they had asked me. But they never asked me anything; I was too
humble a creature for their notice.
Then the interview closed with a threat; a threat of fearful import;
a threat calculated to make a Catholic Christian feel as if the
ground were sinking from under him:
“The Church calls upon you to submit; disobey, and she will
abandon you as if you were a pagan!”
Think of being abandoned by the Church!–that august Power in
whose hands is lodged the fate of the human race; whose scepter
stretches beyond the furthest constellation that twinkles in the sky;
whose authority is over millions that live and over the billions that
wait trembling in purgatory for ransom or doom; whose smile
opens the gates of heaven to you, whose frown delivers you to the
fires of everlasting hell; a Power whose dominion overshadows
and belittles the pomps and shows of a village. To be abandoned
by one’s King–yes, that is death, and death is much; but to be
agandoned by Rome, to be abandoned by the Church! Ah, death is
nothing to that, for that is consignment to endless life–and such a
life!
I could see the red waves tossing in that shoreless lake of fire, I
could see the black myriads of the damned rise out of them and
struggle and sink and rise again; and I knew that Joan was seeing
what I saw, while she paused musing; and I believed that she must
yield now, and in truth I hoped she would, for these men were able
to make the threat good and deliver her over to eternal suffering,
and I knew that it was in their natures to do it.
But I was foolish to think that thought and hope that hope. Joan of
Arc was not made as others are made. Fidelity to principle, fidelity
to truth, fidelity to her word, all these were in her bone and in her
flesh–they were parts of her. She could not change, she could not
cast them out. She was the very genius of Fidelity; she was
Steadfastness incarnated. Where she had taken her stand and
planted her foot, there she would abide; hell itself could not move
her from that place.
Her Voices had not given her permission to make the sort of
submission that was required, therefore she would stand fast. She
would wait, in perfect obedience, let come what might.
My heart was like lead in my body when I went out from that
dungeon; but she–she was serene, she was not troubled. She had
done what she believed to be her duty, and that was sufficient; the
consequences were not her affair. The last thing she said that time
was full of this serenity, full of contented repose:
“I am a good Christian born and baptized, and a good Christian I
will die.”
Chapter 15 Undaunted by Threat of Burning
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