Henry V

Greetings, Captain Fluellen! Have you just come from the bridge?

I assure you, there are some excellent military operations being carried out at the bridge.

Is the duke of Exeter safe?

The duke of Exeter is as courageous as Agamemnonand a man whom I love and honor deeply, with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my livelihood, to the very utmost of my being. He is not—God be praised and blessed—hurt in any way but is holding the bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is a standard-bearer there at the bridge. I truly think he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony. He is a man of no rank or consequence, but I saw him fight as gallantly as though he were.

What is his name?

He is called Ensign Pistol.

I don’t know him.

Here he is.

Captain, I have a favor to beg of you. You’re on very good terms with the duke of Exeter.

Yes, God be praised, I have managed to earn his favor.

Bardolph, a soldier who is loyal and stout-hearted and full of valour, has, by a cruel trick of fate and a turn of silly Fortune’s wildly spinning wheel, that blind goddess who stands upon an ever-rolling stone—

Now, now, Ensign Pistol. Fortune is depicted as blind, with a scarf over her eyes, to signify that she is blind. And she is depicted with a wheel to signify—this is the point—that she is turning and inconstant, and all about change and variation. And her foot, see, is planted on a spherical stone that rolls and rolls and rolls. Truly, artists do wonderful things with the image of Fortune. She provides an excellent moral.

Fortune is Bardolph’s enemy. She frowns on him, for he has stolen a pax from a church and he must be hanged. A damnable death! It’s fine for dogs to be hung, but men should go free and not have their windpipes strangled with hemp. But Exeter has pronounced a death sentence—and for a cheap little pax. Therefore, go and speak for him! The duke will listen to you. Don’t let Bardolph’s life be brought to an end by a length of cheap rope and with this shame. Save his life, Captain, and I will repay you.

Ensign Pistol, I think I understand you.

I’m glad to hear it.

Actually, you shouldn’t be, because, see, even if he were my own brother I’d want the duke to stick to his plan and have Bardolph executed. Discipline must be kept.

Then die and be damned! And I’m giving the finger to your friendship!

Very well.

And the Spanish finger to you!

Very good.

Why, that man is a total fraud and rascal. I remember him now. A pimp, a pickpocket.

At the bridge he spoke as excellently as anyone I’ve ever heard, I promise you. But that’s alright. What he just said to me—it’s alright. I assure you, when the time comes—

Why, he’s a fool, an idiot, a moron, a man who now and then joins the army so as to be able to give himself airs when he gets back to London and masquerades as a soldier. Such fellows have memorized the names of famous commanders, and they can tell you—having learned such things by rote, not by experience—where this or that battle was fought, at such and such fort, at such and such wall, with such and such protective escort. And they can say who fought well, who was shot, who was disgraced, what terms the enemy insisted on. And they study how to express these things in proper military jargon, which they embellish with fashionable oaths. And what a beard trimmed like the general’s or a rough uniform will do among foaming mugs and brains washed with ale, you wouldn’t believe. But you must learn to recognize such liars, or you will be greatly taken advantage of.

I tell you what, Captain Gower; I perceive that he is not the man that he would have the world think he is. If I find an opportunity, I will give him a piece of my mind.

Listen. The king is coming, and I must speak with him about what went on at the bridge.—God bless your Majesty!

Tell me, Fluellen: did you just come from the bridge?

Yes, your Majesty. The duke of Exeter has held the bridge very gallantly. The French have retreated, see, and there were great acts of courage. Indeed, the enemy nearly took the bridge, but he was forced to retreat, and the duke of Exeter holds the bridge. I can tell your Majesty, the duke is a brave man.

What men have you lost, Fluellen?

The enemy’s losses have been very great, pretty substantial. To tell the truth, though, I think the duke hasn’t lost a single man, except for one who will probably be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph—I don’t know if your Majesty knows the man. His face is all pustules and pockmarks, and pimples and inflammation, and his lips blow up toward his nose, which is like a red-hot coal, sometimes blue, sometimes red. But his nose is dead, and the fire’s put out.

I want all such offenders to be dealt with that way, and I give precise orders that in our progress through the country there shall be nothing seized from the villages, nothing taken that is not paid for, none of the French harassed or abused in disrespectful language. For when mercy and cruelty compete for a kingdom, the gentler player is bound to win.

You know from my clothing who I am.

Well then, I know who you are. What do you have to tell me?

My master’s decision.

Go ahead.

My king says this: “Tell Harry of England: though we appeared dead, we were only asleep. Strategy makes a better soldier than haste. Tell him we could have driven him back at Harfleur but thought it unwise to burst a pustule before it had fully ripened. Now the time is right for us to speak, and we do so with imperial authority. The king of England will regret his foolishness, discover his weakness, and marvel at our restraint. Tell him therefore to consider what ransom he can offer as a prisoner of war. It must be commensurate with the losses we have suffered, the subjects we have lost, and the indignity we have endured, for which he is too insignificant to sufficiently pay us back. His coffers are too poor to atone for our losses, his entire kingdom too small to account for the amount of blood we’ve shed, and the sight of him kneeling at our feet an empty satisfaction compared to the indignity we have put up with. Add defiance to all this and, by way of conclusion, tell him that he has betrayed the men who follow him, whose death sentence has been pronounced.” My king and master’s message delivered, my task is done.

What is your name? I know your position.

Montjoy.

You do your job well. Go back and tell your king I do not seek an encounter with him now but would be willing to march on to Calais without interference, for—to be honest, though it’s probably unwise to confess this to a powerful enemy who has the advantage—my men are considerably weakened by illness, my numbers reduced, and those few men I have almost no better than so many Frenchmen, though when they were in good form, I tell you, herald, I thought three Frenchmen walked on every pair of English legs. But God forgive me for bragging. It’s a vice I’ve picked up since I’ve been here, and I must get rid of it. Anyway, go tell your master I am here. My ransom is my own fragile, worthless body, my army but a weak and sickly escort. But, before God, tell him we will advance, even if the king of France himself and another foe as strong should stand in our way. (giving him money) That’s for your trouble, Montjoy. Go tell your master to consider carefully. If we’re allowed to pass, we will. If we’re prevented, we’ll discolor your golden ground with your red blood. And so, Montjoy, farewell. This is our whole answer: We do not seek a battle nor will we avoid one. Tell your master this.

I’ll deliver the message. I thank your Highness.

I hope they don’t attack us now.

We’re in God’s hands, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge. Night is approaching. We’ll set up camp across the river and continue on tomorrow. Give the order to march.