Simonetta Puccini died on December 16th

WHEN visitors came to Torre del Lago, Giacomo Puccini’s villa on the shores of a lake overlooking the Apuan Alps, Simonetta Puccini would sometimes meet them at the gates. All smiles, she would lead them through gardens thickly planted with palms, shrubs and roses, into the hall. There hung the Maestro’s oilskin coat, the one he wore to go out snipe-hunting on the lake, beside his shotguns and boots. In the living room stood the black Forster upright on which he had composed “La Bohème”, “Tosca” and “Madame Butterfly”, while ash from his continuous cigarettes fell upon the keys. His pencils and spectacles lay on the desk; his operas played in the background. She had arranged all this, with the greatest care, as if he was still there, and would greet her round the corner with a grandfatherly kiss.

She had done it, too, to make the point that she was his heir and no one else. It took decades, battling one counter-claim after another through the Italian courts. She gained a reputation for being tosta, a real piece of work. So she was, despite the smiles and the pearls, and so she had to be.