Saint Joan · Scene I (2/2) (1/2)
Robert No eggs! No eggs!! Thousand thunders, man, what do you mean by no eggs?
Steward Sir: it is not my fault. It is the act of God.
Robert Blasphemy. You tell me there are no eggs; and you blame your Maker for it.
Steward Sir: what can I do? I cannot lay eggs.
Robert Sarcastic. Ha! You jest about it.
Steward No, sir, God knows. We all have to go without eggs just as you have, sir. The hens will not lay.
Robert Indeed! Rising. Now listen to me, you.
Steward Humbly. Yes, sir.
Robert What am I?
Steward What are you, sir?
Robert Coming at him. Yes: what am I? Am I Robert, squire of Baudricourt and captain of this castle of Vaucouleurs: or am I a cowboy?
Steward Oh, sir, you know you are a greater man here than the king himself.
Robert Precisely. And now, do you know what you are?
Steward I am nobody, sir, except that I have the honor to be your steward.
Robert Driving him to the wall, adjective by adjective. You have not only the honor of being my steward, but the privilege of being the worst, most incompetent, drivelling snivelling jibbering jabbering idiot of a steward in France. He strides back to the table.
Steward Cowering on the chest. Yes, sir: to a great man like you I must seem like that.
Robert Turning. My fault, I suppose. Eh?
Steward Coming to him deprecatingly. Oh, sir: you always give my most innocent words such a turn!
Robert I will give your neck a turn if you dare tell me, when I ask you how many eggs there are, that you cannot lay any.
Steward Protesting. Oh sir, oh sir⁠—
Robert No: not oh sir, oh sir, but no sir, no sir. My three Barbary hens and the black are the best layers in Champagne. And you come and tell me that there are no eggs! Who stole them? Tell me that, before I kick you out through the castle gate for a liar and a seller of my goods to thieves. The milk was short yesterday, too: do not forget that.
Steward Desperate. I know, sir. I know only too well. There is no milk: there are no eggs: tomorrow there will be nothing.
Robert Nothing! You will steal the lot: eh?
Steward No, sir: nobody will steal anything. But there is a spell on us: we are bewitched.
Robert That story is not good enough for me. Robert de Baudricourt burns witches and hangs thieves. Go. Bring me four dozen eggs and two gallons of milk here in this room before noon, or Heaven have mercy on your bones! I will teach you to make a fool of me. He resumes his seat with an air of finality.
Steward Sir: I tell you there are no eggs. There will be none⁠—not if you were to kill me for it⁠—as long as The Maid is at the door.
Robert The Maid! What maid? What are you talking about?
Steward The girl from Lorraine, sir. From Domrémy.
Robert Rising in fearful wrath. Thirty thousand thunders! Fifty thousand devils! Do you mean to say that that girl, who had the impudence to ask to see me two days ago, and whom I told you to send back to her father with my orders that he was to give her a good hiding, is here still?
Steward I have told her to go, sir. She won’t.
Robert I did not tell you to tell her to go: I told you to throw her out. You have fifty men-at-arms and a dozen lumps of ablebodied servants to carry out my orders. Are they afraid of her?
Steward She is so positive, sir.
Robert Seizing him by the scruff of the neck. Positive! Now see here. I am going to throw you downstairs.
Steward No, sir. Please.
Robert Well, stop me by being positive. It’s quite easy: any slut of a girl can do it.
Steward Hanging limp in his hands. Sir, sir: you cannot get rid of her by throwing me out. Robert has to let him drop. He squats on his knees on the floor, contemplating his master resignedly. You see, sir, you are much more positive than I am. But so is she.
Robert I am stronger than you are, you fool.
Steward No, sir: it isn’t that: it’s your strong character, sir. She is weaker than we are: she is only a slip of a girl; but we cannot make her go.
Robert You parcel of curs: you are afraid of her.
Steward Rising cautiously. No, sir: we are afraid of you; but she puts courage into us. She really doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. Perhaps you could frighten her, sir.
Robert Grimly. Perhaps. Where is she now?
Steward Down in the courtyard, sir, talking to the soldiers as usual. She is always talking to the soldiers except when she is praying.
Robert Praying! Ha! You believe she prays, you idiot. I know the sort of girl that is always talking to soldiers. She shall talk to me a bit. He goes to the window and shouts fiercely through it. Hallo, you there!
A Girl’s Voice Bright, strong and rough. Is it me, sir?
Robert Yes, you.
The Voice Be you captain?
Robert Yes, damn your impudence, I be captain. Come up here. To the soldiers in the yard. Show her the way, you. And shove her along quick. He leaves the window and returns to his place at the table, where he sits magisterially.
Steward Whispering. She wants to go and be a soldier herself. She wants you to give her soldier’s clothes. Armor, sir! And a sword! Actually! He steals behind Robert.
Joan* appears in the turret doorway. She is an ablebodied country girl of 17 or 18, respectably dressed in red, with an uncommon face: eyes very wide apart and bulging as they often do in very imaginative people, a long well-shaped nose with wide nostrils, a short upper lip, resolute but full-lipped mouth, and handsome fighting chin. She comes eagerly to the table, delighted at having penetrated to Baudricourt’s* presence at last, and full of hope as to the result. His scowl does not check or frighten her in the least. Her voice is normally a hearty coaxing voice, very confident, very appealing, very hard to resist.
Joan Bobbing a curtsey. Good morning, captain squire. Captain: you are to give me a horse and armor and some soldiers, and send me to the Dauphin. Those are your orders from my Lord.
Robert Outraged. Orders from your lord! And who the devil may your lord be? Go back to him, and tell him that I am neither duke nor peer at his orders: I am squire of Baudricourt; and I take no orders except from the king.
Joan Reassuringly. Yes, squire: that is all right. My Lord is the King of Heaven.
Robert Why, the girl’s mad. To the steward. Why didn’t you tell me so, you blockhead?
Steward Sir: do not anger her: give her what she wants.
Joan Impatient, but friendly. They all say I am mad until I talk to them, squire. But you see that it is the will of God that you are to do what He has put into my mind.
Robert It is the will of God that I shall send you back to your father with orders to put you under lock and key and thrash the madness out of you. What have you to say to that?
Joan You think you will, squire; but you will find it all coming quite different. You said you would not see me; but here I am.
Steward Appealing. Yes, sir. You see, sir.
Robert Hold your tongue, you.
Steward Abjectly. Yes, sir.
Robert To Joan, with a sour loss of confidence. So you are presuming on my seeing you, are you?
Joan Sweetly. Yes, squire.
Robert Feeling that he has lost ground, brings down his two fists squarely on the table, and inflates his chest imposingly to cure the unwelcome and only too familiar sensation. Now listen to me. I am going to assert myself.
Joan Busily. Please do, squire. The horse will cost sixteen francs. It is a good deal of money; but I can save it on the armor. I can find a soldier’s armor that will fit me well enough: I am very hardy; and I do not need beautiful armor made to my measure like you wear. I shall not want many soldiers: the Dauphin will give me all I need to raise the siege of Orleans.
Robert Flabbergasted. To raise the siege of Orleans!
Joan Simply. Yes, squire: that is what God is sending me to do. Three men will be enough for you to send with me if they are good men and gentle to me. They have promised to come with me. Polly and Jack and⁠—
Robert Polly!! You impudent baggage, do you dare call squire Bertrand de Poulengey Polly to my face?
Joan His friends call him so, squire: I did not know he had any other name. Jack⁠—
Robert That is Monsieur John of Metz, I suppose?
Joan Yes, squire. Jack will come willingly: he is a very kind gentleman, and gives me money to give to the poor. I think John Godsave will come, and Dick the Archer, and their servants John of Honecourt and Julian. There will be no trouble for you, squire: I have arranged it all: you have only to give the order.
Robert Contemplating her in a stupor of amazement. Well, I am damned!
Joan With muffled sweetness. No, squire: God is very merciful; and the blessed saints Catherine and Margaret, who speak to me every day he gapes, will intercede for you. You will go to paradise; and your name will be remembered forever as my first helper.
Robert To the steward, still much bothered, but changing his tone as he pursues a new clue. Is this true about Monsieur de Poulengey?
Steward Eagerly. Yes, sir, and about Monsieur de Metz too. They both want to go with her.
Robert Thoughtful. Mf! He goes to the window, and shouts into the courtyard. Hallo! You there: send Monsieur de Poulengey to me, will you? He turns to Joan. Get out; and wait in the yard.
Joan Smiling brightly at him. Right, squire. She goes out.
Robert To the steward. Go with her, you, you dithering imbecile. Stay within call; and keep your eye on her. I shall have her up here again.
Steward Do so in God’s name, sir. Think of those hens, the best layers in Champagne; and⁠—
Robert Think of my boot; and take your backside out of reach of it.
The steward retreats hastily and finds himself confronted in the doorway by Bertrand de Poulengey, a lymphatic French gentleman-at-arms, aged 36 or thereabout, employed in the department of the provost-marshal, dreamily absentminded, seldom speaking unless spoken to, and then slow and obstinate in reply: altogether in contrast to the self-assertive, loud-mouthed, superficially energetic, fundamentally will-less Robert. The steward makes way for him, and vanishes.
Poulengey salutes, and stands awaiting orders.
Robert Genially. It isn’t service, Polly. A friendly talk. Sit down. He hooks the stool from under the table with his instep.
Poulengey*, relaxing, comes into the room; places the stool between the table and the window; and sits down ruminatively. Robert*, half sitting on the end of the table, begins the friendly talk.
Robert Now listen to me, Polly. I must talk to you like a father.
Poulengey looks up at him gravely for a moment, but says nothing.
Robert It’s about this girl you are interested in. Now, I have seen her. I have talked to her. First, she’s mad. That doesn’t matter. Second, she’s not a farm wench. She’s a bourgeoise. That matters a good deal. I know her class exactly. Her father came here last year to represent his village in a lawsuit: he is one of their notables. A farmer. Not a gentleman farmer: he makes money by it, and lives by it. Still, not a laborer. Not a mechanic. He might have a cousin a lawyer, or in the Church. These sort of people may be of no account socially; but they can give a lot of bother to the authorities. That is to say, to me. Now no doubt it seems to you a very simple thing to take this girl away, humbugging her into the belief that you are taking her to the Dauphin. But if you get her into trouble, you may get me into no end of a mess, as I am her father’s lord, and responsible for her protection. So friends or no friends, Polly, hands off her.
Poulengey With deliberate impressiveness. I should as soon think of the Blessed Virgin herself in that way, as of this girl.
Robert Coming off the table. But she says you and Jack and Dick have offered to go with her. What for? You are not going to tell me that you take her crazy notion of going to the Dauphin seriously, are you?
Poulengey Slowly. There is something about her. They are pretty foulmouthed and foulminded down there in the guardroom, some of them. But there hasn’t been a word that has anything to do with her being a woman. They have stopped swearing before her. There is something. Something. It may be worth trying.
Robert Oh, come, Polly! pull yourself together. Common sense was never your strong point; but this is a little too much. He retreats disgustedly.
Poulengey Unmoved. What is the good of common sense? If we had any common sense we should join the Duke of Burgundy and the English king. They hold half the country, right down to the Loire. They have Paris. They have this castle: you know very well that we had to surrender it to the Duke of Bedford, and that you are only holding it on parole. The Dauphin is in Chinon, like a rat in a corner, except that he won’t fight. We don’t even know that he is the Dauphin: his mother says he isn’t; and she ought to know. Think of that! the queen denying the legitimacy of her own son!
Robert Well, she married her daughter to the English king. Can you blame the woman?
Poulengey I blame nobody. But thanks to her, the Dauphin is down and out; and we may as well face it. The English will take Orleans: the Bastard will not be able to stop them.
Robert He beat the English the year before last at Montargis. I was with him.
Poulengey No matter: his men are cowed now; and he can’t work miracles. And I tell you that nothing can save our side now but a miracle.
Robert Miracles are all right, Polly. The only difficulty about them is that they don’t happen nowadays.
Poulengey I used to think so. I am not so sure now. Rising and moving ruminatively towards the window. At all events this is not a time to leave any stone unturned. There is something about the girl.
Robert Oh! You think the girl can work miracles, do you?
Poulengey I think the girl herself is a bit of a miracle. Anyhow, she is the last card left in our hand. Better play her than throw up the game. He wanders to the turret.
Robert Wavering. You really think that?
Poulengey Turning. Is there anything else left for us to think?
Robert Going to him. Look here, Polly. If you were in my place would you let a girl like that do you out of sixteen francs for a horse?
Poulengey I will pay for the horse.
Robert You will!
Poulengey Yes: I will back my opinion.
Robert You will really gamble on a forlorn hope to the tune of sixteen francs?
Poulengey It is not a gamble.
Robert What else is it?
Poulengey It is a certainty. Her words, and her ardent faith in God have put fire into me.
Robert Giving him up. Whew! You are as mad as she is.
Poulengey Obstinately. We want a few mad people now. See where the sane ones have landed us!
Robert His irresoluteness now openly swamping his affected decisiveness. I shall feel like a precious fool. Still, if you feel sure⁠—?
Poulengey I feel sure enough to take her to Chinon⁠—unless you stop me.
Robert This is not fair. You are putting the responsibility on me.
Poulengey It is on you whichever way you decide.
Robert Yes: that’s just it. Which way am I to decide. You don’t see how awkward this is for me. Snatching at a dilatory step with an unconscious hope that Joan will make up his mind for him. Do you think I ought to have another talk to her?