Political Animal. Victor L. Cahn
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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