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Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
Chapter 20
IN THE morning I was at my official post. It was on a platform raised the
height of a man, in the churchyard, under the eaves of St. Ouen. On this
same platform was a crowd of priests and important citizens, and several
lawyers. Abreast it, with a small space between, was another and larger
platform, handsomely canopied against sun and rain, and richly carpeted;
also it was furnished with comfortable chairs, and with two which were
more sumptuous than the others, and raised above the general level. One
of these two was occupied by a prince of the royal blood of England, his
Eminence the Cardinal of Winchester; the other by Cauchon, Bishop of
Beauvais. In the rest of the chairs sat three bishops, the
Vice-Inquisitor, eight abbots, and the sixty-two friars and lawyers who
had sat as Joan's judges in her late trials.
Twenty steps in front of the platforms was another--a table-topped
pyramid of stone, built up in retreating courses, thus forming steps. Out
of this rose that grisly thing, the stake; about the stake bundles of
fagots and firewood were piled. On the ground at the base of the pyramid
stood three crimson figures, the executioner and his assistants. At their
feet lay what had been a goodly heap of brands, but was now a smokeless
nest of ruddy coals; a foot or two from this was a supplemental supply of
wood and fagots compacted into a pile shoulder-high and containing as
much as six packhorse loads. Think of that. We seem so delicately made,
so destructible, so insubstantial; yet it is easier to reduce a granite
statue to ashes than it is to do that with a man's body.
The sight of the stake sent physical pains tingling down the nerves of my
body; and yet, turn as I would, my eyes would keep coming back t it, such
fascination has the gruesome and the terrible for us.
The space occupied by the platforms and the stake was kept open by a wall
of English soldiery, standing elbow to elbow, erect and stalwart figures,
fine and sightly in their polished steel; while from behind them on every
hand stretched far away a level plain of human heads; and there was no
window and no housetop within our view, howsoever distant, but was black
with patches and masses of people.
But there was no noise, no stir; it was as if the world was dead. The
impressiveness of this silence and solemnity was deepened by a leaden
twilight, for the sky was hidden by a pall of low-hanging storm-clouds;
and above the remote horizon faint winkings of heat-lightning played, and
now and then one caught the dull mutterings and complainings of distant
thunder.
At last the stillness was broken. From beyond the square rose an
indistinct sound, but familiar--court, crisp phrases of command; next I
saw the plain of heads dividing, and the steady swing of a marching host
was glimpsed between. My heart leaped for a moment. Was it La Hire and
his hellions? No--that was not their gait. No, it was the prisoner and
her escort; it was Joan of Arc, under guard, that was coming; my spirits
sank as low as they had been before. Weak as she was they made her walk;
they would increase her weakness all they could. The distance was not
great--it was but a few hundred yards--but short as it was it was a heavy
tax upon one who had been lying chained in one spot for months, and whose
feet had lost their powers from inaction. Yes, and for a year Joan had
known only the cool damps of a dungeon, and now she was dragging herself
through this sultry summer heat, this airless and suffocating void. As
she entered the gate, drooping with exhaustion, there was that creature
Loyseleur at her side with his head bent to her ear. We knew afterward
that he had been with her again this morning in the prison wearying her
with his persuasions and enticing her with false promises, and that he
was now still at the same work at the gate, imploring her to yield
everything that would be required of her, and assuring her that if she
would do this all would be well with her: she would be rid of the dreaded
English and find safety in the powerful shelter and protection of the
Church. A miserable man, a stony-hearted man!
The moment Joan was seated on the platform she closed her eyes and
allowed her chin to fall; and so sat, with her hands nestling in her lap,
indifferent to everything, caring for nothing but rest. And she was so
white again--white as alabaster.
How the faces of that packed mass of humanity lighted up with interest,
and with what intensity all eyes gazed upon this fragile girl! And how
natural it was; for these people realized that at last they were looking
upon that person whom they had so long hungered to see; a person whose
name and fame filled all Europe, and made all other names and all other
renowns insignificant by comparisons; Joan of Arc, the wonder of the
time, and destined to be the wonder of all times!
And I could read as by print, in their marveling countenances, the words
that were drifting through their minds: "Can it be true, is it
believable, that it is this little creature, this girl, this child with
the good face, the sweet face, the beautiful face, the dear and bonny
face, that has carried fortresses by storm, charged at the head of
victorious armies, blown the might of England out of her path with a
breath, and fought a long campaign, solitary and alone, against the
massed brains and learning of France--and had won it if the fight had
been fair!"
Evidently Cauchon had grown afraid of Manchon because of his pretty
apparent leanings toward Joan, for another recorder was in the chief
place here, which left my master and me nothing to do but sit idle and
look on.
Well, I suppose that everything had been done which could be thought of
to tire Joan's body and mind, but it was a mistake; one more device had
been invented. This was to preach a long sermon to her in that oppressive
heat.
When the preacher began, she cast up one distressed and disappointed
look, then dropped her head again. This preacher was Guillaume Erard, an
oratorical celebrity. He got his text from the Twelve Lies. He emptied
upon Joan al the calumnies in detail that had been bottled up in that
mass of venom, and called her all the brutal names that the Twelve were
labeled with, working himself into a whirlwind of fury as he went on; but
his labors were wasted, she seemed lost in dreams, she made no sign, she
did not seem to hear. At last he launched this apostrophe:
"O France, how hast thou been abused! Thou hast always been the home of
Christianity; but now, Charles, who calls himself thy King and governor,
indorses, like the heretic and schismatic that he is, the words and deeds
of a worthless and infamous woman!" Joan raised her head, and her eyes
began to burn and flash. The preacher turned to her: "It is to you, Joan,
that I speak, and I tell you that your King is schismatic and a heretic!"
Ah, he might abuse her to his heart's content; she could endure that; but
to her dying moment she could never hear in patience a word against that
ingrate, that treacherous dog our King, whose proper place was here, at
this moment, sword in hand, routing these reptiles and saving this most
noble servant that ever King had in this world--and he would have been
there if he had not been what I have called him. Joan's loyal soul was
outraged, and she turned upon the preacher and flung out a few words with
a spirit which the crowd recognized as being in accordance with the Joan
of Arc traditions:
"By my faith, sir! I make bold to say and swear, on pain of death, that
he is the most noble Christian of all Christians, and the best lover of
the faith and the Church!"
There was an explosion of applause from the crowd--which angered the
preacher, for he had been aching long to hear an expression like this,
and now that it was come at last it had fallen to the wrong person: he
had done all the work; the other had carried off all the spoil. He
stamped his foot and shouted to the sheriff:
"Make her shut up!"
That made the crowd laugh.
A mob has small respect for a grown man who has to call on a sheriff to
protect him from a sick girl.
Joan had damaged the preacher's cause more with one sentence than he had
helped it with a hundred; so he was much put out, and had trouble to get
a good start again. But he needn't have bothered; thee was no occasion.
It was mainly an English-feeling mob. It had but obeyed a law of our
nature--an irresistible law--to enjoy and applaud a spirited and promptly
delivered retort, no matter who makes it. The mob was with the preacher;
it had been beguiled for a moment, but only that; it would soon return.
It was there to see this girl burnt; so that it got that
satisfaction--without too much delay--it would be content.
Presently the preacher formally summoned Joan to submit to the Church. He
made the demand with confidence, for he had gotten the idea from
Loyseleur and Beaupere that she was worn to the bone, exhausted, and
would not be able to put forth any more resistance; and, indeed, to look
at her it seemed that they must be right. Nevertheless, she made one more
effort to hold her ground, and said, wearily:
"As to that matter, I have answered my judges before. I have told them to
report all that I have said and done to our Holy Father the Pope--to
whom, and to God first, I appeal."
Again, out of her native wisdom, she had brought those words of
tremendous import, but was ignorant of their value. But they could have
availed her nothing in any case, now, with the stake there and these
thousands of enemies about her. Yet they made every churchman there
blench, and the preacher changed the subject with all haste. Well might
those criminals blench, for Joan's appeal of her case to the Pope
stripped Cauchon at once of jurisdiction over it, and annulled all that
he and his judges had already done in the matter and all that they should
do in it henceforth.
Joan went on presently to reiterate, after some further talk, that she
had acted by command of God in her deeds and utterances; then, when an
attempt was made to implicate the King, and friends of hers and his, she
stopped that. She said:
"I charge my deeds and words upon no one, neither upon my King nor any
other. If there is any fault in them, I am responsible and no other."
She was asked if she would not recant those of her words and deeds which
had been pronounced evil by her judges. Here answer made confusion and
damage again:
"I submit them to God and the Pope."
The Pope once more! It was very embarrassing. Here was a person who was
asked to submit her case to the Church, and who frankly consents--offers
to submit it to the very head of it. What more could any one require? How
was one to answer such a formidably unanswerable answer as that?
The worried judges put their heads together and whispered and planned and
discussed. Then they brought forth this sufficiently shambling
conclusion--but it was the best they could do, in so close a place: they
said the Pope was so far away; and it was not necessary to go to him
anyway, because the present judges had sufficient power and authority to
deal with the present case, and were in effect "the Church" to that
extent. At another time they could have smiled at this conceit, but not
now; they were not comfortable enough now.
The mob was getting impatient. It was beginning to put on a threatening
aspect; it was tired of standing, tired of the scorching heat; and the
thunder was coming nearer, the lightning was flashing brighter. It was
necessary to hurry this matter to a close. Erard showed Joan a written
form, which had been prepared and made all ready beforehand, and asked
her to abjure.
"Abjure? What is abjure?"
She did not know the word. It was explained to her by Massieu. She tried
to understand, but she was breaking, under exhaustion, and she could not
gather the meaning. It was all a jumble and confusion of strange words.
In her despair she sent out this beseeching cry:
"I appeal to the Church universal whether I ought to abjure or not!"
Erard exclaimed:
"You shall abjure instantly, or instantly be burnt!"
She glanced up, at those awful words, and for the first time she saw the
stake and the mass of red coals--redder and angrier than ever now under
the constantly deepening storm-gloom. She gasped and staggered up out of
her seat muttering and mumbling incoherently, and gazed vacantly upon the
people and the scene about her like one who is dazed, or thinks he
dreams, and does not know where he is.
The priests crowded about her imploring her to sign the paper, there were
many voices beseeching and urging her at once, there was great turmoil
and shouting and excitement among the populace and everywhere.
"Sign! sign!" from the priests; "sign--sign and be saved!" And Loyseleur
was urging at her ear, "Do as I told you--do not destroy yourself!"
Joan said plaintively to these people:
"Ah, you do not do well to seduce me."
The judges joined their voices to the others. Yes, even the iron in their
hearts melted, and they said:
"O Joan, we pity you so! Take back what you have said, or we must deliver
you up to punishment."
And now there was another voice--it was from the other platform--pealing
solemnly above the din: Cauchon's--reading the sentence of death!
Joan's strength was all spent. She stood looking about her in a
bewildered way a moment, then slowly she sank to her knees, and bowed her
head and said:
"I submit."
They gave her no time to reconsider--they knew the peril of that. The
moment the words were out of her mouth Massieu was reading to her the
abjuration, and she was repeating the words after him mechanically,
unconsciously--and smiling; for her wandering mind was far away in some
happier world.
Then this short paper of six lines was slipped aside and a long one of
many pages was smuggled into its place, and she, noting nothing, put her
mark on it, saying, in pathetic apology, that she did not know how to
write. But a secretary of the King of England was there to take care of
that defect; he guided her hand with his own, and wrote her
name--Jehanne.
The great crime was accomplished. She had signed--what? She did not
know--but the others knew. She had signed a paper confessing herself a
sorceress, a dealer with devils, a liar, a blasphermer of God and His
angels, a lover of blood, a promoter of sedition, cruel, wicked,
commissioned of Satan; and this signature of hers bound her to resume the
dress of a woman.
There were other promises, but that one would answer, without the others;
and that one could be made to destroy her.
Loyseleur pressed forward and praised her for having done "such a good
day's work."
But she was still dreamy, she hardly heard.
Then Cauchon pronounced the words which dissolved the excommunication and
restored her to her beloved Church, with all the dear privileges of
worship. Ah, she heard that! You could see it in the deep gratitude that
rose in her face and transfigured it with joy.
But how transient was that happiness! For Cauchon, without a tremor of
pity in his voice, added these crushing words:
"And that she may repent of her crimes and repeat them no more, she is
sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, with the bread of affliction and the
water of anguish!"
Perpetual imprisonment! She had never dreamed of that--such a thing had
never been hinted to her by Loyseleur or by any other. Loyseleur had
distinctly said and promised that "all would be well with her." And the
very last words spoken to her by Erard, on that very platform, when he
was urging her to abjure, was a straight, unqualified promised--that if
she would do it she should go free from captivity.
She stood stunned and speechless a moment; then she remembered, with such
solacement as the thought could furnish, that by another clear promise
made by Cauchon himself--she would at least be the Church's captive, and
have women about her in place of a brutal foreign soldiery. So she turned
to the body of priests and said, with a sad resignation:
"Now, you men of the Church, take me to your prison, and leave me no
longer in the hands of the English"; and she gathered up her chains and
prepared to move.
But alas! now came these shameful words from Cauchon--and with them a
mocking laugh:
"Take her to the prison whence she came!"
Poor abused girl! She stood dumb, smitten, paralyzed. It was pitiful to
see. She had been beguiled, lied to, betrayed; she saw it all now.
The rumbling of a drum broke upon the stillness, and for just one moment
she thought of the glorious deliverance promised by her Voices--I read it
in the rapture that lit her face; then she saw what it was--her prison
escort--and that light faded, never to revive again. And now her head
began a piteous rocking motion, swaying slowly, this way and that, as is
the way when one is suffering unwordable pain, or when one's heart is
broken; then drearily she went from us, with her face in her hands, and
sobbing bitterly.
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