Columbia History of the British Novel.rnYou learn, for example, that no matterrnhow meager your bibliography is, yournshould always include a citation of therneditor or associate editors, if at all possible.rnYou learn, too, that anything thatrngets you out of the house is good forrnyou. A long walk promotes health,rnneighborliness, and improved knowledgernof local architecture and trees. And finallyrnyou learn to tell your children notrnto major in the humanities, but to reservernthe pleasures of reading for privaternlife. Accounting, business administration,rnpremed—that’s the ticket.rn].0. Tate is a professor of English atrnDowling College on Long Island.rnOratorio in the Ruinsrnby Richard WallerrnThat summer in Rome, Rome—the name itselfrnis a measure of time, and it may bernthat Rome and Time are synonymous,rnfor each is a quality, like starlight,rnthat can’t be measured. Both flicker like an oldrnsilent movie, stopping and starting through therncenturies, flowing backwards, then forwards,rnuntil Time disappears altogether leavingrnonly images suspended motionless in space,rnimages like those the evening I took my seatrnamong ten thousand in the Basilica of Maxentius,rnthe last great law court built in Imperial Rome.rnIt was begun by Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maxentiusrnand finished by Constantine the Great after hernslew him at the Milvian Bridge in the year AD. 312.rnI sat beneath the sunken panels of one of threernimmense remaining vaults overarching its spacernfor sixteen centuries. Filing in on stage belowrnwas the Bachgemeinde Choir of Viennarnand the Orchestra of the Academy of St. Cecilia,rnfounded by Palestrina in 1566.rnThe oratorio that evening was Die jahreszeiten—rnThe Seasons—in Cerman, set to the musicrnof Haydn, and completed in 1799.rnThe year was 1953. I was in my twenties,rnawestruck with admiration as I “looked acrossrnthe Forum at the Colosseum, and gazedrnat the temples, tiled with gilded bronze,rnon the Capitoline hill, and wondered at thernnumber and size of the basilicasrnand triumphal arches, the statues, obelisksrnand fountains, the baths and libraries,rncircuses and theatres” and the pines of Rome.rn”Are those dull breaking sounds the crunchrnof Christian bones in the Colosseum?” “No,rnit’s the tympanist in the Orchestra of St. Cecilia.”rn”Was that the cry of a gladiatorrndying like a beast in there?” “No,rnit was a horn warming up in the back row.”rn”I think it’s just awful what the Nazis didrnto this town.” “For God’s sake, Helen, this isrnthe Roman Forum. Hitler had nothing to do with it.”rnThe verve of the crackling overture began,rnsurrounding us with the breath of spring in the ruinsrnand of planting and ploughing and heavenlv showersrnthat kissed the furrows with the promise of plenty,rnand the sounds of sheep and bees and birds and boysrnand giris dancing in green meadows to fresh music.rnWeird effects in the orchestra simulatedrnthe withering heat of summer, the ripple of brooks,rnof storms, of flights to safety, and calms,rnand the sound of milking in cheap tin buckets,rnof quails and crickets and the croaking of frogs.rnHavdn blew his stack—but he was commissioned.rnAutumn brought harvest choruses and love duets,rnfiddle scrapes, bagpipes, drones of the hurdy-gurdyrnund tanzen und trinken around wine barrels,rnand the sounds of hounds and hunters and hornsrnand the bound of the stag from the copse to the field,rnthe tallv-ho and victory chorus of the exhausted hunters.rnFogs and chill winds ushered in winter’s gloom,rnretreat to the fireside and the spinning wheel:rnknurre, schnurre, knurre, whiz, wheel, whir.rnThe music ended in joyful praise to Himrnfrom Whom all blessings flow with major chordsrnthat must have awakened Constantine himself,rnand Spartacus and Nero and the ghost of everyonernwho ever died on the bloody floor of the Colosseum.rnIn just two hours, we had endured four seasonsrnunder a coffered vault that has seen six thousand.rnTime made the clock tick again and for an eveningrnlike that, Rome, you did well to decline and fall.rn42/CHRONICLESrnrnrn