by Donald Spoto
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW, who celebrated Joan in one of his most famous plays, stated flatly that her voices represented plain common sense. One might reply that common sense would have instructed her to stay home, get on with her knitting, marry well, and raise a family—all consistent with contemporary notions of female piety. Common sense would not have impelled her to undertake a task that seemed quixotic and perilous.
But Shaw was on the mark when he alluded to the relationship between inspiration and imagination.
“I hear voices telling me what to do. They come from God,” Joan says in the play.
“They come from your imagination,” replies Robert de Baudricourt, military chief at Vaucouleurs.
“Of course,” Joan retorts. “That is how the messages of God come to us.”
Of Joan’s visions and voices, one thing must be emphasized. If they came from the mind of a religious fanatic or a romantic, neurasthenic adolescent, or if they were the specters of an in flamed mind or the deliberately concocted tales of a self-deluded egotist, then we would expect to find—would have to find—an accompanying pattern of delusion in her life and a different set of circumstances than those that actually occurred. The delusions, hallucinations, or pleasant reveries would be symptomatic of an unbalanced mind, or at least of an overactive fantasist, and that lack of balance would have been revealed in her dealings with family and friends, with princes and bishops, with soldiers and with her accusers.
But instead of a delusional personality, we find a young woman of remarkable composure, utterly refusing to seek the limelight. Not much more than a peasant girl, she was convinced that she was summoned to a profoundly difficult task, to which she ultimately dedicated herself despite all the logical reasons not to do so. Energetic, witty, courageous, and intelligent beyond all expectation, she showed an astonishing self-awareness that never tilted into vainglory. Even at her trial she was hesitant to discuss her heavenly voices, and under duress her statements often vary and are contradictory. That is not exceptional when one is trying to preserve the integrity of a mysterious happening that occurred interiorly while being forced to discuss it before one’s antagonists.
Now as then, many have tried to romanticize or to politicize Joan of Arc. But beyond all interpretations there remains the simple fact that against all odds she became a transforming presence in a world of male warriors, male royalty and male clergy, and she made it possible for France to resist absorption into the English empire. She altered the course of history by virtue of what might, at the least, be called an experience of heightened consciousness that provided a new direction for both her life and her world.
PEOPLE DO NOT have immediate experiences of God. Protracted and dramatic awareness of the Beyond is necessarily mediated through the terms and forms of one’s culture; one might speak about “the voice of God” or the “voices of the angels.” In the case of a genuine experience (which can be gauged, if not judged, only by its effects on the subject), it is important to note that throughout history those who do not engage in philosophical or theological discourse ordinarily experience the sublime in forms and terms familiar to them and readily available. It is the result of the experience that is new and that alters both perception and life.
One may have a more or less strong, direct and undeniable sense of the divine Presence, but this cannot be articulated or described without similes and metaphors; one feels at peace, it is said, or challenged or embraced; someone senses a new clarity or a new purpose. These words describe the effect of the experience, the psychospiritual reactions to it.
Something analogous occurred in the life of Francis of Assisi. A weary playboy and romantic dreamer without goals or ambition, he sought refuge from the summer heat in a cool, decrepit church one day in 1205, when he was twenty-three. Over the unused altar hung a striking image of the crucified Jesus, with painted eyes gazing directly and serenely toward the viewer. According to a contemporaneous account, “The image of Christ spoke to him in a tender and kind voice—‘Francis, don’t you see that my house is being destroyed? Go, then, and rebuild it for me.’” At that moment the young man took the words literally and began to clean up the forlorn church; only later did he understand there was a deeper injunction—to reform and rebuild the institutional Church itself.
The experiences of Francis and Joan were originally described in far less dramatic terms than some might wish. He heard a voice, as did she, and then did something about it. Joan heard an encouragement to prayer and fulfillment of her religious duties—and later she was commanded to help save France from extinction. But Joan and Francis told of the events in a calm, unhysterical, matter-of-fact manner, with nothing designed to advance themselves in the estimation of others. These were episodes in which two young people knew that they were touched and changed; after an initial period of confusion, they responded with action.
Many people, even those sympathetic to Francis and Joan, maintain that in a new age informed by depth psychology, such things as stated simply do not happen—but one might ask, “To whom do they not happen?” The lives of Francis of Assisi and Joan of Arc—indeed, the lives of Isaiah, Jesus of Nazareth, Buddha, and Muhammad—make little sense without reference to the world of the spirit, without reference to the living God, Who may disclose Himself as He wishes, to whom He wishes, under what circumstances He wishes. There is no sense in trying to stake a claim for Jesus, Francis, Joan or others as simply admirable humanitarians, patriots or social workers: their lives and deaths are too complex for such reduction. But if we agree that the mystery of Joan of Arc follows the tradition of those apprehended by the Beyond, we can appreciate the depths of her mystery. And that mystery is a living reality always capable of being freshly and more deeply comprehended.
History offers many such accounts of people being addressed by what might be called the world beyond—by a presence that could not be ignored. Moses before the burning bush; Isaiah awed by his vision of the majesty of God’s court; Jesus aware of a profound sense of mission at the time of his baptism; the Buddha beholding the universe in a bouquet of flowers and Julian of Norwich seeing it in a hazelnut; the apostles Paul and John astonished by unexpected visions; Augustine hearing a child whisper, “Take up and read”—these moments revealed the intersection of the timeless with time, a conjunction of this world of sense and matter with another world.
It is important to remember that in each case the recipient never fully understands the experience and is forced to use the language of metaphor or poetry to communicate what is utterly transcendent. The ordinary limitations of language, which describe common experiences, have to be broken: there is, after all, no direct equivalent for an inner experience of such overwhelming power—invariably so overwhelming, in fact, that it alters one’s perception of life and its purpose. Such was the experience of Joan of Arc.
THREE
Tomorrow, Not Later
(January 1428–February 1429)
From the beginning of her mystical experiences, Joan was neither impulsive nor complacent about them. For one thing, the precise nature of the call was made known to her only gradually. She also seemed to hesitate because she was unsure exactly how to respond and what reactions to expect from her parents, the local clergy and those conducting the war. She lived with her voices, pondering their meaning, praying about them and giving herself time to absorb the truth of them. It is astonishing just how stable and sensible she was in dealing with these extraordinary experiences.
A widespread misconception about Joan presumes that her patriotic fervor made her susceptible to a kind of autosuggestion—that her zeal, in other words, created the voices in her head. But the reverse was true: it was the voices that made her zealous for France. Another false impression is that she went very quickly—indeed, within days—from her quiet life in Domrémy to her role as warrior, mustering the troops and saving France. But the facts are quite otherwise: she began to hear voices and to see a great light in the summer of 1424, and for the n
ext four years she remained at home, meditated on what was happening and continued to live (by all outward appearances) a normal life. During this time her voices revealed with increasing clarity the true nature of her vocation.
FINALLY, IN MAY 1428 her revelations were so lucid that she had to take action.* Joan had been inspired by her voices to approach Robert de Baudricourt, the captain of the military garrison at nearby Vaucouleurs, about ten miles north of Domrémy. Baudricourt, she hoped, would provide a military escort to the dauphin at Chinon.
The only women who attended or joined armies on maneuvers were prostitutes, “camp followers,” and if Joan had told her parents of her intentions, they almost certainly would have locked her up. But as it happened, her mother’s cousin, who lived near Vaucouleurs, was in the last months of pregnancy. Jeanne Laxart and her husband, Durand, resided in the village of Burey-le-Petit, and Joan was permitted to visit them. Once there, as Durand recalled, she helped with chores, “working around our house, spinning, helping in the garden, and looking after the animals…. She also asked me to go with her to Robert de Baudricourt.” Joan must have been impressive and persuasive, for Durand did so.
With its crenellated fortifications and imposing castle, the walled town of Vaucouleurs had once been an appealing hilltop settlement overlooking the Meuse, but centuries of war left much of it decaying. Bertrand de Poulengy, an aristocrat, a squire and equerry of the king, was present for Joan’s audience with Baudricourt. “She said she had come on behalf of the Lord,” Poulengy testified later. “She asked Robert to tell the king to have patience, not to attack his enemies, and that the Lord would send help. She added most emphatically that the kingdom of France did not belong to the dauphin but to the Lord, who had given the country into the king’s trust. Whereupon Robert asked who was this ‘Lord’ to whom Joan was referring, and she replied, ‘the King of Heaven.’”
Baudricourt was unimpressed. Send a girl to join an army because she has a divine mandate? Nonsense. He told Laxart to give the girl a sound whipping and send her back to her father. By the end of May Joan had returned to Domrémy. Her parents apparently knew nothing about her visit to Vaucouleurs. And that, it seemed, was the end of that.
AT HOME ONCE again, Joan sought more opportunities for solitude. She engaged less frequently in the normal pastimes and activities of her peers, who recalled that she was no longer quite so gregarious or convivial. Although neither unapproachable nor impolite, she often slipped away from others and was later found praying in the family garden or in a nearby church. At least one of Joan’s teenage companions presumed that the change in her personality indicated that she was about to marry, which would have been both legal and, at her age, anticipated by her family. Most girls were engaged by the age of twelve or thirteen and married soon after, with the encouragement of both Church and state; in 1428 Joan would have been sixteen.
About this time, Joan’s parents made formal arrangements with a family who had an eligible son, to whom Joan was soon engaged. We know little of this episode in her life—neither the identity of the matrimonial match nor the precise date the ensuing fracas occurred. According to custom, the engagement did not require Joan’s permission or approval; nor, it seems, was she introduced to her fiancé before the pact was settled. At the time, girls and young women took this procedure as a matter of course.
Legend has made Joan an attractive young woman, but norms of appeal shift with time and culture. Renaissance Europe prized women with opulent figures; centuries later a malnourished look rules the world of fashion. In late medieval France there was no single standard of judgment. That said, can we know anything of Joan’s appearance?
A sketch by a notary, from a 1429 document about the battle at Orléans, shows in the margin a plain girl with long hair and an elaborate gown alongside a mention of the Maid. But there is no proof that the doodler ever saw her, and in any case Joan did not go into battle wearing an ornate coiffeur and decorative dress. Several of her companions-at-arms described her as a comely young woman with an appealing figure. Apart from that, there are no verbal or visual images of Joan from her lifetime, and subsequent miniatures, paintings, and statues only forced her to conform to prevalent fashions.
Over the centuries the most repeated representations of Joan have cast her as shepherdess or as a soldier; in the latter depictions she is absurdly shown wearing a robe over her armor, as if her gender would otherwise be questioned. In late nineteenth-century advertising, however, she was a radiantly healthy provincial schoolgirl, and by the time of her canonization in 1920 Joan of Arc variously resembled a model, a silent movie star, an idealized university student, or a challenger in the women’s Olympics.
WHATEVER HER APPEARANCE, Joan was no ordinary teenager. Regarding her engagement, the little that survived on the record is so unusual as to be shocking for its time: she repudiated her parents’ wishes and declined the deal they had made with the boy and his family. Because the agreement to marry was a legal covenant, Joan was sued for breach of contract. Canon law, however, requires a free assent of the will in order to validate a marriage, and because that was lacking, the sacrament of matrimony could not be performed. The local bishop dismissed the case in Joan’s favor, and the rejected suitor receded into the mists of oblivion whence he had briefly emerged. This was, Joan later said, the only time she disobeyed her parents.
Although it was unknown at that time, there was a good reason for Joan’s firm rejection of marriage. She saw ever more clearly that her summons to act on behalf of France would require her to remain single—and not simply unmarried, but chaste by vow.
Joan saw her mission as a religious calling. At that time it was not unusual for an unmarried man or woman to make a private vow of chastity; that had long been a hallowed tradition in Christian piety, for it demonstrated one’s willingness to accept a particular task from God by a total consecration of body and soul.
There is no evidence, however, that Joan saw her vow as perpetual; her private promise was to remain chaste “as long as it should be pleasing to God.” She was, in other words, unique in another way: she was dedicating herself neither as a nun nor as a laywoman associated with a religious community (like Catherine of Siena). She saw her virginity as a corollary of the imminent task to which she freely responded. The terms of her promise (“as long as…”) implied that, should God lead her along other paths in the future, she would be open to His plan for her to marry and bear children. This idea that a vow could be temporary, and that one’s vocation might later be altered by circumstances, was not typical of the time. But Joan trusted God to lead her along the right paths at the right time, regardless of her own expectations. Indeed, she was no ordinary teenager.
For the present, then, she would have no husband, and she would guard her virginity against every effort of male charms. It should be added that there is nothing in her life to suggest that she had a pathological revulsion toward men; on the contrary, the details of her military expeditions indicate that she had healthy friendships with men and collaborated with them in an open and mature manner. She was, in other words, not intimidated by men, whether they were soldiers or bishops.
Nor is there any indication that she was repelled by the idea of sex. That would be a retrojected suspicion, based on the widespread later presumption that every sane woman marries, has romantic affairs, or is ready to tangle in easy sexual liaisons. But not all women act according to such (mostly male) expectations and preconceptions.
JOAN WAS BREAKING the mold in yet another way. The cloister was the ordinary choice for a devout woman who wished to dedicate herself to God.* This meant a life of total enclosure as a vowed nun, entirely removed from the world; active religious congregations of teaching and nursing sisters flourished only later. There is no evidence that Joan ever intended to be a nun or even that she knew one. That made her vow all the more anomalous.
The primacy of the cloister, held before medieval girls as the highest ideal to which they could aspire
, has interesting historic roots. For almost all of its first three centuries, Christianity was illegal in the Roman Empire, and martyrdom became the ultimate act of fidelity to Jesus Christ. After the emperor Constantine made Christianity the official religion in the fourth century, martyrdom was replaced by vowed chastity, by fasting, and by other forms of physical self-denial. Groups of women and men in the Eastern and North African deserts, then in Asia Minor, the Holy Land, Gaul and the rest of the empire, formed eremitical communities, always far from cities.
Unfortunately, for all its great contribution to the literature of prayer and mystical experience, such a flight from the world eventually led to the distorted and unorthodox notion that the material world and all things to do with the body were inherently evil and had to be avoided or at least held in contempt. Such a view spread outward from the desert monks to all the faithful, and it is clearly antithetical to the basis of Christian faith itself, with its belief that God has embraced the world and all its materiality. This attitude of distrust and even hatred of the world persisted and flourished in medieval life; thus chastity, like the abandonment of personal wealth, was regarded as a most honorable estate, and the traditional place in which to lead an angelic, chaste life was the convent or monastic community.
If a woman did not choose consecrated virginity, Church and society ordinarily expected her to marry and bear as many children as possible. The Church would thus have more loyal adherents, and society would have more hands to work the farms; additionally, people were encouraged to repopulate Christian Europe after the ravages of the plague. In such a culture, the child was seen as a producer, not a consumer. Catherine of Siena’s mother bore twenty-five children, and her condition of unremitting pregnancy was regarded as extremely admirable (and, perhaps by some of her neighbors, a bit overzealous).