Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, Mark Twain [ebook reader online .txt] 📗

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 swordplay 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?”

There was a fine stir and commotion when he said that, and a sudden thrusting forward of heads and putting up of hands to ears to catch the answer; and the Dominican wagged his head with satisfaction, and looked about him collecting his applause, for it shone in every face. But Joan was not disturbed. There was no note of disquiet in her voice when she answered:

“He helps who help themselves. The sons of France will fight the battles, but He will give the victory!”

You could see a light of admiration sweep the house from face to face like a ray from the sun. Even the Dominican himself looked pleased, to see his masterstroke so neatly parried, and I heard a venerable bishop mutter, in the phrasing common to priest and people in that robust time, “By God, the child has said true. He willed that Goliath should be slain, and He sent a child like this to do it!”

Another day, when the inquisition had dragged along until everybody looked drowsy and tired but Joan, Brother Séguin, professor of theology at the University of Poitiers, who was a sour and sarcastic man, fell to plying Joan with all sorts of nagging questions in his bastard Limousin French⁠—for he was from Limoges. Finally he said:

“How is it that you understand those angels? What language did they speak?”

“French.”

“In‑deed! How pleasant to know that our language is so honored! Good French?”

“Yes⁠—perfect.”

“Perfect, eh? Well, certainly you ought to know. It was even better than your own, eh?”

“As to that, I⁠—I believe I cannot say,” said she, and was going on, but stopped. Then she added, almost as if she were saying it to herself, “Still, it was an improvement on yours!”

I knew there was a chuckle back of her eyes, for all their innocence. Everybody shouted. Brother Séguin was nettled, and asked brusquely:

“Do you believe in God?”

Joan answered with an irritating nonchalance:

“Oh, well, yes⁠—better than you, it is likely.”

Brother Séguin lost his patience, and heaped sarcasm after sarcasm upon her, and finally burst out in angry earnest, exclaiming:

“Very well, I can tell you this, you whose belief in God is so great: God has not willed that any shall believe in you without a sign. Where is your sign?⁠—show it!”

This roused Joan, and she was on her feet in a moment, and flung out her retort with spirit:

“I have not come to Poitiers to show signs and do miracles. Send me to Orleans and you shall have signs enough. Give me men-at-arms⁠—few or many⁠—and let me go!”

The fire was leaping from her eyes⁠—ah, the heroic little figure! can’t you see her? There was a great burst of acclamations, and she sat down blushing, for it was not in her delicate nature to like being conspicuous.

This speech and that episode about the French language scored two points against Brother Séguin, while he scored nothing against Joan; yet, sour man as he was, he was a manly man, and honest, as you can see by the histories; for at the Rehabilitation he could have hidden those unlucky incidents if he had chosen, but he didn’t do it, but spoke them right out in his evidence.

On one of the latter days of that three-weeks session the gowned scholars and professors made one grand assault all along the line, fairly overwhelming Joan with objections and arguments culled from the writings of every ancient and illustrious authority of the Roman Church. She was well-nigh smothered; but at last she shook herself free and struck back, crying out:

“Listen! The Book of God is worth more than all these ye cite, and I stand upon it. And I tell ye there are things in that Book that not one among ye can read, with all your learning!”

From the first she was the guest, by invitation, of the dame de Rabateau, wife of a councilor of the Parliament of Poitiers; and to that house the great ladies of the city came nightly to see Joan and talk with her; and