Monthly Archives: June 2026

History or Memoir?  The Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas

Perpetua and Fecilitas

First, let me say that The Passion of the Saints Perpetua and Felicitas (Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Feliciatas) is not a  memoir.  Yet Passio has many aspects of a memoir, tempered by the history of the Christian martyrs, and the pagan myths that were a part of Roman culture. 

This short book, written in Latin in the early third century A.D, is regarded as the most important, and certainly the liveliest, of a genre known as the Acts or Lives of the Saints. Vibia Perpetua is the heroine, a Christian martyr who wrote a vivid account of her life in prison before her death in 203 A.D.  She and five other Christians were sentenced to be killed at the games in Carthage in a fight with wild animals.

Perpetua’s narrative occupies seven very short chapters.  We learn that she is honeste nata, liberaliter instituta, matronaliter nupta (well-born, liberally educated, and a married woman). She is also a mother.  Her sentence would be revoked if she denied that she was a Christian, but she will not retract her statement.

Perpetua’s father is nearly mad with grief.  He longs to save her from prison, and he begs her to return to her family:  himself, her mother, two brothers, an aunt, and her baby.  At one point he attacks her physically, hoping he can drag her out of jail by violence.

Perpetua remains calm, and tries reasoning with him.   Below is my literal translation of their very brief but logical dialogue from the Latin.  The Latin appears beneath my translation.  

“Father, I say, do you see for the sake of argument this dish lying here, or is it a pitcher?  And he says:  I see.  And I say to him:  And can it be called by another name than what it is?  And he says: No.  Thus I cannot say that I am other than a Christian.”

Pater, inquam, vides verbi  gratia vas hoc iacens, urceolum sive aliud?  et dixit:  Video.  Et ego dixi ei: Numquid alio nomine vocari potest quam quod est?  et ait:  Non.  Sic et ego aliud me dicere non possum nisi quod sum, Christiana.

The Christians did not compromise. Heads down, is what I would have advised in that pagan age.  But Perpetua and her five companions, including her pregnant slave,  Felicitas, are determined to be martyrs.

Her father continues to try intercede,. He reminds her about her baby, who he says is starving without her. Perpetua is allowed to have her son with her in prison for a time, though eventually her father must take him back. She worries about the boy’s nutrition, and that her breast will be infected from not nursing.

Perpetua also has visions. In one vision, she sees her unbaptized brother suffering in hell.  He died at age seven of cancer, and now he is doomed to stand in a pool, yet never reach the water that will sate his thirst.  (This is a common motif in Greek myth, though I hardly think Tantalus has a connection to her brother). But Perpetua’s constant prayers for her brother save him, and she sees him happily drinking water (baptism?).

There are other visions, one of them involving a bronze ladder, the description of which is fantastic,  bordering on magic realism. In another vision, she is turned into a man, and must fight a terrifying Egyptian.  If the Egyptian wins, he will be allowed to kill her, and if she wins, she will receive a green branch on which golden apples grow. (Again, the golden apples are a mythic element.)

Perpetua is he star of the book, but her Christian slave, Felicitas, is connected to Perpetua because both are mothers.  Felicitas gives birth to a daughter on the road while traveling to the games. The men, too, have interesting stories, but I was most interested in Perpetua.

After reading widely about Perpetua, I realize that almost nothing is known for sure. It is all based on conjecture, even the date of her death.  Nonetheless, it is fascinating and moving, whether you’re interested in memoirs or lives of the saints.

Lawrence Durrell’s Discrete Voices:  “The Alexandria Quartet” & “White Eagles over Serbia”

It is hot, it is muggy, it is dusty, and if it is not quite Alexandria, the smouldering summer in the Midwest post-Climate Change prepares you for Lawrence Durrell’s The Alexandria Quarter.  This neglected 20th century masterpiece is told in four novels, Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, and Clea, each named for a titular character.

Durrell was a brilliant poet, a translator of Cavafy, a humor writer, and a novelist.  His mesmeric style in The Alexandria Quartet is lush and poetic.  He intended the quartet to be read as one novel, though it can also be spaced over a long period of time. For a satisfying Durrell reading experience, head for that cafe with whirling fans on the ceiling and order an espresso.  No, air conditioning would be cheating.

Durrell mines his experience in Alexandria for the colorful characters, the derealization in the shimmering heat, and the intricate politics and conspiracies. The narrator, Darley, a novelist, is Durrell’s alter ego: he has “escaped” Alexandria and is living on an island, where he is writing about Alexandria. In the first volume,  Justine, Darley describes his love affair with Justine, a siren with a tragic past who sleeps with everybody. The other titular characters in the quartet are Balthazar, a doctor and a mystic, Mountolive, a diplomat who becomes Ambassador of Egypt, and Clea, an artist who is a shrewd observer of humanity.

If you don’t like luxuriant prose, you might want to try Durrell’s White Eagles over Serbia, a taut thriller set in the Balkans. Metuan, a spy, burned-out after an assignment in Malay,  is determined to retire and spend his leisure going fishing.  But Dombey, his boss,  entices him to accept the assignment: he can go fishing in the mountains of Serbia, where he is needed to investigate the murder of the former agent. Metuan, who knows the Serbian languages, will impersonate a peasant. And he takes his fishing rod.

Beautiful, spare writing and a good spy novel. It reminded me slightly of the actor Anthony Quayle’s Eight Hours from England, a brilliant novel set in the Balkans during World War II.

N.B. Peter Stothard, former editor of the TLS, is the author of a fascinating book called Alexandria. He visited the city, looking for traces of the past, but no Cleopatra, and certainly no Lawrence Durrell.

Like Mother, Like Daughter:  Cake Wars

Our Mother’s Cake Wars

Morituri salutamus te!” my mother muttered in the car on the way to Devil’s Lake. (That’s what the Roman gladiators said when they entered the arena: “We who are about to die salute you!”) She’d studied Latin at the Catholic school across the street from our church before it was converted into an elementary school. However, she sent us to public schools. “The public schools are really better.”

Mom was a good fighter. And, indeed, the barbs, digs, snottiness, and gentle feminine quarrels were about to begin in the aptly-named Devil’s Lake, which was so cold that only devils could survive there, or so they said.  Mom had vowed three years ago that she would never make this terrible trip again.  Dad insisted on bringing us kids, and she would not let us go to those wild parts without a chaperone. 

“Here we are,”  she said as we pulled up in front of a dismal bungalow on a bare treeless street. Mom refreshed her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then smiled a fake smile that told those who knew her, “Beware!”

There was a cake war in Devil’s Lake. The aunts had been getting ready for days. Mom was not a baker. She bought an angel food cake at Hy-Vee for this occasion.  “It will be the best-looking cake there,” she predicted.

She still stung from last time when the aunts patronized her for bringing a Duncan Hines cake.  The aunts had made their cakes from scratch, and though they were lopsided, like something I might make, and the Duncan HInes cake tasted better, they were intense about cake.

But this time the aunts did not thank her for the angel food’s cake. Instead, they offered to teach her to make homemade.

“No, thank you,” she said, and gathered up her purse.

Anyone who didn’t like the Hy-Vee angel food cake ranked very low in her estimation. Anyone who didn’t thank her for it ranked lower. “Mom, can we take the cake with us?” we asked as we got ready to leave.

“Manners,” she hissed.

These women were at war: cake was the weapon.

The Daughter’s Cake Wars

Morituri salutamus te!” I said as my boyfriend drove at a snail’s pace through a blizzard. This time, my mother’s favorite slogan, “We who are about to die salute you!”, was appropriate. While we looked for signs or a rest stop, I rolled down the window and wiped the snow off the windshield with a mitten.  The snow fell faster than I could wipe. Then the car broke down.

This was a letdown for my macho boyfriend, not to roll into town on his own wheels. His reticent father (in retrospect, my favorite in-law) picked us up and gave us an impromptu tour of the city as we drove through the blizzard in the dark.

However, many surprises lay ahead. I thought my boyfriend was poor, because of his shabby clothes: instead of a winter coat, he wore layers of jackets over a sweater with a hole under the arm. I’d expected to meet his warm, working-class family. But, alas, there was no warm welcome at childhood home of the love of my life. If we’d worn a mood ring, it would have been CRANKY.

The three-story house was enormous. It was in a posh neighborhood! What the…? Who were these people?

His mother barely said hello, and two of his sisters stared balefully. “I hate this,” one said, possibly after I said hello. “I know,” the other equally charming girl said. During the next 10 snowbound days they did not talk to me. I tried to make light conversation, even about books (a desperate topic, but one was an English major) but these snobbish girls just grunted, nor did they chat much to their brother.

“They ignore you because they hate me,” he said.

“I do not accept that explanation,” I said.

Several times a day we walked at a nearby park. At night we went to a hockey game, or the movies, or played Scrabble with the family: someone’s boyfriend had a breakdown because he didn’t have any letters – that is always the luck of the draw.

You get the idea: but I must tell you about the pancake war!

On a cold winter morning, is there anything better than pancakes? The family did not breakfast together; everybody got up at different times, and ate cereal or whatever; but one morning I caught my future ma-in-law making pancakes for my boyfriend.

“How lovely!” I said. “Mrs. _, I love pancakes.”

Too bad, because she shut down the operation and walked away. No pancakes for me!

Welcome to the family!!!

What is it about cakes, or pancakes, and in-laws?