FURTHER VISIONS
"_Angels are wont to come down to Christians without
being seen, but I see them._"
JEANNE D'ARC'S _Own Words._
J. E. J. QUICHERAT, "_Condamnation et Rehabilitation
de Jeanne d'Arc._" _Vol. I._, p. 130.
From this time forth the Voice became frequent. Again and again she heard
it; chiefly out of doors, in the silence and freedom of the fields or
garden. In time the Heavenly radiance resolved itself into the semblance
of a man, but with wings and a crown on his head: a great angel,
surrounded by many smaller ones. The little maid knew him by his weapons
and the courtly words that fell from his lips to be Saint Michael, the
archangel who was provost of Heaven and warden of Paradise; at once the
leader of the Heavenly Hosts and the angel of judgment.
Often had Jeanne seen his image on the pillar of church or chapel, in the
guise of a handsome knight, with a crown on his helmet, wearing a coat of
mail and bearing a lance. Sometimes he was represented as holding
scales. In an old book it is written that "the true office of Saint
Michael is to make great revelations to men below, by giving them holy
counsels."
In very remote times he had appeared to the Bishop of Avranches and
commanded him to build a church on Mount Tombe, in such a place as he
should find a bull hidden by thieves; and the site of the building
was to include the whole area trodden by the bull. The Abbey of
Mont-Saint-Michel-au-Peril-de-la-Mer was erected in obedience to this
command.
About the time that Jeanne was having these visions the English were
attacking Mont-Saint-Michel, and the defenders of the fortress
discomfited them. The French attributed the victory to the all-powerful
intercession of the archangel. Therefore, Saint Michael was in a fair way
to become the patron saint of the French instead of Saint Denys, who had
permitted his abbey to be taken by the English. But Jeanne knew nothing
of what had happened in Normandy.
The apparition was so noble, so majestic in its appearance that at first
the little maid was sore afraid, but his counsels were so wise and tender
that they overcame her fear.
One day he said to her: "Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret will come to
thee. Act according to their advice; for they are appointed to guide thee
and counsel thee in all that thou hast to do, and thou mayest believe
what they shall say unto thee."
Jeanne was glad when she heard this promise, for she loved both these
saints. Saint Marguerite was highly honoured in the Kingdom of France,
where she was a great benefactress. She was the patron saint of flax
spinners, nurses, vellum-dressers, and of bleachers of wool.
Saint Catherine had a church at Maxey on the other side of the Meuse, and
Jeanne's little sister bore her name. Often had she repeated the rhymed
prayer that was used in the saint's honour throughout the Valley of
Colors:
"Hail, thou holy Catherine,
Virgin Maid so pure and fine."
Both the saints were martyrs. Jeanne had heard their stories many times
from her mother, so she awaited their coming eagerly.
It was in the woods, near the Fairy Tree, that they first came to her. It
was a Saturday, the day held sacred to the Holy Virgin, and Jeanne made a
little pilgrimage through the forest up the hill path beyond Greux to the
Oratory of Our Lady of Belmont. With her tiny savings the child had
bought a candle to burn on the altar, and also carried wild flowers to
make the holy place as fragrant as the forest at its doors. She finished
her orisons, placed her candle on the altar and laid her flowers on the
shrine, then slowly started down the hill path. Soon, finding herself
near The Gooseberry Spring, she knelt upon its brink for a drink from its
pellucid waters. It was very quiet in the clearing about the Spring, and
over the grassy space lay a grateful shade. The day was warm, and after
her drink Jeanne sat down on a natural seat formed by the gnarled roots
of a tree. Her hands lay loosely, one reposing in the other in her lap.
Her head drooped, and she lost herself in thought.
All at once an odour, marvellously sweet, diffused itself on the air
about her. It was a perfume the like of which she had never inhaled
before. She lifted her head quickly, and drew a long deep breath,
glancing around her for the blossoms that emitted such fragrance.
As she did so there came a slight rustling of leaves among the trees, and
from the Heavens there seemed to shoot downward a splendid effulgence. An
unearthly light that flooded the place with glory. A look of rapture came
into Jeanne's face. She rose, and crossed herself devoutly, then curtsied
low as from the splendor there issued two shining figures, clad like
queens, with golden crowns on their heads, wearing rich and precious
jewels. The little maid could not look upon their faces by reason of the
dazzling brightness that proceeded from them, but she knelt and kissed
the hem of their garments. Gravely the saints returned her salutations,
then spoke, naming each other to her. So soft and sweet were their tones
that the sound filled her with a vague happiness, causing her to weep.
"Daughter of God," they said, "rise, and listen. We come to teach thee to
live well that thou mayest be prepared for thy mission."
Further they spoke to her, but soon the brilliancy began to dim, and
Jeanne caught at their garments.
"Oh, do not leave me," she cried entreatingly. "Take me with you."
"Nay," came the answer. "Thy time is not yet, Daughter of God. Thy work
is yet to be done."
[Illustration: OFTEN THEY APPEARED IN THE LITTLE GARDEN]
With these words the gentle forms disappeared, and Jeanne flung herself
upon the place where they had stood, weeping in an anguish of tenderness
and longing.
The saints visited her nearly every day after this. She met them
everywhere; sometimes in the woods, or near the Spring; often they
appeared in the little garden close to the precincts of the church, and
especially did they come when the bells were ringing for matins or
compline. It was then that she heard the sweet words that they spoke most
distinctly. So she loved the sound of the bells with which the voices
mingled. Soon she grew to call the visions "My Voices," for the
appearance of her visitors was always more imperfect to her than the
message. Their outlines and their lovely faces might shine uncertain in
the excess of light, but the words were always plain.
The piety and devotion of the girl deepened into a fervid wonder of
faith. She put aside the gayety of girlhood, and lived a simple, devout,
tender life, helping her mother, obeying her father, and doing what she
could for every one. It seemed to her that she was one set apart, subject
to the Divine guidance. Nor did she tell any one of her experiences, but
locked the Divine secret in her heart, showing forth the tenderness and
gravity of one who bears great tidings. She became so good that all the
village wondered at her, and loved her.
"Jeanne confesses oftener than any of you," the Cure told his parishioners
reprovingly. "When I celebrate mass I am sure that she will be present
whether the rest of you are or not. Would that more of you were like
her! Had she money she would give it to me to say masses." The good man
sighed. Money was not plentiful in Domremy.
But if she had not money the child gave what she had: flowers for the
altars, candles for the saints, and loving service to all about her. She
was an apt pupil in the school of her saints, and learned well to be a
good child before she conned the great lesson in store for her.
"Jeanne grows angelic," Isabeau remarked complacently one day to Jacques.
"There never was her like. So good, so obedient, she never gives me a bit
of trouble. And what care she takes of her little sister! Catherine has
been hard to attend this summer, so fretful and ailing as she is, but
Jeanne can always quiet her. I know not what I should do without her. I
am the envy of all the women in the village; for, they say, there is not
another girl so good in the valley."
But Jacques D'Arc frowned.
"Too quiet and staid is she for her age," he remarked. "Have you marked,
Isabeau, that she no longer dances with the other children? Nor does she
romp, or play games with them. And the praying, and the church-going!
There is too much of it for the child's good."
"Jacques!" exclaimed his wife in shocked tones. "How can you say that?
The good Cure commends Jeanne for her devoutness. That can only do her
good."
"Then what is it?" demanded the father impatiently. "Could it be that
some one is teaching the girl letters, that she is so quiet? Learning of
that sort works harm to a lass."
His wife shook her head emphatically.
"She knows not A from B, Jacques. Everything she knows is what she has
learned from me. I have taught her the Credo, the Paternoster, the Ave
Marie, and have told her stories of the saints: things that every
well-taught child should know. She is skilled, too, in housework. I have
seen to that. And as for sewing and spinning, there is not her equal in
this whole valley. There is naught amiss, Jacques. If there is, 'tis more
likely the harm that she has received from tales of bloodshed which every
passerby brings of the war. Often do I wish that we did not live on the
highroad." The good dame shook her head as she glanced through the open
door of the cottage to the great road where even at that moment creaking
wains were passing laden with the cloths of Ypres and Ghent.
Often instead of wagons there were men-at-arms, and Isabeau feared the
glitter of lances. In war it is not assault and plundering that takes the
heart and saps the courage, but the ever present dread that they will
happen. Fugitives from the wars stopped for bite and sup, and recounted
their stories which were often of great suffering. Such tales have
effect, and Isabeau herself being influenced by them did not doubt but
that her children were moved in like manner.
"The children hear too much of battles, and the state of France," she
added.
"Nay; such things make no lasting impression upon children, Isabeau. It
is well that they should know something of what goes on beyond the
valley. Perchance the child is threatened with the Falling Sickness. She
wears no charm against it."
It was an age of superstition. That Jacques D'Arc should believe that a
charm could ward off epilepsy was only what all men believed at the time.
He was an austere man, but fond of his family, and his daughter's
quietness and growing devoutness had aroused in him a feeling of
uneasiness.
"There is naught amiss with the child, Jacques," spoke his wife,
consolingly. "She would come to me with it if there were. She is becoming
more thoughtful as she grows older; that is all."
"I like it not," grumbled Jacques, shaking his head as though but half
convinced. "I much fear that something is wrong. It is not fitting that
so young a girl should be so pious. Is not that a Friar turning in from
the highway, Isabeau?"