ROBERT. Yes, yes; I remember. You come from Domremy in Lorraine, I think.
JOAN. Yes; but what does it matter? we all speak French.
ROBERT. Dont ask questions: answer them. How old are you?
JOAN. Seventeen: so they tell me. It might be nineteen. I dont remember.
ROBERT. What did you mean when you said that St Catherine and St Margaret talked to you every day?
JOAN. They do.
ROBERT. What are they like?
JOAN [suddenly obstinate] I will tell you nothing about that: they have not given me leave.
ROBERT. But you actually see them; and they talk to you just as I am talking to you?
JOAN. No: it is quite different. I cannot tell you: you must not talk to me about my voices.
ROBERT. How do you mean? voices?
JOAN. I hear voices telling me what to do. They come from God.
ROBERT. They come from your imagination.
JOAN. Of course. That is how the messages of God come to us.
POULENGEY. Checkmate.
ROBERT. No fear! [To Joan] So God says you are to raise the siege of Orleans?
JOAN. And to crown the Dauphin in Rheims Cathedral.
ROBERT. [gasping] Crown the D—! Gosh!
JOAN. And to make the English leave France.
ROBERT [sarcastic] Anything else?
JOAN [charming] Not just at present, thank you, squire.
ROBERT. I suppose you think raising a siege is as easy as chasing a cow out of a meadow. You think soldiering is anybody’s job?
JOAN. I do not think it can be very difficult if God is on your side, and you are willing to put your life in His hand. But many soldiers are very simple.
ROBERT [grimly] Simple! Did you ever see English soldiers fighting?
JOAN. They are only men. God made them just like us; but He gave them their own country and their own language; and it is not His will that they should come into our country and try to speak our language.
ROBERT. Who has been putting such nonsense into your head? Dont you know that soldiers are subject to their feudal lord, and that it is nothing to them or to you whether he is the duke of Burgundy or the king of England or the king of France? What has their language to do with it?
JOAN. I do not understand that a bit. We are all subject to the King of Heaven; and He gave us our countries and our languages, and meant us to keep them. If it were not so it would be murder to kill an Englishman in battle; and you, squire, would be in great danger of hell fire. You must not think about your duty to your feudal lord, but about your duty to God.
POULENGEY. It’s no use, Robert: she can choke you like that every time.
ROBERT. Can she, by Saint Dennis! We shall see. [To Joan] We are not talking about God: we are talking about practical affairs. I ask you again, girl, have you ever seen English soldiers fighting? Have you ever seen them plundering, burning, turning the countryside into a desert? Have you heard no tales of their Black Prince who was blacker than the devil himself, or of the English king’s father?
JOAN. You must not be afraid, Robert—
ROBERT. Damn you, I am not afraid. And who gave you leave to call me Robert?
JOAN. You were called so in church in the name of our Lord. All the other names are your father’s or your brother’s or anybody’s.
ROBERT. Tcha!
JOAN. Listen to me, squire. At Domremy we had to fly to the next village to escape from the English soldiers. Three of them were left behind, wounded. I came to know these three poor goddams quite well. They had not half my strength.
ROBERT. Do you know why they are called goddams?
JOAN. No. Everyone calls them goddams.
ROBERT. It is because they are always calling on their God to condemn their souls to perdition. That is what goddam means in their language. How do you like it?
JOAN. God will be merciful to them; and they will act like His good children when they go back to the country He made for them, and made them for. I have heard the tales of the Black Prince. The moment he touched the soil of our country the devil entered into him and made him a black fiend. But at home, in the place made for him by God, he was good. It is always so. If I went into England against the will of God to conquer England, and tried to live there and speak its language, the devil would enter into me; and when I was old I should shudder to remember the wickedness I did.
ROBERT. Perhaps. But the more devil you were the better you might fight. That is why the goddams will take Orleans. And you cannot stop them, nor ten thousand like you.
JOAN. One thousand like me can stop them. Ten like me can stop them with God on our side. [She rises impetuously, and goes at him, unable to sit quiet any longer]. You do not understand, squire. Our soldiers are always beaten because they are fighting only to save their skins; and the shortest way to save your skin is to run away. Our knights are thinking only of the money they will make in ransoms: it is not kill or be killed with them, but pay or be paid. But I will teach them all to fight that the will of God may be done in France; and then they will drive the poor goddams before them like sheep. You and Polly will live to see the day when there will not be an English soldier on the soil of France; and there will be but one king there: not the feudal English king, but God’s French one.
ROBERT [to Poulengey] This may be all rot, Polly; but the troops might swallow it, though nothing that we can say seems able to put any fight into them. Even the Dauphin might swallow it. And if she can put fight into him, she can put it into anybody.
POULENGEY. I can see no harm in trying. Can you? And there is something about the girl—
ROBERT [turning to Joan] Now listen you to me; and [desperately] dont cut in before I have time to think.
JOAN [plumping down on the stool again, like an obedient schoolgirl] Yes, squire.
ROBERT. Your orders are, that you are to go to Chinon under the escort of this gentleman and three of his friends.
JOAN [radiant, clasping her hands] Oh, squire! Your head is all circled with light, like a saint’s.
POULENGEY. How is she to get into the royal presence?
ROBERT [who has looked up for his halo rather apprehensively] I dont know: how did she get into my presence? If the Dauphin can keep her out he is a better man than I take him for. [Rising] I will send her to Chinon; and she can say I sent her. Then let come what may: I can do no more.
JOAN. And the dress? I may have a soldier’s dress, maynt I, squire?
ROBERT. Have what you please. I wash my hands of it.
JOAN [wildly excited by her success] Come, Polly. [She dashes out].
ROBERT [shaking Poulengey’s hand] Goodbye, old man, I am taking a big chance. Few other men would have done it. But as you say, there is something about her.
POULENGEY. Yes: there is something about her. Goodbye. [He goes out].
Robert, still very doubtful whether he has not been made a fool of by a crazy female, and a social inferior to boot, scratches his head and slowly comes back from the door.
The steward runs in with a basket.
STEWARD. Sir, sir—
ROBERT. What now?
STEWARD. The hens are laying like mad, sir. Five dozen eggs!
ROBERT [stiffens convulsively; crosses himself; and forms with his pale lips the words] Christ in heaven! [Aloud but breathless] She did come from God.
SCENE II
Chinon, in Touraine. An end of the throne-room in the castle, curtained off to make an antechamber. The Archbishop of Rheims, close on 50, a full-fed political prelate with nothing of the ecclesiastic about him except his imposing bearing, and the Lord Chamberlain, Monseigneur de la Trémouille, a monstrous arrogant wineskin of a man, are waiting for the Dauphin. There is a door in the wall to the right of the two men. It is late in the afternoon on the 8th of March, 1429. The Archbishop stands with dignity whilst the Chamberlain, on his left, fumes about in the worst of tempers.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. What the devil does the Dauphin mean by keeping us waiting like this? I dont know how you have the patience to stand there like a stone idol.
THE ARCHBISHOP. You see, I am an archbishop; and an archbishop is a sort of idol. At any rate he has to learn to keep still and suffer fools patiently. Besides, my dear Lord Chamberlain, it is the Dauphin’s royal privilege to keep you waiting, is it not?
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Dauphin be damned! saving your reverence. Do you know how much money he owes me.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Much more than he owes me, I have no doubt, because you are a much richer man. But I take it he owes you all you could afford to lend him. That is what he owes me.
THE ARCHBISHOP. What becomes of it all? He never has a suit of clothes that I would throw to a curate.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. He dines on a chicken or a scrap of mutton. He borrows my last penny; and there is nothing to shew for it. [A page appears in the doorway]. At last!
THE PAGE. No, my lord: it is not His Majesty. Monsieur de Rais is approaching.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Young Bluebeard! Why announce him?
THE PAGE. Captain La Hire is with him. Something has happened, I think.
Gilles de Rais, a young man of 25, very smart and self-possessed, and sporting the extravagance of a little curled beard dyed blue at a clean-shaven court, comes in. He is determined to make himself agreeable, but lacks natural joyousness, and is not really pleasant. In fact when he defies the Church some eleven years later he is accused of trying to extract pleasure from horrible cruelties, and hanged. So far, however, there is no shadow of the gallows on him. He advances gaily to the Archbishop. The page withdraws.
BLUEBEARD. Your faithful lamb, Archbishop. Good day, my lord. Do you know what has happened to La Hire?
LA TRÉMOUILLE. He has sworn himself into a fit, perhaps.
BLUEBEARD. No: just the opposite. Foul Mouthed Frank, the only man in Touraine who could beat him at swearing, was told by a soldier that he shouldnt use such language when he was at the point of death.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Nor at any other point. But was Foul Mouthed Frank on the point of death?
BLUEBEARD. Yes: he has just fallen into a well and been drowned. La Hire is frightened out of his wits.
Captain La Hire comes in: a war dog with no court manners and pronounced camp ones.
BLUEBEARD. I have just been telling the Chamberlain and the Archbishop. The Archbishop says you are a lost man.
LA HIRE [striding past Bluebeard, and planting himself between the Archbishop and La Trémouille] This is nothing to joke about. It is worse than we thought. It was not a soldier, but an angel dressed as a soldier.
| THE ARCHBISHOP | } | |
| THE CONSTABLE | [exclaiming all together] An angel! | |
| BLUEBEARD |
LA HIRE. Yes, an angel. She has made her way from Champagne with half a dozen men through the thick of everything: Burgundians, Goddams, deserters, robbers, and Lord knows who; and they never met a soul except the country folk. I know one of them: de Poulengey. He says she’s an angel. If ever I utter an oath again may my soul be blasted to eternal damnation.
THE ARCHBISHOP. A very pious beginning, Captain.
Bluebeard and La Trémouille laugh at him. The page returns.
THE PAGE. His Majesty.
They stand perfunctorily at court attention. The Dauphin, aged 26, really King Charles the Seventh since the death of his father, but as yet uncrowned, comes in through the curtains with a paper in his hands. He is a poor creature physically; and the current fashion of shaving closely, and hiding every scrap of hair under the head-covering or headdress, both by women and men, makes the worst of his appearance. He has little narrow eyes, near together, a long pendulous nose that droops over his thick short upper lip, and the expression of a young dog accustomed to be kicked, yet incorrigible and irrepressible. But he is neither vulgar nor stupid; and he has a cheeky humor which enables him to hold his own in conversation. Just at present he is excited, like a child with a new toy. He comes to the Archbishop’s left hand. Bluebeard and La Hire retire towards the curtains.
CHARLES. Oh, Archbishop, do you know what Robert de Baudricourt is sending me from Vaucouleurs?
THE ARCHBISHOP [contemptuously] I am not interested in the newest toys.
CHARLES [indignantly] It isnt a toy. [Sulkily] However, I can get on very well without your interest.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Your Highness is taking offence very unnecessarily.
CHARLES. Thank you. You are always ready with a lecture, arnt you?
LA TRÉMOUILLE [roughly] Enough grumbling. What have you got there?
CHARLES. What is that to you?
LA TRÉMOUILLE. It is my business to know what is passing between you and the garrison at Vaucouleurs. [He snatches the paper from the Dauphin’s hand, and begins reading it with some difficulty, following the words with his finger and spelling them out syllable by syllable.]
CHARLES [mortified] You all think you can treat me as you please because I owe you money, and because I am no good at fighting. But I have the blood royal in my veins.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Even that has been questioned, your Highness. One hardly recognizes in you the grandson of Charles the Wise.
CHARLES. I want to hear no more of my grandfather. He was so wise that he used up the whole family stock of wisdom for five generations, and left me the poor fool I am, bullied and insulted by all of you.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Control yourself, sir. These outbursts of petulance are not seemly.
CHARLES. Another lecture! Thank you. What a pity it is that though you are an archbishop saints and angels dont come to see you!
THE ARCHBISHOP. What do you mean?
CHARLES. Aha! Ask that bully there [pointing to La Trémouille.]
LA TRÉMOUILLE [furious] Hold your tongue. Do you hear?
CHARLES. Oh, I hear. You neednt shout. The whole castle can hear. Why dont you go and shout at the English, and beat them for me?
LA TRÉMOUILLE [raising his fist] You young—
CHARLES [running behind the Archbishop] Dont you raise your hand to me. It’s high treason.
LA HIRE. Steady, Duke! Steady!
THE ARCHBISHOP [resolutely] Come, come! this will not do. My lord Chamberlain; please! please! we must keep some sort of order. [To the Dauphin] And you, sir: if you cannot rule your kingdom, at least try to rule yourself.
CHARLES. Another lecture! Thank you.
LA TRÉMOUILLE [handing the paper to the Archbishop] Here: read the accursed thing for me. He has sent the blood boiling into my head: I cant distinguish the letters.
CHARLES [coming back and peering round La Trémouille’s left shoulder] I will read it for you if you like. I can read, you know.
LA TRÉMOUILLE [with intense contempt, not at all stung by the taunt] Yes: reading is about all you are fit for. Can you make it out, Archbishop?
THE ARCHBISHOP. I should have expected more commonsense from De Baudricourt. He is sending some cracked country lass here—
CHARLES [interrupting] No: he is sending a saint: an angel. And she is coming to me: to me, the king, and not to you, Archbishop, holy as you are. She knows the blood royal if you dont. [He struts up to the curtains between Bluebeard and La Hire.]
THE ARCHBISHOP. You cannot be allowed to see this crazy wench.
CHARLES [turning] But I am the king; and I will.
LA TRÉMOUILLE [brutally] Then she cannot be allowed to see you. Now!
CHARLES. I tell you I will. I am going to put my foot down—
BLUEBEARD [laughing at him] Naughty! What would your wise grandfather say?
CHARLES. That just shews your ignorance, Bluebeard. My grandfather had a saint who used to float in the air when she was praying, and told him everything he wanted to know. My poor father had two saints, Marie de Maillé and the Gasque of Avignon. It is in our family; and I dont care what you say: I will have my saint too.
THE ARCHBISHOP. This creature is not a saint. She is not even a respectable woman. She does not wear women’s clothes. She is dressed like a soldier, and rides round the country with soldiers. Do you suppose such a person can be admitted to your Highness’s court?
LA HIRE. Stop. [Going to the Archbishop] Did you say a girl in armor, like a soldier?
THE ARCHBISHOP. So De Baudricourt describes her.
LA HIRE. But by all the devils in hell—Oh, God forgive me, what am I saying?—by Our Lady and all the saints, this must be the angel that struck Foul Mouthed Frank dead for swearing.
CHARLES [triumphantly] You see! A miracle.
LA HIRE. She may strike the lot of us dead if we cross her. For Heaven’s sake, Archbishop, be careful what you are doing.
THE ARCHBISHOP [severely] Rubbish! Nobody has been struck dead. A drunken blackguard who has been rebuked a hundred times for swearing has fallen into a well, and been drowned. A mere coincidence.
LA HIRE. I do not know what a coincidence is. I do know that the man is dead, and that she told him he was going to die.
THE ARCHBISHOP. We are all going to die, Captain.
LA HIRE [crossing himself] I hope not. [He backs out of the conversation.]
BLUEBEARD. We can easily find out whether she is an angel or not. Let us arrange when she comes that I shall be the Dauphin, and see whether she will find me out.
CHARLES. Yes: I agree to that. If she cannot find the blood royal I will have nothing to do with her.
THE ARCHBISHOP. It is for the Church to make saints: let De Baudricourt mind his own business, and not dare usurp the function of his priest. I say the girl shall not be admitted.
BLUEBEARD. But, Archbishop—
THE ARCHBISHOP [sternly] I speak in the Church’s name. [To the Dauphin] Do you dare say she shall?
CHARLES [intimidated but sulky] Oh, if you make it an excommunication matter, I have nothing more to say, of course. But you havnt read the end of the letter. De Baudricourt says she will raise the siege of Orleans, and beat the English for us.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Rot!
CHARLES. Well, will you save Orleans for us, with all your bullying?
LA TRÉMOUILLE [savagely] Do not throw that in my face again: do you hear? I have done more fighting than you ever did or ever will. But I cannot be everywhere.
THE DAUPHIN. Well, that’s something.
BLUEBEARD [coming between the Archbishop and Charles] You have Jack Dunois at the head of your troops in Orleans: the brave Dunois, the handsome Dunois, the wonderful invincible Dunois, the darling of all the ladies, the beautiful bastard. Is it likely that the country lass can do what he cannot do?
CHARLES. Why doesnt he raise the siege, then?
LA HIRE. The wind is against him.
BLUEBEARD. How can the wind hurt him at Orleans? It is not on the Channel.
LA HIRE. It is on the river Loire; and the English hold the bridgehead. He must ship his men across the river and upstream, if he is to take them in the rear. Well, he cannot, because there is a devil of a wind blowing the other way. He is tired of paying the priests to pray for a west wind. What he needs is a miracle. You tell me that what the girl did to Foul Mouthed Frank was no miracle. No matter: it finished Frank. If she changes the wind for Dunois, that may not be a miracle either; but it may finish the English. What harm is there in trying?
THE ARCHBISHOP [who has read the end of the letter and become more thoughtful] It is true that De Baudricourt seems extraordinarily impressed.
LA HIRE. De Baudricourt is a blazing ass; but he is a soldier; and if he thinks she can beat the English, all the rest of the army will think so too.
LA TRÉMOUILLE [to the Archbishop, who is hesitating] Oh, let them have their way. Dunois’ men will give up the town in spite of him if somebody does not put some fresh spunk into them.
THE ARCHBISHOP. The Church must examine the girl before anything decisive is done about her. However, since his Highness desires it, let her attend the Court.
LA HIRE. I will find her and tell her. [He goes out].
CHARLES. Come with me, Bluebeard; and let us arrange so that she will not know who I am. You will pretend to be me. [He goes out through the curtains].
BLUEBEARD. Pretend to be that thing! Holy Michael! [He follows the Dauphin].
LA TRÉMOUILLE. I wonder will she pick him out!
THE ARCHBISHOP. Of course she will.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Why? How is she to know?
THE ARCHBISHOP. She will know what everybody in Chinon knows: that the Dauphin is the meanest-looking and worst-dressed figure in the Court, and that the man with the blue beard is Gilles de Rais.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. I never thought of that.
THE ARCHBISHOP. You are not so accustomed to miracles as I am. It is part of my profession.
LA TRÉMOUILLE [puzzled and a little scandalized] But that would not be a miracle at all.
THE ARCHBISHOP [calmly] Why not?
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Well, come; what is a miracle?
THE ARCHBISHOP. A miracle, my friend, is an event which creates faith. That is the purpose and nature of miracles. They may seem very wonderful to the people who witness them, and very simple to those who perform them. That does not matter: if they confirm or create faith they are true miracles.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Even when they are frauds, do you mean?
THE ARCHBISHOP. Frauds deceive. An event which creates faith does not deceive: therefore it is not a fraud, but a miracle.
LA TRÉMOUILLE [scratching his neck in his perplexity] Well, I suppose as you are an archbishop you must be right. It seems a bit fishy to me. But I am no churchman, and dont understand these matters.
THE ARCHBISHOP. You are not a churchman; but you are a diplomatist and a soldier. Could you make our citizens pay war taxes, or our soldiers sacrifice their lives, if they knew what is really happening instead of what seems to them to be happening?