And Madame Dupont, saying good-bye at Havre, said they must come here, putting them on the boat, the river boat, because it was cheaper. For one had to see something. One came to France to see something — but why this? Why had she come to France? It was only a story like the Seven Sisters or was it the Seven Brothers turning into Swans; it was only a story like the little Mermaid who wanted feet. O God, God and she died for it wanting feet. O God don’t you see, it was something real that happened. It was written on the pavement with the date, a circle and the French words. One dared not read them. Not even herself there. She had gone away into the air and she was a Spirit and she was France. O book you are worse than Saint John. I could never read those terrible words and here it is written, all written on the pavement and it happened like the Crucifixion. But one can’t. One can’t think of it. Here eyes looked out under a hat wreathed with corn flowers, a soft hat like they were wearing and her body was strong and small and like Fayne Rabb’s. O don’t, don’t let’s talk about it. Get them away from it. Hermione had spoiled the afternoon (but how much more devastatingly had everyone, had everything spoiled hers) for people had to come, had to stoop over the pavement to see the words written. But it was impossible. It was out of a book. Horrible long pages of French History crowded in between Physical Geography and the Latin or Geometry. . it was only French history, tiresome out of a tiresome book and the print bad and she had wanted to crown the king at Orléans. And they had caught her. Caught her. Trapped her with her armour and her panache and her glory and her pride. They had trapped her, a girl who was a boy and they would always do that. They would always trap them, bash their heads like broken flowers from their stalks, break them for seeing things, having “visions” seeing things like she did and like Fayne Rabb. This was the warning. Joan of Arc. O stop them. Stop them. They’re hurting her wrists. God in Heaven. It was Saint Margaret that she called to. Saints all around Rouen, saints standing rather faint and tenuous on faint long feet. Come down, walk down, see — stop them. Saint Margaret. Saint Michael. Streets and the heat coming back and the reality and Clara reading, “visitors would do well to profit by the neighbourhood — br — br — br—” Hermione could not hear her. Clara was reading out of another book, the wrong sort of book. O France, France, terrible book. Like the revelations. It was like the revelations. Someone had given her a little book and said “eat it.” She must eat the little book. Not scan it like other people. O it wasn’t a question of scanning the little book, France. She must eat it, eat it, honey and worm-wood. “It’s not far. Hadn’t we better see the tower where they imprisoned her?” O God more horrors. Turn away. The English soldier was crossing the two sticks and the thin saint’s hand was reaching for the cross. The cross was in the hands of the witch and people were shouting, “crucify Him, crucify Him.” The witch was very tired and sick with all the noise and sweat of people. Her people. His people. Not that I loved Caesar less — red anemones. Corn flowers. O funny mad moth. O moth with blue wings. They have caught you moth, moth with blue wings. The black smoke shrivels your blue wings. People are shouting, blasphemy. They curse the witch of Orléans. The witch of Rouen. Going. Black. “O don’t touch me. This heat. Get out. No. I am rather disappointed in it. Let’s get back to Saint Ouen where it’s cool anyhow and leave alone these ugly tourist centres.” Tourist centres. O let me find lilies. “Yes. Clara. Thanks ever so much. We didn’t have enough lunch. My fault. Idiot. I wanted to stay in Ouen. Yes. I know I’m fretful. No, I’m not disappointed. It was (wasn’t it) our duty to come and see the spot. It said so in the guide book.” No monument. Nothing. France was all her monument. O queen, Artemis, Athene. You came to life in Jeanne d’Arc. She’s a saint now. I’d be a saint if I let them get to me. So would Fayne Rabb. I don’t want to be burnt, to be crucified just because I “see” things sometimes. O Jeanne you shouldn’t ever, ever have told them that you saw things. You shouldn’t have. France. You loved France. But it was a story. Something out of a book. “Yes, Mrs. Rabb. . Clara. Let’s go back. We had to see the place, certainly. Let’s get out of this heat anyway.”
Heat roasting from the pavement. Heat with black devil wings to catch her. Christ in Heaven keep Jeanne d’Arc safe for ever.
Christ in Heaven, Christ in Heaven, reconcile these things in our hearts. Christ in Heaven stoop low and shelter Athene who is after all only a girl and the Corinthians spoke of idols of silver, idols of gold, O Christ, Christ let me bring you every conceivable kind of lily. . “Yes, Mrs. Rabb. . Clara. I do think the baptismal fount is lovely and the Fennels, you know of the Art Academy (yes he is the Fennel) told me I must be sure to look in the fount at the odd angle, I don’t know what the odd angle is but you must walk round and round and try it. The Fennels said nobody would mind as everyone does it and you see the whole cathedral reflected in a tiny space, all upside down with all the windows. Fennel’s wife had to drag him away, she said, and everybody laughed (because he is so dignified) by the coat tail. No they don’t mind our whispering. It’s not like our churches. And you do get it a little (I see what they mean) from this angle. See it’s like a shell, not such a big one either and the whole of the church is reflected. It’s like some Hokusai drawings I saw once (you know seeing Fujiyama) a hundred views and the same idea. The painter with a little cup or bowl, I suppose and the reflection of the mountain in the bowl. It’s oriental I suppose”. . Christ in Heaven, Christ in Heaven. I suppose this is your church. I suppose it is. I don’t think it’s like you. It’s like the woods simply, tree trunks in long rows and the shade and coolness of the woods. I don’t think this is your temple but they say so so for God’s as for Christ’s sake (but you are Christ and I shouldn’t swear and blaspheme) keep Jeanne d’Arc—“O Fayne Rabb come and look at this. Funniest thing. A sort of little alcove to the Thief. I suppose the repentant one. What happened to the other?” Christ in Heaven is this your temple? Maybe it is. Its the first temple I’ve anyhow seen and “who was Saint Ouen? Have you the guide book, Mrs. Rabb. Clara. Here’s actually a bench to sit on like an art gallery. That’s all it is after all, isn’t it? I’m glad we came in now, all empty. I hope they won’t begin mumbo-jumbo. No. I don’t mean anything. Clara. I didn’t mean to be irreligious.” Christ in Heaven let me fling myself down, something, somewhere, something, some expression of something but not this, not this. This is all trying to make us forget. It’s like a wood where one is lost, singing going on somewhere, some sort of chant to keep us from being afraid. But Beauty is Fear. This says fear is to be numbed but I don’t think really that was your doctrine. . long shafts of light from the pool set slant wise in the wall, set slant wise, a pool defying laws of gravitation and dripping ruby colour. The Holy Grail. A cup to take and to forget, to forget — but not this. This classic thing, this action daring the soldiers, rough treatment, no kindness, daring to be herself, like Athene, like Artemis. Love in her heart too that led her on for France. Fleur de lys. White lilies. I would find you white lilies like the lilies of Helios. White lilies for you and for Jeanne d’Arc fleur de lys. Of course. Fleur de lys. Blue and gold and white too. A soft cream gold white blue — Jeanne d’Arc. They grow in the meadows and your feet sink in to the ankles. Never mind wet shoes. Your own mired in filth, dragging through mud. They insulted you. But who, who did? They put a crimson robe and a reed, no a sword and they dragged your armour from you. You died defenceless in a white robe. No in no robe. They parted His garments. . and the soldiers laughed but it wasn’t they that slew you. “I know I’m irreligious.” “What Hermione?” “I said. I know I’m irreligious but don’t you find all this — this — broken line — you know what I mean, a little ginger-bread-y?” “Ginger—? What?” “Ginger-bread. You know. Too much decoration.” “What are you trying to do, Hermione? Trying to show off? Pretending you don’t care? Pretending not to care? Really caring awfully.” “No. Not as you think. Not as you think. I do care. It’s looking back, walking off one’s own shelf of life, sliding off like sliding off a raft, a float—” “Perhaps. You swim then?” “Well. Not exactly. Yes. I do swim.” “Thinking of your vacation in your precious Jersey mud flats?” “I hadn’t. I wasn’t.” “This is a little bit of a comedown, Miss Expensive?” Christ in Heaven. Why is Josepha so ill-natured, so perverse? It meant everything getting away with her and she goes on this way. I suppose were all dead and tired with sights. Why is she so destructive? What’s wrong with her anyhow? “Do you believe in this — ah — you know—” “What, Josepha?” “Are you, I don’t believe I ever asked you, a — a Christian?” “What is — that, Fayne Rabb?” “What is what?” “A Christian?” “A Christian is a person who goes to communion. Do you? I do every Sunday, ever since I can remember or Madre would sulk. Do you go to communion?” “I used to. I taught some filthy children who called poppies coloured rags’ and I thought that was better than communion—” “Was it?” “I don’t know. It was, while I loved them. But I got sick with them, disgusted. . their voices, the impossibility of doing anything.” “What did you do? This is a new phase, little smug Miss Settlement Worker.” “I took them roses. All I could get, borrow or steal.” “Well?” “I could never get, borrow or steal enough. There was one filthy brat with its nose running—” “Dear me, not in a cleaned up college settlement?” “There was always one filthy one, a girl or boy. They were all the same. (They were immigrant class.) There was always one there wasn’t a rose for.” “Well what about the ninety and nine?” “It wasn’t worth it. I always remembered the filthy dirty one, I hated that there hadn’t been a rose for.” “What a sweet picture.” “Yes. Isn’t it? As like as not with scabs and they always had a patch of something, colour, or bright blue patches on the seat of their pants—” “Pretty. You should have been an art student at the academy—” “Yes. Shouldn’t I? Art — Beauty. What’s the use of art and art and Beauty when there’s one filthy brat with a running nose that you hate anyway who cringes at you and leaves finger marks on your summer clothes and says ‘but sister’ (they called me sister. I suppose they never saw anyone but a Catholic sister at a funeral who had flowers) ‘but sister. Isn’t there one dirty broken one left for me — not even any pieces.’ Pieces of a rose.” “You seem unduly sensitive.” “Pieces of a rose. I ask you. Pieces of a lily. He meant petals I suppose. Scrapings. Sweepings. With a filthy face and as like as not some hideous inherited affliction. That’s the Church. Have all the children. Suffer little children—” “So, I presume you are not, Miss Wrath of God, a Christian?” “Not in your sense. I’m going over to look at that Lady Chapel — they’re going to begin some hocus-pocus. O go get Clara’s guide book. She’ll put out her eyes reading in this gloom. And it’s my fault asking for details. Tell her I don’t care.” Get away. Get away. Get away. O let me alone. Don’t follow me. Don’t let me slip O Christ into this pool of numbness, of death in life. A cold place but I am not a hospital patient, a convalescent. O Christ in Heaven — Mea beata. . gratia mea. . domina. . regina. .