Irish Jesuit Province

In Shining Armour ShodAuthor(s): Mary PurcellSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 76, No. 905 (Nov., 1948), pp. 506-511Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20515891 .

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IN SHINING ARMOUR SHOD By MARY PURCELL

In this essay Miss Purcell writes of St. Joan of Arc's fortitude. Her biography of the Saint will shortly be published by

Messrs. Bruce.

MAN'S misery invites God's Mercy. Awi the greater the

misery the more wonderful the condescensions of His Com

passion. Not an age or clime but has seen some miraculous intervention of Providence, a setting right of some seemingly hopeless confusion of human affairs. Not a people but can point to that

miracle of miracles, a saint of God?some one of their race or nation who reared the splendid spires of sanctity on frail human nature. In times like the present, when anxiety and misery, error and evil seem

almost universal, it is good to remember that it was in just such times that the greatest saints lived, souls chosen to show forth some special virtue in the practice of which lay the cure for the ills afflicting man

kind.

Saint Joan of Arc is a striking example of such a saint. Born in a

time of widespread woe and in a country sunk to unspeakable depths of moral and political degradation, so magnificently did she manifest the virtue of fortitude that her compatriots, catching a little of her

flaming courage, took heart, and began to work themselves free of

the morass wherein they had stuck. Now, five centuries later, in times not unlike hers, that same courage that freed a kingdom and faced a

martyrdom of fire, calls through time and space to the Patriot, to

Youth, to the Christian, and in an especial manner to all those whose

anxious fears and corroding pessimism make them forget the Father

of all, who out of evil is able to bring forth good. In her origins and her natural limitations Joan might be said to

personify Saint Paul's words to the Corinthians: The foolish things

of the world hath God chosen, that he may confound the wise: and

the weak things of the world hath God chosen that he may confound the strong. This child, chosen by God to lead her land into the paths of peace and freedom, was no high-born lady; indeed, a more un

likely liberatrix than the sixteen-year-old peasant girl from the

border village (even those days had their borders and partitionings 506

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IN SHINING ARMOUR SHOD

and zones ! ) of Domremy could hardly be imagined. The taU strongjy buUt black-haired Lorraine was unlettered; she was brusque in

manner and blunt of speech; she was unversed in the insincerities of

pohtical and social behaviour which made her times so akin to our

own; she was utterly without influence; she started on her great mission

absolutely unsupported?even by her own father, who threatened to

drown her in the duckpond d'Arc should she disgrace herself and her

family by riding with the soldiery, an occupation reserved for women

of evil Ufe.

No one was more conscious of her limitations than Joan herself. "

I must go to the Dauphin e'er mid-Lent, though I wear my legs to

the knees," she explained to John of Metz, "

neither kings nor dukes nor the King of Scotland's daughter nor anyone can recover the realm

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, for so wiUs my Lord." Before the Council of Poitiers, hastily summoned

to advise the Dauphin concerning the Voices whose commands Joan

claimed to be obeying, "

/ know not A from Bt" she admitted, "

but the King of Heaven sent me; great is the pity in Heaven for the realm

of France." At her trial in Rouen, when asked why God had chosen

her, she repUed "Because it pleased Him to overthrow the king's enemies by a simple maid."

Her fortitude, based on a marveUous trust in God and an ignoring rather than a distrust of self, was not daunted at the prospect of what

she was caUed upon to accomp?sh. France, in the early fifteenth

century, was in a sorry state. Ravaged by English invasion and occu

pation for almost a century; torn by the feuds of the great princes of

the blood; harried, plundered and robbed by roving bands of brigands and mercenaries who fought for England and the Duke of Burgundy

to-day, to-morrow for France and die Duke of Orleans; shamefuHy misruled and over-taxed by the sycophants that swarmed about the

poor insane king and the dissolute queen; her patriots but a memory, their bones bleaching on Agincourt field or their bodies rotting in

English dungeons, this was the France that Jo?n set out to deUver.

Repulsed, laughed at, put off time and again by the persons to whom she app?ed for aid, somehow this envoy extraordinary of Providence

managed to gain access to such authority as stUl remained in loyalist France; once admitted to the Dauphin and his foUowers she con

vinced them, in a surprisingly short time, of the justice of her cause 507

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IRISH MONTHLY

and theirs and of the infallible success awaiting her mission; this done, she demanded and received command of a rag-tag-and-bobtail army notorious for its indiscipline; her reform of this force, and her

ability to lead men, imbuing them with something of her own ardour and faith and purity was a truly wonderful achievement?but it was

only the beginning.

Now, this girl from the back of beyond proceeded to conduct a

military campaign with such strategy, energy and ?lan that experienced

professional soldiers like gruff la Hire, brave Dunois and gallant Alencon cried out in admiration. Crushing down the spasms of

petty jealousy and momentary discomfiture that must surely have assailed them, these generous-hearted and patriotic captains closed in their ranks and rode hard on the heels of the Maid to take Orleans,

Jargau, Meung, and those other towns along the Loire that fell to the

Dauphin's army in that brief but brilliant war of deliverance. The

whirlwind campaign terminated in a coronation march to Rheims, where the great nave of the Cathedral resounded to the clip-clop of

chargers and the clatter of armour when four knights rode abreast

right up to the sanctuary rail, escorting the Archbishop as he bore

the sacring oils for the crowning of the Dauphin. In the place of

honour, at the head of all the knights and captains, her standard?

with its flashing fleur-de-lis and its motto JHESU MARIA?the

highest of the forest of banners all about, stood the Maid of France, the girl from Domremy to whom Charles VII owed his kingship.

There her mission ended. "

Let me go back," she begged, "

to my father's fields. My Voices bid me go home. My work is done." But

she had become too valuable and already the politicians of the new

reign were spinning their intrigues. They would not let her go. Forth

with her visions ceased. Her Voices were silent, Michael, the great

Angel-Captain, came no more "shining through the tall trees";

Catherine and Margaret, those "fragrant presences, with crowns

wondrous fair" spoke no further words of encouragement and advice.

After Rheims the road of the Maid of Orleans led down-hill all the

way. Victory evaded while misfortunes multiplied. Before many months she was captured by the Burgundians who sold her to the

English for a king's ransom.

The first half-year of her imprisonment was made bearable by the

kindness of the ladies in the castle of her captor, John of Luxemburg.

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IN SHINING ARMOUR SHOD

His wife, Joan, and his saintly aunt, Joan, DemoiseUe of Luxemburg, and his step-daughter, Joan of Bar, aU took an instant diking to the

young prisoner, their namesake. They were the last companions of her own sex she was to know and their tenderness and goodness only served to make the harshness of the latter part of her imprisonment aU the more hard to bear; the aged DemoiseUe made spirited protests when she discovered the negotiations that were going on between her

nephew and Duke PhiUp of Burgundy and the English, but the jingle of ten thousand golden pieces drowned the appeals of an old lady and

the deal went through. The courage of Joan never showed itself so clearly as in the twelve

dreary months between May 1430 and May 1431. Her certainty

concerning her visions had sustained her in her early endeavours to

get in touch with the Dauphin; her tenacity of purpose inspired her

when she found herself?a peasant lass in her teen^-UteraUy the

Commander-in-Chief of her country's army; at the greatest triumph of

her glorious though short-tived mi?tary career, the lifting of the siege of Orleans, she had the joy of rea?sing that at last France was awaken

ing and foUowing her lead, and this was perhaps sufficient impetus to spur her from success to success; until her imprisonment she could, and did, confess and communicate daily, hear many Masses, retire to some lonely place to lose herself in prayer. Now, at one blow, aU

these helps were no more; instead of spiritual consolations she was

forbidden even to pause before the Blessed Sacrament during her

passage from her ceU to the Tribunal judging her, she was branded as one

" lapsed, a heretic, an apostate, an idolatress "; where before

her praises were in the mouths of all, now her star had set?even the

Archbishop of Rheims denounced her pub?cly; the visionary of Dom

iemy, the Captain of the captains of France, was no longer among friends and admirers, but in the hands of the EngUsh to whom she

was an object of horror.

In King Henry VI Shakespeare echoes his countrymen's feelings towards Joan when he makes various characters address her as

" the

ugly witch "; "

fell banning h?g "; "

enchantress . . . miscreant "; **

damned sorceress "; "

devU or devil's dam ". Alone among enemies

who both hated and feared her th? poor girl had not even the consola

tion of a companion or even jailer of her own sex during these weary months. Yet it was in her jail rather than in the days of triumph or

in the hour of martyrdom that she showed the true mettle of that for

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IRISH MONTHLY

titude that graced all her days but more particularly those of her

eclipse in the eyes of men.

Fettered hand and foot to a huge beam, she suffered mockery, abuse and insults from her guards, brutal men in whose eyes she was at

worst a witch, at best a woman of ill-fame. Time and again she had to fight, literally tooth and nail, to defend her virtue; torn rags, livid scars and tear-stained cheeks bore mute witness to the valour of her

who had once vanquished her country's foes. Where now, we may ask, were the knights who had been proud to ride by her side? Fight

ing a guerilla warfare, now in Compiegne, now in Picardy; not one

made any attempt to rescue her, not one sent her a word of cheer.

Where was Jacques d'Arc?and the brothers who had graduated from

the valley-farm to high army posts on the strength of Joan's reputa tion? And the peasants of Domremy whose rent and taxes had been

remitted for all time to "

Nothing, in memory of the MaH ", where were they? Where was the King? Skulking in one or other of his

castles on the Loire, squandering on favourites several times the sum

that would have sufficed to ransom Joan. Even the English could

not credit such callousness and hourly expected some coup de main?

designed to deprive them of their captive?if the Franch did not bring it off, why, Satan would be sure to come fetch his own! ... Thus she

languished, forsaken by all ... . but He who does not fail sent His

prince to protect. Michael came again, sun-bright in the dark dun

geon, and the sweet voices of her saints brought solace to her soul.

Although at the end her sufferings were mercifully brief, her trial

lasted 114 days; small wonder that her nerve gave way and that Joan ?not yet twenty?was frightened and wept when led to her tryst with

The naked shame, the biting flame, the last long agony.

Corpus Christi fell on the last day of May that year, and it was on

the eve of the feast of the Blessed Sacrament, to Which she had so

ardent a devotion, that she died. The Church keeps her feast on May 30th, remembering Rouen and the fiery martyrdom, but it is the Mass

of a Virgin not of a Martyr, that is said to honour Saint Joan. The

National festival of the saint is kept on May 8th, when all roads lead

to Orleans, where the anniversary of the raising of the siege is cele

brated with magnificent pageantry. The French nation commemorates her courage, her steadfastness,

her selfless patriotism. French tradition remembers her purity, giving her only those names that enshrine her maidenhood?Maid of Orleans,

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IN SHINING ARMOUR SHOD

Maid of France, la Pucelle, Joan the Maid. But the Church is not content with mere remembrance?she raises a cheer for her child, for

the Lorraine peasant-girl so weak and foolish in human eyes that God

w?led to endow her with a superabundance of Wisdom and Fortitude, virtues lacking in her age, as in ours. In the Mass for the feast of

Saint Joan the exultant note predominates, reaching a crescendo in the

Offertory, so fittingly appropriated from the Book of Judith. As of old the Hebrews hailed Judith, their va?ant de?verer from the dread

Holofernes and his Assyrian army, so on each 30th of May aU Christendom salutes the Maid, now clad in the imperishable armour

of immorta?ty, with the stirring stanza :

(They all blessed her with one voice, saying): thou art the

glory of Jerusalem, thou art the joy of Israel, thou art the

honour of our people.

DE PROFUNDIS

Out of the deep have I cried unto thee, O Lord of loveliness. I shaU not keep This music in my heart when thy calm sleep

Shapes aU my discords into harmony. In aU the dancing sounds these ears have heard?

Chopin, and the concerto of the sea;

Winter winds keening in a hawthorn tree;

Laughter, and the pomp of a Latin word :

Lord, hear my voice.

In aU the shapes and colours of this earth, All the elusive scents that have been mine?

Hyacinths, and the claret blood of wine; H?ls furred with bracken; in the green-gold birth And death of leaves; cloud-shadows on a lake?

White as the breasts of swans; in rain-washed air, Sinuouf waUs, and autumn-tinted hair; In the rich peace from which I shaU not wake :

Lord, hear my voice.

Raymond Garlick

511

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