Saint Joan

calling for The Maid. We have told them you are staying here alone to pray: but they want to see you again. Joan No: let the king have all the glory. Dunois He only spoils the show, poor devil. No, Joan: you have crowned him; and you must go through with it. Joan Shakes her head reluctantly. Dunois Raising her. Come come! it will be over in a couple of hours. It’s better than the bridge at Orleans: eh? Joan Oh, dear Dunois, how I wish it were the bridge at Orleans again! We lived at that bridge. Dunois Yes, faith, and died too: some of us. Joan Isn’t it strange, Jack? I am such a coward: I am frightened beyond words before a battle; but it is so dull afterwards when there is no danger: oh, so dull! dull! dull! Dunois You must learn to be abstemious in war, just as you are in your food and drink, my little saint. Joan Dear Jack: I think you like me as a soldier likes his comrade. Dunois You need it, poor innocent child of God. You have not many friends at court. Joan Why do all these courtiers and knights and churchmen hate me? What have I done to them? I have asked nothing for myself except that my village shall not be taxed; for we cannot afford war taxes. I have brought them luck and victory: I have set them right when they were doing all sorts of stupid things: I have crowned Charles and made him a real king; and all the honors he is handing out have gone to them. Then why do they not love me? Dunois Rallying her. Sim‑ple‑ton! Do you expect stupid people to love you for showing them up? Do blundering old military dugouts love the successful young captains who supersede them? Do ambitious politicians love the climbers who take the front seats from them? Do archbishops enjoy being played off their own altars, even by saints? Why, I should be jealous of you myself if I were ambitious enough. Joan You are the pick of the basket here, Jack: the only friend I have among all these nobles. I’ll wager your mother was from the country. I will go back to the farm when I have taken Paris. Dunois I am not so sure that they will let you take Paris. Joan Startled. What! Dunois I should have taken it myself before this if they had all been sound about it. Some of them would rather Paris took you, I think. So take care. Joan Jack: the world is too wicked for me. If the goddams and the Burgundians do not make an end of me, the French will. Only for my voices I should lose all heart. That is why I had to steal away to pray here alone after the coronation. I’ll tell you something, Jack. It is in the bells I hear my voices. Not today, when they all rang: that was nothing but jangling. But here in this corner, where the bells come down from heaven, and the echoes linger, or in the fields, where they come from a distance through the quiet of the countryside, my voices are in them. The cathedral clock chimes the quarter. Hark! She becomes rapt. Do you hear? “Dear-child-of-God”: just what you said. At the half-hour they will say “Be-brave-go-on.” At the three-quarters they will say “I-am-thy-Help.” But it is at the hour, when the great bell goes after “God-will-save-France”: it is then that St. Margaret and St. Catherine and sometimes even the blessed Michael will say things that I cannot tell beforehand. Then, oh then⁠— Dunois Interrupting her kindly but not sympathetically. Then, Joan, we shall hear whatever we fancy in the booming of the bell. You make me uneasy when you talk about your voices: I should think you were a bit cracked if I hadn’t noticed that you give me very sensible reasons for what you do, though I hear you telling others you are only obeying Madame Saint Catherine. Joan Crossly. Well, I have to find reasons for you, because you do not believe in my voices. But the voices come first; and I find the reasons after: whatever you may choose to believe. Dunois Are you angry, Joan? Joan Yes. Smiling. No: not with you. I wish you were one of the village babies. Dunois Why? Joan I could nurse you for awhile. Dunois You are a bit of a woman after all. Joan No: not a bit: I am a soldier and nothing else. Soldiers always nurse children when they get a chance. Dunois That is true. He laughs. King Charles, with Bluebeard on his left and La Hire on his right, comes from the vestry, where he has been disrobing. Joan shrinks away behind the pillar. Dunois is left between Charles and La Hire. Dunois Well, your Majesty is an anointed king at last. How do you like it? Charles I would not go through it again to be emperor of the sun and moon. The weight of those robes! I thought I should have dropped when they loaded that crown on to me. And the famous holy oil they talked so much about was rancid: phew! The Archbishop must be nearly dead: his robes must have weighed a ton: they are stripping him still in the vestry. Dunois Drily. Your Majesty should wear armor oftener. That would accustom you to heavy dressing. Charles Yes: the old jibe! Well, I am not going to wear armor: fighting is not my job. Where is The Maid? Joan Coming forward between Charles and Bluebeard, and falling on her knee. Sire: I have made you king: my work is done. I am going back to my father’s farm. Charles Surprised, but relieved. Oh, are you? Well, that will be very nice. Joan Rises, deeply discouraged. ! Charles Continuing heedlessly. A healthy life, you know. Dunois But a dull one. Bluebeard You will find the petticoats tripping you up after leaving