Political Animal. Victor L. Cahn

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СКАЧАТЬ “Hotspur.” At first, the King admires the latter figure, the offspring of his ally Northumberland:

      A son who is the theme of honor’s tongue,

      Amongst a grove the very straightest plant,

      Who is sweet fortune’s minion and her pride,

      Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,

      See riot and dishonor stain the brow

      Of my young Harry.

      (I, i, 81–86)

      Yet the impetuosity of this young man vexes the King, as he articulates to Westmoreland:

      What think you, coz,

      Of this young Percy’s pride? The prisoners

      Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d

      To his own use he keeps, and sends me word

      I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

      (I, i, 91–95)

      Historically Hotspur was older than King Henry, and more than twenty years Hal’s senior, but Shakespeare had the inspiration to make Percy and the Prince roughly the same age, and thereby establish a dichotomy, one of several 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,” СКАЧАТЬ