human tenderness. At the same moment in which she carries the murderous weapons with which her husband is to perform the deed into the chamber of the slumbering old man, the remembrance of her own father disarms her hand, "though it does not shake her savage resolution. The pious thought of her father hinders her from the absolute act, but the wild passion of ambition is mighty within her. The gleam of the crown, which her fantasy adorns with glowing tints, and which she means at all hazards to set upon her haughty head, soon stills all gentler feeling, and when Macbeth, after completing the deed, returns to her in great excitement and agony of mind, she has recovered her former resolution. While he imagines that he hears terrible voices ringing through the castle, warning him that he who has murdered sleep shall therefore sleep no more, she remains unmoved. She takes, with cool prudence, all the precautions necessary to avert suspicion from herself and her husband. She has so completely overcome her tender impulses, that she is able to return to the chamber where the bloody corpse lies, to put the daggers which Macbeth brought away with him into the drunken servants' hands, smearing their faces with blood in order that the deed may be attributed to them. Macbeth in his fearful perturbation is incapable of doing this. He has utterly lost his self-possession. While remorse brings the wish to his lips that he could wake the sleeper to life once more, she pursues the deed coolly into all its consequences, and reminds her husband that he must preserve that outward tranquillity which is the only pledge of their safety and ultimate greatness. On the next morning, when, to the horror of all, the deed is discovered, she plays to perfection the part imposed upon her by her position. She feigns horror and pity with the skill of a practised actress, in so natural a manner, that no suspicion falls upon the couple. It rather falls upon the grooms who were sleeping in the king's chamber, who have been found under the influence of Lady Macbeth's drugged cup, still asleep, and whom Macbeth in feigned rage has killed to silence their tongues for ever. As the king's sons, fearing for their lives, have fled the castle, the suspicion of having hired the two servants to commit the murder is thrown upon them. Macbeth is elected king without opposition, and he and his wife are crowned. The brilliant goal is reached, the third and proudest prediction of the weird sisters fulfilled. One man only has a dim suspicion, Banquo, who was present when the prediction was uttered: Thou hast it now; king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promised, and I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't.-Macbeth, act iii. scene 1. Macbeth must fear this suspicion, although Banquo makes no allusion to it, because Banquo was the only person, besides Lady Macbeth, who had any knowledge of the prophecy whose fulfilment was brought about by the bloody deed. Macbeth is also tormented by the remembrance that the weird sisters had also promised Banquo a glorious fortune, predicting for him the kingly power, not in his own. person, but in that of his descendants, a long line of them. It is very characteristic, and shows Shakespeare's profound knowledge of the hidden depths and abysses of human nature, that the same man, who has become a criminal through his firm belief in the prediction of the witches, believes he can prevent the fulfilment of another prediction by a second crime. Banquo's death is resolved upon; his race must be destroyed; that the prophecy may come true, his only son, Fleance, must also perish. Thus quickly is fulfilled in Macbeth the curse which ever dogs the footsteps of crime. It is the very curse of evil deeds that they must still bring forth more deeds of evil. Macbeth is perfectly aware of this, and expresses it: "Who begins ill, strengthens himself in crime." But here his way parts from that of Lady Macbeth. Their characters, which stand in strong contrast to each other, portrayed in masterly manner by the poet, now enter into another phase of contradiction. They change parts to a certain extent. We see Lady Macbeth no longer in immediate connection with her husband's later crimes. She has no share in Banquo's assassination, nor in the subsequent senseless and horrible massacre of Macduff's family, although Lady Macduff's death plays a part in the confusion of intellect which follows the awakening of a conscience so long forcibly silenced. She knows, says Mrs. Jameson, how to commit a great crime to reach a great end, but not how to commit, deliberately, useless murders. At first she is only occupied in sustaining Macbeth's courage, and avert ing the dangerous consequences which might follow his frequent attacks of mental aberration in the presence of witnesses. He, however, goes on in the fatal path of crime. Banquo is the first victim. The escape of Fleance might have taught Macbeth, if he had not been blinded, that the struggle of men against the immutable decrees of fate is useless. But in spite of this, he allows himself to be once more ensnared by the mysterious and equivocal phrases and predictions of the witches, by the strange visitors called up by them, letting crime follow on crime, as though hoping thereby to force fate to remain constant. At last he wades in a perfect sea of blood, and rules his unhappy country with such frightful tyranny, that his subjects, rising in general rebellion, join themselves to the invading English army, and help to bring about its victory. In this dependence upon the tricks of the witches lies another difference between husband and wife. Certainly the first prophecy gives Lady Macbeth the impulse which leads to crime, but she is entirely free from superstitious fantasy. She has not been brought to her terrible resolution through belief in magic predictions. She. will make her husband king, not because it has been predicted, but because her boundless ambition requires it. She only uses the influence the spectral interview had upon him, according to her profound knowledge of his character, to bring his wavering, irresolute temperament to the point. While, before Duncan's murder, she did everything she could to persuade him, he now goes on his grim progress alone; he has concealed his further plans of murder from his "dearest chuck." One might consider this caressing expression inappropriate to the fearful being to whom it is addressed, and in contradiction to Macbeth's former words, "Bring forth men children only, for thy undaunted mettle should compose nothing but males." But we have already observed how warm and tender is the love between this pair, who so often show themselves so hateful. It is just this which makes them endurable. Macbeth does not mean by this pet name that his wife is a gentle or tender being. He wishes only to keep his dear spouse from the knowledge of his crimes, that she may be as innocent as a dove. Soon the punishment of her deeds begins to overtake the guilty woman. Hardly is the aim attained, hardly does she wear the crown, than she ceases to care for it, and arrives at the bitter conviction that the dearly bought circlet brings no content: Nought's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content: Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Macbeth, act iii. scene 2. But though the inward strife begins, she maintains her defiant demeanour. No spirits "shake their gory locks" at her, as they do at Macbeth when his excited fancy calls up the phantom of Banquo, that nearly drives him mad. She tells him, in proud ardent words, that "these flaws and starts (impostors to true fear), would well become a woman's story by a winter fire," and must be resisted. She apprehends the suspicions that may be roused by the king's strange talk. She still has the energy to keep a calm demeanour before the guests, who are astounded at what happened, and to explain her husband's behaviour as a sudden attack of illness. Her spirit remains defiant, her strong will is unbroken. But even this criminal cannot escape the everlasting fundamental laws that rule mankind. While Macbeth, bewitched by incantations, proceeds from crime to crime, and thus provokes the tempest which breaks, in the form of the English army led across the border by Malcolm, the son of Duncan, aided by the rebellion arisen among his own subjects, her conscience is aroused to bitter suffering. This great moral retribution is revealed in a scene which gives a glimpse into the depths of hell, and is certainly one of the greatest ever created by any poet, of Xany period. Macbeth's cry of terror that "Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more," is terribly fulfilled. She sleeps, but sleep brings her no refreshment, it only induces agony. Long has she compelled her powerful spirit, strung to a high pitch, to guard her terrible secret from the world's eyes. But at last this strength gives way, her unbending will is broken by a higher power. This woman who, even under fearful bodily torture, would never have allowed confession to pass her lips, is forced in the helplessness of slumber to lay bare her sins, her broken heart, her tormented brain. Her fearful mental sufferings drive her nightly from her couch; she wanders aimlessly about the castle. The phantoms she called weakness in Macbeth assume exclusive possession. She sees blood stains she cannot efface on her hands, let her wash and rub as she may. "What! will these hands ne'er be clean? Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand." She deems it is the night of the murder, she hears the clock strike which calls her to commit the terrible deed, she taunts her husband with cowardice. She tells him none can call their power to account." She shudders on beholding the blood streaming from the old man's body. Lady Macduff's bleeding apparition stands before her, although she was not an accomplice |
