Henry IV
Fall 2003, Issue 36


Cover Illustration by Allen Crawford/Plankton Art








The Necessary Betrayal
by Donald Antrim

Creating the World of Henry IV
A Conversation Between Jack O'Brien and John Guare

Ode for Falstaff at the End
by Richard Bausch

Henry IV in His Time
by Anne Cattaneo

The Making of a King
by Marilynne Robinson

From The Duke of Deception
by Geoffrey Wolff

From The Prince's Dog
by W.H. Auden

From Henry IV, Part II
by William Shakespeare












     It is traditional—and somewhat Protestant-minded—to regard Prince Hal’s banishment of Falstaff, near the close of Henry IV (along with Hal’s coincident abandonment of Falstaff’s Eastcheap world of sensual pleasures), as an act of mature emotional pragmatism underscoring a readiness to assume the crown, and with it, a demandingly anhedonic life in politics and military affairs. It is, in other words, necessary. In this light, Hal’s conversion from boyhood to manhood is sentimental and archetypal; he becomes representative of every youth who has ever got drunk and rebelled, if only theatrically, against his father and the world, only to reverse himself and, in an important moment, make amends and take his place in his family. In Hal’s case, the family is in the business of ruling England and avoiding deposition and death; Hal’s transformation from rogue to future ruler occurs as Hotspur, Glendower, Mortimer, and Douglas prepare to march on Bolingbroke and the kingdom.
     What this tells us about Elizabethan playgoers is that they could, without strain on the suspension of disbelief, live the drama of the prodigal son vicariously and ritualistically within a familiar political realm. The same holds true for audiences today. An exemplary tale of more recent vintage might be found in the heir-apparent career of George W. Bush, whose sarcastic fecklessness looks to some people like integrity, in part because an anti-intellectual style is often taken in this country to indicate humility and trustworthiness, and also because the style suggests an occasion for the sort of archetypal transformation associated—in life, as in Henry IV,—with a genuine talent for leadership. It could be argued that audiences are drawn to this contest between emotional and intellectual character, on the one hand, and, on the other, emotional character brought under the stresses that accompany a significant political role—the kind thought to transform and ennoble the man, even as the man attempts to define and fulfill, on his own terms, his role. This latter dangerous path is illustrated, perhaps as a caution, in Hotspur’s rigidly humorless and ultimately self-destructive approach to civil conflict. Be that as it may, we in the audience—whether watching Henry IV in the theater or, possibly, sitting watching the evening news at home—enter a world in which unpredictable personality and psychology are superseded by considerations of known history or current realpolitik.
     But are they? In the play, psychological problems and problems of character modify our view of history. Hal self-consciously presents himself as a trickster in need of reform. Then, in time to save his place in the world—and his neck—he tells his father (in words that leave room for vague doubts about his meaning, if not his intentions), “I shall hereafter...be more myself.” Hal seduces theater audiences into regarding him as compassionate and trustworthy, as a character who is flawed, human, able to learn and grow. Like his surrogate father, the reliably untrustworthy Falstaff, Prince Hal speaks with the wit and authority of his author’s language—in this respect, he is quite unlike the President—and is unquestionably seductive. But trustworthy? With whom must a prodigal son preserve trust? In what sense must a king or a future king be trustworthy? What should he be trusted to do?
     These are questions of politics. In Henry IV, a play densely populated with royals, politics exist inside the domain of family. Is it therefore reasonable to observe the growth of Hal’s character not only through acts performed on the battlefield but in the manner in which he assembles his own royal family? Can the climactic banishment of Sir John Falstaff be seen purely as a signal to the world—including the theater audience—that the heir will not haunt taverns and brothels, that he will instead, behave like a proper king?
     The banishment is hardly sudden when it comes, at the close of a process that begins near the opening of Henry IV: “Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world!” Falstaff famously dares in Act 2. “I do, I will,” Hal replies, prophetically. Following the play-war staged as the robbery at Gad’s Hill, and continuing through the actual war against the insurrection, Falstaff again and again voices his affection for the Prince, and his fear of rejection; and Hal gamely promises to reject him. Such remarks echo the pleas and slanders

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