CHAPTER XVII.

JEANNE D'ARC, THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

Among the most remarkable seeresses known to modern Europe, the name of the famous Maid of Orleans stands eminently conspicuous, particularly when we take into account the period in which she lived and the people among whom she moved. Five hundred years or less ago, woman's position in Europe was widely different from what it is now; thus it was far more remarkable that a simple peasant girl could successfully head the French army during the fifteenth century than that such a phenomenon might occur to-day. From whatever standpoint we approach Jeanne’s history, we cannot well call it other than miraculous, and as a psychological study it far outdistances in general importance all considerations pertaining to the immediate cause which she espoused or the particular victories she accomplished.

Domrémy, her birthplace, was a romantic village on the border between France and Prussia, and many were the legends which clustered thickly around it regarding apparitions of saints and angels which gathered about the spot. A particularly romantic story concerned a famous tree in the village, which had the reputation of being a trysting-place between spirits and mortals, and it was under its shade that the simple maiden first heard mysterious voices and became imbued with the conviction that she had a mighty mission to fulfil under celestial direction. S. Margaret and S. Catherine, patron saints of Domrémy, are said to have appeared to her when she was a mere child, and gradually unfolded to her the overwhelming tidings that she must place herself at the head of the French army and secure the coronation of the Dauphin after she had routed the English troops, which were then largely occupying her native country.

We often hear it said in these days that women cannot carry arms, and therefore have properly no right of suffrage; but this assertion was completely refuted nearly five hundred years ago, when an innocent maiden accomplished, as a general, what no man among her countrymen seemed able to achieve. The story of the Maid of Orleans settles the sex question at its very outset by demonstrating that individual ability is the only passport to certain victory, and we can never tell when genius will appear clothed in male or in female habiliments. Sometimes a youth, at other times a maiden, will be raised up to accomplish daring deeds that none but the greatest of heroes can undertake successfully, and we never know whether such genius is likely to rise from the ranks of nobility or peasantry; but when it does appear, it carries all before it like some mighty cyclone against which all opposition must inevitably prove fruitless. It is unquestionably not the ordinary normal vocation of a woman to become a soldier, and warfare itself may become defunct much sooner than most of us suppose; but when the times required an intrepid military commander to save a land from foreign dominance, it came to pass that the unseen powers which govern mortal destinies did at least on one highly memorable occasion raise up an untutored maiden to wave the banner and carry the sword successfully on the field of martial conquest. The many difficulties which Jeanne had to encounter were so formidable and well-nigh insuperable that they might easily have daunted the courage of even a seasoned warrior; but the innocent child, with unshakable confidence in her Heaven-directed mission, brushed all these obstacles aside with the power of that unflinching faith which does indeed, figuratively speaking, remove mountains. Though her mother, a very spiritually-minded woman, readily listened to the maiden's thrilling accounts of angelic interviews, her father, even though he may not have entirely discredited them, was so shocked at the idea of his daughter heading an army that he made no secret of his sentiment that he would rather see her drowned than embark on so utterly improper an undertaking. But an uncle favored her enterprise, and under his guardianship she set forth on the arduous and perilous career which she was fully convinced could end in no other way than gloriously; for not only did she believe that two saints were prompting her; she felt that the mighty archangel Michael was her chief inspirer, and with this conviction to buoy her spirits, her courage never faltered even in the face of the most determined opposition which she encountered from ecclesiastical dignitaries as well as from the secular authority. The story of her movement from place to place, until she finally reached the Dauphin, and eventually secured his coronation at Rheims, reads like a fairy tale, a work of fiction almost too highly colored to take rank with serious novels. But we are dealing with actual history, not with sensational romance, and here indeed is demonstrated the truthfulness of the long-celebrated adage: “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

The clairvoyance of the Maid of Orleans was triumphantly demonstrated on the occasion of her first encounter with the man whom her bravery was to elevate to the throne, for though he had completely disguised himself, and placed a substitute in his accustomed place, this ruse proved entirely ineffectual. The Dauphin, who was a very impressionable man, became greatly interested in Jeanne’s mission, and soon became willing to render her the aid she needed to equip an army. One of the most remarkable incidents in the Maid's career was her extraordinary discipline, which manifested itself immediately in the improved conduct of the soldiers and in the amazing courage with which she inspired all under her command. Being herself of a highly religious nature, and deeming it of the utmost importance that religious rites should be faithfully observed, she readily induced the army to pay renewed attention to their long-neglected devotions, and she soon succeeded in inspiring a demoralized body of men with real reverence for all the virtues she so highly exemplified in her own heroic person. There is a marvellous contagion in perfect trust and quenchless bravery, and from whatever viewpoint we may regard the story of visions and voices from the unseen world, we must be ignorant indeed of the first principles of psychology if we fail to perceive how mighty an effect on others one’s own indomitable courage can exert. Whether the commander be Alexander, Cæsar, Napoleon, Wellington, Washington, or the Maid of Orleans, no army has ever proved continuously successful except when headed by some intrepid general whose own conviction was unflinching that victory must surely wait upon obedience to his (or her) command. It seems incredible that Joan of Arc could have accomplished even the simple leadership of a battalion had she not been able to impress those under her with something of her own confidence in Heavenly guidance, for an immature maiden at the head of a regiment of soldiers is a spectacle so grotesque, when viewed from any ordinary standpoint, as to suggest a farce rather than a serious battle. Doubtless the charm of her personality had something to do with her successes, but we must keep steadily in mind that here was no voluptuous woman appealing to the admiration of beauty-loving men, but a saintly virgin whose especial charm consisted in her supreme devotion to spiritual ideals, her confidence in celestial prompters and her unflinching determination to serve her country at all hazard, guided as she believed by the very finger of the Almighty. It seems from all histories that a certain magical charm was exerted by her banner, the very sight of which nerved her troops to daring, as they had accepted the suggestion that that symbol was a token of Heaven’s approval of their march. A very noteworthy incident in this astounding record is the well-attested fact that when the Maid followed implicitly directions given by the spirit-voices, she was invariably victorious, but when she had accomplished, to the full, the special work to which those voices led her, she subsequently permitted herself to be led into battle when they were silent, victory no longer crowned her leadership, but she sustained serious physical injuries at the hands of the opposing troops, and soon entered upon that sad episode in her formerly triumphant career which finally reached the tragic end of martyrdom. Among the many histories of this truly wonderful girl, perhaps the most fascinating of all is the volume of “Personal Recollections,” translated from the French by that always delightful writer Samuel Clemens, familiarly known as Mark Twain, who says: “The details of the life of Joan of Arc form a biography which is unique among the world’s biographies in one respect. It is the only story of a human life which comes to us under oath, the only one which comes to us from the witness-stand. The official records of the Great Trial of 1531, and of the process of Rehabilitation of a quarter of a century later, are still preserved in the National Archives of France, and they furnish with remarkable fulness the facts of her life. The history of no other life of that remote time is known with either the certainty or the comprehensiveness that attaches to hers. The Sieur Louis De Conte is faithful to her official history in his personal recollections, and thus far his trustworthiness is unimpeachable; but his mass of added particulars must depend for credit upon his word alone.” The story, as told by this well-recognized authority, is divided into three books, written with a peculiarly vivid charm which makes the reader feel that he is himself living amid the extraordinary scenes so graphically depicted, and the original French seemingly has lost nothing by translation into Mark Twain's wonderfully beautiful English. To review this narrative with any degree of fulness would be to practically re-write it; but the following extracts from the story of Joan's trial and martyrdom may tend, in some slight degree, to familiarize our readers with what actually occurred at the time when a recognized saint of the Roman Catholic Church of to-day earned her right to beatification. “At nine o'clock the Maid of Orleans, deliverer of France, went forth in the grace of her innocence and her youth to lay down her life for the country she loved with such devotion and for the king who had abandoned her. She sat in the cart that is used only for felons. In one respect she was treated worse than a felon, for whereas she was on her way to be sentenced by the Civilon, she already bore her judgment inscribed in advance upon a mitre-shaped cap which she wore.

“In the car with her sat the Friar Martin Ladvenu and Maitre Jean Massieu. She looked girlishly fair and sweet and saintly in her long white robe, and when a gush of sunlight flooded her as she emerged from the gloom of the prison and was yet for a moment still framed in the arch of the sombre gate, the massed multitudes of poor folk murmured, ‘A vision! a vision!’ and sank to their knees praying, and many of the women weeping;

and the moving invocation for the dying rose again, and was taken up and borne along, a majestic wave of sound which accompanied the doomed, solacing and blessing her, all the sorrowful way to the place of death. ‘Christ, have pity! Saint Margaret, have pity! Pray for her, all ye saints, archangels, and blessed martyrs; pray for her! Saints and angels. intercede for her! From thy wrath, good Lord, deliver her! O Lord God, save her! Have mercy on her, we beseech Thee, good Lord!’

“It is just and true, what one of the histories has said: ‘The poor and the helpless had nothing but their prayers to give Joan of Arc; but these we may believe were not unavailing. There are few more pathetic events recorded in history than this weeping, helpless, praying crowd, holding their lighted candles and kneeling on the pavement beneath the prison walls of the old fortress.

“And it was so all the way. Thousands upon thousands massed upon their knees, and stretching far down the distance, thick sown with the faint yellow candle-flames, like a field starred with golden flowers.

“But there were some who did not kneel; these were the English soldiers. They stood elbow to elbow, on each side of Joan’s road, and walled it in, all the way; and behind these living walls knelt the multitudes.

“By-and-bye a frantic man in priest’s garb came wailing and lamenting, and tore through the crowd and the barrier of soldiers, and flung himself on his knees by Joan’s cart, and put up his hands in supplication, crying out! “ ‘O, forgive; forgive!’

“It was Loyseleur!

“And Joan forgave him; forgave him out of a heart that knew nothing but forgiveness, nothing but compassion, nothing but pity for all that suffer, let their offence be what it might. And she had no word of reproach for this poor wretch who had wrought day and night with deceits and treacheries and hypocrisies to betray her to her death.

“The soldiers would have killed him, but the Earl of Warwick saved his life. What became of him is not known. He hid himself from the world somewhere, to endure his remorse as he might.

“In the square of the Old Market stood the two platforms and the stake which had stood before in the churchyard of St. Ouen. The platforms were occupied as before, the one by Joan and her judges, the other by great dignitaries, the principal being Cauchon and the English Cardinal, Winchester. The square was packed with people, the windows and roofs of the blocks of buildings surrounding it were black with them.

“When the preparation had been finished, all noise and movement gradually ceased, and a waiting stillness followed which was solemn and impressive.

“And now, by order of Cauchon, an ecclesiastic named Nicholas Midi preached a sermon, wherein he explained that when a branch of a vine—which is the Church—becomes diseased and corrupt, it must be cut away or it will corrupt and destroy the whole vine. He made it appear that Joan, through her wickedness, was a menace and a peril to the Church’s purity and holiness, and her death therefore necessary. When he was come to the end of his discourse, he turned toward her and paused a moment, then he said: ‘Joan, the Church can no longer protect you. Go in peace!’

“Joan had been placed wholly apart and conspicuous, to signify the Church’s abandonment of her, and she sat there in her loneliness, waiting in patience and resignation for the end. Cauchon addressed her now. He had been advised to read the form of her abjuration to her, and had brought it with him; but he changed his mind, fearing that she would proclaim the truth—that she never knowingly abjured—and so bring shame upon him and perpetual infamy. He contented himself with admonishing her to keep in mind her wickednesses, and repent of them, and think of her salvation. Then he solemnly pronounced her excommunicate, and cut off from the body of the Church. With a final word he delivered her over to the secular arm for judgment and sentence.

“Joan, weeping, knelt and began to pray. For whom? Herself? Oh, no—for the King of France. Her voice rose sweet and clear, and penetrated all hearts with its passionate pathos. She never thought of his treacheries to her, she never thought of his desertions of her, she never remembered that it was because he was an ingrate that she was here to die a miserable death; she remembered only that he was her King, that she was his loyal and loving subject, and that his enemies had undermined his cause with evil reports and false charges, and he not by to defend himself. And so, in the very presence of death, she forgot her own troubles to implore all in her hearing to be just to him; to believe that he was good and noble and sincere, and not in any way to blame for any acts of hers, neither advising them or urging them, but being wholly clear and free of all responsibility for them. Then, closing, she begged in humble and touching words that all here present would pray for her and would pardon her, both her enemies and such as might look friendly upon her and feel pity for her in their hearts.

“There was hardly one heart there that was not touched—even the English, even the judges, showed it, and there was many a lip that trembled and many an eye that was blurred with tears; yes, even the English Cardinal’s—that man with a political heart of stone but a human heart of flesh.

“The secular judge who should have delivered judgment and pronounced sentence was himself so disturbed that he forgot his duty, and Joan went to her death unsentenced—thus completing with an illegality what had begun illegally, and had so continued to the end. He only said—to the guards:

“ ‘Take her’; and to the executioner, ‘Do your duty.’

“Joan asked for a cross. None was able to furnish one. But an English soldier broke a stick in two, and crossed the pieces and tied them together, and this cross he gave her, moved to it by the good heart that was in him; and she kissed it and put it to her bosom. Then Isambard de la Pierre went to the church near by and brought her a consecrated one; and this one also she kissed, and pressed it to her bosom with rapture, and then kissed it again and again, covering it with tears and pouring out her gratitude to God and the saints.

“And so, weeping, and with her cross to her lips, she climbed up the cruel steps to the face of the stake, with the friar Isambard at her side. Then she was helped up to the top of the pile of wood that was built around the lower third of the stake, and stood upon it with her back against the stake, and the world gazing up at her breathless. The executioner ascended to her side and wound the chains about her slender body, and so fastened her to the stake. Then he descended to finish his dreadful office, and there she remained alone—she that had had so many friends in the days when she was free, and had been so loved and so dear.

“All these things I saw, albeit dimly and blurred with tears; but I could bear no more. I continued in my place, but what I shall deliver to you now I got by others’ eyes and others’ mouths. Tragic sounds there were that pierced my ears and wounded my heart as I sat there, but it is as I tell you: the latest image recorded by my eyes in that desolating hour was Joan of Arc with the grace of her comely youth still unmarred; and that image, untouched by time or decay, has remained with me all my days. Now I will go on.

“If any thought that now, in that solemn hour, when all transgressors repent and confess, she would revoke her revocation and say her great deeds had been evil deeds, and Satan and his fiends their source, they erred. No such thought was in her blameless mind. She was not thinking of herself and her troubles, but of others, and of woes that might befall them. And so, turning her grieving eyes about her, where rose the towers and spires of that fair city, she said:

“ ‘Oh, Rouen, Rouen! Must I die here, and must you be my tomb? Ah, Rouen, Rouen! I have great fear that you will suffer for my death.’

“A whiff of smoke swept upward past her face, and for one moment terror seized her and she cried out, ‘Water! Give me holy water!’ But the next moment her fears were gone, and they came no more to torture her.

“She heard the flames crackling below her, and immediately distress for a fellow creature who was in danger took possession of her. It was the friar Isambard. She had given him her cross and begged him to raise it toward her face and let her eyes rest in hope and consolation upon it, till she had entered into the peace of God. She made him go out from the danger of the fire. Then she was satisfied, and said:

“ ‘Now keep it always in my sight until the end.’

“Not even yet could Cauchon, that man without shame, endure to let her die in peace, but went toward her, all black with crimes and sins as he was, and cried out:

“ ‘I am come, Joan, to exhort you for the last time to repent and seek the pardon of God.’

“ ‘I die through you,’ she said, and these were the last words she spoke to any upon earth.

“Then the pitchy smoke, shot through with red flashes of flame, rolled up in a thick volume and hid her from sight; and from the heart of this darkness her voice rose strong and eloquent in prayer, and when by moments the wind shredded somewhat of the smoke aside, there were veiled glimpses of an upturned face and moving lips. At last a merciful swift tide of flame burst upward, and none saw that face any more, nor that form, and the voice was still.

“Yes, she was gone from us; Joan of Arc! What little words they are, to tell of a rich world made empty and poor!

“Joan’s brother Jacques died in Domrémy during the Great Trial at Rouen. This was according to the prophecy which Joan made that day in the pastures, the time that she said the rest of us would go to the great wars.

“When her poor old father heard of the martyrdom, it broke his heart, and he died.

“The mother was granted a pension by the City of Orleans, and upon this she lived out her days, which were many. Twenty-four years after her illustrious child’s death, she travelled all the way to Paris in the winter time, and was present at the opening of the discussion in the Cathedral of Notre Dame, which was the first step in the Rehabilitation. Paris was crowded with people, from all over France, who came to get sight of the venerable dame, and it was a touching spectacle when she moved through those reverent, wet-eyed multitudes on her way to the grand honors awaiting her at the Cathedral. With her were Jean and Pierre, no longer the light-hearted youths who marched with us from Vaucouleurs, but war-worn veterans with hair beginning to show frost.

“After the martyrdom, Noel and I went back to Domrémy, but presently, when the Constable Richemont superseded La Tremouille as the King’s Chief Adviser, and began the completion of Joan’s great work, we put on our harness and returned to the field and fought for the King all through the wars and skirmishes, until France was freed of the English. It was what Joan would have desired of us; and, dead or alive, her desire was law for us. All the survivors of the personal staff were faithful to her memory and fought for the King to the end. Mainly we were well scattered, but when Paris fell we happened to be together. It was a great day and a joyous; but it was a sad one at the same time, because Joan was not there to march into the captured capital with us

“Noel and I remained always together, and I was by his side when death claimed him. It was in the last great battle of the war. In that battle fell also Joan’s sturdy old enemy, Talbot. He was eighty-five years old, and had spent his whole life in battle. A fine old lion he was, with his flowing white mane and his tameless spirit; yes, and his indestructible energy as well; for he fought as knightly and vigorous a fight that day as the best man there.

“La Hire survived the martyrdom thirteen years; and always fighting, of course, for that was all he enjoyed in life. I did not see him in all that time, for we were far apart, but one was always hearing of him.

“The Bastard of Orleans and D’Alençon and D’Aulon lived to see France free, and to testify with Jean and Pierre d’Arc and Pasquerel and me at the Rehabilitation. But they are all at rest now, these many years. I alone am left of those who fought at the side of Joan of Arc in the great wars. She said I should live until these wars were forgotten—a prophecy which failed. If I should live a thousand years, it would still fail. For whatsoever had touch with Joan of Arc, that thing is immortal.

“Members of Joan's family married, and they have left descendants. Their descendants are of the nobility, but their family name and blood bring them honors which no other nobles receive or may hope for. You have seen how everybody along the way uncovered when those children came yesterday to pay their duty to me. It was not because they are noble; it is because they are grandchildren of the brothers of Joan of Arc.

“Now as to the Rehabilitation. Joan crowned the King at Rheims. For reward, he allowed her to be hunted to her death without making one effort to save her. During the next twenty-three years he remained indifferent to her memory, indifferent to the fact that her good name was under a damning blot put there by the priests because of the deeds which she had done in saving him and his sceptre, indifferent to the fact that France was ashamed. Indifferent all that time. Then he suddenly changed, and was anxious to have justice for poor Joan, himself. Why? Had he become grateful at last? Had remorse attacked his hard heart? No; he had a better reason—a better one for his sort of man. This better reason was that, now that the English had been finally expelled from the country, they were beginning to call attention to the fact that this King had gotten his crown by the hands of a person proven by the priests to have been in league with Satan, and burnt for it by them as a sorceress—therefore, of what value or authority was such a kingship as that? Of no value at all; no nation could afford to allow such a King to remain on the throne.

“It was high time to stir now, and the King did it. That is how Charles VII. came to be smitten with anxiety to have justice done the memory of his benefactress.

“He appealed to the Pope, and the Pope appointed a great commission of churchmen to examine into the facts of Joan’s life and award judgment. The Commission sat at Paris, at Domrémy, at Rouen, at Orleans, and at several other places, and continued its work during several months. It examined the record of Joan’s trial, it examined the Bastard of Orleans and the Duke D’Alençon, and D’Aulon, and Pasquerel, and Courcelles, and Isambard de la Pierre, and Manchon, and me, and many others whose names I have made familiar to you; also they examined more than a hundred witnesses whose names are less familiar to you—friends of Joan in Domrémy, Vaucouleurs, Orleans, and other places, and a number of judges and other people who had assisted at the Rouen trials, the abjuration, and the martyrdom. And out of this exhaustive examination Joan’s character and history came spotless and perfect, and this verdict was placed upon record, to remain forever.

“I was present upon most of these occasions, and saw again many faces which I have not seen for a quarter of a century; among them some well-beloved faces—those of our generals and that of Catherine Boucher (married, alas!), and also among them certain other faces that filled me with bitterness—those of Beaupere and Courcelles and a number of their fellow-fiends. I saw Haumette and Little Mengette—edging along toward fifty, now, and mothers of many children. I saw Noel's father, and the parents of the Paladin and the Sunflower.

“It was beautiful to hear the Duke D’Alençon praise Joan's splendid capacities as a general, and to hear the Bastard endorse these praises with his eloquent tongue, and then go on and tell how sweet and good Joan was, and how full of pluck and fire and impetuosity and mischief and mirthfulness, and tenderness and compassion, and everything that was pure and fine and noble and lovely. He made her live again before me, and wrung my heart.

“I have finished my story of Joan of Arc, that wonderful child, that sublime personality, that spirit which in one regard has had no peer and will have none—this: its purity from all alloy of self-seeking, self-interest, personal ambition. In it no trace of these motives can be found, search as you may, and this cannot be said of any other person whose name appears in profane history.

“With Joan of Arc, love of country was more than a sentiment—it was a passion. She was the genius of Patriotism—she was patriotism embodied, concreted, made flesh, and palpable to the touch and visible to the eye.

“Love, Mercy, Charity, Fortitude, War, Peace, Poetry, Music—these may be symbolised as any shall prefer; by figures of either sex and of any age; but a slender girl in her first young bloom, with the martyr’s crown upon her head, and in her hand the sword that severed her country’s bonds—shall not this, and no other, stand for PATRIOTISM through all ages, until time shall end?”

Such, in brief, is a fair record of one of the most marvellous cases of inspired bravery and true martyrdom the world has ever known. There may still remain psychological mysteries connected with the Maid’s career which neither physical nor psychical research has yet been able fully to fathom, but that is no reason why we should withhold our consent to such abundant testimony as has clearly been afforded to the super-physical element in the career of this mysterious girl whose name, nearly five centuries after her departure from the physical body, is gaining continually added fame and lustre. Europe as well as Asia, the Christian centuries as well as older times, have all borne witness to the reality of spiritual interposition in the affairs of humanity on earth, thereby entirely putting to flight the erroneous assumption that this world stands alone in space, or that its inhabitants while incarnate are isolated from companionship with intelligent entities on other than physical planes of manifestation. Whenever a work needs to be done, fitting instruments are raised up to accomplish it, and these in the present, as well as in the past, appear often at first entirely unsuited to the mighty tasks they have been selected to fulfil. Time vindicates all things. Justice reigns, and must forever triumph.