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

“Two or three days ago it was afraid of a hen-roost; one could storm the gates of hell with it now.”

Joan and he were inseparable, and a quaint and pleasant contrast they made. He was so big, she so little; he was so gray and so far along in his pilgrimage of life, she so youthful; his face was so bronzed and scarred, hers so fair and pink, so fresh and smooth; she was so gracious, and he so stern; she was so pure, so innocent, he such a cyclopedia of sin. In her eye was stored all charity and compassion, in his lightnings; when her glance fell upon you it seemed to bring benediction and the peace of God, but with his it was different, generally.

They rode through the camp a dozen times a day, visiting every corner of it, observing, inspecting, perfecting; and wherever they appeared the enthusiasm broke forth. They rode side by side, he a great figure of brawn and muscle, she a little masterwork of roundness and grace; he a fortress of rusty iron, she a shining statuette of silver; and when the reformed raiders and bandits caught sight of them they spoke out, with affection and welcome in their voices, and said:

“There they come⁠—Satan and the Page of Christ!”

All the three days that we were in Blois, Joan worked earnestly and tirelessly to bring La Hire to God⁠—to rescue him from the bondage of sin⁠—to breathe into his stormy heart the serenity and peace of religion. She urged, she begged, she implored him to pray. He stood out, the three days of our stay, begging almost piteously to be let off⁠—to be let off from just that one thing, that impossible thing; he would do anything else⁠—anything⁠—command, and he would obey⁠—he would go through the fire for her if she said the word⁠—but spare him this, only this, for he couldn’t pray, had never prayed, he was ignorant of how to frame a prayer, he had no words to put it in.

And yet⁠—can any believe it?⁠—she carried even that point, she won that incredible victory. She made La Hire pray. It shows, I think, that nothing was impossible to Joan of Arc. Yes, he stood there before her and put up his mailed hands and made a prayer. And it was not borrowed, but was his very own; he had none to help him frame it, he made it out of his own head⁠—saying:

“Fair Sir God, I pray you to do by La Hire as he would do by you if you were La Hire and he were God.”1

Then he put on his helmet and marched out of Joan’s tent as satisfied with himself as anyone might be who had arranged a perplexed and difficult business to the content and admiration of all the parties concerned in the matter.

If I had known that he had been praying, I could have understood why he was feeling so superior, but of course I could not know that.

I was coming to the tent at that moment, and saw him come out, and saw him march away in that large fashion, and indeed it was fine and beautiful to see. But when I got to the tent door I stopped and stepped back, grieved and shocked, for I heard Joan crying, as I mistakenly thought⁠—crying as if she could not contain nor endure the anguish of her soul, crying as if she would die. But it was not so, she was laughing⁠—laughing at La Hire’s prayer.

It was not until six-and-thirty years afterward that I found that out, and then⁠—oh, then I only cried when that picture of young carefree mirth rose before me out of the blur and mists of that long-vanished time; for there had come a day between, when God’s good gift of laughter had gone out from me to come again no more in this life.

We marched out in great strength and splendor, and took the road toward Orleans. The initial part of Joan’s great dream was realizing itself at last. It was the first time that any of us youngsters had ever seen an army, and it was a most stately and imposing spectacle to us. It was indeed an inspiring sight, that interminable column, stretching away into the fading distances, and curving itself in and out of the crookedness of the road like a mighty serpent. Joan rode at the head of it with her personal staff; then came a body of priests singing the “Veni Creator,” the banner of the Cross rising out of their midst; after these the glinting forest of spears. The several divisions were commanded by the great Armagnac generals, La Hire, the Marshal de Boussac, the Sire de Retz, Florent d’Illiers, and Poton de Saintrailles.

Each in his degree was tough, and there were three degrees⁠—tough, tougher, toughest⁠—and La Hire was the last by a shade, but only a shade. They were just illustrious official brigands, the whole party; and by long habits of lawlessness they had lost all acquaintanceship with obedience, if they had ever had any.

The King’s strict orders to them had been, “Obey the General-in-Chief in everything; attempt nothing without her knowledge, do nothing without her command.”

But what was the good of saying that? These independent birds knew no law. They seldom obeyed the King; they never obeyed him when it didn’t suit them to do it. Would they obey the Maid? In the first place they wouldn’t know how to obey her or anybody else, and in the second place it was of course not possible for them to take her military character seriously⁠—that country-girl of seventeen who had been trained for the complex and terrible business of war⁠—how? By tending sheep.

They had no idea of obeying her except in cases where their veteran military knowledge and experience showed them that the thing she required