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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).

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