A Nervy Museum Manager

1901

Sarah Bernhardt said that one night during a visit to America when she was playing "Jeanne d'Arc," she hurt her knee with a rusty nail. "The wound gave me considerable pain and trouble," she said, "and it was thought that a slight operation might possibly be required. This fact appeared in the daily papers, and a day or two afterward I received a telegram from the manager of a museum in Chicago saying that if it was necessary to amputate my leg might he please have it. He added he would drape it if desired."

Wouldn't Sell the House

1901

The house in which Joan of Arc was born is still faithfully preserved in pious veneration at Domremy, where it is looked upon almost in the light of a shrine. Passersby invariably cross themselves and utter a prayer for protection as they go by.

The story goes that a rich and eccentric Englishman tried hard to buy the place in 1837. It was at that time the property of a farmer named Girardin. The Englishmen offered to let him name his own price, but the old man held firm. "No, no, no," he cried. "I would not sell it even to a Frenchman, much less to a foreigner and especially an Englishman. People here would call me a traitor and a coward were I to part with the house from which Joan of Arc set out to serve France."

The Englishman convinced himself that further bargaining was useless and went his way.

Soon after an officer from the king's household arrived in the village and asked to speak with Girardin. Before the whole village, assembled in the street, he said: "Girardin, the king has learned that you have refused to sell your house to an Englishman. He desires to reward you, but not in coin. He knows that you no more want the money of the French than of the English, therefore has he commanded me to present you with the cross of the Legion of Honor."

The Burning of Joan of Arc (poetry)

1874

The Burning of Joan of Arc

They've bound her to the iron stake,
That fierce and haughty soul!
Oh! mistress of the hearts of France,
Is this the conq'ror's goal?
The flashing fire is round her now,
And mocking lips are near;
But scorching flame and mocking lips
Can wake from her no tear.

Oh! France, where is thy chivalry,
Where, where thy crowned king.
That he can suffer death like this
To claim so fair a thing!
Shame's clouds are o'er thy sunny hills,
The siroc breath of shame
Hath blotted out from valor's list
The records of thy fame.

Where are the friends of early youth?
Forsaken, France, for thee!
The martyr in this awful hour
Is one that made thee free.
Where are the battle hosts she led
To vict'ry and renown,
O'er fields of shiver'd spears and helms
Her arm had stricken down.

Come, come, ye men of iron souls,
Behold your leader die;
Your eyes may see no quiv'ring lip,
Your ears hear ne'er a sigh.
Is there no sword in mighty France
To save her from the tomb?
And England's chivalry, can they
Be witness of her doom?

God! there is none; it is no dream!
There is the stake, the fire,
The sparks, the smoke, the trumpet tone,
By Rouen's market spire.
Joanne of Arc, on! can it be
Thine is the felon's doom,
And thine the quiv'ring, withered form
Within the smoke-clouds' gloom?

One cry -- a gasp, but not of fear,
Springs from the sea of flame,
And France, th' Recording Angel stands
To chronicle thy shame.
Bear forth the tale on eagle's wings,
Joan, of France, the pride,
Hath, like a felon at the stake,
Ignobly, basely died.

—Printed in The Indiana Progress, Indiana, Pennsylvania, Jan. 15, 1874, p. 2.