them.
Verdi did not stray far from his roots. Just a few miles from Sant’Agata is the small town that was once called Le Roncole. There the simple house in which Verdi was (probably) born has been preserved and restored. Even in Verdi’s lifetime it was revered as the house in which he was born, and was declared a national monument shortly after his death, which it remains to this day.
The house is open to the public. Rather incongruously the visitor is provided with a modern iPad, which describes the rooms and their contents. The furnishings are simple, and give a useful idea of living conditions two centuries ago, even if the front entrance is now on a different side of the building, the walls inside and out have been newly plastered, and the staircase is situated differently.
What is missing, of course, is the bustle, conversation and laughter of a grocery store during the day and a tavern at night. The iPad remedies this with a short film of drinkers sitting round the plain table, joshing with Verdi’s father as he replenishes their glasses.
Upstairs is the room in which Verdi was born, furnished simply with a bed and a wooden crib at its feet. From the window the bell tower of the Church of San Michele Arcangelo is plainly visible across a courtyard. Here Verdi was baptised, here he played the organ, and, as he recalled later in life, it was in the tower that his mother hid with him in her arms as soldiers passed underneath. A plaque set into the wall of the church commemorates the event. The organ that Verdi played as a boy, dating from 1797 and much restored, sits in the loft high on the left side of the presbytery, as it did in his day.
Verdi’s father would no doubt be proud to see a larger-than-lifesize bust of his son’s head and shoulders atop a solid rectangular pillar in the small courtyard outside his grocery store and tavern. Only a certain amount of pride, perhaps, since father and son never truly got on.
Le Roncole is just one of many small towns – villages in Verdi’s day – scattered across the Po valley, but it makes sure that its connection to the great composer is not forgotten. After all, Verdi never forgot Le Roncole. ‘I was, I am, and I will always be, a native of Roncole,’ he once said.
For that reason the town has adapted its name to honour its most famous citizen. It is today Roncole Verdi.
Five miles or so from Roncole Verdi is the town that Verdi was most associated with in the area: Busseto. Much larger than Roncole Verdi, Busseto is today a bustling market town, just as it was two centuries ago.
Here Antonio Barezzi, a wholesale grocer and distiller, lived in an opulent house in the centre of the town, as befitted its leading citizen. The history of music owes a debt to the fact that Barezzi was a dedicated music enthusiast, and that he spotted the potential in the young Verdi and nurtured him.
I have recounted in detail how Verdi came to despise the town and its people for the way they treated Giuseppina. The feeling is entirely unreciprocated. Verdi’s image is everywhere. To call him a local hero is a significant understatement.
A massive statue of him seated in an armchair on a monumental plinth was erected in 1913, to mark the centenary of his birth, in the Piazza Verdi in front of the Teatro Giuseppe Verdi, the theatre whose construction he fiercely opposed, and where he refused to attend the first performance of Rigoletto, preferring to take the waters at a nearby spa.
Unintentionally, though perhaps appropriately, his back is turned towards the theatre. I suspect, though, he would probably be quietly satisfied that the town he came to dislike so intensely is now dominated by his name and likeness.
His name in large capital letters is embossed in gold on the plinth, and his gaze is directed across an open square – where outdoor concerts of his music are held – towards the Casa Barezzi, the house where he lived with his great benefactor. The house is today open to the public and holds a huge collection of memorabilia.
The large salon where Verdi gave his first public performance is frequently used for recitals, a portrait of his first wife Margherita gazing down at the musicians.
Opposite the Casa Barezzi, and a little further down Busseto’s main street, Via Roma, is a building of great significance in Verdi’s life. But you would not know it today. There is nothing to show any connection between Verdi and the Palazzo Cavalli, the substantial townhouse that he bought in 1845. We walked past it several times before we realised we had found it.
The building in which Verdi lived with his mistress, and whose first-floor windows were stoned by angry local people, is today the Palazzo Orlandi, ‘Palazzo’ being something of an exaggeration. A row of terraced buildings contains shops and cafés on the ground floor, apartments on the first floor. On the tourist map of Busseto it does not feature.
On the outskirts of the town stands the grand fifteenth-century Villa Pallavicino. Verdi knew its aristocratic occupants, and their opulent home, well. It was from this family that Verdi’s father rented the house that is now designated the composer’s birthplace. Today the palace is devoted to Verdi, one room dedicated to each of his twenty-seven operas.
Although Verdi is the only composer of note ever to have been associated with the town, Busseto has used its famous son to enhance and embellish its musical credentials. Streets in the town are named after Mozart, Bellini, Monteverdi, Donizetti, Berlioz, Schubert, Brahms, Ponchielli, Wagner, Chopin, Leoncavallo, Bizet, Tchaikovsky, Bartók, Sibelius, Ravel, Gershwin, and more.
Verdi souvenir shops abound in the town, and no visit is complete without a visit to the Salsamenteria, a small bustling restaurant devoted to the composer. Pictures of him are everywhere, and posters of performances; even in the front window a small upright piano is adorned with sheet music and more pictures.
An album of favourite Verdi arias plays on a loop, so you hear the great man’s music as you dine on a plate of cold meats from the region. No menu, just a plate of Parma ham, salami and sausage. No knife and fork, just fingers. All washed down with chilled local sparkling red wine (yes, sparkling red wine), a drink Verdi knew well.
Verdi territory – Roncole Verdi, Sant’Agata, Busseto, all so close together – lies roughly midway between Milan to the north-west and Parma to the south-east. Just as Busseto conveniently forgets how it upset the maestro, so the two opera houses – La Scala in Milan and the Teatro Regio di Parma – prefer to remember the agreements rather than the disagreements.
La Scala has a whole room devoted to Verdi and performances of his operas there. A bust of Verdi stands in the foyer of the Teatro Regio, and each October (the month of Verdi’s birth) the Parma opera house stages a month-long Verdi Festival.
There is not an opera house in the world that has not at some point staged a Verdi opera. It is said that every hour of the twenty-four, somewhere in the world the curtain is rising on one of the twenty-seven.
Then there is the other, bucolic, side to Verdi. All his life, while unleashing verbal onslaughts on opera houses and big cities in Italy and across Europe, he retained a love for his home territory, that small stretch of land in the Po valley of northern Italy.
Thus we have Verdi, composer of opera and man of the land. I suspect he would rather have it the other way round. He has hidden a lot, misled us over many an important juncture in his life. Of one fact, though, we – and musical history – can be certain. Verdi, for all his protestations, is the greatest operatic composer Italy, the home of opera, has ever produced.
I have no hesitation in going further: he is creator of the best-loved operas ever written.