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Macbeth:
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
Feraco
Search for Human Potential
30 October 2014
We meet Duncan in Forres, a
Scottish town near (but not at)
the scene of the battle.
The battle is being fought at
Fife, another Scottish town.
You’ll notice this motif of
absent leadership throughout
the play: those with power tend
to wage war and fight battles
by proxy.
This may not seem odd from a
contemporary perspective, but it’s
wise to keep a slightly older view in
mind.
Anyone who’s seen Braveheart
understands the raw power of a
ruler who leads from the front of
the battle, rather than simply
sending waves of his minions forth
to perish.
It’s at least a little odd that
Duncan doesn’t join in the fight to
reclaim his country.
At any rate, at the time of Scene II’s
opening, the fight against
Macdonwald (the head rebel, not the
fast-food chain) could be going
better for Duncan.
The battle has basically been
fought to a standstill – neither side
dominating the other, with each just
wearing the other out.
If anything, that points to a slightly
better hand for the rebels; an
organized military force should (and,
in fact, eventually does) crush them.
Their unusual resilience points to
an uneven playing field: it seems that
the rebels are receiving help from a
source “loyal” to Duncan.
When Malcolm introduces the
wounded Captain, we’re treated to
a huge flurry of exposition.
It’s a testament to Shakespeare’s
language and pacing that the
audience never feels like it’s
watching the old-time equivalent
of the opening crawl from Star
Wars.
We learn that Duncan’s forces
have emerged victorious in the
wake of much treachery.
“Brave Macbeth” (at this point,
deserving of the adjective) has
hacked his way forward, heedless
of danger, until he reaches
Macdonwald (whom he kills in
spectacularly bloody fashion).
As a treacherous threat to the
greater Scottish good,
Macdonwald’s head is severed and
placed on a pike (a giant pointed
stick) after Macbeth kills him – the
world’s most morbid Tootsie Pop,
and a rarely noticed bit of
foreshadowing on Shakespeare’s
part.
But no one mourns the wicked,
and no sooner have the Scots
turned Macdonwald into a
particulary grisly Halloween treat
than the Norwegians, a rival
power watching gleefully from
the sidelines, join the battle.
It’s nice when your foes tear
themselves apart, but sometimes
you have to expedite the process
yourself.
Notice that this is the exact
strategy the Romulans are
executing before Sisko and
Garak lure them into the war
against the Dominion.
At the sight of Norway’s army,
most military leaders would beat
a hasty retreat to safer ground
and shorter supply lines.
But Macbeth and Banquo don’t
lose heart – they fight twice as
hard, and quite successfully.
Shakespeare includes this
tidbit in order to reinforce
Macbeth’s and Banquo’s
unshakeable loyalty and devotion
to country and throne, and
immediately draws a contrast
between them and another man
for further emphasis.
The Norwegians are being helped by
a Scottish traitor, the Thane of Cawdor.
This isn’t just any traitor: Cawdor is a
nobleman who, by virtue of his
privileged position (basically serving as
King Duncan’s right-hand man), is privy
to information that allows him to play
both sides.
He’s obviously respected on the
Scottish side, and by assisting the
Norwegians – and, by extension, the
rebels – he can ensure that the battle
will leave him at an advantage
regardless of how it ends.
If the Scots win, he can scoot back and cozy
up to the king again, claiming that he got lost
fighting behind enemy lines; if the Norwegians
prove the better force, he’s already proven his
worth to them.
If there’s a flaw in his plan, it’s in Cawdor’s
belief that either side will trust him – especially
the Norwegians – after he’s already shown he’s
willing to sell out those who give him power.
But this isn’t as unrealistic as one thinks at
first blush: after all, when someone cheats on
their partner with you, you probably don’t
think about the likelihood that they’ll do the
same to you in turn – you assume they’ll stay
with you once you “win,” because you’re
awesome-sauce.
So cheaters date, and Cawdor plots.
But Cawdor’s plan has another flaw:
he underestimates how quickly
Macbeth and Banquo can lead the
Scottish forces back into battle.
And as it so happens, a number of
foot-soldiers find and capture the thane
on the wrong side of the enemy line –
where he most definitely is not fighting
the Norwegians.
This, by the way, is one major reason
why Macbeth’s initially confused by the
Sisters’ greeting him as “Thane of
Cawdor”.
He wasn’t the one who captured him,
so as far as he knows, Cawdor is a good
man of considerable influence, not a
craven traitor.
Those soldiers brought him back to
Duncan, who swiftly arranges his
offstage execution in an…efficient
judicial display. (Trial? What trial?)
This means that by Scene IV’s
beginning, Shakespeare’s already killed
off Macdonwald and Cawdor, the main
two “traitors” in the play.
Considering what Macbeth’s…
considering by the end of Scene III, and
considering that the play’s called The
Tragedy of Macbeth, it doesn’t take a
genius/A-level student to figure out
where all of the thematic arrows are
pointing.
But before we end Scene II, we
learn two more interesting tidbits.
Firstly, King Sweno of Norway
wants to surrender after Macbeth
defeats him, but the Scottish
won’t let him bury his dead until
he pays a huge sum of money.
This was known as a “deathprice” in ancient-to-medieval
Europe, and it’s something that
proves pretty important to
Beowulf.
Even in Shakespeare’s time, it
raises interesting questions about
morality, particularly during
times of war.
Do combatants have any sort of
universal duties to each other –
are there unspoken rules to the
treatment of the dead,
women/children/non-combatants,
prisoners of war? – or does the
battle indicate that “anything
goes”?
Remember, this takes place
during an era of state-on-state
warfare, not on state-vsstateless.
Secondly, we learn that Cawdor’s
title (once the current holder is
executed) will go to Macbeth, who’s
already a nobleman (the Thane of
Glamis) because his father’s title
was passed down to him after the
elder man’s death.
The new title serves as a
promotion, and quite a happy one at
that: realistically, this is as far as
Macbeth can advance with respect
to his social standing.
This isn’t Horatio Alger’s society;
by virtue of assuming Sinel’s title,
Macbeth has already risen as far as
he should.
Thane of Cawdor – a superior title
to Glamis – should have remained
forever out of his reach.
He’s not related to the
titleholder, and there’s no real way
to jockey for nobles’ land on the
rare occasion that some does
become available.
Through Duncan’s generosity,
then, Macbeth receives a gift he
“doesn’t deserve” – a title he earns
through merit, not blood.
Yet that title represents a
position that’s already proven
insufficient for Cawdor’s
ambitions.
As it so happens, it won’t satisfy
Macbeth, either: he intends to use
Duncan’s aforementioned
generosity to propel himself to
even greater ends.
This seems unbelievably selfish
and ungrateful.
Macbeth had no designs on
greater authority before fate (in
the form of the Sisters) tempts him.
His refusal to yearn for
something he can’t have would
have made Vasudeva proud; now
he’s given more than he could have
wanted, and paradoxically
responds by wanting more.
This makes for a subtle and
interesting commentary on our old
Noble Truths, to be sure – or on The
Futile Pursuit of Happiness.
On the other hand, it’s difficult for
some – but not all – of you to
understand the special kind of
frustration that results when one is
denied something they merit due to
artificial restrictions, be they social
class or admission limits.
Why shouldn’t Macbeth be king?
He’s the one fighting for Scotland’s
survival while Duncan hangs out in the
tent.
And he’s not the one placing his
country at risk thanks to his selfish
need to have others by his side.
True, Macbeth has no children – and
that’s no small issue, as one of the
king’s chief responsibilities was to
produce enough offspring (especially
sons) to ensure a stable order of
succession.
But there’s more to that than meets
the eye.
And if we’re talking about a system
where merit is not usually rewarded,
where you can achieve and achieve and
achieve and never enjoy the rightful
fruits of your labor…we’re talking about
something that generally stands
outside of our usual idea of what
constitutes a “moral” system.
In such a system, who can blame you
for trying to take what you feel you
deserve?
This is an especially problematic
situation for someone like Lady
Macbeth, who at a glance seems like
nothing more than an overambitious,
evil, manipulative monster.
Yet if one steps back from the
action and merely looks at who she is
before she hears word of the
prophecy – someone who is
incredibly clever, perceptive,
assertive, determined, resilient – one
understands just how frustrating her
existence is.
For she can never be independent:
her only source of agency is her
husband, who has already topped out
at a good level.
But the cruel irony is that,
while Macbeth may have
represented a step up for her
socially, he isn’t her equal on a
personal level.
She is smarter.
More driven.
Better equipped to deal with
changing circumstances.
She, in other words, deserves to
have much more influence,
power, control – whatever you
want to call it – over her own life.
And when she hears word of a
particularly favorable prophecy, one which
seemingly offers her husband (and, by
extension, her) ultimate control…how
could she not be moved by the possibility of
tasting freedom when she’s spent her
entire adult life in a box that’s too small to
contain her?
How could she resist making plans to
bring this incredibly favorable fortune to
bear?
And when Macbeth says that he’s
decided that he won’t go through with the
deed – that he won’t obey fate, that he won’t
give her what she craves most when she
can almost taste control – how could you
react with anything other than the ferocity
she displays?
Macbeth asks a number of thorny
questions.
Should loyalty override ambition
when others depend on you?
Should one take an active role in
trying to obey – or resist – prophecy?
Can moral decisions be made when
the world moves according to
foreknowledge?
But one of its most difficult remains
relevant in societies worldwide: what
should you do when your possibilities
have been artificially choked off by
society, not because of what you’re
capable of, but simply because of who
you are – a peasant, a nobleman…or a
woman?
As we move into Scene III, we still
haven’t seen Macbeth; instead, we get
the Sisters’ reappearance.
As the three discuss an odd and
seemingly unrelated anecdote about a
sailor whose wife offended one of them,
we learn that the witch in question left
the sailor unable to sleep, at which point
he dwindled away.
This is the first time we see sleep
featured in the play, and after reading
Siddhartha (where the move from
sleeping to wakefulness symbolized
spiritual rebirth and intellectual
growth), you should be sensitive to its
appearances here.
Believe it or not, it’s just as important
in Macbeth as it was in our earlier text.
Consider the play’s atmosphere, as
well as the mechanics of staging a play
during the 1600s.
Literal darkness on the stage makes
for a foreboding atmosphere, and you’ll
quickly notice that the bad things in the
play tend to happen at night – Duncan’s
murder, or the attempted murder of
Banquo and Fleance in Act III.
Sisko notes this same phenomenon in
In the Pale Moonlight (starting to
consider the meaning of the title?):“If
there’s one thing I’ve learned over the
years, it’s that bad news invariably
comes in the middle of the night.”
Moreover, Scotland falls under
permanent nightfall once Macbeth
kills the king, as though the
blackness of his deed had washed
over his nation.
It’s a very Greek move; in
Oedipus, everything natural starts
drying up and dying in the wake of
the title character’s unnatural
actions.
And in a twist that he’d doubtlessly
find deliciously ironic were it not
happening to him, the killing leaves
Macbeth so traumatized by Act III that
he’s unable to sleep or find rest.
Every attempt to sleep leaves him
with terrifying, disordered dreams.
So the man who kills by night must
now walk through eternal night, his
entire existence defined by the darkness
he’s surrounded himself with.
The whole “I will sleep no more;
Macbeth hath murdered sleep” bit is
quite the Dante-esque stroke of poetic
justice.
Sleep disorders and related
phenomena – Macbeth’s dagger
hallucination (the “walking
dream”) in Act II, Lady Macbeth’s
infamous sleepwalking scene
near play’s end – help reinforce
the “breached boundaries”
undercurrent running through
the play.
Fair is foul, foul is fair, the
future violates the present, day
becomes night, and sleep brings
no rest.
Macbeth is removed from the
normalcy of human existence by
his crime’s monstrosity, and he
quickly loses the battle to keep
whatever shreds of decency he
retains in the killing’s wake.
Indeed, he’s an exile from
humanity; as the play progresses,
he stops trusting, can’t rest, can’t
really function independently.
It’s a fitting punishment for
someone who would intentionally
take a human life in order to boost
his own fortunes.
Thus a closer study reveals that
the first witch’s punishment for
that sailor sounds eerily like what
will happen to Macbeth, all the way
down to “the wife” catalyzing the
whole business.
One has to remember that
pointless digressions are rare in
Shakespeare, even though the style
(characteristic of the times) seems
digressive.
When one has to form each line
of each character by hand, one
takes care to avoid wasting words.
Never forget Shakespeare’s mastery
when it comes to foreshadowing and
thematic reinforcement.
His skill in these areas contributes
greatly to his legacy’s endurance over
the years, and readers should know well
by now the value in analyzing his plays
on those terms.
But foreshadowing is particularly
important in a play like Macbeth
because the story concerns itself with
the ways that foreknowledge – whether
real or simply believed – can affect our
actions…and judgment.