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
