Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, Volume 1

M >> Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) >> Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, Volume 1


We had been made proud by the honors which had so distinguished Joan's
entrance into that place--honors restricted to personages of very high
rank and worth--but that pride was as nothing compared with the pride we
had in the honor done her upon leaving it. For whereas those first honors
were shown only to the great, these last, up to this time, had been shown
only to the royal. The King himself led Joan by the hand down the great
hall to the door, the glittering multitude standing and making reverence
as they passed, and the silver trumpets sounding those rich notes of
theirs. Then he dismissed her with gracious words, bending low over her
hand and kissing it. Always--from all companies, high or low--she went
forth richer in honor and esteem than when she came.

And the King did another handsome thing by Joan, for he sent us back to
Courdray Castle torch-lighted and in state, under escort of his own
troop--his guard of honor--the only soldiers he had; and finely equipped
and bedizened they were, too, though they hadn't seen the color of their
wages since they were children, as a body might say. The wonders which
Joan had been performing before the King had been carried all around by
this time, so the road was so packed with people who wanted to get a
sight of her that we could hardly dig through; and as for talking
together, we couldn't, all attempts at talk being drowned in the storm of
shoutings and huzzas that broke out all along as we passed, and kept
abreast of us like a wave the whole way.



Chapter 7 Our Paladin in His Glory

WE WERE doomed to suffer tedious waits and delays, and we settled
ourselves down to our fate and bore it with a dreary patience, counting
the slow hours and the dull days and hoping for a turn when God should
please to send it. The Paladin was the only exception--that is to say, he
was the only one who was happy and had no heavy times. This was partly
owing to the satisfaction he got out of his clothes. He bought them at
second hand--a Spanish cavalier's complete suit, wide-brimmed hat with
flowing plumes, lace collar and cuffs, faded velvet doublet and trunks,
short cloak hung from the shoulder, funnel-topped buskins, long rapier,
and all that--a graceful and picturesque costume, and the Paladin's great
frame was the right place to hang it for effect. He wore it when off
duty; and when he swaggered by with one hand resting on the hilt of his
rapier, and twirling his new mustache with the other, everybody stopped
to look and admire; and well they might, for he was a fine and stately
contrast to the small French gentlemen of the day squeezed into the
trivial French costume of the time.

He was king bee of the little village that snuggled under the shelter of
the frowning towers and bastions of Courdray Castle, and acknowledged
lord of the tap-room of the inn. When he opened his mouth there, he got a
hearing. Those simple artisans and peasants listened with deep and
wondering interest; for he was a traveler and had seen the world--all of
it that lay between Chinon and Domremy, at any rate--and that was a wide
stretch more of it than they might ever hope to see; and he had been in
battle, and knew how to paint its shock and struggle, its perils and
surprised, with an art that was all his own. He was cock of that walk,
hero of that hostelry; he drew custom as honey draws flies; so he was the
pet of the innkeeper, and of his wife and daughter, and they were his
obliged and willing servants.

Most people who have the narrative gift--that great and rare
endowment--have with it the defect of telling their choice things over
the same way every time, and this injures them and causes them to sound
stale and wearisome after several repetitions; but it was not so with the
Paladin, whose art was of a finer sort; it was more stirring and
interesting to hear him tell about a battle the tenth time than it was
the first time, because he did not tell it twice the same way, but always
made a new battle of it and a better one, with more casualties on the
enemy's side each time, and more general wreck and disaster all around,
and more widows and orphans and suffering in the neighborhood where it
happened. He could not tell his battles apart himself, except by their
names; and by the time he had told one of then ten times it had grown so
that there wasn't room enough in France for it any more, but was lapping
over the edges. But up to that point the audience would not allow him to
substitute a new battle, knowing that the old ones were the best, and
sure to improve as long as France could hold them; and so, instead of
saying to him as they would have said to another, "Give us something
fresh, we are fatigued with that old thing," they would say, with one
voice and with a strong interest, "Tell about the surprise at Beaulieu
again--tell in three or four times!" That is a compliment which few
narrative experts have heard in their lifetime.

At first when the Paladin heard us tell about the glories of the Royal
Audience he was broken-hearted because he was not taken with us to it;
next, his talk was full of what he would have done if he had been there;
and within two days he was telling what he did do when he was there. His
mill was fairly started, now, and could be trusted to take care of its
affair. Within three nights afterward all his battles were taking a rest,
for already his worshipers in the tap-room were so infatuated with the
great tale of the Royal Audience that they would have nothing else, and
so besotted with it were they that they would have cried if they could
not have gotten it.

Noel Rainguesson hid himself and heard it, and came and told me, and
after that we went together to listen, bribing the inn hostess to let us
have her little private parlor, where we could stand at the wickets in
the door and see and hear.

The tap-room was large, yet had a snug and cozy look, with its inviting
little tables and chairs scattered irregularly over its red brick floor,
and its great fire flaming and crackling in the wide chimney. It was a
comfortable place to be in on such chilly and blustering March nights as
these, and a goodly company had taken shelter there, and were sipping
their wine in contentment and gossiping one with another in a neighborly
way while they waited for the historian. The host, the hostess, and their
pretty daughter were flying here and there and yonder among the tables
and doing their best to keep up with the orders. The room was about forty
feet square, and a space or aisle down the center of it had been kept
vacant and reserved for the Paladin's needs. At the end of it was a
platform ten or twelve feet wide, with a big chair and a small table on
it, and three steps leading up to it.

Among the wine-sippers were many familiar faces: the cobbler, the
farrier, the blacksmith, the wheelwright, the armorer, the maltster, the
weaver, the backer, the miller's man with his dusty coat, and so on; and
conscious and important, as a matter of course, was the barber-surgeon,
for he is that in all villages. As he has to pull everybody's teeth and
purge and bleed all the grown people once a month to keep their health
sound, he knows everybody, and by constant contact with all sorts of folk
becomes a master of etiquette and manners and a conversationalist of
large facility. There were plenty of carriers, drovers, and their sort,
and journeymen artisans.

When the Paladin presently came sauntering indolently in, he was received
with a cheer, and the barber hustled forward and greeted him with several
low and most graceful and courtly bows, also taking his hand an touching
his lips to it. Then he called in a loud voice for a stoup of wine for
the Paladin, and when the host's daughter brought it up on the platform
and dropped her courtesy and departed, the barber called after her, and
told her to add the wine to his score. This won him ejaculations of
approval, which pleased him very much and made his little rat-eyes shine;
and such applause is right and proper, for when we do a liberal and
gallant thing it is but natural that we should wish to see notice taken
of it.

The barber called upon the people to rise and drink the Paladin's health,
and they did it with alacrity and affectionate heartiness, clashing their
metal flagons together with a simultaneous crash, and heightening the
effect with a resounding cheer. It was a fine thing to see how that young
swashbuckler had made himself so popular in a strange land in so little a
while, and without other helps to his advancement than just his tongue
and the talent to use it given him by God--a talent which was but one
talent in the beginning, but was now become ten through husbandry and the
increment and usufruct that do naturally follow that and reward it as by
a law.

The people sat down and began to hammer on the tables with their flagons
and call for "the King's Audience!--the King's Audience! --the King's
Audience!" The Paladin stood there in one of his best attitudes, with his
plumed great hat tipped over to the left, the folds of his short cloak
drooping from his shoulder, and the one hand resting upon the hilt of his
rapier and the other lifting his beaker. As the noise died down he made a
stately sort of a bow, which he had picked up somewhere, then fetched his
beaker with a sweep to his lips and tilted his head back and rained it to
the bottom. The barber jumped for it and set it upon the Paladin's table.
Then the Paladin began to walk up and down his platform with a great deal
of dignity and quite at his ease; and as he walked he talked, and every
little while stopped and stood facing his house and so standing continued
his talk.

We went three nights in succession. It was plain that there was a charm
about the performance that was apart from the mere interest which
attaches to lying. It was presently discoverable that this charm lay in
the Paladin's sincerity. He was not lying consciously; he believed what
he was saying. To him, his initial statements were facts, and whenever he
enlarged a statement, the enlargement became a fact too. He put his heart
into his extravagant narrative, just as a poet puts his heart into a
heroic fiction, and his earnestness disarmed criticism--disarmed it as
far as he himself was concerned. Nobody believed his narrative, but all
believed that he believed it.

He made his enlargements without flourish, without emphasis, and so
casually that often one failed to notice that a change had been made. He
spoke of the governor of Vaucouleurs, the first night, simply as the
governor of Vaucouleurs; he spoke of him the second night as his uncle
the governor of Vaucouleurs; the third night he was his father. He did
not seem to know that he was making these extraordinary changes; they
dropped from his lips in a quite natural and effortless way. By his first
night's account the governor merely attached him to the Maid's military
escort in a general and unofficial way; the second night his uncle the
governor sent him with the Maid as lieutenant of her rear guard; the
third night his father the governor put the whole command, Maid and all,
in his special charge. The first night the governor spoke of his as a
youth without name or ancestry, but "destined to achieve both"; the
second night his uncle the governor spoke of him as the latest and
worthiest lineal descendent of the chiefest and noblest of the Twelve
Paladins of Charlemagne; the third night he spoke of his as the lineal
descendent of the whole dozen. In three nights he promoted the Count of
Vendome from a fresh acquaintance to a schoolmate, and then
brother-in-law.

At the King's Audience everything grew, in the same way. First the four
silver trumpets were twelve, then thirty-five, finally ninety-six; and by
that time he had thrown in so many drums and cymbals that he had to
lengthen the hall from five hundred feet to nine hundred to accommodate
them. Under his hand the people present multiplied in the same large way.

The first two nights he contented himself with merely describing and
exaggerating the chief dramatic incident of the Audience, but the third
night he added illustration to description. He throned the barber in his
own high chair to represent the sham King; then he told how the Court
watched the Maid with intense interest and suppressed merriment,
expecting to see her fooled by the deception and get herself swept
permanently out of credit by the storm of scornful laughter which would
follow. He worked this scene up till he got his house in a burning fever
of excitement and anticipation, then came his climax. Turning to the
barber, he said:

"But mark you what she did. She gazed steadfastly upon that sham's
villain face as I now gaze upon yours--this being her noble and simple
attitude, just as I stand now--then turned she--thus--to me, and
stretching her arm out--so--and pointing with her finger, she said, in
that firm, calm tone which she was used to use in directing the conduct
of a battle, 'Pluck me this false knave from the throne!' I, striding
forward as I do now, took him by the collar and lifted him out and held
him aloft--thus--as it he had been but a child." (The house rose,
shouting, stamping, and banging with their flagons, and went fairly mad
over this magnificent exhibition of strength--and there was not the
shadow of a laugh anywhere, though the spectacle of the limp but proud
barber hanging there in the air like a puppy held by the scruff of its
neck was a thing that had nothing of solemnity about it.) "Then I set him
down upon his feet--thus--being minded to get him by a better hold and
heave him out of the window, but she bid me forbear, so by that error he
escaped with his life.

"Then she turned her about and viewed the throng with those eyes of hers,
which are the clear-shining windows whence her immortal wisdom looketh
out upon the world, resolving its falsities and coming at the kernel of
truth that is hid within them, and presently they fell upon a young man
modestly clothed, and him she proclaimed for what he truly was, saying,
'I am thy servant--thou art the King!' Then all were astonished, and a
great shout went up, the whole six thousand joining in it, so that the
walls rocked with the volume and the tumult of it."

He made a fine and picturesque thing of the march-out from the Audience,
augmenting the glories of it to the last limit of the impossibilities;
then he took from his finger and held up a brass nut from a bolt-head
which the head ostler at the castle had given him that morning, and made
his conclusion--thus:

"Then the King dismissed the Maid most graciously--as indeed was her
desert--and, turning to me, said, 'Take this signet-ring, son of the
Paladins, and command me with it in your day of need; and look you,' said
he, touching my temple, 'preserve this brain, France has use for it; and
look well to its casket also, for I foresee that it will be hooped with a
ducal coronet one day.' I took the ring, and knelt and kissed his hand,
saying, 'Sire, where glory calls, there will I be found; where danger and
death are thickest, that is my native air; when France and the throne
need help--well, I say nothing, for I am not of the talking sort--let my
deeds speak for me, it is all I ask.'

"So ended the most fortunate and memorable episode, so big with future
weal for the crown and the nation, and unto God be the thanks! Rise! Fill
you flagons! Now--to France and the King--drink!"

They emptied them to the bottom, then burst into cheers and huzzas, and
kept it up as much as two minutes, the Paladin standing at stately ease
the while and smiling benignantly from his platform.



Chapter 8 Joan Persuades Her Inquisitors

WHEN JOAN told the King what that deep secret was that was torturing his
heart, his doubts were cleared away; he believed she was sent of God, and
if he had been let alone he would have set her upon her great mission at
once. But he was not let alone. Tremouille and the holy fox of Rheims
knew their man. All they needed to say was this--and they said it:

"Your Highness says her Voices have revealed to you, by her mouth, a
secret known only to yourself and God. How can you know that her Voices
are not of Satan, and she his mouthpiece?--for does not Satan know the
secrets of men and use his knowledge for the destruction of their souls?
It is a dangerous business, and your Highness will do well not to proceed
in it without probing the matter to the bottom."

That was enough. It shriveled up the King's little soul like a raisin,
with terrors and apprehensions, and straightway he privately appointed a
commission of bishops to visit and question Joan daily until they should
find out whether her supernatural helps hailed from heaven or from hell.

The King's relative, the Duke of Alencon, three years prisoner of war to
the English, was in these days released from captivity through promise of
a great ransom; and the name and fame of the Maid having reached him--for
the same filled all mouths now, and penetrated to all parts--he came to
Chinon to see with his own eyes what manner of creature she might be. The
King sent for Joan and introduced her to the Duke. She said, in her
simple fashion:

"You are welcome; the more of the blood of France that is joined to this
cause, the better for the cause and it."

Then the two talked together, and there was just the usual result: when
they departed, the Duke was her friend and advocate.

Joan attended the King's mass the next day, and afterward dined with the
King and the Duke. The King was learning to prize her company and value
her conversation; and that might well be, for, like other kings, he was
used to getting nothing out of people's talk but guarded phrases,
colorless and non-committal, or carefully tinted to tally with the color
of what he said himself; and so this kind of conversation only vexes and
bores, and is wearisome; but Joan's talk was fresh and free, sincere and
honest, and unmarred by timorous self-watching and constraint. She said
the very thing that was in her mind, and said it in a plain,
straightforward way. One can believe that to the King this must have been
like fresh cold water from the mountains to parched lips used to the
water of the sun-baked puddles of the plain.

After dinner Joan so charmed the Duke with her horsemanship and lance
practice in the meadows by the Castle of Chinon whither the King also had
come to look on, that he made her a present of a great black war-steed.

Every day the commission of bishops came and questioned Joan about her
Voices and her mission, and then went to the King with their report.
These pryings accomplished but little. She told as much as she considered
advisable, and kept the rest to herself. Both threats and trickeries were
wasted upon her. She did not care for the threats, and the traps caught
nothing. She was perfectly frank and childlike about these things. She
knew the bishops were sent by the King, that their questions were the
King's questions, and that by all law and custom a King's questions must
be answered; yet she told the King in her naive way at his own table one
day that she answered only such of those questions as suited her.

The bishops finally concluded that they couldn't tell whether Joan was
sent by God or not. They were cautious, you see. There were two powerful
parties at Court; therefore to make a decision either way would
infallibly embroil them with one of those parties; so it seemed to them
wisest to roost on the fence and shift the burden to other shoulders. And
that is what they did. They made final report that Joan's case was beyond
their powers, and recommended that it be put into the hands of the
learned and illustrious doctors of the University of Poitiers. Then they
retired from the field, leaving behind them this little item of
testimony, wrung from them by Joan's wise reticence: they said she was a
"gentle and simple little shepherdess, very candid, but not given to
talking."

It was quite true--in their case. But if they could have looked back and
seen her with us in the happy pastures of Domremy, they would have
perceived that she had a tongue that could go fast enough when no harm
could come of her words.

So we traveled to Poitiers, to endure there three weeks of tedious delay
while this poor child was being daily questioned and badgered before a
great bench of--what? Military experts?--since what she had come to apply
for was an army and the privilege of leading it to battle against the
enemies of France. Oh no; it was a great bench of priests and
monks--profoundly leaned and astute casuists--renowned professors of
theology! Instead of setting a military commission to find out if this
valorous little soldier could win victories, they set a company of holy
hair-splitters and phrase-mongers to work to find out if the soldier was
sound in her piety and had no doctrinal leaks. The rats were devouring
the house, but instead of examining the cat's teeth and claws, they only
concerned themselves to find out if it was a holy cat. If it was a pious
cat, a moral cat, all right, never mind about the other capacities, they
were of no consequence.

Joan was as sweetly self-possessed and tranquil before this grim
tribunal, with its robed celebrities, its solemn state and imposing
ceremonials, as if she were but a spectator and not herself on trial. She
sat there, solitary on her bench, untroubled, and disconcerted the
science of the sages with her sublime ignorance--an ignorance which was a
fortress; arts, wiles, the learning drawn from books, and all like
missiles rebounded from its unconscious masonry and fell to the ground
harmless; they could not dislodge the garrison which was within--Joan's
serene great heart and spirit, the guards and keepers of her mission.

She answered all questions frankly, and she told all the story of her
visions and of her experiences with the angels and what they said to her;
and the manner of the telling was so unaffected, and so earnest and
sincere, and made it all seem so lifelike and real, that even that hard
practical court forgot itself and sat motionless and mute, listening with
a charmed and wondering interest to the end. And if you would have other
testimony than mine, look in the histories and you will find where an
eyewitness, giving sworn testimony in the Rehabilitation process, says
that she told that tale "with a noble dignity and simplicity," and as to
its effect, says in substance what I have said. Seventeen, she
was--seventeen, and all alone on her bench by herself; yet was not
afraid, but faced that great company of erudite doctors of law ant
theology, and by the help of no art learned in the schools, but using
only the enchantments which were hers by nature, of youth, sincerity, a
voice soft and musical, and an eloquence whose source was the heart, not
the head, she laid that spell upon them. Now was not that a beautiful
thing to see? If I could, I would put it before you just as I saw it;
then I know what you would say.

As I have told you, she could not read. "One day they harried and
pestered her with arguments, reasonings, objections, and other windy and
wordy trivialities, gathered out of the works of this and that and the
other great theological authority, until at last her patience vanished,
and she turned upon them sharply and said:

"I don't know A from B; but I know this: that I am come by command of the
Lord of Heaven to deliver Orleans from the English power and crown the
King of Rheims, and the matters ye are puttering over are of no
consequence!"

Necessarily those were trying days for her, and wearing for everybody
that took part; but her share was the hardest, for she had no holidays,
but must be always on hand and stay the long hours through, whereas this,
that, and the other inquisitor could absent himself and rest up from his
fatigues when he got worn out. And yet she showed no wear, no weariness,
and but seldom let fly her temper. As a rule she put her day through
calm, alert, patient, fencing with those veteran masters of scholarly
sword-play and coming out always without a scratch.

One day a Dominican sprung upon her a question which made everybody cock
up his ears with interest; as for me, I trembled, and said to myself she
is done this time, poor Joan, for there is no way of answering this. The
sly Dominican began in this way--in a sort of indolent fashion, as if the
thing he was about was a matter of no moment:

"You assert that God has willed to deliver France from this English
bondage?"

"Yes, He has willed it."

"You wish for men-at-arms, so that you may go to the relief of Orleans, I
believe?"

"Yes--and the sooner the better."

"God is all-powerful, and able to do whatsoever thing He wills to do, is
it not so?"

"Most surely. None doubts it."

The Dominican lifted his head suddenly, and sprung that question I have
spoken of, with exultation:

"Then answer me this. If He has willed to deliver France, and is able to
do whatsoever He wills, where is the need for men-at-arms?"