Meanwhile Gantovski came, and having hung up his overcoat on a peg in the entrance, he was looking in it for a handkerchief, when, by a strange chance, Rozulka, young Stas’s nurse, found herself also in the entrance, and approaching Gantovski, embraced his knees, and then kissed his hands.
“Oh! how art thou, how art thou? What wilt thou say?” asked the heir of Yalbrykov.
“Nothing! I only wished to make obeisance,” said Rozulka, submissively.
Gantovski bent a little to one side, and began to search for something with his fingers in his breast pocket; but evidently she had come only to bow to the heir, for, without waiting for a gift, she kissed his hand again, and walked away quietly to the nursery.
Gantovski went with a heavy face to the rest of the company, muttering to himself in bass, —
“Um-dree-dree! Um-dree-dree! Um-dramta-ta!”
Then all sat down at the table, and a conversation began about the return of the Polanyetskis to the country. Pan Yamish, who, of himself, was an intelligent man, and, as a councillor, must be wise by virtue of his office, and eloquent, turned to Pan Stanislav, and said, —
“You come to the country without a knowledge of agriculture, but with that which is lacking mainly to the bulk of our country residents, — a knowledge of administration, and capital. Hence, I trust, and I am sure, that you will not come out badly in Kremen. Your return is for me a great joy, not only with reference to you and my beloved pupil, but because it is also a proof of what I say always, and assert, that the majority of us old people must leave the land; but our sons, and if not our sons, our grandsons, will come back; and will come back stronger, better trained in the struggle of life, with calculation in their heads, and with the traditions of work. Do you remember what I told you once, — that land attracts, and that it is genuine wealth? You contradicted me, then, but to-day — see, you are the owner of Kremen.”
“That was through her, and for her,” answered Pan Stanislav, pointing to his wife.
“Through her, and for her,” repeated the councillor; “and do you think that in my theory there is no place for women, and that I do not know their value? They divine with heart and conscience where there is real obligation, and with their hearts they urge on to it. But land is a real obligation, as well as real wealth.”
Here Pan Yamish, who, in the image and likeness of many councillors, had this weakness, that he was fond of listening to himself, closed his eyes, so as to listen still better, and continued, —
“Yes, you have returned through your wife! Yes, that is her merit; and God grant us that such women be born more frequently! But in your way you have all come out of the soil, and therefore soil attracts you. We ought to have the plough on our escutcheons, all of us. And I tell you more, not only did Pan Stanislav Polanyetski return, not only did Pani Marynia Polanyetski return, but the family of the Polanyetskis returned, for in it was awakened the instinct of whole generations, who grew out of the soil, and whose dust is enriching it.”
When he had said this, Pan Yamish rose, and taking a goblet, exclaimed, —
“In the hands of Pani Polanyetski, the health of the family of the Polanyetskis!”
“To the health of the family of the Polanyetskis!” cried Gantovski, who, having a feeling heart, was ready to forgive the family of the Polanyetskis all the sufferings of heart through which he had passed by reason of them.
And all went with their glasses to Pani Marynia, who thanked them with emotion; but to Pan Stanislav, who approached her, she whispered, —
“Ai, Stas, how happy I am!”
But when all in the company found themselves again at their places, Papa Plavitski added, on his part, —
“Keep the soil to the very last! that is what I have been advocating all my life.”
“That is certain!” confirmed Gantovski.
But in his soul he thought, “If it were not for those dog blood troubles!”
And at that very time, in the nursery, Rozulka was singing little Stas to sleep with the sad village song, —
“Those ill-fated chambers.
Oi, thou my Yasenku!”
After dinner, the guests were making ready to separate; but Plavitski kept them for a “little party,” so that they went away only when the sun was near setting. Then the Polanyetskis, having amused themselves first with little Stas, went out on the porch, and further, to the garden, for the evening was calm and clear. Everything reminded them of that first Sunday which they had spent there together; it seemed to them like some wonderful and pleasant dream, and reminiscences of that kind were there without number at every step. The sun was going down in the same way, large and shining; the trees stood motionless in the stillness of evening, reddening at the tops from the evening light; on the other side of the house the storks were chattering in the same way on their nests; there was the same mood of all things around them, cherishing and vesperal. They began to walk about, to pass through all the alleys, go to the fences, look at the fields, which lost themselves in the distance, at the narrow strips of woods barring the horizon, and to say quiet things to each other, and also as quietly as that evening was quiet. All this which surrounded them was to be their world. Both felt that that village was taking them into itself; that some relation was beginning to weave itself between them and it; that henceforth their life must flow there, not elsewhere, — laborers, devoted to the “service of God” in the field.
When the sun had gone down, they returned to the porch; but, as on that first occasion, so now they remained on it, waiting for perfect darkness. But formerly Marynia had kept at a distance from Pan Stanislav; now she nestled up to his side, and said, after some silence, —
“It will be pleasant for us here with each other, Stas, will it not?”
And he embraced her firmly, so as to feel her at his very heart, and said, —
“My beloved, my greatly beloved!”
Then from beyond the alder-trees, which were wrapped in haze, rose the ruddy moon; and the frogs in the ponds, having learned, evidently, that the lady had returned, she whom they had seen so often at the shore, called in the midst of the evening silence, in one great chorus, —
“Glad! glad!”
THE END
Quo Vadis
A NARRATIVE OF THE TIME OF NERO
Translated by Jeremiah Curtin
Published in serial instalments in three Polish dailies in 1895, Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero appeared in book form in 1896 and has since been translated into more than 50 languages. The novel’s title refers to “Quo vadis, Domine?”— Latin for “Where are you going, Lord?” and appears in Chapter 69. The narrative presents a retelling of a story from the apocryphal Acts of Peter, in which Peter flees Rome and on his travels meets Jesus, asking him why he is going to Rome. Jesus says, “If thou desert my people, I am going to Rome to be crucified a second time”, which shames Peter into returning to Rome to accept martyrdom.
Set against the backdrop of Nero’s Rome in c. AD 64, the novel also tells of a love that develops between a young Christian woman, Lycia and Marcus Vinicius, a Roman patrician. Sienkiewicz studied the Roman Empire extensively prior to writing the novel, assuring that his use of historical details was precise. The novel famously concerns the Great Fire of Rome in AD 64, which the author presents as being started by Nero’s orders. There is no conclusive evidence to support this and fires were very common in Rome at the time. In Chapter 50, senior Jewish community leaders advise Nero to blame the fires on Christians; there is no historical record of this, either. The fire opens up space in the city for Nero’s palatial complex, a massive villa with lush artificial landscapes and a 30-meter-tall sculpture of the emperor, as well as an ambitious urban planning program involving the creation of buildings decorated with ornate porticos and the widening of the streets.
The plot introduces Marcus Vinicius, the fictitious son of the historical Marcus Vinicius, a military tribune and Roman patrician, who has recently returned to Rome. O
n arriving in the city, he meets and falls in love with Lycia, the daughter of a deceased king of the Lycians, a barbarian tribe. Lycia is technically a hostage of the Senate and people of Rome, and was forgotten years ago by her own people. A great beauty, she has converted to Christianity, though her religion is originally unknown to Marcus. He decides to seek the counsel of his uncle Petronius to find a way to possess her. Petronius is the former governor of Bithynia and an important member of Nero’s court, using his wit to flatter and mock the emperor whenever he wishes. Loved by the Roman mob for his liberal attitudes, Petronius is indolent and lax in his morals. He tries to help his nephew, but his cunning plan is thwarted by Lycia’s Christian friends…
The first edition’s title page
The first English edition’s title page
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
Chapter LIX
Chapter LX
Chapter LXI
Chapter LXII
Chapter LXIII
Chapter LXIV
Chapter LXV
Chapter LXVI
Chapter LXVII
Chapter LXVIII
Chapter LXIX
Chapter LXX
Chapter LXXI
Chapter LXXII
Chapter LXXIII
Epilogue
A scene from the novel: “Ligia leaves Aulus’ house” by Domenico Mastroianni
‘The Torches of Nero’ by Henryk Siemiradzki. According to Tacitus, Nero targeted Christians as those responsible for the fire.
The 1951 film adaptation
INTRODUCTORY
IN the trilogy “With Fire and Sword,” “The Deluge,” and “Pan Michael,” Sienkiewicz has given pictures of a great and decisive epoch in modern history. The results of the struggle begun under Bogdan Hmelnitski have been felt for more than two centuries, and they are growing daily in importance. The Russia which rose out of that struggle has become a power not only of European but of world-wide significance, and, to all human seeming, she is yet in an early stage of her career.
In “Quo Vadis” the author gives us pictures of opening scenes in the conflict of moral ideas with the Roman Empire, — a conflict from which Christianity issued as the leading force in history.
The Slays are not so well known to Western Europe or to us as they are sure to be in the near future; hence the trilogy, with all its popularity and merit, is not appreciated yet as it will be.
The conflict described in “Quo Vadis” is of supreme interest to a vast number of persons reading English; and this book will rouse, I think, more attention at first than anything written by Sienkiewicz hitherto.
JEREMIAH CURTIN ILOM, NORTHERN GUATEMALA,
June, 1896
Chapter I
PETRONIUS woke only about midday, and as usual greatly wearied. The evening before he had been at one of Nero’s feasts, which was prolonged till late at night. For some time his health had been failing. He said himself that he woke up benumbed, as it were, and without power of collecting his thoughts. But the morning bath and careful kneading of the body by trained slaves hastened gradually the course of his slothful blood, roused him, quickened him, restored his strength, so that he issued from the elæothesium, that is, the last division of the bath, as if he had risen from the dead, with eyes gleaming from wit and gladness, rejuvenated, filled with life, exquisite, so unapproachable that Otho himself could not compare with him, and was really that which he had been called, — arbiter elegantiarum.
He visited the public baths rarely, only when some rhetor happened there who roused admiration and who was spoken of in the city, or when in the ephebias there were combats of exceptional interest. Moreover, he had in his own “insula” private baths which Celer, the famous contemporary of Severus, had extended for him, reconstructed and arranged with such uncommon taste that Nero himself acknowledged their excellence over those of the Emperor, though the imperial baths were more extensive and finished with incomparably greater luxury.
After that feast, at which he was bored by the jesting of Vatinius with Nero, Lucan, and Seneca, he took part in a diatribe as to whether woman has a soul. Rising late, he used, as was his custom, the baths. Two enormous balneatores laid him on a cypress table covered with snow-white Egyptian byssus, and with hands dipped in perfumed olive oil began to rub his shapely body; and he waited with closed eyes till the heat of the laconicum and the heat of their hands passed through him and expelled weariness.
But after a certain time he spoke, and opened his eyes; he inquired about the weather, and then about gems which the jeweller Idomeneus had promised to send him for examination that day. It appeared that the weather was beautiful, with a light breeze from the Alban hills, and that the gems had not been brought. Petronius closed his eyes again, and had given command to bear him to the tepidarium, when from behind the curtain the nomenclator looked in, announcing that young Marcus Vinicius, recently returned from Asia Minor, had come to visit him.
Petronius ordered to admit the guest to the tepidarium, to which he was borne himself. Vinicius was the son of his oldest sister, who years before had married Marcus Vinicius, a man of consular dignity from the time of Tiberius. The young man was serving then under Corbulo against the Parthians, and at the close of the war had returned to the city. Petronius had for him a certain weakness bordering on attachment, for Marcus was beautiful and athletic, a young man who knew how to preserve a certain aesthetic measure in his profligacy; this, Petronius prized above everything.
“A greeting to Petronius,” said the young man, entering the tepidarium with a springy step. “May all the gods grant thee success, but especially Asklepios and Kypris, for under their double protection nothing evil can meet one.”
“I greet thee in Rome, and may thy rest be sweet after war,” replied Petronius, extending his hand from between the folds of soft karbas stuff in which he was wrapped. “What’s to be heard in Armenia; or since thou wert in Asia, didst thou not stumble into Bithynia?”
Petronius on a time had been proconsul in Bithynia, and, what is more, he had governed with energy and justice. This was a marvellous contrast in the character of a man noted for effeminacy and love of luxury; hence he was fond of mentioning those times, as they were a proof of what he had been, and of what he might have become had it pleased him.
“I happened to visit Heraklea,” answered Viniciu
s. “Corbulo sent me there with an order to assemble reinforcements.”
“Ah, Heraklea! I knew at Heraklea a certain maiden from Colchis, for whom I would have given all the divorced women of this city, not excluding Poppæa. But these are old stories. Tell me now, rather, what is to be heard from the Parthian boundary. It is true that they weary me every Vologeses of them, and Tiridates and Tigranes, — those barbarians who, as young Arulenus insists, walk on all fours at home, and pretend to be human only when in our presence. But now people in Rome speak much of them, if only for the reason that it is dangerous to speak of aught else.”
“The war is going badly, and but for Corbulo might be turned to defeat.”
“Corbulo! by Bacchus! a real god of war, a genuine Mars, a great leader, at the same time quick-tempered, honest, and dull. I love him, even for this, — that Nero is afraid of him.”
“Corbulo is not a dull man.”
“Perhaps thou art right, but for that matter it is all one. Dulness, as Pyrrho says, is in no way worse than wisdom, and differs from it in nothing.”
Vinicius began to talk of the war; but when Petronius closed his eyes again, the young man, seeing his uncle’s tired and somewhat emaciated face, changed the conversation, and inquired with a certain interest about his health.
Petronius opened his eyes again.
Health! — No. He did not feel well. He had not gone so far yet, it is true, as young Sissena, who had lost sensation to such a degree that when he was brought to the bath in the morning he inquired, “Am I sitting?” But he was not well. Vinicius had just committed him to the care of Asklepios and Kypris. But he, Petronius, did not believe in Asklepios. It was not known even whose son that Asklepios was, the son of Arsinoe or Koronis; and if the mother was doubtful, what was to be said of the father? Who, in that time, could be sure who his own father was?
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 423