When Macbeth learnt that Macduff had escaped from his power and fled
to England, he took a fiendish revenge: he gave orders that his castle
in Fife should be surprised and seized, and his wife and children
slain. Macbeth’s barbarous commands were executed, and the Thane of
Fife’s wife, children, servants, and every unfortunate soul in the
castle, were ruthlessly slaughtered.
Scotland had long been groaning under the heavy yoke of the tyrant,
and at this cruel deed it broke into open rebellion. Macduff returned
from England, bringing the young Prince Malcolm with him, and many
noblemen flocked to their standard. Macduff, burning with revenge for
the loss of all his dear ones, swore that if ever the tyrant came
within reach of his sword he should never escape alive.
In the troubles that now gathered thick and fast around him, Macbeth
had no longer the counsel of his devoted wife to strengthen him.
The punishment of her evil deeds had fallen upon Lady Macbeth. Her
stern spirit was broken, for she was a prey to all the tortures of
unavailing remorse. Her sleep was troubled, and in her dreams she
acted over and over again the scene that had taken place on the night
of Duncan’s murder. The doctor called in to attend her could not
explain the cause of the illness that seemed consuming her, but her
waiting gentlewoman told him that at night Lady Macbeth would rise
in her sleep, and speak strange words and act in a strange manner.
The doctor resolved to watch, himself, to see what happened. For two
nights all was quiet, but on the third night, as he was speaking
to the gentlewoman, Lady Macbeth entered, clad in a night-mantle,
and carrying a lighted taper. Her eyes were open, but she evidently
saw nothing; she was walking in her sleep. Setting down the taper,
she began to rub her hands, as if she were washing them, speaking
the while in a low voice. From her broken phrases it was easy to
guess the scene of guilt that was haunting her brain. Mixed with
words about Duncan’s murder came reproaches to her husband for his
lack of courage, and then references to other crimes--the murder of
Banquo, and the death of the Thane of Fife’s wife. And all the time
Lady Macbeth kept rubbing and rubbing her hands; but it was of no
use--nothing would ever make them clean again.
“Here’s the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia
will not sweeten this little hand,” she moaned, as if her heart were
breaking.
“What a sigh is there!” said the doctor. “The heart is sorely charged.”
“I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the
whole body,” said the gentlewoman.
“This disease is beyond my practice,” said the doctor: “yet I have
known those that have walked in their sleep who have died holily in
their beds.”
“Wash your hands; put on your nightgown, look not so pale!” muttered
Lady Macbeth. ”I tell you yet again, Banquo is buried; he cannot come
out of his grave. To bed, to bed! There’s knocking at the gate. Come,
come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.
To bed, to bed, to bed!” And, with a gesture as if she were dragging
some invisible person reluctantly after her, Lady Macbeth took up her
taper and slowly retreated.
The strain of this unceasing remorse by day and night was too much
even for Lady Macbeth’s dauntless courage, and the days of her life
were soon to be numbered.
Macbeth himself was bordering on a state of frenzy. Some said he was
mad; others, who hated him less, called it valiant fury. Whichever it
might be, certain it was that his excitement was beyond control, and
that he could not direct his cause in a reasonable manner. Sick at
heart, void of all hope, he yet summoned all his courage, and resolved
to fight stubbornly to the end, like some savage animal brought to bay.
The English troops, led by Malcolm and Macduff, were close at hand,
and the Scottish nobles with their followers were to meet them near
Birnam Wood. From here the combined forces were to march on Dunsinane
Castle, where Macbeth now was, and which he had strongly fortified.
Rumours of the enemy’s might filled the air, but Macbeth, trying to
reassure himself with the witches’ prophecy, bade his people bring him
no more reports.
“Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane, I cannot quail with fear,”
he declared. “What’s the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The
spirits that know all mortal consequences have said to me thus: ‘Fear
not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman shall e’er have power upon
thee.’”
So, when a white-faced, trembling messenger brought the news that
ten thousand English soldiers were marching on Dunsinane, Macbeth
silenced him with curses and abuse.
But his momentary rage over, he fell again into dejection.
“I am sick at heart,” he said; “I have lived long enough, my way of
life has fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf; and that which should
accompany old age, such as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead, curses not loud but deep,
mouth-honour, breath which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare
not.”
Then, shaking off his despondency in a fresh outburst of fury, he
rallied his men, determined to make a most stubborn resistance, no
matter what forces were brought against him. “I will not be afraid of
death and bane, till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane,” he cried, once
more falling back for comfort on the witches’ prophecy.
News again came to Macbeth of the near approach of the English, and
that the Scottish nobles were flocking to the standard of the young
Prince. But he refused to be daunted.
“Hang out our banners on the outward walls,” he shouted. “The cry is
still, ‘They come.’ Our castle’s strength will laugh a siege to scorn;
here let them lie till famine and the ague eat them up.”
In the midst of his warlike commands, a cry of women was heard within
the castle, and the news was told Macbeth that the Queen was dead. For
a moment he was stunned. This, then, was the end of all their plotting
and ambition! But now there was no time even to spend in grief.
“She should have died hereafter,” he said, with a bitter reflection on
the vanity of human life. “There would have been time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace
from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our
yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief
candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and
frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
But his musing was interrupted; a messenger came hurrying up, his face
full of terror.
“Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.”
The man sank on his knee before Macbeth.
“Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, but know
not how to do it.”
“Well, say, sir,” said Macbeth impatiently.
“As I stood watching upon the hill, I looked towards Birnam, and anon,
methought, the wood began to move.”
“Liar and slave!” cried Macbeth, livid with fury, and striking the man
to the ground.
“Let me endure your wrath if it be not so,” persisted the messenger.
“Within these three miles you may see it coming; I say, a moving
grove.”
“If thou speak false, upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive till
famine cling thee,” said Macbeth. “If thy speech be true, I care not
if thou dost as much for me.”
His resolution faltered, and he began to doubt the falseness of the
fiends that lied like truth. “Fear not till Birnam Wood do come to
Dunsinane,” they had said. And now a wood was coming to Dunsinane!
“Arm, arm, and out!” thundered Macbeth.--“If this which he avouches be
true, there is no flying hence nor tarrying here,” he thought, sick at
heart. “I begin to be aweary of the sun, and wish the estate of the
world were now undone.” Then, with a sudden return of fury, “Ring the
alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness
on our back!”
The strange occurrence reported by the messenger was indeed true, but
the explanation was simple. When the English and Scotch troops met
near Birnam Wood, in order the better to conceal the soldiers as they
marched to Dunsinane, Malcolm commanded that every man should hew down
a leafy bough, and bear it before him, thereby making it impossible
that the number of their host could be discovered. From a distance
this mass of waving green boughs looked exactly as if Birnam Wood were
advancing on Dunsinane.
The first of the witches’ safeguards had failed Macbeth, but he fell
back with desperate reliance on the other. Besides, in any case, it
was now too late to retreat; he must fight the matter out to the end,
and either conquer or be lost for ever.
“They have tied me to a stake,” he cried. “I cannot fly, but,
bear-like, I must fight the course. What’s he that was not born of
woman? Such a one am I to fear, or none.”
In his furious fighting on the battle-field he presently encountered
one of the English leaders, whom he promptly slew. Macbeth laughed in
triumph, for he felt himself secure; he feared no weapon brandished by
any man born of woman.
But the hour of fate was at hand. Macduff, scorning to strike the
wretched peasants, hired to fight, sought everywhere for Macbeth,
determined either to slay the tyrant or sheathe his sword unused. And
at last he found him.
But Macbeth seemed to shrink from the furious challenge.
“Of all men else I have avoided thee,” he said. “But get thee back; my
soul is too much charged with blood of thine already.”
“I have no words; my voice is in my sword,” returned Macduff.
They fought, but for awhile neither got the better. Then Macbeth told
Macduff that he was losing labour, for it was as easy for his keen
sword to hurt the air as to wound him. He bore a charmed life, which
could not yield to one of woman born.
“Despair thy charm!” cried Macduff. And the next moment Macbeth knew
that the witches had doubly deceived him, for his second hope had
failed--Macduff proclaimed that his birth had been different from that
of ordinary mortals, so that in a way he might be said never to have
been born.
“Accursed be the tongue that tells me so!” exclaimed Macbeth, “for it
hath cowed my better part of man. And be those juggling fiends no more
believed, that palter with us in a double sense; that keep the word
of promise to the ear, and break it to our hope. I’ll not fight with
thee!”
“Then yield thee, coward!” taunted Macduff, “and live to be the show
and gaze of the time; we’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
painted upon a pole, and underwrit, ‘Here you may see the tyrant.’”
His words goaded Macbeth’s failing nerve to fresh fury. Desperate and
despairing, he flung his final challenge at his foe.
“I will not yield to kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, and
to be baited with the rabble’s curse! Though Birnam Wood be come to
Dunsinane, and thou opposed, being of no woman born, yet I will try
the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,
and cursed be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”
[Illustration: “Lay on, Macduff!”]
* * * * *
The fight was over, and as the victorious generals gathered on
the field of battle, with drums beating and flags flying, Macduff
approached, bearing the head of the slain Macbeth, and saluted the
young Prince Malcolm as King of Scotland.
“Hail, King! For so thou art. Behold where stands the usurper’s cursed
head; the land is free. Hail, King of Scotland!”
And the trumpets sounded, and a universal shout rent the air:
“Hail, King of Scotland!”
[Illustration: “The wood began to move.”]