Chapter I

The Fairy Tree

As the traveller, descending the valley from Neufchâteau, approaches the village of Domremy,[1] he will observe at his right upon an eminence of the nearest range of hills a stately chestnut-tree, its lower branches hung with wreaths of flowers, some fresh, some fading. If he does not mind a little fatigue and climbs to this spot, he will be richly rewarded for his exertions. The tree in itself is a sufficient compensation for his efforts, for who does not contemplate with admiration such a work of nature? Who does not listen with rapture to the gentle rustle of its leaves and find rest in its cool shade? But this tree has a still stronger attraction for those who believe its story. Ofttimes in the twilight they see happy sprites dancing round it with joyous faces, and the soft rustling of its leaves they declare is celestial whispers, for it is given to them to understand heavenly speech.

This tree is the “Fairy Tree.”[2]

The outlook from this spot will still further repay the traveller. A beautiful valley spreads out before him, bounded on either side by the forest-crowned heights of Argonne and Ardennes, between which the Meuse[3] winds its silvery way. Numerous villages dot these heights and are sprinkled here and there along the lower pasture-land. North and south gleam the towers of Neufchâteau and Vaucouleurs.[4] The nearest, and at the same time most pleasant of these villages, is Domremy, whose cottages, embowered in greenery, cluster about the little church of Saint Margaret. Many herds of cattle and sheep are feeding in the pastures between fields luxuriant with growing crops. Looking back, the eye catches the dusky summits of the Bois de Chêne,[5] and at the crossroad leading thither stands the chapel of Saint Catherine.

Between the chapel and the Fairy Tree, and somewhat nearer the latter, sparkles a bubbling spring whose curative powers were believed in by those of pious faith in the olden times.

Thus the scene appears under pleasant skies. But when the temperature suddenly changes, and the cold air rushes down into the valley, its mists are driven and scattered among the mountainous defiles. At such times superstitious villagers believe they see the fairies dancing round the tree, and even the saints of heaven in the wavering shapes of the mist.

Among the mysterious spots which have invested the neighborhood of Domremy with such fame and sacredness Bois de Chêne is not the least famous. One cannot enter its dark recesses without that peculiar feeling of awe which inspires a solitary wanderer in the presence of nature’s grandeurs,—a feeling which inevitably fills the mind of a superstitious person with a bewildering array of supernatural fancies. It was from this very forest that Merlin the wizard predicted the deliverer of France would come.

Think of a child of susceptible and fanciful nature, fed upon nursery tales full of superstitions, a child passionately fond of solitary reveries and fervent appeals to the saints, growing up in such an environment! Is it remarkable that such a child should see marvels on the earth and in the air, and the saints themselves in bodily image, and that she should hear their voices and listen devoutly to angelic music in the celestial regions?

Just such a child as this sat under the Fairy Tree on a beautiful spring morning in the year 1424.[6] She was a maiden of twelve years, and was tending a little flock of sheep grazing on the hillside. Even the casual observer would have noticed her striking appearance, for while the other girls were frolicking in the meadow below her, she sat leaning against the tree, gazing fixedly into space, and evidently thinking of other things than dance, and sport, and herds. Looking more closely into her lovely oval face and observing its transparent tints and delicate features, the question would at once suggest itself—How did such a slight, ethereal creature happen among the children of peasants? Those wonderful eyes did not merely reveal the self-unconsciousness of the visionary and the rapture of supernatural contemplation. They were clear mirrors of the heart, reflecting its inmost recesses and depths. That heart was the heart of an angel, the heart of a child so innocent it was impossible not to love her and sympathize with her.

As she sat there, a flock of little birds flew to the tree, filling the air with the music of their songs. Apparently she did not notice them, for she neither moved nor changed the expression of her face. They fluttered down from the tree and hopped about the dreamer, approaching her more and more nearly, until at last some of them lit on her head and shoulder. Now for the first time she was conscious of her little guests.

“Ah!” she exclaimed in a soft melodious voice. “You are here and I did not know it.” She quickly opened a little basket standing near her, sprinkled some crumbs upon the ground, and watched with childish delight the liveliness of her tiny companions. Her pleasure, however, was soon marred by a saucy and envious fellow in the little crowd, who pecked his neighbor. Chirping sorrowfully, the victim flew to the maiden’s feet.

“Alas! alas! poor little bird!” she exclaimed, the tears coming into her eyes. She took the little fellow in her lap and caressed him. “Wait, now, thou envious ‘wolf,’” she said, addressing the offender. “Did I not scatter crumbs enough for you all? And did you not know I would have doubled the amount if that had not been sufficient? You deserve to be punished for your greediness. Now you shall see how finely this poor little fellow will fare at his own table.” Thereupon she filled her lap from the basket, and the little one ate with a relish, while the “wolf” was not allowed to come near the table, much as he wished to. Suddenly the flock rose and flew into the branches of the tree in manifest alarm. Her sheep, which had been feeding below her, rushed up the hill as fast as they could, and closely huddled together.

“What is the matter?” cried the maiden, as she cast a hasty glance at the flying herd. “What has driven you away from the meadow in such fright? Holy Catherine! the cruel wolf must be lurking on the edge of the wood.”

She quickly sprang up, seized her crook, and flew to the Bois de Chêne, where a wolf was really lying in wait. One who had seen her then would hardly have recognized the gentle maiden, the dreamer of a moment before, in this resolute heroine, her eyes flashing with courage. Wonderful to relate, the beast fled from her. For an instant it crouched, ready to spring upon her, and then slunk away into the forest. Thereupon the little heroine went to the neighboring chapel, knelt before the image of Saint Catherine, and poured out the thankfulness of her heart in long and fervent prayers. It was her childish belief that her patron saint had performed a miracle. She did not know that the beasts of the wood can be intimidated by the firmness and courage of a fearless person’s glance, and that even the lion himself will not attack such a person unless he is in a frenzy of rage.

As the little one left the chapel the spiritual illumination which irradiated her face when she sat dreaming under the Fairy Tree again shone in her beautiful eyes. Her route led her to the miraculous spring.[7] The fresh green of the bushes and turf allured her. She threw herself down, and soon was lulled by the gentle plashing of the water into sweet fancies. For a long time she failed to observe that she had companions who had come there to drink,—a doe and fawns, who fearlessly approached and drank the clear water undisturbed. After they had quenched their thirst, the fawns stood watching the dreamer with their intelligent little eyes as if they were awaiting friendly recognition from an old acquaintance. Not receiving it, they sported frolicsomely around her. Suddenly the charming scene was interrupted. The animals tossed up their heads, listened intently, and then, as if at a word of command, galloped away to the forest. A bevy of simple, joyous, sun-browned shepherdesses came running toward her from the meadow.

“Joan, Joan,” cried one, “where are you?”

The maiden rose.

“Aha!” said the one just speaking, “she has been listening again to the murmurs of the spring. Just see how wondrously her eyes glisten!”

At this all of them came up and gazed with a kind of awe at the strange maiden.

“Well, what do you wish?” said Joan, gently.

“We have made a wager,” replied the former speaker. “See this beautiful wreath, Joan. After we had woven it we decided it should go to the winner in a race to the Fairy Tree. Agnes boasted it would be hers. Margot was just as sure that she would win it. ‘Ah!’ said I; ‘if Joan were only here you would not talk this way!’ ‘And why not?’ said Agnes. ‘Because,’ said I, ‘Saint Catherine always helps her.’ ‘Oh,’ interposed Margot, ‘I will find Joan and she also shall race.’ Then I said, ‘We will all search for Joan.’ ‘Yes,’ all shouted, ‘let us find Joan!’ And here we are. Here is the wreath, and there is the Fairy Tree. Will you run?”

Joan made no reply. She stood absorbed in devotion, and prayed: “Holy Catherine, give me the victory, not for my sake, but for thy honor.”

“Joan, do you not hear us?”

“Yes, I am ready.”

Gleefully the maidens formed a line. “One, two, three,” a clear voice counted, and all ran up the hillside. In a few seconds the line was zig-zag, with Agnes, Margot, and Joan in the lead. Most of the others gave up the race and followed slowly on, watching the three in eager suspense. Soon, however, they noticed there was one in the lead, for the other two had perceptibly fallen back.

“Did I not tell you Joan would win?” said the one who had first spoken.

“But there is some witchcraft about it,” said her neighbor. “Look at her, look! Holy Margaret! Her feet do not touch the ground.”

“That is so,” all said, as they crossed themselves. “She is flying through the air.”

It really seemed as if Joan were flying. The mist, the fast-gathering twilight, and the distance created such an ocular illusion that any superstitious spectator would have sworn she was flying. All hurried to the tree, under whose branches the victor was not standing, but devoutly kneeling. The joyous crowd surrounded her, and no feeling of envy clouded their joy as they placed the wreath upon her fair head. As the night was now fast coming on, the girls went homewards with the flocks. They were all from the village of Domremy.

Joan found Jacques, her father, Pierre, her brother, and Duram Laxart, her uncle, engaged in earnest conversation with a stranger in the square in front of the church. A few words which she overheard aroused her curiosity, and she approached the group and listened.

“I bid you repent,” said the stranger, “lest the wrath of Heaven be visited upon you, for all the misfortunes of this land are divine punishments for the sins of the Court and the King’s kindred.”

“Oh, oh, holy father,” said one, “that would be very sad.”

“What do you mean by that, my son?”

“I mean it would be very sad for Heaven to punish poor people who have done no wrong, for the wrongdoings of the Court.”

“Go home, thou son of Belial who doubtest that which the Spirit reveals to thee through my lips. Shut thyself up in thy chamber, and three times repeat seven paternosters, that thy soul may be released from the bonds of doubt, for doubt is the work of the devil, who is already stretching out his claws to seize thee.”

“But, holy father—”

“Be quiet, Gamoche,” interposed another villager. “Do not interrupt the holy father. He will explain it all to us.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the others, “he will explain everything.”

“Well, then, listen to me, children,” resumed the stranger. “But, holy Mother of God, where shall I begin? The list of the sins of this Court is so long that if I should go back a century, even then it would not be the beginning. I will confine myself to the recent ones, which must be more or less familiar to you all. Have you heard about the last King, Charles the Sixth?”[8]

“Why should we not have heard? He died insane only two years ago.”

“Yes, insane. He had a few lucid moments after 1392, in which he recognized in some measure the profligacy of the administration. The whole royal family, with but few exceptions, acted as if they were insane. First of all, there was the Queen, the notorious Isabella of Bavaria, who was as much a stranger to the nobility of human nature as she was to the divine. Her every purpose and act had no higher motive than the gratification of her own desires and the discovery how to accomplish them. It would have mattered nothing to her if a sea of blood had been shed, if only her interests were advanced. There was the Duke Louis of Orleans,[9] brother of the insane King, who pandered to Isabella’s profligacy and lust of power, finally seized the reins of sovereignty, and plunged the state into direst confusion. There were the King’s uncles, the dukes of Bourbon, Berry, Burgundy, and Anjou, all alike avaricious and ambitious for power, who lashed the Duke of Orleans and the King with the scourge of war, murdered their subjects, and ravaged the country. Then came numerous factions which contended with one another, one for this, and one for that, and finally almost countless great and little lords, robber barons, who, pretending to espouse the cause of one party, harried the districts of others, leaving a trail of pillage and blood. To complete the burden of wretchedness, King Henry the Fifth sent his Englishmen, those hereditary enemies of France, across the Channel. In alliance with the turbulent dukes, particularly those of Burgundy and Brittany, they advanced victorious, captured one place after another, and at last even Rouen and Paris, so that few provinces were left to the unfortunate King. Frightful confusion followed when this King died in 1422. Henry the Fifth, to be sure, died in the same year, but his field marshal, the Duke of Bedford, guardian of young Henry the Sixth,[10] did not abandon the field. The infamous treaty of Troyes gave him the semblance of right.”

“How so, holy father?” interposed one of the villagers.

“Be quiet,” replied another. “You ought to have known that Queen Isabella, out of hate and revenge against her youngest son Charles, who, after the death of his brother the Dauphin, was crown prince, concluded that treaty with England whereby the French royal family was barred from the succession and the King of England was declared successor of Charles the Sixth.”

“Oh, the disgrace! Oh, the shame!” several exclaimed.

“And this poor Dauphin,” continued the former speaker, “spent a joyless youth, in which his unnatural mother often forced him as well as his father to suffer the pangs of hunger; and yet, poor, weak, and throneless as he is, he is still ready to struggle for that throne which is his birthright as Charles the Seventh. Is this not so, holy father?”

“Certainly, certainly, God’s pity,” replied the stranger. “He should rule by his own and by divine right. The treaty of Troyes cannot prevent it. But where is the hero who will lead him to coronation at Rheims? Alas, only miraculous interposition can save him from ruin.”

“Saint Catherine,” sighed a gentle voice.

“Joan!” exclaimed Jacques, as he recognized his daughter, “what are you doing here? Go home.”

“Not yet, father Jacques,” said the stranger. “Let her stay. Do you not know that the prayers from a pure child’s heart are heard by the dear saints? And,” he added, “I have never seen eyes so full of innocence and piety as hers.”

“Ah!” replied Jacques, “of what use are the prayers of a child when the whole country lies helpless?”

“Are you also an unbeliever?” replied the stranger. “Know you not that the great God can manifest Himself in a little child?”

These were the last words of the conversation which Joan heard. She suddenly disappeared, but she did not go home. She wended her way to the church, which was always open. Never had her heart been so troubled and full of strange longings, never had she been so powerfully moved to hold communion with her saint. It was not so much the desire to make a votive offering of her wreath as it was the unspeakable sorrow of the fatherland and the wretched plight of the poor Dauphin that urged her to this sacred spot. And was this strange? If her sympathetic nature made her shed tears over the slight suffering of a bird, how much more would it force her to weep over the story of universal misfortune which she had just heard! Why should not the courage with which she had defended her sheep from the wolf display itself now even more decidedly? And why should she not believe in her very soul that her favorite saint would perform a miracle of rescue?

“Oh, were I only a man!” she sighed from the depth of her heart. “Oh that I could clothe my limbs in armor and wield the sword for the right! I would ask for nothing better in life. No sacrifice would be too great to accomplish it. Then, surely, the beloved saints would not refuse to help me.”

In such a spirit she entered the sacred house. It was empty. The shadows of evening, mingling with the clouds of incense smoke which still lingered in the church, were intensified by the feeble light of a small lamp. She thrilled with sacred awe as she advanced through the mysterious gloom. In her exalted mood it seemed to her that Saint Catherine smiled, as with trembling hand she placed the wreath upon her altar. In transports of sorrow and gratitude, of divine trust, and of overwhelming desire for action, she knelt at the altar, and her soul ascended to the celestial abodes. She knew no prayers except the Lord’s Prayer, the Credo, and the Ave Maria, but the more she repeated them the more completely was she spiritually absorbed.

Thus little by little she sank into that species of ecstasy in which the ordinary spiritual functions are suspended and there remain only the sacred feeling of heavenly contemplation and the free play of the fancy. It is a condition which differs from actual dreaming only in its danger, for there is danger that this ecstatic feeling once aroused may become real, and its possessor may behold illusive pictures of the fancy. The enthusiast may believe he sees real objects and hears actual voices. He may believe them to be messages from heaven, never asking himself whether such fancies will stand the test of reason. Because of ecstasies like these, deeds have been committed which have darkened the page of history with everlasting shame. But when these ecstasies arise from exalted moral ideas they may achieve results which are far beyond mere human strength and secure imperishable fame for the enthusiast.

Thus it was with this simple child praying at the altar. In her ecstatic fancy she saw the roof of the church open, and her favorite Saints Catherine and Margaret floating down through the clouds of incense. She heard them saying, “Keep thy heart unsullied, Joan, for Heaven has chosen thee as the champion of France.”

The vision disappeared. The dream was over. But in that instant the career of this child was determined. She was the subsequent Maid of Orleans.