Read Writing on the Wall Online
Authors: Mary McCarthy
Tags: #Literary Criticism, #General, #Literary Collections, #Essays
Writing on the Wall
The Writing on the Wall
And Other Literary Essays
Mary McCarthy
Cui dono lepidum nouum libellum
Arido modo pumice expolitum?
To William Jovanovich
with love
Contents
J. D. Salinger’s Closed Circuit
The Inventions of I. Compton-Burnett
General Macbeth
H
E IS A GENERAL
and has just won a battle; he enters the scene making a remark about the weather. “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.” On this flat note Macbeth’s character tone is set. “Terrible weather we’re having.” “The sun can’t seem to make up its mind.” “Is it hot/cold/wet enough for you?” A commonplace man who talks in commonplaces, a golfer, one might guess, on the Scottish fairways, Macbeth is the only Shakespeare hero who corresponds to a bourgeois type: a murderous Babbitt, let us say.
You might argue just the opposite, that Macbeth is over imaginative, the prey of visions. It is true that he is impressionable. Banquo, when they come upon the witches, amuses himself at their expense, like a man of parts idly chaffing a fortune-teller. Macbeth, though, is deeply impressed. “Thane of Cawdor and King.” He thinks this over aloud. “How can I be Thane of Cawdor when the Thane of Cawdor is alive?” When this mental stumbling-block has been cleared away for him (the Thane of Cawdor has received a death sentence), he turns his thoughts
sotto voce
to the next question. “How can I be King when Duncan is alive?” The answer comes back, “Kill him.” It does fleetingly occur to Macbeth, as it would to most people, to leave matters alone and let destiny work it out. “If chance will have me King, why, chance may crown me, Without my stir.” But this goes against his grain. A reflective man might wonder how fate would spin her plot, as the Virgin Mary must have wondered after the Angel Gabriel’s visit. But Macbeth does not trust to fate, that is, to the unknown, the mystery of things; he trusts only to a known quantity—himself—to put the prophecy into action. In short, he has no faith, which requires imagination. He is literal-minded; that, in a word, is his tragedy.
It was not
his
idea, he could plead in self-defense, but the witches’, that he should have the throne.
They
said it first. But the witches only voiced a thought that was already in his mind; after all, he was Duncan’s cousin and close to the crown. And once the thought has been put into
words,
he is in a scrambling hurry. He cannot wait to get home to tell his wife about the promise; in his excitement, he puts it in a letter, which he sends on ahead, like a businessman briefing an associate on a piece of good news for the firm.
Lady Macbeth takes very little stock in the witches. She never pesters her husband, as most wives would, with questions about the Weird Sisters: “What did they say, exactly?” “How did they look?” “Are you sure?” She is less interested in “fate and metaphysical aid” than in the business at hand—how to nerve her husband to do what he wants to do. And later, when Macbeth announces that he is going out to consult the Weird Sisters again, she refrains from comment. As though she were keeping her opinion—“O proper stuff!”—to herself. Lady Macbeth is not superstitious. Macbeth is. This makes her repeatedly impatient with him, for Macbeth, like many men of his sort, is an old story to his wife. A tale full of sound and fury signifying nothing. Her contempt for him perhaps extends even to his ambition. “Wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.” As though to say, “All right, if that’s what you want, have the courage to get it.” Lady Macbeth does not so much give the impression of coveting the crown herself as of being weary of watching Macbeth covet it. Macbeth, by the way, is her second husband, and either her first husband was a better man than he, which galls her, or he was just another general, another superstitious golfer, which would gall her too.
Superstition here is the opposite of reason on the one hand and of imagination on the other. Macbeth is credulous, in contrast to Lady Macbeth, to Banquo, and, later, to Malcolm, who sets the audience an example of the right way by mistrusting Macduff until he has submitted him to an empirical test. Believing and knowing are paired in Malcolm’s mind; what he
knows
he believes. Macbeth’s eagerness to believe is the companion of his lack of faith. If all works out right for him in this world, Macbeth says, he can take a chance on the next (“We’d jump the life to come”). Superstition whispers when true religion has been silenced, and Macbeth becomes a ready client for the patent medicines brewed by the jeering witches on the heath.
As in his first interview with them he is too quick to act literally on a dark saying, in the second he is too easily reassured. He will not be conquered till “great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill shall come against him.” “Why, that can never happen!” he cries out in immediate relief, his brow clearing.
It never enters his mind to examine the saying more closely, test it, so to speak, for a double bottom, as was common in those days (Banquo even points this out to him) with prophetic utterances, which were known to be ambiguous and tricky. Any child knew that a prophecy often meant the reverse of what it seemed to say, and any man of imagination would ask himself how Birnam Wood
might
come to Dunsinane and take measures to prevent it, as King Laius took measures to prevent his own death by arranging to have the baby Oedipus killed. If Macbeth had thought it out, he could have had Birnam Wood chopped down and burned on the spot and the ashes dumped into the sea. True, the prophecy might still have turned against him (since destiny cannot be avoided and the appointment will be kept at Samarra), but that would have been another story, another tragedy, the tragedy of a clever man not clever enough to circumvent fate. Macbeth is not clever; he is taken in by surfaces, by appearance. He cannot think beyond the usual course of things. “None of woman born.” All men, he says to himself, sagely, are born of women; Malcolm and Macduff are men; therefore I am safe. This logic leaves out of account the extraordinary: the man brought into the world by Caesarean section. In the same way, it leaves out of account the supernatural—the very forces he is trafficking with. He might be overcome by an angel or a demon, as well as by Macduff.
Yet this pedestrian general sees ghosts and imaginary daggers in the air. Lady Macbeth does not, and the tendency in her husband grates on her nerves; she is sick of his terrors and fancies. A practical woman, Lady Macbeth, more a partner than a wife, though Macbeth treats her with a trite domestic fondness—“Love,” “Dearest love,” “Dearest chuck,” “Sweet remembrancer.” These middle-aged, middle-class endearments, as though he called her “Honeybunch” or “Sweetheart,” as well as the obligatory “Dear,” are a master stroke of Shakespeare’s and perfectly in keeping with the prosing about the weather, the heavy credulousness.
Naturally Macbeth is dominated by his wife. He is old Iron Pants in the field (as she bitterly reminds him), but at home
she
has to wear the pants; she has to unsex herself. No “chucks” or “dearests” escape her tightened lips, and yet she is more feeling, more human finally than Macbeth. She thinks of her father when she sees the old King asleep, and this natural thought will not let her kill him. Macbeth has to do it, just as the quailing husband of any modern virago is sent down to the basement to kill a rat or drown a set of kittens. An image of her father, irrelevant to her purpose, softens this monster woman; sleepwalking, she thinks of Lady Macduff. “The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now?” Stronger than Macbeth, less suggestible, she is nevertheless imaginative, where he is not. She does not see ghosts and daggers; when she sleepwalks, it is simple reality that haunts her—the crime relived. “Yet, who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” Over and over, the epiphenomena of the crime present themselves to her dormant consciousness. This nightly reliving is not penitence but more terrible—remorse, the agenbite of the restless deed. Lady Macbeth’s uncontrollable imagination drives her to put herself in the place of others—the wife of the Thane of Fife—and to recognize a kinship between all human kind: the pathos of old age in Duncan has made her think, “Why, he might be my father!” This sense of a natural bond between men opens her to contrition—sorrowing with. To ask whether, waking, she is “sorry” for what she has done is impertinent. She lives with it and it kills her.
Macbeth has no feeling for others, except envy, a common middle-class trait. He
envies
the murdered Duncan his rest, which is a strange way of looking at your victim. What he suffers on his own account after the crimes is simple panic. He is never contrite or remorseful; it is not the deed but a shadow of it, Banquo’s spook, that appears to him. The “scruples” that agitate him before Duncan’s murder are mere echoes of conventional opinion, of what might be
said
about his deed: that Duncan was his king, his cousin, and a guest under his roof. “I have bought golden opinions,” he says to himself (note the verb), “from all sorts of people”; now these people may ask for their opinions back—a refund—if they suspect him of the murder. It is like a business firm’s being reluctant to part with its “good will.” The fact that Duncan was such a good king bothers him, and why? Because there will be universal grief at his death. But his chief “scruple” is even simpler. “If we should fail?” he says timidly to Lady Macbeth. Sweet chuck tells him that they will not. Yet once she has ceased to be effectual as a partner, Dearest love is an embarrassment. He has no time for her vapors. “Cure her of that,” he orders the doctor on hearing that she is troubled by “fancies.” Again the general is speaking.
The idea of Macbeth as a conscience-tormented man is a platitude as false as Macbeth himself. Macbeth has no conscience. His main concern throughout the play is that most selfish of all concerns: to get a good night’s sleep. His invocation to sleep, while heartfelt, is perfectly conventional; sleep builds you up, enables you to start the day fresh. Thus the virtue of having a good conscience is seen by him in terms of bodily hygiene. Lady Macbeth shares these preoccupations. When he tells her he is going to see the witches, she remarks that he needs sleep.
Her wifely concern is mechanical and far from real solicitude. She is aware of Macbeth; she
knows
him (he does not know her at all, apparently), but she regards him coldly as a thing, a tool that must be oiled and polished. His soul-states do not interest her; her attention is narrowed on his morale, his public conduct, the shifting expressions of his face. But in a sense she is right, for there is nothing to Macbeth but fear and ambition, both of which he tries to hide, except from her. This naturally gives her a poor opinion of the inner man.
Why is it, though, that Lady Macbeth seems to us a monster while Macbeth does not? Partly because she is a woman and has “unsexed” herself, which makes her a monster by definition. Also because the very prospect of murder quickens a hysterical excitement in her, like the discovery of some object in a shop—a set of emeralds or a sable stole—which Macbeth can give her and which will be an “outlet” for all the repressed desires he cannot satisfy. She behaves as though Macbeth, through his weakness, will deprive her of self-realization; the unimpeded exercise of her will is the voluptuous end she seeks. That is why she makes naught of scruples, as inner brakes on her throbbing engines. Unlike Macbeth, she does not pretend to harbor a conscience, though this, on her part, by a curious turn, is a pretense, as the sleepwalking scene reveals. After the first crime, her will subsides, spent; the devil has brought her to climax and left her.
Macbeth is not a monster, like Richard III or Iago or Iachimo, though in the catalogue he might go for one because of the blackness of his deeds. But at the outset his deeds are only the wishes and fears of the average, undistinguished man translated into halfhearted action. Pure evil is a kind of transcendence that he does not aspire to. He only wants to be king and sleep the sleep of the just, undisturbed. He could never have been a good man, even if he had not met the witches; hence we cannot see him as a devil incarnate, for the devil is a fallen angel. Macbeth does not fall; if anything, he somewhat improves as the result of his career of crime. He throws off his dependency and thus achieves the “greatness” he mistakenly sought in the crown and scepter. He swells to vast proportions, having supped full with horrors.
The isolation of Macbeth, which is at once a punishment and a tragic dignity or honor, takes place by stages and by deliberate choice; it begins when he does not tell Lady Macbeth that he has decided to kill Banquo and reaches its peak at Dunsinane, in the final action. Up to this time, though he has cut himself off from all human contacts, he is counting on the witches as allies. When he first hears the news that Macduff is not “of woman born,” he is unmanned; everything he trusted (the literal word) has betrayed him, and he screams in terror, “I’ll not fight with thee!” But Macduff’s taunts make a hero of him; he cannot die like this, shamed. His death is his first true act of courage, though even here he has had to be pricked to it by mockery, Lady Macbeth’s old spur. Nevertheless, weaned by his very crimes from a need for reassurance, nursed in a tyrant’s solitude, he meets death on his own, without metaphysical aid. “Lay on, Macduff.”
