Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
IT WAS here that we saw again the Grand Master of the King's Household, in
whose castle Joan was guest when she tarried at Chinon in those first
days of her coming out of her own country. She made him Bailiff of Troyes
now by the King's permission.
And now we marched again; Chalons surrendered to us; and there by Chalons
in a talk, Joan, being asked if she had no fears for the future, said
yes, one--treachery. Who would believe it? who could dream it? And yet in
a sense it was prophecy. Truly, man is a pitiful animal.
We marched, marched, kept on marching; and at last, on the 16th of July,
we came in sight of our goal, and saw the great cathedraled towers of
Rheims rise out of the distance! Huzza after huzza swept the army from
van to rear; and as for Joan of Arc, there where she sat her horse
gazing, clothed all in white armor, dreamy, beautiful, and in her face a
deep, deep joy, a joy not of earth, oh, she was not flesh, she was a
spirit! Her sublime mission was closing--closing in flawless triumph.
To-morrow she could say, "It is finished--let me go free."
We camped, and the hurry and rush and turmoil of the grand preparations
began. The Archbishop and a great deputation arrived; and after these
came flock after flock, crowd after crowd, of citizens and country-folk,
hurrahing, in, with banners and music, and flowed over the camp, one
rejoicing inundation after another, everybody drunk with happiness. And
all night long Rheims was hard at work, hammering away, decorating the
town, building triumphal arches and clothing the ancient cathedral within
and without in a glory of opulent splendors.
We moved betimes in the morning; the coronation ceremonies would begin at
nine and last five hours. We were aware that the garrison of English and
Burgundian soldiers had given up all thought of resisting the Maid, and
that we should find the gates standing hospitably open and the whole city
ready to welcome us with enthusiasm.
It was a delicious morning, brilliant with sunshine, but cool and fresh
and inspiring. The army was in great form, and fine to see, as it
uncoiled from its lair fold by fold, and stretched away on the final
march of the peaceful Coronation Campaign.
Joan, on her black horse, with the Lieutenant-General and the personal
staff grouped about her, took post for a final review and a good-by; for
she was not expecting to ever be a soldier again, or ever serve with
these or any other soldiers any more after this day. The army knew this,
and believed it was looking for the last time upon the girlish face of
its invincible little Chief, its pet, its pride, its darling, whom it had
ennobled in its private heart with nobilities of its own creation, call
her "Daughter of God," "Savior of France," "Victory's Sweetheart," "The
Page of Christ," together with still softer titles which were simply
naive and frank endearments such as men are used to confer upon children
whom they love. And so one saw a new thing now; a thing bred of the
emotion that was present there on both sides. Always before, in the
march-past, the battalions had gone swinging by in a storm of cheers,
heads up and eyes flashing, the drums rolling, the bands braying p'ans of
victory; but now there was nothing of that. But for one impressive sound,
one could have closed his eyes and imagined himself in a world of the
dead. That one sound was all that visited the ear in the summer
stillness--just that one sound--the muffled tread of the marching host.
As the serried masses drifted by, the men put their right hands up to
their temples, palms to the front, in military salute, turning their eyes
upon Joan's face in mute God-bless-you and farewell, and keeping them
there while they could. They still kept their hands up in reverent salute
many steps after they had passed by. Every time Joan put her handkerchief
to her eyes you could see a little quiver of emotion crinkle along the
faces of the files.
The march-past after a victory is a thing to drive the heart mad with
jubilation; but this one was a thing to break it.
We rode now to the King's lodgings, which was the Archbishop's country
palace; and he was presently ready, and we galloped off and took position
at the head of the army. By this time the country-people were arriving in
multitudes from every direction and massing themselves on both sides of
the road to get sight of Joan--just as had been done every day since our
first day's march began. Our march now lay through the grassy plain, and
those peasants made a dividing double border for that plain. They
stretched right down through it, a broad belt of bright colors on each
side of the road; for every peasant girl and woman in it had a white
jacket on her body and a crimson skirt on the rest of her. Endless
borders made of poppies and lilies stretching away in front of us--that
is what it looked like. And that is the kind of lane we had been marching
through all these days. Not a lane between multitudinous flowers standing
upright on their stems--no, these flowers were always kneeling; kneeling,
these human flowers, with their hands and faces lifted toward Joan of
Arc, and the grateful tears streaming down. And all along, those closest
to the road hugged her feet and kissed them and laid their wet cheeks
fondly against them. I never, during all those days, saw any of either
sex stand while she passed, nor any man keep his head covered. Afterward
in the Great Trial these touching scenes were used as a weapon against
her. She had been made an object of adoration by the people, and this was
proof that she was a heretic--so claimed that unjust court.
As we drew near the city the curving long sweep of ramparts and towers
was gay with fluttering flags and black with masses of people; and all
the air was vibrant with the crash of artillery and gloomed with drifting
clouds of smoke. We entered the gates in state and moved in procession
through the city, with all the guilds and industries in holiday costume
marching in our rear with their banners; and all the route was hedged
with a huzzaing crush of people, and all the windows were full and all
the roofs; and from the balconies hung costly stuffs of rich colors; and
the waving of handkerchiefs, seen in perspective through a long vista,
was like a snowstorm.
Joan's name had been introduced into the prayers of the Church--an honor
theretofore restricted to royalty. But she had a dearer honor and an
honor more to be proud of, from a humbler source: the common people had
had leaden medals struck which bore her effigy and her escutcheon, and
these they wore as charms. One saw them everywhere.
From the Archbishop's Palace, where we halted, and where the King and
Joan were to lodge, the King sent to the Abbey Church of St. Remi, which
was over toward the gate by which we had entered the city, for the Sainte
Ampoule, or flask of holy oil. This oil was not earthly oil; it was made
in heaven; the flask also. The flask, with the oil in it, was brought
down from heaven by a dove. It was sent down to St. Remi just as he was
going to baptize King Clovis, who had become a Christian. I know this to
be true. I had known it long before; for Pere Fronte told me in Domremy.
I cannot tell you how strange and awful it made me feel when I saw that
flask and knew I was looking with my own eyes upon a thing which had
actually been in heave, a thing which had been seen by angels, perhaps;
and by God Himself of a certainty, for He sent it. And I was looking upon
it--I. At one time I could have touched it. But I was afraid; for I could
not know but that God had touched it. It is most probable that He had.
From this flask Clovis had been anointed; and from it all the kings of
France had been anointed since. Yes, ever since the time of Clovis, and
that was nine hundred years. And so, as I have said, that flask of holy
oil was sent for, while we waited. A coronation without that would not
have been a coronation at all, in my belief.
Now in order to get the flask, a most ancient ceremonial had to be gone
through with; otherwise the Abb, of St. Remi, hereditary guardian in
perpetuity of the oil, would not deliver it. So, in accordance with
custom, the King deputed five great nobles to ride in solemn state and
richly armed and accoutered, they and their steeds, to the Abbey Church
as a guard of honor to the Archbishop of Rheims and his canons, who were
to bear the King's demand for the oil. When the five great lords were
ready to start, they knelt in a row and put up their mailed hands before
their faces, palm joined to palm, and swore upon their lives to conduct
the sacred vessel safely, and safely restore it again to the Church of
St. Remi after the anointing of the King. The Archbishop and his
subordinates, thus nobly escorted, took their way to St. Remi. The
Archbishop was in grand costume, with his miter on his head and his cross
in his hand. At the door of St. Remi they halted and formed, to receive
the holy vial. Soon one heard the deep tones of the organ and of chanting
men; then one saw a long file of lights approaching through the dim
church. And so came the Abbot, in his sacerdotal panoply, bearing the
vial, with his people following after. He delivered it, with solemn
ceremonies, to the Archbishop; then the march back began, and it was most
impressive; for it moved, the whole way, between two multitudes of men
and women who lay flat upon their faces and prayed in dumb silence and in
dread while that awful thing went by that had been in heaven.
This August company arrived at the great west door of the cathedral; and
as the Archbishop entered a noble anthem rose and filled the vast
building. The cathedral was packed with people--people in thousands. Only
a wide space down the center had been kept free. Down this space walked
the Archbishop and his canons, and after them followed those five stately
figures in splendid harness, each bearing his feudal banner--and riding!
Oh, that was a magnificent thing to see. Riding down the cavernous
vastness of the building through the rich lights streaming in long rays
from the pictured windows--oh, there was never anything so grand!
They rode clear to the choir--as much as four hundred feet from the door,
it was said. Then the Archbishop dismissed them, and they made deep
obeisance till their plumes touched their horses' necks, then made those
proud prancing and mincing and dancing creatures go backward all the way
to the door--which was pretty to see, and graceful; then they stood them
on their hind-feet and spun them around and plunged away and disappeared.
For some minutes there was a deep hush, a waiting pause; a silence so
profound that it was as if all those packed thousands there were steeped
in dreamless slumber--why, you could even notice the faintest sounds,
like the drowsy buzzing of insects; then came a mighty flood of rich
strains from four hundred silver trumpets, and then, framed in the
pointed archway of the great west door, appeared Joan and the King. They
advanced slowly, side by side, through a tempest of welcome--explosion
after explosion of cheers and cries, mingled with the deep thunders of
the organ and rolling tides of triumphant song from chanting choirs.
Behind Joan and the King came the Paladin and the Banner displayed; and a
majestic figure he was, and most proud and lofty in his bearing, for he
knew that the people were marking him and taking note of the gorgeous
state dress which covered his armor.
At his side was the Sire d'Albret, proxy for the Constable of France,
bearing the Sword of State.
After these, in order of rank, came a body royally attired representing
the lay peers of France; it consisted of three princes of the blood, and
La Tremouille and the young De Laval brothers.
These were followed by the representatives of the ecclesiastical
peers--the Archbishop of Rheims, and the Bishops of Laon, Chalons,
Orleans, and one other.
Behind these came the Grand Staff, all our great generals and famous
names, and everybody was eager to get a sight of them. Through all the
din one could hear shouts all along that told you where two of them were:
"Live the Bastard of Orleans!" "Satan La Hire forever!"
The August procession reached its appointed place in time, and the
solemnities of the Coronation began. They were long and imposing--with
prayers, and anthems, and sermons, and everything that is right for such
occasions; and Joan was at the King's side all these hours, with her
Standard in her hand. But at last came the grand act: the King took the
oath, he was anointed with the sacred oil; a splendid personage, followed
by train-bearers and other attendants, approached, bearing the Crown of
France upon a cushion, and kneeling offered it. The King seemed to
hesitate--in fact, did hesitate; for he put out his hand and then stopped
with it there in the air over the crown, the fingers in the attitude of
taking hold of it. But that was for only a moment--though a moment is a
notable something when it stops the heartbeat of twenty thousand people
and makes them catch their breath. Yes, only a moment; then he caught
Joan's eye, and she gave him a look with all the joy of her thankful
great soul in it; then he smiled, and took the Crown of France in his
hand, and right finely and right royally lifted it up and set it upon his
Then what a crash there was! All about us cries and cheers, and the
chanting of the choirs and groaning of the organ; and outside the
clamoring of the bells and the booming of the cannon. The fantastic
dream, the incredible dream, the impossible dream of the peasant-child
stood fulfilled; the English power was broken, the Heir of France was
She was like one transfigured, so divine was the joy that shone in her
face as she sank to her knees at the King's feet and looked up at him
through her tears. Her lips were quivering, and her words came soft and
low and broken:
"Now, O gentle King, is the pleasure of God accomplished according to His
command that you should come to Rheims and receive the crown that
belongeth of right to you, and unto none other. My work which was given
me to do is finished; give me your peace, and let me go back to my
mother, who is poor and old, and has need of me."
The King raised her up, and there before all that host he praised her
great deeds in most noble terms; and there he confirmed her nobility and
titles, making her the equal of a count in rank, and also appointed a
household and officers for her according to her dignity; and then he
"You have saved the crown. Speak--require--demand; and whatsoever grace
you ask it shall be granted, though it make the kingdom poor to meet it."
Now that was fine, that was royal. Joan was on her knees again
straightway, and said:
"Then, O gentle King, if out of your compassion you will speak the word,
I pray you give commandment that my village, poor and hard pressed by
reason of war, may have its taxes remitted."
"It is so commanded. Say on."
"That is all."
"All? Nothing but that?"
"It is all. I have no other desire."
"But that is nothing--less than nothing. Ask--do not be afraid."
"Indeed, I cannot, gentle King. Do not press me. I will not have aught
else, but only this alone."
The King seemed nonplussed, and stood still a moment, as if trying to
comprehend and realize the full stature of this strange unselfishness.
Then he raised his head and said:
"Who has won a kingdom and crowned its King; and all she asks and all she
will take is this poor grace--and even this is for others, not for
herself. And it is well; her act being proportioned to the dignity of one
who carries in her head and heart riches which outvalue any that any King
could add, though he gave his all. She shall have her way. Now,
therefore, it is decreed that from this day forth Domremy, natal village
of Joan of Arc, Deliverer of France, called the Maid of Orleans, is freed
from all taxation forever." Whereat the silver horns blew a jubilant
There, you see, she had had a vision of this very scene the time she was
in a trance in the pastures of Domremy and we asked her to name to boon
she would demand of the King if he should ever chance to tell her she
might claim one. But whether she had the vision or not, this act showed
that after all the dizzy grandeurs that had come upon her, she was still
the same simple, unselfish creature that she was that day.
Yes, Charles VII. remitted those taxes "forever." Often the gratitude of
kings and nations fades and their promises are forgotten or deliberately
violated; but you, who are children of France, should remember with pride
that France has kept this one faithfully. Sixty-three years have gone by
since that day. The taxes of the region wherein Domremy lies have been
collected sixty-three times since then, and all the villages of that
region have paid except that one--Domremy. The tax-gatherer never visits
Domremy. Domremy has long ago forgotten what that dread sorrow-sowing
apparition is like. Sixty-three tax-books have been filed meantime, and
they lie yonder with the other public records, and any may see them that
desire it. At the top of every page in the sixty-three books stands the
name of a village, and below that name its weary burden of taxation is
figured out and displayed; in the case of all save one. It is true, just
as I tell you. In each of the sixty-three books there is a page headed
"Domremi," but under that name not a figure appears. Where the figures
should be, there are three words written; and the same words have been
written every year for all these years; yes, it is a blank page, with
always those grateful words lettered across the face of it--a touching
"NOTHING--THE MAID OF ORLEANS." How brief it is; yet how much it says! It is the nation speaking. You
have the spectacle of that unsentimental thing, a Government, making
reverence to that name and saying to its agent, "Uncover, and pass on; it
is France that commands." Yes, the promise has been kept; it will be kept
always; "forever" was the King's word. 1
At two o'clock in the
afternoon the ceremonies of the Coronation came at last to an end; then
the procession formed once more, with Joan and the King at its head, and
took up its solemn march through the midst of the church, all instruments
and all people making such clamor of rejoicing noises as was, indeed, a
marvel to hear. An so ended the third of the great days of Joan's life.
And how close together they stand--May 8th, June 18th, July 17th!
1. It was faithfully kept during three hundred and sixty years and more;
then the over-confident octogenarian's prophecy failed. During the tumult
of the French Revolution the promise was forgotten and the grace
withdrawn. It has remained in disuse ever since. Joan never asked to be
remembered, but France has remembered her with an inextinguishable love
and reverence; Joan never asked for a statue, but France has lavished
them upon her; Joan never asked for a church for Domremy, but France is
building one; Joan never asked for saintship, but even that is impending.
Everything which Joan of Arc did not ask for has been given her, and with
a noble profusion; but the one humble little thing which she did ask for
and get has been taken away from her. There is something infinitely
pathetic about this. France owes Domremy a hundred years of taxes, and
could hardly find a citizen within her borders who would vote against the
payment of the debt. -- NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
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