Macbeth had all his promised honours now--King, Cawdor,
Glamis--everything that the weird women had prophesied. But Macbeth
was not satisfied. There was one danger ever present in his path.
Banquo, his ancient comrade in arms, distrusted Macbeth; he suspected
him of playing most foully to win his present high honours. Macbeth,
for his part, feared Banquo, because of his noble nature, valour, and
wisdom in judgment. Outwardly he treated him with flattering civility,
but inwardly he was resolved to rid himself of this dangerous
companion. It was nothing to be King unless he could reign in safety.
Moreover, when the weird sisters gave the name of King to Macbeth,
they had, prophet-like, hailed Banquo father to a line of Kings. They
placed a fruitless crown on Macbeth’s head, and a barren sceptre in
his grip, if no son of his succeeded. If this were so, it was for
Banquo’s children he had defiled his mind and murdered the good King
Duncan--only for them! Macbeth resolved to go a step further in the
path of crime, and to kill both Banquo and his young son Fleance.
There was to be a great feast one night at the palace. Banquo was
especially invited to be present, both by Macbeth and Lady Macbeth,
and he promised to be back in time for the banquet, though he had to
ride out that afternoon on a matter of business. Macbeth inquired if
he had to ride far, and Banquo answered that it would take all the
time between then and supper--possibly he might even have to borrow an
hour or two from the darkness, unless his horse went very well.
“Fail not our feast,” said Macbeth.
“My lord, I will not,” said Banquo.
“We hear our cruel cousins are bestowed in England and Ireland, not
confessing their murder of their father,” continued Macbeth, who now
pretended to believe that King Duncan’s own sons had killed him. “But
more of that to-morrow. Hie you to horse! Adieu till you return at
night.”
Then, in a voice of feigned carelessness, he asked Banquo if Fleance
were going with him that afternoon.
Banquo replied that he was, and that they ought to start at once,
and with a few final words of civil farewell Macbeth at last let him
depart.
Directly he had gone, Macbeth gave an order to an attendant, and
two men of grim and sinister aspect were secretly ushered into his
presence. These were two murderers whom he had hired to assassinate
Banquo. When he had got their consent to the cruel deed, Macbeth told
them that within the next hour he would instruct them where to plant
themselves, and let them know the exact hour, for the deed must be
done that night, and at some distance from the palace. He also gave
them strict injunctions that the work was to be done thoroughly, and
that the young boy Fleance was to be slain with his father, for his
absence was just as material to Macbeth as was Banquo’s.
The murderers promised to obey his directions, and he dismissed them.
If Macbeth were troubled in mind and ill at ease, his wife was no
happier. She had reached the height of her ambition: her husband was
King of Scotland. But the royal crown that glittered on her brow
brought no charm with it to soothe the restless trouble at her heart.
“Nought’s had, all’s spent,
When our desire is got without content;
’Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.”
That was the secret of their misery; Macbeth and Lady Macbeth had got
their heart’s desire, and in the unworthy getting of it they found
it brought them no content or peace of mind. Sick at heart, weary,
dissatisfied, it would have been hard to find a sadder pair that day
in Scotland than the King and Queen in their royal robes, on the eve
of their grand state banquet.
But true to her old undaunted spirit, even in the midst of her
own depression, Lady Macbeth tried to rouse her husband from his
despondent gloom.
“How now, my lord?” she said. “Why do you keep alone, making
companions of sorriest fancies? Things without all remedy should be
without regard; what’s done is done.”
“We have but scotched the snake, not killed it,” returned Macbeth,
whose mind was always brooding on the possible dangers ahead. All day
he was thinking over the past, or plotting fresh wickedness to secure
his own safety, and by night he was haunted by the most terrible
dreams. In this constant state of unrest he could even think with
envy of the quiet repose of the man he had killed. “Better be with
the dead, whom we to gain our peace have sent to peace, than to live
on in the restless torture of the mind. Duncan is in his grave; after
life’s fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done its worst; nor
steel, nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy--nothing can touch
him further.”
“Come, my gentle lord,” said Lady Macbeth, “smooth your rugged looks;
be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.”
“So I shall, love, and so I pray be you,” said Macbeth. “Oh, my mind
is full of scorpions, dear wife! You know that Banquo and his son
Fleance live.”
“But they will not live for ever,” said Lady Macbeth.
“There’s comfort yet; they can be assailed,” said Macbeth; and then,
in dark, mysterious words, he gave his wife to understand that a deed
of dreadful note was to be done that night, though he refused to tell
her more precisely what it was. “Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest
chuck, till thou applaud the deed,” he ended. “Thou marvellest at my
words, but hold thee still: things bad begun make themselves strong by
evil.”
* * * * *
In the great hall of the palace the banquet was spread. The King and
Queen entered, with the Thanes of Lennox and Ross and many other
noblemen of Scotland. Macbeth bade them be seated, and gave to one and
all a hearty welcome. As the guests took their places at table, the
arras hanging over a side-doorway was pushed apart, and a grim face
peered in. Leaving the stool (for there were no chairs in those days)
which he was about to occupy at the side of the table, in the midst of
the guests, Macbeth went to speak to the intruder. It was one of the
hired assassins, and he brought the news that Banquo was safely slain.
Macbeth was greatly pleased to hear this, but in another moment
all his fear and discontent rushed back, for the young boy Fleance
had escaped. The child of Banquo that was to be King hereafter!
But Macbeth tried to console himself with the thought that, as he
expressed it, “the grown serpent” was disposed of, and for the
present, at least, the young snake had no teeth to bite.
Macbeth stood so wrapt in gloomy musing that Lady Macbeth was forced
to recall him to a sense of his duties as host. Poor lady, she had a
hard task that night. Not only had she to conceal her own unhappiness,
but she had to support the flagging spirits of her husband, and try
to screen his strange behaviour, while she scattered smiles and
flattering words in all directions. Macbeth roused himself by fits and
starts, but his gaiety was forced, and his wife dreaded that every
moment he would betray himself. However, at Lady Macbeth’s rebuke, he
tried to shake off his gloom, and, approaching the table, he made an
effort to speak cheerfully to the guests.
“May it please your highness sit,” said the Thane of Lennox.
The seat which Macbeth had been about to occupy when he went to speak
to the murderer had remained empty, but now, unnoticed by all the
other guests, a figure glided in and took possession of it.
If only Banquo were present, Macbeth went on to say, their honour
would be complete, and he hoped it was his own fault, and no
mischance, that had kept him away.
The Thane of Ross replied that Banquo deserved blame for not keeping
his promise, and again asked Macbeth to favour them with his company.
“The table’s full,” said Macbeth.
“Here is a place reserved, sir,” said Lennox.
“Where?”
“Here, my good lord,” said Lennox, pointing to the seat Macbeth had
first chosen. “What is it that moves your Highness?” he added in
alarm, for Macbeth stood gazing in horror at what seemed to the others
nothing but an empty stool.
Well might the guilty King tremble and grow pale, for in the place
that seemed vacant to everyone else he saw sitting the blood-stained
figure of the murdered Banquo.
“Thou canst not say I did it; never shake thy gory locks at me!” he
cried, recoiling in horror.
“Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is not well,” said the Thane of Ross.
But with eager words Lady Macbeth tried to calm the startled guests,
assuring them that it was only a momentary fit of illness, such as
Macbeth had been accustomed to from his youth. “Eat, and regard him
not,” she implored them, and then, in a stern undertone, she tried
to rouse her husband from his fit of dazed terror. But Macbeth was
heedless of her entreaties. With starting eyes he watched the ghastly
figure which his guilty brain alone could see, and it was only when
the vision melted away that he recovered from the sort of stupor into
which he had fallen. Then, for a brief moment, he spoke cheerfully,
and, calling for wine, he drank to the health of all present.
“And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss,” he added boldly. “Would
he were here! To all, and him, we drink!”
The words were scarcely uttered, when once more the vision of the
murdered man rose before Macbeth. With a scream of terror he again
recoiled, pouring forth a torrent of entreaties and defiance. Lady
Macbeth once more tried to smooth matters over, but her husband’s
frenzied ravings could not be so lightly covered, and, dreading
the suspicions that his wild words must give rise to, she hastily
dismissed the guests on the plea of his sudden illness.
When everyone had gone, and the husband and wife were left alone,
she was too worn out and unhappy to utter any further reproaches or
questions. Haggard and miserable, the guilty pair stood there in the
deserted hall, amid the broken fragments of the disordered feast and
the dying torches that flickered in the first gray twilight of dawn.
Ashes of splendour, loneliness, despair--it seemed like the emblem of
their own ruined lives.
Macbeth was quiet enough now; he seemed possessed with a sort of
sullen desperation. He had waded so deep in blood, it would be as
tedious to go back as to go forward, and he determined that any cause
that hindered his own good should be ruthlessly swept aside. It was
he, not Lady Macbeth, who was the leader now. Banquo’s murder he had
arranged alone, and he asked no counsel from his wife about a fresh
deed of iniquity he was already planning.
But in his guilty superstition he resolved to go early the next day to
seek the weird sisters, to learn from them, if possible, what secrets
fate still held in store.