Post Mortem
[Illustration: [_Photo, Anderson._
THE EMPEROR CHARLES V.
From a portrait by Titian (Madrid, Prado).]
Post Mortem
Essays, Historical and Medical
C. MacLaurin
M.B.C.M., F.R.C.S.E., LL.D.
_Lecturer in Clinical Surgery
University of Sydney, etc._
New York:
George H. Doran Company
_Made and Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner,
_Frome and London_
Preface
Whether the “great man” has had any real influence on the world, or
whether history is merely a matter of ideas and tendencies among
mankind, are still questions open to solution; but there is no doubt
that great persons are still interesting; and it is the aim of this
series of essays to throw such light upon them as is possible as
regards their physical condition; and to consider how far their
actions were influenced by their health. There are many remarkable
people in history about whom we know too little to dogmatize, though
we may strongly suspect that their mental and physical conditions were
abnormal when they were driven to take actions which have passed into
history; for instances, Mahomet and St. Paul. Such I have purposely
omitted. But there were far more whose actions were clearly the result
of their state of health; and some of these who happen to have been
leaders at critical epochs I have ventured to study from the point of
view of a doctor. This point of view appears to have been strangely
neglected by historians and others. If the background against which it
shows its heroes and heroines should appear unsentimental and harsh,
at least it appears to medical opinion as probably true; and it is our
duty to seek Truth. If it appears to assume an iconoclastic attitude
towards many ideals I am sorry, and can only wish that the patina cast
upon their characters were more sentimental and beautiful.
Jeanne d’Arc and the Emperor Charles V were undoubtedly heroic
figures who have been almost worshipped by many millions of people;
yet undoubtedly they were human and subject to the unhappy frailties
of other people. This in no way detracts from their renown. I must
apologize for treating Don Quixote as a real person; he was quite as
much a living individual as anyone in history. Through his glamour we
can get a real glimpse of the character of Cervantes.
In Australia we have no access to the original sources of European
history; we must rely upon the “printed word” as it appears in standard
monographs and essays.
I owe many thanks to Miss Kibble, of the research department of the
Sydney Public Library, without whose help this work could never have
been undertaken.
SYDNEY, 1922.
Contents
PAGE
THE CASE OF ANNE BOLEYN 13
THE PROBLEM OF JEANNE D’ARC 34
THE EMPRESS THEODORA 65
THE EMPEROR CHARLES V 88
DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA, CERVANTES, AND DON QUIXOTE 114
PHILIP II; AND THE ARTERIO-SCLEROSIS OF STATESMEN 144
MR. AND MRS. PEPYS 157
EDWARD GIBBON 180
JEAN PAUL MARAT 191
NAPOLEON I 204
BENVENUTO CELLINI 226
DEATH 232
Illustrations
The Emperor Charles V _Frontispiece_
Mary Tudor _Face p._ 16
The Empress Theodora ” 72
Perseus and the Gorgon’s Head ” 228
The Case of Anne Boleyn
There is something Greek, something akin to Œdipus and Thyestes, in
the tragedy of Anne Boleyn. It is difficult to believe, as we read it,
that we are viewing the actions of real people subject to passions
violent indeed yet common to those of mankind, and not the creatures of
a nightmare. Yet I believe that the conduct of the three protagonists,
Henry, Catherine, and Anne, can all be explained if we appreciate the
facts and interpret them with the aid of a little medical knowledge
and insight. Let us search for this explanation. Needless to say we
shall not get it in the strongly Bowdlerized sketches that most of us
have learnt at school; it is a pity that such rubbish should be taught,
because this period is one of the most important in English history;
the actors played vital parts; and upon the drama that they played has
depended the history of England ever since.
In considering an historical drama one has to remember the curtain
of gauze which Time has drawn before us, and to allow for its colour
and density. In the case of Henry VIII and his time, though the
actual materials are enormous, yet everything has to be viewed
through an _odium theologicum_ that is unparalleled since the days of
Theodora. In the eyes of the Catholics, Henry was, if not the actual
devil incarnate, at all events the next thing; and their opinion has
survived among many people who ought to know better to the present day.
Decidedly we must make a great deal of allowance.
Henry succeeded to the throne, nineteen years of age, handsome, rather
free-living, full of _joie-de-vivre_, charming, and with every promise
of greatness and happiness. He died at fifty-five, unhappy, worn down
with illness, at enmity with his people, with the Church, and with the
world in general, leaving a memory in the popular mind of a murderous
concupiscence that has become a byword. About the time that he was
a young man, syphilis, which is supposed to have been introduced by
Columbus’ men, ran like a whirlwind through Europe. Hardly anyone seems
to have escaped, and it was said that even the Pope upon the throne of
St. Peter went the way of most other people, though it is possible that
this accusation was as unreliable as many other accusations against
the popes. Be that as it may, the foundations were then laid for that
syphilization which has transformed the disease into its present
mildness. It is impossible to doubt that Henry contracted it in his
youth[1]; the evidence will become clear to any doctor as we proceed.
The first act of his reign was to marry for political reasons Catherine
of Aragon, who was the widow of his elder brother Arthur. She was
daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, and, though far from
beautiful, proved herself to possess a great and noble soul and a
courage of well-tempered steel. The English people took her to their
hearts, and when unmerited misfortune fell upon her never lost the
love they had felt for her when she was a happy young woman. Though
she was six years older than Henry, the two lived happily together for
many years. Seven months after marriage Catherine was delivered of
a daughter, still-born. Eight months later she had a son, who lived
three days. Two years later she had a still-born son. Nine months
later she had a son, who died in early infancy, and eighteen months
afterwards the infant was born who was to live to be Queen Mary. Henry
was intensely disappointed, and for the first time turned against his
wife. It was all important to produce an heir to the throne, for
it was thought that no woman could rule England. No woman had ever
ruled England, save only Matilda, and her precedent was not alluring.
So Henry longed desperately for a son; nevertheless as the little
Mary grew up--a sickly child--he became passionately devoted to her.
She grew up, as one can see from her well-known portrait, probably
an hereditary syphilitic. For a time Henry had thought of divorcing
Catherine, but his affection for Mary probably turned the scale in her
mother’s favour. Catherine had several more miscarriages, and by the
time she was forty-two ceased to menstruate; it became clear that she
would have no more children and could never produce an heir to the
throne.
[Illustration: [_Photo, Anderson._
MARY TUDOR.
From a portrait by Moro Antonio (Madrid, Prado).]
During these years Henry’s morals had been no worse than those of any
other prince in Europe; certainly better than Louis XIV and XV, who
were to come after him, or Charles II. He met Mary Boleyn, daughter
of a rich London merchant, and made her his mistress. Later on he
met Anne Boleyn, her sister, a girl of sixteen, and fell in love. We
have a very good description of her, and several portraits. She was
of medium stature, not handsome, with a long neck, wide mouth, bosom
“not much raised,” eyes black and beautiful and a knowledge of how
to use them. Her hair was long, and it appears that she used to wear
it long and flowing in the house. It was not so very long since Joan
of Arc had been burnt largely because she went about without a wimple,
and Mistress Anne’s conduct with regard to her hair was probably
worse in those days than for a girl to be seen smoking cigarettes
when driving a motor-car to-day. At any rate, she acquired demerit by
it, and everybody was on the look-out for more serious false steps.
The truth seems to be--so far as one can ascertain truth from reports
which, even if unprejudiced, came from people who knew nothing about a
woman’s heart--that she was a bold and ambitious girl who laid herself
out to capture Henry, and succeeded. Mary Boleyn was thrust aside, and
Henry paid violent court in his own enormous and impassioned way to
Anne. We have some of his love letters; there can be no doubt of his
sincerity, or that his love for Anne was, while it lasted, the great
passion of his life. Had she behaved herself she might have retained
that love. She repulsed him for several years, and we can see the idea
of divorce gradually growing in his mind. He appealed to Pope Clement
VII to help him. Catherine defended herself bravely, and stirred Europe
in her cause. The Pope hesitated, crushed between the hammer and the
anvil, between Henry and the Emperor Charles V. Henry discovered that
his marriage with Catherine had come within the prohibited degrees,
and that she had never been his wife at all. It was a matter of doubt
then--and I believe still is--whether the Pope’s dispensation could
acquit them of mortal sin. Apparently even his Holiness’ influence
would not have been sufficient to counterbalance the crime of marrying
his deceased brother’s widow; nevertheless it was rather remarkable
that, if Henry were really such a stickler for the forms of canon law
as he now wished to make out, he never troubled to raise the question
until after he had fallen in love with some one else. He definitely
promised Anne that he would divorce Catherine, marry Anne, and make her
Queen of England. Secure in his promise, Anne yielded to her lover,
seeing radiant visions of glory before her. How foolish would any girl
be who let slip the chance--nay, the certainty--of being the Queen!
Yet she was to discover that even queens can be bitterly unhappy.
Anne sprang joyfully into the unknown, as many a girl has done before
her and since, trusting to her power to charm her lover; and became
pregnant. Meanwhile the struggle for the divorce proceeded, the Pope
swaying this way and that, and Catherine defending her honour and
her throne with splendid courage. The nurses and astrologers declared
that the fœtus was a son, and the lovers, mad with joy, were married
in secret, divorce or no divorce. The obliging Archbishop Cranmer
pronounced that the marriage with Catherine was null and void, as the
Pope would not do so.
The time came for Anne to fulfil her promise and provide an heir. King
and queen anticipated the event in the wildest excitement. There had
been several lovers’ quarrels, which had been made up in the usual
manner; once Henry was heard to say passionately that he would rather
beg his bread in the streets than desert her. Yet it is doubtful
whether Anne Boleyn was ever anything more than an ambitious courtesan;
it is doubtful whether she ever felt anything towards him but her
natural wish to be queen. In due course her baby was born, and it was a
girl--the girl who afterwards became Queen Elizabeth.
Henry’s disappointment was tragic, and for the first time Anne began to
realize the terror of her position. She was detested by the people and
the Court, who were emphatically on the side of the noble woman whom
she had supplanted. She had estranged everybody by her vain-glory and
arrogance in the hour of her triumph; and it began to be whispered
that even if her own marriage were legal while Catherine was still
alive, yet it was illegal by the canon law, for Mary Boleyn, her
sister, had been Henry’s wife in all but name. Canonically speaking,
Henry had done no better by marrying her than by marrying Catherine.
A horrible story went around that he had been familiar with her
mother first, and that Anne was his own daughter, and moreover that
he knew it. I think we can definitely and at once put this aside as
an ecclesiastical lie; there is absolutely no evidence for it and it
is impossible to conceive two persons more unlike than the little
lively brunette and the great fresh-faced “bluff King Hal.” Moreover,
Henry denied the story absolutely, and whatever else he was, he was a
man who was never afraid to tell the truth. Most of the difficulties
in understanding this complex period of our history disappear if we
believe Henry’s own simple statements; but these suffer from the
incredulity which Bismarck found three hundred years later when he told
his rivals the plain unvarnished truth.
Let us anticipate events a little and narrate the death of Catherine,
which took place in 1536, nearly three years after the birth of
Elizabeth. The very brief and sketchy accounts which have survived give
me the impression that she died of uræmia, but no definite opinion
can be given. Henry, of course, lay under the immediate charge of
having poisoned her, but I do not know that anybody believed it very
seriously. So died this unhappy and well-beloved lady, to whom life
meant little but a series of bitter misfortunes.
After Elizabeth was born the tragedy began to move with terrible
impetus towards its climax. Henry developed an intractable ulcer on
his thigh, which persisted till his death, and frequently caused him
severe agony whenever the sinus closed. He became corpulent, the result
of over-eating and over-drinking. He had been immensely worried for
years over the affair of Catherine; as a result his blood-pressure
seems to have risen, so that he was affected by frightful headaches,
which often incapacitated him from work for days together. He gave up
the athleticism which had distinguished his resplendent youth, aged
rapidly, and became a harassed, violent, ill-tempered middle-aged
man--not at all the sort of man to turn into a cuckold.
Yet this is precisely what Anne did. Less than a month after Elizabeth
was born--while she was still in the puerperal state--she solicited Sir
Henry Norreys, the most intimate friend of the King, to be her lover.
A week later, on October 17th, 1533, he yielded. During the next
couple of years Anne seems to have gone absolutely out of her senses,
if the contemporary stories are true. She seems to have solicited
several prominent men of the Court, and even to have stooped to one
of the musicians; worst of all, it was said that she had committed
incest with her brother, Lord Rocheford. Nor did she behave with the
ordinary consideration for the feelings of others that might have
brought her hosts of friends--remember, she was a queen!--should the
time ever come when she should need them. It does not require any great
amount of civility on the part of a queen to win friends. Arrogant
and overbearing, she estranged everybody at Court; she acted like
a beggar on horseback, and was left without a friend in the place.
And she, who owed her husband such a world, behaved towards him with
the same arrogance as she showed to others, and in addition jealousy
both concerning other women whom she feared and concerning the King’s
beloved daughter, Mary. She spoke to the Duke of Norfolk--her uncle on
the mother’s side, and one of the greatest peers of the realm--“like a
dog”; as he turned away he muttered that she was “une grande putaine.”
The most polite interpretation of the French word is “strumpet.” When
the Duke used such a word to his own niece, what sort of reputation
must have been gathering about her?
She had two more miscarriages. After the second the King’s fury flamed
out, and he told her plainly that he deeply regretted having married
her. He must have indeed been sorry; he had abandoned a good woman for
a bad; for her he had quarrelled with the Pope and with many of his
subjects; whatever conscience he had must have been tormenting him:
all these things for the sake of an heir, which seemed as hopelessly
unprocurable as ever. Both the women seemed affected by some fate which
condemned them to perpetual miscarriages; this fate, of course, was
Henry’s own syphilis, even supposing that neither wife had contracted
it independently. (It is much to Anne Boleyn’s credit or discredit,
that to a syphilitic husband she bore a daughter so vigorous as
Elizabeth, though Professor Chamberlin does not appear to think very
highly of her health.)
Meanwhile all sorts of scandalous rumours were flying about; and
finally a maid of honour, whose chastity had been impugned, told a
Privy Councillor that no doubt she herself was no better than she
should be, but that at any rate her Majesty Queen Anne was far worse.
The Privy Councillor related this to Thomas Cromwell; he, the rumours
being thus focussed, dared to tell the King. Henry changed colour, and
ordered a secret inquiry to be held. At this inquiry the ladies of
the bedchamber were strictly cross-examined, but nothing was allowed
to happen for a few days, when a secret commission was appointed,
consisting of the Chancellor, the judges, Thomas Cromwell, and other
members of the Council. Sir William Brereton was first sent to the
Tower, then the musician Smeaton. Next day there was a tournament at
Greenwich, in the midst of which Henry suddenly rose and left the
scene, taking Norreys with him. Anne was brought before the Commission
next day, and committed to the Tower, where she found that Sir Francis
Weston had preceded her. Lord Rocheford, her brother, joined her almost
immediately on the charge of incest.
The Grand Juries of Kent and Middlesex returned true bills on the
cases, and the Commission drew up an indictment, giving names, places,
and dates for every alleged act. The four commoners were put on
trial at Westminster Hall. Anne’s father, Lord Wiltshire, though he
volunteered to sit, was excused attendance, since a verdict of guilty
against the men would necessarily involve his daughter. One may read
this either way, against or in favour of Anne. Either Wiltshire was
enraged at her folly, and merely wished to end her disgrace; or it may
be that he thought he would be able to sway the Court in her favour.
Possibly he was afraid of the King and wished to show that he at least
was on his royal side, however badly Anne may have behaved. In dealing
with a harsh and tyrannical man like Henry VIII it is difficult to
assess human motives, and one prefers to think that Wiltshire was
trying to do his best for his daughter. Smeaton the musician confessed
under torture; the other three protested their innocence, but were
found guilty and were sentenced to death. Thomas Cromwell, in a
letter, said that the evidence was so abominable that it could not be
published. Evidently the Court of England had suddenly become squeamish.
Anne was next brought to trial before twenty-five peers of the realm,
her uncle the Duke of Norfolk being in the chair. Probably, if the
story just related were true, the Duke’s influence would not be exerted
very strongly in her favour, and she was convicted and sentenced to
be hanged or burnt at the King’s pleasure; her brother was tried
separately and also convicted. It is said that her father and uncle
concurred in the verdict; they may have been afraid of their own
heads. On the other hand, it is possible that Anne was really guilty;
unfortunately the evidence has perished. The five men were executed
on Tower Hill in the presence of the woman, whose death was postponed
from day to day. In the meantime Henry procured his divorce from her,
while Anne, in a state of violent hysteria, continuously protested her
innocence. On the night before her execution she said that the people
would call her “Queen Anne sans tête,” laughing wildly as she spoke; if
one pronounces these words in the French manner, without verbal accent,
they form a sort of jingle, as who should say “ta-ta-ta-ta”; and this
foolish jingle seems to have run in her head, as she kept repeating
it all the evening; and she placed her fingers around her slender
neck--almost her only beauty--saying that the executioner would have
little trouble, as though it were a great joke. These things were put
to the account of her light and frivolous nature, and have probably
weighed heavily with posterity in attempting to judge her case; but
it is clear that they were merely manifestations of hysteria. Joan
of Arc, whose character was probably the direct antithesis of Anne
Boleyn’s, laughed when she heard the news of her reprieve. Some people
think she laughed ironically, as though a very simple peasant-girl
could be ironical if she tried. Irony is a quality of the higher
intelligence. But cannot a girl be allowed to laugh hysterically for
joy? Or cannot Anne Boleyn be allowed to laugh hysterically for grief
and terror without being called light and frivolous? So little did
her contemporaries understand the human heart. A few years later came
one Shakespeare, who could have told King Henry differently; and the
extraordinary burgeoning forth of the English intellect in William
Shakespeare is one of the most wonderful things in our history. Before
the century had terminated in which Anne Boleyn had been considered
light and frivolous because she had laughed in the shadow of the block,
Shakespeare had plumbed the depths of human nature.
Anne was beheaded on May 19th, 1536, in the Tower, on a platform
covered thickly with straw, in which lay hidden a broadsword. The
headsman was a noted expert brought over specially from St. Omer, and
he stood motionless among the gentlemen onlookers until the necessary
preliminaries had been completed. Then, Anne kneeling in prayer and her
back being turned towards him, he stole silently forward, seized the
sword from its hiding-place, and severed her slender neck at a blow. As
she had predicted, he had little trouble, and she never saw either her
executioner or the sword that slew her.[2] Her body and severed head
were bundled into a cask, and were buried within the precincts of the
Tower; and Henry threw his cap into the air for joy. On the same day he
obtained a special dispensation to marry Jane Seymour. He married her
next day.
The chief authority for the reign of Henry VIII is contained in the
_Letters and Papers of the Reign of Henry VIII_, edited by Brewer
and Gairdner. This gigantic work, containing more than 20,000
closely printed pages, is probably the greatest monument of English
scholarship; the prefaces to the different volumes are remarkable for
their learning and delightful literary style. Froude’s history is
charming and brilliant as are all his writings, but is now rather out
of date, and is marred by his hero-worship of Henry and his strong
Protestant bias. He sums up absolutely against Anne, and, after reading
the letters which he publishes, I do not see how he could have done
anything else. He believes her innocent of incest, however, and
doubtless he is right. Let us acquit her of this crime, at any rate.
A. F. Pollard’s _Life of Henry VIII_ is meticulously accurate, and is
charmingly written; he thinks it impossible that the juries could have
found against her and the court have convicted without the strongest
evidence, which has not survived. P. C. Yorke sums up rather against
her in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_; but S. R. Gardiner thinks the
charges too horrible to be believed and that probably her own only
offence was that she could not bear a son. Professor Gardiner had
evidently seen little of psychological medicine, or he would have known
that no charge is too horrible to believe. The “Unknown Spaniard” of
the _Chronicle of Henry VIII_ is an illiterate fellow enough, but no
doubt of Anne’s guilt appears to enter his artless mind; he probably
represents the popular contemporary view. He says that he took his
stand in the ring of gentlemen who witnessed the execution. He gives an
account of the arrest of Sir Thomas Wyatt the poet--the first English
sonneteer--and the _ipsissima verba_ of a letter which Wyatt wrote to
Henry, narrating how Anne had solicited him even before her marriage
in circumstances that rendered her solicitation peculiarly brazen and
shameless. That Henry should have pardoned him seems to show that the
real crime of Anne was that she had contaminated the blood royal; a
capital offence in a queen in almost all ages and almost every country.
Before she became a queen Henry was probably complaisant enough to
Anne’s peccadilloes; but afterwards--that was altogether different.
“There’s a divinity doth hedge” a queen!
Lord Herbert of Cherbury, writing seventy years later, narrates the
ghastly story with very little feeling one way or the other. Apparently
the legend of Anne’s innocence and Henry’s blood-lust had not yet
arisen. The verdict of any given historian appears to depend upon
whether he favours the Protestants or the Catholics. Speaking as a
doctor with very little religious preference one way or the other, the
following considerations appeal strongly to myself. If Henry wished
to get rid of a barren wife--barren through his own syphilis!--as he
undoubtedly did, then Mark Smeaton’s evidence alone was enough to
hang any queen in history from Helen downward, especially if taken
in conjunction with the infamous stories related by the “Unknown
Spaniard.” Credible or not, these stories show the reputation that
attached to the plain little Protestant girl who could not provide
an heir to the throne--the sort of reputation which mankind usually
attaches to a woman who, by unworthy means, has attained to a high
position. Why should the King and Cromwell, both exceedingly able men,
gratuitously raise the questions of incest and promiscuity and send
four innocent men to their deaths absolutely without reason? Why should
they raise all the tremendous family ill-will and public reprobation
which such an act of bloodthirsty tyranny would have caused? Stern as
they were they never showed any sign of mere blood-lust at any other
time; and the facts that Anne’s father and uncle both appear to have
concurred in the verdict, and that, except for her own denial, there
is not a word said in her favour, seems to require a great deal of
explanation.
We can thoroughly explain her conduct by supposing that she was
afflicted by hysteria and nymphomania. There are plenty of accounts
of unhappy women whose cases are parallel to Anne’s in the works of
Havelock-Ellis and Kisch. There is plenty of indubitable evidence that
she was hysterical and unbalanced, and that she passionately longed
for a son; and it is simpler to believe her the victim of a well-known
and common disease than that we should suppose the leading statesmen
of England and nearly the whole of its peerage suddenly to be affected
with blood-lust. It has been suggested that Anne, passionately longing
for a son and terrified of her husband’s tyrannical wrath, acted like
one of Thomas Hardy’s heroines centuries later and tried another
lover in the hope that she would gratify her own and Henry’s wishes.
This course of procedure is probably not so uncommon as some husbands
imagine and would satisfy the questions of our problem but for Anne’s
promiscuity and vehemence in solicitation. If her sole object in
soliciting Norreys was to provide a son, why should she have gone from
man to man till the whole Court seems to have been ringing with her ill
fame?
Her spasms of violent temper after her marriage, her fits of jealousy,
her foolish arrogance and insolence to her friends, are all mental
signs which go with nymphomania, and the fact that her post-nuptial
incontinence seems to have begun while she was still in the puerperal
state after the birth of her only living child seems highly
significant. It is not uncommon for sexual desire to become intolerable
in nervous and puerperal women. The proper place for Anne Boleyn was a
mental hospital.
Henry VIII’s case, along with those of his children, deserve a paper to
themselves. Henry himself died of neglected arterio-sclerosis just in
the nick of time to save the lives of better men from the executioner;
Catherine Parr, who married him probably in order to nurse him--it
is possible that she was really fond of him and that there was even
then something attractive about him--succeeded in outliving him by a
remarkable effort of diplomatic skill and courage, though had Henry
awakened from his uræmic stupor probably her head would have been added
to his collection. On the whole, one cannot avoid the conclusion that
his conduct to his wives was not all his fault. They seem to have done
no credit to his power of selection. The first and the last appear to
have been the best, considered as women.
Inexorable Nemesis had avenged Catherine. The worry of the divorce left
her husband with an arterial tension which, added to the royal temper,
caused great misery to England and ultimately death to himself; and
her mean little rival lay huddled in the most frightful dishonour that
ever befell a woman. Decidedly there is something Greek in the complete
horror of the tragedy.
The Problem of Jeanne d’Arc
In 1410-12 France was in the most dreadful condition that has ever
affected any nation. For nearly eighty years England had been at
her throat in a quarrel which to our minds simply exemplifies the
difference between law and justice; for it seems that the King of
England had mediæval law on his side, though to our minds no justice;
the Black Death had returned more than once to harass those whom war
had spared; no man reaped where he had sown, for his crops fell into
the hands of freebooters. Misery, destitution, and superstition were
man’s bedfellows; and the French mind seemed open to receive any marvel
that promised relief from its intolerable agony. Into this land of
terror was born a little maid whose mission it was to right the wrongs
of France; a maiden who has remained, through all the vicissitudes of
history, extraordinarily fascinating, yet an almost insoluble problem.
It is undeniable that she has exercised a vast influence upon mankind,
less by her actual deeds than by the ideal which she set up; an ideal
of courage, simple faith, and unquenchable loyalty which has inspired
both her own nation and the nation which burnt her. When the English
girls cut their hair short in the worst time of the war;[3] when the
French soldiers retook Fort Douaumont when all seemed lost: these
things were done in the name of Joan of Arc.
The actual contemporary sources from which we draw our ideas are
extraordinarily few. There is of course the report of the trial for
lapse and relapse, which is official and is said not to be garbled. It
is useful, not only for the Maid’s answers, which throw a good deal of
light on her mentality, but for the questions asked, which appear to
give an idea of reports that seem to have been floating about France
at the time. The only thing which interested her judges was whether
she had imperilled her immortal soul by heresy or witchcraft, and from
that trial we shall get few or no indications of her military career or
physical condition, which are the things that most interest modern men.
About twenty years after her execution it occurred to her king, who had
repaid her amazing love and self-sacrifice with neglect, that since
she had been burnt as a witch it followed that he must owe his crown
to a witch; moreover, her mother and brother had been appealing to
him to clear her memory, for they could not bear that their child and
sister should still remain under a cloud of sorcery. King Charles VII,
who was now a great man, and very successful as kings go, therefore
ordered the case to be reopened, in which course he ultimately secured
the assistance of the reigning Pope. Charles could not restore the Maid
to life, but he could make things unpleasant for the friends of those
who had burned her; and so we have the so-called Rehabilitation Trial,
consisting of reports and opinions, given under oath, from many people
who had known her when alive. As King Charles was now a great man, some
of the clerics who had helped to condemn her crowded to give evidence
in the poor child’s favour, attributing the miscarriage of justice
in her case to people who were now dead or hopelessly unpopular; some
friends of her childhood came forward and people who had known her
at the time of her glory; and, perhaps most important, some of her
old comrades in arms rallied round her memory. We thus have a fairly
complete account of her battles, friendships, trials, character, and
death; if we read this evidence with due care, remembering that more
than twenty years had elapsed and the mentality of mediæval man, we
may take some of the statements at their face value. Otherwise there
is absolutely no contemporary evidence of the Maid; Anatole France has
pricked the bubble of the chroniclers and of the Journal of the siege
of Orleans. But there is so much of pathological interest to be found
in the reports of the trials that I need no excuse for a brief study of
them in that respect.
The record of the life of Jeanne d’Arc is all too short, and the main
facts are not in dispute. It is the interpretation of these facts
that _is_ in dispute. She was born on January 6th, 1412; the year is
uncertain. Probably she did not know herself. In the summer of 1424 she
saw a great light on her right hand and heard a voice telling her to
be a good girl. This voice she knew to be the voice of God. Later on
she heard the voices of St. Michael the Archangel, of St. Catherine,
and of St. Margaret. St. Michael appeared first, and warned her to
expect the arrival of the others, who came in due course. All three
were to be her constant companions for the rest of her life. At first
their appearances were irregular, but later on they came frequently,
especially at quiet moments. Sometimes, when there was a good deal of
noise going on, they appeared and tried to tell her something, but she
could not hear what they said. These she called her Council, or her
Voices. Occasionally the Lord God spoke to her himself; Him she called
“Messire.”
As Jeanne grew more accustomed to her heavenly visitors they came in
great numbers, and she used to see vast crowds of angels descending
from heaven to her little garden. She said nothing to anybody about
these unusual events, but grew up a brooding and intensely religious
girl, going to church at every possible opportunity, and apparently
neglecting her ordinary duties of looking after her father’s sheep and
cattle. She learned to sew and knit, to say her Credo, Paternoster, and
Ave Maria; otherwise she was absolutely ignorant, and very simple in
mind and honest. She was dreamy and shy; nor did she ever learn to read
or write.
Later on the voices told her to go into France, and God would help
her to drive out the English. She continually appealed to her father
that he should send her to Vaucouleurs, where the Sieur Robert de
Baudricourt would espouse her cause. Ultimately he did so; and at first
Robert laughed at her. He was no saint; in his day he had ravaged
villages with the best noble in the land; and he was not convinced
that Jeanne was really the sent of God that she claimed. When she
returned home she found herself the butt of Domremy; nine months later
she ran away to Vaucouleurs again, and found Robert more helpful. He
had for some time felt sympathy with the dauphin Charles, and had
grown to detest the English and Burgundians; and he now welcomed the
supernatural aid which Jeanne promised; she repeated vehemently that
God had sent her to deliver France, and that she had no doubt whatever
that she would be able to raise the siege of Orleans, which was then
being idly invested by the English.
Robert sent her to the Dauphin, who lay at Chinon. He was no hero,
this Dauphin, but a poverty-stricken ugly man, with spindle-shanks and
bulbous nose, untidy and careless in his dress, and for ever blown this
way and that by the advice of those around him. Weak, and intensely
superstitious, he would to-day have been the prey of every medium who
cared to attack him; he received Jeanne kindly, and ultimately sent
her to Poitiers to be examined as to possible witchcraft by a great
number of learned doctors of the Church, who could be relied upon to
discern a witch as soon as anybody.
She was deeply offended at being suspected of witchcraft, and was
not so respectful to her judges as she might have been; occasionally
she sulked, and sometimes she answered the reverend gentlemen quite
saucily. She is an attractive and very human little figure at Poitiers
as she moves restlessly upon her bench, and repeatedly tells the
doctors that they should need no further sign than her own deeds; for
when she had relieved Orleans it would be obvious enough that she was
sent directly from God. At Poitiers she had to run the gauntlet of
the inevitable jury of matrons, who were to certify to her virginity,
because it was well known that women lost their holiness when they
lost their virginity. The matrons and midwives certified that she was
_virgo intacta_; how the good ladies knew is not certain, because even
to-day, with all our knowledge of anatomy and physiology, we often
find it difficult to be assured on this point. However, there can be
little doubt that they were correct; probably they were impressed with
Jeanne’s obvious sincerity and purity of mind. All women seem to have
loved Jeanne, which is a strong point in her favour. The spiritual
examination dragged on for three weeks; these poor doctors were
determined not to let a witch slip through their hands, and it speaks
well for their patience and good temper, considering how unmercifully
Jeanne had “cheeked” them, that they ultimately found that she was a
good Christian. Any ordinary man would have seen that at once; but
these gentlemen knew too much about the wiles of the Devil to be so
easily influenced; and it was a source of bitter injustice to Jeanne at
her real and serious trial for her life that she was unable to produce
their certificate.
The Dauphin took her into his service and provided her with horse,
suit of armour, and banner, as befitted a knight; also maidservants
to act propriety, page-boy, and a steward, one Jean d’Aulon. All that
we hear of d’Aulon, in whose hands the honour of the Maid was placed,
is to his credit. A witness at the Rehabilitation Trial said that he
was the wisest and bravest man in the army. We shall hear more of
him. Throughout the story, whenever he comes upon the scene we seem
to breathe fresh air. He was the very man for the position, brave,
simple-hearted, and passionately loyal to Jeanne. There is no reason
to doubt that in spite of his close companionship with her there was
never any romantic or other such feeling between them; he said so
definitely, and he is to be believed. His honour came through it all
unstained; and he let himself be captured with her rather than desert
her. It is clear from his evidence that the personality of the Maid
profoundly affected him. After Jeanne’s death he was ransomed, and was
made seneschal of Beaucaire.
Jeanne was enormously impressed by her banner, which was made by a
Scotsman, Hamish Power by name; she described it at her trial.
“I had a banner of white cloth, sprinkled with lilies; the world was
painted there, with an angel on each side; above them were the words
‘Jhesus Maria.’” When she said “the world” she meant God holding the
world up in one hand and blessing it with the other. Later on she
does not seem very certain whether “Jhesus Maria” was above or at the
side; but she is very certain that she was tremendously proud of the
artistic creation--yes, “forty times” prouder of her banner than of her
sword; even though the sword was from St. Catherine herself, and was
the very sword of Charles Martel centuries before. When the priests
dug it up without witnesses and rubbed it their holy power cleansed it
immediately of the rust of ages.
When she arrived at Orleans she found the English carrying on a
leisurely blockade by means of a series of forts between which cattle
and men could enter or leave the city at will. The city was defended
by Jean Dunois, Bastard of Orleans. The title Bastard implies that
he would have been Duc d’Orleans only that he had the misfortune to
be born of the wrong mother. There have been several famous bastards
in history, and the kindly morality of the Middle Ages seems to have
thought little the worse of them for their misfortune. It is only
fair to state that there is some doubt as to whether Jeanne was sent
in command of the army, or the army in command of Jeanne; indeed,
all through her story it is never easy to be certain whether she was
actually in command, and Anatole France looks upon her as a sort of
military _mascotte_ rather than a soldier. Nor has Anatole France
ever been properly answered. Andrew Lang did his best, as Don Quixote
did his best to fight the windmills, but Mr. Lang was an idealist and
romanticist, and could not defeat the laughing irony of M. France.
Indeed, what answer is possible? Anatole France does not laugh at the
poor little Maid; he laughs through her at modern French clericalism.
Nobody with a heart in his breast could laugh at Jeanne d’Arc! Anatole
France simply said that he did not believe the things which Mr. Lang
said that he believed; he would be a brave man who should say that M.
France is wrong.
When she reached Orleans a new spirit at once came into the defenders,
just as a new spirit came into the British army on the Somme when
the tanks first went forth to battle--a spirit of renewed hope; God
had sent his Maid to save the right! In nine days of mild fighting,
in which the French enormously outnumbered the English, the siege
was raised. The French lost a few score men; the English army was
practically destroyed.
Next Jeanne persuaded the Dauphin to be crowned at Rheims, which was
the ancient crowning-place for the French kings. In this ancient
cathedral, in whose aisles and groined vaults echoed the memories and
glories of centuries, he was crowned; his followers standing around
in a proud assembly, his adoring peasant-maid holding her grotesque
banner over his head; probably the most extraordinary scene in all
history. After Jeanne had secured the crowning of her king, ill-fortune
was thenceforth to wait upon her. She was of the common people, and it
was only about eighty years since the aristocracy had shuddered before
the herd during the Jacquerie, the premonition of the Revolution of
1789. Class feeling ran strongly, and the nobles took their revenge;
Jeanne, having no ability whatever beyond her implicit faith in Heaven,
lost her influence both with the Court and with the people; whatever
she tried to do failed, and she was finally captured in a sortie from
Compiêgne in circumstances which do not exclude the suspicion that she
was deliberately sacrificed. The Burgundians held her for ransom, and
locked her up in the Tower of Beaurevoir. King Charles VII refused--or
at any rate neglected--to bid for her; so the Burgundians sold her to
the English. When she heard that she was to be given into the hands
of her bitterest enemies she was so troubled that she leaped from the
tower, a height of sixty or seventy feet, and was miraculously saved
from death by the aid of her friends--Saints Margaret and Catherine. It
is easier to believe that at her early age--she was then about nineteen
or possibly even less--her epiphyseal cartilages had not ossified, and
if she fell on soft ground it is perfectly credible that she might not
receive worse than a severe shock. I remember a case of a child who
fell from a height of thirty feet on to hard concrete, which it struck
with its head; an hour later it was running joyfully about the hospital
garden, much to the disgust of an anxious charge-nurse. It is difficult
to kill a young person by a fall--the bones and muscles yield to
violent impact, and life is not destroyed.
Jeanne having been bought by the English they brought her to trial
before a court composed of Pierre Cauchon, Lord Bishop of Beauvais, and
a varying number of clerics; as Anatole France puts it, “a veritable
synod”; it was important to condemn not only the witch of the Armagnacs
herself but also the viper whom she had been able to crown King of
France. If they condemned her for witchcraft they condemned all her
works, including King Charles. If Charles had been a clever man he
would have foreseen such a result and would have bought her from the
Duke of Burgundy when he had the chance. But when she was once in the
iron grip of the English he could have done nothing. It was too late.
If he had offered to buy her the English would have said she was not
for sale; if he had moved his tired and disheartened army they would
have handed her over to the University of Paris, or perhaps the dead
body of one more peasant-girl would have been found in the Seine below
Rouen, and Cauchon would have been spared the trouble of a trial.
Therefore we may spare our regrets on the score of some at least of
King Charles’s ingratitudes. It is possible that he did not buy her
from the Burgundians because he was too stupid, too poor, or too
parsimonious; it is more likely that his courtiers and himself began
to believe that her success was so great that it could not be explained
by mortal means, and that there must be something in the witchcraft
story after all. It could not have been a pleasant thing for the French
aristocrats to find that when a little maid from Domremy came to help
the common people, these scum of the earth suddenly began to fight as
they had not fought for generations. Fully to understand what happened
we must remember that it was not very long since the Jacquerie, and
that the aristocratic survivors had left to their sons tales of
unutterable horrors.
However, Jeanne was put on her trial for witchcraft, and after a long
and apparently hesitating process--for there had been grave doubts
raised as to the legality of the whole thing--she was condemned to
death. Just before the Bishop had finished his reading of the sentence
she burst into tears and recanted, when she really understood that they
were even then preparing the cart to take her to the stake. She said
herself, in words which cannot possibly be misunderstood, that she
recanted “for fear of the fire.”