Part 8
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_They go out together through the curtains, which are presently withdrawn, revealing the full depth of the throne-room with the Court assembled.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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SCENE III
_Orleans, May 29th, 1429. Dunois, aged 26, is pacing up and down a patch of ground on the south bank of the silver Loire, commanding a long view of the river in both directions. He has had his lance stuck up with a pennon, which streams in a strong east wind. His shield with its bend sinister lies beside it. He has his commander’s baton in his hand. He is well built, carrying his armor easily. His broad brow and pointed chin give him an equilaterally triangular face, already marked by active service and responsibility, with the expression of a goodnatured and capable man who has no affectations and no foolish illusions. His page is sitting on the ground, elbows on knees, cheeks on fists, idly watching the water. It is evening; and both man and boy are affected by the loveliness of the Loire._
DUNOIS [_halting for a moment to glance up at the streaming pennon and shake his head wearily before he resumes his pacing_] West wind, west wind, west wind. Strumpet: steadfast when you should be wanton, wanton when you should be steadfast. West wind on the silver Loire: what rhymes to Loire? [_He looks again at the pennon, and shakes his fist at it_] Change, curse you, change, English harlot of a wind, change. West, west, I tell you. [_With a growl he resumes his march in silence, but soon begins again_] West wind, wanton wind, wilful wind, womanish wind, false wind from over the water, will you never blow again?
THE PAGE [_bounding to his feet_] See! There! There she goes!
DUNOIS [_startled from his reverie: eagerly_] Where? Who? The Maid?
THE PAGE. No: the kingfisher. Like blue lightning. She went into that bush.
DUNOIS [_furiously disappointed_] Is that all? You infernal young idiot: I have a mind to pitch you into the river.
THE PAGE [_not afraid, knowing his man_] It looked frightfully jolly, that flash of blue. Look! There goes the other!
DUNOIS [_running eagerly to the river brim_] Where? Where?
THE PAGE [_pointing_] Passing the reeds.
DUNOIS [_delighted_] I see.
_They follow the flight until the bird takes cover._
THE PAGE. You blew me up because you were not in time to see them yesterday.
DUNOIS. You knew I was expecting The Maid when you set up your yelping. I will give you something to yelp for next time.
THE PAGE. Arnt they lovely? I wish I could catch them.
DUNOIS. Let me catch you trying to trap them, and I will put you in the iron cage for a month to teach you what a cage feels like. You are an abominable boy.
THE PAGE [_laughs, and squats down as before_] !
DUNOIS [_pacing_] Blue bird, blue bird, since I am friend to thee, change thou the wind for me. No: it does not rhyme. He who has sinned for thee: that’s better. No sense in it, though. [_He finds himself close to the page_] You abominable boy! [_He turns away from him_] Mary in the blue snood, kingfisher color: will you grudge me a west wind?
A SENTRY’S VOICE WESTWARD. Halt! Who goes there?
JOAN’S VOICE. The Maid.
DUNOIS. Let her pass. Hither, Maid! To me!
_Joan, in splendid armor, rushes in in a blazing rage. The wind drops; and the pennon flaps idly down the lance; but Dunois is too much occupied with Joan to notice it._
JOAN [_bluntly_] Be you Bastard of Orleans?
DUNOIS [_cool and stern, pointing to his shield_] You see the bend sinister. Are you Joan the Maid?
JOAN. Sure.
DUNOIS. Where are your troops?
JOAN. Miles behind. They have cheated me. They have brought me to the wrong side of the river.
DUNOIS. I told them to.
JOAN. Why did you? The English are on the other side!
DUNOIS. The English are on both sides.
JOAN. But Orleans is on the other side. We must fight the English there. How can we cross the river?
DUNOIS [_grimly_] There is a bridge.
JOAN. In God’s name, then, let us cross the bridge, and fall on them.
DUNOIS. It seems simple; but it cannot be done.
JOAN. Who says so?
DUNOIS. I say so; and older and wiser heads than mine are of the same opinion.
JOAN [_roundly_] Then your older and wiser heads are fatheads: they have made a fool of you; and now they want to make a fool of me too, bringing me to the wrong side of the river. Do you not know that I bring you better help than ever came to any general or any town?
DUNOIS [_smiling patiently_] Your own?
JOAN. No: the help and counsel of the King of Heaven. Which is the way to the bridge?
DUNOIS. You are impatient, Maid.
JOAN. Is this a time for patience? Our enemy is at our gates; and here we stand doing nothing. Oh, why are you not fighting? Listen to me: I will deliver you from fear. I—
DUNOIS [_laughing heartily, and waving her off_] No, no, my girl: if you delivered me from fear I should be a good knight for a story book, but a very bad commander for the army. Come! let me begin to make a soldier of you. [_He takes her to the water’s edge_]. Do you see those two forts at this end of the bridge? the big ones?
JOAN. Yes. Are they ours or the goddams’?
DUNOIS. Be quiet, and listen to me. If I were in either of those forts with only ten men I could hold it against an army. The English have more than ten times ten goddams in those forts to hold them against us.
JOAN. They cannot hold them against God. God did not give them the land under those forts: they stole it from Him. He gave it to us. I will take those forts.
DUNOIS. Single-handed?