Savage ADM

English 421 23 September

1992
Full of Expectation: The Irony of Hotspur in 1 Henry IV

“We are prepar’d,” proclaims Hotspur at the close of his scene-opening

monologue in Act II, scene iii. But as the antagonist of a history play,
Hotspur faces an inescapable dramatic irony. He suffers from this not
because other characters know what he does not, or because dialogue has
revealed crucial information to the audience, but rather because
Shakespeare’s audience knows history, and Hotspur cannot. It knows that
in fact he is not prepared, that he does not win, that he dies, that his
plotting and his status as “sweet Fortune’s minion” will not help him
kill the King or attain revenge. From curtain’s rise or the page’s first
turn, the audience condemns Hotspur’s efforts to futility, and Hotspur
himself to an inevitably unsuccessful end. It is true also that Hotspur
repeatedly falls victim to situational irony wherein whatever he expects,
anticipates, or relies upon, is denied. And it is this situational irony
that he could avoid, were he not so undauntedly hopeful and impatient.
His irrational optimism, his impetuousness, and the two kinds of ironies
that plague him not only become apparent to the audience in the the
pivotal third scene of Act II, but also grow beyond Hotspur’s control.
Close contextual reading of that scene rewards the reader with a full
understanding of Hotspur as a man, and of Hotspur as the victim of irony.
Of the two ironies, the dramatic is the easier for Shakespeare to
construct, primarily because it is an irony virtually built into the
genre. History plays do not create or destroy major historical events.
They only offer a new or revisionist perspective, one that supplies the
audience with a dramatically licensed representation of what occurred.
All an author need create is a vehicle to bring historical irony into the
literary world; in this case it is the letter Hotspur reads as he opens
Act II, scene iii. An accurate historical critique placed in Hotspur’s
hands, the letter points out exactly what an audience knows, and exactly
what Hotspur refuses to believe.

The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have nam’d
uncertain, the time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light for
the counterpoise of so great an opposition. (II.iii.10-14)

The letter arrives from an unnamed source, and so speaks with an

objective voice that concisely describes the fundamental flaws that
eventually collapse Hotspur’s plot. A rational, careful Hotspur would
take the advice as aid in itself and adjust his plans accordingly;
instead, with increasingly characteristic swagger, he declares his
confidence in his plot and his doubt of this prophetic letter-writer: “I
say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you lie. What
a lack-a-brain is this!” (III.ii.14-16) he cries, inviting the audience
to recall its knowledge of history as he displays his disregard for
objectivity, patience, and fact, and effectively secures his fate as a
character subordinate to history.
And history does not develop as Hotspur expects, a condition that gives
Shakespeare opportunity to fill the play with situational irony, and, as
with the dramatic irony, Shakespeare uses Hotspur’s characteristic
impatience and reliance on hope to construct this other irony. But in
order for the audience to recognize the irony, it must place the scene in
context, an action which requires careful study of Hotspur’s expectations
and what in fact occurs. The letter and following monologue of Act II,
scene iii, again introduce the ironic element, and set it in relation to
the rest of the play.
That Hotspur bothers to request aid suggests he expects it, wants it, but
the first line — even the first word— of the scene makes it clear this
expectation has been denied. “But, for mine own part, my lord, I could
be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house”
(III.ii.1-3). Hotspur’s first declaration, that “out of this nettle,
danger, we pluck this flower, safety” (III.ii.9-10), goes unfulfilled.
Fittingly alone onstage while reading the letter, Hotspur tries to play
the part of the unflappable military master, but to the audience seems
insecure while three times in as many lines he chaotically and zealously
tries to convince himself of the soundness of his plot and the
reliability of his friends.

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. (II.iii.16-19)

Of structural note, the phrase “a good plot, good friends, and full of
expectation” falls in the exact center of the 35-line monologue, and
serves as a fulcrum not just for the speech, but for the scene, and the
irony that confronts Hotspur throughout the play. Following this and
his ridiculing the sober perspective of the letter-writer as the mind-set
of a “frosty-spirited rogue,” he returns again to the reliability of his
friends, naming each one as if he could conjure them by uttering their
names.

Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my

Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? is there not besides the Douglas?
have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of next
month? (II.iii.23-28)

He disdains the letter’s remarks concerning “the friends you have nam’d”,
“the time itself”, and “the whole plot” (II.iii.10-13), but later in the
play meets these same objections from his co-conspirators, objections
which prove Hotspur wrong and the letter correct. Vernon tells him that
Glendower, not so reliable after all, “cannot draw his power this
fourteen days” (IV.i.126). Worcester pleads of him, “Good cousin, be
advis’d, stir not to-night” (IV.iii.5), Vernon concurs, and Worcester in
Act V attributes the failure of the plot to “a hare-brained Hotspur,
govern’d by a spleen” (V.ii.19). Full of expectation and misapplied
faith in his friends, Hotspur closes the monologue and at last resolves,
“We are prepar’d. I will set forward tonight” (II.iii.34-35), though he
is in actuality unsure of what to prepare for, and in the end,
unprepared. “Esperance!” (II.iii.71) he shouts, invoking his family’s
appropriate motto of “hope.”
Lady Percy enters and describes to him circumstances similar to what the
audience just witnessed. In thirty lines, she tells him what he does
while he sleeps, and like the letter, she serves as a metaphoric vehicle
for the dramatic irony. Both she and the audience know what he does not.
The audience understands him; his wife understands him, yet he does not
understand himself. Apparently recognizing that on some level Hotspur is
unsure of himself, she remarks that “Thy spirit within thee hath been so
at war...and in thy face strange motions have appear’d” (II.iii.56-60).
“I must know it,” she insists, and guesses that “my brother Mortimer doth
stir about his title” (II.iii.63&81) Hotspur’s attempt to reverse the
irony by keeping information from her fails, and he continues to be the
only figure in the scene who is subject to irony. He even refuses to
trust Kate, who perhaps is least likely to act against his expectations,
with complete knowledge of his plot, though he places all his faith in
the friends who eventually fail him. Her sense of obligation to him is
stronger than the others, and certainly stronger than the letter-writer
who opened the scene. “But...I could be well contented to be there, in
respect of the love I bear your house” (II.iii.1), the letter reads.
“Will this content you, Kate?” Hotspur asks. “It must of force,” she
answers, completing her husband’s pentameter, offering the last irony of
the scene, and closing the scene as it began.
The scene paints Hotspur as a strong but impatient and irrationally
optimistic man who cannot escape or overcome dramatic and situational
ironies. It reshapes the audience’s estimation of the character,
dispelling some beliefs while confirming others. The adjectives used to
describe him in the scene, as in the entire play, range widely, from
“sweet” (II.iii.40) to “mad-headed” (II.iii.77), and progress (again as
in the play) from approving to loathing. But this scene reveals exactly
what Hotspur is, beyond his descriptions, beyond other’s perceptions.
His ambition, first evidenced in Act I, scene iii, when he concludes,
“Methinks it were an easy leap to pluck bright honor from the pale-faced
moon” (I.iii.201) is really a form of impatience, one that reappears in
II.iii. His own father, Northumberland, decides, “Imagination of some
great exploit / Drives him beyond the bounds of patience” (I.iii.200),
and this image Northumberland reinforces shortly after, when he adds,
“What a wasp-stung and impatient fool art thou...” (I.iii.236) And to
equate impatience even further with Hotspur, Hotspur himself wishes that
“the hours be short, / Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our
sport!” (I.iii.301-302). This is the image the audience carries of
Hotspur until and after he speaks in Act II, scene iii, where he rushes
past reason and good sense.
The first adjective used to describe him is “gallant,” (I.i.52), and
King Henry follows with early praise of Hotspur, praise that may have set
Hotspur favorably in the mind of the audience despite his historical
reputation, quickly evaporates. Originally “the very theme of Honor’s
tongue” (I.i.81), Hotspur soon after is “tread[ing] upon [the King’s]
patience” (I.iii.4), addressed as “sirrah”, and risks hearing from the
King “in such a kind...as will displease you” (I.iii.122). By Act II,
he is “wasp-stung” and has completely lost the admiration of the King.
In Act III, scene ii, his wife likens him to a weasel, is seen and
defined by the audience, and as he dies in Act V, scene v, his dying
words begin his final description. “Percy, thou art dust and food for—”
“For worms,” (V.v.86-87) concludes the Prince, and Hotspur succumbs to
the last irony. The flower he had hoped to pluck, safety, at last is
his, though not in the form he had expected.