The Pines of Rome

The Pines of the Villa Borghese -

The Pines near a Catacomb -

The Pines of the Janiculum -

The Pines of the Appian Way

All that is missing from The Pines of Rome is the pines. The second of Respighi’s Roman tone poems, written in 1923, it is inspired by four places in or near the city where pine trees are prominent in the landscape but - unlike the first in the series, The Fountains of Rome, where splashing water is a persistent feature - it reflects not so much the sounds of his chosen subjects as their historical associations and the life around them. Again the four movements follow each other without a break and again the composer has supplied his own commentary.

Children are at play in the pine groves of the Villa Borghese: they dance round in circles, they play at soldiers, marching and fighting, they are wrought-up by their own cries like swallows at evening, they come and go in swarms. The true subject here is not the trees that adorn Rome’s largest public park but the popular tunes associated with the place and presented by Respighi in much the same way as the Russian folk songs in Petrushka. While Stravinsky is an obvious influence, however, Respighi did achieve the distinction here of writing what is probably the most vital and the most brilliant depiction of children at play in the orchestral repertoire, including Ravel’s arrangement of the Tuileries movement in Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition.

We see the shades of the pine trees fringing the entrance to a catacomb. From the depths rises the sound of mournful plainsong, floating through the air like a solemn hymn, and gradually and mysteriously dispersing. There is a shadow of pine-trees on muted lower strings round the opening of the catacomb in the second movement but the true subject here is modal melody, above all the Gregorian chant which enters sotto voce and rises to a climax in the middle of the movement. Coloured by muted horns two octaves apart near the beginning, by a distant trumpet solo, and by the fervently chanting strings and woodwind, it is a particularly effective example of Respighi’s use of the old church modes that were to be a regular part of his vocabulary from this time onwards.

The air quivers: the pines of the Janiculum stand distinctly outlined in the clear light of a full moon. A nightingale is singing. The pines on the Janiculum, the hill overlooking Rome to the west, inspire a luxuriantly synthesised kind of nocturnal impressionism with rapturously eloquent clarinet, solo strings illuminated by moonlit harmonies on celesta and, in the closing bars, an actual recording of a nightingale integrated with a last echo of the clarinet soliloquy.

Misty dawn on the Appian Way: solitary pine trees guarding the magic landscape: the muffled ceaseless rhythm of unending footsteps. The poet has a fantastic vision of bygone glories: trumpets sound and, in the brilliance of the newly risen sun, a consular army bursts forth towards the Sacred Way, mounting in triumph to the Capitol. This is where imperial Rome comes in. If the pines of the Appian Way are present at all it is as retainers of ancient reverberations of the marching feet and the splendour of Roman trumpets as the consular army makes its way to the Capitol.

The Pines of the Villa Borghese –

Pines near a Catacomb    –

The Pines of the Janiculum –

The Pines of the Appian Way

All that is missing from The Pines of Rome is the pines. The second of Respighi’s three Roman tone poems, it is inspired by four places in or near the city where pine trees are prominent in the landscape but – unlike the first in the series, The Fountains of Rome, where the splashing water is a persistent feature – it reflects not so much the sounds of his chosen subjects as their historical associations and the life around them. If that includes something of the new political atmosphere following Mussolini’s seizure of power in Italy in 1922, there is no more than a hint here of the imperialism so colourfully celebrated in the positively grandiose Festivals of Rome five years later in 1928. Respighi was not himself a Fascist – Toscanini would certainly not have championed his works abroad if he had been – but he was clearly sensitive to the mood of the times as well as being abundantly endowed with the means to express it. The Pines of Rome is divided into four movements which follow each other without a break. The composer’s own descriptions of the various scenes are printed in italics below.

Children are at play in the pine groves of the Villa Borghese: they dance round in circles, they play at soldiers, marching and fighting, they are wrought-up by their own cries like swallows at evening, they come and go in swarms. The true subject here is not the trees that adorn Rome’s largest public park but the popular tunes associated with the place and presented by Respighi in much the same way as the Russian folk songs in Petrushka. While Stravinsky is an obvious influence, however, Respighi did achieve the distinction here of writing what is probably the most vital and the most brilliant depiction of children at play in the orchestral repertoire, including Ravel’s arrangement of the Tuileries movement in Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition.   

We see the shades of the pine trees fringing the entrance to a catacomb. From the depths rises the sound of mournful plainsong, floating through the air like a solemn hymn, and gradually and mysteriously dispersing. There is a shadow of pine-trees on muted lower strings round the opening of the catacomb in the second movement but the true subject here the Gregorian chant which enters sotto voce and rises to a climax in the middle of the movement. Coloured by muted horns two octaves apart near the beginning, by a distant trumpet solo, and by the fervently chanting strings and woodwind, it is a particularly effective example of Respighi’s use of the old church modes that were to be a regular part of his vocabulary from this time onwards.

The air quivers: the pines of the Janiculum stand distinctly outlined in the clear light of a full moon. A nightingale is singing. The pines on the Janiculum, the hill overlooking Rome to the west, inspire a luxuriantly synthesised kind of nocturnal impressionism with rapturously eloquent clarinet, solo strings illuminated by moonlit harmonies on celesta and, in the closing bars, an actual recording of a nightingale integrated with a last echo of the clarinet soliloquy.

Misty dawn on the Appian Way: solitary pine trees guarding the magic landscape: the muffled ceaseless rhythm of unending footsteps. The poet has a fantastic vision of bygone glories: trumpets sound and, in the brilliance of the newly risen sun, a consular army bursts forth towards the Sacred Way, mounting in triumph to the Capitol. This is where imperial Rome comes in. If the pines of the Appian Way are present at all it is as retainers of ancient reverberations of the marching feet and the splendour of Roman trumpets as the consular army makes its way to the Capitol.