PS ^5\3 .t95J(o 1910 -^■^ Class Book__^ Gopyright^^. COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT i JOAN of ARC MONOLOGUE BY FLORENCE 1. GETTNER rl? 'I? rj* '^ tl? rj? r|? rj? i? ^ ^ ^ COPYRIGHT 1910 BY FLORENCE I. GETTNER PITTSBURGH. PA. ■ME BROCKETT PRESS ©CI.A259971 JOAN of ARC By FLORENCE I. GETTNER Copyright, 1910, by Florence I. Gettner. was night in the city of Rouen; the moon shone down in silent majesty VUi/ I upon the sleeping city. It shone ^^^p into the council chamber of the arch =^^==b bishop's palace where Warwick and Couchon had ju^ signed the edict for the burning of the young maid, Joan of Arc. It shone into the ball room of the Burgundian palace where fair women and gallant knights w^ere staking jewels, gloves and bon bons upon the fate of her whom they jeeringly called "The Maid of God" It shone into a lonely prison cell where a young girl lay sleeping, in her in- nocent dreaming, forgetting the placard above the iron door of her cell— "Joan of Arc, the Maid of God" 4 JOAN of ARC. Is it the moonlight's deceptive gleam That shines on that child-like face? Ah, no! She smiles in a happy dream Of a mother's fond embrace, Of the days when she tended her gentle sheep On the hillsides wild and free, And vsrandered at will, through the fore^s deep To the shade of the "Fairies' Tree." To the "Paries' Tree" where the Voices abode, And beckoned and called her name, And spoke of the soldiers, whose blood had flow^ed To lift France from her grave of shame. Where St. Michael fir^ lifted his fiery sword, And his Voice spoke ^rong and clear: "Draw near, Oh Maid, and hear the word Of God; be ^rong nor fear. Joan, Joan of Arc; God's messenger thou art. Prince Charles, the Dauphin, the rightful heir JOAN of ARC. 5 Trembling, nigh conquered, he's at Rheims; depart By might of God and sword, his kingship thou declare." "Oh, Holy Voice, I'm but a Maid, Don Remy's shepherdess, I dare not go, I am afraid. Oh, pity my distress." "Joan, Joan of Arc, thy commission is of God; nor fear St. Catherine and St. Margaret, these two shall be thy aid. Ride, ride to M. de Bandicourt, captain at Vancouleurs, He'll conduct thee to the king and say: "Here is the Maid!" * * * * * Now in the face of the sleeping girl The moonlight reveals a change. She dreams of the court and its merry whirl To the shepherdess maid, so strange. Of the doubt in the face of the courtiers there As Bandicourt spoke with the king. How her simple beauty won smile 6 JOAN of ARC. or stare As she told how the Voices would ring. And how^ the king, convinced, at last. Had lifted her from her knees, and then Her lonely heart, beat doubly fa^ When he promised her horses and men! When he gave her a suit of armour to wear And a pure white steed to ride, Then he spoke to her soldiers; "To God's Maid so fair Swear allegiance! By her word abide. For she is the deliverer of our poor France; Appointed by God on high, Taught by Voices to retreat or advance." And their loud cheers rent the sky. And they loved her, these soldiers So coarse and grim. With a love, pure, holy and sw^eet, And they'd follow her gladly till JOAN of ARC. eyes were dim With sleep, and aching their feet. * * * * * At la^, one night in camp, as she prayed A great Hght shone far and near. 'Twas St. Michael who said, "Be not dismayed The day of battle is here! Advance, in the name of Jehovah, advance To the city of Orleans, and there Surrounded by English, the braved of France Lie besieged; for thy safety have no care. Thy time is not yet." And all thought of fear As by magic, left the Maid, And her soul was filled with heavenly zeal As she turned to the soldiers and said: "On, on for God, the king and France! On, on my braved of the brave. 8 JOAN of ARC. To besieged Orleans, with sword and lance, Follow to Vidtory or the grave." An angel she seemed to her men at arms; One who would never tire. She rode like a goddess through battles' harms, And her courage set hearts on fire. (Musk— The "Marseille") And when to Orleans they came at la^. Like a fury she fought and fought One ba^ile, then another, in confusion she ca^. Not a troop could rally from her onslaught. In the thick of the battle w^here arrow^s flew fa^e^ Rode the Maid of God, to encourage or entreat. They fought as inspired to follow her cre^. Until the English dismayed, sounded—" Retreat." Then into the city — the free city — JOAN of ARC. she rode, And the poor besieged people hung on each smile and glance And cried, "Hurrah! Hurrah! the Maid of God! On, on to Rheims! We'll crown Charles, King of France!" {Music ceases) •X- * * * * A moment and the Maid more peaceful seems, A sweet, serious smile is on her face. Again of king and court she dreams, Of her triumphant entry into the place. How^, after the Coronation, she saluted her King, And kissing his robe said: "It is done! My task is completed — God has made thee a king! For thee 'tis to finish the work I've begun." When out spoke the King, "My brave captain, not so, France would be England's vassal were it not for thee. To the city of Compeigne I bid thee go, 10 JOAN of ARC. The city of all France deare^ to me, Warwick, my enemy, has here his ^ronghold. You and your picked soldiers, a god fearing band. You alone can conquer him, Warv/ick the bold!" "My King I am your subjedt; 'tis yours to command. I have but followed my Voices; all to them you owe. Now St. Michael is silent. 'Tis St. Margaret who speaks. She whispers of loved ones at home, to them 1 mu^ go. Dismiss me. Oh King, for I'm but a Maid. I did not conquer Orleans; the Voices, 'twere they. They have deserted me. Oh, I'm strangely afraid. They point to Don Remy, I dare not disobey." So between conscience and King a fierce battle she fought. Dimly conscious of grim disa^er ahead. JOAN of ARC. 1 1 Until the traitor Couchon, on her patriotism wrought, And the troops marched to Compeigne by Joan or Arc led. All through the march Couchon rode by her side, Couchon the deposed captain,who hated the Maid. His treacherous heart was light all through the ride. For he had sold out to the English and w^as not afraid. And Joan was filled with a nameless fright. The Voices were silent; though she fervently prayed. Until St. Michael appeared on the very last night. "Joan, Joan of Arc, thou hast my Voice disobeyed. The offence is thine. Thou alone must pay, To the French great Victory shall be given, But thou to the English, Couchon will betray." 12 JOAN of ARC And meekly bowed Joan to the will of heaven. Bravely she fought through the long dreadful day, The English fought fiercely; the arrow^s flew^ fast, Until Joan, always in the thick of the fray Swaying blindly, fell wounded from her horse at last. And w^hen consciousness came to the Maid again, Her soul woke to joy; the French had forced the gate. The English were fleeing, both horses and men. And she staggered for safety ere it w^ouid be too late. But her wound was so great, she could not move from the place. She wavered feebly and was caught by some fleeing one's arm. One look was enough— that was an English face. She was a prisoner. Oh, God! would no one raise the alarm? i 1 JOAN of ARC 13 A brutal laugh answered the moan breathed so low, The triumphant shout of the English, the last thing she knew. Then followed weeks in prison. Did no one know Of the prisoner there midst that motley crew^? The Voices, where were they? The King, w^here w^as he? He didn't know; he surely could not know. He would send all the soldiers of France to set her free! And her heart with courage and hope began to glow. ^t # * * *■ The moon shining in through the bars of the place, Over the head of the Maid formed a halo of light. It cast a soft radiance on her agonized face As she dreams of the trial; how for many a night They tried to confuse the poor tortured 14 JOAN of ARC. brain And make her admit that her Voices had hed. How her answers confused them again and again, A sweet reason she had for each question they phed, Until out spoke one of that traitorous band, Ah, yes! 'twas Couchon, whom she had trusted so well. "She did follow the Voices; this you must understand. But were they from Heaven? No, from the depths of Hell! A Grange, mystic pow^er, she weilds over men, A wiley sorceress she, in grim Satan's hire. Joan dead, the English will conquer, not till then. Cleanse the world of this witch! Cleanse it by fire!" A few moments they wrangled, and then it was done. The Edidl went forth. The World's JOAN of ARC 15 great mistake! Tomorrow morn, at rise of the sun, Joan, the witch, shall be burned at the ^ake." ^e- * * * * And now^ the door of her cell is thrown wide, A group of malicious faces look into the place. A grim brutal soldier comes to her side, And waking her roughly, laughs in her face. She rises painfully bewildered to her feet. What can this mean? Oh, she knows at la^! The King has sent soldiers. Liberty will be sweet! How^ she will thank him! She'll ride sure and fa^ To tell him how she knew help would come. Yet, the faces are dreadful, not pleasant to see. One look freezes her senses, makes 16 JOAN of ARC. every limb numb. What is it they say? "Free, yes, my beauty, you'll be free!" Then she hears the edid:. — A gasp, a moan, and then In rigid silence ^ands, not a move does she make. She waits until the cell is cleared of the men, Then sinks to her knees. "Oh, God! to be burned at the stake! Oh, it is cruel, horrible! It is not my fate! St. Michael, St. Catherine, St. Margaret come to me now. Oh, send soldiers or death ere it is too late! What harm have I done, that King Charles should allow^ This terrible crime? Oh, this is a horrible, horrible dream, ril waken soon, at home in my bed. And God's free sunshine will bathe me in its gleams. And my sheep will be bleating, impatient to be fed. JOAN of ARC. 1 7 Yet, these chains, those bars! Oh, God it is true! Still it was the Voice; it did come to inspire. I did disobey. Oh, Holy Voice, if my hours are few. Send any death but the fire— not the fire! Oh, they'll lead me forth bound, like a devil sent witch. And the mad mob will hiss and they'll fight and they'll sneer; How they'll laugh with delight when my poor tortured limbs twitch, As the red flame comes creeping, comes creeping so near! Oh, God in Heaven, look down in thy love. My sin has been great, but I'm only a Maid. Send help, if not from France, from St. Michael above. I'm so young to die— Oh, God, I'm atfraid! What's this? A melody divine, sweet and low. 18 JOAN of ARC. Comes creeping into my heart, bringing peace. 'Tis St. Margaret; at la^ I see, I know This is my Dehverance! 'Twill be sweet release. My Voices, I hear; they are with me now, They soothe my frightened spirit in peace to lie. To the will of Jehovah, I meekly w^ill bow^, A martyr to France— I am ready to die." {^^usic ceases.) * * ¥r ¥r ^ And when next morning, to the cell soldiers came. They fell back in confusion, inspired w^ith aw^e; For willingly, smilingly, exultingly she came. Little they knew of the angels she saw, And the Voices she heard as she was led through the street. And even the mad mob stood abashed and aw^ed, As they gazed on her face, so peaceful JOAN of ARC 19 and sweet, And murmured: "*Tis true, she was sent from God." And even at the end, her face did not blanch; Those w^ho came to scoff, returned to laud. Unafraid, alone, this martyr of France, Sent her pure virgin soul to meet its God. APR 1910 ■■■/• ,k..