[In the following essay, Middleman discusses the apparent disunity of conception in Henry IV, Part I, noting that the action focuses equally on the political rebellion confronting Henry IV and the private struggle that Prince Hal contends with throughout the play.]

Looking at the first part of Henry IV, we are struck by an apparent disunity of conception. The title in the quartos suggests a division between the history and the comedy: “The Historie of Henrie the Fourth; With the battell at Shrewsburie, betweene the King and Lord Henry Percy, surnamed Henry Hotspur of the North. With the humorous conceits of Sir John Falstalffe.” While it is true that Falstaff, that “huge hill of flesh,” will in production clearly be the heaviest thing on stage and could, were Hal or Hotspur inadequate, carry away the show, Shakespeare's text proves to be a wonderfully balanced whole. The drama is structured around a series of contrasts and correspondences between high life and low, responsibility and self-indulgence, moderation and intemperateness, and, most important and inclusive, between seriousness and jest.

Tillyard has remarked (Shakespeare's History Plays, p. 301) that Prince Hal represents a kind of Aristotelian mean between Hotspur's superabundant military spirit and Falstaff's utter lack of it. Falstaff's unadulterated lust for life makes him archetypal, but it also limits him, as immoderate valor limits Hotspur. Hal learns from both, and becomes complete. How he achieves this is the subject of the play: the heir-apparent contending with overt rebellion and private riot, with the grimace and the grin, the two faces of revolt.

The play opens with King Henry, “shaken” and “wan with care” trying, ultimately without success, to recover from Richard II. Past, present, and future are all at issue here, and the emphasis is on public, military action. Then, when Falstaff asks Hal, “What time of day is it, lad?” (1.2.1) we move into what appears a timeless present, with the emphasis on private sport. But the timeless world lasts only sixteen lines, shattered in the seventeenth with Falstaff's “when thou art king,” a phrase he repeats four times in this initial conversation. If Hal is concerned with growing up to ascend the throne, Falstaff senses, if distantly, the precariousness of his safety as a sweet hulk of disorder, and worries lest the true prince, turned king, no longer protect a false thief. Falstaff wants to identify Hal with the moon, but Hal identifies himself instead with the sun, symbol of royalty. Yet, if we can trust Hal in his soliloquy, he will be like the moon, merely seeming to change, while actually remaining the same. In any case, Falstaff is just one of his “phases.”

Falstaff exits to Eastcheap, whereupon Poins informs the Prince, “I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already waylaid. Yourself and I will not be there” (1.2.180-83). Now, the “treachery” of Hal and Poins is conceived purely in fun, but it exactly mirrors, in an unserious dimension, the revolt of the Percies and, within the revolting faction, the defection of Northumberland and Glendower. The Percies' motive is also robbery—stealing the crown they helped bestow, and the parallel between comic and serious treason continues as Poins explains, “we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail, and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves …” (1.2.189-92). During the execution of the jest, we hear Falstaff unknowingly sounding the death-knell of the northern rebellion: “A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another” (2.2.29-30). And shortly after the Prince and Poins steal the money back, Hal speaks tellingly of both the game at hand and the abortive revolt to come: “The thieves are all scattered and possessed with fear / So strongly that they dare not meet each other” (2.2.112-13).

Since the theme of the two faces is developed linearly, the discussion from this point on will follow the movement of the play, so that we may not be liable to Falstaff's indictment of the hostess, that “a man knows not where to have her.” In the parley among the Percies the reference to Mortimer, Earl of March, provides a connection with the situation of Hal who, like the rebels, “in the world's wide mouth / Live[s] scandalized and foully spoken of” (1.3.153-54). Hotspur's reply to Worcester and Northumberland could be Hal talking to himself: “… yet time serves wherein you may redeem / Your banished honors, and restore yoursel[f] / Into the good thoughts of the world again” (1.3.180-82). The parallel is appropriate, for if Mortimer is the supposed heir to the crown, Hal will be heir in fact, and prove himself worthy of it.

Hotspur's “Oh, let the hours be short, / Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport” (1.3.301-02) is echoed, contrapuntally, by preparations for analogous sport on a different level. Gadshill's reply to the chamberlain, whose use of the word “hangman” betrays a lamentable want of tact, provides the link: “Tut! There are other Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which for sport sake are content to do the profession some grace; that would, if matters should be looked into, for their own credit sake, make all whole” (2.1.76-80). There is a fine irony in these last words. Hal, the “Trojan,” will “make all whole” by seeming to countenance the robbery, but also 1) by giving the money back (ultimately to himself, since it was headed for the King's Exchequer, and hence we see a pun on “credit”), and 2) by establishing law and order once he is king. Not for long will Gadshill be able to say to his confederates, “We steal as in a castle, cocksure” (2.1.95).

With the jest carried out and the rebellion hatched, the butt of the former and the spur of the latter are juxtaposed for our attention. Shakespeare contrasts them via references to strength and horsemanship. Whereas Hotspur is anxious about his mount because he yearns for gallant action, Falstaff's need for his is weakness: “Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me” (2.2.26-27). The “beads of sweat” (2.3.61) on Hotspur's eager brow sharply differentiate him from weary Falstaff “sweat[ing] to death, / … lard[ing] the lean earth as he walks along” (2.2.115-16). More significant is the comparison between the two, tying together the serious and mock revolts. Hotspur reads a letter suggesting that the rebels' plan is “dangerous; the friends … uncertain … and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition” (2.3.10-13). His reaction to the pessimistic unidentified source sounds like something Falstaff might have said, echoing Gadshill's confidence, had anyone warned him of danger: “By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid, our friends true and constant—a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation. An excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this!” (2.3.16-21) The language itself is Falstaffian, linking these two men who can see the present very clearly but are blind to the consequences of their actions. The juxtaposition of these scenes accurately hints that the Percy robbery will go as badly as did the one at Gadshill.

And there are other hints, not about the traitors' weaknesses, but about Hal's maturing strength. Hal emerges from the Boar's Head's wine cellar where, “with three or four loggerheads, amongst three or fourscore hogsheads” he has “sounded the very base string of humility” (2.4.4-6). That is, he has been humble with the lowest class of persons, but also, and more importantly, he has found the essence of humanity in these men, and has, himself, reverberated with that harmony. He is “king of courtesy,” and will continue to be so even when he is also king of honor. Hal is a good mixer, a man of the people, motivated not by public policy, as his father would be, but by natural impulse. “They … tell me flatly,” he says, “when I am King of England, I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap” (2.4.11-15). Hal enjoys playing with the literal tautology, yet we realize that under Henry it is no tautology, that at present England and Eastcheap are distinct and separate. Hal wants to be king of a people, not of a piece of a map. His drinking bout with the drawers is proof of his mettle among the commoners, endearing them to him, just as his prowess at Shrewsbury will reconcile him with those in high life. “I tell thee, Ned,” he continues to Poins, “thou hast lost much honor that thou wert not with me in this action” (2.4.21-23), and the words “action” and “honor” seem to make this a jest. But not merely that: they reinforce the correspondence between this private victory and the public one to come.

As yet, however, for Hal, time is to be wasted, to be “drive[n] away … till Falstaff come” (2.4.30-31), while Hotspur is dashing to Bangor. Unaware of threatened treachery, Hal, the killer of time, is “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’” (2.4.113-117). That “yet” is Shakespeare's, not Hal's, since, uninformed as he is, Hal has no reason to foresee any swift burst through the clouds. “I’ll play Percy” (2.4.121-22) he says, but never does. This is no oversight on the dramatist's part; Hal will play himself and the King later, but these are actual and potential selves. Hal's excessive zeal is not his.

Falstaff enters, and the fun begins. The buckram episode is to be read, not written of, but the palpable lies of a man who “said he would swear truth out of England” (2.4.336-37) remain palpable lies. Sir John is Falstaff, not the historical Fastolfe, and even his confederate Bardolph admits, “I blushed to hear his monstrous devices” (2.4.343-44). But if the fat knight can lie magnificently about the little rebellion, Shakespeare makes him messenger of the truth about the big one. This is consummate artistry: all the information is there to forward the plot, but everything is made to seem less serious, and the comic tone of the delivery and reception of the news doesn’t seem to call for immediate action. Thus Hal can remain in the tavern for the “play extempore.” Falstaff asks, “Art thou not horribly afraid?” and the reply is, “Not a whit, i’ faith. I lack some of thy instinct” (2.4.408-09). The contrast with Hotspur is fine here: Hal comes off as sufficiently master of the situation that he can proceed coolly, with ease and deliberateness, like a glacier.

Hotspur's haste and impetuosity (he misplaces the map almost as soon as he picks it up) contrasts with Hal's ease. Hotspur lets go the large matter in hand in favor of a nearer contention, when he determines to change the course of the River Trent, a relatively paltry consideration, and not even warranted, since Mortimer says that the kingdom was divided “very equally” (3.1.73). And Hotspur's cavilling with Glendower over the latter's boasts is another trivial matter, foreshadowing the dissension among the rebels. Hal can enjoy the deceptions and exaggerations of Falstaff; Hotspur can’t stomach the same things from his Welsh ally. He is afraid of having his own powers eclipsed, even in theory, by someone else. But Hal, when Falstaff later claims to have killed Hotspur, pledges to uphold the lie.

An earlier pledge is more significant, for by the time Hal and his father are reconciled, he has promised to uphold the realm. Henry is again ready for action, with a better perspective on the two Harry's. We, too, have had a good look at the new Hal, and the old Falstaff suffers by comparison. Perhaps he has “bated” and “dwindled” since the “action” at Gadshill, but not in units of weight. Falstaff jests with himself, while Hal has done with jesting. Hal has made a solemn oath to change—“I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord, / Be more myself” (3.2.92-93)—whereas nothing comes of Falstaff's “desire” to repent, which is cancelled as soon as spoken. It is not Falstaff's nature to change: “Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life” (3.3.27-28), he tells Bardolph, and the latter is as impossible as the former. In a word, if we are given the promise of Hal's salvation, we are also given the complementary and necessary promise of Falstaff's damnation. When Sir John says to Bardolph, “I never see thy face but I think upon Hell-fire” (3.3.35-36), this is funny, but also warranted.

Such a warrant gains currency as the tavern conversation over pocket picking turns to Falstaff's £24 debt to the hostess. True to his thieving ways, Falstaff answers flatly, “I’ll not pay a denier” (3.3.91). Contrast this behavior with that of Hal, who owes his father and country a more significant debt, and is ready, finally, to “make all whole.” Hal in fact expressed his determination in business metaphors:

… I shall make this Northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
To engross up glorious deeds on my
behalf.
And I will call him to so strict account
That he shall render every glory up—
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time—
Or I will tear the reckoning from
his heart.

(3.2.145-52; emphasis mine)

Later he will greet Hotspur, “It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, / Who never promiseth but he means to pay” (5.4.42-43). The time when Hal permitted himself to sport with stealing is past. “To horse, to horse” he cries to Peto, by now somewhat closer to being “of Percy's mind.”

The overall movement of Hal's development from jest to earnest is apparent as he silences Falstaff's jibe at Worcester, “Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it” with “Peace, chewet, peace!” (5.1.29). Such a reaction looks forward to the time when Hal, having lost his weapon and desiring Falstaff's pistol, asks him to remove it from its case. Falstaff produces a bottle and exclaims, “There’s that will sack a city” (5.3.55-56). To this pun Hal responds by throwing the bottle at him and demanding, “What, is it a time to jest and dally now?” (5.3.57).

Finally Hal and Hotspur meet, for the first and last time. Shakespeare has deliberately kept them apart, and the resolution of dramatic tension is satisfyingly climactic. Falstaff's cheering Hal on, then playing dead, provide a final contrast between young chivalry and old “discretion.” Falstaff's next act, however, is difficult to pardon. Although he does it while wittily excusing himself, the stabbing of the dead Hotspur, over whom Hal has just spoken so movingly, must, if momentarily, qualify our love for the fat knight.

Our respect for Hal in the final scenes needs no such qualification. He is ideally heroic and magnanimous. He doesn’t stop to rest, though badly wounded. Self-effacing, he praises his brother John as one who “lends mettle to us all” (5.4.24). After killing Hotspur he asks for Douglas' pardon, giving John the honor of the delivery. Lancaster's response, “I thank your Grace for this high courtesy” (5.5.32) is perfect. “Grace thou wilt have none,” Falstaff had said. He was mistaken. Hal, now “king of honor,” is also “king of courtesy” high and low, on the battlefield as well as in the wine cellar at Eastcheap.