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Henry Sienkiewicz, the great Polish writer and author of "Quo Vadis," a refugee in Switzerland, said, on March 15, 1915: "In the kingdom of Poland alone there are 15,000 villages burned or damaged; a thousand churches and chapels destroyed.
"We might make it into some sort of a play like 'Quo Vadis?" he went on. "Hardly," said Mr. Pertell with a smile. "They didn't wear tall silk hats in those days. But I'll change the script of this play to conform to the chase. I'm glad you were not hurt, Mr. Bunn." "So am I. I thought several times that I felt those horns in my back."
One rises from a perusal of this with the trite expression, "Truth is stranger than fiction;" and one need only compare the account of Tacitus with the romance of Quo Vadis to be convinced that true history is more interesting than a novel.
Where the bloody and tragical science of king-killing, the new divinity of disobedience and rebellion? with too many other evils, wherewith foreign conversation hath endangered the infection of our peace? Bishop Hall's 'Quo Vadis, or a Censure of Travel, vol xii. sect. 22.
They have the faith. Damn the good works! The "push" in control of things in Missouri are Silver men, with about the same exalted purpose as Chilo, the Greek charlatan in "Quo Vadis" had in aligning himself with the Christians. It is a combination that is ready at any time to desert the cause of silver.
Such is to-day the fate of the author of the powerful historical trilogy: "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge" and "Pan Michael," preceded by short stories, "Lillian Morris," "Yanko the Musician," "After Bread," "Hania," "Let Us Follow Him," followed by two problem novels, "Without Dogma," and "Children of the Soil," and crowned by a masterpiece of an incomparable artistic beauty, "Quo Vadis."
Fuselli remembered a revel he'd seen in a moving picture of "Quo Vadis," people in bath robes dancing around with large cups in their hands and tables full of dishes being upset. "Cognac, beaucoup," said the private in Aviation. "Mame shows," said Fuselli.
"The olive wreath, the ivied wand, 'The sword in myrtles drest, Each legend of the shadowy strand Now wakes a vision blest; As little children lisp, and tell of heaven, So thoughts beyond their thoughts to those high bards were given." In the fork where a cross-road called the Via Ardeatina branches off from the Appian Way, is a little homely church with the strange name of "Domine quo Vadis."
But the one who is less selfish and wicked, and wishes to collect for his own use such a library as to be able at any moment to take a book from a shelf and find in it something which would make him thoughtful or would make him forget the ordinary life, he must get "Quo Vadis," because there he will find pages which will recomfort him by their beauty and dignity; it will enable him to go out from his surroundings and enter into himself, i.e., in that better man whom we sometimes feel in our interior.
I cursed that collar, which had prevented his hearing the door close, for then he might have driven off. But it was great inside: soft and warm, the cushions of dark plum, the seat wide and roomy, a church paper, some notes for the Bishop's next sermon and a copy of Quo Vadis. I just snuggled down, trust me. I leaned far back and lay low.
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