Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1905, Henryk Sienkiewicz [pronounced as Shen-kay-ay-vich] (1846-1916) is a giant of Polish, and indeed world, letters, best known worldwide for this novel, published in 1896. It had long been a book I considered a must-read, so I was highly pleased when it was picked for a common read in a group I'm in. It proved to be every bit as rewarding as I hoped it would be!
Like Lew Wallace's 1880 novel Ben Hur (which may well have influenced Sienkiewicz, since it was widely translated into European languages), which inaugurated this subset of the genre, Quo Vadis is historical fiction set in biblical times and with New Testament figures among its characters. It is, however, set slightly later than Wallace's novel, primarily in 66 A.D., and centers thematically around an event not actually described in the book of Acts (but well-documented by Roman historians), Nero's bloody persecution of the Christians in Rome. This doesn't actually get under way until about the last third of the book, however; there's a substantial and well-crafted build-up that introduces the characters and delineates the issues at stake.
Historical fiction was the author's characteristic genre. To do it really well, a writer needs to handle the historical setting accurately, in a way that faithfully reflects rather than violates known history, even while spinning a fictional elaboration of it. That usually requires serious research. But beyond this, since the primary object of fiction is to entertain, the writer also needs to create an actual story set in the past which will engage the reader, and which presents the historical details as part of the story rather than as detached lectures dumped in here and there. This book is a stellar example of obviously deep research presented with impeccable accuracy as the perfect backdrop for an involving, immersive tale about people the reader comes to care about greatly. (Or, in some cases, greatly detest.) First-century Rome comes to vivid life here. A number of the characters, including the Apostles Peter and Paul, Nero's freedwoman Acte and his wife Poppea, and especially the cynical aesthete Petronius and the thoroughly mad and ultra-dangerous Nero himself, were real-life historical figures; and they're depicted in three-dimensional portrayals totally consistent with the way in which their contemporaries saw them. But others, and particularly our main characters --Petronius' nephew, the young patrician army officer Vinicius, and Christian convert Lygia, daughter of a far-away barbarian king, and handed over to the Romans by her father years ago as a hostage-- are fictional. These, though, are depicted in no less life-like a fashion than those characters who actually did live. Around these people, the author weaves a plot that's redolent with drama, tension and danger, suspense, and ultimately romance.
But the great fiction of the Western tradition has always been about more than storytelling with those elements, stirring as they can be. It goes beyond this to engage with serious spiritual, moral, social and/or philosophical questions. This novel is no exception. Grounded in and imbued with Sienkiewicz's own Christian faith, it's first and foremost a powerful, gripping depiction of the first-century clash of worldviews between newly-minted Christianity, with its love ethic and its total allegiance to a transcendent God, vs. the ideology of hedonistic self-interest, self-deification and total orientation to the concerns of the material world that underlies the Roman regime and everything it represents in practice –a clash that continues to resonate and shape our world some 20 centuries later. These characters may wear togas and travel in litters; but though their material culture doesn't much resemble ours, the questions each of them has to answer or evade are exactly the same ones that confront each of us: what we see as the meaning of life, what we think is the place –if any-- of God in our lives, how we intend to treat our fellow humans, what sex means to us, how far we're prepared to ignore our conscience in order to get “ahead” in the world (and how much getting “ahead” in those terms is really worth) and ultimately whether or not we have a faith that we're prepared to die for, perhaps horribly and painfully. Where novels written well over a century ago are concerned, readers often are inclined to ask if they still retain their original relevance. Ironically, this one has only become more relevant in the years since it was published. Average Euro-American readers in 1896, or even in the world of my childhood and tween years, might have naively imagined that the clash of worldviews was settled and that they were living in a “Christian” society, might even have been smug and complacent about designating themselves as “Christians” on that basis, and certainly didn't imagine that it would ever be a possibility that they could be killed for their faith by their own government. As the intervening decades have stripped away the entire veneer of superficial “Christian” rhetoric and the vestigal influence of Christian morality from the secular society, and the latter has been revealed as essentially still pagan Rome in its mentality but now endowed with WMDs and the Internet, it's become a whole lot easier to identify with the Christian characters here, and to recognize their conflict here as our own.
While the characters here are life-like, they're not always likable, and that can true of major ones. Several of them are dynamic rather than static, but that doesn't mean the direction is always positive; and the point they're starting from may be pretty grungy. But this is a novel that takes seriously the moral and spiritual power of Christian conversion, and of forgiveness (Divine and human). The descriptions (which are drawn from contemporary accounts) of gladiatorial combats in the arena, and of the executions by torture of Christian men, women, and children are extensive, prominent, and not for the squeamish. The author doesn't make these any more graphic than he has to make you aware of the full horror of what happened –-but he does make you aware, so potential readers had better be warned. As a staunchly Roman Catholic writer, Sienkiewicz occasionally projects distinctly Catholic ideas back into the first century, but that's really not a very prominent feature here; essentially, his portrayal of Rome's Christian community is pretty consistent with the picture of Christianity painted in the New Testament. This is, IMO, a novel that Christian readers of all denominations can appreciate.
I read this in the 1955 Great Illustrated Classics printing by Dodd, Mead and Co., which uses the first English translation, done by Jeremiah Curtin soon after the Polish publication. Curtin's prose is dignified and serious, but highly readable. This edition has a spoiler-free short (three pages) Introduction by an Allen Klots Jr., which is basically just a short biography of the author. It has 16 black-and-white (actually sort of sepia-tinted) illustrations, which vary in provenance and quality.