It's too bad Respighi missed the chicory hunters, but their near-giddy enthusiasm would have been hard to accommodate with the somber subterranean chant of souls.
Third Movement: Pines of the Janiculum. Lento.
"There is a thrill in the air: the pine-trees of the Janiculum stand distinctly outlined in the clear light of the full moon. A nightingale is singing."
Rome's Janiculum, noted in the Italian poet's third movement, was thick with pines and views of St. Peter's Basilica.
(Jerry V. Haines)
|
|
This movement offended purists when Respighi's "Pines" first was performed. Respighi demanded that, rather than using a musical instrument to simulate a bird song, a recording of an actual nightingale be played.
Perhaps we could have heard nightingales had we gone to the Janiculum at night, as Respighi did. The pines were there, though, even if they occasionally were joined by more contemporary trees: construction cranes.
As we walked up the long ridge south of the Vatican, we got increasingly impressive views of St. Peter's Basilica through the pines (and TV antennas). Our passage up the Passeggiata del Gianicolo (essentially one long scenic overlook) offered us vistas of the Tiber, ancient Roman neighborhoods and lots of red-tile roofs. In the distance, Villa Borghese's blue and gold balloon stood out against the deeper blue sky as it took another load of shutterbugs into the air.
A small group of children stood in rapt attention before a phone-booth-size stage near the top of the hill. Puppets howled and punched at each other, as they have for centuries in this ancient Italian art form.
An equestrian statue of Italian patriot Giuseppe Garibaldi dominates the hilltop. Respighi doesn't acknowledge the statue or the battle that took place here in 1849 between Garibaldi's troops and the French army during the fight for Italian unification. Garibaldi's Brazilian wife, Anita, also has a monument here, farther down the hill. It is smaller than her husband's, but much more interesting. She, too, is shown in battle, charging forward on horseback, holding a pistol in one hand, a baby in the other.
Maybe these scenes don't fit the moonlit mood of Respighi's pensive third movement, but he was right about one thing: There still is "a thrill in the air."
Fourth Movement: Pines of the Appian Way. Tempo di marcia.
"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 one is harder to check out, since Respighi is describing his own fantasies and patriotic feelings. The Appian Way was built in fourth century BC and extended all the way down and across the Italian peninsula to Brindisi, on the heel of the Italian "boot." The road enters Rome via a portal in the old city wall, changes its name to Via di Porta San Sebastiano and becomes just one of many modern city streets near the Baths of Caracalla.
On Sundays a section of the road just outside the old city wall and near the St. Callisto catacomb is closed to all but pedestrian and bicycle traffic, and thus you don't have to worry about being blindsided by a Fiat 500 as you imagine Roman chariots.
That's where we picked it up. There were no Roman armies, but the idea is to let the pines summon for you the glories of ancient Rome. Personally, I had a little trouble tuning out the tourists. (I don't think Roman soldiers wore running shoes and carried digital cameras.) Also, except for one excavated stretch where we could see the original surface, the road has been paved to accommodate cars. At least it's still a relatively narrow road -- nothing like an American interstate -- and pines still verge on it in places.
It would have been true to Respighi's vision had we marched the entire distance to the Capitol. We cheated and took the bus to what once was the focal point of the civilized world, the Roman Forum.
There still are pines on the Capitoline and Palatine Hills, looming above the scattered remains of temples and monuments, and I could imagine standing up there among them, watching armies moving resolutely past the Coliseum, turning onto Via Sacra to the delight of multitudes. In my mind the temples and monuments are whole again, and the masses by the Coliseum are cheering citizens, not sightseers desperately clutching their purses and scanning the crowd for pickpockets.
The pines endure, and with them Respighi's vivid audio postcards of 80 years ago.
Jerry V. Haines is a frequent contributor to the Travel section.
