# Shakespearean Tragedy/Lecture 10

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London: Macmillan, pages 366–400
LECTURE X
MACBETH
1
To regard Macbeth as a play, like the love-tragedies Romeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra, in which there are two central characters of equal importance, is certainly a mistake. But Shakespeare himself is in a measure responsible for it, because the first half of Macbeth is greater than the second, and in the first half Lady Macbeth not only appears more than in the second but exerts the ultimate deciding influence on the action. And, in the opening Act at least, Lady Macbeth is the most commanding and perhaps the most awe-inspiring figure that Shakespeare drew. Sharing, as we have seen, certain traits with her husband, she is at once clearly distinguished from him by an inflexibility of will, which appears to hold imagination, feeling, and conscience completely in check. To her the prophecy of things that will be becomes instantaneously the determination that they shall be:
She knows her husband’s weakness, how he scruples ‘to catch the nearest way’ to the object he desires; and she sets herself without a trace of doubt or conflict to counteract this weakness. To her there ​is no separation between will and deed; and, as the deed falls in part to her, she is sure it will be done:
On the moment of Macbeth’s rejoining her, after braving infinite dangers and winning infinite praise, without a syllable on these subjects or a word of affection, she goes straight to her purpose and permits him to speak of nothing else. She takes the superior position and assumes the direction of affairs,—appears to assume it even more than she really can, that she may spur him on. She animates him by picturing the deed as heroic, ‘this night’s great business,’ or ‘our great quell,’ while she ignores its cruelty and faithlessness. She bears down his faint resistance by presenting him with a prepared scheme which may remove from him the terror and danger of deliberation. She rouses him with a taunt no man can bear, and least of all a soldier,—the word ‘coward.’ She appeals even to his love for her:
—such, that is, as the protestations of a drunkard. Her reasonings are mere sophisms; they could persuade no man. It is not by them, it is by personal appeals, through the admiration she extorts from him, and through sheer force of will, that she impels him to the deed. Her eyes are fixed upon the crown and the means to it; she does not attend to the consequences. Her plan of laying the guilt upon the chamberlains is invented on the spur of the moment, and simply to satisfy her husband. Her true mind is heard in the ringing cry with which she answers his question, ‘Will it not be received . . . that they have done it?’
​And this is repeated in the sleep-walking scene: ‘What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?’ Her passionate courage sweeps him off his feet. His decision is taken in a moment of enthusiasm:
And even when passion has quite died away her will remains supreme. In presence of overwhelming horror and danger, in the murder scene and the banquet scene, her self-control is perfect. When the truth of what she has done dawns on her, no word of complaint, scarcely a word of her own suffering, not a single word of her own as apart from his, escapes her when others are by. She helps him, but never asks his help. She leans on nothing but herself. And from the beginning to the end—though she makes once or twice a slip in acting her part—her will never fails her. Its grasp upon her nature may destroy her, but it is never relaxed. We are sure that she never betrayed her husband or herself by a word or even a look, save in sleep. However appalling she may be, she is sublime.
In the earlier scenes of the play this aspect of Lady Macbeth’s character is far the most prominent. And if she seems invincible she seems also inhuman. We find no trace of pity for the kind old king; no consciousness of the treachery and baseness of the murder; no sense of the value of the lives of the wretched men on whom the guilt is to be laid; no shrinking even from the condemnation or hatred of the world. Yet if the Lady Macbeth of these scenes were really utterly inhuman, or a ‘fiend-like queen,’ as Malcolm calls her, the Lady Macbeth of the sleep-walking scene would be an impossibility. The one woman could never become the other. And in fact, if we look ​below the surface, there is evidence enough in the earlier scenes of preparation for the later. I do not mean that Lady Macbeth was naturally humane. There is nothing in the play to show this, and several passages subsequent to the murder-scene supply proof to the contrary. One is that where she exclaims, on being informed of Duncan’s murder,
This mistake in acting shows that she does not even know what the natural feeling in such circumstances would be; and Banquo’s curt answer, ‘Too cruel anywhere,’ is almost a reproof of her insensibility. But, admitting this, we have in the first place to remember, in imagining the opening scenes, that she is deliberately bent on counteracting the ‘human kindness’ of her husband, and also that she is evidently not merely inflexibly determined but in a condition of abnormal excitability. That exaltation in the project which is so entirely lacking in Macbeth is strongly marked in her. When she tries to help him by representing their enterprise as heroic, she is deceiving herself as much as him. Their attainment of the crown presents itself to her, perhaps has long presented itself, as something so glorious, and she has fixed her will upon it so completely, that for the time she sees the enterprise in no other light than that of its greatness. When she soliloquises,
one sees that ‘ambition’ and ‘great’ and ‘highly’ and even ‘illness’ are to her simply terms of praise, ​and ‘holily’ and ‘human kindness’ simply terms of blame. Moral distinctions do not in this exaltation exist for her; or rather they are inverted: ‘good’ means to her the crown and whatever is required to obtain it, ‘evil’ whatever stands in the way of its attainment. This attitude of mind is evident even when she is alone, though it becomes still more pronounced when she has to work upon her husband. And it persists until her end is attained. But, without being exactly forced, it betrays a strain which could not long endure.
Besides this, in these earlier scenes the traces of feminine weakness and human feeling, which account for her later failure, are not absent. Her will, it is clear, was exerted to overpower not only her husband’s resistance but some resistance in herself. Imagine Goneril uttering the famous words,
They are spoken, I think, without any sentiment—impatiently, as though she regretted her weakness: but it was there. And in reality, quite apart from this recollection of her father, she could never have done the murder if her husband had failed. She had to nerve herself with wine to give her ‘boldness’ enough to go through her minor part. That appalling invocation to the spirits of evil, to unsex her and fill her from the crown to the toe topfull of direst cruelty, tells the same tale of determination to crush the inward protest. Goneril had no need of such a prayer. In the utterance of the frightful lines,
​her voice should doubtless rise until it reaches, in ‘dash’d the brains out,’ an almost hysterical scream. These lines show unmistakably that strained exaltation which, as soon as the end is reached, vanishes, never to return.
The greatness of Lady Macbeth lies almost wholly in courage and force of will. It is an error to regard her as remarkable on the intellectual side. In acting a part she shows immense self-control, but not much skill. Whatever may be thought of the plan of attributing the murder of Duncan to the chamberlains, to lay their bloody daggers on their pillows, as if they were determined to advertise their guilt, was a mistake which can be accounted for only by the excitement of the moment. But the limitations of her mind appear most in the point where she is most strongly contrasted with Macbeth,—in her comparative dulness of imagination. I say ‘comparative,’ for she sometimes uses highly poetic language, as indeed does everyone in Shakespeare who has any greatness of soul. Nor is she perhaps less imaginative than the majority of his heroines. But as compared with her husband she has little imagination. It is not simply that she suppresses what she has. To her, things remain at the most terrible moment precisely what they were at the calmest, plain facts which stand in a given relation to a certain deed, not visions which tremble and flicker in the light of other worlds. The probability that the old king will sleep soundly after his long journey to Inverness is to her simply a fortunate circumstance; but one can fancy the shoot of horror across Macbeth’s face as she mentions it. She uses familiar and prosaic illustrations, like
or,
The Witches are practically nothing to her. She feels no sympathy in Nature with her guilty purpose, and would never bid the earth not hear her steps, which way they walk. The noises before the murder, and during it, are heard by her as simple facts, and are referred to their true sources. The knocking has no mystery for her: it comes from ‘the south entry’. She calculates on the drunkenness of the grooms, compares the different effects of wine on herself and on them, and listens to their snoring. To her the blood upon her husband’s hands suggests only the taunt,
and the blood to her is merely ‘this filthy witness,’—words impossible to her husband, to whom it suggested something quite other than sensuous disgust or practical danger. The literalism of her mind appears fully in two contemptuous speeches where she dismisses his imaginings; in the murder scene:
Even in the awful scene where her imagination breaks loose in sleep she uses no such images as Macbeth’s. It is the direct appeal of the facts to sense that has fastened on her memory. The ghastly realism of ‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ or ‘Here’s the smell of the blood still,’ is wholly unlike him. Her most poetical words, ‘All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,’ are equally unlike his words about great Neptune’s ocean. Hers, like some of her other speeches, are the more moving, from their greater simplicity and because they seem to tell of that self-restraint in suffering which is so totally lacking in him; but there is in them comparatively little of imagination. If we consider most of the passages to which I have referred, we shall find that the quality which moves our admiration is courage or force of will.
This want of imagination, though it helps to make Lady Macbeth strong for immediate action, is fatal to her. If she does not feel beforehand the cruelty of Duncan’s murder, this is mainly because she hardly imagines the act, or at most imagines its outward show, ‘the motion of a muscle this way or that.’ Nor does she in the least foresee those inward consequences which reveal themselves immediately in her husband, and less quickly in herself. It is often said that she understands him well. Had she done so, she never would have urged him on. She knows that he is given to strange fancies; but, not realising what they spring from, she has no idea ​either that they may gain such power as to ruin the scheme, or that, while they mean present weakness, they mean also perception of the future. At one point in the murder scene the force of his imagination impresses her, and for a moment she is startled; a light threatens to break on her:
she says, with a sudden and great seriousness. And when he goes panting on, ‘Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more,”’ . . . she breaks in, ‘What do you mean?’ half-doubting whether this was not a real voice that he heard. Then, almost directly, she recovers herself, convinced of the vanity of his fancy. Nor does she understand herself any better than him. She never suspects that these deeds must be thought after these ways; that her facile realism,
will one day be answered by herself, ‘Will these hands ne’er be clean?’ or that the fatal commonplace, ‘What’s done is done,’ will make way for her last despairing sentence, ‘What’s done cannot be undone.’
Hence the development of her character—perhaps it would be more strictly accurate to say, the change in her state of mind—is both inevitable, and the opposite of the development we traced in Macbeth. When the murder has been done, the discovery of its hideousness, first reflected in the faces of her guests, comes to Lady Macbeth with the shock of a sudden disclosure, and at once her nature begins to sink. The first intimation of the change is given when, in the scene of the discovery, she faints. When next we see her, Queen of Scotland, the glory of her dream has faded. She enters, dis​illusioned, and weary with want of sleep: she has thrown away everything and gained nothing:
Henceforth she has no initiative: the stem of her being seems to be cut through. Her husband, physically the stronger, maddened by pangs he had foreseen, but still flaming with life, comes into the foreground, and she retires. Her will remains, and she does her best to help him; but he rarely needs her help. Her chief anxiety appears to be that he should not betray his misery. He plans the murder of Banquo without her knowledge (not in order to spare her, I think, for he never shows love of this quality, but merely because he does not need her now); and even when she is told vaguely of his intention she appears but little interested. In the sudden emergency of the banquet scene she makes a prodigious and magnificent effort; her strength, and with it her ascendancy, returns, and she saves her husband at least from an open disclosure. But after this she takes no part whatever in the action. We only know from her shuddering words in the sleep-walking scene, ‘The Thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?’ that she has even learned of her husband’s worst crime; and in all the horrors of his tyranny over Scotland she has, so far as we hear, no part. Disillusionment and despair prey upon her more and more. That she should seek any relief in speech, or should ask for sympathy, would seem to her mere weakness, and would be to Macbeth’s defiant fury an irritation. Thinking of the change in him, we imagine the bond between them slackened, and Lady Macbeth left much alone. She sinks slowly downward. She cannot bear darkness, and has ​light by her continually: ’tis her command. At last her nature, not her will, gives way. The secrets of the past find vent in a disorder of sleep, the beginning perhaps of madness. What the doctor fears is clear. He reports to her husband no great physical mischief, but bids her attendant to remove from her all means by which she could harm herself, and to keep eyes on her constantly. It is in vain. Her death is announced by a cry from her women so sudden and direful that it would thrill her husband with horror if he were any longer capable of fear. In the last words of the play Malcolm tells us it is believed in the hostile army that she died by her own hand. And (not to speak of the indications just referred to) it is in accordance with her character that even in her weakest hour she should cut short by one determined stroke the agony of her life.
The sinking of Lady Macbeth’s nature, and the marked change in her demeanour to her husband, are most strikingly shown in the conclusion of the banquet scene; and from this point pathos is mingled with awe. The guests are gone. She is completely exhausted, and answers Macbeth in listless, submissive words which seem to come with difficulty. How strange sounds the reply ‘Did you send to him, sir?’ to his imperious question about Macduff! And when he goes on, ‘waxing desperate in imagination,’ to speak of new deeds of blood, she seems to sicken at the thought, and there is a deep pathos in that answer which tells at once of her care for him and of the misery she herself has silently endured,
We begin to think of her now less as the awful instigator of murder than as a woman with much that is grand in her, and much that is piteous. Strange and almost ludicrous as the statement may ​sound, she is, up to her light, a perfect wife. She gives her husband the best she has; and the fact that she never uses to him the terms of affection which, up to this point in the play, he employs to her, is certainly no indication of want of love. She urges, appeals, reproaches, for a practical end, but she never recriminates. The harshness of her taunts is free from mere personal feeling, and also from any deep or more than momentary contempt. She despises what she thinks the weakness which stands in the way of her husband’s ambition; but she does not despise him. She evidently admires him and thinks him a great man, for whom the throne is the proper place. Her commanding attitude in the moments of his hesitation or fear is probably confined to them. If we consider the peculiar circumstances of the earlier scenes and the banquet scene, and if we examine the language of the wife and husband at other times, we shall come, I think, to the conclusion that their habitual relations are better represented by the later scenes than by the earlier, though naturally they are not truly represented by either. Her ambition for her husband and herself (there was no distinction to her mind) proved fatal to him, far more so than the prophecies of the Witches; but even when she pushed him into murder she believed she was helping him to do what he merely lacked the nerve to attempt; and her part in the crime was so much less open-eyed than his, that, if the impossible and undramatic task of estimating degrees of culpability were forced on us, we should surely have to assign the larger share to Macbeth.
‘Lady Macbeth,’ says Dr. Johnson, ‘is merely detested’; and for a long time critics generally spoke of her as though she were Malcolm’s ‘fiendlike queen.’ In natural reaction we tend to insist, as I have been doing, on the other and less obvious ​side; and in the criticism of the last century there is even a tendency to sentimentalise the character. But it can hardly be doubted that Shakespeare meant the predominant impression to be one of awe, grandeur, and horror, and that he never meant this impression to be lost, however it might be modified, as Lady Macbeth’s activity diminishes and her misery increases. I cannot believe that, when she said of Banquo and Fleance,
she meant only that they would some day die; or that she felt any surprise when Macbeth replied,
though I am sure no light came into her eyes when he added those dreadful words, ‘Then be thou jocund.’ She was listless. She herself would not have moved a finger against Banquo. But she thought his death, and his son’s death, might ease her husband’s mind, and she suggested the murders indifferently and without remorse. The sleepwalking scene, again, inspires pity, but its main effect is one of awe. There is great horror in the references to blood, but it cannot be said that there is more than horror; and Campbell was surely right when, in alluding to Mrs. Jameson’s analysis, he insisted that in Lady Macbeth’s misery there is no trace of contrition. Doubtless she would have given the world to undo what she had done; and the thought of it killed her; but, regarding her ​from the tragic point of view, we may truly say she was too great to repent.
2
The main interest of the character of Banquo arises from the changes that take place in him, and from the influence of the Witches upon him. And it is curious that Shakespeare’s intention here is so frequently missed. Banquo being at first strongly contrasted with Macbeth, as an innocent man with a guilty, it seems to be supposed that this contrast must be continued to his death; while, in reality, though it is never removed, it is gradually diminished. Banquo in fact may be described much more truly than Macbeth as the victim ​of the Witches. If we follow his story this will be evident.
He bore a part only less distinguished than Macbeth’s in the battles against Sweno and Macdonwald. He and Macbeth are called ‘our captains,’ and when they meet the Witches they are traversing the ‘blasted heath’ alone together. Banquo accosts the strange shapes without the slightest fear. They lay their fingers on their lips, as if to signify that they will not, or must not, speak to him. To Macbeth’s brief appeal, ‘Speak, if you can: what are you?’ they at once reply, not by saying what they are, but by hailing him Thane of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor, and King hereafter. Banquo is greatly surprised that his partner should start as if in fear, and observes that he is at once ‘rapt’; and he bids the Witches, if they know the future, to prophesy to him, who neither begs their favour nor fears their hate. Macbeth, looking back at a later time, remembers Banquo’s daring, and how
‘Chid’ is an exaggeration; but Banquo is evidently a bold man, probably an ambitious one, and certainly has no lurking guilt in his ambition. On hearing the predictions concerning himself and his descendants he makes no answer, and when the Witches are about to vanish he shows none of Macbeth’s feverish anxiety to know more. On their vanishing he is simply amazed, wonders if they were anything but hallucinations, makes no reference to the predictions till Macbeth mentions them, and then answers lightly.
When Ross and Angus, entering, announce to Macbeth that he has been made Thane of Cawdor, ​Banquo exclaims, aside, to himself or Macbeth, ‘What! can the devil speak true?’ He now believes that the Witches were real beings and the ‘instruments of darkness.’ When Macbeth, turning to him, whispers,
he draws with the boldness of innocence the inference which is really occupying Macbeth, and answers,
Here he still speaks, I think, in a free, off-hand, even jesting, manner (‘enkindle’ meaning merely ‘excite you to hope for’). But then, possibly from noticing something in Macbeth’s face, he becomes graver, and goes on, with a significant ‘but,’
He afterwards observes for the second time that his partner is ‘rapt’; but he explains his abstraction naturally and sincerely by referring to the surprise of his new honours; and at the close of the scene, when Macbeth proposes that they shall discuss the predictions together at some later time, he answers in the cheerful, rather bluff manner, which he has used almost throughout, ‘Very gladly.’ Nor was there any reason why Macbeth’s rejoinder, ‘Till then, enough,’ should excite misgivings in him, though it implied a request for silence, and though the ​whole behaviour of his partner during the scene must have looked very suspicious to him when the prediction of the crown was made good through the murder of Duncan.
In the next scene Macbeth and Banquo join the King, who welcomes them both with the kindest expressions of gratitude and with promises of favours to come. Macbeth has indeed already received a noble reward. Banquo, who is said by the King to have ‘no less deserved,’ receives as yet mere thanks. His brief and frank acknowledgment is contrasted with Macbeth’s laboured rhetoric; and, as Macbeth goes out, Banquo turns with hearty praises of him to the King.
And when next we see him, approaching Macbeth’s castle in company with Duncan, there is still no sign of change. Indeed he gains on us. It is he who speaks the beautiful lines,
—lines which tell of that freedom of heart, and that sympathetic sense of peace and beauty, which the Macbeth of the tragedy could never feel.
But now Banquo’s sky begins to darken. At the opening of the Second Act we see him with Fleance crossing the court of the castle on his way to bed. The blackness of the moonless, starless night seems to oppress him. And he is oppressed by something else.
His will is still untouched: he would repel the ‘cursed thoughts’; and they are mere thoughts, not intentions. But still they are ‘thoughts,’ something more, probably, than mere recollections; and they bring with them an undefined sense of guilt. The poison has begun to work. The passage that follows Banquo’s words to Macbeth is difficult to interpret:
Macbeth’s first idea is, apparently, simply to free himself from any suspicion which the discovery of the murder might suggest, by showing himself, just before it, quite indifferent to the predictions, and merely looking forward to a conversation about them at some future time. But why does he go on, ‘If you shall cleave,’ etc.? Perhaps he foresees that, on the discovery, Banquo cannot fail to suspect him, and thinks it safest to prepare the way at once for an understanding with him (in the original story he makes Banquo his accomplice before the murder). Banquo’s answer shows three things,—that he fears a treasonable proposal, that he has no idea of ​accepting it, and that he has no fear of Macbeth to restrain him from showing what is in his mind.
Duncan is murdered. In the scene of discovery Banquo of course appears, and his behaviour is significant. When he enters, and Macduff cries out to him,
and Lady Macbeth, who has entered a moment before, exclaims,
his answer,
shows, as I have pointed out, repulsion, and we may be pretty sure that he suspects the truth at once. After a few words to Macduff he remains absolutely silent while the scene is continued for nearly forty lines. He is watching Macbeth and listening as he tells how he put the chamberlains to death in a frenzy of loyal rage. At last Banquo appears to have made up his mind. On Lady Macbeth’s fainting he proposes that they shall all retire, and that they shall afterwards meet,
His solemn language here reminds us of his grave words about ‘the instruments of darkness,’ and of his later prayer to the ‘merciful powers.’ He is profoundly shocked, full of indignation, and determined to play the part of a brave and honest man.
But he plays no such part. When next we see him, on the last day of his life, we find that he has ​yielded to evil. The Witches and his own ambition have conquered him. He alone of the lords knew of the prophecies, but he has said nothing of them. He has acquiesced in Macbeth’s accession, and in the official theory that Duncan’s sons had suborned the chamberlains to murder him. Doubtless, unlike Macduff, he was present at Scone to see the new king invested. He has, not formally but in effect, ‘cloven to’ Macbeth’s ‘consent’; he is knit to him by ‘a most indissoluble tie’; his advice in council has been ‘most grave and prosperous’; he is to be the ‘chief guest’ at that night’s supper And his soliloquy tells us why:
This ‘hush! no more’ is not the dismissal of ‘cursed thoughts’: it only means that he hears the trumpets announcing the entrance of the King and Queen.
His punishment comes swiftly, much more swiftly than Macbeth’s, and saves him from any further fall. He is a very fearless man, and still so far honourable that he has no thought of acting to bring about the fulfilment of the prophecy which has beguiled him. And therefore he has no fear of Macbeth. But he little understands him. To Macbeth’s tormented mind Banquo’s conduct appears highly suspicious. Why has this bold and circumspect man kept his secret and become his ​chief adviser? In order to make good his part of the predictions after Macbeth’s own precedent. Banquo, he is sure, will suddenly and secretly attack him. It is not the far-off accession of Banquo’s descendants that he fears; it is (so he tells himself) swift murder; not that the ‘barren sceptre’ will some day droop from his dying hand, but that it will be ‘wrenched’ away now (III. i. 62). So he kills Banquo. But the Banquo he kills is not the innocent soldier who met the Witches and daffed their prophecies aside, nor the man who prayed to be delivered from the temptation of his dreams.
Macbeth leaves on most readers a profound impression of the misery of a guilty conscience and the retribution of crime. And the strength of this impression is one of the reasons why the tragedy is admired by readers who shrink from Othello and are made unhappy by Lear. But what Shakespeare perhaps felt even more deeply, when he wrote this play, was the incalculability of evil,—that in meddling with it human beings do they know not what. The soul, he seems to feel, is a thing of such inconceivable depth, complexity, and delicacy, that when you introduce into it, or suffer to develop in it, any change, and particularly the change called evil, you can form only the vaguest idea of the reaction you will provoke. All you can be sure of is that it will not be what you expected, and that you cannot possibly escape it. Banquo’s story, if truly apprehended, produces this impression quite as strongly as the more terrific stories of the chief characters, and perhaps even more clearly, inas​much as he is nearer to average human nature, has obviously at first a quiet conscience, and uses with evident sincerity the language of religion.
3
Apart from his story Banquo’s character is not very interesting, nor is it, I think, perfectly individual. And this holds good of the rest of the minor characters. They are sketched lightly, and are seldom developed further than the strict purposes of the action required. From this point of view they are inferior to several of the less important figures in each of the other three tragedies. The scene in which Lady Macduff and her child appear, and the passage where their slaughter is reported to Macduff, have much dramatic value, but in neither case is the effect due to any great extent to the special characters of the persons concerned. Neither they, nor Duncan, nor Malcolm, nor even Banquo himself, have been imagined intensely, and therefore they do not produce that sense of unique personality which Shakespeare could convey in a much smaller number of lines than he gives to most of them. And this is of course even more the case with persons like Ross, Angus, and Lennox, though each of these has distinguishable features. I doubt if any other great play of Shakespeare’s contains so many speeches which a student of the play, if they were quoted to him, would be puzzled to assign to the speakers. Let the reader turn, for instance, to the second scene of the Fifth Act, and ask himself why the names of the persons should not be interchanged in all the ways mathematically possible. Can he find, again, any signs of character by which to distinguish the speeches of Ross and Angus in Act I. scenes ii and iii, or to determine that ​Malcolm must have spoken I. iv. 2–11? Most of this writing, we may almost say, is simply Shakespeare’s writing, not that of Shakespeare become another person. And can anything like the same proportion of such writing be found in Hamlet, Othello, or King Lear?
Is it possible to guess the reason of this characteristic of Macbeth? I cannot believe it is due to the presence of a second hand. The writing, mangled by the printer and perhaps by ‘the players,’ seems to be sometimes obviously Shakespeare’s, sometimes sufficiently Shakespearean to repel any attack not based on external evidence. It may be, as the shortness of the play has suggested to some, that Shakespeare was hurried, and, throwing all his weight on the principal characters, did not exert himself in dealing with the rest. But there is another possibility which may be worth considering. Macbeth is distinguished by its simplicity,—by grandeur in simplicity, no doubt, but still by simplicity. The two great figures indeed can hardly be called simple, except in comparison with such characters as Hamlet and Iago; but in almost every other respect the tragedy has this quality. Its plot is quite plain. It has very little intermixture of humour. It has little pathos except of the sternest kind. The style, for Shakespeare, has not much variety, being generally kept at a higher pitch than in the other three tragedies; and there is much less than usual of the interchange of verse and prose. All this makes for simplicity of effect. And, this being so, is it not possible that Shakespeare instinctively felt, or consciously feared, that to give much individuality or attraction to the subordinate figures would diminish this effect, and so, like a good artist, sacrificed a part to the whole? ​And was he wrong? He has certainly avoided the overloading which distresses us in King Lear, and has produced a tragedy utterly unlike it, not much less great as a dramatic poem, and as a drama superior.
I would add, though without much confidence, another suggestion. The simplicity of Macbeth is one of the reasons why many readers feel that, in spite of its being intensely ‘romantic,’ it is less unlike a classical tragedy than Hamlet or Othello or King Lear. And it is possible that this effect is, in a sense, the result of design. I do not mean that Shakespeare intended to imitate a classical tragedy; I mean only that he may have seen in the bloody story of Macbeth a subject suitable for treatment in a manner somewhat nearer to that of Seneca, or of the English Senecan plays familiar to him in his youth, than was the manner of his own mature tragedies. The Witches doubtless are ‘romantic,’ but so is the witch-craft in Seneca’s Medea and Hercules Oetaeus; indeed it is difficult to read the account of Medea’s preparations (670–739) without being reminded of the incantations in Macbeth. Banquo’s Ghost again is ‘romantic,’ but so are Seneca’s ghosts. For the swelling of the style in some of the great passages—however immeasurably superior these may be to anything in Seneca—and certainly for the turgid bombast which occasionally appears in Macbeth, and which seems to have horrified Jonson, Shakespeare might easily have found a model in Seneca. Did he not think that this was the high Roman manner? Does not the Sergeant’s speech, as Coleridge observed, recall the style of the ‘passionate speech’ of the Player in Hamlet,—a speech, be it observed, on a Roman subject? And is it entirely an accident ​that parallels between Seneca and Shakespeare seem to be more frequent in Macbeth than in any other of his undoubtedly genuine works except perhaps Richard III., a tragedy unquestionably influenced either by Seneca or by English Senecan plays? If there is anything in these suggestions, and if we suppose that Shakespeare meant to give to his play a certain classical tinge, he might naturally carry out this idea in respect to the characters, as well as in other respects, by concentrating almost the whole interest on the important figures and leaving the others comparatively shadowy.
4
Macbeth being more simple than the other tragedies, and broader and more massive in effect, three passages in it are of great importance as securing variety in tone, and also as affording relief from the feelings excited by the Witch-scenes and the principal characters. They are the passage where the Porter appears, the conversation between Lady Macduff and her little boy, and the passage where Macduff receives the news of the slaughter of his wife and babes. Yet the first of these, we are told even by Coleridge, is unworthy of Shakespeare and is not his; and the second, with the rest of the scene which contains it, appears to be usually omitted in stage representations of Macbeth.
I question if either this scene or the exhibition of Macduff’s grief is required to heighten our abhorrence of Macbeth’s cruelty. They have a technical value in helping to give the last stage of the action the form of a conflict between Macbeth and Macduff. But their chief function is of another kind. It is to touch the heart with a sense of beauty and pathos, to open the springs of love and of tears. Shakespeare is loved for the sweetness of his humanity, and because he makes this kind of appeal with such irresistible persuasion; and the reason why Macbeth, though admired as much as any work of his, is scarcely loved, is that the characters who predominate cannot make this kind of appeal, and at no point are able to inspire unmingled sympathy. The two passages in question supply this want: in such measure as Shakespeare thought advisable in Macbeth, and the play would suffer greatly from their excision. The second, on the stage, is extremely moving, and Macbeth’s reception of the news of his wife’s death may be intended to recall it by way of contrast. The first brings a relief ​even greater, because here the element of beauty is more marked, and because humour is mingled with pathos. In both we escape from the oppression of huge sins and sufferings into the presence of the wholesome affections of unambitious hearts; and, though both scenes are painful and one dreadful, our sympathies can flow unchecked.
Lady Macduff is a simple wife and mother, who has no thought for anything beyond her home. Her love for her children shows her at once that her husband’s flight exposes them to terrible danger. She is in an agony of fear for them, and full of indignation against him. It does not even occur to her that he has acted from public spirit, or that there is such a thing.
He must have been mad to do it. He fled for fear. He does not love his wife and children. He is a traitor. The poor soul is almost beside herself—and with too good reason. But when the murderer bursts in with the question ‘Where is your husband?’ she becomes in a moment the wife, and the great noble’s wife:
What did Shakespeare mean us to think of Macduff’s flight, for which Macduff has been much blamed by others beside his wife? Certainly not that fear for himself, or want of love for his family, had anything to do with it. His love for his country, so strongly marked in the scene with Malcolm, is evidently his one motive.
says Ross. That his flight was ‘noble’ is beyond doubt. That it was not wise or judicious in the ​interest of his family is no less clear. But that does not show that it was wrong; and, even if it were, to represent its consequences as a judgment on him for his want of due consideration is equally monstrous and ludicrous. The further question whether he did fail in due consideration, or whether for his country’s sake he deliberately risked a danger which he fully realised, would in Shakespeare’s theatre have been answered at once by Macduff’s expression and demeanour on hearing Malcolm’s words,
It cannot be decided with certainty from the mere text; but, without going into the considerations on each side, I may express the opinion that Macduff knew well what he was doing, and that he fled without leave-taking for fear his purpose should give way. Perhaps he said to himself, with Coriolanus,
Little Macduff suggests a few words on Shakespeare’s boys (there are scarcely any little girls). It is somewhat curious that nearly all of them appear in tragic or semi-tragic dramas. I remember but two exceptions: little William Page, who said ​his Hic, haec, hoc to Sir Hugh Evans; and the page before whom Falstaff walked like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one; and it is to be feared that even this page, if he is the Boy of Henry V., came to an ill end, being killed with the luggage.
as Richard observed of the little Prince of Wales. Of too many of these children (some of the ‘boys,’ e.g. those in Cymbeline, are lads, not children) the saying comes true. They are pathetic figures, the more so because they so often appear in company with their unhappy mothers, and can never be thought of apart from them. Perhaps Arthur is even the first creation in which Shakespeare’s power of pathos showed itself mature; and the last of his children, Mamillius, assuredly proves that it never decayed. They are almost all of them noble figures, too,—affectionate, frank, brave, high-spirited, ‘of an open and free nature’ like Shakespeare’s best men. And almost all of them, again, are amusing and charming as well as pathetic; comical in their mingled acuteness and naïveté, charming in their confidence in themselves and the world, and in the seriousness with which they receive the jocosity of their elders, who commonly address them as strong men, great warriors, or profound politicians.
Little Macduff exemplifies most of these remarks. There is nothing in the scene of a transcendent kind, like the passage about Mamillius’ neverfinished ‘Winter’s Tale’ of the man who dwelt by a churchyard, or the passage about his death, or that about little Marcius and the butterfly, or the audacity which introduces him, at the supreme ​moment of the tragedy, outdoing the appeals of Volumnia and Virgilia by the statement,
Still one does not easily forget little Macduff’s delightful and well-justified confidence in his ability to defeat his mother in argument; or the deep impression she made on him when she spoke of his father as a ‘traitor’; or his immediate response when he heard the murderer call his father by the same name,—
Nor am I sure that, if the son of Coriolanus had been murdered, his last words to his mother would have been, ‘Run away, I pray you.’
I may add two remarks. The presence of this child is one of the things in which Macbeth reminds us of Richard III. And he is perhaps the only person in the tragedy who provokes a smile. I say ‘perhaps,’ for though the anxiety of the Doctor to escape from the company of his patient’s husband makes one smile, I am not sure that it was meant to.
5
The Porter does not make me smile: the moment is too terrific. He is grotesque; no doubt the contrast he affords is humorous as well as ghastly; I dare say the groundlings roared with laughter at his coarsest remarks. But they are not comic enough to allow one to forget for a moment what has preceded and what must follow. And I am far from complaining of this. I believe that it is what Shakespeare intended, and that he despised the groundlings if they laughed. Of course he could have written without the least difficulty speeches five times as humorous; but he knew better. The Grave-diggers make us laugh: the old Countryman who brings the ​asps to Cleopatra makes us smile at least. But the Grave-digger scene does not come at a moment of extreme tension; and it is long. Our distress for Ophelia is not so absorbing that we refuse to be interested in the man who digs her grave, or even continue throughout the long conversation to remember always with pain that the grave is hers. It is fitting, therefore, that he should be made decidedly humorous. The passage in Antony and Cleopatra is much nearer to the passage in Macbeth, and seems to have been forgotten by those who say that there is nothing in Shakespeare resembling that passage. The old Countryman comes at a moment of tragic exaltation, and the dialogue is appropriately brief. But the moment, though tragic, is emphatically one of exaltation. We have not been feeling horror, nor are we feeling a dreadful suspense. We are going to see Cleopatra die, but she is to die gloriously and to triumph over Octavius. And therefore our amusement at the old Countryman and the contrast he affords to these high passions, is untroubled, and it was right to make him really comic. But the Porter’s case is quite different. We cannot forget how the knocking that makes him grumble sounded to Macbeth, or that within a few minutes of his opening the gate Duncan will be discovered in his blood; nor can we help feeling that in pretending to be porter of hell-gate he is terribly near the truth. To give him language so humorous that it would ask us almost to lose the sense of these things would have been a fatal mistake,—the kind of mistake that means want of dramatic imagination. And that was not the sort of error into which Shakespeare fell.
To doubt the genuineness of the passage, then, on the ground that it is not humorous enough for Shakespeare, seems to me to show this want. It ​is to judge the passage as though it were a separate composition, instead of conceiving it in the fulness of its relations to its surroundings in a stage-play. Taken by itself, I admit, it would bear no indubitable mark of Shakespeare’s authorship, not even in the phrase ‘the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire,’ which Coleridge thought Shakespeare might have added to an interpolation of ‘the players.’ And if there were reason (as in my judgment there is not) to suppose that Shakespeare thus permitted an interpolation, or that he collaborated with another author, I could believe that he left ‘the players’ or his collaborator to write the words of the passage. But that anyone except the author of the scene of Duncan’s murder conceived the passage, is incredible.
The speeches of the Porter, a low comic character, are in prose. So is the letter of Macbeth to ​his wife. In both these cases Shakespeare follows his general rule or custom. The only other prose-speeches occur in the sleep-walking scene, and here the use of prose may seem strange. For in great tragic scenes we expect the more poetic medium of expression, and this is one of the most famous of such scenes. Besides, unless I mistake, Lady Macbeth is the only one of Shakespeare’s great tragic characters who on a last appearance is denied the dignity of verse.
Yet in this scene also he adheres to his custom. Somnambulism is an abnormal condition, and it is his general rule to assign prose to persons whose state of mind is abnormal. Thus, to illustrate from these four plays, Hamlet when playing the madman speaks prose, but in soliloquy, in talking with Horatio, and in pleading with his mother, he speaks verse. Ophelia in her madness either sings snatches of songs or speaks prose. Almost all Lear’s speeches, after he has become definitely insane, are in prose: where he wakes from sleep recovered, the verse returns. The prose enters with that speech which closes with his trying to tear off his clothes; but he speaks in verse—some of it very irregular—in the Timon-like speeches where his intellect suddenly in his madness seems to regain the force of his best days (IV. vi.). Othello, in IV. 1., speaks in verse till the moment when Iago tells him that Cassio has confessed. ​There follow ten lines of prose—exclamations and mutterings of bewildered horror—and he falls to the ground unconscious.
The idea underlying this custom of Shakespeare’s evidently is that the regular rhythm of verse would be inappropriate where the mind is supposed to have lost its balance and to be at the mercy of chance impressions coming from without (as sometimes with Lear), or of ideas emerging from its unconscious depths and pursuing one another across its passive surface. The somnambulism of Lady Macbeth is such a condition. There is no rational connection in the sequence of images and ideas. The sight of blood on her hand, the sound of the clock striking the hour for Duncan’s murder, the hesitation of her husband before that hour came, the vision of the old man in his blood, the idea of the murdered wife of Macduff, the sight of the hand again, Macbeth’s ‘flaws and starts’ at the sight of Banquo’s ghost, the smell on her hand, the washing of hands after Duncan’s murder again, her husband’s fear of the buried Banquo, the sound of the knocking at the gate—these possess her, one after another, in this chance order. It is not much less accidental than the order of Ophelia’s ideas; the great difference is that with Ophelia total insanity has effaced or greatly weakened the emotional force of the ideas, whereas to Lady Macbeth each new image or perception comes laden with anguish. There is, again, scarcely a sign of the exaltation of disordered imagination; we are conscious rather of an intense suffering which forces its way into light against resistance, and speaks a language for the most part strikingly bare in its diction and simple in its construction. This language stands in strong contrast with that of Macbeth in the surrounding scenes, full of a feverish and almost furious excitement, and seems to express a far more desolating misery.
​The effect is extraordinarily impressive. The soaring pride and power of Lady Macbeth’s first speeches return on our memory, and the change is felt with a breathless awe. Any attempt, even by Shakespeare, to draw out the moral enfolded in this awe, would but weaken it. For the moment, too, all the language of poetry—even of Macbeth’s poetry—seems to be touched with unreality, and these brief toneless sentences seem the only voice of truth.
* ↑ So Mrs. Siddons is said to have given the passage.
* ↑ Surely the usual interpretation of ‘We fail?’ as a question of contemptuous astonishment, is right. ‘We fail!’ gives practically the same sense, but alters the punctuation of the first two Folios. In either case, ‘But,’ I think, means ‘Only.’ On the other hand the proposal to read ‘We fail.’ with a full stop, as expressive of sublime acceptance of the possibility, seems to me, however attractive at first sight, quite out of harmony with Lady Macbeth’s mood throughout these scenes.
* ↑ See Note DD.
* ↑ It is not new.
* ↑ The words about Lady Macduff are of course significant of natural human feeling, and may have been introduced expressly to mark it, but they do not, I think, show any fundamental change in Lady Macbeth, for at no time would she have suggested or approved a purposeless atrocity. It is perhaps characteristic that this human feeling should show itself most clearly in reference to an act for which she was not directly responsible, and in regard to which therefore she does not feel the instinct of self-assertion.
* ↑ The tendency to sentimentalise Lady Macbeth is partly due to Mrs. Siddons’s fancy that she was a small, fair, blue-eyed woman, ‘perhaps even fragile.’ Dr. Bucknill, who was unaquainted with this fancy, independently determined that she was ‘beautiful and delicate,’ ‘unoppressed by weight of flesh,’ ‘probably small,’ but ‘a tawny or brown blonde,’ with grey eyes: and Brandes affirms that she was lean, slight, and hard. They know much more than Shakespeare, who tells us absolutely nothing on these subjects. That Lady Macbeth, after taking part in a murder, was so exhausted as to faint, will hardly demonstrate her fragility. That she must have been blue-eyed, fair, or red-haired, because she was a Celt, is a bold inference, and it is an idle dream that Shakespeare had any idea of making her or her husband characteristically Celtic. The only evidence ever offered to prove that she was small is the sentence, ‘All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand’; and Goliath might have called his hand ‘little’ in contrast with all the perfumes of Arabia. One might as well propose to prove that Othello was a small man by quoting, I have seen the day, That, with this little arm and this good sword, I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. The reader is at liberty to imagine Lady Macbeth’s person in the way that pleases him best, or to leave it, as Shakespeare very likely did, unimagined. Perhaps it may be well to add that there is not the faintest trace in the play of the idea occasionally met with, and to some extent embodied in Madame Bernhardt’s impersonation of Lady Macbeth, that her hold upon her husband lay in seductive attractions deliberately exercised. Shakespeare was not unskilled or squeamish in indicating such ideas.
* ↑ That it is Macbeth who feels the harmony between the desolation of the heath and the figures who appear on it is a characteristic touch.
* ↑ So, in Holinshed, ‘Banquho jested with him and sayde, now Makbeth thou haste obtayned those things which the twoo former sisters prophesied, there remayneth onely for thee to purchase that which the third sayd should come to passe.’
* ↑ =doubts.
* ↑ =design.
* ↑           ’tis much he dares, And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety.
* ↑ So when he hears that Fleance has escaped he is not much troubled (III. iv. 29):           the worm that’s fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present. I have repeated above what I have said before, because the meaning of Macbeth’s soliloquy is frequently misconceived.
* ↑ Virgilia in Coriolanus is a famous example. She speaks about thirty-five lines.
* ↑ The percentage of prose is, roughly, in Hamlet 302/3, in Othello 161/3, in King Lear 271/3, in Macbeth 81/2.
* ↑ Cf. Note F. There are also in Macbeth several shorter passages which recall the Player’s speech. Cf. ‘Fortune . . . showed like a rebel’s whore’ (I. ii. 14) with ‘Out! out! thou strumpet Fortune!’
* ↑ See Cunliffe, The Influence of Seneca on Elizabethan Tragedy. The most famous of these parallels is that between ‘Will all great Neptune’s Ocean,’ etc., and the following passages: Quis eluet me Tanais? aut quae barbaris Maeotis undis Pontico incumbens mari? Non ipse toto magnus Oceano pater Tantum expiarit sceleris. (Hipp. 715.) Quis Tanais, aut quis Nilus, aut quis Persica Violentus unda Tigris, aut Rhenus ferox, Tagusve Ibera turbidus gaza fluens, Abluere dextram poterit? Arctoum licet Maeotis in me gelida transfundat mare, Et tota Tethys per meas currat manus, Haerebit altum facinus. (Herc. Furens, 1323.) (The reader will remember Othello’s ‘Pontic sea’ with its ‘violent pace.’) Medea’s incantation in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, vii. 197 ff. which certainly suggested Prospero’s speech, Tempest, V. i. 33 ff, should be compared with Seneca, ere. Herc. Oet., 452 ff., ‘Artibus magicis,’ etc. It is of course highly probable that Shakespeare read some Seneca at school. I may add that in the Hippolytus, beside the passage quoted above, there are others which might have furnished him with suggestions. Cf. for instance Hipp., 30 ff., with the lines about the Spartan hounds in Mids. Night’s Dream, IV. i. 117 ff., and Hippolytus’ speech, beginning 483, with the Duke’s speech in As you Like It, II. i.
* ↑ Cf. Coleridge’s note on the Lady Macduff scene.
* ↑ It is nothing to the purpose that Macduff himself says,           Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls. There is no reason to suppose that the sin and demerit he speaks of is that of leaving his home. And even if it were, it is Macduff that speaks, not Shakespeare, any more than Shakespeare speaks in the preceding sentence,           Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? And yet Brandes (ii. 104) hears in these words ‘the voice of revolt . . . that sounds later through the despairing philosophy of King Lear.’ It sounds a good deal earlier too; e.g. in Tit. And., IV. i. 81, and 2 Henry VI, II. i. 154. The idea is a commonplace of Elizabethan tragedy.
* ↑ And the idea that it was the death of his son Hamnet, aged eleven, that brought this power to maturity is one of the more plausible attempts to find in his dramas a reflection of his private history. It implies however as late a date as 1596 for King John.
* ↑ Even if this were true, the retort is obvious that neither is there anything resembling the murder-scene in Macbeth.
* ↑ I have confined myself to the single aspect of this question on which I had what seemed something new to say. Professor Hales’s defence of the passage on fuller grounds, in the admirable paper reprinted in his Notes and Essays on Shakespeare, seems to me quite conclusive. I may add two notes. (1) The references in the Porter’s speeches to ‘equivocation,’ which have naturally, and probably rightly, been taken as allusions to the Jesuit Garnet’s appeal to the doctrine of equivocation in defence of his perjury when on trial for participation in the Gunpowder Plot, do not stand alone in Macbeth. The later prophecies of the Witches Macbeth calls ‘the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth’ (V. v. 43); and the Porter’s remarks about the equivocator who ‘could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven,’ may be compared with the following dialogue (IV. ii. 45): Son. What is a traitor? Lady Macduff. Why, one that swears and lies. Son. And be all traitors that do so? Lady Macduff. Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. Garnet, as a matter of fact, was hanged in May, 1606; and it is to be feared that the audience applauded this passage. (2) The Porter’s soliloquy on the different applicants for admittance has, in idea and manner, a marked resemblance to Pompey’s soliloquy on the inhabitants of the prison, in Measure for Measure, IV. i. 1 ff.; and the dialogue between him and Abhorson on the ‘mystery’ of hanging (IV. ii. 22 ff.) is of just the same kind as the Porter’s dialogue with Macduff about drink.
* ↑ In the last Act, however, he speaks in verse even in the quarrel with Laertes at Ophelia’s grave. It would be plausible to explain this either from his imitating what he thinks the rant of Laertes, or by supposing that his ‘towering passion’ made him forget to act the madman. But in the final scene also he speaks in verse in the presence of all. This again might be accounted for by saying that he is supposed to be in a lucid interval, as indeed his own language at 239 ff implies. But the probability is that Shakespeare’s real reason for breaking his rule here was simply that he did not choose to deprive Hamlet of verse on his last appearance. I wonder the disuse of prose in these two scenes has not been observed, and used as an argument, by those who think that Hamlet, with the commission in his pocket, is now resolute.
* ↑ The verse-speech of the Doctor, which closes this scene, lowers the tension towards that of the next scene. His introductory conversation with the Gentlewoman is written in prose (sometimes very near verse), partly, perhaps, from its familiar character, but chiefly because Lady Macbeth is to speak in prose.
Footnotes