Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with
underscores: _italics_.
[Illustration: JOAN OF ARC]
Historic Girlhoods
(Part One)
By
RUPERT S. HOLLAND
_Author of "Historic Boyhoods," "Historic Events of Colonial Days,"
etc., etc._
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
Printed in U.S.A.
CONTENTS
(_PART ONE_)
I. SAINT CATHERINE 9
The Girl of Siena
II. JOAN OF ARC 26
The Girl of Domremy
III. VITTORIA COLONNA 41
The Girl of Ischia
IV. CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 50
The Girl of Mediæval Italy
V. LADY JANE GREY 63
The Girl of Tudor England
VI. MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 78
The Girl of the French Court
VII. POCAHONTAS 93
The Girl of the Virginia Woods
VIII. PRISCILLA ALDEN 107
The Girl of Plymouth
IX. CATHERINE THE GREAT 124
The Girl of Stettin
X. FANNY BURNEY 136
The Girl of London
These stories in general follow the actual records of history, but in a
few cases, where little was known of certain girls, the author has felt
at liberty to add incidents illustrating the characters and the times.
ILLUSTRATIONS
(_PART ONE_)
Joan of Arc _Frontispiece_
Catherine de' Medici _Facing page_ 56
Lady Jane Grey and Roger Ascham " " 64
Mary Stuart at the Age of Nine " " 80
Pocahontas " " 104
John Alden and Priscilla " " 120
Catherine the Great " " 134
Fanny Burney " " 148
_To
my sister
LUCY_
I
St. Catherine
The Girl of Siena: 1347-1380
The old Italian city of Siena lies upon three hills, on one of which
gleams the great white Cathedral, and on another perches the scarcely
less commanding Church of San Domenico. In the fourteenth century
underwood and hanging gardens crept up the sides of these hills, with
only a narrow winding road to lead from one part of the city to
another. The valley lying between the two hills that were crowned with
churches was known as the Valle Piatta, and a little way up one slope
stood the small stone-built house of a dyer named Giacomo Benincasa. On
the opposite hillside lived his married daughter Bonaventura, and
Giacomo's wife often sent her two youngest children, Stephen and
Catherine, through the valley on errands to their sister's house. Their
message to Bonaventura safely delivered the children were free to play
in the valley or pick flowers or rest by the roadside as long as they
chose.
One summer afternoon Catherine, who was a small girl with dark hair and
eyes, felt drowsy with the warm airs of the lowlands and loitered
behind her brother as they were returning from Bonaventura's. He went
on, humming a tune of the goatherds. She, stopping under a tree for
shade, looked down a little path that led to a fountain called the
Fontebranda, where most of the people of Siena got their water. Then
she looked up across the hillsides of vineyards and hanging gardens to
the cliff where the Church of San Domenico shone very white in the
brilliant sunlight. She looked, and rubbed her eyes, and looked again.
Then her amazement vanished and she simply stood still, rapt in a kind
of ecstasy, which would not permit her to doubt what she saw nor turn
her eyes away.
As she stood there entranced, she saw a great throne set upon the very
roof of the Church of San Domenico, and on that throne sat the Christ
and about Him were grouped the figures of many saints. As she looked
the figure on the throne stretched out His right hand and made the sign
of the cross over her, as she had seen the Bishop do when he gave his
people his blessing. The eyes of the other saints were fixed upon her
as though they had a special interest in her, and in turn each of them
made her the sign of blessing. The vision held her spellbound, and
although people on foot and in wagons passed along the road near where
she stood, she did not turn nor pay any attention to them. She seemed
to have forgotten everything except the vision high up on the hill.
Stephen had gone on along the road, thinking that his sister was
following. After a time he spoke to her, but received no answer. Then
he turned around and to his surprise found she was not in sight. He
walked back until he caught sight of her standing beneath the tree.
"Catherine!" he called. She made no reply. He could not understand why
she stood so still, gazing steadily up into the sky. He went nearer,
and spoke again. She did not answer, so he took her hand and said,
"Tell me, Catherine, what are you doing? Why do you stop here?"
The girl moved, and slowly turned her head, as though she had just been
waked from a sound sleep. "Oh, Stephen, if you had but seen what I saw,
you wouldn't have disturbed me so," she said slowly. Again she looked
up to the Church of San Domenico, but now the vision was gone, and
there were only the white walls gleaming in the sunshine.
"What was it, Catherine? Please tell me," begged Stephen.
"Nay, I cannot. 'Tis a secret," she answered. In spite of his pleading
and his curiosity she would not tell him. Shaking her head at all his
questions she went up the road with him to their father's house.
Supper caused Stephen to forget his sister's strange actions, but it
had no such effect on the little girl herself. She felt that she would
never forget the miracle, and as soon as she was alone she tried to
remember exactly how the vision had looked to her. She found that she
could recall it, and she loved to do so, and to wonder what was its
message.
In that age the Church and wars occupied much of the people's minds,
and little Catherine was already familiar with the stories of many of
the saints and of the customs and manners of the Church. Her father was
a well-known and respected citizen of Siena, a prosperous man, but in
no way especially religious. Her mother had been too much occupied with
caring for her large family to give much thought to the Church. So
Catherine decided that neither of them would understand her vision, and
determined to keep it a secret. But she thought over it much of the
time until she finally decided that it meant she was to lead a
different sort of life from that of her brothers and sisters and
playmates. Thereupon she began to wonder what it was best for her to
do.
Her first desire was to leave the bustling turbulent city of Siena and
seek out some place in the wilderness where she might be alone and live
like the ancient hermits. She planned how she would go, and early one
morning set out, prudently carrying a loaf of bread in a bag under her
arm. She went down through the Valle Piatta and past her sister's house
until she came to one of the city gates. She had never been outside the
walls of Siena before, and she hesitated as she stood there, thinking
of the wild and unprotected country that lay beyond. But Catherine was
brave, and she hesitated only a moment, and then went through the gate
and out into the country.
At that time there were bandits and robbers and troops of marauding
soldiers all through the hills and valleys of Italy, and people rarely
ventured beyond the city walls. Catherine, however, held to the road,
passing an occasional solitary house where some goat-herd or farmer
lived. At last a brook tempted her to leave the highway and follow
along its course, and in time it brought her to a cave made by a
shelving rock that came close down to the bank of the stream. This
seemed just the place for a hermit's home, and she went into the cave
and fell upon her knees to give thanks that she had been brought safely
to this refuge. Again she fell into a trance, as she had done on the
day when she saw the vision. She thought she heard voices which told
her that though she was to lead a different life from her friends she
must do her work among people and not alone in the wilderness, and bade
her go home before her father and mother should think she was lost.
When she had heard this counsel Catherine rose and went out of the
cave. She looked back along the path by which she had come; it seemed a
long way home to Siena and she felt tired and warm. She sat down on the
bank of the brook and ate some of the bread she had brought with her
and then fell asleep. When she woke she was rested, and jumping up
hurried back to the road so that she might reach the gate by sunset.
She came to the city walls in time to pass through the gate just before
the guard closed it for the night, and went straight on to her father's
house. Fortunately her parents had not been worried by her absence,
supposing she had been spending the day at her sister's.
Giacomo Benincasa and his wife Lapa had had thirteen children, and they
did not suspect that their youngest daughter Catherine was in any way
different from her sisters. They knew she was a very quiet girl, rather
shy, fond of going to the great Cathedral on top of the hill and of
talking with any nuns or friars whom she met. She was pretty, with long
brown hair that many people admired, and they expected to marry her to
the son of some one of their well-to-do friends. The other girls had
all been married early, according to the Italian custom of those times,
and Catherine was barely twelve years old when her father and mother
began to consider what favorable marriage they might make for her. Her
mother urged her to give more attention to her dress, to take more care
in arranging her hair, to wear some jewelry she had bought for her, and
to go about more with boys and girls of her own age. But Catherine did
not want to do any of these things. She became more shy than ever, and
when she met any of her father's young apprentices she turned and ran
away as fast as she could. The mother knew that Catherine was devoted
to her older sister Bonaventura, and begged her to try to persuade
Catherine to do as other girls did. Bonaventura talked to her little
sister, and finally Catherine agreed to wear brighter and more becoming
dresses and to rub certain oils into her hair to give it a peculiar
light golden color which was then considered more beautiful than the
natural dark shade. But it was only a few weeks before Catherine
decided that these changes were all vanity, and went back to her old
quiet dresses and simple way of wearing her long hair.
Now the good dyer and his wife realized that their little daughter was
peculiar, and they went to Father Thomas della Fonte, a friar preacher
who knew Catherine well, and begged him to talk to her. Father Thomas
spent an afternoon with her, and to him the girl opened her heart and
told of the vision she had seen and of her wish to become a sister of
one of the religious orders of the church. He saw that her mind was set
upon this wish, and did not try to dissuade her from it. "My dear
daughter," he said, "I believe you have chosen the better part, and may
our Lord give you grace to follow it. And now if you think well to
follow my counsel, I would advise you to cut off your hair, which will
prove to your parents that they must give up all hopes of your
marriage, and will also save you the time that must needs be spent upon
its care and adornment."
Catherine decided to take his advice at once, and so that same evening
she locked herself in her room and cut off all her hair. In order to
hide what she had done she covered her head with a coif, which was
sometimes worn by grown women but never by girls as young as she. Next
morning at breakfast her mother saw the coif and stared at her. "Why
have you that on your head?" she asked in surprise. Catherine murmured
some answer which her mother could not understand. Madame Lapa stepped
forward and seizing the white headdress pulled it off. She saw that
Catherine's beautiful hair was gone, and she gave a cry of anger which
brought the rest of the family into the room. They were all indignant,
and her father and brothers spoke harshly to her. "Your will must be
curbed," said Giacomo. "You shall not do whatever you wish, no matter
how absurd it may be, and so bring scorn upon all of us. You must do as
your sisters have done."
Catherine appealed to her brothers. "I have no wish to anger any of
you," she said. "I care nothing what you do with me, nor would I be a
charge to any of you. I will live on bread and water and never ask
anything better if only I may be let to live in peace without thought
of other people."
Giacomo, however, would not yield to what he considered her caprices.
His wife and sons agreed that Catherine was both obstinate and foolish
and must be taught to do as she was told. Giacomo said, "I know what's
the cause of this trouble. You have too much time to spend on your
knees in prayer and you go to your room and think of strange things
when you should be with the others. Hereafter you shan't have any room
of your own, and you shall do the housework to keep from dreaming all
day long."
His order was carried out. To show Catherine how little they thought of
her fancies Madame Lapa dismissed the kitchen-maid, and Catherine was
made to take her place and do all the household drudgery. Each of the
family took every possible opportunity to reproach her for her
obstinacy, and her father and mother talked to her by the hour at a
time, seeking to bring her to what they considered a more sensible
state of mind.
Catherine went about the housework faithfully. During the day she would
occasionally find a chance to rest for a time in her brother Stephen's
room while he was away, and at night she would sleep wherever she could
find a bed. Often she simply curled up in a chair in the living-room.
Through all this hard treatment she was patient and uncomplaining,
until finally her sweetness and constancy began to amaze her parents
and lead them to believe that perhaps she was different from other
girls and must be allowed to follow her own path. Once they had reached
this conclusion Giacomo called the family together and told them that
although he and his wife had hoped that Catherine would marry as her
sisters had, they saw that she had set her heart on the life of a nun,
and that henceforth she was to do as she wished.
In that age hardship and privation were usually considered necessary to
goodness. Catherine was so intent on meriting the virtue which her
visions had seemed to predict for her that she allowed herself no
comforts. More than that she made herself endure many hardships. She
took for her room a small cell under her father's house, lighted by
only one window. Her bed was made of a few planks with a log of wood
for a pillow. Here she felt herself to be as much alone as though she
were a hermit in the woods, and here she spent hours in meditation and
in reciting long prayers. She wore rough clothes and she gradually
trained herself to do with very little sleep and almost no food. She
got to the point where she allowed herself only a half hour's sleep at
a time and could live on a little bread, some raw herbs, and a cup of
water. She had been very strong, but this severe way of living told
greatly on her health.
Her mother, however, was much disturbed at these hardships which
Catherine insisted on imposing upon herself, and tried to win her to a
more healthful life. She begged her to give up her hard wood bed and
sleep with her. Catherine did not want to vex her by refusing, and
agreed to this, but as soon as her mother was asleep she slipped out of
bed and stole down-stairs to her own chamber. She was back again before
her mother woke. After a night or two of this Madame Lapa discovered
the ruse, and begged Catherine to stay in bed with her. Thereupon the
girl arranged two pieces of wood under the sheet so that she would have
to lie on them, thinking she would discipline herself in this way. It
was evident that she would have her own will, and so at last her mother
gave in. "Daughter," she said, "I see well it boots not for me to
strive with you any longer. It is but time wasted. Go your way and rest
at whatever times and in what manner you will."
Catherine was so determined to imitate the early saints of the Church,
who had in many cases seemed to win virtue by the pains they endured,
that she now took to beating herself with rods and wearing a
sharp-pointed chain underneath her dress. She did all these things in
the hope that she might one day be considered worthy to join the order
of Sisters of the Blessed Dominic.
These new hardships were too much for her strength and she became ill.
Her good mother, more disturbed than ever, insisted on taking her
daughter to the baths of Vignone, which were famous for the healing
effect of the sulphur in the water. On the very first day Catherine
placed herself under the spout where the sulphurous water came scalding
hot into the bath, and standing there suffered silently greater pains
from the hot water than she had been able to inflict upon herself at
home. Madame Benincasa, upbraiding her daughter for what seemed to her
the sheerest madness, brought her back to Siena, and there Catherine,
worn out and only a shadow of her former strong self, took to her bed
for a time.
While she was still sick she begged her parents to intercede with the
Sisters of Penance and learn if they would not admit her to their order
as a novice. Giacomo and Lapa, now realizing that their extraordinary
daughter would be happy in no other kind of life, went to the Sisters
with this request. They were told that it was contrary to all the
customs of the Sisters to admit young girls. The parents pleaded, and
finally some of the Sisters agreed to go to Benincasa's house to see
his daughter. They found Catherine very thin and pale, and listened to
her story of how she had long before renounced all the pleasures and
vanities of this world. She talked so earnestly that the Sisters were
convinced, and as a result agreed a little later that she should be
admitted to their number. At this news Catherine wept for joy, and gave
fervent thanks to St. Dominic, praying that she might soon be well
enough to receive the holy mantle of the Sisterhood. Her joy soon
brought back her health, and shortly she was able to be out again, and
to take the vows required of one who entered the Order, or the
Mantellate, as the Sisters were called from the black mantle which they
habitually wore. This was in 1364, when she was about seventeen years
old.
After that Catherine spent several years largely in solitude, although
her passion for flowers led her to cultivate a little garden, and her
desire to read the writings of the Church caused her to study reading.
She had never learned this at home, but now she asked one of the
Sisters to teach her the alphabet, and when she had learned that, she
set to work to learn to read. After many weeks of hard study she was
finally able to say that she could read the various Offices of the
Church.
If Catherine Benincasa had continued her life as a Sister of Penance
she would have been simply one of many women who have dedicated their
lives to withdrawing from the world and following the course of their
own thoughts. She would have left no record of her works behind her nor
would she have had much influence on her time. But as it happened she
became a great influence, one of the most remarkable women of her
century in Europe, and the person of whom the old city of Siena was
most proud. She was continually seeing visions of what she was to do,
and she followed their commands without hesitation. As a result she
accomplished many remarkable things, most of which would have seemed
impossible to even the strongest woman.
After a year or two in the convent she was bidden to go back to her
father's house and serve there. One of her brothers had given up the
dyer's trade and gone to the wars. He had led a wild life and finally
been severely wounded and left for dead on the field of battle. In some
manner he reached home. Catherine took care of him, and by her skilful
nursing and her hopefulness brought him back to health. Her married
sisters now had large families of their own, and Catherine delighted to
care for the little children. At the same time she went out continually
to nurse any of the neighbors who were ill or console them if they were
in trouble, and so her reputation for self-sacrifice and charity spread
through Siena, and people sent to her father's house begging that
Catherine pray for them. Word of her visions and of messages given her
directly by the saints was at the same time passed from mouth to mouth,
and the devout of the city came to stand outside the house in the hope
of seeing something of these miracles themselves.
In that superstitious age the stories of cures Catherine had effected
by her skill at nursing were readily magnified into miracles, and
although she was very young she was treated by all Siena with the
greatest veneration. This was particularly fortunate for her family,
for shortly after she had come home a new civil war broke out, and two
factions of the citizens waged relentless war upon each other.
Catherine's brothers were all on the side of the Twelve, as the leaders
of one party were called, and the fortunes of the strife went against
them. Their enemies determined to rid the city of all the defeated
families, and many were killed or wounded. A friend of the Benincasa
family came in haste to their house. "The whole band of your enemies is
coming here to seize you!" he cried. "Come with me at once, and I will
take you to the Church of St. Anthony by a secret way, where some of
our friends have already taken refuge." Catherine rose from her seat,
and said, "There is no need of that." She flung on her mantle and
turned to her brothers. "Now, come with me, and fear nothing," said
she. They followed, and she led them straight through the main square
of the city, which was held by their enemies. When these angry and
excited men saw Catherine they bowed to her reverently and moved aside
so that she and her brothers might pass. She led them to the Hospital
of Saint Mary, and recommended them to the care of the Master of the
hospital, and said to them, "Stay concealed here for three days, and
then you can come home in safety." They did as she told them, and when
the three days had passed the city was quiet again, but all those of
their party who had taken refuge at St. Anthony's had either been
killed or thrown into prison, and Catherine's brothers were almost the
only men of the party of the Twelve in Siena who came safely through
the civil strife.
In May, 1374, Catherine went to the city of Florence in company with
some other Sisters of Penance, and when she returned to Siena it was to
find her home town suffering from the double calamity of famine and
pestilence, evils which were only too common in those days. Never
before had the plague raged so violently there. Panic seized the
people, and all the wealthy sought safety in flight, leaving the poor
in their distress with no one to help them. Family after family fell
ill, until it seemed as though the whole city were in the hospitals.
Catherine worked day and night, encouraging the other Sisters to do
likewise, going into the most infected parts of the city, and with
never a thought for her own safety. Many of those who were saved owed
their lives directly to Catherine's ceaseless care, and as soon as they
were well they told how she had nursed them; so the word spread that
she had again performed miracles and that her touch was curing in
itself. At the same time she saw that the scanty store of provisions in
Siena was carefully used, instead of squandered as was the custom, and
so word went far and wide that she had performed other miracles, such
as multiplying loaves of bread and doubling casks of wine. The fame of
this wonderful woman spread to Pisa and Florence, and so through Italy,
and already pilgrims came to see her and sufferers to beg her to lay
her hands on them and cure them.
Italy was at that time the prey of innumerable warring factions. Each
city had its powerful families who were trying to make themselves lords
and tyrants of their homes. The Catholic Church had been divided by
what was called the Great Schism, and the Pope no longer lived at Rome,
but had established his residence at the city of Avignon in Provence.
The Pope and the Emperor were continually fighting for the control of
the different cities of Italy, and the people would side first with one
and then with the other. Catherine's name was now so well known that
she was urged to help hold the cities to the Church, and with that
object she traveled through Tuscany, trying to settle disputes and put
an end to the many civil wars. She also urged men to go upon a great
crusade against the Saracens which was being planned, and she won over
not only Italian soldiers but foreigners as well to this cause. She was
invited to visit Florence again to settle disputes there, and, obedient
as ever to the call of what she considered her duty she rode to that
city, being met at the gates by all the principal men, who showed her
the greatest respect and besought her to make peace among the people.
She spent some time there, visiting the sick, talking with the warlike,
and healing bodies and minds by her sympathy and spirit of
self-sacrifice.
All Italian patriots wanted the Pope to come back from Avignon to Rome,
and Catherine believed that his return was necessary for the welfare of
Italy. So, when her work at Florence was done, she set out for Avignon,
to see the Pope, Gregory XI. She found Avignon a gay and wealthy city,
and the Pope and cardinals well pleased with the great palace they had
built upon a cliff high above the river Rhone. The city was safe from
the wars which were devastating the rest of Europe and especially
Italy, and none of the papal court were anxious to give up their
luxurious and comfortable life there for the turbulence and trials of
Rome. Among these pleasure-loving people arrived the simple black-clad
Catherine, a somewhat strange figure in a city which boasted of its
extravagance and pride. She was too famous now for the courtiers to
disregard her, but they spoke bitter words of her behind her back and
tried to prevent her accomplishing her purpose. The Pope was anxious to
see her, and she met him, and told him how much he was needed in Italy.
He, much impressed by her words, promised to give the matter due
thought. She did not stay long, but in the short time she was there she
won over many of the vain court and convinced the people that what she
wished was right. Gregory was more moved by her appeal than by any that
had been made to him before, and a little while after she left he took
courage, outfaced the timid and slothful cardinals, and moved his seat
back to the city by the Tiber.
For the rest of Catherine's life she was practically the patron saint
of Italy. Wherever the plague raged there she went and nursed the sick;
wherever there was strife she appeared to try to calm the waters. She
won her great reputation by the actual good works that she did, but
people were so fond of ascribing miracles to her that she came to seem
really more than human. After her death she was officially proclaimed a
saint by the Catholic Church, but before that Italy had come to believe
her such a being.
In Siena to-day Catherine's house is regarded as a sacred place, and
all through that quaint medieval city there are relics and reminders of
her. She is the greatest daughter of that city, and one of the greatest
of Italy. We must remember that she lived in a superstitious age, and
that events which we might explain in a natural way the people of that
age preferred to regard as miracles. We cannot understand the feeling
which drove Catherine, even as a girl, to rejoice in sufferings that
she inflicted on herself, but we can appreciate the spirit of devotion
to what she thought her duty which led her into so many strange and
difficult paths. It is a singular story, and one in which it is very
hard to distinguish between what was actually true and what was
legendary, but we do know that this girl whom history has called St.
Catherine of Siena grew to be a heroic woman, an angel of mercy to the
sick and suffering of her day and an inspiration to nobler living in
that bitter and warlike age.
II
Joan of Arc
The Girl of Domremy: 1412-1431
A girl of thirteen, dark-haired, dark-eyed, clad in a simple gown of
white caught at the waist by a yellow girdle, sat listening to a small
boy who, stretched at her feet, was trying to make music on a willow
pipe. A sunny valley lay rolled out before her, and near at hand a
dozen well-fed cows were lazily chewing grass. The girl's seat was a
moss-covered stone, about her were clumps of flaming red poppies and
farther away was a sea of sky-blue corn-flowers. She herself was burned
by the sun until her face and hands were a rich orange brown.
The boy threw down his pipe of willow. "'Tis broken, Joan, split at the
side. I know a better willow tree by the Meuse. I'll cut some wands
there come Sunday, and make thee a pipe will play a rare farandole like
the minstrels used to play at Domremy Fair."
"Father says there'll be no more fairs in Domremy, Philippe. He says
we're all like to lose our homes these days. He says the English are
surely coming for us, and we'll be driven out of France into the sea."
Philippe sat up and crossing his legs rested his elbows on his knees.
His round blue eyes were very serious. "The curé says the English are
devils, Joan. He crosses himself when they are but named to him, and I
heard him tell my mother she should pray to the holy statue of Saint
Margaret in the church and offer her a full quarter of her spinning
that I fall not in their hands."
"My sister Catherine says they have heads like savage beasts; and she
is twenty and old enough to know," said Joan.
The boy flipped a bold grasshopper from his knee and leaned closer
towards the girl.
"'Tis only Saint Michael can defeat them, Joan," he said in a half
whisper. "I saw his picture on a shield the other night, and father
says 'twas he who drove the English from his mount in Normandy, the one
they call the Mount at Peril of the Sea."
The girl nodded her head. "I dream of Saint Michael, all clad in
shining silver, some fast days, Philippe. He comes and looks at me, and
when I wake up I can still see his eyes."
Joan had bent forward, and was gazing fixedly at the picture before
her, the valley of rich meadows crossed by the sluggish waters of the
river in a dozen channels, the ridge of forest-crowned hills beyond and
to one side the red-tiled roofs of the little town of Domremy. "When
the soldiers come again, and are like to burn our home I'll pray to
good Saint Michael, Philippe. He may hear me."
"He might," agreed the boy. Then he lost interest in the saints. "When
it's Jacque's turn to tend the cattle wilt thou go to that tree I know
of and help me cut some pipes? I'll show thee a finch's nest close by
too."
"Any day. And mayhap we'll find some rushes. Mother says she'll teach
me to weave them in a mat. The floor's so cold come winter."
From the village church came the notes of the soft-voiced bell
proclaiming noon. Joan rose and smoothed the creases in her simple
homespun dress. "I must be going home now," said she. "I promised
Catherine I'd help her with the baking. Look, the red heifer's
straying. Thou'd best drive her back. Good-morrow, Philippe."
"Good-bye, Joan." The boy got to his feet and ran after the heifer who
had deserted the rest of the herd. He looked back over his shoulder
once and waved his hand to the girl.
Joan went slowly across the fields to the village. She was strong for
her age, but a fast day, and this was one, always made her drowsy about
noon. Moreover the sun was very warm and she wore no hat. She passed
the scattered houses that made up the little town and went on by a lane
that skirted the church and led through her father's orchard to his
house. The door of the church was open and she could look in at the dim
aisle and even catch a glimpse of the altar at the end with a lighted
taper before it. She stopped to cross herself, then passing around the
church she entered the orchard. Here the boughs of the apple and peach
trees made a pattern of the sunshine on the grass. The shade was very
welcome. She stopped, and leaning against one of the trees half closed
her eyes.
Through her drooping lids she suddenly saw a circle of white light,
whiter than sunlight, spread out on the grass between her and the
church. The clear white circle widened. She opened her eyes and saw
that the light was also in the air, that there was a column of it
reaching up to the sky. She rubbed her eyes, thinking she must be
dreaming, but the light stayed. Then slowly came into view a shining
figure, appearing right out of the air but growing more and more plain
until she could see it was an angel with a flaming sword, an angel clad
in silver with a great halo of golden light about his head. She knew it
was Saint Michael. She dropped to her knees and crossed herself many
times. The angel stood silently before her, and now she saw other
angels come slowly into the light and stand about Saint Michael. They
all looked at her, but their lips did not move. The light was so bright
now that she had to cover her eyes with her hands. She fell forward on
her knees, trembling in great fear. When she dared to open her eyes
again the wonderful vision had vanished, and there were only the trees
and the stone wall of the church beyond.
It was some time later that Joan went into the house and joined her
sister Catherine in the kitchen. She had the feeling of having been
dreaming, but she was quite sure that her eyes had been wide open and
that she had actually seen the miracle in the orchard. The thought of
it kept her silent; she felt that she could not speak of it to other
people; they would not believe her or would call her a witch. So she
went about her work just as if nothing had happened, and she was kept
very busy, because the family were poor peasants, and Joan was a
strong, sturdy, capable girl who could do a score of useful things.
Indoors she helped her mother with the spinning, the sewing, the
cooking, and in keeping the small house clean; out-of-doors she worked
in the fields with her brothers, gathered the harvest with the other
girls of Domremy, and sometimes took her turn in watching the village
cattle in the pasture lands down in the valley of the Meuse. She seemed
to be quite like other girls of her age, very fond of bright dresses,
always ready to dance or play, amused at a joke, but besides stronger
and braver than most of the other girls, and always eager to help any
one in trouble. When a child or an old woman was ill in the town it was
Joan who was most apt to nurse them, to take them flowers or fruit; and
when some poor wanderer begged James of Arc to shelter him over night
it was Joan who would give the stranger her bed and sleep on a pile of
rushes in her sister's room. Every one was fond of her, and though the
other children sometimes teased her for being silent and for liking to
go to church, she paid no heed to them, and was happy in her own way.
Near Domremy was a fortress called the Castle of the Island where the
noble Lord of Boulemont and his family lived. The men of the village
had to take turns in standing guard at the castle, but in return they
could fly there for refuge in times of danger. A giant beech-tree stood
near the place, and it was said that here one of the ancestors of the
noble lord had met a fairy and often talked with her. On feast days the
lord and his family made merry in the shade of this beech, and the
village children often went there also, hung wreaths of flowers on the
limbs of the fairy tree, danced about it, ate their bread and cheese
and cakes under its shade, and drank the waters of a near-by fountain
which were supposed to heal any one who was sick. Here the children
picnicked one summer day not long after Joan had seen the vision of
Saint Michael, and here Philippe brought Joan a half-dozen willow wands
and cut them into pipes and whistles for her. The boys and girls ran
races against each other, and Joan was so fleet-footed she could beat
many of the boys, and after that they danced and then had supper and
made a visit to the miraculous fountain to taste its water. By sundown
they were tired and ready to go home. They all went together to the
village and then scattered on their several ways. Joan, weary but
happy, entered the little garden back of her father's house and sat
down on a bench built against the wall. She gave a little sigh of
content; the evening was beautiful and a warm wind blew across the
valley from the west.
As she sat there resting she thought she caught the sound of voices.
They did not come from the house, but seemed to be borne to her on the
soft breeze. Much surprised she sat up straight. Then came into shape
again before her eyes the faint but clear image of Saint Michael, only
a little distance from her in the garden. His eyes seemed to rest
fixedly on hers. He grew so distinct she could see the joints in his
silver armor and that his lips moved. She slid from the bench to her
knees and bent her head. Some power outside herself made her look up.
Two figures stood with Saint Michael now, one on each side, and she
knew they were Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret.
Again Joan heard the voice, but now she knew it was Saint Michael who
was speaking to her. He told her the kingdom of France lay in his care,
that the king of France and all his people were in danger, and that she
must prepare herself to go to her king's aid, for it was through her
that France was to be delivered. He bade her be not afraid but prepare
herself for the great work she was to do, and told her that the two
saints there with him would be near her always and would direct and
strengthen her. He ceased speaking, and slowly the three figures faded
into air, and she heard only the whisper of the west wind in the trees.
She rose from the grass and slowly went indoors. All that evening she
moved about her home in a trance, feeling she had a great secret she
could share with no one, yet one which she could never forget.
A night or two later the village priest came for a chat with James of
Arc. The two men talked of the war, and of the French and English
kings. Joan sat by the window listening. Finally she heard her father
say, "These be bad days; what with a weak king and the greedy English
we French folk are like so many cattle waiting for the slaughter."
"Jesu have pity on us!" said the priest. "There is a prophecy made long
syne by some holy man that our France shall be ruined by a woman and
then be safe restored by a maid from the borders of Lorraine. We know
the woman, King Charles' mother, Madame Isabeau of Bavaria herself; but
where is the maid? God grant she come soon!"
There seemed to be silence in the room, but Joan heard a voice speaking
to her. "Thou art the maid," said the voice. "Thou wast born to save
this land of France."
The summer passed and winter came to Lorraine. Outwardly Joan of Arc
was like the other girls of Domremy. She helped her mother indoors and
her father in the fields, she went to mass and confession and she
learned as much as her friends did of the troubles of her country. But
more and more often the voices spoke to her, when she was watching the
cattle in the pasture, or visiting the little chapel on the hillside,
or sewing in her room at home. They would come to her without warning,
but always when she was alone, and they told her again and again that
she was to save France, but they did not yet tell her how she was to do
it. Sometimes she saw the visions of the saints themselves, but more
often only heard their voices, and in time they grew so familiar to her
that she no longer trembled at the sound.
In the summer when Joan was sixteen the English and the soldiers of
Burgundy swept down on Lorraine, and the people of Domremy, peasant
folk who were always at the mercy of the troopers, left their homes and
drove their cattle seven miles southward to the walled town of
Neufchâteau. Joan, now a tall strong girl, pretty with her black hair
and eyes and sunburned cheeks, went with her family and found a home in
the walled city with a woman named La Rousse. Here, safe within the
walls, she helped the other girls in tending the animals and caring for
the housework. She heard wild tales of the terrible things the enemy's
soldiers were doing in the country, and she prayed that her family and
friends might not fall into their hands. Again Saint Michael appeared
to her, and now he told her that the time was not far distant when she
must set forth on her sacred mission.
The enemy's soldiers soon left that part of the country and James of
Arc and his neighbors were able to return to Domremy. They found the
village burned, the church a pile of ruins, only the stone walls of
their houses standing, the crops destroyed, their goods carried away.
They still had their cattle, and they set to work to build new roofs
for their homes and go on with their work. For the first time the
children saw what war meant. Joan found the orchard where she had seen
her first vision laid waste, and beyond it the blackened stones of what
had been the church. She understood that what had happened there was
happening all over France and began to realize that God had called her
to the wonderful work of saving her countrymen. The voices spoke again,
and now they began to tell her exactly what it was that she must do.
Joan was now nearly seventeen, and Philippe, her old friend, was much
in love with her and asked her to marry him. She was very fond of him,
and liked him much better than she did any of the other youths of
Domremy, but the voices told her that she must not marry, but must give
all her thoughts to the great work which had been set her. Philippe
entreated her to change her mind, but she would not. Little by little
now she spoke to him and to her other friends of the messages Saint
Michael and the other saints had sent her.
In the autumn of 1428 the fate of France seemed trembling in the
balance, bound up with the fate of the city of Orleans. The English
army had just laid siege to that city, and if Orleans fell France was
lost. The sovereign of France, Charles VII, was a weakling, and in the
eyes of many French people not really their king, but only the heir to
the throne, or Dauphin as he was called, because he had not yet been
crowned and consecrated as king at the old city of Rheims. Rheims was
in the hands of the English, but it must be taken from them, and
Charles the Dauphin must be crowned and anointed there if he was to be
King of France. One autumn day in 1428 the voices spoke again to the
peasant maid of Domremy and gave her two commands; first to save
Orleans from the English, and second to lead the Dauphin to Rheims and
have him crowned king there.
Naturally the tasks seemed impossible to Joan; she pleaded that she
could not ride, knew nothing of war, and had never been out of the
valley of the Meuse. The voices told her that she would be guided
safely, and that first she must go to the village of Vaucouleurs and
ask the captain, Robert of Baudricourt, for an escort to take her to
the Dauphin. Moreover, she must not delay; she must save the city of
Orleans.
Her chance to start came almost at once. A cousin of hers who lived
near Vaucouleurs fell sick, and Joan offered to nurse her. At the
cousin's house Joan told the husband that she was commanded to raise
the siege of Orleans and asked him to take her to Robert of
Baudricourt. The simple peasant was amazed and at first would not
believe her, but she was so earnest and spoke so positively of the
commands given her that finally he yielded and agreed to take her to
the captain in Vaucouleurs.
A little later Joan and the peasant appeared before Robert of
Baudricourt. The captain saw a common farmer and a strong, dark, pretty
girl dressed in coarse red stuff like any ordinary peasant maid. Joan
told him he must send her with an escort to the Dauphin. The captain
laughed loudly and bade her go home and tend the cattle. She protested,
but he only scoffed at her talk of her mission.
Joan, however, did not go home, but stayed in the town, and told those
she met that she must go to the Dauphin because she was the maid who
was to save France. She seemed an honest, gentle girl, and one by one
people began to take an interest in her story and wonder if it could be
true. One day a roystering soldier named John of Metz stopped at the
house where she lived, and asked for her, thinking to make fun of her.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded when she came to the door. "I
have come," said Joan, "to a royal city to tell Robert of Baudricourt
to send me to the Dauphin, but he cares not for me or for my words.
Nevertheless, before mid-Lent, I must be with the Dauphin, though I
have to wear my legs down to my knees. No one in the world, neither
kings, nor dukes, nor king of Scotland's daughter, nor any one else can
recover the kingdom of France without help from me, though I would
rather spin by my mother's side, since this is not my calling. But I
must go and do this work, for my Lord wishes me to do it." "Who is your
Lord?" asked the soldier in surprise. "God," said Joan. The man was so
much impressed by her words that he said he would take her to the
Dauphin himself. He asked her when she wished to start. "Rather now
than to-morrow, rather to-morrow than afterwards," Joan answered.
But even with the aid of this soldier and of the friends she had made
who believed in her it was some time before Joan could persuade the
captain to give her an escort. At last she told him of the visions and
the voices and finally he let himself be persuaded. He gave her the men
she wanted and she made ready to start on her journey to the Dauphin.
She decided she had better dress as a young man, and her friends bought
her the clothes she needed and a horse. She rode out of Vaucouleurs
clad in the black vest and hose, and gray cloak of a squire, booted and
spurred, with a sword at her side and her hair cut short and round,
saucer fashion, as was the style. Six armed men went with her. She did
not want to go, she longed to return to her mother and the simple folk
of Domremy, but the voices kept saying over and over, "Go, Child of
God, go forth to save France."
The Dauphin was at the castle of Chinon in Touraine. There Joan went,
and begged him to listen to her. The news of the peasant girl who
thought she was to rescue the land had already come to him and he was
curious about her. He granted her an interview, but thinking to test
her, hid himself among a group of courtiers. As she entered the room
the voices told her which was Charles and she went straight to him. She
dropped upon her knee before him. "Gentle Dauphin," she said, "I have
come to you on a message from God, to bring help to you and to your
kingdom." Then in answer to his questions, she told him how she had
been directed to lead his army to the aid of Orleans.
The Dauphin was impressed, and bade her be cared for at the castle.
Again she had to wait, but now the story of her visions and the
prophecy that a peasant maid of Lorraine should save France had spread
abroad and people began to put their faith in her. The common people
were the first to be convinced, because they were by nature
superstitious and found no difficulty in believing the marvelous
stories that now began to be told about Joan; after them the captains
and the soldiers were willing at least to pretend to believe in her
because she would lead them against their enemies; and finally Charles
VII himself, weak and disappointed king as he was, decided that Joan
could at least do his cause no harm, and might do it good, and so gave
his consent to her requests.
In a very short time then the simple girl of Domremy, only seventeen
years old, was put at the head of the French army and rode north to
raise the siege of Orleans. Clad in full armor, astride a white
charger, sword at her side, she carried a banner which had been
described to her by the mystic voices. The field of the banner was sown
with the lilies of France, in the centre was painted God holding the
world and on each side knelt an angel. The motto was "Jesus Maria."
With this banner floating above her she rode to Orleans, and all the
country people who saw her pass told their neighbors the old prophecy
had come true.
By great good fortune Joan's army was able to enter the city of
Orleans. There the warrior-maid was received with the utmost reverence,
greeted as a deliverer sent by God, and hope revived in the people's
hearts. She waited a short time, and then taking counsel with her
generals planned an attack on the English outside the walls. Again
fortune stood by her, the French were victorious, and the enemy were
forced to retreat and so raise the siege.