On the 6th of January, 1412, Jeanne d'Arc, or, as we call her, Joan of
Arc, was born at Domremy, a little village on the left bank of the
Meuse, on land belonging to the French crown. Her parents, Jacques
d'Arc and Isabelle Romee, were simple peasants, "of good life and
reputation," who brought up their children to work hard, fear God and
honour the saints. Besides Joan, they had four children--three sons,
Jacques, Jean and Pierre, and a daughter, Catherine.
Joan's native valley was fair and fertile. The low hills that bounded
it were covered with thick forests, and the rich meadows along the
Meuse were gay with flowers, which gave to the chief town in the
district its name of Vaucouleurs, _Vallis colorum_. Domremy, built on
a slope, touched upon those flowery meadows, but over the hill behind
it spread an ancient oakwood, the _Bois Chesnu_ of legend and
prophecy. Between the forest and the village rose solitary a great
beech, "beautiful as a lily," about which the country people told a
thousand tales. They called it the "Fairies' Tree," the "Tree of the
Ladies," the "Beautiful May." In old times the fairies had danced
round it, and under its shadow a noble knight had formerly dared to
meet and talk with an elfin lady.
But now, in Joan's time, the presence of the fairies was less
certain, for the priest of Domremy came once a year to say mass under
the tree, and exorcise it and a spring that bubbled up close by. On
festival days the young villagers hung it with garlands, danced and
played round it, and rested under its boughs to eat certain cakes
which their mothers had made for them. During her childhood, Joan
brought her cakes and garlands like the rest, danced with them, and
sang more than she danced; but as she grew older, she would steal away
and carry her flowers to the neighbouring chapel of Our Lady of
Domremy.
Her early years were, considering the times, quiet and peaceful. With
the war raging between English and French and their allies, to its
west and north, Domremy had comparatively little to do. News of
English successes, of French defeats, and the sorrows of the French
King, were brought by fugitives from the war, by travelling monks, and
other wanderers. Joan helped to receive those wayfarers, waited on
them, gave up her own bed to them sometimes; and what they told of the
woes of France she heard with intense sympathy, and pondered in her
heart.
Her bringing up fitted her for the tender fulfilling of all womanly
duties. Unlike most girls of her class, she had few outdoor tasks, but
spent most of her time at her mother's side, doing the work of the
house, learning to sew and spin, to repeat the Belief, and the legends
of the saints. Her work done, her dearest pleasure was to go to the
village church, which was close to her father's cottage, and there
kneel in prayer, gaze on the pictured angels, or listen to the bells
calling the faithful to worship: she had always a peculiar delight in
the sound of church bells. She fasted regularly, and went often to
confession; so often, that her young companions were inclined to jest
at her devotion, and even her chosen friends, Haumette and Mengette,
half-scolded her for being over-religious. But her faith bore sound
fruit. The little money she got she gave in alms. She nursed the sick,
she was gentle to the young and weak, obedient to her parents, kind to
all. "There was no one like her in the village," said her priest. "She
was a good girl," testified an old peasant, "such a daughter as I
would gladly have had." A good girl, indeed: they were pure and
helpful hands that for a while held the fate of France.
There was a prophecy current during that unhappy time--an old prophecy
of Merlin--which the suffering people had taken and applied to their
own day and their own need. "The kingdom, lost by a woman, was to be
saved by a woman." The woman who had lost it was Isabeau, of Bavaria,
the wicked queen, the false wife of Charles VI, the unnatural mother.
Who was she that should save it? In the east of France it was said
that the deliverer would be a maid from the marshes of Lorraine.
Joan knew the ancient prophecy, and in her young mind it became
blended with legends of the saints, with stories of Bible heroines,
with her own ardent faith and high aspirations. She loved more and
more to be alone. Night and day the wonderful child brooded on the
sorrows of France. She sent out her vague hopes and yearnings in tears
and prayers, and passionate thoughts that were prayers, and they all
came back to her with form and sound, in the visions and voices that
were henceforth to be the rulers of her life.
They came first when she was thirteen years old. On a summer's day,
at noon, she was in her father's garden, when suddenly by the church
there appeared a great light, and out of the light a voice spoke to
her, "Joan, be a good child; go often to church." She was frightened
then, but both voice and brightness came again and again, and grew
dear and familiar. Noble shapes appeared in the glory. St. Michael
showed himself to her; St. Catherine and St. Margaret bent over her
their radiant heads, bidding her "be good; trust in God." They told
her of "the sorrow there was in the kingdom of France," and warned her
that one day it would be her mission to go and carry help to the King.
While to outward eyes she lived as usual, she had a life apart, given
to God and her saints. She vowed her virginity to Heaven, but of her
vow and the visions that had led her to it she told no one, not even
the priest. Her meditations, her prayers and unearthly friendships,
made of her no sickly dreamer nor hot brained fanatic. She grew up
strong, tall and handsome, with a healthy mind in her healthy body.
Meanwhile the dangers of France darkened and thickened. The war was
pushing southward; the English leader, Salisbury, was on his way to
Orleans; the French King, Charles, poor, indolent, ill-advised, was
deliberating whether he should retreat into Dauphine, or Spain, or
Scotland.
Joan's voices grew more frequent and more urgent. Their word now was
always, "Go--go into France!" At last they had told her the way: "Go
to Vaucouleurs, to Robert de Baudricourt, the governor; he will give
you men-at-arms, and send you to the King."
It was now that Joan's trial began. While her beautiful visitors had
spoken vaguely of some "deliverance" she was to bring about in the
future, she had listened with trembling joy. But now they had plainly
shown her the distasteful first step, and for a moment she shrank from
taking it. How could a peasant brave the governor of Vaucouleurs? How
was a modest girl to venture among rude men-at-arms? How could a
dutiful child leave her parents and her home?
"Alas!" she pleaded, "I am a poor girl; I know neither how to ride nor
how to fight." She had a short, hard struggle with her own weakness,
but the voices did not alter, and she set herself to do their bidding.
Her uncle, Durant Laxart, with whom she evidently was a favourite,
lived at a village near Vaucouleurs, and in May, 1428, she went to his
house for a visit. After a few days she confided to him something of
her plans, reminding him of the old prophecy of Merlin, but never
speaking of her visions. With much difficulty she prevailed on him to
help her. He went with her to Vaucouleurs, and before the governor, to
whom she made known her errand.
"Send and tell the Dauphin," she said, "to wait and not offer battle
to his enemies, because God will give him help before mid-Lent. The
kingdom belongs not to the Dauphin, but to my Lord; but my Lord wills
that the Dauphin shall be king, and hold it in trust. In spite of his
enemies he shall be king, and I myself shall lead him to be crowned."
"And who is your Lord?" demanded Baudricourt. She answered, "The King
of Heaven."
The governor, a rough and practical soldier, laughed at the young
peasant in her coarse red dress, and bade her uncle chastise her well,
and take her home to her father.
She returned to Domremy with her heart more than ever fixed on the
work she had before her. Now and again she let fall words that
revealed enough to make her parents anxious and fearful. Her father
dreamed that she had gone away with the soldiers. "If I thought such a
thing could happen," he said to her brothers, "I would bid you drown
her, and if you refused, I would drown her myself." But she was of a
marriageable age; why should she not marry, stay at home, and bring up
children, like other women? A lover came forward, a bold one, who,
when she rejected him, summoned her before the court at Toul,
declaring that she had promised to be his wife. But she went before
the judges, spoke out bravely, and defeated her persevering suitor.
As the months passed, her longing increased to be gone and do her
voices' bidding. Once more she obtained her uncle's help. His wife was
ill, and he came to Domremy and got leave for Joan to go back with him
and nurse her. She went, keeping secret the real end of her journey.
"If I had had a hundred fathers and a hundred mothers," she said
later, "and if I had been a king's daughter, I should have gone." She
took leave of her companion Mengette, but to Haumette, her dearer
friend, she would not trust herself to say farewell. Her uncle took
her to Vaucouleurs, and gave her in charge of a wheelwright's wife,
Catherine Royer, with whom she lived for some weeks. She went
constantly to church, she helped her hostess in the house, and was
gentle and obedient. At the same time, she spoke frankly of her
mission to any who chose to hear.
She again went to the governor, who received her no better than
before. But she was not cast down.
"I must go to the Dauphin," she said, "though I should go on my
knees."
Many people went to see her, among others a brave gentleman of Metz,
Jean de Novelonpont.
"What are you doing here, my child?" he asked her, jestingly. "Shall
the King be driven out of France, and must we all turn English?"
"I am come to this royal city," she answered, "to bid Robert de
Baudricourt take or send me to the King, but he does not heed my
words; and yet before mid-Lent I must be before the King, though I
should wear away my legs to the knees. For no one else in the world,
neither kings, nor dukes, can recover the kingdom of France, and there
is no help but in me. And, indeed, I would rather spin with my poor
mother, for this is not my calling; but I must go and do it, for it is
my Lord's will."
Like Baudricourt, the knight asked her:
"Who is your lord?"