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Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
Chapter 15
TWO WEEKS went by; the second of May was come, the chill was departed out
of the air, the wild flowers were springing in the glades and glens, the
birds were piping in the woods, all nature was brilliant with sunshine,
all spirits were renewed and refreshed, all hearts glad, the world was
alive with hope and cheer, the plain beyond the Seine stretched away soft
and rich and green, the river was limpid and lovely, the leafy islands
were dainty to see, and flung still daintier reflections of themselves
upon the shining water; and from the tall bluffs above the bridge Rouen
was become again a delight to the eye, the most exquisite and satisfying
picture of a town that nestles under the arch of heaven anywhere.
When I say that all hearts were glad and hopeful, I mean it in a general
sense. There were exceptions--we who were the friends of Joan of Arc,
also Joan of Arc herself, that poor girl shut up there in that frowning
stretch of mighty walls and towers: brooding in darkness, so close to the
flooding downpour of sunshine yet so impossibly far away from it; so
longing for any little glimpse of it, yet so implacably denied it by
those wolves in the black gowns who were plotting her death and the
blackening of her good name.
Cauchon was ready to go on with his miserable work. He had a new scheme
to try now. He would see what persuasion could do--argument, eloquence,
poured out upon the incorrigible captive from the mouth of a trained
expert. That was his plan. But the reading of the Twelve Articles to her
was not a part of it. No, even Cauchon was ashamed to lay that
monstrosity before her; even he had a remnant of shame in him, away down
deep, a million fathoms deep, and that remnant asserted itself now and
prevailed.
On this fair second of May, then, the black company gathered itself
together in the spacious chamber at the end of the great hall of the
castle--the Bishop of Beauvais on his throne, and sixty-two minor judges
massed before him, with the guards and recorders at their stations and
the orator at his desk.
Then we heard the far clank of chains, and presently Joan entered with
her keepers and took her seat upon her isolated bench. She was looking
well now, and most fair and beautiful after her fortnight's rest from
wordy persecution.
She glanced about and noted the orator. Doubtless she divined the
situation.
The orator had written his speech all out, and had it in his hand, though
he held it back of him out of sight. It was so thick that it resembled a
book. He began flowing, but in the midst of a flowery period his memory
failed him and he had to snatch a furtive glance at his manuscript--which
much injured the effect. Again this happened, and then a third time. The
poor man's face was red with embarrassment, the whole great house was
pitying him, which made the matter worse; then Joan dropped in a remark
which completed the trouble. She said:
"Read your book--and then I will answer you!"
Why, it was almost cruel the way those moldy veterans laughed; and as for
the orator, he looked so flustered and helpless that almost anybody would
have pitied him, and I had difficulty to keep from doing it myself. Yes,
Joan was feeling very well after her rest, and the native mischief that
was in her lay near the surface. It did not show when she made the
remark, but I knew it was close in there back of the words.
When the orator had gotten back his composure he did a wise thing; for he
followed Joan's advice: he made no more attempts at sham impromptu
oratory, but read his speech straight from his "book." In the speech he
compressed the Twelve Articles into six, and made these his text.
Every now and then he stopped and asked questions, and Joan replied. The
nature of the Church Militant was explained, and once more Joan was asked
to submit herself to it.
She gave her usual answer.
Then she was asked:
"Do you believe the Church can err?"
"I believe it cannot err; but for those deeds and words of mine which
were done and uttered by command of God, I will answer to Him alone."
"Will you say that you have no judge upon earth? Is not our Holy Father
the Pope your judge?"
"I will say nothing about it. I have a good Master who is our Lord, and
to Him I will submit all."
Then came these terrible words:
"If you do not submit to the Church you will be pronounced a heretic by
these judges here present and burned at the stake!"
Ah, that would have smitten you or me dead with fright, but it only
roused the lion heart of Joan of Arc, and in her answer rang that martial
note which had used to stir her soldiers like a bugle-call:
"I will not say otherwise than I have said already; and if I saw the fire
before me I would say it again!"
It was uplifting to hear her battle-voice once more and see the
battle-light burn in her eye. Many there were stirred; every man that was
a man was stirred, whether friend or foe; and Manchon risked his life
again, good soul, for he wrote in the margin of the record in good plain
letters these brave words: "Superba responsio!" and there they have
remained these sixty years, and there you may read them to this day.
"Superba responsio!" Yes, it was just that. For this "superb answer" came
from the lips of a girl of nineteen with death and hell staring her in
the face.
Of course, the matter of the male attire was gone over again; and as
usual at wearisome length; also, as usual, the customary bribe was
offered: if she would discard that dress voluntarily they would let her
hear mass. But she answered as she had often answered before:
"I will go in a woman's robe to all services of the Church if I may be
permitted, but I will resume the other dress when I return to my cell."
They set several traps for her in a tentative form; that is to say, they
placed suppositious propositions before her and cunningly tried to commit
her to one end of the propositions without committing themselves to the
other. But she always saw the game and spoiled it. The trap was in this
form:
"Would you be willing to do so and so if we should give you leave?"
Her answer was always in this form or to this effect:
"When you give me leave, then you will know."
Yes, Joan was at her best that second of May. She had all her wits about
her, and they could not catch her anywhere. It was a long, long session,
and all the old ground was fought over again, foot by foot, and the
orator-expert worked all his persuasions, all his eloquence; but the
result was the familiar one--a drawn battle, the sixty-two retiring upon
their base, the solitary enemy holding her original position within her
original lines.
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