_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.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Twentyseven thousand: that was his last haul. A cool
twentyseven thousand!
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?
LA TRÉMOUILLE. No, by Saint Dennis: the fat would be in the fire before
sundown.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Would it not be quite easy to tell them the truth?
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Man alive, they wouldnt believe it.
THE ARCHBISHOP. Just so. Well, the Church has to rule men for the good
of their souls as you have to rule them for the good of their bodies. To
do that, the Church must do as you do: nourish their faith by poetry.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Poetry! I should call it humbug.
THE ARCHBISHOP. You would be wrong, my friend. Parables are not lies
because they describe events that have never happened. Miracles are not
frauds because they are often—I do not say always—very simple and
innocent contrivances by which the priest fortifies the faith of his
flock. When this girl picks out the Dauphin among his courtiers, it will
not be a miracle for me, because I shall know how it has been done, and
my faith will not be increased. But as for the others, if they feel the
thrill of the supernatural, and forget their sinful clay in a sudden
sense of the glory of God, it will be a miracle and a blessed one. And
you will find that the girl herself will be more affected than anyone
else. She will forget how she really picked him out. So, perhaps, will
you.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Well, I wish I were clever enough to know how much of you
is God’s archbishop and how much the most artful fox in Touraine. Come
on, or we shall be late for the fun; and I want to see it, miracle or no
miracle.
THE ARCHBISHOP [_detaining him a moment_] Do not think that I am a lover
of crooked ways. There is a new spirit rising in men: we are at the
dawning of a wider epoch. If I were a simple monk, and had not to rule
men, I should seek peace for my spirit with Aristotle and Pythagoras
rather than with the saints and their miracles.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. And who the deuce was Pythagoras?
THE ARCHBISHOP. A sage who held that the earth is round, and that it
moves round the sun.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. What an utter fool! Couldnt he use his eyes?
_They go out together through the curtains, which are presently
withdrawn, revealing the full depth of the throne-room with the Court
assembled. On the right are two Chairs of State on a dais. Bluebeard is
standing theatrically on the dais, playing the king, and, like the
courtiers, enjoying the joke rather obviously. There is a curtained arch
in the wall behind the dais; but the main door, guarded by men-at-arms,
is at the other side of the room; and a clear path across is kept and
lined by the courtiers. Charles is in this path in the middle of the
room. La Hire is on his right. The Archbishop, on his left, has taken
his place by the dais: La Trémouille at the other side of it. The
Duchess de la Trémouille, pretending to be the Queen, sits in the
Consort’s chair, with a group of ladies in waiting close by, behind the
Archbishop._
_The chatter of the courtiers makes such a noise that nobody notices
the appearance of the page at the door._
THE PAGE. The Duke of—[_Nobody listens_]. The Duke of—[_The chatter
continues. Indignant at his failure to command a hearing, he snatches
the halberd of the nearest man-at-arms, and thumps the floor with it.
The chatter ceases; and everybody looks at him in silence_]. Attention!
[_He restores the halberd to the man-at-arms_]. The Duke of Vendôme
presents Joan the Maid to his Majesty.
CHARLES [_putting his finger on his lip_] Ssh! [_He hides behind the
nearest courtier, peering out to see what happens_].
BLUEBEARD [_majestically_] Let her approach the throne.
_Joan, dressed as a soldier, with her hair bobbed and hanging thickly
round her face, is led in by a bashful and speechless nobleman, from
whom she detaches herself to stop and look round eagerly for the
Dauphin._
THE DUCHESS [_to the nearest lady in waiting_] My dear! Her hair!
_All the ladies explode in uncontrollable laughter._
BLUEBEARD [_trying not to laugh, and waving his hand in deprecation of
their merriment_] Ssh—ssh! Ladies! Ladies!!
JOAN [_not at all embarrassed_] I wear it like this because I am a
soldier. Where be Dauphin?
_A titter runs through the Court as she walks to the dais._
BLUEBEARD [_condescendingly_] You are in the presence of the Dauphin.
_Joan looks at him sceptically for a moment, scanning him hard up and
down to make sure. Dead silence, all watching her. Fun dawns in her
face._
JOAN. Coom, Bluebeard! Thou canst not fool me. Where be Dauphin?
_A roar of laughter breaks out as Gilles, with a gesture of surrender,
joins in the laugh, and jumps down from the dais beside La Trémouille.
Joan, also on the broad grin, turns back, searching along the row of
courtiers, and presently makes a dive, and drags out Charles by the
arm._
JOAN [_releasing him and bobbing him a little curtsey_] Gentle little
Dauphin, I am sent to you to drive the English away from Orleans and
from France, and to crown you king in the cathedral at Rheims, where all
true kings of France are crowned.
CHARLES [_triumphant, to the Court_] You see, all of you: she knew the
blood royal. Who dare say now that I am not my father’s son? [_To Joan_]
But if you want me to be crowned at Rheims you must talk to the
Archbishop, not to me. There he is [_he is standing behind her_] !
JOAN [_turning quickly, overwhelmed with emotion_] Oh, my lord! [_She
falls on both knees before him, with bowed head, not daring to look up_]
My lord: I am only a poor country girl; and you are filled with the
blessedness and glory of God Himself; but you will touch me with your
hands, and give me your blessing, wont you?
BLUEBEARD [_whispering to La Trémouille_] The old fox blushes.
LA TRÉMOUILLE. Another miracle!
THE ARCHBISHOP [_touched, putting his hand on her head_] Child: you are
in love with religion.
JOAN [_startled: looking up at him_] Am I? I never thought of that. Is
there any harm in it?
THE ARCHBISHOP. There is no harm in it, my child. But there is danger.
JOAN [_rising, with a sunflush of reckless happiness irradiating her
face_] There is always danger, except in heaven. Oh, my lord, you have
given me such strength, such courage. It must be a most wonderful thing
to be Archbishop.
_The Court smiles broadly: even titters a little._
THE ARCHBISHOP [_drawing himself up sensitively_] Gentlemen: your levity
is rebuked by this maid’s faith. I am, God help me, all unworthy; but
your mirth is a deadly sin.
_Their faces fall. Dead silence._
BLUEBEARD. My lord: we were laughing at her, not at you.
THE ARCHBISHOP. What? Not at my unworthiness but at her faith! Gilles de
Rais: this maid prophesied that the blasphemer should be drowned in his
sin—
JOAN [_distressed_] No!
THE ARCHBISHOP [_silencing her by a gesture_] I prophesy now that you
will be hanged in yours if you do not learn when to laugh and when to
pray.
BLUEBEARD. My lord: I stand rebuked. I am sorry: I can say no more. But
if you prophesy that I shall be hanged, I shall never be able to resist
temptation, because I shall always be telling myself that I may as well
be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
_The courtiers take heart at this. There is more tittering._
JOAN [_scandalized_] You are an idle fellow, Bluebeard; and you have
great impudence to answer the Archbishop.
LA HIRE [_with a huge chuckle_] Well said, lass! Well said!
JOAN [_impatiently to the Archbishop_] Oh, my lord, will you send all
these silly folks away so that I may speak to the Dauphin alone?
LA HIRE [_goodhumoredly_] I can take a hint. [_He salutes; turns on his
heel; and goes out_].
THE ARCHBISHOP. Come, gentlemen. The Maid comes with God’s blessing, and
must be obeyed.
_The courtiers withdraw, some through the arch, others at the opposite
side. The Archbishop marches across to the door, followed by the Duchess
and La Trémouille. As the Archbishop passes Joan, she falls on her
knees, and kisses the hem of his robe fervently. He shakes his head in
instinctive remonstrance; gathers the robe from her; and goes out. She
is left kneeling directly in the Duchess’s way._
THE DUCHESS [_coldly_] Will you allow me to pass, please?
JOAN [_hastily rising, and standing back_] Beg pardon, maam, I am sure.
_The Duchess passes on. Joan stares after her; then whispers to the
Dauphin._
JOAN. Be that Queen?
CHARLES. No. She thinks she is.
JOAN [_again staring after the Duchess_] Oo-oo-ooh! [_Her awestruck
amazement at the figure cut by the magnificently dressed lady is not
wholly complimentary_].
LA TRÉMOUILLE [_very surly_] I’ll trouble your Highness not to gibe at
my wife. [_He goes out. The others have already gone_].
JOAN [_to the Dauphin_] Who be old Gruff-and-Grum?
CHARLES. He is the Duke de la Trémouille.
JOAN. What be his job?
CHARLES. He pretends to command the army. And whenever I find a friend I
can care for, he kills him.
JOAN. Why dost let him?
CHARLES [_petulantly moving to the throne side of the room to escape
from her magnetic field_] How can I prevent him? He bullies me. They all
bully me.
JOAN. Art afraid?
CHARLES. Yes: I am afraid. It’s no use preaching to me about it. It’s
all very well for these big men with their armor that is too heavy for
me, and their swords that I can hardly lift, and their muscle and their
shouting and their bad tempers. They like fighting: most of them are
making fools of themselves all the time they are not fighting; but I am
quiet and sensible; and I dont want to kill people: I only want to be
left alone to enjoy myself in my own way. I never asked to be a king: it
was pushed on me. So if you are going to say “Son of St Louis: gird on
the sword of your ancestors, and lead us to victory,” you may spare your
breath to cool your porridge; for I cannot do it. I am not built that
way; and there is an end of it.
JOAN [_trenchant and masterful_] Blethers! We are all like that to begin
with. I shall put courage into thee.
CHARLES. But I dont want to have courage put into me. I want to sleep
in a comfortable bed, and not live in continual terror of being killed
or wounded. Put courage into the others, and let them have their
bellyful of fighting; but let me alone.
JOAN. It’s no use, Charlie: thou must face what God puts on thee. If
thou fail to make thyself king, thoult be a beggar: what else art fit
for? Come! Let me see thee sitting on the throne. I have looked forward
to that.
CHARLES. What is the good of sitting on the throne when the other
fellows give all the orders? However! [_he sits enthroned, a piteous
figure_] here is the king for you! Look your fill at the poor devil.
JOAN. Thourt not king yet, lad: thourt but Dauphin. Be not led away by
them around thee. Dressing up dont fill empty noddle. I know the
people: the real people that make thy bread for thee; and I tell thee
they count no man king of France until the holy oil has been poured on
his hair, and himself consecrated and crowned in Rheims Cathedral. And
thou needs new clothes, Charlie. Why does not Queen look after thee
properly?
CHARLES. We’re too poor. She wants all the money we can spare to put on
her own back. Besides, I like to see her beautifully dressed; and I
dont care what I wear myself; I should look ugly anyhow.
JOAN. There is some good in thee, Charlie; but it is not yet a king’s
good.
CHARLES. We shall see. I am not such a fool as I look. I have my eyes
open; and I can tell you that one good treaty is worth ten good fights.
These fighting fellows lose all on the treaties that they gain on the
fights. If we can only have a treaty, the English are sure to have the
worst of it, because they are better at fighting than at thinking.
JOAN. If the English win, it is they that will make the treaty; and then
God help poor France! Thou must fight, Charlie, whether thou will or no.
I will go first to hearten thee. We must take our courage in both hands:
aye, and pray for it with both hands too.
CHARLES [_descending from his throne and again crossing the room to
escape from her dominating urgency_] Oh do stop talking about God and
praying. I cant bear people who are always praying. Isnt it bad enough
to have to do it at the proper times?
JOAN [_pitying him_] Thou poor child, thou hast never prayed in thy
life. I must teach thee from the beginning.
CHARLES. I am not a child: I am a grown man and a father; and I will not
be taught any more.
JOAN. Aye, you have a little son. He that will be Louis the Eleventh
when you die. Would you not fight for him?
CHARLES. No: a horrid boy. He hates me. He hates everybody, selfish
little beast! I dont want to be bothered with children. I dont want to
be a father; and I dont want to be a son: especially a son of St Louis.
I dont want to be any of these fine things you all have your heads full
of: I want to be just what I am. Why cant you mind your own business,
and let me mind mine?
JOAN [_again contemptuous_] Minding your own business is like minding
your own body: it’s the shortest way to make yourself sick. What is my
business? Helping mother at home. What is thine? Petting lapdogs and
sucking sugarsticks. I call that muck. I tell thee it is God’s business
we are here to do: not our own. I have a message to thee from God; and
thou must listen to it, though thy heart break with the terror of it.
CHARLES. I dont want a message; but can you tell me any secrets? Can
you do any cures? Can you turn lead into gold, or anything of that sort?
JOAN. I can turn thee into a king, in Rheims Cathedral; and that is a
miracle that will take some doing, it seems.
CHARLES. If we go to Rheims, and have a coronation, Anne will want new
dresses. We cant afford them. I am all right as I am.
JOAN. As you are! And what is that? Less than my father’s poorest
shepherd. Thourt not lawful owner of thy own land of France till thou
be consecrated.
CHARLES. But I shall not be lawful owner of my own land anyhow. Will the
consecration pay off my mortgages? I have pledged my last acre to the
Archbishop and that fat bully. I owe money even to Bluebeard.
JOAN [_earnestly_] Charlie: I come from the land, and have gotten my
strength working on the land; and I tell thee that the land is thine to
rule righteously and keep God’s peace in, and not to pledge at the
pawnshop as a drunken woman pledges her children’s clothes. And I come
from God to tell thee to kneel in the cathedral and solemnly give thy
kingdom to Him for ever and ever, and become the greatest king in the
world as His steward and His bailiff, His soldier and His servant. The
very clay of France will become holy: her soldiers will be the soldiers
of God: the rebel dukes will be rebels against God: the English will
fall on their knees and beg thee let them return to their lawful homes
in peace. Wilt be a poor little Judas, and betray me and Him that sent
me?
CHARLES [_tempted at last_] Oh, if I only dare!
JOAN. I shall dare, dare, and dare again, in God’s name! Art for or
against me?
CHARLES [_excited_] I’ll risk it. I warn you I shant be able to keep it
up; but I’ll risk it. You shall see. [_Running to the main door and
shouting_] Hallo! Come back, everybody. [_To Joan, as he runs back to
the arch opposite_] Mind you stand by and dont let me be bullied.
[_Through the arch_] Come along, will you: the whole Court. [_He sits
down in the royal chair as they all hurry in to their former places,
chattering and wondering_]. Now I’m in for it; but no matter: here goes!
[_To the page_] Call for silence, you little beast, will you?
THE PAGE [_snatching a halberd as before and thumping with it
repeatedly_] Silence for His Majesty the King. The King speaks.
[_Peremptorily_] Will you be silent there? [_Silence_].
CHARLES [_rising_] I have given the command of the army to The Maid. The
Maid is to do as she likes with it. [_He descends from the dais_].
_General amazement. La Hire, delighted, slaps his steel thigh-piece
with his gauntlet._
LA TRÉMOUILLE [_turning threateningly towards Charles_] What is this?
_I_ command the army.
JOAN [_quickly puts her hand on Charles’s shoulder as he instinctively
recoils_] !
CHARLES [_with a grotesque effort, culminating in an extravagant
gesture, snaps his fingers in the Chamberlain’s face_] !
JOAN. Thourt answered, old Gruff-and-Grum. [_Suddenly flashing out her
sword as she divines that her moment has come_] Who is for God and His
Maid? Who is for Orleans with me?
LA HIRE [_carried away, drawing also_] For God and His Maid! To Orleans!
ALL THE KNIGHTS [_following his lead with enthusiasm_] To Orleans!
_Joan, radiant, falls on her knees in thanksgiving to God. They all
kneel, except the Archbishop, who gives his benediction with a sign, and
La Trémouille, who collapses, cursing._
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