Chapter 15

My Exquisite Poem Goes to Smash

WE OF the personal staff were in fairyland now, during the few days that
we waited for the return of the army. We went into society. To our two
knights this was not a novelty, but to us young villagers it was a new
and wonderful life. Any position of any sort near the person of the Maid
of Vaucouleurs conferred high distinction upon the holder and caused his
society to be courted; and so the D'Arc brothers, and Noel, and the
Paladin, humble peasants at home, were gentlemen here, personages of
weight and influence. It was fine to see how soon their country
diffidences and awkwardnesses melted away under this pleasant sun of
deference and disappeared, and how lightly and easily they took to their
new atmosphere. The Paladin was as happy as it was possible for any one
in this earth to be. His tongue went all the time, and daily he got new
delight out of hearing himself talk. He began to enlarge his ancestry and
spread it out all around, and ennoble it right and left, and it was not
long until it consisted almost entirely of dukes. He worked up his old
battles and tricked them out with fresh splendors; also with new terrors,
for he added artillery now. We had seen cannon for the first time at
Blois--a few pieces--here there was plenty of it, and now and then we had
the impressive spectacle of a huge English bastille hidden from sight in
a mountain of smoke from its own guns, with lances of red flame darting
through it; and this grand picture, along with the quaking thunders
pounding away in the heart of it, inflamed the Paladin's imagination and
enabled him to dress out those ambuscade-skirmishes of ours with a
sublimity which made it impossible for any to recognize them at all
except people who had not been there.

You may suspect that there was a special inspiration for these great
efforts of the Paladin's, and there was. It was the daughter of the
house, Catherine Boucher, who was eighteen, and gentle and lovely in her
ways, and very beautiful. I think she might have been as beautiful as
Joan herself, if she had had Joan's eyes. But that could never be. There
was never but that one pair, there will never be another. Joan's eyes
were deep and rich and wonderful beyond anything merely earthly. They
spoke all the languages--they had no need of words. They produced all
effects--and just by a glance, just a single glance; a glance that could
convict a liar of his lie and make him confess it; that could bring down
a proud man's pride and make him humble; that could put courage into a
coward and strike dead the courage of the bravest; that could appease
resentments and real hatreds; that could make the doubter believe and the
hopeless hope again; that could purify the impure mind; that could
persuade--ah, there it is--persuasion! that is the word; what or who is
it that it couldn't persuade? The maniac of Domremy--the fairy-banishing
priest--the reverend tribunal of Toul--the doubting and superstitious
Laxart--the obstinate veteran of Vaucouleurs--the characterless heir of
France--the sages and scholars of the Parliament and University of
Poitiers--the darling of Satan, La Hire--the masterless Bastard of
Orleans, accustomed to acknowledge no way as right and rational but his
own--these were the trophies of that great gift that made her the wonder
and mystery that she was.

We mingled companionably with the great folk who flocked to the big house
to make Joan's acquaintance, and they made much of us and we lived in the
clouds, so to speak. But what we preferred even to this happiness was the
quieter occasions, when the formal guests were gone and the family and a
few dozen of its familiar friends were gathered together for a social
good time. It was then that we did our best, we five youngsters, with
such fascinations as we had, and the chief object of them was Catherine.
None of us had ever been in love been in love before, and now we had the
misfortune to all fall in love with the same person at the same
time--which was the first moment we saw her. She was a merry heart, and
full of life, and I still remember tenderly those few evenings that I was
permitted to have my share of her dear society and of comradeship with
that little company of charming people.

The Paladin made us all jealous the first night, for when he got fairly
started on those battles of his he had everything to himself, and there
was no use in anybody else's trying to get any attention. Those people
had been living in the midst of real war for seven months; and to hear
this windy giant lay out his imaginary campaigns and fairly swim in blood
and spatter it all around, entertained them to the verge of the grave.
Catherine was like to die, for pure enjoyment. She didn't laugh loud--we,
of course, wished she would--but kept in the shelter of a fan, and shook
until there was danger that she would unhitch her ribs from her spine.
Then when the Paladin had got done with a battle and we began to feel
thankful and hope for a change, she would speak up in a way that was so
sweet and persuasive that it rankled in me, and ask him about some detail
or other in the early part of his battle which she said had greatly
interested her, and would he be so good as to describe that part again
and with a little more particularity?--which of course precipitated the
whole battle on us, again, with a hundred lies added that had been
overlooked before.

I do not know how to make you realize the pain I suffered. I had never
been jealous before, and it seemed intolerable that this creature should
have this good fortune which he was so ill entitled to, and I have to sit
and see myself neglected when I was so longing for the least little
attention out of the thousand that this beloved girl was lavishing on
him. I was near her, and tried two or three times to get started on some
of the things that I had done in those battles--and I felt ashamed of
myself, too, for stooping to such a business--but she cared for nothing
but his battles, and could not be got to listen; and presently when one
of my attempts caused her to lose some precious rag or other of his
mendacities and she asked him to repeat, thus bringing on a new
engagement, of course, and increasing the havoc and carnage tenfold, I
felt so humiliated by this pitiful miscarriage of mine that I gave up and
tried no more.

The others were as outraged by the Paladin's selfish conduct as I
was--and by his grand luck, too, of course--perhaps, indeed, that was the
main hurt. We talked our trouble over together, which was natural, for
rivals become brothers when a common affliction assails them and a common
enemy bears off the victory.

Each of us could do things that would please and get notice if it were
not for this person, who occupied all the time and gave others no chance.
I had made a poem, taking a whole night to it--a poem in which I most
happily and delicately celebrated that sweet girl's charms, without
mentioning her name, but any one could see who was meant; for the bare
title--"The Rose of Orleans"--would reveal that, as it seemed to me. It
pictured this pure and dainty white rose as growing up out of the rude
soil of war and looking abroad out of its tender eyes upon the horrid
machinery of death, and then--note this conceit--it blushes for the
sinful nature of man, and turns red in a single night. Becomes a red
rose, you see--a rose that was white before. The idea was my own, and
quite new. Then it sent its sweet perfume out over the embattled city,
and when the beleaguering forces smelt it they laid down their arms and
wept. This was also my own idea, and new. That closed that part of the
poem; then I put her into the similitude of the firmament--not the whole
of it, but only part. That is to say, she was the moon, and all the
constellations were following her about, their hearts in flames for love
of her, but she would not halt, she would not listen, for 'twas thought
she loved another. 'Twas thought she loved a poor unworthy suppliant who
was upon the earth, facing danger, death, and possible mutilation in the
bloody field, waging relentless war against a heartless foe to save her
from an all too early grave, and her city from destruction. And when the
sad pursuing constellations came to know and realize the bitter sorrow
that was come upon them --note this idea--their hearts broke and their
tears gushed forth, filling the vault of heaven with a fiery splendor,
for those tears were falling stars. It was a rash idea, but beautiful;
beautiful and pathetic; wonderfully pathetic, the way I had it, with the
rhyme and all to help. At the end of each verse there was a two-line
refrain pitying the poor earthly lover separated so far, and perhaps
forever, from her he loved so well, and growing always paler and weaker
and thinner in his agony as he neared the cruel grave--the most touching
thing--even the boys themselves could hardly keep back their tears, the
way Noel said those lines. There were eight four-line stanzas in the
first end of the poem--the end about the rose, the horticultural end, as
you may say, if that is not too large a name for such a little poem--and
eight in the astronomical end--sixteen stanzas altogether, and I could
have made it a hundred and fifty if I had wanted to, I was so inspired
and so all swelled up with beautiful thoughts and fancies; but that would
have been too many to sing or recite before a company that way, whereas
sixteen was just right, and could be done over again if desired. The boys
were amazed that I could make such a poem as that out of my own head, and
so was I, of course, it being as much a surprise to me as it could be to
anybody, for I did not know that it was in me. If any had asked me a
single day before if it was in me, I should have told them frankly no, it
was not.

That is the way with us; we may go on half of our life not knowing such a
thing is in us, when in reality it was there all the time, and all we
needed was something to turn up that would call for it. Indeed, it was
always so without family. My grandfather had a cancer, and they never
knew what was the matter with him till he died, and he didn't know
himself. It is wonderful how gifts and diseases can be concealed in that
way. All that was necessary in my case was for this lovely and inspiring
girl to cross my path, and out came the poem, and no more trouble to me
to word it and rhyme it and perfect it than it is to stone a dog. No, I
should have said it was not in me; but it was.

The boys couldn't say enough about it, they were so charmed and
astonished. The thing that pleased them the most was the way it would do
the Paladin's business for him. They forgot everything in their anxiety
to get him shelved and silenced. Noel Rainguesson was clear beside
himself with admiration of the poem, and wished he could do such a thing,
but it was out of his line, and he couldn't, of course. He had it by
heart in half an hour, and there was never anything so pathetic and
beautiful as the way he recited it. For that was just his gift--that and
mimicry. He could recite anything better than anybody in the world, and
he could take of La Hire to the very life--or anybody else, for that
matter. Now I never could recite worth a farthing; and when I tried with
this poem the boys wouldn't let me finish; they would nave nobody but
Noel. So then, as I wanted the poem to make the best possible impression
on Catherine and the company, I told Noel he might do the reciting. Never
was anybody so delighted. He could hardly believe that I was in earnest,
but I was. I said that to have them know that I was the author of it
would be enough for me. The boys were full of exultation, and Noel said
if he could just get one chance at those people it would be all he would
ask; he would make them realize that there was something higher and finer
than war-lies to be had here.

But how to get the opportunity--that was the difficulty. We invented
several schemes that promised fairly, and at last we hit upon one that
was sure. That was, to let the Paladin get a good start in a manufactured
battle, and then send in a false call for him, and as soon as he was out
of the room, have Noel take his place and finish the battle himself in
the Paladin's own style, imitated to a shade. That would get great
applause, and win the house's favor and put it in the right mood to hear
the poem. The two triumphs together with finish the
Standard-Bearer--modify him, anyway, to a certainty, and give the rest of
us a chance for the future.

So the next night I kept out of the way until the Paladin had got his
start and was sweeping down upon the enemy like a whirlwind at the head
of his corps, then I stepped within the door in my official uniform and
announced that a messenger from General La Hire's quarters desired speech
with the Standard-Bearer. He left the room, and Noel took his place and
said that the interruption was to be deplored, but that fortunately he
was personally acquainted with the details of the battle himself, and if
permitted would be glad to state them to the company. Then without
waiting for the permission he turned himself to the Paladin--a dwarfed
Paladin, of course--with manner, tones, gestures, attitudes, everything
exact, and went right on with the battle, and it would be impossible to
imagine a more perfectly and minutely ridiculous imitation than he
furnished to those shrieking people. They went into spasms, convulsions,
frenzies of laughter, and the tears flowed down their cheeks in rivulets.
The more they laughed, the more inspires Noel grew with his theme and the
greater marvels he worked, till really the laughter was not properly
laughing any more, but screaming. Blessedest feature of all, Catherine
Boucher was dying with ecstasies, and presently there was little left of
her but gasps and suffocations. Victory? It was a perfect Agincourt.

The Paladin was gone only a couple of minutes; he found out at once that
a trick had been played on him, so he came back. When he approached the
door he heard Noel ranting in there and recognized the state of the case;
so he remained near the door but out of sight, and heard the performance
through to the end. The applause Noel got when he finished was wonderful;
and they kept it up and kept it up, clapping their hands like mad, and
shouting to him to do it over again.

But Noel was clever. He knew the very best background for a poem of deep
and refined sentiment and pathetic melancholy was one where great and
satisfying merriment had prepared the spirit for the powerful contrast.

So he paused until all was quiet, then his face grew grave and assumed an
impressive aspect, and at once all faces sobered in sympathy and took on
a look of wondering and expectant interest. Now he began in a low but
distinct voice the opening verses of The Rose. As he breathed the
rhythmic measures forth, and one gracious line after another fell upon
those enchanted ears in that deep hush, one could catch, on every hand,
half-audible ejaculations of "How lovely--how beautiful--how exquisite!"

By this time the Paladin, who had gone away for a moment with the opening
of the poem, was back again, and had stepped within the door. He stood
there now, resting his great frame against the wall and gazing toward the
reciter like one entranced. When Noel got to the second part, and that
heart-breaking refrain began to melt and move all listeners, the Paladin
began to wipe away tears with the back of first one hand and then the
other. The next time the refrain was repeated he got to snuffling, and
sort of half sobbing, and went to wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his
doublet. He was so conspicuous that he embarrassed Noel a little, and
also had an ill effect upon the audience. With the next repetition he
broke quite down and began to cry like a calf, which ruined all the
effect and started many to the audience to laughing. Then he went on from
bad to worse, until I never saw such a spectacle; for he fetched out a
towel from under his doublet and began to swab his eyes with it and let
go the most infernal bellowings mixed up with sobbings and groanings and
retchings and barkings and coughings and snortings and screamings and
howlings --and he twisted himself about on his heels and squirmed this
way and that, still pouring out that brutal clamor and flourishing his
towel in the air and swabbing again and wringing it out. Hear? You
couldn't hear yourself think. Noel was wholly drowned out and silenced,
and those people were laughing the very lungs out of themselves. It was
the most degrading sight that ever was. Now I heard the clankety-clank
that plate-armor makes when the man that is in it is running, and then
alongside my head there burst out the most inhuman explosion of laughter
that ever rent the drum of a person's ear, and I looked, and it was La
Hire; and the stood there with his gauntlets on his hips and his head
tilted back and his jaws spread to that degree to let out his hurricanes
and his thunders that it amounted to indecent exposure, for you could see
everything that was in him. Only one thing more and worse could happen,
and it happened: at the other door I saw the flurry and bustle and
bowings and scrapings of officials and flunkeys which means that some
great personage is coming--then Joan of Arc stepped in, and the house
rose! Yes, and tried to shut its indecorous mouth and make itself grave
and proper; but when it saw the Maid herself go to laughing, it thanked
God for this mercy and the earthquake that followed.

Such things make a life of bitterness, and I do not wish to dwell upon
them. The effect of the poem was spoiled.