From the shelves of the Paco library

Mark Twain – irreverent satirist and comic author – penned one work that was so far from the tone of his better-known books, that, if I hadn’t seen the dedication (to his wife, Olivia Langdon Clemens), I probably wouldn’t have recognized it as his own. The work to which I refer is Twain’s historical novel about Joan of Arc. The full title is Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, by the Sieur Louis de Conte (Her Page and Secretary), and is written in the form of a first-person account by one of Joan’s long-time companions. Although Twain was an agnostic, he produced, in Joan of Arc, a marvelously faithful account of her life, her vision and her martial pursuits, with little or no (to my mind, at least) modernist, condescending, ironic perspective. It is a well-researched novel, honestly and realistically presented in the contemporaneous voice of a friend and servant, whose worshipful admiration reflects something of Twain’s own genuine feelings about Joan (so faithful is it to the memory of Joan of Arc, that it was reprinted by the Ignatius Press, a conservative Catholic publishing house).

The novel is filled with interesting and occasionally amusing diversions, including descriptions of several of Joan’s friends, childhood playmates who grew up with her and, from a sense of duty and love, followed her as she embarked upon her famous mission to expel the English from the domains of the Dauphin, and see him crowned as Charles VII. The battle scenes are conveyed with a mix of horror, fear, pride and desperate hope, exactly the emotions that I imagine that one of Joan’s warrior-companions would feel. Always, at the center of things, there is Joan – relentlessly honest, unassuming and humble, but inspired by her Voices to lead her countrymen to wash away the shame of nearly one hundred years of continuous defeat.

And then, there is the last, tragic chapter of Joan’s life, when she is captured by the Burgundians, sold to the English, and tried for her life by an ecclesiastical court filled with judges whose primary allegiance appears to be to their temporal English overlords, rather than to God. The courtroom scenes are moving, and almost maddening, in the juxtaposition of the young prisoner, a model of quiet courage and dignity, and her persecutors, attempting, day in and day out, to trick the unschooled country girl into an admission of heresy. Yet, Joan, completely deprived of counsel and friends, unlearned and illiterate, kept in chains in a cage in a dungeon, through a combination of native wit, and divine inspiration, neatly avoids the cunning traps laid out for her by her judges – except toward the very end when, sick and exhausted, she signs a document of abjuration which she does not understand, and then is quickly framed for apostasy. Finally, we follow Joan through the final steps to martyrdom and, ultimately, to her eventual rehabilitation.

Twain considered this his finest book – an opinion shared by virtually none of his critics. Which is to say merely that it is his most “un-Twainish” work, not that it isn’t a very enjoyable and instructive piece of historical fiction.

* * * * * *

For a faster-paced, more compact fictional treatment of the life of Joan of Arc, I highly recommend An Army of Angels, Pamela Marcantel’s amazing first novel. It has been in circulation for a long time (it was first published in 1997), and I think it may still be in print. I remember reading Florence King’s review of the book in National Review shortly after its publication. I can’t find her complete column, but here is a snippet:

“It is only fair to warn you that this review will violate the standards of objectivity, detachment, and ironic distance demanded by literary criticism. I’ve reviewed many books that I’ve liked and some that I’ve loved, but this time I have a masterpiece on my hands and I’m still reeling from it…An Army of Angels is surely a labor of love, but it is also high drama on a par with Victor Hugo and classical tragedy, laid out with the precision timing of seasoned stagecraft, graced throughout by a command of the English language that brings me to my knees.”

Hey, who am I to try and improve on Florence King? What she said.