SCENE VI

_Rouen, 30th May 1431. A great stone hall in the castle, arranged for a

trial-at-law, but not a trial-by-jury, the court being the Bishop’s

court with the Inquisition participating: hence there are two raised

chairs side by side for the Bishop and the Inquisitor as judges. Rows of

chairs radiating from them at an obtuse angle are for the canons, the

doctors of law and theology, and the Dominican monks, who act as

assessors. In the angle is a table for the scribes, with stools. There

is also a heavy rough wooden stool for the prisoner. All these are at

the inner end of the hall. The further end is open to the courtyard

through a row of arches. The court is shielded from the weather by

screens and curtains._

_Looking down the great hall from the middle of the inner end, the

judicial chairs and scribes’ table are to the right. The prisoner’s

stool is to the left. There are arched doors right and left. It is a

fine sunshiny May morning._

_Warwick comes in through the arched doorway on the judges’ side,

followed by his page._

THE PAGE [_pertly_] I suppose your lordship is aware that we have no

business here. This is an ecclesiastical court; and we are only the

secular arm.

WARWICK. I am aware of that fact. Will it please your impudence to find

the Bishop of Beauvais for me, and give him a hint that he can have a

word with me here before the trial, if he wishes?

THE PAGE [_going_] Yes, my lord.

WARWICK. And mind you behave yourself. Do not address him as Pious

Peter.

THE PAGE. No, my lord. I shall be kind to him, because, when The Maid is

brought in, Pious Peter will have to pick a peck of pickled pepper.

_Cauchon enters through the same door with a Dominican monk and a

canon, the latter carrying a brief._

THE PAGE. The Right Reverend his lordship the Bishop of Beauvais. And

two other reverend gentlemen.

WARWICK. Get out; and see that we are not interrupted.

THE PAGE. Right, my lord [_he vanishes airily_].

CAUCHON. I wish your lordship good-morrow.

WARWICK. Good-morrow to your lordship. Have I had the pleasure of

meeting your friends before? I think not.

CAUCHON [_introducing the monk, who is on his right_] This, my lord, is

Brother John Lemaître, of the order of St Dominic. He is acting as

deputy for the Chief Inquisitor into the evil of heresy in France.

Brother John: the Earl of Warwick.

WARWICK. Your Reverence is most welcome. We have no Inquisitor in

England, unfortunately; though we miss him greatly, especially on

occasions like the present.

_The Inquisitor smiles patiently, and bows. He is a mild elderly

gentleman, but has evident reserves of authority and firmness._

CAUCHON [_introducing the Canon, who is on his left_] This gentleman is

Canon John D’Estivet, of the Chapter of Bayeux. He is acting as

Promoter.

WARWICK. Promoter?

CAUCHON. Prosecutor, you would call him in civil law.

WARWICK. Ah! prosecutor. Quite, quite. I am very glad to make your

acquaintance, Canon D’Estivet.

D’ESTIVET [_bows_] ! [_He is on the young side of middle age, well

mannered, but vulpine beneath his veneer_].

WARWICK. May I ask what stage the proceedings have reached? It is now

more than nine months since The Maid was captured at Compiègne by the

Burgundians. It is fully four months since I bought her from the

Burgundians for a very handsome sum, solely that she might be brought to

justice. It is very nearly three months since I delivered her up to you,

my Lord Bishop, as a person suspected of heresy. May I suggest that you

are taking a rather unconscionable time to make up your minds about a

very plain case? Is this trial never going to end?

THE INQUISITOR [_smiling_] It has not yet begun, my lord.

WARWICK. Not yet begun! Why, you have been at it eleven weeks!

CAUCHON. We have not been idle, my lord. We have held fifteen

examinations of The Maid: six public and nine private.

THE INQUISITOR [_always patiently smiling_] You see, my lord, I have

been present at only two of these examinations. They were proceedings of

the Bishop’s court solely, and not of the Holy Office. I have only just

decided to associate myself—that is, to associate the Holy

Inquisition—with the Bishop’s court. I did not at first think that this

was a case of heresy at all. I regarded it as a political case, and The

Maid as a prisoner of war. But having now been present at two of the

examinations, I must admit that this seems to be one of the gravest

cases of heresy within my experience. Therefore everything is now in

order; and we proceed to trial this morning. [_He moves towards the

judicial chairs_].

CAUCHON. This moment, if your lordship’s convenience allows.

WARWICK [_graciously_] Well, that is good news, gentlemen. I will not

attempt to conceal from you that our patience was becoming strained.

CAUCHON. So I gathered from the threats of your soldiers to drown those

of our people who favor The Maid.

WARWICK. Dear me! At all events their intentions were friendly to y o u,

my lord.

CAUCHON [_sternly_] I hope not. I am determined that the woman shall

have a fair hearing. The justice of the Church is not a mockery, my

lord.

THE INQUISITOR [_returning_] Never has there been a fairer examination

within my experience, my lord. The Maid needs no lawyers to take her

part: she will be tried by her most faithful friends, all ardently

desirous to save her soul from perdition.

D’ESTIVET. Sir: I am the Promoter; and it has been my painful duty to

present the case against the girl; but believe me, I would throw up my

case today and hasten to her defence if I did not know that men far my

superiors in learning and piety, in eloquence and persuasiveness, have

been sent to reason with her, to explain to her the danger she is

running, and the ease with which she may avoid it. [_Suddenly bursting

into forensic eloquence, to the disgust of Cauchon and the Inquisitor,

who have listened to him so far with patronizing approval_] Men have

dared to say that we are acting from hate; but God is our witness that

they lie. Have we tortured her? No. Have we ceased to exhort her; to

implore her to have pity on herself; to come to the bosom of her Church

as an erring but beloved child? Have we—

CAUCHON [_interrupting drily_] Take care, Canon. All that you say is

true; but if you make his lordship believe it I will not answer for your

life, and hardly for my own.

WARWICK [_deprecating, but by no means denying_] Oh, my lord, you are

very hard on us poor English. But we certainly do not share your pious

desire to save The Maid: in fact I tell you now plainly that her death

is a political necessity which I regret but cannot help. If the Church

lets her go—

CAUCHON [_with fierce and menacing pride_] If the Church lets her go,

woe to the man, were he the Emperor himself, who dares lay a finger on

her! The Church is not subject to political necessity, my lord!

THE INQUISITOR [_interposing smoothly_] You need have no anxiety about

the result, my lord. You have an invincible ally in the matter: one who

is far more determined than you that she shall burn.

WARWICK. And who is this very convenient partisan, may I ask?

THE INQUISITOR. The Maid herself. Unless you put a gag in her mouth you

cannot prevent her from convicting herself ten times over every time she

opens it.

D’ESTIVET. That is perfectly true, my lord. My hair bristles on my head

when I hear so young a creature utter such blasphemies.

WARWICK. Well, by all means do your best for her if you are quite sure

it will be of no avail. [_Looking hard at Cauchon_] I should be sorry to

have to act without the blessing of the Church.

CAUCHON [_with a mixture of cynical admiration and contempt_] And yet

they say Englishmen are hypocrites! You play for your side, my lord,

even at the peril of your soul. I cannot but admire such devotion; but I

dare not go so far myself. I fear damnation.

WARWICK. If we feared anything we could never govern England, my lord.

Shall I send your people in to you?

CAUCHON. Yes: it will be very good of your lordship to withdraw and

allow the court to assemble.

_Warwick turns on his heel, and goes out through the courtyard. Cauchon

takes one of the judicial seats; and D’Estivet sits at the scribes’

table, studying his brief._

CAUCHON [_casually, as he makes himself comfortable_] What scoundrels

these English nobles are!

THE INQUISITOR [_taking the other judicial chair on Cauchon’s left_] All

secular power makes men scoundrels. They are not trained for the work;

and they have not the Apostolic Succession. Our own nobles are just as

bad.

_The Bishop’s assessors hurry into the hall, headed by Chaplain de

Stogumber and Canon de Courcelles, a young priest of 30. The scribes sit

at the table, leaving a chair vacant opposite D’Estivet. Some of the

assessors take their seats: others stand chatting, waiting for the

proceedings to begin formally. De Stogumber, aggrieved and obstinate

will not take his seat: neither will the Canon, who stands on his

right._

CAUCHON. Good morning, Master de Stogumber. [_To the Inquisitor_]

Chaplain to the Cardinal of England.

THE CHAPLAIN [_correcting him_] Of Winchester, my lord. I have to make a

protest, my lord.

CAUCHON. You make a great many.

THE CHAPLAIN. I am not without support, my lord. Here is Master de

Courcelles, Canon of Paris, who associates himself with me in my

protest.

CAUCHON. Well, what is the matter?

THE CHAPLAIN [_sulkily_] Speak you, Master de Courcelles, since I do not

seem to enjoy his lordship’s confidence. [_He sits down in dudgeon next

to Cauchon, on his right._]

COURCELLES. My lord: we have been at great pains to draw up an

indictment of The Maid on sixtyfour counts. We are now told that they

have been reduced, without consulting us.

THE INQUISITOR. Master de Courcelles: I am the culprit. I am overwhelmed

with admiration for the zeal displayed in your sixtyfour counts; but in

accusing a heretic, as in other things, enough is enough. Also you must

remember that all the members of the court are not so subtle and

profound as you, and that some of your very great learning might appear

to them to be very great nonsense. Therefore I have thought it well to

have your sixtyfour articles cut down to twelve—

COURCELLES [_thunderstruck_] Twelve!!!

THE INQUISITOR. Twelve will, believe me, be quite enough for your

purpose.

THE CHAPLAIN. But some of the most important points have been reduced

almost to nothing. For instance, The Maid has actually declared that the

blessed saints Margaret and Catherine, and the holy Archangel Michael,

spoke to her in French. That is a vital point.

THE INQUISITOR. You think, doubtless, that they should have spoken in

Latin?

CAUCHON. No: he thinks they should have spoken in English.

THE CHAPLAIN. Naturally, my lord.

THE INQUISITOR. Well, as we are all here agreed, I think, that these

voices of The Maid are the voices of evil spirits tempting her to her

damnation, it would not be very courteous to you, Master de Stogumber,

or to the King of England, to assume that English is the devil’s native

language. So let it pass. The matter is not wholly omitted from the

twelve articles. Pray take your places, gentlemen; and let us proceed to

business.

_All who have not taken their seats, do so._

THE CHAPLAIN. Well, I protest. That is all.

COURCELLES. I think it hard that all our work should go for nothing. It

is only another example of the diabolical influence which this woman

exercises over the court. [_He takes his chair, which is on the

Chaplain’s right_].

CAUCHON. Do you suggest that I am under diabolical influence?

COURCELLES. I suggest nothing, my lord. But it seems to me that there is

a conspiracy here to hush up the fact that The Maid stole the Bishop of

Senlis’s horse.

CAUCHON [_keeping his temper with difficulty_] This is not a police

court. Are we to waste our time on such rubbish?

COURCELLES [_rising, shocked_] My lord: do you call the Bishop’s horse

rubbish?

THE INQUISITOR [_blandly_] Master de Courcelles: The Maid alleges that

she paid handsomely for the Bishop’s horse, and that if he did not get

the money the fault was not hers. As that may be true, the point is one

on which The Maid may well be acquitted.

COURCELLES. Yes, if it were an ordinary horse. But the Bishop’s horse!

how can she be acquitted for that? [_He sits down again, bewildered and

discouraged_].

THE INQUISITOR. I submit to you, with great respect, that if we persist

in trying The Maid on trumpery issues on which we may have to declare

her innocent, she may escape us on the great main issue of heresy, on

which she seems so far to insist on her own guilt. I will ask you,

therefore, to say nothing, when The Maid is brought before us, of these

stealings of horses, and dancings round fairy trees with the village

children, and prayings at haunted wells, and a dozen other things which

you were diligently inquiring into until my arrival. There is not a

village girl in France against whom you could not prove such things:

they all dance round haunted trees, and pray at magic wells. Some of

them would steal the Pope’s horse if they got the chance. Heresy,

gentlemen, heresy is the charge we have to try. The detection and

suppression of heresy is my peculiar business: I am here as an

inquisitor, not as an ordinary magistrate. Stick to the heresy,

gentlemen; and leave the other matters alone.

CAUCHON. I may say that we have sent to the girl’s village to make

inquiries about her; and there is practically nothing serious against

her.

THE CHAPLAIN } [_rising and { Nothing serious, my lord—

COURCELLES } clamoring together_] { What! The fairy tree not—

CAUCHON [_out of patience_] Be silent, gentlemen; or speak one at a

time.

_Courcelles collapses into his chair, intimidated._

THE CHAPLAIN [_sulkily resuming his seat_] That is what The Maid said to

us last Friday.

CAUCHON. I wish you had followed her counsel, sir. When I say nothing

serious, I mean nothing that men of sufficiently large mind to conduct

an inquiry like this would consider serious. I agree with my colleague

the Inquisitor that it is on the count of heresy that we must proceed.

LADVENU [_a young but ascetically fine-drawn Dominican who is sitting

next Courcelles, on his right_] But is there any great harm in the

girl’s heresy? Is it not merely her simplicity? Many saints have said as

much as Joan.

THE INQUISITOR [_dropping his blandness and speaking very gravely_]

Brother Martin: if you had seen what I have seen of heresy, you would

not think it a light thing even in its most apparently harmless and even

lovable and pious origins. Heresy begins with people who are to all

appearance better than their neighbors. A gentle and pious girl, or a

young man who has obeyed the command of our Lord by giving all his

riches to the poor, and putting on the garb of poverty, the life of

austerity, and the rule of humility and charity, may be the founder of a

heresy that will wreck both Church and Empire if not ruthlessly stamped

out in time. The records of the holy Inquisition are full of histories

we dare not give to the world, because they are beyond the belief of

honest men and innocent women; yet they all began with saintly

simpletons. I have seen this again and again. Mark what I say: the woman

who quarrels with her clothes, and puts on the dress of a man, is like

the man who throws off his fur gown and dresses like John the Baptist:

they are followed, as surely as the night follows the day, by bands of

wild women and men who refuse to wear any clothes at all. When maids

will neither marry nor take regular vows, and men reject marriage and

exalt their lusts into divine inspirations, then, as surely as the

summer follows the spring, they begin with polygamy, and end by incest.

Heresy at first seems innocent and even laudable; but it ends in such a

monstrous horror of unnatural wickedness that the most tenderhearted

among you, if you saw it at work as I have seen it, would clamor against

the mercy of the Church in dealing with it. For two hundred years the

Holy Office has striven with these diabolical madnesses; and it knows

that they begin always by vain and ignorant persons setting up their own

judgment against the Church, and taking it upon themselves to be the

interpreters of God’s will. You must not fall into the common error of

mistaking these simpletons for liars and hypocrites. They believe

honestly and sincerely that their diabolical inspiration is divine.

Therefore you must be on your guard against your natural compassion. You

are all, I hope, merciful men: how else could you have devoted your

lives to the service of our gentle Savior? You are going to see before

you a young girl, pious and chaste; for I must tell you, gentlemen, that

the things said of her by our English friends are supported by no

evidence, whilst there is abundant testimony that her excesses have been

excesses of religion and charity and not of worldliness and wantonness.

This girl is not one of those whose hard features are the sign of hard

hearts, and whose brazen looks and lewd demeanor condemn them before

they are accused. The devilish pride that has led her into her present

peril has left no mark on her countenance. Strange as it may seem to

you, it has even left no mark on her character outside those special

matters in which she is proud; so that you will see a diabolical pride

and a natural humility seated side by side in the selfsame soul.

Therefore be on your guard. God forbid that I should tell you to harden

your hearts; for her punishment if we condemn her will be so cruel that

we should forfeit our own hope of divine mercy were there one grain of

malice against her in our hearts. But if you hate cruelty—and if any man

here does not hate it I command him on his soul’s salvation to quit this

holy court—I say, if you hate cruelty, remember that nothing is so cruel

in its consequences as the toleration of heresy. Remember also that no

court of law can be so cruel as the common people are to those whom they

suspect of heresy. The heretic in the hands of the Holy Office is safe

from violence, is assured of a fair trial, and cannot suffer death, even

when guilty, if repentance follows sin. Innumerable lives of heretics

have been saved because the Holy Office has taken them out of the hands

of the people, and because the people have yielded them up, knowing that

the Holy Office would deal with them. Before the Holy Inquisition

existed, and even now when its officers are not within reach, the

unfortunate wretch suspected of heresy, perhaps quite ignorantly and

unjustly, is stoned, torn in pieces, drowned, burned in his house with

all his innocent children, without a trial, unshriven, unburied save as

a dog is buried: all of them deeds hateful to God and most cruel to man.

Gentlemen: I am compassionate by nature as well as by my profession; and

though the work I have to do may seem cruel to those who do not know how

much more cruel it would be to leave it undone, I would go to the stake

myself sooner than do it if I did not know its righteousness, its

necessity, its essential mercy. I ask you to address yourself to this

trial in that conviction. Anger is a bad counsellor: cast out anger.

Pity is sometimes a worse: cast out pity. But do not cast out mercy.

Remember only that justice comes first. Have you anything to say, my

lord, before we proceed to trial?

CAUCHON. You have spoken for me, and spoken better than I could. I do

not see how any sane man could disagree with a word that has fallen from

you. But this I will add. The crude heresies of which you have told us

are horrible; but their horror is like that of the black death: they

rage for a while and then die out, because sound and sensible men will

not under any incitement be reconciled to nakedness and incest and

polygamy and the like. But we are confronted today throughout Europe

with a heresy that is spreading among men not weak in mind nor diseased

in brain: nay, the stronger the mind, the more obstinate the heretic. It

is neither discredited by fantastic extremes nor corrupted by the common

lusts of the flesh; but it, too, sets up the private judgment of the

single erring mortal against the considered wisdom and experience of the

Church. The mighty structure of Catholic Christendom will never be

shaken by naked madmen or by the sins of Moab and Ammon. But it may be

betrayed from within, and brought to barbarous ruin and desolation, by

this arch heresy which the English Commander calls Protestantism.

THE ASSESSORS [_whispering_] Protestantism! What was that? What does the

Bishop mean? Is it a new heresy? The English Commander, he said. Did you

ever hear of Protestantism? etc., etc.

CAUCHON [_continuing_] And that reminds me. What provision has the Earl

of Warwick made for the defence of the secular arm should The Maid prove

obdurate, and the people be moved to pity her?

THE CHAPLAIN. Have no fear on that score, my lord. The noble earl has

eight hundred men-at-arms at the gates. She will not slip through our

English fingers even if the whole city be on her side.

CAUCHON [_revolted_] Will you not add, God grant that she repent and

purge her sin?

THE CHAPLAIN. That does not seem to me to be consistent; but of course I

agree with your lordship.

CAUCHON [_giving him up with a shrug of contempt_] The court sits.

THE INQUISITOR. Let the accused be brought in.

LADVENU [_calling_] The accused. Let her be brought in.

_Joan, chained by the ankles, is brought in through the arched door

behind the prisoner’s stool by a guard of English soldiers. With them is

the Executioner and his assistants. They lead her to the prisoner’s

stool, and place themselves behind it after taking off her chain. She

wears a page’s black suit. Her long imprisonment and the strain of the

examinations which have preceded the trial have left their mark on her;

but her vitality still holds: she confronts the court unabashed, without

a trace of the awe which their formal solemnity seems to require for the

complete success of its impressiveness._

THE INQUISITOR [_kindly_] Sit down, Joan. [_She sits on the prisoner’s

stool_]. You look very pale today. Are you not well?

JOAN. Thank you kindly: I am well enough. But the Bishop sent me some

carp; and it made me ill.

CAUCHON. I am sorry. I told them to see that it was fresh.

JOAN. You meant to be good to me, I know; but it is a fish that does not

agree with me. The English thought you were trying to poison me—

CAUCHON } [_together_] { What!

THE CHAPLAIN } { No, my lord.

JOAN [_continuing_] They are determined that I shall be burnt as a

witch; and they sent their doctor to cure me; but he was forbidden to

bleed me because the silly people believe that a witch’s witchery leaves

her if she is bled; so he only called me filthy names. Why do you leave

me in the hands of the English? I should be in the hands of the Church.

And why must I be chained by the feet to a log of wood? Are you afraid I

will fly away?

D’ESTIVET [_harshly_] Woman: it is not for you to question the court: it

is for us to question you.

COURCELLES. When you were left unchained, did you not try to escape by

jumping from a tower sixty feet high? If you cannot fly like a witch,

how is it that you are still alive?

JOAN. I suppose because the tower was not so high then. It has grown

higher every day since you began asking me questions about it.

D’ESTIVET. Why did you jump from the tower?

JOAN. How do you know that I jumped?

D’ESTIVET. You were found lying in the moat. Why did you leave the

tower?

JOAN. Why would anybody leave a prison if they could get out?

D’ESTIVET. You tried to escape.

JOAN. Of course I did; and not for the first time either. If you leave

the door of the cage open the bird will fly out.

D’ESTIVET [_rising_] That is a confession of heresy. I call the

attention of the court to it.

JOAN. Heresy, he calls it! Am I a heretic because I try to escape from

prison?

D’ESTIVET. Assuredly, if you are in the hands of the Church, and you

wilfully take yourself out of its hands, you are deserting the Church;

and that is heresy.

JOAN. It is great nonsense. Nobody could be such a fool as to think

that.

D’ESTIVET. You hear, my lord, how I am reviled in the execution of my

duty by this woman. [_He sits down indignantly_].

CAUCHON. I have warned you before, Joan, that you are doing yourself no

good by these pert answers.

JOAN. But you will not talk sense to me. I am reasonable if you will be

reasonable.

THE INQUISITOR [_interposing_] This is not yet in order. You forget,

Master Promoter, that the proceedings have not been formally opened. The

time for questions is after she has sworn on the Gospels to tell us the

whole truth.

JOAN. You say this to me every time. I have said again and again that I

will tell you all that concerns this trial. But I cannot tell you the

whole truth: God does not allow the whole truth to be told. You do not

understand it when I tell it. It is an old saying that he who tells too

much truth is sure to be hanged. I am weary of this argument: we have

been over it nine times already. I have sworn as much as I will swear;

and I will swear no more.

COURCELLES. My lord: she should be put to the torture.

THE INQUISITOR. You hear, Joan? That is what happens to the obdurate.

Think before you answer. Has she been shewn the instruments?

THE EXECUTIONER. They are ready, my lord. She has seen them.

JOAN. If you tear me limb from limb until you separate my soul from my

body you will get nothing out of me beyond what I have told you. What

more is there to tell that you could understand? Besides, I cannot bear

to be hurt; and if you hurt me I will say anything you like to stop the

pain. But I will take it all back afterwards; so what is the use of it?

LADVENU. There is much in that. We should proceed mercifully.

COURCELLES. But the torture is customary.

THE INQUISITOR. It must not be applied wantonly. If the accused will

confess voluntarily, then its use cannot be justified.

COURCELLES. But this is unusual and irregular. She refuses to take the

oath.

LADVENU [_disgusted_] Do you want to torture the girl for the mere

pleasure of it?

COURCELLES [_bewildered_] But it is not a pleasure. It is the law. It is

customary. It is always done.

THE INQUISITOR. That is not so, Master, except when the inquiries are

carried on by people who do not know their legal business.

COURCELLES. But the woman is a heretic. I assure you it is always done.

CAUCHON [_decisively_] It will not be done today if it is not necessary.

Let there be an end of this. I will not have it said that we proceeded

on forced confessions. We have sent our best preachers and doctors to

this woman to exhort and implore her to save her soul and body from the

fire: we shall not now send the executioner to thrust her into it.

COURCELLES. Your lordship is merciful, of course. But it is a great

responsibility to depart from the usual practice.

JOAN. Thou art a rare noodle, Master. Do what was done last time is thy

rule, eh?

COURCELLES [_rising_] Thou wanton: dost thou dare call me noodle?

THE INQUISITOR. Patience, Master, patience: I fear you will soon be only

too terribly avenged.

COURCELLES [_mutters_] Noodle indeed! [_He sits down, much

discontented_].

THE INQUISITOR. Meanwhile, let us not be moved by the rough side of a

shepherd lass’s tongue.

JOAN. Nay: I am no shepherd lass, though I have helped with the sheep

like anyone else. I will do a lady’s work in the house—spin or

weave—against any woman in Rouen.

THE INQUISITOR. This is not a time for vanity, Joan. You stand in great

peril.

JOAN. I know it: have I not been punished for my vanity? If I had not

worn my cloth of gold surcoat in battle like a fool, that Burgundian

soldier would never have pulled me backwards off my horse; and I should

not have been here.

THE CHAPLAIN. If you are so clever at woman’s work why do you not stay

at home and do it?

JOAN. There are plenty of other women to do it; but there is nobody to

do my work.

CAUCHON. Come! we are wasting time on trifles. Joan: I am going to put a

most solemn question to you. Take care how you answer; for your life and

salvation are at stake on it. Will you for all you have said and done,

be it good or bad, accept the judgment of God’s Church on earth? More

especially as to the acts and words that are imputed to you in this

trial by the Promoter here, will you submit your case to the inspired

interpretation of the Church Militant?

JOAN. I am a faithful child of the Church. I will obey the Church—

CAUCHON [_hopefully leaning forward_] You will?

JOAN. —provided it does not command anything impossible.

_Cauchon sinks back in his chair with a heavy sigh. The Inquisitor

purses his lips and frowns. Ladvenu shakes his head pitifully._

D’ESTIVET. She imputes to the Church the error and folly of commanding

the impossible.

JOAN. If you command me to declare that all that I have done and said,

and all the visions and revelations I have had, were not from God, then

that is impossible: I will not declare it for anything in the world.

What God made me do I will never go back on; and what He has commanded

or shall command I will not fail to do in spite of any man alive. That

is what I mean by impossible. And in case the Church should bid me do

anything contrary to the command I have from God, I will not consent to

it, no matter what it may be.

THE ASSESSORS [_shocked and indignant_] Oh! The Church contrary to God!

What do you say now? Flat heresy. This is beyond everything, etc., etc.

D’ESTIVET [_throwing down his brief_] My lord: do you need anything more

than this?

CAUCHON. Woman: you have said enough to burn ten heretics. Will you not

be warned? Will you not understand?

THE INQUISITOR. If the Church Militant tells you that your revelations

and visions are sent by the devil to tempt you to your damnation, will

you not believe that the Church is wiser than you?

JOAN. I believe that God is wiser than I; and it is His commands that I

will do. All the things that you call my crimes have come to me by the

command of God. I say that I have done them by the order of God: it is

impossible for me to say anything else. If any Churchman says the

contrary I shall not mind him: I shall mind God alone, whose command I

always follow.

LADVENU [_pleading with her urgently_] You do not know what you are

saying, child. Do you want to kill yourself? Listen. Do you not believe

that you are subject to the Church of God on earth?

JOAN. Yes. When have I ever denied it?

LADVENU. Good. That means, does it not, that you are subject to our Lord

the Pope, to the cardinals, the archbishops, and the bishops for whom

his lordship stands here today?

JOAN. God must be served first.

D’ESTIVET. Then your voices command you not to submit yourself to the

Church Militant?

JOAN. My voices do not tell me to disobey the Church; but God must be

served first.

CAUCHON. And you, and not the Church, are to be the judge?

JOAN. What other judgment can I judge by but my own?

THE ASSESSORS [_scandalized_] Oh! [_They cannot find words_].

CAUCHON. Out of your own mouth you have condemned yourself. We have

striven for your salvation to the verge of sinning ourselves: we have

opened the door to you again and again; and you have shut it in our

faces and in the face of God. Dare you pretend, after what you have

said, that you are in a state of grace?

JOAN. If I am not, may God bring me to it: if I am, may God keep me in

it!

LADVENU. That is a very good reply, my lord.

COURCELLES. Were you in a state of grace when you stole the Bishop’s

horse?

CAUCHON [_rising in a fury_] Oh, devil take the Bishop’s horse and you

too! We are here to try a case of heresy; and no sooner do we come to

the root of the matter than we are thrown back by idiots who understand

nothing but horses. [_Trembling with rage, he forces himself to sit

down_].

THE INQUISITOR. Gentlemen, gentlemen: in clinging to these small issues

you are The Maid’s best advocates. I am not surprised that his lordship

has lost patience with you. What does the Promoter say? Does he press

these trumpery matters?

D’ESTIVET. I am bound by my office to press everything; but when the

woman confesses a heresy that must bring upon her the doom of

excommunication, of what consequence is it that she has been guilty also

of offences which expose her to minor penances? I share the impatience

of his lordship as to these minor charges. Only, with great respect, I

must emphasize the gravity of two very horrible and blasphemous crimes

which she does not deny. First, she has intercourse with evil spirits,

and is therefore a sorceress. Second, she wears men’s clothes, which is

indecent, unnatural, and abominable; and in spite of our most earnest

remonstrances and entreaties, she will not change them even to receive

the sacrament.

JOAN. Is the blessed St Catherine an evil spirit? Is St Margaret? Is

Michael the Archangel?

COURCELLES. How do you know that the spirit which appears to you is an

archangel? Does he not appear to you as a naked man?

JOAN. Do you think God cannot afford clothes for him?

_The assessors cannot help smiling, especially as the joke is against

Courcelles._

LADVENU. Well answered, Joan.

THE INQUISITOR. It is, in effect, well answered. But no evil spirit

would be so simple as to appear to a young girl in a guise that would

scandalize her when he meant her to take him for a messenger from the

Most High? Joan: the Church instructs you that these apparitions are

demons seeking your soul’s perdition. Do you accept the instruction of

the Church?

JOAN. I accept the messenger of God. How could any faithful believer in

the Church refuse him?

CAUCHON. Wretched woman: again I ask you, do you know what you are

saying?

THE INQUISITOR. You wrestle in vain with the devil for her soul, my

lord: she will not be saved. Now as to this matter of the man’s dress.

For the last time, will you put off that impudent attire, and dress as

becomes your sex?

JOAN. I will not.

D’ESTIVET [_pouncing_] The sin of disobedience, my lord.

JOAN [_distressed_] But my voices tell me I must dress as a soldier.

LADVENU. Joan, Joan: does not that prove to you that the voices are the

voices of evil spirits? Can you suggest to us one good reason why an

angel of God should give you such shameless advice?

JOAN. Why, yes: what can be plainer commonsense? I was a soldier living

among soldiers. I am a prisoner guarded by soldiers. If I were to dress

as a woman they would think of me as a woman; and then what would become

of me? If I dress as a soldier they think of me as a soldier, and I can

live with them as I do at home with my brothers. That is why St

Catherine tells me I must not dress as a woman until she gives me leave.

COURCELLES. When will she give you leave?

JOAN. When you take me out of the hands of the English soldiers. I have

told you that I should be in the hands of the Church, and not left night

and day with four soldiers of the Earl of Warwick. Do you want me to

live with them in petticoats?

LADVENU. My lord: what she says is, God knows, very wrong and shocking;

but there is a grain of worldly sense in it such as might impose on a

simple village maiden.

JOAN. If we were as simple in the village as you are in your courts and

palaces, there would soon be no wheat to make bread for you.

CAUCHON. That is the thanks you get for trying to save her, Brother

Martin.

LADVENU. Joan: we are all trying to save you. His lordship is trying to

save you. The Inquisitor could not be more just to you if you were his

own daughter. But you are blinded by a terrible pride and

self-sufficiency.

JOAN. Why do you say that? I have said nothing wrong. I cannot

understand.

THE INQUISITOR. The blessed St Athanasius has laid it down in his creed

that those who cannot understand are damned. It is not enough to be

simple. It is not enough even to be what simple people call good. The

simplicity of a darkened mind is no better than the simplicity of a

beast.

JOAN. There is great wisdom in the simplicity of a beast, let me tell

you; and sometimes great foolishness in the wisdom of scholars.

LADVENU. We know that, Joan: we are not so foolish as you think us. Try

to resist the temptation to make pert replies to us. Do you see that man

who stands behind you [_he indicates the Executioner_] ?

JOAN [_turning and looking at the man_] Your torturer? But the Bishop

said I was not to be tortured.

LADVENU. You are not to be tortured because you have confessed

everything that is necessary to your condemnation. That man is not only

the torturer: he is also the Executioner. Executioner: let The Maid hear

your answers to my questions. Are you prepared for the burning of a

heretic this day?

THE EXECUTIONER. Yes, Master.

LADVENU. Is the stake ready?

THE EXECUTIONER. It is. In the market-place. The English have built it

too high for me to get near her and make the death easier. It will be a

cruel death.

JOAN [_horrified_] But you are not going to burn me now?

THE INQUISITOR. You realize it at last.

LADVENU. There are eight hundred English soldiers waiting to take you to

the market-place the moment the sentence of excommunication has passed

the lips of your judges. You are within a few short moments of that

doom.

JOAN [_looking round desperately for rescue_] Oh God!

LADVENU. Do not despair, Joan. The Church is merciful. You can save

yourself.

JOAN [_hopefully_] Yes: my voices promised me I should not be burnt. St

Catherine bade me be bold.

CAUCHON. Woman: are you quite mad? Do you not yet see that your voices

have deceived you?

JOAN. Oh no: that is impossible.

CAUCHON. Impossible! They have led you straight to your excommunication,

and to the stake which is there waiting for you.

LADVENU [_pressing the point hard_] Have they kept a single promise to

you since you were taken at Compiègne? The devil has betrayed you. The

Church holds out its arms to you.

JOAN [_despairing_] Oh, it is true: it is true: my voices have deceived

me. I have been mocked by devils: my faith is broken. I have dared and

dared; but only a fool will walk into a fire: God, who gave me my

commonsense, cannot will me to do that.

LADVENU. Now God be praised that He has saved you at the eleventh hour!

[_He hurries to the vacant seat at the scribes’ table, and snatches a

sheet of paper, on which he sets to work writing eagerly_].

CAUCHON. Amen!

JOAN. What must I do?

CAUCHON. You must sign a solemn recantation of your heresy.

JOAN. Sign? That means to write my name. I cannot write.

CAUCHON. You have signed many letters before.

JOAN. Yes; but someone held my hand and guided the pen. I can make my

mark.

THE CHAPLAIN [_who has been listening with growing alarm and

indignation_] My lord: do you mean that you are going to allow this

woman to escape us?

THE INQUISITOR. The law must take its course, Master de Stogumber. And

you know the law.

THE CHAPLAIN [_rising, purple with fury_] I know that there is no faith

in a Frenchman. [_Tumult, which he shouts down_]. I know what my lord

the Cardinal of Winchester will say when he hears of this. I know what

the Earl of Warwick will do when he learns that you intend to betray

him. There are eight hundred men at the gate who will see that this

abominable witch is burnt in spite of your teeth.

THE ASSESSORS [_meanwhile_] What is this? What did he say? He accuses us

of treachery! This is past bearing. No faith in a Frenchman! Did you

hear that? This is an intolerable fellow. Who is he? Is this what

English Churchmen are like? He must be mad or drunk, etc., etc.

THE INQUISITOR [_rising_] Silence, pray! Gentlemen: pray silence! Master

Chaplain: bethink you a moment of your holy office: of what you are, and

where you are. I direct you to sit down.

THE CHAPLAIN [_folding his arms doggedly, his face working

convulsively_] I will NOT sit down.

CAUCHON. Master Inquisitor; this man has called me a traitor to my face

before now.

THE CHAPLAIN. So you are a traitor. You are all traitors. You have been

doing nothing but begging this damnable witch on your knees to recant

all through this trial.

THE INQUISITOR [_placidly resuming his seat_] If you will not sit, you

must stand: that is all.

THE CHAPLAIN. I will NOT stand [_he flings himself back into his

chair_].

LADVENU [_rising with the paper in his hand_] My lord: here is the form

of recantation for The Maid to sign.

CAUCHON. Read it to her.

JOAN. Do not trouble. I will sign it.

THE INQUISITOR. Woman: you must know what you are putting your hand to.

Read it to her, Brother Martin. And let all be silent.

LADVENU [_reading quietly_] “I, Joan, commonly called The Maid, a

miserable sinner, do confess that I have most grievously sinned in the

following articles. I have pretended to have revelations from God and

the angels and the blessed saints, and perversely rejected the Church’s

warnings that these were temptations by demons. I have blasphemed

abominably by wearing an immodest dress, contrary to the Holy Scripture

and the canons of the Church. Also I have clipped my hair in the style

of a man, and, against all the duties which have made my sex specially

acceptable in heaven, have taken up the sword, even to the shedding of

human blood, inciting men to slay each other, invoking evil spirits to

delude them, and stubbornly and most blasphemously imputing these sins

to Almighty God. I confess to the sin of sedition, to the sin of

idolatry, to the sin of disobedience, to the sin of pride, and to the

sin of heresy. All of which sins I now renounce and abjure and depart

from, humbly thanking you Doctors and Masters who have brought me back

to the truth and into the grace of our Lord. And I will never return to

my errors, but will remain in communion with our Holy Church and in

obedience to our Holy Father the Pope of Rome. All this I swear by God

Almighty and the Holy Gospels, in witness whereto I sign my name to this

recantation.”

THE INQUISITOR. You understand this, Joan?

JOAN [_listless_] It is plain enough, sir.

THE INQUISITOR. And it is true?

JOAN. It may be true. If it were not true, the fire would not be ready

for me in the market-place.

LADVENU [_taking up his pen and a book, and going to her quickly lest

she should compromise herself again_] Come, child: let me guide your

hand. Take the pen. [_She does so; and they begin to write, using the

book as a desk_] J.E.H.A.N.E. So. Now make your mark by yourself.

JOAN [_makes her mark, and gives him back the pen, tormented by the

rebellion of her soul against her mind and body_] There!

LADVENU [_replacing the pen on the table, and handing the recantation to

Cauchon with a reverence_] Praise be to God, my brothers, the lamb has

returned to the flock; and the shepherd rejoices in her more than in

ninety and nine just persons. [_He returns to his seat_].

THE INQUISITOR [_taking the paper from Cauchon_] We declare thee by this

act set free from the danger of excommunication in which thou stoodest.

[_He throws the paper down to the table_].

JOAN. I thank you.

THE INQUISITOR. But because thou hast sinned most presumptuously against

God and the Holy Church, and that thou mayest repent thy errors in

solitary contemplation, and be shielded from all temptation to return to

them, we, for the good of thy soul, and for a penance that may wipe out

thy sins and bring thee finally unspotted to the throne of grace, do

condemn thee to eat the bread of sorrow and drink the water of

affliction to the end of thy earthly days in perpetual imprisonment.

JOAN [_rising in consternation and terrible anger_] Perpetual

imprisonment? Am I not then to be set free?

LADVENU [_mildly shocked_] Set free, child, after such wickedness as

yours! What are you dreaming of?

JOAN. Give me that writing. [_She rushes to the table; snatches up the

paper; and tears it into fragments_] Light your fire: do you think I

dread it as much as the life of a rat in a hole? My voices were right.

LADVENU. Joan! Joan!

JOAN. Yes: they told me you were fools [_the word gives great offence_],

and that I was not to listen to your fine words nor trust to your

charity. You promised me my life; but you lied [_indignant

exclamations_]. You think that life is nothing but not being stone dead.

It is not the bread and water I fear: I can live on bread: when have I

asked for more? It is no hardship to drink water if the water be clean.

Bread has no sorrow for me, and water no affliction. But to shut me from

the light of the sky and the sight of the fields and flowers; to chain

my feet so that I can never again ride with the soldiers nor climb the

hills; to make me breathe foul damp darkness, and keep from me

everything that brings me back to the love of God when your wickedness

and foolishness tempt me to hate Him: all this is worse than the furnace

in the Bible that was heated seven times. I could do without my

warhorse; I could drag about in a skirt; I could let the banners and the

trumpets and the knights and soldiers pass me and leave me behind as

they leave the other women, if only I could still hear the wind in the

trees, the larks in the sunshine, the young lambs crying through the

healthy frost, and the blessed blessed church bells that send my angel

voices floating to me on the wind. But without these things I cannot

live; and by your wanting to take them a w a y from me, or from any

human creature, I know that your counsel is of the devil, and that mine

is of God.

THE ASSESSORS [_in great commotion_] Blasphemy! blasphemy! She is

possessed. She said our counsel was of the devil. And hers of God.

Monstrous! The devil is in our midst, etc., etc.

D’ESTIVET [_shouting above the din_] She is a relapsed heretic,

obstinate, incorrigible, and altogether unworthy of the mercy we have

shewn her. I call for her excommunication.

THE CHAPLAIN [_to the Executioner_] Light your fire, man. To the stake

with her.

_The Executioner and his assistants hurry out through the courtyard._

LADVENU. You wicked girl: if your counsel were of God would He not

deliver you?

JOAN. His ways are not your ways. He wills that I go through the fire to

His bosom; for I am His child, and you are not fit that I should live

among you. That is my last word to you.

_The soldiers seize her._

CAUCHON [_rising_] Not yet.

_They wait. There is a dead silence. Cauchon turns to the Inquisitor

with an inquiring look. The Inquisitor nods affirmatively. They rise

solemnly, and intone the sentence antiphonally._

CAUCHON. We decree that thou art a relapsed heretic.

THE INQUISITOR. Cast out from the unity of the Church.

CAUCHON. Sundered from her body.

THE INQUISITOR. Infected with the leprosy of heresy.

CAUCHON. A member of Satan.

THE INQUISITOR. We declare that thou must be excommunicate.

CAUCHON. And now we do cast thee out, segregate thee, and abandon thee

to the secular power.

THE INQUISITOR. Admonishing the same secular power that it moderate its

judgment of thee in respect of death and division of the limbs. [_He

resumes his seat_].

CAUCHON. And if any true sign of penitence appear in thee, to permit our

Brother Martin to administer to thee the sacrament of penance.

THE CHAPLAIN. Into the fire with the witch [_he rushes at her, and helps

the soldiers to push her out_].

_Joan is taken away through the courtyard. The assessors rise in

disorder, and follow the soldiers, except Ladvenu, who has hidden his

face in his hands._

CAUCHON [_rising again in the act of sitting down_] No, no; this is

irregular. The representative of the secular arm should be here to

receive her from us.

THE INQUISITOR [_also on his feet again_] That man is an incorrigible

fool.

CAUCHON. Brother Martin: see that everything is done in order.

LADVENU. My place is at her side, my lord. You must exercise your own

authority. [_He hurries out_].

CAUCHON. These English are impossible: they will thrust her straight

into the fire. Look!

_He points to the courtyard, in which the glow and flicker of fire can

now be seen reddening the May daylight. Only the Bishop and the

Inquisitor are left in the Court._

CAUCHON [_turning to go_] We must stop that.

THE INQUISITOR [_calmly_] Yes; but not too fast, my lord.

CAUCHON [_halting_] But there is not a moment to lose.

THE INQUISITOR. We have proceeded in perfect order. If the English

choose to put themselves in the wrong, it is not our business to put

them in the right. A flaw in the procedure may be useful later on: one

never knows. And the sooner it is over, the better for that poor girl.

CAUCHON [_relaxing_] That is true. But I suppose we must see this

dreadful thing through.

THE INQUISITOR. One gets used to it. Habit is everything. I am

accustomed to the fire: it is soon over. But it is a terrible thing to

see a young and innocent creature crushed between these mighty forces,

the Church and the Law.

CAUCHON. You call her innocent!

THE INQUISITOR. Oh, quite innocent. What does she know of the Church and

the Law? She did not understand a word we were saying. It is the

ignorant who suffer. Come, or we shall be late for the end.

CAUCHON [_going with him_] I shall not be sorry if we are: I am not so

accustomed as you.

_They are going out when Warwick comes in, meeting them._

WARWICK. Oh, I am intruding. I thought it was all over. [_He makes a

feint of retiring_].

CAUCHON. Do not go, my lord. It is all over.

THE INQUISITOR. The execution is not in our hands, my lord; but it is

desirable that we should witness the end. So by your leave—[_He bows,

and goes out through the courtyard_].

CAUCHON. There is some doubt whether your people have observed the forms

of law, my lord.

WARWICK. I am told that there is some doubt whether your authority runs

in this city, my lord. It is not in your diocese. However, if you will

answer for that I will answer for the rest.

CAUCHON. It is to God that we both must answer. Good morning, my lord.

WARWICK. My lord: good morning.

_They look at one another for a moment with unconcealed hostility. Then

Cauchon follows the Inquisitor out. Warwick looks round. Finding himself

alone, he calls for attendance._

WARWICK. Hallo: some attendance here! [_Silence_]. Hallo, there!

[_Silence_]. Hallo! Brian, you young blackguard, where are you?

[_Silence_]. Guard! [_Silence_]. They have all gone to see the burning:

even that child.

_The silence is broken by someone frantically howling and sobbing._

WARWICK. What in the devil’s name—?

_The Chaplain staggers in from the courtyard like a demented creature,

his face streaming with tears, making the piteous sounds that Warwick

has heard. He stumbles to the prisoner’s stool, and throws himself upon

it with heartrending sobs._

WARWICK [_going to him and patting him on the shoulder_] What is it,

Master John? What is the matter?

THE CHAPLAIN [_clutching at his hands_] My lord, my lord: for Christ’s

sake pray for my wretched guilty soul.

WARWICK [_soothing him_] Yes, yes: of course I will. Calmly, gently—

THE CHAPLAIN [_blubbering miserably_] I am not a bad man, my lord.

WARWICK. No, no: not at all.

THE CHAPLAIN. I meant no harm. I did not know what it would be like.

WARWICK [_hardening_] Oh! You saw it, then?

THE CHAPLAIN. I did not know what I was doing. I am a hotheaded fool;

and I shall be damned to all eternity for it.

WARWICK. Nonsense! Very distressing, no doubt; but it was not your

doing.

THE CHAPLAIN [_lamentably_] I let them do it. If I had known, I would

have torn her from their hands. You don’t know: you havnt seen: it is

so easy to talk when you dont know. You madden yourself with words: you

damn yourself because it feels grand to throw oil on the flaming hell of

your own temper. But when it is brought home to you; when you see the

thing you have done; when it is blinding your eyes, stifling your

nostrils, tearing your heart, then—then—[_Falling on his knees_] O God,

take away this sight from me! O Christ, deliver me from this fire that

is consuming me! She cried to Thee in the midst of it: Jesus! Jesus!

Jesus! She is in Thy bosom; and I am in hell for evermore.

WARWICK [_summarily hauling him to his feet_] Come come, man! you must

pull yourself together. We shall have the whole town talking of this.

[_He throws him not too gently into a chair at the table_] If you have

not the nerve to see these things, why do you not do as I do, and stay

away?

THE CHAPLAIN [_bewildered and submissive_] She asked for a cross. A

soldier gave her two sticks tied together. Thank God he was an

Englishman! I might have done it; but I did not: I am a coward, a mad

dog, a fool. But he was an Englishman too.

WARWICK. The fool! They will burn him too if the priests get hold of

him.

THE CHAPLAIN [_shaken with convulsion_] Some of the people laughed at

her. They would have laughed at Christ. They were French people, my

lord: I know they were French.

WARWICK. Hush: someone is coming. Control yourself.

_Ladvenu comes back through the courtyard to Warwick’s right hand,

carrying a bishop’s cross which he has taken from a church. He is very

grave and composed._

WARWICK. I am informed that it is all over, Brother Martin.

LADVENU [_enigmatically_] We do not know, my lord. It may have only just

begun.

WARWICK. What does that mean, exactly?

LADVENU. I took this cross from the church for her that she might see it

to the last: she had only two sticks that she put into her bosom. When

the fire crept round us, and she saw that if I held the cross before her

I should be burnt myself, she warned me to get down and save myself. My

lord: a girl who could think of another’s danger in such a moment was

not inspired by the devil. When I had to snatch the cross from her

sight, she looked up to heaven. And I do not believe that the heavens

were empty. I firmly believe that her Savior appeared to her then in His

tenderest glory. She called to Him and died. This is not the end for

her, but the beginning.

WARWICK. I am afraid it will have a bad effect on the people.

LADVENU. It had, my lord, on some of them. I heard laughter. Forgive me

for saying that I hope and believe it was English laughter.

THE CHAPLAIN [_rising frantically_] No: it was not. There was only one

Englishman there that disgraced his country; and that was the mad dog de

Stogumber. [_He rushes wildly out, shrieking_] Let them torture him. Let

them burn him. I will go pray among her ashes. I am no better than

Judas: I will hang myself.

WARWICK. Quick, Brother Martin: follow him: he will do himself some

mischief. After him, quick.

_Ladvenu hurries out, Warwick urging him. The Executioner comes in by

the door behind the judges’ chairs; and Warwick, returning, finds

himself face to face with him._

WARWICK. Well, fellow: who are you?

THE EXECUTIONER [_with dignity_] I am not addressed as fellow, my lord.

I am the Master Executioner of Rouen: it is a highly skilled mystery. I

am come to tell your lordship that your orders have been obeyed.

WARWICK. I crave your pardon, Master Executioner; and I will see that

you lose nothing by having no relics to sell. I have your word, have I,

that nothing remains, not a bone, not a nail, not a hair?

THE EXECUTIONER. Her heart would not burn, my lord; but everything that

was left is at the bottom of the river. You have heard the last of her.

WARWICK [_with a wry smile, thinking of what Ladvenu said_] The last of

her? Hm! I wonder!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

EPILOGUE

_A restless fitfully windy night in June 1456, full of summer lightning

after many days of heat. King Charles the Seventh of France, formerly

Joan’s Dauphin, now Charles the Victorious, aged 51, is in bed in one of

his royal chateaux. The bed, raised on a dais of two steps, is towards

the side of the room so as to avoid blocking a tall lancet window in the

middle. Its canopy bears the royal arms in embroidery. Except for the

canopy and the huge down pillows there is nothing to distinguish it from

a broad settee with bed-clothes and a valance. Thus its occupant is in

full view from the foot._

_Charles is not asleep: he is reading in bed, or rather looking at the

pictures in Fouquet’s Boccaccio with his knees doubled up to make a

reading desk. Beside the bed on his left is a little table with a

picture of the Virgin, lighted by candles of painted wax. The walls are

hung from ceiling to floor with painted curtains which stir at times in

the draughts. At first glance the prevailing yellow and red in these

hanging pictures is somewhat flamelike when the folds breathe in the

wind._

_The door is on Charles’s left, but in front of him close to the corner

farthest from him. A large watchman’s rattle, handsomely designed and

gaily painted, is in the bed under his hand._

_Charles turns a leaf. A distant clock strikes the half-hour softly.

Charles shuts the book with a clap; throws it aside; snatches up the

rattle; and whirls it energetically, making a deafening clatter. Ladvenu

enters, 25 years older, strange and stark in bearing, and still carrying

the cross from Rouen. Charles evidently does not expect him; for he

springs out of bed on the farther side from the door._

CHARLES. Who are you? Where is my gentleman of the bedchamber? What do

you want?

LADVENU [_solemnly_] I bring you glad tidings of great joy. Rejoice, O

king; for the taint is removed from your blood, and the stain from your

crown. Justice, long delayed, is at last triumphant.

CHARLES. What are you talking about? Who are you?

LADVENU. I am Brother Martin.

CHARLES. And who, saving your reverence, may Brother Martin be?

LADVENU. I held this cross when The Maid perished in the fire.

Twentyfive years have passed since then: nearly ten thousand days. And

on every one of those days I have prayed God to justify His daughter on

earth as she is justified in heaven.

CHARLES [_reassured, sitting down on the foot of the bed_] Oh, I

remember now. I have heard of you. You have a bee in your bonnet about

The Maid. Have you been at the inquiry?

LADVENU. I have given my testimony.

CHARLES. Is it over?

LADVENU. It is over.

CHARLES. Satisfactorily?

LADVENU. The ways of God are very strange.

CHARLES. How so?

LADVENU. At the trial which sent a saint to the stake as a heretic and a

sorceress, the truth was told; the law was upheld; mercy was shewn

beyond all custom; no wrong was done but the final and dreadful wrong of

the lying sentence and the pitiless fire. At this inquiry from which I

have just come, there was shameless perjury, courtly corruption, calumny

of the dead who did their duty according to their lights, cowardly

evasion of the issue, testimony made of idle tales that could not impose

on a ploughboy. Yet out of this insult to justice, this defamation of

the Church, this orgy of lying and foolishness, the truth is set in the

noonday sun on the hilltop; the white robe of innocence is cleansed from

the smirch of the burning faggots; the holy life is sanctified; the true

heart that lived through the flame is consecrated; a great lie is

silenced for ever; and a great wrong is set right before all men.

CHARLES. My friend: provided they can no longer say that I was crowned

by a witch and a heretic, I shall not fuss about how the trick has been

done. Joan would not have fussed about it if it came all right in the

end: she was not that sort: I knew her. Is her rehabilitation complete?

I made it pretty clear that there was to be no nonsense about it.

LADVENU. It is solemnly declared that her judges were full of

corruption, cozenage, fraud and malice. Four falsehoods.

CHARLES. Never mind the falsehoods: her judges are dead.

LADVENU. The sentence on her is broken, annulled, annihilated, set aside

as non-existent, without value or effect.

CHARLES. Good. Nobody can challenge my consecration now, can they?

LADVENU. Not Charlemagne nor King David himself was more sacredly

crowned.

CHARLES [_rising_] Excellent. Think of what that means to me!

LADVENU. I think of what it means to her!

CHARLES. You cannot. None of us ever knew what anything meant to her.

She was like nobody else; and she must take care of herself wherever she

is; for _I_ cannot take care of her; and neither can you, whatever you

may think: you are not big enough. But I will tell you this about her.

If you could bring her back to life, they would burn her again within

six months, for all their present adoration of her. And you would hold

up the cross, too, just the same. So [_crossing himself_] let her rest;

and let you and I mind our own business, and not meddle with hers.

LADVENU. God forbid that I should have no share in her, nor she in me!

[_He turns and strides out as he came, saying_] Henceforth my path will

not lie through palaces, nor my conversation be with kings.

CHARLES [_following him towards the door, and shouting after him_] Much

good may it do you, holy man! [_He returns to the middle of the chamber,

where he halts, and says quizzically to himself_] That was a funny chap.

How did he get in? Where are my people? [_He goes impatiently to the

bed, and swings the rattle. A rush of wind through the open door sets

the walls swaying agitatedly. The candles go out. He calls in the

darkness_] Hallo! Someone come and shut the windows: everything is being

blown all over the place. [_A flash of summer lightning shews up the

lancet windows. A figure is seen in silhouette against it_] Who is

there? Who is that? Help! Murder! [_Thunder. He jumps into bed, and

hides under the clothes_].

JOAN’S VOICE. Easy, Charlie, easy. What art making all that noise for?

No one can hear thee. Thourt asleep. [_She is dimly seen in a pallid

greenish light by the bedside_].

CHARLES [_peeping out_] Joan! Are you a ghost, Joan?

JOAN. Hardly even that, lad. Can a poor burnt-up lass have a ghost? I am

but a dream that thourt dreaming. [_The light increases: they become

plainly visible as he sits up_] Thou looks older, lad.

CHARLES. I am older. Am I really asleep?

JOAN. Fallen asleep over thy silly book.

CHARLES. That’s funny.

JOAN. Not so funny as that I am dead, is it?

CHARLES. Are you really dead?

JOAN. As dead as anybody ever is, laddie. I am out of the body.

CHARLES. Just fancy! Did it hurt much?

JOAN. Did what hurt much?

CHARLES. Being burnt.

JOAN. Oh, that! I cannot remember very well. I think it did at first;

but then it all got mixed up; and I was not in my right mind until I was

free of the body. But do not thou go handling fire and thinking it will

not hurt thee. How hast been ever since?

CHARLES. Oh, not so bad. Do you know, I actually lead my army out and

win battles? Down into the moat up to my waist in mud and blood. Up the

ladders with the stones and hot pitch raining down. Like you.

JOAN. No! Did I make a man of thee after all, Charlie?

CHARLES. I am Charles the Victorious now. I had to be brave because you

were. Agnes put a little pluck into me too.

JOAN. Agnes! Who was Agnes?

CHARLES. Agnes Sorel. A woman I fell in love with. I dream of her often.

I never dreamed of you before.

JOAN. Is she dead, like me?

CHARLES. Yes. But she was not like you. She was very beautiful.

JOAN [_laughing heartily_] Ha ha! I was no beauty: I was always a rough

one: a regular soldier. I might almost as well have been a man. Pity I

wasnt: I should not have bothered you all so much then. But my head was

in the skies; and the glory of God was upon me; and, man or woman, I

should have bothered you as long as your noses were in the mud. Now tell

me what has happened since you wise men knew no better than to make a

heap of cinders of me?

CHARLES. Your mother and brothers have sued the courts to have your case

tried over again. And the courts have declared that your judges were

full of corruption and cozenage, fraud and malice.

JOAN. Not they. They were as honest a lot of poor fools as ever burned

their betters.

CHARLES. The sentence on you is broken, annihilated, annulled: null,

non-existent, without value or effect.

JOAN. I was burnt all the same. Can they unburn me?

CHARLES. If they could, they would think twice before they did it. But

they have decreed that a beautiful cross be placed where the stake

stood, for your perpetual memory and for your salvation.

JOAN. It is the memory and the salvation that sanctify the cross, not

the cross that sanctifies the memory and the salvation. [_She turns

away, forgetting him_] I shall outlast that cross. I shall be remembered

when men will have forgotten where Rouen stood.

CHARLES. There you go with your self-conceit, the same as ever! I think

you might say a word of thanks to me for having had justice done at

last.

CAUCHON [_appearing at the window between them_] Liar!

CHARLES. Thank you.

JOAN. Why, if it isnt Peter Cauchon! How are you, Peter? What luck have

you had since you burnt me?

CAUCHON. None. I arraign the justice of Man. It is not the justice of

God.

JOAN. Still dreaming of justice, Peter? See what justice came to with

me! But what has happened to thee? Art dead or alive?

CAUCHON. Dead. Dishonored. They pursued me beyond the grave. They

excommunicated my dead body: they dug it up and flung it into the common

sewer.

JOAN. Your dead body did not feel the spade and the sewer as my live

body felt the fire.

CAUCHON. But this thing that they have done against me hurts justice;

destroys faith; saps the foundation of the Church. The solid earth sways

like the treacherous sea beneath the feet of men and spirits alike when

the innocent are slain in the name of law, and their wrongs are undone

by slandering the pure of heart.

JOAN. Well, well, Peter, I hope men will be the better for remembering

me; and they would not remember me so well if you had not burnt me.

CAUCHON. They will be the worse for remembering me: they will see in me

evil triumphing over good, falsehood over truth, cruelty over mercy,

hell over heaven. Their courage will rise as they think of you, only to

faint as they think of me. Yet God is my witness I was just: I was

merciful: I was faithful to my light: I could do no other than I did.

CHARLES [_scrambling out of the sheets and enthroning himself on the

side of the bed_] Yes: it is always you good men that do the big

mischiefs. Look at me! I am not Charles the Good, nor Charles the Wise,

nor Charles the Bold. Joan’s worshippers may even call me Charles the

Coward because I did not pull her out of the fire. But I have done less

harm than any of you. You people with your heads in the sky spend all

your time trying to turn the world upside down; but I take the world as

it is, and say that top-side-up is right-side-up; and I keep my nose

pretty close to the ground. And I ask you, what king of France has done

better, or been a better fellow in his little way?

JOAN. Art really king of France, Charlie? Be the English gone?

DUNOIS [_coming through the tapestry on Joan’s left, the candles

relighting themselves at the same moment, and illuminating his armor and

surcoat cheerfully_] I have kept my word: the English are gone.

JOAN. Praised be God! now is fair France a province in heaven. Tell me

all about the fighting, Jack. Was it thou that led them? Wert thou God’s

captain to thy death?

DUNOIS. I am not dead. My body is very comfortably asleep in my bed at

Chateaudun; but my spirit is called here by yours.

JOAN. And you fought them my way, Jack: eh? Not the old way, chaffering

for ransoms; but The Maid’s way: staking life against death, with the

heart high and humble and void of malice, and nothing counting under God

but France free and French. Was it my way, Jack?

DUNOIS. Faith, it was any way that would win. But the way that won was

always your way. I give you best, lassie. I wrote a fine letter to set

you right at the new trial. Perhaps I should never have let the priests

burn you; but I was busy fighting; and it was the Church’s business, not

mine. There was no use in both of us being burnt, was there?

CAUCHON. Ay! put the blame on the priests. But I, who am beyond praise

and blame, tell you that the world is saved neither by its priests nor

its soldiers, but by God and His Saints. The Church Militant sent this

woman to the fire; but even as she burnt, the flames whitened into the

radiance of the Church Triumphant.

_The clock strikes the third quarter. A rough male voice is heard

trolling an improvised tune._

[Illustration: A short tune, in musical notation.]

Rum tum trumpledum,

Bacon fat and rumpledum,

Old Saint mumpledum,

Pull his tail and stumpledum,

O my Ma-ry Ann!

_A ruffianly English soldier comes through the curtains and marches

between Dunois and Joan._

DUNOIS. What villainous troubadour taught you that doggerel?

THE SOLDIER. No troubadour. We made it up ourselves as we marched. We

were not gentlefolks and troubadours. Music straight out of the heart of

the people, as you might say. Rum tum trumpledum, Bacon fat and

rumpledum, Old Saint mumpledum, Pull his tail and stumpledum: that dont

mean anything, you know; but it keeps you marching. Your servant, ladies

and gentleman. Who asked for a saint?

JOAN. Be you a saint?

THE SOLDIER. Yes, lady, straight from hell.

DUNOIS. A saint, and from hell!

THE SOLDIER. Yes, noble captain: I have a day off. Every year, you know.

That’s my allowance for my one good action.

CAUCHON. Wretch! In all the years of your life did you do only one good

action?

THE SOLDIER. I never thought about it: it came natural like. But they

scored it up for me.

CHARLES. What was it?

THE SOLDIER. Why, the silliest thing you ever heard of. I—

JOAN [_interrupting him by strolling across to the bed, where she sits

beside Charles_] He tied two sticks together, and gave them to a poor

lass that was going to be burnt.

THE SOLDIER. Right. Who told you that?

JOAN. Never mind. Would you know her if you saw her again?

THE SOLDIER. Not I. There are so many girls! And they all expect you to

remember them as if there was only one in the world. This one must have

been a prime sort; for I have a day off every year for her; and so,

until twelve o’clock punctually, I am a saint, at your service, noble

lords and lovely ladies.

CHARLES. And after twelve?

THE SOLDIER. After twelve, back to the only place fit for the likes of

me.

JOAN [_rising_] Back there; You! that gave the lass the cross!

THE SOLDIER [_excusing his unsoldierly conduct_] Well, she asked for it;

and they were going to burn her. She had as good a right to a cross as

they had; and they had dozens of them. It was her funeral, not theirs.

Where was the harm in it?

JOAN. Man: I am not reproaching you. But I cannot bear to think of you

in torment.

THE SOLDIER [_cheerfully_] No great torment, lady. You see I was used to

worse.

CHARLES. What! worse than hell?

THE SOLDIER. Fifteen years’ service in the French wars. Hell was a treat

after that.

_Joan throws up her arms, and takes refuge from despair of humanity

before the picture of the Virgin._

THE SOLDIER [_continuing_] Suits me somehow. The day off was dull at

first, like a wet Sunday. I dont mind it so much now. They tell me I

can have as many as I like as soon as I want them.

CHARLES. What is hell like?

THE SOLDIER. You wont find it so bad, sir. Jolly. Like as if you were

always drunk without the trouble and expense of drinking. Tip top

company too: emperors and popes and kings and all sorts. They chip me

about giving that young judy the cross; but I dont care: I stand up to

them proper, and tell them that if she hadnt a better right to it than

they, she’d be where they are. That dumbfounds them, that does. All they

can do is gnash their teeth, hell fashion; and I just laugh, and go off

singing the old chanty: Rum tum trumple—Hullo! Who’s that knocking at

the door?

_They listen. A long gentle knocking is heard._

CHARLES. Come in.

_The door opens; and an old priest, white-haired, bent, with a silly

but benevolent smile, comes in and trots over to Joan._

THE NEWCOMER. Excuse me, gentle lords and ladies. Do not let me disturb

you. Only a poor old harmless English rector. Formerly chaplain to the

cardinal: to my lord of Winchester. John de Stogumber, at your service.

[_He looks at them inquiringly_] Did you say anything? I am a little

deaf, unfortunately. Also a little—well, not always in my right mind,

perhaps; but still, it is a small village with a few simple people. I

suffice: I suffice: they love me there; and I am able to do a little

good. I am well connected, you see; and they indulge me.

JOAN. Poor old John! What brought thee to this state?

DE STOGUMBER. I tell my folks they must be very careful. I say to them,

“If you only saw what you think about you would think quite differently

about it. It would give you a great shock. Oh, a great shock.” And they

all say “Yes, parson: we all know you are a kind man, and would not harm

a fly.” That is a great comfort to me. For I am not cruel by nature, you

know.

THE SOLDIER. Who said you were?

DE STOGUMBER. Well, you see, I did a very cruel thing once because I did

not know what cruelty was like. I had not seen it, you know. That is the

great thing: you must see it. And then you are redeemed and saved.

CAUCHON. Were not the sufferings of our Lord Christ enough for you?

DE STOGUMBER. No. Oh no: not at all. I had seen them in pictures, and

read of them in books, and been greatly moved by them, as I thought. But

it was no use: it was not our Lord that redeemed me, but a young woman

whom I saw actually burnt to death. It was dreadful: oh, most dreadful.

But it saved me. I have been a different man ever since, though a little

astray in my wits sometimes.

CAUCHON. Must then a Christ perish in torment in every age to save those

that have no imagination?

JOAN. Well, if I saved all those he would have been cruel to if he had

not been cruel to me, I was not burnt for nothing, was I?

DE STOGUMBER. Oh, no; it was not you. My sight is bad: I cannot

distinguish your features: but you are not she: oh no: she was burnt to

a cinder: dead and gone, dead and gone.

THE EXECUTIONER [_stepping from behind the bed curtains on Charles’s

right, the bed being between them_] She is more alive than you, old man.

Her heart would not burn; and it would not drown. I was a master at my

craft: better than the master of Paris, better than the master of

Toulouse; but I could not kill The Maid. She is up and alive everywhere.

THE EARL OF WARWICK [_sallying from the bed curtains on the other side,

and coming to Joan’s left hand_] Madame: my congratulations on your

rehabilitation. I feel that I owe you an apology.

JOAN. Oh, please dont mention it.

WARWICK [_pleasantly_] The burning was purely political. There was no

personal feeling against you, I assure you.

JOAN. I bear no malice, my lord.

WARWICK. Just so. Very kind of you to meet me in that way: a touch of

true breeding. But I must insist on apologizing very amply. The truth

is, these political necessities sometimes turn out to be political

mistakes; and this one was a veritable howler; for your spirit conquered

us, madam, in spite of our faggots. History will remember me for your

sake, though the incidents of the connection were perhaps a little

unfortunate.

JOAN. Ay, perhaps just a little, you funny man.

WARWICK. Still, when they make you a saint, you will owe your halo to

me, just as this lucky monarch owes his crown to you.

JOAN [_turning from him_] I shall owe nothing to any man: I owe

everything to the spirit of God that was within me. But fancy me a

saint! What would St Catherine and St Margaret say if the farm girl was

cocked up beside them!

_A clerical-looking gentleman in black frockcoat and trousers, and tall

hat, in the fashion of the year 1920, suddenly appears before them in

the corner on their right. They all stare at him. Then they burst into

uncontrollable laughter._

THE GENTLEMAN. Why this mirth, gentlemen?

WARWICK. I congratulate you on having invented a most extraordinarily

comic dress.

THE GENTLEMAN. I do not understand. You are all in fancy dress: I am

properly dressed.

DUNOIS. All dress is fancy dress, is it not, except our natural skins?

THE GENTLEMAN. Pardon me: I am here on serious business, and cannot

engage in frivolous discussions. [_He takes out a paper, and assumes a

dry official manner_]. I am sent to announce to you that Joan of Arc,

formerly known as The Maid, having been the subject of an inquiry

instituted by the Bishop of Orleans—

JOAN [_interrupting_] Ah! They remember me still in Orleans.

THE GENTLEMAN [_emphatically, to mark his indignation at the

interruption_]—by the Bishop of Orleans into the claim of the said Joan

of Arc to be canonized as a saint—

JOAN [_again interrupting_] But I never made any such claim.

THE GENTLEMAN [_as before_]—the Church has examined the claim

exhaustively in the usual course, and, having admitted the said Joan

successively to the ranks of Venerable and Blessed,—

JOAN [_chuckling_] Me venerable!

THE GENTLEMAN. —has finally declared her to have been endowed with

heroic virtues and favored with private revelations, and calls the said

Venerable and Blessed Joan to the communion of the Church Triumphant as

Saint Joan.

JOAN [_rapt_] Saint Joan!

THE GENTLEMAN. On every thirtieth day of May, being the anniversary of

the death of the said most blessed daughter of God, there shall in every

Catholic church to the end of time be celebrated a special office in

commemoration of her; and it shall be lawful to dedicate a special

chapel to her, and to place her image on its altar in every such church.

And it shall be lawful and laudable for the faithful to kneel and

address their prayers through her to the Mercy Seat.

JOAN. Oh no. It is for the saint to kneel. [_She falls on her knees,

still rapt_].

THE GENTLEMAN [_putting up his paper, and retiring beside the

Executioner_] In Basilica Vaticana, the sixteenth day of May, nineteen

hundred and twenty.

DUNOIS [_raising Joan_] Half an hour to burn you, dear saint; and four

centuries to find out the truth about you!

DE STOGUMBER. Sir: I was chaplain to the Cardinal of Winchester once.

They always would call him the Cardinal of England. It would be a great

comfort to me and to my master to see a fair statue to The Maid in

Winchester Cathedral. Will they put one there, do you think?

THE GENTLEMAN. As the building is temporarily in the hands of the

Anglican heresy, I cannot answer for that.

_A vision of the statue in Winchester Cathedral is seen through the

window._

DE STOGUMBER. Oh look! look! that is Winchester.

JOAN. Is that meant to be me? I was stiffer on my feet.

_The vision fades._

THE GENTLEMAN. I have been requested by the temporal authorities of

France to mention that the multiplication of public statues to The Maid

threatens to become an obstruction to traffic. I do so as a matter of

courtesy to the said authorities, but must point out on behalf of the

Church that The Maid’s horse is no greater obstruction to traffic than

any other horse.

JOAN. Eh! I am glad they have not forgotten my horse.

_A vision of the statue before Rheims Cathedral appears._

JOAN. Is that funny little thing me too?

CHARLES. That is Rheims Cathedral where you had me crowned. It must be

you.

JOAN. Who has broken my sword? My sword was never broken. It is the

sword of France.

DUNOIS. Never mind. Swords can be mended. Your soul is unbroken; and you

are the soul of France.

_The vision fades. The Archbishop and the Inquisitor are now seen on

the right and left of Cauchon._

JOAN. My sword shall conquer yet: the sword that never struck a blow.

Though men destroyed my body, yet in my soul I have seen God.

CAUCHON [_kneeling to her_] The girls in the field praise thee; for thou

hast raised their eyes; and they see that there is nothing between them

and heaven.

DUNOIS [_kneeling to her_] The dying soldiers praise thee, because thou

art a shield of glory between them and the judgment.

THE ARCHBISHOP [_kneeling to her_] The princes of the Church praise

thee, because thou hast redeemed the faith their wordlinesses have

dragged through the mire.

WARWICK [_kneeling to her_] The cunning counsellors praise thee, because

thou hast cut the knots in which they have tied their own souls.

DE STOGUMBER [_kneeling to her_] The foolish old men on their deathbeds

praise thee, because their sins against thee are turned into blessings.

THE INQUISITOR [_kneeling to her_] The judges in the blindness and

bondage of the law praise thee, because thou hast vindicated the vision

and the freedom of the living soul.

THE SOLDIER [_kneeling to her_] The wicked out of hell praise thee,

because thou hast shewn them that the fire that is not quenched is a

holy fire.

THE EXECUTIONER [_kneeling to her_] The tormentors and executioners

praise thee, because thou hast shewn that their hands are guiltless of

the death of the soul.

CHARLES [_kneeling to her_] The unpretending praise thee, because thou

hast taken upon thyself the heroic burdens that are too heavy for them.

JOAN. Woe unto me when all men praise me! I bid you remember that I am a

saint, and that saints can work miracles. And now tell me: shall I rise

from the dead, and come back to you a living woman?

_A sudden darkness blots out the walls of the room as they all spring

to their feet in consternation. Only the figures and the bed remain

visible._

JOAN. What! Must I burn again? Are none of you ready to receive me?

CAUCHON. The heretic is always better dead. And mortal eyes cannot

distinguish the saint from the heretic. Spare them. [_He goes out as he

came_].

DUNOIS. Forgive us, Joan: we are not yet good enough for you. I shall go

back to my bed. [_He also goes_].

WARWICK. We sincerely regret our little mistake; but political

necessities, though occasionally erroneous, are still imperative; so if

you will be good enough to excuse me—[_He steals discreetly away_].

THE ARCHBISHOP. Your return would not make me the man you once thought

me. The utmost I can say is that though I dare not bless you, I hope I

may one day enter into your blessedness. Meanwhile, however—[_He goes_].

THE INQUISITOR. I who am of the dead, testified that day that you were

innocent. But I do not see how The Inquisition could possibly be

dispensed with under existing circumstances. Therefore—[_He goes_].

DE STOGUMBER. Oh, do not come back: you must not come back. I must die

in peace. Give us peace in our time, O Lord! [_He goes_].

THE GENTLEMAN. The possibility of your resurrection was not contemplated

in the recent proceedings for your canonization. I must return to Rome

for fresh instructions. [_He bows formally, and withdraws_].

THE EXECUTIONER. As a master in my profession I have to consider its

interest. And, after all, my first duty is to my wife and children. I

must have time to think over this. [_He goes_].

CHARLES. Poor old Joan! They have all run away from you except this

blackguard who has to go back to hell at twelve o’clock. And what can I

do but follow Jack Dunois’ example, and go back to bed too? [_He does

so_].

JOAN [_sadly_] Good night, Charlie.

CHARLES [_mumbling in his pillows_] Goo ni. [_He sleeps. The darkness

envelopes the bed_].

JOAN [_to the soldier_] And you, my one faithful? What comfort have you

for Saint Joan?

THE SOLDIER. Well, what do they all amount to, these kings and captains

and bishops and lawyers and such like? They just leave you in the ditch

to bleed to death; and the next thing is, you meet them down there, for

all the airs they give themselves. What I say is, you have as good a

right to your notions as they have to theirs, and perhaps better.

[_Settling himself for a lecture on the subject_] You see, it’s like

this. If—[_the first stroke of midnight is heard softly from a distant

bell_]. Excuse me: a pressing appointment—[_He goes on tiptoe_].

_The last remaining rays of light gather into a white radiance

descending on Joan. The hour continues to strike._

JOAN. O God that madest this beautiful earth, when will it be ready to

receive Thy saints? How long, O Lord, how long?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Notes

George Bernard Shaw had strong beliefs about typography and English

spelling reform. In printing his plays, he insisted on leaving out the

apostrophes (which he called “uncouth bacillae”) in contractions like

“cant” and “dont.” Shaw did use apostrophes in possessives and in some

contractions, such as “it’s,” “I’ll,” “she’s,” and “that’s.” He also

refused to use dashes in numbers like “twentyfive.”

This edition omits apostrophes and dashes where Shaw omitted them,

leaves them in where he left them in, and makes changes only for

consistency, in a few cases listed below. In the HTML version of this

text, these words punctuated in nonstandard ways are marked with an

invisible tag, <span class="nonstandard">.

In the HTML version, semantic tagging has been added to the play. The

tags are:

A line of dialogue: <div class="line">

The character speaking: <span class="speaker">

The remainder of the line: <span class="speech">

A stage direction inside a line: <span class="sd-in">

A stage direction on its own line: <span class="sd-out">

The punctuation of stage directions is inconsistent in the printed text

and has been left as printed.

This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. Shaw also

sometimes showed emphasis with extra space between the letters of a

word; this is shown in this plain text version like t h i s.

Itemized changes from the original text:

• p. ix: Corrected “St.” to “St” in “though he ends in St Helena” for

consistency.

• p. xxx: Corrected “whereever” to “wherever” in “wherever there are

armies on foot.”

• p. lxiv: Corrected “Don’t” to “Dont” in “Dont argue: do as you are

told” for consistency.

• p. xlvi: Corrected “Mrs.” to “Mrs” in “Joan, like Mrs Eddy” for

consistency.

• p. xlvi: Corrected “very” to “every” in “to settle every question and

fit every occasion.”

• p. lxxxv: Corrected “St.” to “St” in “the New Theatre in St Martin’s

Lane” for consistency.

• p. 17: Corrected “coutryside” to “countryside” in “turning the

countryside into a desert.”

• p. 23: Corrected “has” to “his” in “that was his last haul.”

• p. 25: Corrected semicolon to period after “may my soul be blasted to

eternal damnation.”

• p. 36: Supplied missing period after “presents Joan the Maid to his

Majesty.”

• p. 41: Corrected “don’t” to “dont” in “I dont want to kill people”

for consistency.

• p. 49: Corrected “thats” to “that’s” in “He who has sinned for thee:

that’s better” for consistency.

• p. 53: Corrected period to question mark after “What business?”

• p. 74: Corrected “the” to “The” in “The two are seldom the same.”

• p. 87: Corrected “don’t” to “dont” in “You dont know where to begin”

for consistency with other appearances in the play.

• p. 87: Corrected “don’t” to “dont” in “dont forget that” for

consistency.

• p. 89: Corrected “stock” to “stick” in “she has got hold of the right

end of the stick.”

• p. 97: Corrected “St.” to “St” in “of the order of St Dominic” for

consistency.

• p. 104: Corrected “gentleman” to “gentlemen” in “Pray take your

places, gentlemen.”

• p. 111: Corrected “to-day” to “today” in “we are confronted today

throughout Europe” for consistency.

• p. 128: Corrected “humbling” to “humbly” in “humbly thanking you

Doctors and Masters.”

• p. 133: Corrected “hide” to “side” in “My place is at her side.”

• p. 141: Corrected “Twenty-five” to “Twentyfive” in “Twentyfive years

have passed” for consistency.

• p. 141: Corrected “one on” to “one of” in “And on every one of those

days.”

• p. 144: Corrected “don’t” to “dont” in “Oh, please dont mention it.”

for consistency.

• p. 159: Corrected “courtsey” to “courtesy” in “a matter of courtesey

to the said authorities.”

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public

domain.