Читать книгу Political Animal - Victor L. Cahn - Страница 6

The opening scene of this play follows directly from the ending of Richard II, when the new King vowed: “I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land,/ To wash this blood off from my guilty hand” (Richard II, V, vi, 49–50). His mourning was bi-partite, for he was saddened not only by the literal murder of Richard at the hands of Exton (who claimed to have carried out Henry’s wishes), but also by Henry’s own policies that led to the deposition of a ruler placed on the throne under God’s sanction. That lugubrious tone continues into Henry IV:

So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenc’d in stronds afar remote.

(I, i, 1–4)

Only a short time has passed since Henry became King, but he seems to have aged a decade, as he broods that he is the cause of the civil disorder that plagues his kingdom. Nevertheless, “all the conscious piety of his life cannot justify him, even to himself” (Pierce 176). Like any practical politician, he urges that opposing sides should work in harmony for the common good, but his regrets and hopes yield to more pressing issues, including the capture of Mortimer, Earl of March, by the Welshman Glendower, as well as the valor of Henry Percy, nicknamed “Hotspur.” At first, the King admires the latter figure, the offspring of his ally Northumberland:

A son who is the theme of honor’s tongue,

Amongst a grove the very straightest plant,

Who is sweet fortune’s minion and her pride,

Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,

See riot and dishonor stain the brow

Of my young Harry.

(I, i, 81–86)

Yet the impetuosity of this young man vexes the King, as he articulates to Westmoreland:

What think you, coz,

Of this young Percy’s pride? The prisoners

Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d

To his own use he keeps, and sends me word

I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

(I, i, 91–95)

Historically Hotspur was older than King Henry, and more than twenty years Hal’s senior, but Shakespeare had the inspiration to make Percy and the Prince roughly the same age, and thereby establish a dichotomy, one of several that will dominate this play. Here we learn only about two young men of starkly different temperaments, but we suspect that the one day the pair will clash politically and spiritually, if not physically.

We also become aware that the relationship between Henry IV and the Prince of Wales has a double aspect that may seem obvious, but which will have profound implications. Hal is not only heir to the throne; he is also Henry IV’s son. Thus at some point Henry will have to exert royal as well as paternal authority, to which Hal’s response must incorporate his own twin responsibilities.

Finally we note the presence of the word “honor,” which will turn into a leitmotif. It will be extolled by some and mocked by others, but the concept and its implications will never be far from our minds.

Scene two shifts to Hal’s home, where the first line takes us aback: “Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?” (I, ii, 1). If we include Richard II as a forerunner to this play, then here is the first prose we have heard. Moreover, the informality with which the Prince is addressed is remarkable, and so, as we soon discover, is the speaker: Sir John Falstaff. Nevertheless, Hal’s reply is equally unsettling:

Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old

sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping

upon benches after noon, that thou has forgotten to

demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know.

What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day?

(I, ii, 2–6)

His voice has multiple qualities. First, it is distinctly un-royal. Second, although he demonstrates a capacity for wordplay, he mocks with the assurance that his target will not take offense. Even so, we sense an edge to his banter, for he has no reluctance to sting. Third, despite his casual conversation, we intuit that Hal is aware of his status as Prince. Indeed, that consciousness is shared by both characters throughout this scene and all that follow. Hal may currently be wallowing, but the schism between him and Falstaff must grow until it becomes insuperable, and Hal will have to leave his companion. Thus the warmth of their relationship is undercut by their awareness, as well as ours, that it is finite.

As the scene proceeds, Falstaff talks at length to justify his own illegalities, and in doing so unintentionally clarifies the parallel between his thievery and the behavior of those who stole the crown from King Richard:

Let us be Diana’s

foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon,

and let men say we be men of good government, being

govern’d, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress

the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

(I, ii, 25–29)

The contrast between the sun, the traditional symbol of kingship, and Falstaff’s moon is suitably ironic. In other words, corruption pervades both “houses,” another of the parallels and contrasts in the play.

Tension returns when Falstaff inquires:

But I prithee,

sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England

when thou art king? and resolution thus fubb’d as

it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law?

Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

(I, ii, 58–62)

To which Hal replies, “No, thou shalt.” (I, ii, 63). The moment is telling. Twice in four lines Falstaff conjectures about the imminent day when Hal will assume the throne, and Hal’s terse reply reflects awareness that his time for indolence nears its conclusion. Therefore although this exchange remains light, and although Falstaff retorts to Hal’s image playfully, the Prince’s words cause his associate to stir uncomfortably.

Presently Poins enters with news of the thief Gadshill and the possibility of robbery at the location known as “Gad’s Hill.” At first the Prince is unreceptive, only to inspire mock outrage from Falstaff: “By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor when thou art king” (I, ii, 146–147). Here is another likely foreshadowing. The mood changes, however, along with Hal’s perspective, when Falstaff exits and Poins proposes turning the robbery into a prank on Sir John: “The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper” (I, ii, 186–188). Now the Prince’s interest is aroused. We, too, see the potential for humor, but the strategy also seems a trifle cruel. Granted, the Elizabethans enjoyed rough humor that audiences today might find distasteful. Nonetheless, here is further evidence that if the reward is laughter, Hal will not hesitate to humiliate even his closest friend.

When Poins leaves the Prince alone, the young man drops his mask of conviviality, and the notorious words that follow establish his character not only for the rest of this play, but throughout the next two. His speech is a soliloquy, so we must accept that Hal is being truthful, but in his own way he is hiding as much as he confesses:

I know you all, and will a while uphold

The unyok’d humor of your idleness,

Yet herein will I imitate the sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother up his beauty from the world . . .

(I, ii, 195–199)

The first two lines are cold, for they imply not only that all the badinage which we have just witnessed is spurious, but also that the Prince cares little for these men. (Notice that he does not separate Falstaff from the rest of the company). Indeed, he dismisses them like so many coarse amusements. The next line emphasizes “sun,” so we remain aware that Hal’s eye is focused on his future office. He may mock the trappings of royalty, but he knows that one day they will be his, and he will have to remove himself from “base” and “contagious” elements. Still, his confidence that he can do so is unmistakable. After all, he does invoke the word “beauty” to characterize that sun:

That when he please again to be himself

Being wanted, he may be more wond’red at

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapors that did seem to strangle him.

(I, ii, 200–203)

The next crucial phrase is “be himself.” Who exactly is “himself?” We don’t know, and we’re not sure that the Prince knows, either. Instead, the lines suggest that he will do whatever is necessary to “be more wonder’d at.” Whatever role is expected or demanded is the one he will play. Here Hal virtually defines himself as a tabula rasa on which others may create the ideal of a leader, one he will try to match. He is, in short, already the embodiment of a political candidate running for office and preparing to please a volatile electorate:

So when this loose behavior I throw off

And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am,

By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes,

And like bright metal on a sullen ground,

My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes

Than that which hath no foil to set it off.

I’ll so offend to make offense a skill,

Redeeming time when men least think will.

(I, ii, 208–217)

Throughout Shakespeare’s plays, the image of “time” represents order. Here Hal clarifies that while he momentarily basks in the company of a lord of misrule, Falstaff, such pleasures cannot last. He also confesses that he has no shame in using his present company as part of his overall political strategy. Furthermore, he clarifies that the nature of the populace, as well as the world in which he lives, is changing, and therefore rallying public support is essential to the effective exercise of power. He admits, too, that he calculates every move, so from this point on we never completely trust him. John H. Danby describes Hal as “a machiavel of goodness” (Danby 89), modifying the usual term for many of Shakespeare’s villains. Danby is also one of the numerous commentators who relate Hal’s behavior and attitudes to the precepts delineated by the Florentine statesman. All we can say with certainty is that Hal’s goal is the exercise of power, toward which he strives inexorably. Nevertheless, in the words of Tony Tanner, this address “. . . is—I think—unarguably unpleasant, and if it is so for us, it is simply calumny to think it wasn’t for Shakespeare. Nobody likes someone who so coldly uses other people. We don’t now, and the presumption must be that they didn’t then” (Tanner 407).

The next scene follows the back-and-forth movement that dominates the play, and thus moves to the palace, where a conference between Henry IV and what might be described as his “cabinet” is underway. The atmosphere is hardly collegial, however, for the men who helped the King gain the throne are already eager to wield power that he is reluctant to share, and he grows irritated with them:

My blood hath been too cold and temperate,

Unapt to stir at these indignities.

And you have found me, for accordingly

You tread upon my patience; but be sure

I will from henceforth rather be myself . . .

(I, iii, 1–5)

We are struck by the force of the King’s words, but especially by the final phrase, which echoes the spirit of Hal’s last address. Both men are finding themselves and, as father and son, express that process in similar language.

A further word about King Henry IV is appropriate here. From his earlier appearance in Richard II, when he worked to supplant King Richard, the man then called “Bullingbrook” has demonstrated a gift for earning the affection of the masses, as the former King ruefully observed:

How he did seem to dive into their hearts

With humble and familiar courtesy,

What reverence he did throw away on slaves,

Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,

And patient underbearing of his fortune,

As ‘twere to banish their affects with him.

(Richard II, I, iv, 25–30)

Although Richard himself could not help but appear detached, he understood that Bullingbrook’s capacity for what we in our day call “working the crowd” contributed to his success. If we temporarily separate ourselves from the fifteenth century to reflect on recent American elections, we realize how some politicians clearly have this ability, which becomes even more valuable when they run against those who lack it. Like Richard, the latter figures appear unfeeling and thus usually lose, while candidates who can communicate empathy tend to be elected. This empathy need not be genuine, nor does it bear any relation to intellect or ideology. Indeed, the ability to make a crowd believe that a candidate sympathizes with their values and problems crosses party lines. To borrow another current sentiment that has been attributed to many: “The most important thing is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you’re set.” Lest we doubt the wisdom of this cynical expression, why else would contemporary pollsters regularly inquire about which candidate voters prefer as a drinking companion? If we apply such a standard to Shakespeare’s characters, Henry IV would do well, but his son, as we have already seen, would triumph by a far greater margin. Here is one instance when Shakespeare anticipates the state of current politics with stunning accuracy.

Henry IV also possesses another quality necessary for successful governance: severity with his adversaries. When Worcester challenges the King’s reluctance to apportion authority, Henry does not brook discord: “Worcester, get the gone, for I do see/ Danger and disobedience in thine eye” (I, iii, 15–16). Whatever he owes the men who helped him capture the kingship, Henry has no inclination to weaken either himself or the institution. Thus he “meets the sixteenth-century demands of a ruler who can and will exercise his power for the maintenance of unity in his kingdom” (Champion 115).

Yet although this expulsion may seem to be a gesture of strength, it also manifests vulnerability. A monarch truly in charge would not need to expel a fractious subordinate. In fact, that subordinate would likely not dare raise his voice. Thus we feel Henry’s position is not secure, and as soon becomes apparent, it never will be. When, however, his son gains the throne, he will crush potential rebellion by exerting not only his father’s harshness, but Hal’s own brand of political practice.

The rest of this scene dramatizes growing opposition to Henry from Hotspur, Northumberland, and Worcester. Two moments are of special interest. First, the three men who in Richard II so despised the King now consider him, in Hotspur’s words, “that sweet lovely rose” (I, iii, 175), while Henry himself is belittled, again by Hotspur, as “this thorn, this canker, Bullingbrook” (I, iii, 176). Hotspur will not even grant that the new King warrants his title. Such resentment anticipates how questions of legitimacy will haunt Henry’s reign, an issue that his son will have to address. We also recognize a familiar political pattern. How often citizens expel a hated official, then after the successor proves a disappointment, look back on the previous officeholder’s tenure with longing for what they imagine was a happier time.

The other moment we must consider is Hotspur’s confession of his own relentless ambition:

By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,

To pluck bright honor from the pale-fac’d moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fadom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honor by the locks,

So he that doth redeem her thence might wear

Without corrival all her dignities . . .

(I, iii, 201–207)

His preoccupation with “honor” will become his signature. Throughout Shakespeare’s plays, characters who invoke that concept usually do so with one of two meanings. The first denotes adherence to a code of right and wrong. The second, and the far more dangerous, denotes popular acclaim. Perhaps the most extreme example of the latter category is Brutus in Julius Caesar, who insists: “For let the gods so speed me as I love/ The name of honor more than I fear death” (Julius Caesar, I, ii, 88–89). We should also cite Hector in Troilus and Cressida, who claims: “Life every man holds dear, but the dear man/ Holds honor far more precious-dear than life.” (Troilus and Cressida, V, iii, 27–28). Both men place supreme importance on their status in the public eye, and both are drawn into disastrous predicaments. Brutus helps lead the conspiracy against Caesar, after which Antony stands before the Roman mob and repeats variations of the word “honor” with devastating irony. Hector allows himself to be drawn into fatal combat against Achilles.

Hotspur clearly falls into this tradition. He has turned his life turns into a campaign for glory, and throughout the tetralogy he and his version of “honor” become objects of ridicule. Here Hotspur himself associates the word with the moon and its connotations of madness. Harold Goddard adds that: “He rationalizes his inborn pugnacity into a creed. War to him is the natural state of man, the noble as well as the royal occupation” (Goddard 166–167). Perhaps we can best evaluate Hotspur by concluding that his persona is captivating as well as potentially calamitous.

First, however, we witness the thievery at Gad’s Hill, during which Falstaff is robbed of his horse and left to stagger about, hilariously bemoaning his own weight and misfortune. The comments about his girth add to his outsized personality, and he soon becomes bigger than life to listeners offstage and on. He also comments indirectly on tensions between the King and those advisors who have become rivals: “A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true to one another!” (II, ii, 27–28). The scene ends when the Prince and Poins, in disguise, rob Falstaff of his loot: “Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death,/ And lards the lean earth as he walks along./ Were’t not for laughing, I should pity him” (II, ii, 108–110). We could not describe Hal as kind-hearted, but he at least demonstrates a touch of sympathy for the price his joke exacts. Nonetheless, these early scenes confirm Patricia Parker’s observation: “For all the talk of faith and honesty in both tavern world and political world, the first play of Henry IV is thus filled with counterfeiting, translating, and cozening” (Parker 157).

Hal’s tone changes in the next scene, when he sits with Poins and, having consumed a good deal of liquor, muses on his own future. Speaking of his associates, the Prince says:

They take it already upon their salvation, that though

I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am king of

courtesy, and tell me fancy that I am no proud Jack like

Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy

(by the Lord so they call me!) and when I am King of

England I shall command all the good lads in East-cheap.

(II, iv, 9–15)

For the first time, bitterness permeates his words. He intimates that although the denizens of the tavern realize that he is their future king, they have become too familiar with him and thereby diminished him. In other words, his political image may be suffering dangerously. Hal also understands that their attitude will become respectful only after his behavior warrants as much, but he remains confident that he can win their affection: “To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life” (II, iv, 17–20).

Hal relishes his skill at verbal manipulation, one way that he believes he can connect with a nation of eclectic individuals. He also revels in his capacity to display the common touch, even though he simultaneously shows contempt for the people he will pretend to embrace. Such self-confidence characterizes countless politicians of any era.

The brief byplay with Francis reflects the Prince’s capacity for nasty humor, but the exchange may also have a subtler meaning. As we watch the unfortunate drawer summoned back and forth between Poins offstage and the Prince onstage, the indecision may reflect Hal’s own dilemma: tugged in conflicting directions and uncertain which voice to obey.

Moments later, we realize that despite Hal’s general state of disrepute, he is aware of his potential rival, also nicknamed Harry:

I am not yet of Percy’s

mind, the Hotspur of the north, he that kills me some

six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast,

washes his hands, and says to his wife, “Fie upon this

quiet life! I want work.”

(II, iv, 101–105)

Although he mocks Hotspur, envy of the man’s reputation seeps through. We feel Hal rousing himself, but he still lacks specific inspiration. What he needs is a reason to proclaim himself his father’s son, with all that the position implies and demands. That reason is about to become known.

When Falstaff enters a few seconds later, the scene explodes brilliantly. As he recounts his adventures during the robbery, his lies about the number of assailants and his retaliation against them become increasingly outrageous until Hal unveils the truth: “We two saw you four set on four and bound them, and were masters of their wealth” (II, iv, 253–254). Falstaff retorts with a telling bluff:

By the lord, I knew thee as well as he that

made ye. Why, hear you, my masters, was it

for me to kill the heir-apparent? Should I turn upon

the true prince?

(II, iv, 267–270).

The company laughs at Falstaff’s expense, and we presume that no one enjoys the fun more than Sir John himself. Yet his imagery also suggests that he is aware of his role as Hal’s surrogate father, an intimation that sets up another parallel between fathers and sons.

Here is the moment to enumerate the variety of “doubles” in this play. We have already mentioned the relationship between Falstaff and Henry IV, for each exerts paternal influence over Hal. We should note as well the points of comparison and contrast between Henry IV and Hal, who reflect different generations and different approaches to power; between Hal and Hotspur, who embody contrasting military and social attitudes; between Hotspur and Falstaff, one of whom lives for honor, the other of whom mocks the concept; and later between Falstaff and the Chief Justice: the former evinces contempt for law, the other advocates obedience to it.

The father-son aspect of the relationship between Hal and Falstaff becomes more poignant when the news that Sir John Bracy, the King’s representative, has summoned Hal to court to help ward off attacks by opposing forces. Hal answers the call casually, noting that the upcoming adventure will provide opportunity for the kind of profligacy that we have never really seen from him: “. . . we shall buy maidenheads as they by hobnails, by the hundreds (II, iv, 361–362). Falstaff’s solicitude, however, is apparent: “But tell me, Hal, art thou not horrible afeard”? (II, iv, 365–366). Here Hal’s response brings a new spirit to their jesting: “Not a whit, i’ faith, I lack some of thy instinct” (II, iv, 371–372), invoking a word that Falstaff used earlier to categorize his own avoidance of fighting. At this crucial moment, Hal seems eager to exert qualities that have lain dormant.

The transition from debauchery to royalty begins with a simple request from Hal to Falstaff: “Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the particulars of my life” (II, iv, 376–377). What follows is one of Shakespeare’s greatest sequences, in which seemingly every line has multiple meanings. The principle upon which the scene rests is familiar from Oscar Wilde’s The Critic as Artist: “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell the truth” (Wilde 1211). Before Hal can perform his part, however, Falstaff must play his own, and he enthusiastically dons the accoutrements of kingship. What follows is an entertaining but meaningful plea that begins with a statement of affection: “That thou art my son I have partly thy mother’s word, partly my own opinion . . .” (II, iv, 402–403). As is often the case with humor, underneath the wit lies genuine concern, for Falstaff does have paternal feeling for Hal, so much so that he questions his own influence on the young man: “Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses”? (II, iv, 409–410). Falstaff implies that he knows that Hal has serious work ahead, and to carry out such responsibilities he must abandon the world of the tavern. But he must not, Falstaff clarifies, abandon what he has learned in that world, especially Falstaff’s own lessons:

If then the tree may be known by

the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then peremptorily I

speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff; him keep

with, the rest banish.

(II, iv, 428–431)

At the heart of Falstaff’s monologue lies a warning that Hal should not lose the common touch. What the Prince has gained from him is understanding of and perhaps affection for the people who live and work in his kingdom, and to be an effective King, Falstaff implies, Hal must maintain affinity with those people. He may leave Falstaff literally behind, but figuratively Falstaff’s influence must continue to provide that connection.

Hal, however, proves not so sentimental: “Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I’ll play my father” (II, iv, 433–434). He does not merely suggest this switching of roles; he orders it. Hal then begins a litany of insults in a voice that we should imagine resembles his father’s, but the recital quickly turns mean-spirited:

Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink

it? wherein neatly and cleanly, but to carve a capon and

eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty,

but in villainy? wherein villainous, but in all things?

wherein worthy, but in nothing?

(II, iv, 455–459)

As listeners realize that Hal’s playful tone slowly vanishes, the laughter surrounding this performance ought to weaken, for like an actor who delves so deeply into a role that it overcomes him, Hal begins to embody his father. Thus we again understand that this young man knows what trespasses he has committed, as well as what steps he must follow to make amends. Yet something in this section ought to frighten us, because for the first time Hal may lose a measure of control, and we see the colder man behind the affable persona. That reality is not comforting.

Falstaff attempts to defuse the tension: “If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damn’d” (II, iv, 470–472). The appeal ends sadly: “. . . banish plump Jack, and banish all the world” (II, iv, 479–480). But Hal‘s famous reply should unsettle all his listeners, including us: “I do, I will” (II, iv, 481).

The most intriguing question about this section involves which aspect of Hal articulates his last lines. Are they spoken in the spirit of the King, the role Hal temporarily assumes? Do they represent Hal’s own feelings and therefore his expectation of the inevitable fissure between himself and Falstaff? Or do they emerge from some deeper portion of Hal that he has never acknowledged? The answer may well be a combination of all three, for the words befit the calculating voice we heard earlier, that one that uttered “I know you all . . .” at the end of Act I, scene ii. Thus:

. . . it is clear that Hal values the tavern world because it affords him a kind of theatrical space in which he can try out different roles and project different kinds of identities in a way that the restrained world of the court would never countenance. (Grady 164)

That Hal is aware he has crossed a line is apparent from his dramatic response to the Sheriff, who arrives in search of Falstaff, then accuses him of stealing. Hal disclaims any knowledge of his associate:

The man I do assure you is not here,

For I myself at this time have employ’d him.

And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee

That I will by to-morrow dinner-time

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

For any thing he may be charg’d withal,

And so let me entreat you leave the house.

(II, iv, 512–518)

Hal’s denial does not permit questioning, as if he wishes to reassure his comrades that he has not lost fondness for Falstaff. Moreover, the last line, though phrased like a request, becomes an ultimatum when uttered by someone of Hal’s stature, and therefore the Sheriff has no alternative but to curtail his mission. Hal has thus temporarily dispensed with role-playing, reverted to his political self, and again started to measure his words.

Before he leaves, however, he entices Peto into combat: “We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honorable” (II, iv, 544–545). Even if the Prince is not consciously parodying Hotspur, we feel his irony, as if he knows that military ventures, which may inspire valor from individuals, are inherently barbaric. This theme recurs throughout Shakespeare, but resonates with special force in the Henriad. Hal also ensures that the victims of Falstaff’s crime receive compensation: “This money shall be paid back again with advantage” (II, iv, 547–548). Steadily the Prince comes to stand for law and order.

The next scene offers insight into the frame of mind that possesses the rebels against King Henry. The dominant personality among the group is Hotspur, who seems unable to prevent himself from raging against myriad targets. Worcester points out the dangers of this tendency:

Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage

Defect of manners, want of government,

Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain,

The least of which haunting a nobleman

Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain

Upon the beauty of all parts besides,

Beguiling them of commendation.

(III, i, 181–187)

As charismatic as Hotspur is, and as much as we enjoy his presence, Worcester understands that something about him is faintly ridiculous: “The very qualities make him attractive are political liabilities and destroy him . . . ” (Moseley 88). As we mentioned earlier, part of what audiences of the Henriad do is weigh the essential attributes of a leader, and the structure of this play guarantees that when considering the matter, we set Hal and Hotspur against each other. We like Hotspur, but recognize that he lacks the maturity and self-discipline to rule. After all, someone who cannot control himself cannot control others. On the other hand, we may never cherish Hal, but the more we see of him, the more we realize that his capacity for restraint is essential for anyone who seeks to command effectively.

Act III, scene ii is clearly the product of Shakespeare’s imagination, for although Holinshed mentions a reconciliation between King Henry and the Prince after the upcoming battle of Shrewsbury, no one could have been present during a private meeting between the men. Part of what gives the encounter such power is that the characters meet on two levels: King to Prince, and father to son, for as the scene unfolds, we grasp that Henry IV has no one else with whom he may speak openly. His position provides seemingly limitless authority, but that same power isolates him. He can trust no one, nor can he confide in anyone. Instead he must withhold his private thoughts, and we sense that certain pressures of his office remain unexpressed, eating at him like a cancer. Indeed, Henry will eventually suffer as much physically as he does spiritually, and one implication of these plays is that the toll of kingship takes many forms, not all of them visible.

The one person able to break through this solitude is his son, the man who will succeed him, and as such the one who may be able to feel even remotely what the King does, as Henry IV overflows with fear and doubt:

I know not whether God will have it so

For some displeasing service I have done.

That in his secret doom out of my blood

He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me . . .

(III, ii, 4–7)

Here Henry is disingenuous, for he knows exactly how he has acted against God: by removing God’s representative, Richard, from the throne. His use of “blood,” however, is curious. Throughout these plays, the word usually refers to lives that have been shed in battle, but here Henry reminds us that “blood” also refers to family, as well as the internal conflict for power rampaging through England.

Henry next speaks of Hal himself as punishment inflicted because of Henry’s own sins:

Tell me else,

Could such inordinate and low desires,

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude society,

As thou art match’d withal and grafted to,

Accompany the greatness of thy blood,

And hold their level with the princely heart?

(III, ii, 11–17)

Henry takes Hal’s dereliction personally. The young man is not merely scorning kingship, but also, as “grafted” and “blood” suggest, humiliating his father. The throne, then, is not just a sacred political entity. Even if Henry’s right to it is questionable, as a family legacy it must not be tarnished.

Hal’s response is appropriate, but hardly effusive:

Yet such extenuation let me beg

As in reproof of many tales devis’d,

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear

By smiling pick-thanks and base mewsmongers,

I may for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wand’red and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission.

(III, ii, 22–28)

He cautions that his father should not be deceived by reports which, though accurate, fail to communicate the whole story. This answer is conciliatory, but also politic, and throughout the scene Hal retains that manner. He neither loses dignity nor capitulates. In fact, of the two men, Henry appears far more wracked.

We see his anguish in the next speech, in which Henry warns Hal of how important the judgment of others can be: “The hope and expectation of thy time/ Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man/ Prophetically do forethink thy fall” (III, ii, 36–38) For evidence, the King points to Richard, who was held in such low regard that he virtually invited insurrection. At least that is what Henry implies. He then attempts to justify the usurpation by claiming to have risked his own life for the public good and with public support:

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,

And dress’d myself in such humility

That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts

Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,

Even in the presence of the crowned King.

(III, ii, 50–54)

The words “stole,” “dress’d,” and “pluck” all suggest some manner of fraud (Garber 320), and in the tirade that follows, Henry expresses the distress he felt over both Richard’s disastrous actions and Henry’s own desire to rid England of such a pernicious influence:

In recalling his own ascent to power, Henry IV takes pride in his political skills, his ability to read and master a situation, controlling others by calculated dissimulation. Following Machiavelli’s advice, he creates the appearances most favorable to his advancement, making the most of any opportunity offered. (Chernaik 122)

Eventually, though, the speech reverts to Hal’s behavior:

And in that very line, Harry, standest thou,

For thou hast lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation. Not an eye

But is a-weary of thy common sight,

Save mine, which hath desir’d to see thee more,

Which now doth that I would not have it do,

Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

(III, ii, 86–91)

The advice is fundamentally political, warning Hal that, to borrow from current lexicon, image is almost everything. The lesson is one Hal already knows, as he demonstrated in his soliloquy at the end of I, ii, but he still accepts the instruction: “I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,/ Be more myself” (III, ii, 92–93). His brusqueness tells us that he is concerned with nothing but the crisis, and therefore feels no need for flowery apologies. The line also recalls Henry’s earlier statement to his counselors: “I will henceforth rather be myself . . . ” (I, iii, 5). Despite Hal’s aberrant behavior, father and son think alike.

Henry adds one more detail. Speaking of Hotspur, he notes: “Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,/ He hath more worthy interest to the state/ Than thou the shadow of succession” (III, ii, 97–99). The King implies that Hotspur’s fervor may outweigh, at least momentarily, Hal’s formal right to the crown. Accordingly, the lines justify Henry’s own actions against Richard, who ruled because of lineage, but who did not act to warrant such power. The King thereby raises a profound question: who deserves to sit on the throne? The one who inherits that honor? Or the one who earns it?

Henry then explains the military challenges ahead, focusing on Hotspur:

Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,

Which art my nearest and dearest enemy?

Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,

Base inclination, and the start of spleen,

To fight against me under Percy’s pay,

To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,

To show how much thou art degenerate.

(III, ii, 122–128)

Henry has yet to hear from his son a statement of fealty. Now, by impugning Hal’s integrity, the King hopes to spark the fury that will assure him of Hal’s loyalty and courage. Almost at once the tactic succeeds, as Hal responds:

Do not think so, you shall not find it so,

And God forgive them that so much have sway’d

Your Majesty’s good thoughts away from me!

I will redeem all this on Percy’s head,

And in the closing of some glorious day

Be bold to tell you that I am your son.

(III, ii, 129–134)

For the first time, his emotions flare. Here is one slander he cannot abide, and almost instantly he becomes determined to prove his father and everyone else wrong. The surest way to do so is through violence.

At the risk of diminishing both the moment and the play, I must mention that this exchange suggests one from another study of power, albeit more contemporary and in a different medium. The work is The Godfather, and the scene takes place when Michael Corleone returns home from the hospital. He has just re-imposed protection around his wounded father, and for such decisive action has been beaten by a vengeful police captain. Now, sitting in his father’s study, he and his allies must choose a course of action. The others are leery of renewed violence, but Michael does not hesitate, and as the camera slowly draws near him, he sits motionless and speaks deliberately, in language that obviously lacks Shakespeare’s elevation, but which nonetheless communicates a determination similar to Hal’s:

Let’s set the meeting. Get our informants to find out

where it’s gonna be held. Now we insist it’s a public

place—a bar, a restaurant—some place where there’s

people so I feel safe. So I can’t have a weapon on me

then. But if Clemenza can figure a way to have a

weapon planted there for me. Then I’ll kill ‘em both. (Jones 112)

Even though Michael is a war hero, until this moment his relations and their confederates have assumed him to be unsuited for “the family business.” Now, as the camera lingers on his unflinching expression, we realize what the rest of the world learns later: that he has the capacity to kill. In III, ii of Henry IV, Part 1, Hal confirms that he has the same attribute.

He also knows enough not to make the revelation obvious:

This in the name of God I promise here,

The which if he be pleas’d I shall perform,

I do beseech your Majesty may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.

(III, ii, 153–156)

Here is the first of numerous instances when Hal defers authority to God. He instinctively recognizes that audiences, whether composed of one individual or many, prefer a leader who exudes humility, so he avoids taking credit for any triumphs, even potential ones.

Also notable is one element absent from this speech: words of affection or loyalty to his father. After the last line quoted above, Hal clarifies that he has responsibilities, and that he will fulfill them for God, country, and his own reputation, as well as in service to the King. But Hal treats Henry almost as a separate being from Hal’s father. The distance between them persists, while Hal’s emotions remain in check. He has a job, he explains, and he intends to do it with all necessary force. He is as determined to prove that his father’s earlier harangue was misplaced as he is to affirm his own royal prerogatives.

Back at the tavern, we are reminded of the world the Prince must escape, as Bardolph taunts Falstaff: “Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable compass, Sir John” (III, iii, 21–23). Despite the accuracy of Bardolph’s judgment, as well as the sharpness of Falstaff’s replies, something in the scene is ineffably sad. After all, here is the first time we have seen Falstaff carousing outside the Prince’s company. When the two were together, Falstaff’s jibes were aimed at his superior, and therefore their impudence was inspiring. But when he lounges alone in this setting, his gargantuan mind and manners seem wasted on figures unworthy of him. Such a feeling will recur with increasing poignancy in this play and in Part 2.

When the Prince returns here, so does a comforting tone, as he and Falstaff resume bawdy jokes about Mistress Quickly. The Prince then defuses Falstaff’s accusation against the Hostess by confessing that Hal himself stole, then repaid, the money in question, and we are reminded how terms of finance suffuse Hal’s language (Garber 330). In his first soliloquy, he prepared to “pay the debt I never promised” (I, ii, 209). Later he returned the money stolen at Gad’s Hill, and in the previous scene he promised his father to “redeem all this on Percy’s head” (III, ii, 132). Here he commands Falstaff to meet him in the Temple Hall:

There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive

Money and order over their furniture.

The land is burning, Percy stands on high,

And either we or they must lower lie.

(III, iii, 201–204)

Why is Hal preoccupied with payment? Is he assuming responsibility for his father’s debt to England over the conflict caused by the usurpation of the throne? As usual, we cannot be certain of the Prince’s motivations, but these last lines suggest that he is seized by exigency. In other words, his public role has begun to supersede his private pleasure. Falstaff, however, is unimpressed: “Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come!/ O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!” (III, iii, 205–206). He never will understand either Hal’s passion or sense of responsibility, and that deficiency becomes intrinsic to Falstaff’s wondrousness as well as his downfall:

His misrule generates fun in contrast to the greater misrule in the state, and wasting time with him separates Hal from his father, symbolically releasing him from the taint of usurpation through his mockery of the façade of piety and righteousness Bolingbroke has to maintain as king. (Foakes 92)

The closing portion of this scene has one other particularly striking set of lines, when the Prince says: “I am good friends with my father and may do any thing” (III, iii, 181–182). Does he regard the King as a tool for his own advancement? Certainly Falstaff thinks so, for he replies: “Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest . . . ” (III, iii, 183–184). Second later he adds, “Well, God be thank’d for these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous” (III, iii, 190–191). However willing Hal may be to fight, Falstaff regards war as yet another opportunity for thievery. This devotion to self has a bizarre charm, but it is also part of the teaching that Hal adapts for his own ends.

In Act IV, scene i, Hotspur prepares for battle, and his overblown passions become almost maniacal. Earlier, for instance, he disparaged a soldier whose presence violated Hotspur’s military decorum:

He was perfumed like a milliner,

And ‘twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A poucet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose and took’t away again . . .

(I, iii, 36–39)

Subsequently his wife commented upon how restlessly Hotspur slept:

And thou has talk’d

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,

And all the currents of a heady night . . .

(II, iii, 50–55)

At these moments Hotspur’s antics seemed isolated and therefore more amusing than worrisome. Now, however, battle looms, and we realize that his behavior will have widespread consequences.

For instance, after Worcester worries that Northumberland will not join the fight against the King, Hotspur is undeterred:

You strain too far.

I rather of his absence make this use;

It lends a lustre and more great opinion,

A larger dare to our great enterprise.

(IV, i, 75–78)

According to Hotspur, the reason behind the combat is subordinate to the opportunity for individual renown. This attitude is exacerbated when Vernon extols the appearance of Prince Henry:

I saw young Harry with his beaver on,

His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,

Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury

And vaulted with such ease into his seat

As if an angel [dropp’d] down from the clouds

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

(IV, i, 103–110)

At that panegyric Hotspur shouts: “No more, no more! Worse than the sun in March,/ This praise doth nourish agues” (IV, i, 111–112). He cannot abide a figure more glamorous than himself, but also worries that his troops will be discouraged, and Hotspur does not want to lose any opportunity to fight. Finally, he ends the scene with a tragicomic couplet: “Come let us take a muster speedily./ Doomsday is near, die all, die merrily” (133–134). These words reflect someone who has lost all sense of reality. Any rational person would realize that hundreds, if not thousands, will perish in the upcoming conflict, and these victims will not necessarily understand the cause for which their lives are cut short. But Hotspur is oblivious. Whenever I read his rousing words, I am reminded of columns of soldiers adorned in their dress uniforms, marching snappily behind a flag and to the relentless beat of band music. The soldiers look impressive, but I wonder how many of them stride to their deaths. Hotspur never wonders. Or if he occasionally does, he never cares.

We contrast this attitude with the one presented by Hal in the next scene. Falstaff appears with his “charge of foot” that Hal ordered (III, iii, 186), and admits that they are:

. . . but discarded

unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers,

revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall’n, the cankers

of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more

dishonorable ragged than an old feaz’d ancient . . .

(IV, ii, 27–31)

In other words, he has recruited dregs who could not buy their way out of service. The Prince surveys the lot, then comments: “I did never see such pitiful rascals” (IV, i, 64). He knows the fate that likely awaits them, and he refuses to romanticize it. Yet Falstaff hardly cares: “Tut, tut, good enough to toss, food for powder, food for power, they’ll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men” (IV, ii, 65–67). His callousness makes us deny some of the warm feelings for him that we previously held. He also reminds us of one of the eternal truths of history: rich men start wars, but mostly poor men die in them. This humanistic perspective gives Hal a standing he will never lose. True, over the next two plays he will become more militaristic, but even when does, his motive for fighting is never joy in combat or desire for individual glory.

This quality may be contrasted with the goals that Hotspur states in IV, iii. In response to Sir Walter Blunt’s demands to know why “You stand against anointed majesty” (IV, iii, 40), Hotspur replies that despite the earlier support of Northumberland, Worcester, and Hotspur himself that helped Henry gain the throne, the King has offered no gratitude. Instead, Hotspur claims, Henry has:

Disgrac’d me in my happy victories,

Sought to entrap me by intelligence,

Rated mine uncle from the Council-board,

In rage dismiss’d my father from the court,

Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong,

And in conclusion drove us to seek out

This head of safety, and withal to pry

Into his title, the which we find

Too indirect for long continuance.

(IV, iii, 97–105)

His passion aside, Hotspur’s rationale for this new rebellion rests on individual affront. We remember that when Bullingbrook and his alliance overthrew Richard, the causes included the King’s confiscating the lands and treasury of John of Gaunt, and therefore as his son, Bullingbrook could insist with justification:

I am a subject,

And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me,

And therefore personally I lay my claim

To my inheritance of free descent.

(Richard II, II, iii, 133–136)

Richard also imposed unfair taxes to support what was judged to be an immoral war in Ireland. In these lines, however, Hotspur offers no such reasoning, only his own jealousy of Henry’s position.