Italy continued to shower me with enthusiasm that bordered on disbelief. On the evening of the premiere of Mitridate, rè di Ponto, the audience erupted in spontaneous applause calling out, “Long live the little maestro!”, a response that was unprecedented in Milan and, judging by the noise, not carefully rehearsed. The singers bowed repeatedly. I bowed whenever possible, which turned out to be more often than expected. Success, I learned, requires stamina.
My next project was another opera, Ascanio in Alba, commissioned for the wedding celebrations of Archduke Ferdinand and Princess Maria Beatrice. I approached this project with utmost seriousness – I even combed my wig. The story followed the usual mythology: shepherds, nymphs, and gods who spent a great deal of time disguised as other people. I focused on the music itself, determined to give it energy and warmth through lively overtures and witty duets.
Remarkably, the rehearsals went smoothly (miracle!), the singers genuinely enjoyed themselves (double miracle!), and the performance was a resounding triumph (expected!). The Empress thanked me personally, at which point I bowed longer and deeper than the overture, partly from gratitude and partly because I was not sure what else to do.
Italy taught me that music was not meant merely to impress, but to move. Salzburg had taught me discipline and form. I was beginning to understand that combining the two is the art of making structure sing. Italy also reminded me of something else: success does not always include payment. The court feasted, praised, and celebrated me generously, then forgot to pay my full fee. In Europe, it seemed, exposure remained the prevailing currency.