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
