Part 16

Although in this collection, Brighouse is represented by _Maid of France_, a play with no local Lancashire coloring, first given on July 16, 1917, in London, not Manchester (it was later produced at the Greenwich Village Theatre in New York, beginning April 18, 1918), he has up to the present time written seven plays about Lancashire. He has been particularly successful in one-act drama; _Lonesome Like_, _The Price of Coal_, and _Spring in Bloomsbury_ have been popular here and in England. B. Iden Payne, who directed productions at the Gaiety Theatre for some time, says: "In all Harold Brighouse's plays there is in the acting more laughter than one would expect from the reading." A number of Brighouse's plays have been published; in the introduction to the latest volume,[36] he writes: "In another age than ours play-books were a favorite, if not the only form of light reading.... The reader mentally producing a play from the book in his hand looks through a magic casement at what he gloriously will instead of through a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a mere human producer." This playwright's attitude toward the reading of plays, with its appeal to the imagination, is one justification for a collection like the present one.

[Footnote 36: Harold Brighouse, _Three Lancashire Plays_, London and New York, 1920. There is a bibliographical note at the end.]

Brighouse is himself a Manchester man, having been born in Eccles, a suburb, on July 26, 1882. He was educated at the Manchester Grammar School. Until 1913 he was engaged in business, carrying on his literary work at the same time, but in that year he gave himself up exclusively to writing. Besides plays, he has written fiction and criticism. During the Great War, he was attached to the Intelligence Staff of the Air Ministry.

MAID OF FRANCE

CHARACTERS

JEANNE D'ARC. BLANCHE, _a flower-girl._ PAUL, _a French Poilu._ FRED, _an English Tommy._ GERALD SOAMES, _an English lieutenant._

_THE SCENE represents one side of a square in a French town on Christmas Eve, 1916. The buildings shown have suffered from German shells, except the church in the center which stands immune, protected, as it were, by the statue of Jeanne d'Arc which stands on a pedestal, surrounded by steps in front of it. The church is lighted up within for the midnight mass, but it is its side which presents itself to one's view, so that the ingoing worshipers are not seen. The statue is of the Maid in her armor. It is nearly midnight on Christmas Eve and the lighting, which should not be too realistically obscure, suggests faint moonlight._

_PAUL, a French private in war-worn uniform, stands by the steps, gazing adoringly at the statue. He is a charmingly simple, credulous man, in peace a peasant. To him there enters from the right, BLANCHE, a flower-girl, in a cloak, with a basket of flowers. In face and figure, BLANCHE must resemble the statue. She is a pert, impudent, extremely self-possessed saleswoman, burning, however, with the fierce light of French patriotism which, almost in spite of herself, is apt to get the better of her. Ready as she is to trade upon PAUL's mystic reverence for the Maid, familiarity with the statue has not bred contempt in her. She stops by PAUL, offering her flowers with a cajoling smile._

BLANCHE. Will you buy a flower, monsieur?

PAUL. Flower, mademoiselle? You can sell flowers at this hour when it is nearly midnight?

BLANCHE. There is moonlight, and I have a smile, monsieur. It is my smile which sells the flowers. Does not monsieur agree that it is irresistible?

PAUL [_uneasily_]. Mademoiselle has charm.

BLANCHE. And I have charms for you. My flowers. Will you not buy a flower, monsieur, and I will pin it to your uniform where it will draw all the ladies' eyes to you when you promenade on the boulevard?

PAUL. I do not promenade. I stay here.

BLANCHE. Here in the Square where it is dull and lonely? But on the boulevards are lights, monsieur, and gaiety, and people promenade because to-night is Christmas Eve.

PAUL. Mademoiselle, you're kind. Will you be kind to me and tell me something?

BLANCHE. What can I tell?

PAUL. I am only a peasant and I do not know many things. But you live in the town and you must know. They say, mademoiselle, they have told me, that there are miracles on Christmas Eve.

BLANCHE. Did you believe them?

PAUL. I did not know. I only hoped.

BLANCHE. What did you hope?

PAUL [_very earnestly_]. I have been told that stone can speak on Christmas Eve. And I want, oh, mademoiselle, I want to hear the blessed voice of our glorious Maid.

BLANCHE. Monsieur has sentiment.

PAUL [_pleadingly_]. You think that she will speak to me?

BLANCHE [_dropping all banter_]. Monsieur, she speaks in stone to all of us. She stands erect, serene, like the unconquerable spirit of France and cries defiance at the Boche. They sent their shells like hail and ground our homes to powder and made a desolation of our streets, but they could not touch the statue of the Maid nor the church she guards.

PAUL. And she speaks! She speaks!

BLANCHE. She is the soul of France, monsieur, defying tyranny, invincible and unafraid. She is a message to each one of us. As the shells fell all around and could not harm her, so must we stand unshaken for the France we love. She speaks of freedom and deliverance.

PAUL. And she will speak to me?

BLANCHE [_pityingly as she sees how literally he has taken her_]. Perhaps.

PAUL. What must I do, mademoiselle, to hear her voice?

BLANCHE [_seeing in this too good an opportunity for selling a flower_]. Will you not buy a flower for the Maid? They come from far away, from the South where there is always sun, and so they are not cheap. But, for a franc, you may have one lily of Lorraine to put upon the statue of the Maid.

PAUL. A lily of Lorraine!

BLANCHE [_showing a flower, then taking it back tantalizingly_]. See, monsieur! How could she refuse to speak to you if you gave her that?

PAUL. It is the way to make her speak! [_Puts out hand for the flower and then draws back._ ] But a franc! And I have nothing but one sou.

BLANCHE. One sou! When flowers are so dear, and have to come so far! Mon dieu, monsieur, but you have had a thirsty day if a sou is all that you have left from the wineshops.

PAUL. I did not spend it there, mademoiselle. I gave it to the church, this church where is the statue of our Maid.

BLANCHE [_only half scoffing_]. Monsieur is devout.

PAUL. Not always, mademoiselle. But I was born at Domremy where she was born and I have always adored our sainted Maid who died for France. Perhaps because of that, perhaps without the flower, Jeanne will speak to me at midnight when they say the statues come to life.

BLANCHE [_touched_]. Monsieur, I do not know. Perhaps she will. But see, here is a lily of Lorraine which I give you for the Maid. Put it upon her statue and perhaps it will awaken her to speech.

PAUL. Mademoiselle! [_Taking the flower._] How can I thank you?

BLANCHE. I also am a maid of France, monsieur. You are a soldier and you fight for France. But I must sell my flowers now. Perhaps, when I have sold them, I will come again to see if Jeanne has spoken.

PAUL. You think she will?

BLANCHE. Monsieur, have faith. All things are possible on Christmas Eve. [_She moves L. PAUL goes to the statue and puts the lily on its breast._]

BLANCHE. Holy Virgin, the lies I've told! What simplicity! But Jeanne might. She might. [_Exit BLANCHE L. PAUL stands, watching. An English lieutenant, GERALD SOAMES, enters R., carrying a small wreath of evergreens. He is awkward and self-conscious and stops short when he sees PAUL, annoyed in the English way at being found out in an act of sentiment. By consequence, the little ceremony he had proposed falls short of the impressiveness he designed for it._]

GERALD. O Lord, there's a fellow there. Er--[_PAUL salutes._] Oh--er--c'est ici la statue de Jeanne d'Arc, n'est-ce pas?

PAUL. Mais oui, monsieur.

GERALD. And that's about as far as my French will go. I say, you're not on duty, are you? Vous n'etes pas de garde?

PAUL. Non, monsieur.

GERALD. No, of course you're not. Damned silly question to ask. All the same, I wish he'd take a hint. I say. Lord, I've forgotten the French for "have a drink." Besides, he couldn't. It's too late. I'll just do what I came for and go. [_Puts back into pocket the coin he had taken out._] After all, the fellow's as good a right to be here as I have. I'll have one more shot. N'avez-vous pas des affaires?

PAUL. Mais non, monsieur. Pas ce soir. Je suis en conge.

GERALD. Heaven knows what that means, except that he's a fixture. Oh well, I don't care if he does see me. He'll not know what to make of it, anyhow. [_Up to statue._] Jeanne d'Arc, I'm putting this wreath on your statue. It's an English wreath and it came from England. It's English holly and English ivy and it's supposed to mean that England's sorry for the awful things she did to you and I hope you've forgiven us all. [_He has cap off. Now puts cap on._] I think that's all. [_Places wreath at statue's feet. Stands erect, salutes, turns._] Hang that French fellow. I suppose he'll think I'm mad. [_GERALD goes down steps and off R. PAUL salutes, then goes up steps to look at the wreath. FRED COLLEDGE, an English private, enters L. Without noticing PAUL, he sits on the steps and lights a cigarette. In the light of his match he sees PAUL, gives a little amused laugh and lies back making himself comfortable, turning up coat-collar, etc. PAUL sees him, and is shocked. Comes down steps._]

PAUL. Monsieur!

FRED. Hullo, cockey. How are you getting on?

PAUL. Monsieur! This place. These steps. One does not rest upon these steps.

FRED. Ho yes, one does. I'm doing it, so I ought to know.

PAUL. But here, monsieur. Outside the church.

FRED. That's all right. The better the place the better the seat. It ain't a feather-bed in the old house at home, but I've sort of lost the feather-bed 'abit lately.

PAUL. One should not sit on these steps, monsieur.

FRED. You must like that tune, old son, the way you stick to it. And, if you ask me, one should not do a pile of things that one's been doing over here. Take me, now. By rights, I ought to be eating roast beef and plum-pudding to-morrow in Every Street. Third turn on the left below the Mile End Pavilion, but I suppose I'm the same way as you. Going back on the train at 2 A.M. to eat my Christmas dinner in the blooming trenches. That's you, ain't it? And it's me, too. So let's sit down together and do an entente for an hour. Don't talk and I'll race you to where the dreams come from. [_He pulls PAUL down genially beside him._]

PAUL [_sitting_]. I ought not to sit here.

FRED. Ain't these steps soft enough for you?

PAUL. Monsieur, you do not understand. I come from Domremy.

FRED. Do you? I'm Mile End myself. What about it?

PAUL. But Domremy.

FRED. Can't say I'm much the wiser.

PAUL. But here, monsieur. This statue. It is our glorious maid. C'est Jeanne d'Arc.

FRED. Ark, eh? Is that old Noah? [_Gets up to look at statue._]

PAUL [_rising_]. Jeanne d'Arc, monsieur. She--

FRED. Oh, it's a lady, is it? Dressed like that for riding, I reckon. So that's old Noah's wife, is it? Well, the old cock had a bit of taste.

PAUL. It is Jeanne d'Arc. You call her--what do you call her?--Joan of--

FRED. Not guilty. I ain't so forward with the ladies. I don't call them in their Christian names till I've been introduced.

PAUL. You English call her Joan of Arc. The great Jeanne d'Arc. She--

FRED. Wait a bit. Now don't excite me for a moment. I'm thinking. I've heard that name before.

PAUL. But yes, monsieur. In history.

FRED. That's done it. I take you, cockey. I knew it was a way back. Well, she's nothing in my life. [_Returns to steps and sits._]

PAUL. She is of my life. I come from Domremy.

FRED. So you said.

PAUL. It was her birthplace.

FRED [_clapping him on the shoulder_]. Cockey, I'm with you now. I know the feeling. Why, we'd a man born in our street that played center-forward for the Arsenal. Makes you proud of the place where you were born. Na pooed now, poor devil. Got his head blown off last month. He was a sergeant in our lot. 'Ave a woodbine?

PAUL. Not here, monsieur.

FRED. Please yourself. Smoke your own. Them black things are no use to me. It's a rum country yours, old son. Light beer and black tobacco. But you fight on it all right. Oh yes, you fight all right. 'Ere, 'ave a piece of chocolate to keep the cold out. My missus sent me that.

PAUL [_accepting_]. Merci. I hope madame is well.

FRED. Eh? Who's madame? Oh, you mean old Sally. She's all right. In bed. That's where she is. And I'm here. But I could do with a bit of a snooze myself. Come on, let's do a doss together.

PAUL. A doss?

FRED. Yus. Wait a bit. I speak French when I'm 'appy. Je vais dormir. Vous likewise dormir.

PAUL. I did not come to sleep, monsieur. I came to watch.

FRED. Watch? What do you want to watch for here? No Germans here.

PAUL. C'est la nuit de Noel, monsieur. They say the statues come to life on Christmas Eve, and I am watching here to see if Jeanne will breathe and move and speak to a piou-piou from Domremy.

FRED. You know, old son, you could have scared me once with a tale like that. But not to-day. I've been seeing life lately. If old Nelson got down off his perch, and I met him walking in Trafalgar Square, I'd just salute and think no more about it. You can't raise my hair now.

PAUL. Then you believe that she will speak?

FRED. You go to sleep, cockey, and there's no knowing what you'll hear. Come on, old sport. Je dormir and vous dormir, and we'll be a blooming dormitory. [_PAUL hesitates, looks at statue, then lies by FRED._] That's right. Lie close. Two can keep warmer than one. Oh well, good-night all. Merry Christmas, and to hell with the Kaiser. [_They sleep. The statue is darkened, and the lay figure of the statue is replaced by the living JEANNE. Bells chime midnight. As they begin, JEANNE awakes. With the first chime, light shines dimly on the statue. By the last chime, the statue is in brilliant light and JEANNE stirs on the pedestal and bends to the wreath. She lifts it, wondering._]

JEANNE. The wreath is here. I did not dream it, then. I saw him come and lay the wreath at my feet. I saw his uniform, and the uniform was not of France. I saw his face, and it was not a Frenchman's face. I heard his voice, and the voice was an English voice. I do not understand. Why should the English bring a wreath to me? I do not want their wreath. I want no favors from an Englishman. I am Jeanne d'Arc. I am your enemy, you English, whom I made to bite the dust at Orleans and vanquished at Patay. It was I who bore the standard into the cathedral at Rheims when we crowned my Dauphin the anointed King of France, and English Bedford trembled at my name. Burgundians took me at Compiegne. Your English money bought me from them, and your English hatred gave me up to mocking priests to try for sorcery. You called me "Heretic," "Relapsed," "Apostate," and "Idolater," and burnt me for a witch in Rouen market-place. And now do you lay a wreath at Jeanne's feet? And do you think she thanks you? I scorn your wreath. This wreath an English soldier set at Jeanne's feet. I tear it, and I trample on it. [_FRED and PAUL have awakened during this speech. Both are bewildered at first, like men who dream. But as JEANNE is about to tear the wreath FRED interposes._]

FRED. I dunno if I'm awake or asleep, but that there wreath, lady--I say, don't tear it. I don't know nothing about it bar what you've just said, but if any of our blokes put it there, you can take it from me it was kindly meant.

JEANNE. You? Who are you? You're--You're English.

FRED [_apologetically_]. Yus. I'm English. I don't see that I can help it, though. I just happen to be English same as a dawg. I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I'm English all right. And--No. Blimey, I won't apologize for it. I'm English. I'm English, and proud of it. So there!

JEANNE. Why are the English here in France? Why do I see so many of them?

PAUL. Maid--Jeanne--

JEANNE. You! You are not English. You are a soldier of France.

PAUL. I am of France.

JEANNE. Then shame to you, soldier of France! Shame on a Frenchman who can forget his pride of race and make a comrade of an Englishman!

PAUL. Maid, you do not understand.

JEANNE. No. I do not understand. I do not understand treachery. I do not understand baseness, dishonor, and the perfidy of one who has forgotten he is French. The English are the foes of France, and you consort with them. You--

FRED. 'Ere, 'ere, 'alf a mo'. Steady on, lady. You've got to learn something. All that stuff you've just been talking about the Battle of Waterloo. It's a wash-out now. We've cut it out. This 'ere bloke you're grousing at 'e's a friend of mine, and I'll pipe up for a friend when 'e's being reprimanded undeserving.

JEANNE. It is for that I blame a son of France, that he makes friends with you.

FRED. Well, it's your mistake. That's the worst of coming out of history. You're out of date. If I took my great-grandmother on a motor-bus to a picture-show, she'd have the same sort of fit that you've got, only it's worse with you. You're further back. And I'll tell you something. That old French froggy business is dead and gorn. We've given it up. Time's passed when an Englishman thought he could lick two Frenchmen with one hand tied behind his back. It's a back number, lady. Carpentier put the lid on that. You ask Billy Wells. Us blokes and the French, we're feeding out of one another's hands to-day.

JEANNE. I have seen the English and the French together in the streets. They do not fight.

FRED. Lord bless you, no. Provost-marshal wouldn't let 'em, if they wanted a friendly scrap.

JEANNE. They fraternize. I have seen them walking arm-in-arm.

FRED. That's natural enough.

JEANNE. Natural, for French and English!

FRED. Yes, lady, natural. If you'd seen the Frenchies fighting, same as I have, you'd want to walk arm-in-arm with them yourself, and be proud to do it, too.

PAUL. The English, are our brothers, Maid.

FRED. Gorlummy, we're more than that. I've known brothers do the dirty on each other. Us and the French, we're--why, we're _pals_. So that's all right, lady. Just let me put that wreath back where you got it from. I'm sure you'll 'urt someone's feelings if you trample on it. [_He tries to take wreath, she prevents him._]

JEANNE. When you have shown me why I should accept an English wreath, perhaps I will. So far I've yet to learn why a soldier of France is friendly with an Englishman.

FRED. I can't show you more than this, can I? [_Links arms with PAUL._]

JEANNE. That is not reason.

PAUL [_unlinking his arm_]. Perhaps I can show you reason. I who was born at Domremy.

JEANNE. You come from there! My home?

PAUL. Yes.

JEANNE. You know St. Remy's church and the Meuse and the beech-tree where they said the fairies used to dance. The tree. Is it still there?

PAUL. I do not know.

JEANNE. And the fields! The fields where I kept my father's sheep, and the wolves would not come near when I had charge of them, and the birds came to me and ate bread from my lap. You know those fields of Domremy?

PAUL. I knew them once.

JEANNE. You knew my church. It still is there?

PAUL. Who can say?

JEANNE. Cannot you, who were baptized in it?

PAUL. Jeanne, the Germans came to Domremy. I do not know if anything is left.

JEANNE. The Germans? But the Germans did not count when I lived there.

FRED. No, and they'll count a sight less before so long.

PAUL. They came like a thunderstorm, Jeanne. They swept our men away. They tore up treaties, and they came through Belgium and ravished it, and took us unawares. They blotted out our frontiers and came on like the tide till even Paris heard the sound of German guns. And then the English came, slowly at first, and just a little late, but not too late, then more and more and all the time more English came. They swept the Germans from the seas and drove their ships to hide. Shoulder to shoulder they have fought for France. They hurled the Germans back from Paris, and when their soldiers fell more came and more. Their plowmen and their clerks, their great lords and their scullions, all came to France to fight with us for la patrie. Their women make munitions and--

FRED. Yus. I daresay. Very fine. Only that'll do. We ain't done nothing to make a song about.

PAUL. Our children and our children's children will make songs of what the English did.

FRED. You let 'em. Leave it to 'em. Way I look at it is this, lady. There's a big swelled-headed bully, and he gets a little fellow down and starts kicking 'im. Well, it ain't manners, and we blokes comes along to teach 'im wot's wot. That's all there is to it.

PAUL. There's more than I could tell in a hundred years, Jeanne.

FRED. Then what's the good of trying?

JEANNE. He tried because he had to make me understand your friendship and all the noble thought and noble deed that lie behind this little wreath. [_She raises the wreath._]

FRED [_interposing_]. Oh, I say now, lady, go easy with that wreath, won't you? I--I wouldn't trample it if I were you. Battle of Waterloo's a long time ago.

JEANNE. Don't be afraid.

FRED. Gave me a turn to see you pick it up like that.

JEANNE [_putting it on her head_]. The English wreath is in its right place now. Here, on the head of Jeanne d'Arc. I'll wear that wreath forever. Give me your hand, you English soldier.

FRED. I've not washed since morning, lady.

JEANNE. Your hand, that fights for France. [_She takes it._] And yours, soldier of France.

PAUL. Jeanne! But you--[_Holding back timidly._]