Of his reception at the court of Charles VI., we have a most gratifying account written by the poet himself to a friend at Rome, and the Emperor appears to have been much pleased on finding that Metastasio was of a grave moral character, and in that possessing principles congenial to his own. For the next three years, in his correspondence with the Romanini, we possess almost an autobiography of the bard, as his letters to her were frequent, and contained the account of his occupations, of his pleasures, and his pains. In 1734, he had the misfortune to lose this inestimable counsellor and friend. The Romanini in that year died at Rome, to the last manifesting the truth of her attachment, by bequeathing to him, after the death of her husband, the whole of her wealth, amounting to about 25,000 crowns. Metastasio, however, always abiding by the strictest rules of honour and probity, declined in toto this generous gift, which he transferred altogether to her husband, and this sacrifice, for great sacrifice it was, must be considered highly honourable to the poet’s heart. As to the exact nature of the connexion subsisting between him and Romanini, it must for ever remain a conjecture, and a mere conjecture—whether it was Platonic, or of a tenderer kind, who can pretend to determine? Metastasio, it is true, lived under the same roof with her, both at Rome and Naples, but so did her husband; and the very kind and familiar manner in which the poet writes to the husband, expressing his friendship for the wife, to the wife of his kindliness to the husband, and the sincerity with which he expressed to him his condolence and affliction for her death, would, in any other country but Italy, be thought sufficiently indicative of conjugal happiness. But there, Dr. Burney observes, the female singers generally find it convenient to have a nominal husband, who will fight their battles, and contend with the impresario or manager. And we shall not perhaps be judging too uncharitably of the Romanini, should we incline to the belief that her affection for Metastasio had more in it of the love of woman, than of Platonic attachment. But whether the poet’s friendship for Bulgarini were true or not, his grief for the death of his wife was deep, unfeigned, and lasting. In a letter to him expressing his condolence, he writes: ‘Oppressed by the afflicting news of the death of poor Marianna, I know not how to begin this letter. The tidings are so intolerable to me on so many accounts, that I can devise no means to diminish the acuteness of my sufferings, and therefore I trust you will not accuse me of want of feeling, if I am unable to suggest to you any consolation for your loss, as I have hitherto been totally unequal to finding any for myself.’ Again, to a friend at Rome: ‘I am now placed in the world as in a populous desert, and in that kind of desolation in which a man, if he were transported in his sleep to China or Tartary, would find himself on waking, among people of whose language, inclinations, and manners, he was quite ignorant.’ To his brother, too, he writes: ‘Poor Marianna never will return, and the rest of my life must be wretched, insipid, and sorrowful.’
At what age the Romanini died is unknown, but having attained to the eminence of first singer at Genoa in the year 1712, she was probably much older than Metastasio. The manner of his life at Vienna was but little varied by other events than the production and success of his works. In 1735, he wrote the operas L’Olimpiade and Demofoonte, the oratorio of Giuseppe riconosciuto, and the canzonet La Liberta. In 1734, besides his usual occupations, he was obliged to produce, in the greatest haste, an entertainment for music, to be performed by the archduchesses, and at the same time to assist, direct, and instruct them. ‘They have acted and sung like angels,’ writes the poet, ‘and it was truly sacrilege that the whole world was not permitted to admire them.’ As a return for his trouble, Metastasio was presented with a valuable snuff-box, valued at 40l., and of the most exquisite workmanship. This dramatic entertainment was called ‘Le Grazie vendicate.’ In the same year, too, he produced, on the Emperor’s birthday, the Clemenza di Tito. Both operas were set by Caldara, the state composer. In 1735, he wrote, by command of the Empress Elizabeth, an operetta, with three characters only, to be played by the two archduchesses, and a lady of the court; it was called Le Cinesi, and intended as an introduction to a Chinese ballet. In the same year he produced Il Palladio conservato, and Il Sogno di Scipione, pieces written for the celebration of the Empress’s name-day. They are a kind of birth-day odes; but the fulsomeness of praise is delicately disguised in a dramatic form. In 1736 his Temistocle appeared, set by Caldara; but while this was being performed, he was required to write the opera of Achille in Sciro, in the short space of eighteen days, to grace the nuptials of the Archduchess Teresa with the Duke of Lorrain. The drama of Ciro riconosciuto was the production also of this year. In 1737–38–39, nothing new of any note emanated from his pen. In 1740, however, his muse was more propitious; for, besides the opera Zenobia, and the oratorio Isacco, he wrote Il Natale di Giove, and the opera Attilio Regolo for the natal day of Charles VI.; but, as that prince shortly after died, it was laid aside till 1750, when it was set by Hasse for the court at Dresden.
Between the years 1740 and 1745, we find but two complete dramas written by Metastasio, Antigono and Ipermestra, the former of these written expressly for the court of Dresden. They were both set to music by Hasse, who ranked high in the favour of the poet as a composer and as a man of genius. His correspondence with the celebrated Farinelli began in 1747. Many of the poet’s letters, breathing affection and confidence, were written to the great singer at Madrid, where, for two successive reigns, he enjoyed the greatest favour. The blessings of peace, after a seven years’ war, produced the opera Il Re Pastore; this was followed by L’Eroe Cinese. In 1756, at the request of Farinelli, he wrote for the court of Spain an opera, Nitteti, which, under the direction of Farinelli, was played with the utmost splendour. The three last operas written by Metastasio were, Il Trionfo di Clelia, in 1762; Romolo ed Ersilia, in 1765; and Il Ruggiero, 1771: the first was performed at Vienna, on the delivery of Isabella, first wife of the Emperor Joseph II.; the second at Inspruck, on the marriage of the grand Duke of Tuscany with Maria, infanta of Spain; and the last at Milan, on the nuptials of the Archduke Ferdinand, with the Princess of Modena; and this finished the dramatic labours of the bard. His other poetical works, which are very numerous, are all replete with elegance, and every beauty of numbers which the language of Italy so sweetly supplies. Of his prose writings, the extracts from Aristotle’s Poetics, and the Ars Poetica of Horace, are the principal. In all his writings the principles of religion and morality are all so chastely preserved, that the extreme of delicacy, the utmost vein of prudery cannot find a sentiment to offend or alarm; and his private life corresponded well with his writings, as he was always found prompt to discourage all tendency to license, to show himself the avowed enemy of disrespect to the ordinances of morality and religion. This being his universal character, the respect in which he was held at Vienna was extreme, while strangers of all ranks were eager to seek his company, attracted by the fame of his genius. Such were the firmness and constancy of his friendships that death could alone dissolve them. The Princess di Belmonte Pignatelli, the Countess d’Althau, who patronized him in his early youth, Count Canali, Baron Hagen, and Count Perlas, who spent all their evenings with him at Vienna during their lives, Farinelli, his correspondent for fifty years, Algarotti, and his brother Leopoldo—all these affections were sincere, and for ever planted in his heart.
On the 1st April, 1782, in the eighty-fourth year of his age, Metastasio was seized with a fever, which, for some time, made him delirious; soon after he recovered his senses, and received the apostolic benediction, which was sent him by the pope, Pius VI. On the 12th, his disease terminated fatally—Metastasio was no more. Though his years had reached eighty-four, his faculties to the time of his death were perfectly entire, and Dr. Burney found him, at the age of seventy-two, looking like a man of fifty, and the handsomest person of his age he had ever seen. On his features were painted genius, goodness, and propriety. He was cautious and modest in his intercourse, and so polite, that he never was known to contradict in his life any body in conversation. Lamented, deplored with the tears of sincerity by all who knew him, Metastasio was interred at Vienna on the 14th April. The last sad offices were performed with splendour by his grateful heir, Joseph Martinez, in despite of the wish of the departed, who had forbidden any pomp.
Metastasio, by all his biographers, is described as eminently the poet of love, and, in general, happy in pourtraying noble and amiable sentiments. It is astonishing with how much ease he moves in lyric poetry, and with what artless language he unites the brightest ornaments of a poet’s fancy. In all his works he stands high; in his operas, unrivalled.
HINTS TO LEADERS AND CONDUCTORS.
To the EDITOR of the HARMONICON.
SIR,
In your critical remarks on the third vocal concert, in the last No. of the Harmonicon under the head Vocal Society, after pointing out the necessity of selecting a proper position for the conductor, or person who is to give the time, the following short, but expressive sentence occurs: ‘The maestro should be seen by every performer, but not heard. We can with propriety extend this observation to the instrumental part of the orchestra, beseeching both leader and conductor to abstain from such merciless stamping of feet, as occurred during the performance of most of the full pieces.’ This, Sir, is excellent, and had you written a volume on the subject you could not, in my opinion, have said more to the purpose, or have made yourself more clearly understood. In fact you have, in few words, given the most judicious and salutary advice, not only to the parties immediately concerned, but to all others (and they are very numerous) to whom it may contingently apply.
Perhaps you will smile at my enthusiasm, when I tell you that most heartily do I wish the foregoing short, but expressive sentence, might be printed in a large type, framed and glazed, and hung up in the sitting-room and bed-chamber (unless one room should unhappily answer both purposes) of every leader and conductor in town and country. I am an Englishman, Mr. Editor, and am proud to witness the splendid talent which many of my countrymen, as vocal and instrumental performers, possess; but, as conductors, (with one or two exceptions,) they do not at present appear to me to have acquired that happy method of conveying their own ideas, or instructions to a large orchestra, which I have more than once seen so skillfully displayed by Moscheles, Hummel, the Chevalier Neukomm, and Mendelssohn. Let any one of these gentlemen be installed maestro, and you will find the band invariably go well, unless, indeed, it be thwarted and checked by the caprice of an overbearing, arbitrary leader: there is no ‘stamping of feet’ with them; but all is conducted in silence. Having studied the score, such a conductor as any one of these relies on himself, and acts with firmness. There is no ambiguity, every motion of the baton is decisive, every glance of the eye expressive, and he makes himself clearly understood by each individual performer. This appears to me, Sir, to be the proper business of the maestro, and of him only. So adieu for the present, Messieurs the Conductors.