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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

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