Tragedy, not Melodrama lxxv The Inevitable Flatteries of Tragedy lxxvi Some well-meant Proposals for the Improvement of the Play lxxviii The Epilogue lxxx To the Critics, lest they should feel Ignored lxxx ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SAINT JOAN ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SAINT JOAN SCENE I _A fine spring morning on the river Meuse, between Lorraine and Champagne, in the year 1429 A.D., in the castle of Vaucouleurs._ _Captain Robert de Baudricourt, a military squire, handsome and physically energetic, but with no will of his own, is disguising that defect in his usual fashion by storming terribly at his steward, a trodden worm, scanty of flesh, scanty of hair, who might be any age from 18 to 55, being the sort of man whom age cannot wither because he has never bloomed._ _The two are in a sunny stone chamber on the first floor of the castle. At a plain strong oak table, seated in chair to match, the captain presents his left profile. The steward stands facing him at the other side of the table, if so deprecatory a stance as his can be called standing. The mullioned thirteenth-century window is open behind him. Near it in the corner is a turret with a narrow arched doorway leading to a winding stair which descends to the courtyard. There is a stout fourlegged stool under the table, and a wooden chest under the window._ 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?