Henry IV, Part I

These commitments are reliable, our allies are solid, and the beginning of our project bodes well.

Lord Mortimer, and kinsman Glendower, won’t you please sit? And Uncle Worcester—Dammit! I forgot the map!

Here it is. Sit, kinsman Percy. Sit, good cousin Hotspur. For that is the name King Henry calls you, and whenever he says it, he grows pale, and with a sigh he wishes you were in heaven.

And you in hell, whenever he hears someone say “Owen Glendower.”

I don’t blame him. The sky was full of fiery meteors and comets when I was conceived, and when I was born, the entire earth shook like a coward.

Why, the same thing would have happened if your mother’s cat had given birth to kittens that day, whether you’d been born or not.

I say there was an earthquake when I was born.

And I say that if you think the earth shook because it was afraid of you, then the earth and I do not agree.

The heavens were all on fire, and the earth trembled.

Oh! Then the earth trembled when it saw the heavens on fire, and not in fear of your birth. When nature is diseased, strange eruptions can break forth. Often, the earth is pinched with a kind of colic, and troubled by gas in her belly. When that gas struggles to be released, it shakes old Mother Earth, bringing down steeples and moss-covered towers. When you were born, our Mother Earth was ill and shook with pain.

Kinsman, I don’t take this kind of contrary behavior from many people. With your permission, I’ll say one more time that when I was born, the heavens were full of shooting stars. The goats ran down from the mountains, and herds of animals stampeded strangely through the fields. These signs marked me as an extraordinary person. All the events of my life prove that I should not be counted with ordinary men. Is there a man who lives anywhere within England, Scotland, or Wales who can say I learned from him, or that he taught me? And bring forward one human who can follow me in the complicated ways of magic, or keep up with me in my obscure experiments.

Well, nobody speaks better Welsh. I’m going to lunch.

Stop now, kinsman Percy. You will upset him.

I can summon spirits from the deep ocean.

Why, so can I, and so can any other man! But will they come when you summon them?

Why, kinsman, I can teach you to command the devil.

And I can teach you, kinsman, how to shame the devil—by telling the truth! “Tell the truth and shame the devil,” as the old saying goes. If you do have the power to call him up, then bring him here. And I’ll swear I have the power to shame him into leaving. Oh, for goodness sake, tell the truth and shame the devil!

Enough already; stop this useless talking.

Three times now, Henry Bolingbroke has raised an army against mine. And three times, I turned him back from the banks of the River Wye, and the sandy-bottomed River Severn. I sent him home, bootless and beaten by foul weather.

You sent him home without his boots, and in foul weather? How in the devil’s name did he avoid catching fevers?

All right, here’s the map. Shall we divide up our territories according to our three-way agreement?

The Archdeacon has divided the land into three very equal parts. All of England southeast of the Trent and Severn rivers goes to me. All of Wales, and everything west of the Severn—including all the fertile land within those boundaries—goes to Owen Glendower. And, my dear kinsman, you get everything that remains to the north, coming up from the Trent. Our agreement is drawn up in triplicate. We can all sign it tonight, and then, kinsman Percy, tomorrow you, me, and Worcester will set off to meet your father and the Scottish army at Shrewsbury, as planned. My father-in-law Glendower isn’t ready yet, but we won’t need his army for another two weeks. (to GLENDOWER) By that time, you will have raised an army of the farmers on your land, your allies, and your neighbors.

I’ll be ready sooner than that, my lords; and I’ll bring your wives along with me. You should sneak away from them now, and leave without saying goodbye. Otherwise, they’ll cry an ocean of tears when you leave them.

I think my share, north of Burton here, isn’t as big as any of yours. Look how this river swoops in. It cuts out a huge chunk of my best land, in the shape of a half-moon. I’ll have a dam built. I’ll re-route the Trent River so it won’t go winding so far into my land and rob me of a fertile valley.

It won’t go winding? It will. It must. You see that it does.

Yes, but look how the Trent runs its course and winds a similar distance into my share. It cuts out the same amount of land from my side as it does from yours.

Yes, but a small sum of money will pay to dig a trench, which will reclaim this bit of land on the north side. Then it will run straight along.

I’ll do that. It will only take a little money.

I won’t have it changed.

You won’t?

No, and neither will you.

Who’s going to stop me?

Why, I will.

Well, say it in Welsh then, so I can’t understand you.

My lord, I can speak English just as well as you. I was brought up in the English court. There, in my youth, I composed many English songs for the harp, lending the language lovely ornaments of music. That is an accomplishment you have never achieved.

Indeed, and my whole heart is glad for that. I’d rather be a kitten and say “meow” than be a courtly balladeer. I’d rather hear a piece of brass turned on a lathe, or a ungreased wheel grind on its axle. Nothing sets my teeth on edge so as much as finicky poetry; it’s like the lurching steps of a lame horse.

Fine. Change the Trent’s course.

I don’t care. I’d gladly give away three times as much land to any friend who deserved it. But when it comes to negotiating a deal, mark my words: I’ll haggle over the smallest fraction of a hair. Are the agreements drawn up? Are we ready to leave?

The moon is bright; you can leave during the night. I’ll tell the man writing up our documents to hurry, and I’ll tell your wives you’re leaving. I’m afraid my daughter will go mad because she loves Mortimer so much.

Damn, kinsman Percy! How angry you make my father-in-law!

I can’t help it. He makes me angry with all his talk. Moles and ants, Merlin and his prophecies, dragons, a fish with no fins, a griffin without wings, a raven without feathers, a crouching lion and a cat rearing up to pounce. He talks so much mumbo-jumbo that I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’ll tell you this: he kept me awake last night for at least nine hours, listing the names of all the devils that serve him. I said, “Hmm,” and, “How interesting,” but he didn’t hear a word. Oh, he’s as tedious as a tired horse or a nagging wife; he’s worse than a smoke-filled house. I’d rather live in a windmill and eat nothing but cheese and garlic than in a luxurious home eating delicacies, if it meant I had to listen to him talk.

Truly, he’s a worthy man. He’s exceedingly well-read, and proficient in the occult; he’s as brave as a lion, incredibly charming, and as generous as the jewel mines of India. And do you know what, cousin? He holds you in great respect. He restrains his temper when you do something to put him in a bad mood. I promise you, there isn’t a man alive who could have challenged him as you have, and gotten away without being hurt or punished. But don’t try it too often, I beg you.

(to HOTSPUR) Truly, my lord, you are to blame in your stubbornness. Since you arrived, you have done enough to test his patience. You must learn, sir, to correct this fault. Sometimes it demonstrates greatness, courage, strength—and that honors you. But often it reveals fury, bad manners, lack of self-control, pride, arrogance, conceitedness, and contempt. In a gentlemen, the least of these qualities will make you lose people’s affections. It stains your beautiful qualities, making it impossible for them to be noticed.

Well, I have had my lesson. May good manners bring you success! Here come our wives; let’s say our goodbyes.

This is the bad luck that angers me: my wife speaks no English, and I speak no Welsh.

My daughter is weeping: she doesn’t want to be parted from you. She wants to be a soldier and join you in the war.

Father-in-law, tell her that she and Lady Percy will come with you after us.

She’s desperate now; a cranky, selfish hussy. Nobody can change her mind.

I understand you by the look on your face. Those pretty Welsh tears streaming from your heavenly eyes I understand perfectly; I’d answer in the same language, if it weren’t shameful for a man to cry.

I understand your kisses and you mine; that’s a conversation of emotion. I’ll study continuously, my love, until I learn your language. Your voice makes Welsh sound as sweet as the most eloquently written songs, sung by a fair queen in a garden of summer flowers, with a gorgeous accompaniment on her a lute.

No, if you start to cry, you’ll drive her mad.

Oh, I have no idea what she’s saying!

She wants you to lie down on the rush-covered floor and rest your head in her lap. She’ll sing whatever song you like, and she’ll lull you to sleep. She’ll bewitch you into a pleasant heaviness, halfway between waking and sleeping; like the hour just before the sun begins its golden rise in the east.

I’ll gladly sit and hear her sing. By the time she’s done, I think our documents will be prepared.

Do so. The musicians who are going to play are now floating in the air a thousand leagues from here. They’ll be here shortly; so sit, and listen.

Kate! You’re good at lying down. Come quickly, so that I can put my head in your lap.

Stop it, you silly goose.

Now I see that the devil understands Welsh; it’s no surprise he’s so moody. By God, he’s a good musician.

Then you should be incredibly musical, for you’re the moodiest man alive. Lie still, you thief. Listen to the lady sing in Welsh.

I’d rather hear Lady, my dog, howl in Irish.

Do you want your head broken in?

No.

Then be still.

Never; that’s a womanly trait.

Now God help you—

Into the Welsh lady’s bed!

What did you say?

Quiet! She’s singing.

Come on, Kate. I want to hear your song, too.

Not mine, darn it.

Not yours? Darn it? Honestly! You swear like a candymaker’s wife. “Not you, darn it.” And “I swear on my life,” and “God forgive me,” and “as plain as day.” Your curse words are smooth as silk. You’d think you’d never gone further than Finsbury in your life. Swear like the real lady you are, Kate. Let loose a good mouthful of curses; leave “darn” and such watered-down cursewords to those citizens, trimmed in velvet and wearing their Sunday best. Come on, sing.

I will not sing.

It’s the quickest way to become a tailor; tailors love to sing. Or you could teach songs to birds. If our agreements are drawn up, I’ll be gone within two hours; come find me whenever you want.

Come now, Mortimer. You’re as reluctant to leave as Percy is on fire to go. Our agreements are drawn up by now. We’ll sign and then go straight to our horses.

I go with all my heart.