CONCERNING JOAN OF ARC*

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HERE is a sentiment of piety which daily draws spectators, I was about to say the faithful, to the theatre where the "mystery" of Joan of Arc is performed. By the powerful and subconscious exaltation of popular thought Joan is little by little becoming the Patron Saint of France. A tender religion makes us communicate in her; the account of her miracles and her passion is a gospel in which we all believe. Her virtues are upon us.

She stands for Example, Hope, and Consolation. Divided as we are in opinion and belief, we are all reconciled in her. She reunites us all under that banner which led to victory knights and artisans, and so does the sweet maid achieve the accomplishment of her mission. She is the keystone of alliance; in her all things signify union and brotherhood.

The simplicity of her Christian faith touches those of us who have remained sincere Catholics, while her independence before the theologians recommends her to minds which profess a free

* This was written regarding the performances of M. Jules Barbier's drama at the first St. Martin theatre. Since then M. Joseph Fabre has given us a "mystery" of Joan, which is truer and more touching.

examination of the Scriptures. For it is hardly an exaggeration to state that she is at once the last mystic, and the first reformer, and that she holds out one hand to St. Francis of Assisi in the the other to Luther in the future.

past, and

She was above all things simple: she always remained so close to Nature that those who believe only in Nature smile on this field flower, this fresh, wild, fragrant growth; yet she is still the joy of those whose philosophy distrusts appearances, and

fears that all is illusion.

The loyalty with which she served her king goes straight to the heart of the very few who mourn the old monarchy. She lived, fought and died for France, and that is what renders her dear to us all without distinction. Poor and of humble birth, she did that which the rich and great had failed to do. In glory and victory she loved the humble as her brothers; on that account she is sweet and sacred to us. Our modern democracy cannot but venerate the memory of her who said: "I have been sent for the consolation of the poor and miserable." Dicens quod erat missa pro consolatione pauperum et indigentium.

That is not all. There were in her delightful contrasts which make her beloved of all; she was a warrior, and she was kind; she was an illuminate, and she was sensible; she was a woman of the people, and a good knight; in the sacred fairy-tale which is her history, the shepherdess becomes a handsome Saint Michael. Like her patrons, Jesus and St. Francis of Assisi, she brings down Heaven to Earth; she brings into the world the dream of Innocence overcoming Evil, and the triumph of Justice. She is the favourite of believers and of the

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simple, of artists devoted to symbolism, and of the fastidious who seek the complete and perfect form.

This is what is vaguely felt by the crowd which nightly listens to the drama, or as we said, the mystery of Joan of Arc; I believe that word is used in the advertisement. Between ourselves, M. Jules Barbier was perhaps not the right poet to write the mystery of Joan of Arc. I should have preferred something simpler, more ingenuous, with a more mystical and religious tone. I should have preferred a finer brush, dipped in the gold and ultramarine of the old illuminators. I used to imagine all the wealth of a church's treasury on a drawing rather slight in its purity. I used to dream of the perfume of hyssop, and the sound of celestial harps. I used to dream of saints who were ladies and angels playing the lute, all in the style of the fifteenth century, whose art reminds one of a forest in bud. In short, what did I not dream? Above all, I should have loved to see Joan under the Fairy Tree. It was a beech; I have often thought about it; a marvellous beech which cast a great and beautiful shadow. It was called the Fairies' or the Ladies' Tree, for the fairies were ladies as much as the saints; but ladies magnificently dressed, and not wearing a heavy gold crown like St. Catherine. They preferred to be crowned with flowers. Now, this beech was very old, handsome, and venerable. It was also called the Tree of the Loges-les-Dames, the "arbre charminé" the Fairy Tree of Bourlemont, and the Beautiful May. Like all divinities, great and small, it had many names, because it inspired many thoughts. It grew near a fountain called the Fountain of the Currant-bush, where in days gone by the

fairies had bathed, and a virtue had remained in its waters: they that drank thereof were cured of fever. This is why it was also called the good fountain Aux-Fées-Notre-Seigneur, a sweet and happy name which placed under the protection of Jesus the little supernatural people whom his Apostles had so roughly attacked, without being able to drive them from their forests and their native springs.

Not far from the spring and the tree, hidden under a hazel-bush, a mandrake used to sing. All rustic magic was united in this little bit of land; there, with the leaves and flowers, an innocent paganism was continually reborn.

Every year, on the fourth Sunday in Lent, or Fountain Sunday, the boys and girls of the village used to go in a party to eat bread and nuts under the Fairy Tree; then they drank of the Currantbush Fountain, whose water is good only for the sick; the fairies have more than one secret. Joan's godmother, of the same name, the wife of Aubery, the mayor, had with her own eyes seen the mysterious ladies, and said so to all comers. Yet she was a good, respectable woman, neither a diviner nor a sorceress.

One of these fairies had a lover, the Knight of Bourlemont. She used to meet him in the evenings. Fairies are women, and have weaknesses. A romance was made of the loves of the fairy and the knight, and another of Joan's godmothers, whose husband was a clerk at Neufchâteau, had heard this marvellous story read, which doubtless resembled the wellknown story of Mélusine. The fairies had their reception day; when it was desired to see them secretly one went on a Thursday. But they showed themselves little. Old Beatrice, a good Christian of Domrémy, used to say innocently:

"I have heard tell that in the old days the fairies visited the tree. On account of our sins they come no more."

On the eve of Ascension Day, when the crosses are carried in procession through the fields, the Curé of Domrémy used to go to the Fairy Tree and the Currant-bush Fountain, where he sang the gospel of St. John. Was this to exorcize the tree and spring? Or was he, unknown to himself, renewing the old pagan rites? It is impossible to unravel the truth in such a mixture of ingenuous beliefs. All the same, I think the priest was driving away the fairies.

Like the rest, once a year Joan "did her fountains," as it was called. There was song and dance and something to eat. With her companions, she hung garlands of flowers on the branches of the sacred beech. She was unaware that she thus renewed the practices of her pagan ancestors, who sacrificed to fountains, trees, and stones, and embellished the trunks of antique oaks with pictures and votive statuettes. She knew not that she was imitating Gaulish virgins, prophetesses like herself. Truth to tell, nothing touches me so much as this unconscious paganism. Our mystery, which would not in the least resemble that of M. Jules Barbier, would begin by showing Joan, as the young girl of the fields, the eternal Chloe, celebrating the eternal worship of Nature.

In this mystery, of which I dream, and which will remain an unknown masterpiece, the fairies would speak.

For the pleasure of those who would like to hear them, let us state that a clever poet has already made them speak at the edge of the Currant-bush Fountain; we may recall that in M. Ernest Prarond's