is little doubt that he must have met some wandering conjurer from India, who told him about the tricks of the mango plant, and how t is sent up to the sky.  We can imagine these two friends, the old man and the young, wandering in the woods together at evening, looking at the red and level clouds, as on that night when the old man pointed to a small beanstalk, and told his too imaginative companion that this also might be made to scale the heavens.  And then, when we remember the quite exceptional psychology of Jack, when we remember how there was in him a union of the prosaic, the love of plain vegetables, with an almost irrelevant eagerness for the unattainable, for invisibility and the void, we shall no longer wonder that it was to him especially that was sent this sweet, though merely symbolic, dream of the tree uniting earth and heaven.”  That is the way that Renan and France write, only they do it better.  But, really, a rationalist like myself becomes a little impatient and feels inclined to say, “But, hang it all, what do you know about the heredity of Jack or the psychology of Jack?  You know nothing about Jack at all, except that some people say that he climbed up a beanstalk.  Nobody would ever have thought of mentioning him if he hadn’t.  You must interpret him in terms of the beanstalk religion; you cannot merely interpret religion in terms of him.  We have the materials of this story, and we can believe them or not.  But we have not got the materials to make another story.”

It is no exaggeration to say that this is the manner of M. Anatole France in dealing with Joan of Arc.  Because her miracle is incredible to his somewhat old-fashioned materialism, he does not therefore dismiss it and her to fairyland with Jack and the Beanstalk.  He tries to invent a real story, for which he can find no real evidence.  He produces a scientific explanation which is quite destitute of any scientific proof.  It is as if I (being entirely ignorant of botany and chemistry) said that the beanstalk grew to the sky because nitrogen and argon got into the subsidiary ducts of the corolla.  To take the most obvious example, the principal character in M. France’s story is a person who never existed at all.  All Joan’s wisdom and energy, it seems, came from a certain priest, of whom there is not the tiniest trace in all the multitudinous records of her life.  The only foundation I can find for this fancy is the highly undemocratic idea that a peasant girl could not possibly have any ideas of her own.  It is very hard for a freethinker to remain democratic.  The writer seems altogether to forget what is meant by the moral atmosphere of a community.  To say that Joan must have learnt her vision of a virgin overthrowing evil from a priest, is like saying that some modern girl in London, pitying the poor, must have learnt it from a Labour Member.  She would learn it where the Labour Member learnt it—­in the whole state of our society.