How Did the Great Maestro Decide to Quit Opera?

Following the modest success of his operatic debut Oberto in 1839, Giuseppe Verdi—then still a young and relatively unknown composer—was invited to return to the prestigious stage of Milan’s Teatro alla Scala with a new work: Un Giorno di Regno (King for a Day), which premiered in 1840. Unlike the serious and somewhat traditional style of Oberto, this second opera was a comic piece, reflective of the lighthearted opera buffa genre. It was, by most accounts, an ill-timed attempt to inject levity into a stage increasingly dominated by political drama and personal pathos.

The premiere, however, proved to be an unequivocal failure. The audience, expecting either a masterpiece or at least a meaningful continuation of Verdi’s first effort, was met with an unconvincing and tonally disjointed comedy. The reception was cold, bordering on hostile; the opera was withdrawn after just one performance. But the collapse of Un Giorno di Regno was not merely a professional setback—it coincided with a devastating personal chapter in Verdi’s life. Within a short span of time leading up to the opera’s production, Verdi had lost both of his children and his beloved wife, Margherita Barezzi. The emotional toll was profound.

For Verdi, music had always been both vocation and refuge. But in the wake of such compounded grief, it became instead a source of anguish. In his own reflections, and in many biographical accounts, this moment marked a dramatic crisis in his artistic identity. According to tradition—whether fully factual or shaped by romanticized memory—Verdi returned home after the failed premiere, crushed the opera’s score in his hands, and made a solemn vow:

“I will never write another opera.”

This moment of despair is often portrayed as a symbolic silence—a pause in the creative life of a man who would later be hailed as one of the architects of 19th-century Italian opera. Yet history would intervene in subtle, almost fateful ways. Not long after this turning point, Verdi was handed the libretto of Nabucco, a work with biblical resonance and political undertones, penned by the librettist Temistocle Solera. At first reluctant, Verdi eventually allowed himself to read it—and, as he later recounted, a particular line struck him like a bolt of lightning:

“Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate” (Go, thought, on golden wings).

The seed of inspiration had been replanted. From this moment, Nabucco would grow into not only a musical triumph but also a defining cultural statement for the Italian Risorgimento. It would signal Verdi’s reemergence—not just as a composer, but as a national figure whose operas would give voice to a people seeking unification and identity.

In retrospect, Verdi’s temporary withdrawal from composition can be seen not as a defeat, but as a critical interlude: a space of mourning and silence that allowed for transformation. His return with Nabucco would mark not only the beginning of his mature phase, but also the start of a legacy that would extend far beyond the operatic stage.

Returning to Un Giorno di Regno, Giuseppe Verdi composed this opera during one of the darkest periods of his life, and its premiere ended in great disappointment. And yet, it remains the best Verdi opera to listen to in hard times—not because it is a masterpiece, but because of the powerful lesson it carries. It reminds us that even in moments of despair, creation is possible; that even failed attempts are part of the path toward greatness.

Un Giorno di Regno - Garsington Opera, 2025