Joan: The Mysterious Life of the Heretic Who Became a Saint (4 page)

As told for six centuries, this was a dramatic and edifying story, but it turned out to be wildly fictitious, and in 1969 Catherine of Alexandria was quietly removed from the Catholic Church’s official roll of saints (along with others, such as Christopher and Barbara). The existence of early martyrs is well documented in secular and sacred writings, and the story of Catherine represents a type of heroic Christian during the first three centuries after Jesus; indeed, she stands for countless anonymous believers who died for their faith. But as told, the story is apocryphal.

The legend of Catherine was, however, dear to the hearts of medieval Christians, who found their own religious truth in accounts of her life and death. Many chapels were dedicated to Catherine in Europe, and statues of her were found throughout France. Joan’s sister was named Catherine, and a church dedicated to the saint sat in nearby Maxey. On Saint Catherine’s feast day each year, work was prohibited and families gathered for worship.

Set before the devout as a model of Christian heroism, Catherine was also the subject of many French sermons and poems. She was the primary patroness of young girls and of students who had to debate learned colleagues and professors; in other words, Catherine was just the sort of heroine Joan herself would have taken for model and intercessor, a saint whose name and reputation had been close to her since childhood and to whom she would naturally turn during the harrowing year of her imprisonment and interrogation—the circumstances when she first identified Catherine’s among the voices she heard.

Margaret of Antioch was equally popular at the time, singled out for special devotion in the region where Joan was born and raised. Like Catherine of Alexandria, Margaret was supposed to have lived at the time of the early Christian persecutions. When she converted to Christianity and consecrated her virginity to God, she was disowned by her pagan father. A Roman prefect then saw the beautiful teenage Margaret tending sheep and tried to seduce her. When she refused him, he publicly denounced her as a Christian, and after numerous tortures she too was beheaded. She became the special patroness of falsely accused people, and her statue had a prominent place in Joan’s parish church. Margaret was precisely the kind of young, courageous virgin whose fidelity unto death would have comforted Joan during her interrogations.

Michael, Catherine and Margaret: widely venerated, they were especially close figures in the minds of ordinary Christians in medieval France. Joan knew about them; she saw them represented in paintings, stained-glass windows, and statues; and she would have prayed to them in her crises. Some modern scholars dismiss the possibility of a transcendent revelation to Joan with this explanation: forced to identify the voices during her trial, they say, she would naturally have mentioned those whose stories and images were familiar.

But simply because she mentioned these saints late, when she was compelled to identify the voices, it does not follow that those identities occurred to her only on the spot. Indeed, she had been keeping a deep silence about them for a number of good reasons. And despite the fact that the “voices” seem to be from those whose very existence is dubious, the
experience
mediated to Joan by these voices was never in doubt, at least to her.

F
ROM THE
H
EBREW
prophet Isaiah to the present, each era finds its own terms to describe what is unknowable, opaque, or mysterious. Once upon a time we described the mentally ill as possessed by demons. Later they were considered victims of disordered humors. In both cases they were ostracized, chained in dungeons, submitted to various tortures, regarded as sinners, and simply allowed to expire. Now we often say that such a person is, for example, a paranoid schizophrenic with an Oedipus complex, or we study his genetic history and seek to learn the chemical or genealogical sources for the disorder.

But scientific labels do not enable us to understand the etiology or substance of madness any more than did “demonic possession.” How is it that one can suffer a loss of personality and reason? Even as we attach comforting terms that give us a way of dealing with the awfulness of the plight, we know that scientific and psychological jargon simply enables us to have a coping mechanism and, we hope, to deal more compassionately with sufferers.

In Joan’s case it is tempting to take refuge in psychiatric terminology, thus reducing her marvelous experiences to meaninglessness. Some have argued that Joan had an inner ear infection producing sounds resembling whispering voices or that an eye affliction could have made bright sunlight intolerable and given her the idea that she was seeing the outlines of forms. But this explanation runs afoul of the fact that she rode horses, was upright in battle, and made stunning logistic decisions in broad daylight. Still others are convinced that the girl was a victim of benign autosuggestion, of hallucinations and delusions of grandeur. But Joan’s consequent actions reveal a wholeness of perception and integrity of purpose not found among the mentally unstable.

Apart from the fact that a mystical experience cannot be either proved or disproved, the deeper problem, if she was merely a deluded country girl, is to account for everything in Joan’s life from the summer of 1424 to her death. She did not claim her voices and visions in order to cast herself as saintly or virtuous. In fact, as we have seen, she mentioned her experiences only to two confidants in the years before her trial, and then she was hesitant to discuss the matter at all; true mystics are always reluctant to talk about themselves. Joan pointed not to herself but to the cause and the challenge to which, she believed, God summoned her and the French people: the salvation of the nation.

G
EORGE
B
ERNARD
S
HAW
, 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.

P
EOPLE 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)

F
rom 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 next 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.

F
INALLY
,
IN
M
AY
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.

A
T 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.

W
HATEVER 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.

J
OAN 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).

It was logical for Joan to live chastely “as long as it should be pleasing to God,” the better to commit everything of herself to Him without reservation. “I must keep the promise I made to Our Lord, to keep my virginity of body and soul.” That is the essential key to what might otherwise be regarded as mere continence. Like others who consecrated their lives outside convents and monasteries, Joan would be autonomous but nevertheless entirely dependent on God.

To keep her virginity meant to rely on God, to abandon herself to His mercies, and not to rely on herself or a man, her motives or his, her actions or talents or his. This abandonment, this absolute trust in God, lies at the core of all Christian spirituality; it is also the incontrovertible mark of authentic prayer. It does not imply inactivity or passivity: it is the mark of a life that gives up trust in self in order to give that self over to God. At this point Joan began to identify herself as “la Pucelle”—the maid, the virgin. Of course, there are many other ways for consecration of self to God besides vowed virginity, but this was Joan’s way.

Her chaste condition was her identity, and this derived from the sense of self provided by her revelations. As Joan’s contemporary Thomas Basin, the bishop of Lisieux, wrote not long after her death:

Regarding her mission, and the apparitions and revelations that she said she had, everyone has the right to believe as he pleases, to reject them or not, according to his point of view or way of thinking. What is important regarding these visions is the fact that Joan had herself no shadow of a doubt regarding their reality, and it was their effect upon her, and not her natural inclination, that impelled her to leave her parents and her home to undertake great perils and to endure great hardships—and, as it proved, a terrible death. It was these visions and voices, and they alone, which enabled her to believe that she would succeed in saving her country and in placing her king on his throne. It was these visions and voices which finally enabled her to do those marvelous deeds, and accomplish what appeared to all the world as impossible

I
N
J
ULY
1428, life changed dramatically for Joan and her family. On their way to attack Vaucouleurs and thus destroy the major northern center supporting the Valois, the Burgundians pillaged the towns surrounding Domrémy. Jacques, Isabelle, and their children quickly gathered what possessions and livestock they could and with some of their neighbors fled for refuge to the fortified town of Neufchâteau, five miles south. There they lodged at a small inn owned by a woman nicknamed
la rousse,
“the redhead.” For several weeks Joan and her mother helped with the serving and household chores. When the family at last returned to Domrémy, they saw that armed horsemen had plundered and burned the local church, laid waste most of the fields and homes, and attacked the women who could not flee.