Saint Joan · Scene V (2/2) (2/2)

| Joan | Flattered. Sixteen thousand pounds! Eh, laddie, have they offered that for me? There cannot be so much money in the world. | | Dunois | There is, in England. And now tell me, all of you, which of you will lift a finger to save Joan once the English have got her? I speak first, for the army. The day after she has been dragged from her horse by a goddam or a Burgundian, and he is not struck dead: the day after she is locked in a dungeon, and the bars and bolts do not fly open at the touch of St. Peter’s angel: the day when the enemy finds out that she is as vulnerable as I am and not a bit more invincible, she will not be worth the life of a single soldier to us; and I will not risk that life, much as I cherish her as a companion-in-arms. | | Joan | I don’t blame you, Jack: you are right. I am not worth one soldier’s life if God lets me be beaten; but France may think me worth my ransom after what God has done for her through me. | | Charles | I tell you I have no money; and this coronation, which is all your fault, has cost me the last farthing I can borrow. | | Joan | The Church is richer than you. I put my trust in the Church. | | The Archbishop | Woman: they will drag you through the streets, and burn you as a witch. | | Joan | Running to him. Oh, my lord, do not say that. It is impossible. I a witch! | | The Archbishop | Peter Cauchon knows his business. The University of Paris has burnt a woman for saying that what you have done was well done, and according to God. | | Joan | Bewildered. But why? What sense is there in it? What I have done is according to God. They could not burn a woman for speaking the truth. | | The Archbishop | They did. | | Joan | But you know that she was speaking the truth. You would not let them burn me. | | The Archbishop | How could I prevent them? | | Joan | You would speak in the name of the Church. You are a great prince of the Church. I would go anywhere with your blessing to protect me. | | The Archbishop | I have no blessing for you while you are proud and disobedient. | | Joan | Oh, why will you go on saying things like that? I am not proud and disobedient. I am a poor girl, and so ignorant that I do not know A from B. How could I be proud? And how can you say that I am disobedient when I always obey my voices, because they come from God. | | The Archbishop | The voice of God on earth is the voice of the Church Militant; and all the voices that come to you are the echoes of your own wilfulness. | | Joan | It is not true. | | The Archbishop | Flushing angrily. You tell the Archbishop in his cathedral that he lies; and yet you say you are not proud and disobedient. | | Joan | I never said you lied. It was you that as good as said my voices lied. When have they ever lied? If you will not believe in them: even if they are only the echoes of my own common sense, are they not always right? and are not your earthly counsels always wrong? | | The Archbishop | Indignantly. It is waste of time admonishing you. | | Charles | It always comes back to the same thing. She is right, and everyone else is wrong. | | The Archbishop | Take this as your last warning. If you perish through setting your private judgment above the instructions of your spiritual directors, the Church disowns you, and leaves you to whatever fate your presumption may bring upon you. The Bastard has told you that if you persist in setting up your military conceit above the counsels of your commanders⁠— | | Dunois | Interposing. To put it quite exactly, if you attempt to relieve the garrison in Compiègne without the same superiority in numbers you had at Orleans⁠— | | The Archbishop | The army will disown you, and will not rescue you. And His Majesty the King has told you that the throne has not the means of ransoming you. | | Charles | Not a penny. | | The Archbishop | You stand alone: absolutely alone, trusting to your own conceit, your own ignorance, your own headstrong presumption, your own impiety in hiding all these sins under the cloak of a trust in God. When you pass through these doors into the sunlight, the crowd will cheer you. They will bring you their little children and their invalids to heal: they will kiss your hands and feet, and do what they can, poor simple souls, to turn your head, and madden you with the self-confidence that is leading you to your destruction. But you will be none the less alone: they cannot save you. We and we only can stand between you and the stake at which our enemies have burnt that wretched woman in Paris. | | Joan | Her eyes skyward. I have better friends and better counsel than yours. | | The Archbishop | I see that I am speaking in vain to a hardened heart. You reject our protection, and are determined to turn us all against you. In future, then, fend for yourself; and if you fail, God have mercy on your soul. | | Dunois | That is the truth, Joan. Heed it. | | Joan | Where would you all have been now if I had heeded that sort of truth? There is no help, no counsel, in any of you. Yes: I am alone on earth: I have always been alone. My father told my brothers to drown me if I would not stay to mind his sheep while France was bleeding to death: France might perish if only our lambs were safe. I thought France would have friends at the court of the king of France; and I find only wolves fighting for pieces of her poor torn body. I thought God would have friends everywhere, because He is the friend of everyone; and in my innocence I believed that you who now cast me out would be like strong towers to keep harm from me. But I am wiser now; and nobody is any the worse for being wiser. Do not think you can frighten me by telling me that I am alone. France is alone; and God is alone; and what is my loneliness before the loneliness of my country and my God? I see now that the loneliness of God is His strength: what would He be if He listened to your jealous little counsels? Well, my loneliness shall be my strength too: it is better to be alone with God: His friendship will not fail me, nor His counsel, nor His love. In His strength I will dare, and dare, and dare, until I die. I will go out now to the common people, and let the love in their eyes comfort me for the hate in yours. You will all be glad to see me burnt; but if I go through the fire I shall go through it to their hearts forever and ever. And so, God be with me! | | | She goes from them. They stare after her in glum silence for a moment. Then Gilles de Rais twirls his beard. | | Bluebeard | You know, the woman is quite impossible. I don’t dislike her, really; but what are you to do with such a character? | | Dunois | As God is my judge, if she fell into the Loire I would jump in in full armor to fish her out. But if she plays the fool at Compiègne, and gets caught, I must leave her to her doom. | | La Hire | Then you had better chain me up; for I could follow her to hell when the spirit rises in her like that. | | The Archbishop | She disturbs my judgment too: there is a dangerous power in her outbursts. But the pit is open at her feet; and for good or evil we cannot turn her from it. | | Charles | If only she would keep quiet, or go home! | | | They follow her dispiritedly. |