OTTORINO RESPIGHI (1879–1936)
PINES OF ROME
Composed: 1923–1924
Premiered: Rome, Italy, 1924
- I. I pini di Villa Borghese (The Pines of the Villa Borghese)
- Pini presso una catacomba (Pines Near a Catacomb)
- I. I pini del Gianicolo (The Pines of the Janiculum)
- I pini della Via Appia (The Pines of the Appian Way)
Any mention of “Rimsky-Korsakov’s most famous composition student” usually refers to Stravinsky. Few now remember that Rimsky also taught Ottorino Respighi, albeit not for long (he preferred the less strenuous Max Bruch). The influence of Rimsky is unmistakable in Respighi’s dazzling displays of orchestral color, but his musical material is very much his own, with its highly personal mixture of the new and the old—peering back occasionally, indeed, into the ancient world.
Pines of Rome forms one third of an informal trilogy celebrating the Eternal City, along with Fountains of Rome and Roman Festivals. All combine muscular images of modern Italy with ghosts of the grandeur of ancient Rome, a feature which has led some to detect at least the shadow of Fascism in the music. When Respighi died, his most prominent obituary was written by Mussolini’s speechwriter Alceo Toni, and ended “You, Ottorino, mark the steps of our legions!’ However, the composer’s relations with the Fascist regime were always poor while he was alive, and it is important to recall that all three of these works were premiered under arch-anti-Fascist Arturo Toscanini, who was once saved from an angry Fascist mob by Respighi, at great personal risk.
In a sense, Respighi’s world is the opposite of Mussolini’s. While the Fascisti dreamed of a resurgent Rome, Respighi saw only ghosts; where Benito is possessed, Ottorino is haunted. He left very specific descriptions of what he intended the music to evoke:
“Children are playing in the pine groves of the Villa Borghese. They dance a kind of ring-a-roses, mimicking marching soldiers and battles, shrieking cruelly like swallows at eventide, then they swarm away.” Respighi’s widow was not alone in detecting an anti-Fascist fable here.
“Suddenly the scene changes and we see the shadow of pines framing the entrance to a catacomb. From the depths rises a sorrowful chant [actually a Gregorian antiphon], like a solemn hymn which re-echoes, then mysteriously fades away.”
“In the light of the serene full moon the pines on the Janiculum ridge stand out in bold relief. A nightingale sings.”
“The poet’s imagination conjures up a vision of ancient glories: Roman trumpets blare…the army of the Consul marches proudly towards the Sacred Way and then mounts the Capitoline Hill in triumph.”
The Consul’s army, note, not the Emperor’s. Respighi’s dream-Rome is the Roman Republic, not the nightmare Empire that was beginning—or trying—to re-form around him. The score calls for a real, recorded nightingale to sing over the Janiculum, anticipating Rautavaara’s famous Concerto for Birds by half a century.
Deep down, this music is the travelogue of a soul caught in what must have seen a grim parody of its own dreams. Fortunately for us, the music gives us the dreams themselves—and, perhaps, just the subtlest of warnings.