What
would a 21st century American find compelling about
a trip in northern France that traces the life of Joan of Arc
from her birthplace to where she was burned at the stake? Why would a gay man who
decades ago left the Roman Catholic Church plan such a
pilgrimage-like journey?
Although
Joan changed history’s course during just one particular era,
her story has taken on the timeless quality of myth. During Nazi occupation of
France, she became a symbol of the Resistance. Viewed more recently
through the lens of feminism, this uneducated 17-year-old
peasant’s ability to become a leader in a man’s world, and to
stand firm, without defenders, before the immense power of the
Church’s inquisitors, refusing to disavow her visions or to
remain clothed in female garb, attracted another generation’s
interest. At the same
time, she has been embraced as a symbol by the right-wing
political party Front National.
My
itinerary in part tracks an inner journey. Many threads have
consistently led me back to this young woman whose steely
character emboldened a tottering nation. I am of French-Canadian
ancestry and share in how that culture has often been under
pressure on both sides of our northern border, as age-old
conflicts between English and French echo. My mother was named after
Saint Joan. In college,
while helping to lead the gay and lesbian students of
Georgetown University in a lawsuit against that Jesuit
institution, I participated in an excruciating deposition and trial. Also during my
undergraduate years, I wrote six poems in response to six
paintings by Maurice Boutet de Monvel at the Corcoran Gallery
depicting key scenes in Joan of Arc’s life.
Take-Off
Preparing to leave for
France, I become aware that I’m leaving home, that I am home, and that
home can feel like a safe womb. I float here with closed
eyes, almost unconscious of my surroundings. So much can be taken for
granted in one’s customary environment. So much remains truly
unseen because we view it for the six thousandth time. For instance, I didn’t
really understand how lush New England is until I traveled
to the American Southwest; how poorly our country regulates
urban sprawl before I drove out of European cities and
entered their surrounding rural country-sides; how not every
place in the United States was founded like Boston by a
religious sect who hated pleasure, until I visited New
Orleans. I wonder how
Boston and Cambridge look through the eyes of the many
tourists I see on weekdays in Harvard Square?
(That being said,
for many years after moving myself to the Boston area, I
felt like a non-native, a visitor myself, because I grew up
in a small town 80 miles to the west of our state’s capital. It took a long time
before I stopped thinking upon touchdown at Logan Airport,
“I’m in Boston,” and began thinking instead, “I’m home.”) Leaving today, I feel
exited but frightened. The
home I leave is tender and safe as a mother. I cut the cord and blast
off inside the thrust of an airplane (the violence of which
we are prevented from experiencing). We’ll land in a place
where natives speak a language we only somewhat know, even
after years of study.
In this case, however, I
am returning to my father/motherland. But because I have done
some genealogical research into my Riel and Joly (maternal) families’ histories,
I know that my relationship with France is not so simple. It is possible that my
patrilineal ancestor who arrived in Canada around 1696,
Jean-Baptiste Riel, dit l’Irlande, was not French, but an
Irishman who fought on the French side against the English
in Ireland, and then changed his name to sound French. And
the Joly ancestor of mine who
originally emigrated to Canada may have in fact come from
Belgium, not France.
And what might it mean,
really, to be French? On
the cusp of this trip, I realize how little I know about
French history before Joan of Arc’s time, but assume that
the Germanic tribes called the Franks must have intermarried
as they moved west into what is now France. I used to think I was
100% French Canadian, but I since have gathered that no such
“purity” exists, especially after recently hearing that one
of my great great grandmothers
was a converted Jew. (Since
my husband is Jewish, I was thrilled to hear this, because
it connects me with him in a new way.)
Nancy
We stay in Nancy because
of its proximity to Joan of Arc’s birthplace, Domrémy, but I am unprepared
for how compelling the capital of the former province of
Lorraine is, especially the splendor of Place Stanislas and its environs. Lorraine remained
independent from France until 1766. Its last duke, Stanislas, the former King of Poland
(and Louis XV’s father-in-law), rebuilt the city’s center
into a series of linked outdoor spaces separated by
harmoniously ornamented buildings and over-the-top gilded Roccoco iron gates. I am struck by how the
consistent use of one architectural element—rows of urns
along rooftop balustrades—joins separate buildings into a
unified effect. A
peaceful allée, bordered
by twin rows of lime trees, called Place de la Carrière, runs between the
Ducal Palace and the Place Stanislas;
this used to be a tilt-yard for jousting. Twice I see elderly
gentlemen dressed in immaculate suits taking their solitary
afternoon strolls alongside this green rectangle.
This first evening in
France, we manage to snag the best outside seats of one of
the restaurants along the south side of the Place Stanislas. I enjoy my supper of
cold cream-of-pea soup with buttery croutons, lasagna,
raspberry sorbet, and a local red wine. We linger over pots of
tea as a crowd fills the square and a spectacular “Son et Lumière”
show (that our hotel’s concierge just happened to
mention!) begins, with animated multicolored lights
projecting a ballet that is sometimes narrative and
sometimes abstract over the details of the ornate buildings’
facades. I could not
be happier nor more impressed. I like how the show
combines 21st century elements (a depiction of
people being connected in a web via lines that evokes
computer programming) with voices and images from Nancy’s
past. Over this
nighttime scene, off to the southeast, hangs August’s
slightly waned Blue Moon, only a few days past its fullness. I will never forget the
rapture I feel looking at that yellow-white disc while the
incomparable voice of Maria Callas completely
fills Place Stanislas with the
aria “Ebben? N'andro lontano” from
La Wally (with
which I am familiar only because of its prominence in the
movie Philadelphia). I remember the Tom
Hanks’ character in that film, a lawyer dying of AIDS who loved this aria, and cannot help
but to think of my younger brother David, who died of AIDS
at the age of 28. David
spent his junior year of college in Nice. I finally have the
chance to travel around this nation where he first visited,
and I find myself haunted by snatches of this sad song in my
mind over the course of our trip.
I spend a memorable
afternoon in Nancy’s Musée
des Beaux-Arts, located in one of the grand buildings
bounding Place Stanislas. Of all the wonderful
works of art found there, I must mention a few.
The Museum placed more
than one painting of the Annunciation beside one another,
and the curatorial commentary encourages me to compare them. In Carravaggio’s
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annunciation_(Caravaggio)),
both
the angel Gabriel and Mary shield their eyes, as if they
feel shy, their different stations in the earthly and
heavenly order rule out eye contact, or they are simply too
overwhelmed by the transfer of grace taking place. This transfer is
symbolized by the light seemingly running down his shoulder
and arm to Mary’s face and hands. So much is implied by
their reticence to look one another in the face; the moment
is characterized deeply because of this. By contrast, in Barocci’s Annunciation (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Barocci_Annunciation.jpg),
a
cat humorously sleeps in the foreground throughout the
momentous event. Here,
Mary’s slanted gaze seems defuse, neither taking in nor
excluding sight of Gabriel as she appears to be viewing her
future in a far-off daydream.
As my trip unfolds, I
continue to see other paintings of the Annunciation, and the
deliberate comparison made by the Musée
des Beaux-Arts influences how, throughout the trip, I view
and understand artwork depicting traditional Biblical events
and Christian themes, including the many images of St. Joan
I seek out. What I
learned by reading and re-reading Marina Warner’s Joan of Arc: The Image
of Female Heroism about the many ways this saint is portrayed, and the reasons for the
differences, now comes to bear on how deeply I understand
and respond to what I see.
Eugène Delacroix’s large
painting, La Bataille de Nancy (http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fichier:Delacroix-Bataille-de-Nancy.JPG), impresses me with how
little I know about important details of French history. It depicts a pivotal
moment, in which Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, is one
lance-thrust from being killed in battle. Not only did this
slaying keep Lorraine free of Burgundian
control, but it set the stage for the Hapsburgs to extend,
though marriage, their territory into the Low Countries. The battle occurred in
1477, decades after Joan of Arc’s burning. I imagine she would have
been thrilled to hear about the victory of the forces of
René II, Duke of Lorraine, over the Burgundians.
Lastly, I must note my
encounter with the remarkable paintings of Émile Friant
(1863-1932). This
artist was clearly an exponent of realism, and the people he
painted look nearly lifelike. His self-portraits, his
depiction of a glance between two lovers (Les Amoureux (Idylle
sur la passerelle)),
and the scene he creates of mourners rushing to a cemetery
on All Saints' Day are unforgettable and make me want to
learn more about him.
Back outside of the
museum, I realize as I again turn the corner at the Ducal
Palace how difficult it is to succeed at imagining the
experiences of a historical figure by following her
footsteps more than five hundred years later. So much has changed
since Joan arrived in Nancy, summoned in 1429 to help the
sick duke. The
existing Palace was begun in 1502, long after Joan’s death,
and even so was altered substantially in the 18th
century. She never
saw what I am seeing. However,
as I read accounts of this encounter with the Duke of
Lorraine, what comes through is Joan’s pluck and
single-mindedness at the age of 17, even before she had
convinced Robert de Baudricourt
to escort her to the Dauphin’s court in Chinon. She stood her ground and
then some: telling
the ailing Duke that she had no knowledge of cures, and that
he should leave his mistress and return to his wife. She concluded by asking
him to send his son and heir with her south to the Dauphin!
Domrémy-la-Pucelle
On
the way to Domrémy, we
skirt the edge of Vaucouleurs
(where Joan went to plead with Robert de Baudricourt)
as we turn south from route D960 to D964. I can see what seems to be
a castle, and I’m inwardly distressed that because of time
constraints, this trip cannot include every important spot
associated with her. (After
we return to Massachusetts, I take to teasing my husband by
saying we need to go on a second Joan of Arc
trip to tie up loose ends.)
Along
the road south, a brazen fox crosses the road ahead of us in
broad daylight. Occasionally
I see large hawks perched on fence posts alongside harvested
fields.
When
we get to tiny Domrémy, it
is a little confusing, because the d’Arc
home site is now obscured behind a walled enclosure. On the opposite side of
the tourist’s parking lot, beyond the public bathrooms, a
large, low meadow spreads beside the Meuse, where a flock of
sheep rests beneath a tree with several trunks. The similarity of this
early mid-morning pastoral scene to Maurice Boutet de Monvel’s
paintings and drawings of Joan hearing her voices while
tending sheep is powerful; it is as if nothing has changed on
this stretch of land in over 500 years.
We
enter the museum enclosure and head straight to d’Arc home. The four rooms that stand
used to be attached to additional rooms of a farmhouse built
in the 18th century; for many years, Joan of Arc’s
birthplace was used as that farm’s stable or outhouse! In 1818, the Vosges Département bought the
property, and the added rooms were demolished to reveal only
the d’Arc family’s habitation. The foundations of the
larger structure remain.
Inside,
we step onto floors made of stones measuring one square foot. The rooms are small, with
stark walls. I can
smell the low wooden beams. I
try to imagine this place bustling with life, with furniture
and some colorful items. At
one point in the past, this structure was painted with scenes
from her life.
Outside,
in the garden, towards the neighboring church, I find where
Joan claimed to have experienced her first vision. A plaque reads,
“Elle a déclaré que sur l’âge de XIII ans elle
eut une
voix de Dieu
pour l’aider à se gouverner et la première fois eut
grand peur et vint cette
voix sur
l’heure de midi environ et temps d’été dans le jardin
de son père. Elle entendit la voix
du côte droit vers
l’église.”
Over
the plaque stands a medium-sized chestnut tree, with a long,
large heart-shaped scar where a lower branch obviously once
grew. Even though I am
alone, no strong emotions well up when I hunker down at this
spot, which is the opposite of what I expected. I will be continually
surprised during this trip by when feelings do and don’t come,
and which do.
At
the museum, we sit in a theatre and watch a “show” that
consists faceless life-sized dummies representing historical
figures (for example, the Dauphin Charles) who played important roles in the
context into which Joan of Arc entered. Lights are cast on
different dummies as a recorded voice tells us about their
significance.
Across
the main road from the tourist’s parking lot stands Antonin Mercié’s secular statue of Joan
lifting her sword with the help of a woman representing France
(http://www.vanderkrogt.net/statues/object.php?webpage=ST&record=frlo042). Marina Warner rightly
contrasts this with André Allar’s
religious statue (http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fichier:Jeanne_et_ses_voix.jpg) just up on the hill
outside the basilica overlooking Domrémy. If nothing else, this trip
deepens my understanding of the many perspectives through
which this saint is viewed, and the various political and
cultural uses to which her images are put. The bitter parries between
the anti-clericalist and Roman Catholic factions in France are
still visible, if I connect the dots.
Next
door we enter the squat stone Église
St. Rémi, where Joan was
baptized and had her First Communion. I learn that the
orientation of the pews and altar has changed over the years,
and that the church building has been expanded since her
lifetime. There is an
interesting unsigned article on the Internet about the
church’s history, with images of how it looked in Joan’s time:
http://tellthe.net/Eglise/. The font where Joan was
baptized is displayed, as well as a statue of St.
Margaret of Antioch before which it is said Joan prayed. When Joan was alive, the
church’s front door faced her family’s home, near the spot
where she had her first vision.
According to her mother’s testimony, Joan spend “much
of her time in church.” The
girl also scolded the church warden when he forgot to ring the
bells for Compline at the end of the working day.
Across
the street from St. Rémi,
I enter a large Joan of Arc gift shop. I greet the owner with the
de rigieur
“Bonjour” as she enters from a back room. The shelves are full of
every imaginable object that could depict Joan of Arc or be
somehow related to her story. I
pause over more than one knickknack, but in the end (I am the
only shopper in the store, so my movements and choices take on
weight), I confirm my suspicion that my interests in her do
not translate into bric-à-brac, and I somewhat sheepishly
retreat empty-handed.
We
drive the short distance alongside the ridge to the west and
park at what is officially known as the Basilique
Sainte Jeanne d’Arc de Domrémy, but also referred to
as the Basilique du Bois-Chesnu (http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fichier:Basilique_du_Bois_Ch%C3%AAnu.JPG). This large church was
constructed between 1881 and 1934 on the wooded site where
Joan reportedly had many visions. In the minds of many of
her contemporaries this spot linked Joan with the prophesy of a virgin coming from
such an oak wood to work miracles and liberate France. Ironically the Catholic
Church constructed its most imposing monument to Joan at the
same site about which, during Joan’s interrogation, she was
questioned by inquisitors concerning her participation in
annual rituals during which local girls hung flower garlands
on a beech tree called “L’Arbre
des Fées” on Laetare Sunday during Lent.
When
we get out of our car on the windy ridge, I am surprised by
how deserted the basilica seems.
I realize that today is the first Monday of September,
and the French have returned from their long summer vacations,
so this might be a day when few are out and about.
Suddenly,
powerful bells begin to ring, and ring, and ring. I look down at my watch: it is noon. I feel the force of their
sound go through my body, as if my ribcage were somehow an
echo of the church’s vaulted ceilings. I cannot help but to think
back to the funeral of my Uncle Roland at St. Peter’s Church
in Worcester, Massachusetts, when we pallbearers stood outside
the front door holding his casket while the loud church bells
rang for what seemed a very long time. It was as if those bells
were marking time in space with sound—marking the end of a
life, that of the oldest surviving male in a family. Today, although I left the
Catholic Church decades ago, I’m reminded by the push and tug
of these bells on my body of how difficult it was to separate
from that tradition. My
past connection with the Church was not merely one of abstract
beliefs, but also was made up of sensual elements of ritual
(music, incense, etc.) and architecture.
Because
of the familiarity of this basilica’s architecture, I feel
like I know this church. It
was designed in the same period when many of the largest
French-Canadian parishes in New England built similar
structures. I have
attended funerals inside those churches. For many years, I have
been working on a long poem related to the demolition of
Precious Blood Church in Holyoke, Massachusetts.
After
some head-scratching, we find the entrance and climb the
staircase up to the main sanctuary (http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fichier:Basilique_Domr%C3%A9my-l-P.JPG). Murals by Lionel Royer
depicting scenes from Joan of Arc’s life line the sanctuary’s
walls (http://www.catholique-vosges.fr/basilique-sainte-jeanne-d-arc-de-domremy,2611), and his drawings for the
stained glass windows (originally entered into a contest
prepared for the Orléans
Cathedral) were used by Charles Lorin
of Chartres. Having just come from Église
St. Rémi in the valley
below, I am surprised to see that Royer exaggerated the size
and grandness of that nearby church in his painting of Joan’s
First Communion. In his
paintings, Joan always has a golden halo, emphasizing her
sainthood. I push a
button to start an audio lecture for visitors, and a spider
bites my finger. Strangely,
the recording tells us (unless I misunderstand) that the
basilica was planned so that we would first encounter the
chapel dedicated to wounded soldiers before climbing the
stairs to the sanctuary, because this is what the
saint wanted. I doubt that Joan of Arc knew that this
basilica would be built centuries after her death!?
As we
leave the Basilique, I pick up a
brochure that asks for money. 820,000
euros are needed for the roof alone. Except for us, the place
is empty. This, too,
reminds me of the situation faced by historically
French-Canadian parishes in New England, whose churches are
too expensive to be maintained by fewer and fewer
parishioners, and are being sold or knocked down.
Verdun
We
drive to the area where the Battle of Verdun (otherwise known
as the “Hell of Verdun”) took place. What a profound and
thought-provoking experience! I
learn much more about the slaughter and misery that took place
there, when humans had invented new war technology (machine
guns, flame throwers, poison gas), but the generals were slow
in changing their outmoded tactics accordingly. I had no idea how
carefully the Germans planned their initial attack, nor how
close the French came to defeat.
France in desperate straits: the parallels with Joan of
Arc’s times are obvious. Lacking
sufficient railway lines to the battle area, the French
improved a road into an effective supply line. The religious nature of
the fight of the French nation against the Germans is clear: that supply line was
dubbed the “Voie Sacrée.”
Because
any time serving at Verdun was so horrible, the French Army
rotated its troops so the suffering would be shared fairly. (Later in our trip, we
visit a friend in her native village in Champagne. Her grandfather was killed
at Verdun, and she shows us his name on the village’s memorial
to WWI casualties. The
massive casualties take on a personal dimension, not just
something in a history book.)
Inside
the Ossuaire de Douaumont, where the bones of 130,000
unknown combatants are housed, we come upon a gallery of
portraits of veterans and those affected by the Battle of
Verdun. In these
photographs, taken long after World War I, the elderly subject
holds a photograph either of himself as a youthful soldier, or
of a loved one killed in the battle. In almost every case, no
matter what the facial expression of the subject in the
photograph, his or her eyes are full of tears, and seem to be
envisioning the hell of the trenches. These images are
incredibly moving.
At
the gallery’s end I find a photograph of France’s President
Mitterrand and Germany’s Chancellor Helmut Kohl holding hands
at the Ossuaire in 1984. The black-and-white image
has the clean classical lines of tragedy, and makes me cry. Why can’t our leaders use
foresight and try to imagine the waste of war, and reach out
to one another towards their common humanity, before over 700,000
soldiers are killed in one battle? Here’s a video of the
moment this hand-holding took place, while the band played La Marseillaise: http://www.ina.fr/histoire-et-conflits/autres-conflits/video/I00012031/francois-mitterrand-et-helmut-kohl-main-dans-la-main.fr.html.
Off
of one hallway we enter a chapel. To the right I find a
display case with the sign, “Vestiges provenant
des églises des villages
de Vaux-Fleury et Douaumont.” At least nine villages in
Meuse were destroyed during World War I. The reverent and mournful
manner in which they are described in museums at Verdun and Compiègne, and the photographs
showing what they looked like before the war, remind me of
four former towns in central Massachusetts near where I grew
up. Dana, Greenwich,
Prescott, and Enfield were destroyed and evacuated so they
could be flooded to create the Quabbin
Reservoir. In the
center of this display case, a white statue of Joan of Arc,
with her hands folded above her sword and her gaze raised,
stands out and seems to have been deliberately placed.
Reims
Pausing
before the west entrance of the immense structure that is
Notre-Dame de Reims cathedral, I try to imagine what Joan must
have thought when she first saw it. It is amazing to consider
that a teenager born in a home of four small rooms in the tiny
village of Domrémy led a
prince here to be crowned King of France on July 17, 1429. The stained glass windows
that were not destroyed by German shells during World War I
are full of deep reds and blues.
I wish I were a hummingbird so I could fly up and hover
to get closer views. The
throne sits on the left side of the altar; its blue cloth is
patterned with fleurs-de-lys.
The
Jewish painter Marc Chagall teamed with glass artists Charles
Marq and Brigitte Simon to create
three windows in the 1970s for the axial chapel (http://www.reims-cathedral.culture.fr/windows-chagall.html). One of the historical
scenes included in the right window shows Joan of Arc, with
one hand on her sword and the other lifting her banner,
standing beside the Dauphin Charles as he is crowned. In this depiction, Joan
does not kneel passively far from the Dauphin; here she is
staring down at the crown, and almost seeming to bless the
event.
The
chapel dedicated to Joan of Arc (for photos, see:
<http://www.pbase.com/alastairneil/image/32156063>
and:
http://sedulia.blogs.com/photos/everywhere_else/joan_of_arc_chapel_at_reims_cathedral.html) disappoints me. It feels cold, monumental,
and distant rather than intimate and vibrant. (I realize that
it is unfair for me to expect that the Catholic Church spend
money to decorate such a chapel with flowers or fabrics when I
no longer make contributions as a member.) My reaction is probably
influenced by the dull, gray light, and by how unapproachable
the polychrome statue of Joan created by Prosper d’Epinay at first seems to me in that
light: somewhat
adamantine, with the saint’s closed eyes preventing me from
connecting with her. But
later I learn more about this statue. Its name is “Jeanne d’Arc au Sacre”
(Joan of Arc at the Annointing
and Coronation of the King). She
rests on her sword and prays. Perhaps
she closes her eyes to celebrate privately. This is Joan, in
armor, strong, but also pious and reflective. I later read that the
chapel is located in the spot where Joan stood during the
ceremony, but I do not know if this is true. Regardless of my religious
beliefs, I light a candle.
Reims
surprises me. Perhaps
this is because we stay at the Grand Hôtel Continental on the Place Drouet
d’Erlon, which is lined with
cafés crowded with college-aged patrons. The café upon which
they descend in droves seems to change nightly—special prices
for beer? Reims (which
I learn is pronounced “Rance,”
with what might sound to an American like the snooty “a” that
is formed at the back of the roof of one’s mouth, rather than
the twangy “a” pronounced inside
one’s lower jaw) feels like a big city: a little dirty and a
little dangerous. Perhaps
if we stayed in another neighborhood, or if we had the time to
visit the Basilique Saint-Rémi, where the Holy Ampulla
used to consecrate French monarchs during their coronation
ceremonies was housed (until it was publically destroyed by
the French revolutionaries with a hammer in 1793), and see the
southern part of Reims, my impression of the city might be
different.
One
funny GPS moment occurs when the device exclaims out of the
blue from my husband’s backpack, “Lost satellite reception!” The GPS helps us
constantly, but it also gets us off track a few times. It is completely useless
whenever one encounters a detour, since it keeps recalculating
to circle back to the place the detour started.
Compiègne
Our
visit to Compiègne does
not focus on Joan of Arc as much as it could have. Since returning home, I
have see the map in of 15th century Compiègne in Larissa Juliet
Taylor’s biography of the saint, and perhaps could have found
the spot where she was captured outside the town’s
fortifications on the other side of the Oise River. We choose not to visit the
remains of the medieval Saint-Louis Bridge which crossed the
river near this site (later I learn that a copy of the more
famous equestrian statue of Joan by Emmanuel Frémiet at the Place des Pyramides in Paris stands here across
the river near where she was captured—not something our
guidebook nor the map made available by the tourism
information office in Compiègne
even mentions).
Instead
we have lunch just off the town square, which is dominated by
a gingerbread-esque town hall,
with three wooden “jacquemarts”
(painted manikins of gentlemen) striking the time on the front
of the bell tower. We
take pictures there between the flower beds in front of a
statue of Joan holding her banner. The inscription reads, “Je
vray voir
mes bons
amys de Compiengne.”
We
walk over to Saint-Jacques Church, where she prayed in 1430 on
the morning of her capture. The
Joan of Arc chapel here is warmed by the wood paneling and by
its more human-scale white marble statue of the saint praying,
sculpted by Marie d’Orléans,
King Louis-Philippe’s daughter. (In Joan of Arc: Her Image in
France and America, Nora M. Heimann
and Laura Coyle describe the reasons that this image became so
popular in France during the Bourbon Restoration, when it was
even used in wallpaper and fabric patterns.) Above this statue, a
window of dominated by shades of red, orange, and gold depicts
Joan taking communion within Saint-Jacques. I light another candle.
We
visit two other major sites in or near Compiègne. One is tucked in the
woods: the Wagon de l’Armistice, a replica of the rail
coach in the Germans had signed the armistice on November 11,
1918, and in which Hitler forced the French to surrender in
the very same place in 1940. The
immense enmity between the two nations is palpable here: the message written in
raised letters on commemorative flagstones reads: “Ici
le 11 novembre 1918, succomba le criminal orgueil de l’Empire
allemande….” The museum covers many aspects of the history of
the two world wars in which the French and Germans battled. (The librarian in me is
troubled by the lack of awareness the museum’s curators seem
to have about the best way to display brittle historic
newspapers while still preserving them.)
We
spend most of the afternoon touring the Musée
National du Château de Compiègne. This is the palace in
which Louis XIV famously complained he had to live in a style
befitting a peasant. Louis
XV, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, Napoleon I and Marie
Louise, and Napoleon III and Eugénie
all stayed here, with each monarch expanding and redecorating. I come away comprehending
just how much Napoleon I was interested in establishing and
expressing his power, and how little he was concerned with the
ideals of the French Revolution.
Rouen
Our
GPS gets us off track again at Soissons, and we arrive in
Rouen later than we planned. Our
hotel room is on the fourth floor, with a balcony at
flying-buttresses-level, face to face with Rouen’s cathedral! A carousel circles below.
We are clumsily successful at buying wine and a corkscrew at
the nearby Monoplex, and lift our
glasses on the balcony. As much as I revel in our spectacular
view this evening, my body waits to see the Vieux
Marché, where Joan was burned at the stake.
We
are experiencing a week of invariably sunny weather, so the
next morning does not disappoint. We find the spot where
Joan of Arc was killed behind the modern church, Église Sainte Jeanne d’Arc, in the Vieux Marché. In the place where the
pyre stood, there is a little informal garden, with wispy
flowers basking in the warm sunshine, and sparrows and pigeons
looking for seeds. By contrast, I have come here with an
imagination full of kindling, rope, and the crackling of
incredibly painful fire. The
only place to sit is on paving stones that form the border of
the walkway. So this is
the message I have come here to receive: after death, even a
horrible, painful, unfair one, the warm sunshine still
embraces the dirt, flowers still blossom, and birds still come
and go. Having lost my
brother 22 years ago, I know this, but encounter a gentle
reminder.
Right
nearby, against the side of the church, Joan’s agony is
portrayed in a statue by Maxime
Real de Sarte: http://www.vanderkrogt.net/statues/object.php?webpage=ST&record=frhn026. The young woman wears
handcuffs linked by chain; flames reach up the folds of her
cloak.
We
visit the privately owned and extremely musty Musée Jeanne d’Arc (http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mus%C3%A9e_Jeanne-d%27Arc) that faces the Vieux
Marché. To
enter, we must go through their store selling Joan of Arc
knickknacks and postcards. As
we pass what looks like it once was the ticket booth, I am
reminded of a rundown amusement park I visited as a child. Inside is a series of
tableaux of wax figures; the scenes trace Joan of Arc’s life. When we reach the next
scene, we must push a button to start up the recorded lecture. In a few cases, the
buttons do not work. There
is no staff inside. The
museum is full of interesting historical objects related to
Joan of Arc. Once
again, I am dismayed by the condition of the printed
materials. The manner
in which they are being displayed will accelerate their
deterioration. As we
are leaving I break down and buy a Joan of Arc mug and magnet. In part I want to support
the museum (although I must admit that the mug will
immediately become a cherished object in my kitchen). When we get back home, I
learn that this museum has closed and that its contents will
be auctioned off. Its
owner offered to give it for free to an entity that would keep
it open, but the city did not step forward, outraging French
conservatives.
Since
the church in the middle of the Vieux Marché is closed
until later in the day, we walk up to the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen. This institution owns a
painting by George William Joy in which Joan of Arc sleeps in
full armor on a bed of hay, while an angel embraces her
metal-clad feet: https://www.artfinder.com/work/joan-of-arc-asleep-george-william-joy/>. It is possible that her
wrists are handcuffed, i.e., she is in captivity, but I cannot
tell for sure what the shiny band on her right wrist is.
I’m
intrigued by the disturbing painting Les Énervés
de Jumièges (http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89nerv%C3%A9s_de_Jumi%C3%A8ges) by Évariste-Vital
Luminais, and learn more about it
once I return home. Two
young men are shown floating in a small, flat, bier-like ship. They are recumbent,
covered with a blanket, with their heads propped up on
pillows. At their feet,
a funereal vigil candle burns above a garland of roses. I wonder what is going on. Later I find out that this
painting depicts the aftermath of a legendary revolt by King
Clovis II’s two sons. Upon
defeat, their punishment was to have the nerves in their legs
burned. They asked to
join a religious order and were sent downstream on the Seine
to find one. The
harshness of this story and image fits in with Joan’s burning,
the pending lance-thrust into Charles the Bold’s torso, and
with the horrors of Verdun’s trenches. The backdrop of much of
what we are seeing in Northern France seems to be a history of
violent power struggles.
After
a delicious lunch in the Musée’s
courtyard restaurant (I have cod (cabillaud)
bordelaise, vegetable terrine, and potatoes dauphinoise), we head to the Joan of
Arc Tower. A remnant of
what was the much larger castle where she was imprisoned
during her trial, this “keep” or
main tower was where Joan was threatened with instruments of
torture. Climbing the
122 spiral stone steps, I marvel at her decision to jump out
of a nearby tower into the darkness in an attempt to escape. Halfway up the stairs, I
examine an old, thick wooden door to a space off of the
staircase. This door
has a small window crossed with diagonal iron bars. Two iron bolts are drawn
across its boards: one
at shoulder-height, and one at shin-height. Two square key boxes are
attached on its left front. It
looks like the medieval version of something Houdini would
face. I can almost hear
Joan’s jailors turning their clanking keys. The tower contains a small
but good museum, with displays both about Joan and about the
castle itself. At the
top of the stairs, I stand inside the attic, within the wooden
cone that forms the fairy-tale-like roof, and peer up at a
complicated system of wooden beams.
Since
we have only a day in Rouen, we hurry back to the Vieux
Marché. From the
outside, the Église Sainte
Jeanne d’Arc (http://www.cathedrale-rouen.net/patrimoine/visites/stejda.htm) reminds me of a huge gray
tent, a spy plane, and a frigate with slate sails. Architecturally this
building is a work of genius. Its
designer, Louis Arretche, was
alluding through the church’s shape to an overturned Viking
ship in Normandy, as well as the flames which killed Joan. Once inside, I do not need
to be told what he intended. I
write, “We are
inside the flame now. The
ceiling goes up into a warmly lit, wooden, wave-shaped apex,
but it does not hurt like fire.
What’s emphasized are the lightness and weightlessness
of fire.” And a wall of
windows, both stained glass and gray, faces the site where
Joan of Arc was burned. Some
of the stained glass windows were retained from the church
dedicated to St. Vincent that stood here until the Allied
bombing in 1944. Surely
the gray windows refer to the many stained glass windows
destroyed in France during bombings in World War I and II. I light another candle
before we leave.
Visiting
the Cathedral of Rouen has much more to do with learning about
the damage done to it by Allied bombing in 1944, and the
restoration efforts since, than with reacting to the
building’s beauty. Photographs
of the bombed structure remind me of what I saw one weekend in
Holyoke, Massachusetts when half of Precious Blood Church was
knocked down, with the rest to follow that Monday. While some stained glass
is still intact, many of the windows are filled with clear
glass that gives the interior a gray cast.
Within
the cathedral, eventually I come upon its Chapel of St. Joan
of Arc (see photo labeled “Jesus Maria” in this site: http://saint-joan-of-arc.com/rouen.htm). The front of the altar
shows a representation of her sword with the words Jesus and
Maria above and below; these were the two words written on her
battle standard. The
statue of Joan behind the altar shows her chained to the stake
and burning. Behind the
statue are windows depicting scenes from her life: http://professor-moriarty.com/info/section/stained-glass/designers/france/ingrand-max-life-saint-joan-arc-rouen-cathedral. At the top of one, we see
Charles being crowned, the draping of his cape repeating the
shape of her banner as it is shown in a battle scene below,
implying that his coronation was made possible (enfolded
inside of and resting upon) her military successes. One of the windows says,
“From the English in Homage.” When
I get home, I learn more: the
modern windows were created by Max Ingrand
and installed in the 1950’s for the 500th
anniversary of the Church’s “rehabilitation” of Joan. This particular window was
donated as a gesture by (mostly Catholic?) British people to
acknowledge their nation’s part in Joan’s execution: http://archive.catholicherald.co.uk/article/22nd-june-1956/5/the-double-ceremony-in-rouen. I am aware that the tour
books do not give me the detailed information I want so I can
understand what I encounter.
As
dusk falls, I scurry over to the rear of Église
St.Ouen to try to find the
cemetery to which Joan was taken on May 23, 1431, when she was
threatened with burning and consequently signed an abjuration. The area behind the church
today is a park. People
are still sitting and walking here even at this late hour. I am moderately nervous to
be walking here by myself in the dark, and I do not find a
cemetery, so I head back to the hotel through the old Norman
streets.
Chinon
Inside
the Forteresse Royale de Chinon, I have the same intuitive
thoughts I had a year earlier while looking downstream the
Thames from a window in the Medieval Palace in The Tower: I can feel how embattled
the leader who governed from this fortress felt. Inside these walls perched
on this hill, it is clear that Charles lived here to protect
himself. The scale of
opulence in these medieval royal palaces is much more modest
than that of later structures like the Château de Compiègne; as France grew
stronger as a nation, the wealth of its rulers grew apace.
The
Great Hall where Joan of Arc first met Charles publicly has
been torn down. The Forteresse’s guidebook reminds
visitors that contrary to the mythic version of her first
meeting with the Dauphin, they in fact had two initial
meetings: one was in his apartments, where she met him and a
small committee; and the second, after she had been to
Poitiers to be examined by theologians, was in the Great Hall.
Larissa Juliet Taylor suggests that the “miraculous”
recognition by Joan of the Dauphin during their first public
meeting in fact may have been made possible by the earlier
private meeting. I am not sure what to think of this
suggestion; I have always been so impressed by the
single-minded certainty of Joan’s actions, and her statements
during her trial, that it is
difficult for me to believe she was lying. I should re-read her
testimony.
Inside
the only remaining wing of the royal quarters, historical
films are shown. I’m
disappointed that the Joan of Arc film doesn’t seem to be
working. There are two
rooms dedicated to museum collections related to Joan of Arc. In one, I see a postcard
in which she is shown standing behind a poilu (what
the French called their infantrymen in World War I—based on
the word “hairy”). I
read about how her image was used in propaganda to encourage
the war effort. This
links her in my mind back to Verdun and the Voie Sacrée.
Ste. Catherine de Fierbois
Why
is it so important for me to take us out of our way, driving
through the agricultural countryside of the Loire Valley to
find this village too obscure to be found on most maps? For centuries, this hamlet
has been a stopping point for pilgrims heading to Spain along
the “Way of St. James.” I’ve
read that upon arrival here some pilgrims were given gold
rings that symbolized Ste. Catherine’s marriage to God. I have searched for this
place because Joan stayed here on her way to Chinon, and then later sent back
instructions to the clergy in the local church to look for a
sword for her near their altar.
A rusted sword was found buried behind the altar, with
five crosses on it. Joan
claimed her voices had told her it was there. During her trial, she
would not divulge to her captors the location of this special
sword. (According to
one story, she broke it driving prostitutes away from the
French army’s camp.)
Do I
believe in miracles? Once
we finally arrive at Ste. Catherine de Fierbois,
I’m amazed by how little fuss the village makes about its only
claim to fame. A statue
of Joan graces the central square, but this is true of many
other communes in France. There
is a plaque nearby referring to her sword being found there. But like a bloodhound, I’m
not satisfied I have found what I’ve driven over hill and dale
to see. “Behind the
altar”—is the location of the miracle behind the church? To one side is a wall, and
to the other, a barking dog. I
try the church door and find it open. Aha! Inside, I find a niche
indicating where the sword was found (behind where the altar
formerly stood) and marble plaques explaining its
significance. Also, a
painted statue of St. Catherine stands on a pedestal; before
it Joan must have prayed as well.
The
niche seems a little hokey to me, but I also consider the
question, “Just how should the Catholic Church indicate, on
the material plane, that a miracle happened here?” The inexplicable story
remains much larger than a bread-oven-like hole in a church
wall.
Orléans
Unfortunately
we must rush away from the Loire Valley to return our rental
car on time at the Charles de Gaulle Airport, so we can only
stop briefly in Orléans. We take a wrong turn on
the intercity highway, so have a longer walk down the Rue de
la République than we
planned, but we reach the bronze equestrian statue of Joan in
the impressively wide Place du Martroi:
http://www.pointurier.org/travel/europe/france/orleans/slides/005.html. Circling the statue to
examine it closely, I am saddened to see how many heads of the
figures in the bas-reliefs by Gabriel-Vital Dubray adorning the statue’s pedestal
have been broken off, presumably by vandals. The scenes depicted in the
bas-reliefs are those I have come to expect: the major events
in Joan’s story. These
are conveyed with compelling, somewhat magisterial horizontal
energy that reminds me of Greek drama with its chorus, but the
damage distracts. This
statue commemorates the importance of Joan’s role in the
liberation of the city from the siege of the English, yet it
is not protected from vandals nor seems to merit repair.
Musée d’Orsay, Paris
Of
all the works of art in this truly spectacular museum, two
portray Joan of Arc, and one that does not expands my
understanding of other images of her.
The
piece that generates the most insight for me is George Desvalières’ painting L’Ascension du Poilu:
http://www.musee-orsay.fr/fr/collections/catalogue-des-oeuvres/notice.html?no_cache=1&zoom=1&tx_damzoom_pi1%5Bzoom%5D=0&tx_damzoom_pi1%5BxmlId%5D=009594&tx_damzoom_pi1%5Bback%5D=%2Ffr%2Fcollections%2Fcatalogue-des-oeuvres%2Fnotice.html%3Fno_cache%3D1%26nnumid%3D009594%26cHash%3D3408779fbc. Mixing imagery of Joan of
Arc’s burning and her military triumphs with that of World War
I’s trench warfare and modern machinery (the locomotive), the
painting incorporates allusions that I would not have fully
grasped before this trip. I
appreciate how much I have learned over these two weeks.
Emmanuel
Frémiet’s small statue
“Jeanne d’Arc” on display may
simply be a smaller version of the larger one at the Place des
Pyramides. In any case, I’m struck by
how masculine she looks in this depiction, standing up in the
stirrups, with a grim and purposeful expression. The horse’s genitals are
prominent, also emphasizing male energy and force.
Finally,
I’m arrested by what I at first think is a painting of Joan by
Alphonse Osbert (Vision), but then
learn later it actually portrays Ste. Geneviève, the
patron saint of Paris: http://www.musee-orsay.fr/en/collections/works-in-focus/painting/commentaire_id/vision-3030.html?tx_commentaire_pi1%5BpidLi%5D=509&tx_commentaire_pi1%5Bfrom%5D=841&cHash=f385ce7af1. Regardless of that I doubt
that Osbert could have created
this work without being aware of similar images of Joan of Arc
in a meadow, among sheep, experiencing visions (here is Boutet de Monvel’s,
about which I have written a poem: http://www.maidofheaven.com/joanofarc_pictures2c3.asp). Like Joan, Ste.
Geneviève reported having visions and visitations from
saints and angels. For
me, Osbert’s painting renders
beautifully the in-betweenness of
being on earth while experiencing the divine. Ste. Geneviève is
luminous—light goes through her.
Is it dawn or sundown? In
either case, it is between day and night, and the pinkish
penumbra hovering above the tree tops seems to form a halo
around the earth. What
a powerful image, and one that helps me journey deeper towards
the mystery of Joan’s inspiration.
As I
walk east from the Musée
towards our hotel in the Marais, I wonder if any of my
ancestors walked along the Seine in just the same spot 400
years ago, or before. Or
if they lived elsewhere, could they have been too poor to ever
visit Paris? In the
plaza in front of the Hôtel
de Ville, I come upon a wonderful open-air exhibition about
the independence of African nations from colonial powers, and
about African culture. Most
of these nations were previously ruled by France and maintain
strong economic and cultural ties with their former
conquerors. Through my
French heritage, I am connected to a much larger community of
common history, culture, and language. Joan of Arc’s story is one
that the majority of us share.
Isolated as a Franco-American in my day-to-day life in
Massachusetts, I can either largely ignore this relationship
or paddle upstream to maintain it. Standing near the French
people of African descent looking at the exhibition beside me,
I am certain I want to be related to them and their histories,
not out of sentimentality, but because I recognize the
potential such connections could have for the future: both for myself
personally, and for a collective future of peoples inhabiting
a significant portion of the world’s land surface as we
address racism, global warming (what is done to the earth by
French speakers in Quebec or Madagascar affects the
livelihoods of French speakers in sub-Saharan Africa), etc. I want to be part of la Francophonie
in its broadest sense, as long as it stays cognizant of
its potential to oppress post-colonial peoples.