Henry IV, Part II

Come on, come on, come on, sir. Shake my hand, sir, shake my hand. You’re an early riser, I swear. How are you, cousin Silence?

Good morning, cousin Shallow.

And how’s my cousin, your wife? And your prettiest daughter, my fair god-daughter Ellen?

I’m afraid she’s got dark hair, cousin Shallow!

By gum, I bet William’s become a real scholar. He’s still at Oxford, right?

He sure is, and I’m the one who’s paying for it.

He’ll be going to law school soon. I studied law at Clement’s Inn, where I think they still talk about crazy old Shallow.

You were known as lusty Shallow back then, cousin.

I was known as anything, I swear. And I would have done anything too, and all the way, too. I was there, and little John Doit from Staffordshire, and black-haired George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, from the Cotswolds. Since then, no law college

in the world has seen four swashbucklers like us. And let me tell you this: we knew where to find the highest-quality whores, and the best of them were at our beck and call. At that time, Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, was just a boy. He worked as a page for Thomas Mowbray, the Duke of Norfolk.

Do you mean the same Sir John that’s coming here soon to recruit soldiers?

The same Sir John, the very same. I saw him beat Skogan upon the head when he was a little tyke, not this high. The same day, I had a fight with a guy named Sampson Stockfish. He sold fruit behind Gray’s Inn. Jesus, Jesus! I’ve had some crazy times! To think that so many of my old pals are dead!

We’ll all follow them, cousin.

Right you are, very right. That’s for sure, that’s for sure. Death, as the Psalms say, is certain. Everyone dies. How much are they getting for good young bulls at the Stamford county fair?

Truly, I wasn’t there.

Death is certain. Is old Double from your hometown still alive?

Dead, sir.

Jesus, Jesus, dead! He was a good archer, and dead! He could fire one heck of a shot. John of Gaunt loved him, and used to wager on his shooting. Dead! He could hit a target from two hundred and forty yards, and he could shoot a straight arrow two hundred and eighty yards—maybe even two hundred and ninety. That was something to see. How much are they getting for twenty ewes?

Depends on the quality. Twenty good ewes could be worth ten pounds.

And old Double’s dead?

Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, I think.

Good morning, gentlemen.

If you don’t mind, which of you is Judge Shallow?

I’m Robert Shallow, sir, a poor landowner in this county, and one of the King’s justices of the peace. How can I help you?

My captain sends his regards. My captain, Sir John Falstaff. He’s a valiant gentleman, I swear, and a brave leader.

It’s great to hear from him. I knew him to be a good fencer. How’s the good knight doing? And, if you don’t mind my asking, how’s his wife?

I beg your pardon, sir. A soldier has no need for a wife; he is well enough accommodated.

Well said, I swear, sir. Well said. “Well enough accommodated!” That’s good. That’s very good. Good turns of phrase deserve to be praised. “Accommodated!” It comes from the Latin, “accommodo.” Very good. That’s a good turn of phrase.

Excuse me, sir. I’ve heard the word. You call it a turn of phrase? I don’t know anything about phrases, but I’ll fight for the word. It’s a good, soldier-like word; a word with many uses, to be sure. “Accommodated.” You can say that a man is accommodated when he has been furnished with supplies. And you can also say that a man is being accommodated when he’s, you know, being accommodated. Which is an excellent thing.

It certainly is. Look, here comes good Sir John. Let me shake your hand; let me shake your hand, sir. I swear, you look good, like you haven’t aged a day. Welcome, good Sir John.

I’m glad to see you’re well, Master Robert Shallow. And this is Master Surecard, isn’t it?

No, Sir John. It’s my cousin Silence. Like me, he’s also a justice of the peace.

Master Silence. Your name suits a justice of “the peace.”

Welcome, sir.

Damn! It’s hot out, gentlemen. Have you found half a dozen able-bodied men for me?

Yes sir, we have. Won’t you sit?

Let me see them, please.

Where’s the list? Where’s the list? Where’s the list? Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see. Right, right. Yes, sir: Ralph Mouldy! Let them come when I call. Let them do that, let them do that. Let’s see. Where’s Mouldy?

Here, sir.

What do you think, Sir John? He’s got good muscles. Young, strong, and well-connected.

Are you Mouldy?

Yes, sir.

Well then, it’s about time you were put to use.

Ha, ha, ha! Excellent, I swear! Things that don’t get used enough do indeed become moldy. Good one, I swear. Well said, Sir John, very well said.

Prick him.

I’ve already been pricked well enough, thanks. You could have left me alone. My old lady’s in trouble now: she won’t have anyone to do her husbandry or her housework. You didn’t have to prick me; there are abler men than me.

That’s enough; quiet, Mouldy. You’re going. Mouldy, it’s time you were put to use.

Put to use?

Quiet, man, quiet. Step aside. Don’t you know where you are? Now the next, Sir John. Let’s see. Simon Shadow!

Now you’re talking. I’d like to sit under him. He’ll be a cool soldier.

Where’s Shadow?

Here, sir.

Shadow, whose son are you?

My mother’s son, sir.

Your mother’s son? Probably, and you got your father’s name. The woman’s son is a portrait of the father; yes, that’s usually the case, though the son is little more than a dim copy, without any of the father’s true substance.

Do you like him, Sir John?

Shadow will be useful in the summer. Prick him, too. We’ll need him, for there are a lot of shadows filling up this roster.

Thomas Wart!

Where’s he?

Here, sir.

Is your name Wart?

Yup.

You’re a pretty ragged wart.

Should I prick him on the list, Sir John?

Not necessary. For look: his clothing is just a bunch of pieces sewn together, and his whole body rests on legs as skinny as pins. He’s been pricked enough by pins and needles—don’t prick him anymore.

Ha, ha, ha! You are funny, sir. You are funny. I’ve got to hand it to you. Francis Feeble!

Here, sir.

What kind of work do you do, Feeble?

I’m a woman’s tailor, sir.

Should I prick him, sir?

You might as well. But if he had been a man’s tailor, he would have already pricked you with his pins. Will you make as many holes in the enemy’s armor as you have in women’s underwear?

I’ll do my best, sir. I can’t do any more.

Well said, good woman’s tailor! Well said, courageous Feeble! You’ll be as brave as the angriest dove or the most valiant mouse. Prick the woman’s tailor. A big one, Master Shallow; a deep one, Master Shallow.

I wish Wart were going, sir.

And I wish you were a man’s tailor. You could have mended his clothes and made him fit to go. I can’t make him a private soldier when he’s already the leader of thousands—of lice, that is. But never mind, oh forcible Feeble.

Never mind, sir.

I like you, good Feeble. Who’s next?

Peter Bullcalf from the village green!

Oh yeah. Let’s see Bullcalf.

Here, sir!

My God! What a great man! Prick Bullcalf until he shouts again.

Oh Lord! My lord, good Captain—

What, you’re yelling before you’ve even been pricked?

Oh Lord, sir! I’m a sick man.

What disease do you have?

A nasty cold, sir. A cough, sir. I caught it when I was ringing the church bells in honor of the King’s coro-nation.

Then you’ll go to war in a dressing gown. We’ll get rid of your cold, and I’ll give orders for some of my men to ring the bells for you while you’re away. (to SHALLOW) Is this everybody?

We’ve got two more here than you need. You can have four, sir. Now, come inside and eat lunch with me.

I’ll have a drink with you, but I can’t stay to eat. But I’m truly glad to see you, Master Shallow.

Oh, Sir John, do you remember the time we spent all night in the windmill in St. George’s field?

Don’t go there, Master Shallow. Don’t go there.

Ha! That was a fun night. Is Jane Nightwork still alive?

She’s alive, Master Shallow.

She never could stand me.

Never, never. She always said she couldn’t stand Master Shallow.

Truly, I could anger her to the core. She was a good-looking wench then. Does she still look good?

Old, old, Master Shallow.

Well, she must be old. She’s got no choice but to be old. Of course she’s old. She gave birth to Robin Nightwork, the son of old man Nightwork, before I even got to Clement’s Inn.

That’s fifty-five years ago.

Ha, cousin Silence, if only you’d seen what this knight and I have seen! Ha! Am I right, Sir John?

We’ve seen the clock strike midnight, Master Shallow.

We sure have, we sure have, we sure have. I swear, Sir John, we sure have. Our slogan was “Down the hatch, boys!” Come, let’s have lunch, let’s have lunch. Jesus, the things we’ve seen! Come, come.

Good Master Corporate Bardolph, be my friend. Here are some French crowns for you, worth four Harry ten shillings. I’m telling you, sir, I’d just as soon be hanged as go fight. It’s not that I care about my well-being. It’s just that I’m not willing to go, and furthermore, I’d like to stay here with my friends. But really, I don’t care about myself.

Whatever. Stand over there.

And, good Master Corporal Captain, for my old lady’s sake, be my friend. She has nobody here to help her do anything once I’m gone. She’s old and can’t do much by herself. I’ll give you forty shillings, sir.

Whatever. Stand over there.

I’ll tell you the truth: I don’t care one way or the other. You only die once, and we all owe God a death. I won’t do anything underhanded. If it’s my fate, it’s my fate. If not, not. No man is too good to serve his country. Whatever happens, happens. If you die this year, you’re paid up for next year.

Well said. You’re a good man.

I’m telling you. I won’t do anything underhanded.

All right, sir. Which men can I have?

Any four you choose.

Sir, may I have a word with you? (whispers to FALSTAFF) I’ve gotten three pounds to free Mouldy and Bullcalf.

No kidding. Great.

Come on, Sir John, which four do you want?

You pick.

All right, then. Mouldy, Bullcalf, Feeble, and Shadow.

Mouldy and Bullcalf. Mouldy, you stay home till you’re too old to fight. And as for you, Bullcalf, wait till you’ve reached fighting age. I don’t want either of you.

Sir John, Sir John. Don’t make a mistake. They’re the best men of the bunch, and I want you to have only the best.

Master Shallow, are you going to tell me how to choose a soldier? Do you think I care about a man’s body, strength, height, bulk, and overall size? Give me his spirit, Master Shallow! Take a look at Wart. You see how ragged he looks? He can load and fire steadily—as steadily as a tinsmith’s hammer. He can advance and regroup fast—faster than a brewer’s delivery pail can be refilled. And this skinny guy, Shadow—give me this man. He offers no target to the enemy. The enemy might as well try aiming at a knife’s edge. And as for retreating, Feeble, the woman’s tailor, will run faster than you can imagine. Oh, give me the spare men and spare me the great ones! Bardolph, give Wart a musket.

Here you go, Wart. Present arms! Right shoulder, arms! Left shoulder, arms!

Come on, handle your weapon. Yes, good. Very good. Very, very good. Oh, give me a little, skinny, old, dried-out, bald rifleman any day. Good job, Wart. You’re a good scab of a guy. Wait, here’s a tester for you.

He’s no expert. He’s not doing it right. I remember up at Mile-End Park, when I was at Clement’s Inn—I played the fool in the archery pageant. There was a nimble little guy, and he would handle his weapon like this, and he would run all over the place, and he’d charge and charge. “Rat-a-tat tat,” he’d say. “Bang!” he’d say. Then he’d run away, then come back. I never saw anybody like him.

These guys will be fine, Master Shallow. God bless you, Master Silence—I won’t say much to you. Farewell, gentlemen, and thank you. I have to march twelve miles tonight. Bardolph, give the soldiers uniforms.

God bless you, Sir John. May God bring you good luck, and bring us peace. When you come back, pay us a visit. Let’s renew our old friendship. Maybe I’ll even come with you to the royal court!

I swear, I wish you would, Master Shallow.

I meant what I said. May God keep you.

Farewell, gentle gentlemen.

March, Bardolph. Lead the men away.

When I come back, I’ll expose these judges for the frauds that they are. I can see through this Judge Shallow. Lord, Lord; we old men sure know how to tell lies! This dried-up old judge has done nothing but go on and on to me about how wild he was when he was as a youth, and how many stunts he pulled in the seedy parts of town. Every third word he speaks is a lie, and he’ll tell lies quicker than a Turk will scramble to pay the sultan. I remember him at Clement’s Inn: he looked like a man someone carved after dinner out of a scrap of cheese. When he was naked he looked like a mandrake root, with a fanciful head someone had carved in with a knife. He was so skinny that he was invisible to any man with imperfect vision; he truly was the embodiment of starvation. But he was as horny as a monkey: the whores called him “mandrake,” because mandrake stimulates the sex drive. He was always a little bit behind the times. He would hear the wagon drivers sing their songs, and then he’d go to his worn-out whores and sing them what he’d heard, pretending he had written them himself. And now this vile stick has become a landowner, and he talks about John of Gaunt like he was his own brother. I swear, he only saw Gaunt once, and that was in the arena at the jousting tournament; John of Gaunt cut Shallow’s head with his sword. I saw it all, and I told John of Gaunt that he had beaten his own name, since Shallow was such a gaunt man back then. You could fit him and all his clothes into the skin an eel sheds. An instrument case was as huge as a mansion to him, as big as a courtroom. Now he has land and livestock. Well, I’ll be his friend if I come back. He won’t like it, but I’ll turn him into an unending source of wealth for myself. If small fish can be bait for big fish, I see no reason why I can’t snap my jaws at Shallow. Time will tell, and that’s all I have to say about that.