Macbeth Act 3 Scene 4

You all know your own ranks — be seated. From first to last:

a hearty welcome to every one of you.

Our thanks, Your Majesty.

I'll circulate among you

and play the humble host.

Our hostess will hold her throne for now — at the right moment

we'll call on her for her welcome.

Deliver it for me, sir, to all our friends —

because my heart says they're welcome already.

See — they return your welcome with their hearts' thanks.

The table's even on both sides; I'll sit here in the middle.

Be generous with your laughter — in a minute we'll send a toast

around the whole table.

(slipping over to the door) There's blood on your face.

Then it's Banquo's.

Better on your outside than in his veins.

Is it done?

My lord, his throat is cut. I did him that favor personally.

Then you're the best of the throat-cutters — though whoever

did the same for Fleance deserves credit too. If that was also you,

you're one of a kind.

Most royal sir —

Fleance got away.

And there's my sickness back again. I was almost cured —

whole as marble, solid as bedrock,

free as the air around us.

Now I'm shut in, penned in, walled in, strapped down

to insolent doubts and fears. — But Banquo's dealt with?

Oh yes, my good lord — dealt with, in a ditch,

with twenty deep-cut gashes in his head,

any one of them fatal.

Good. Thanks for that.

The grown snake is in the ditch. The little worm that slipped away

carries venom in its blood for later —

but no fangs yet. Now go. Tomorrow

we'll speak again.

My royal lord,

you're neglecting your guests. A feast feels like a restaurant bill

unless the host keeps telling people, all through the meal,

that they're welcome. If it's just about food, people can eat at home;

out in company, the ceremony is the seasoning.

Without it, a gathering is just chewing.

My sweet reminder-in-chief!

Well then — may good digestion serve your appetite,

and good health serve them both!

Would Your Highness care to sit?

We'd have all the honor of Scotland under one roof tonight

if our gracious Banquo were here —

and I hope the reason is rudeness I can scold him for,

not some accident I'd have to pity. (He ordered the accident.)

His absence, sir,

breaks the promise he gave. Would Your Highness

grace us with your royal company?

The table's full.

There's a seat saved right here, sir.

Where?

Right here, my good lord. ... What's wrong, Your Highness?

WHICH OF YOU DID THIS?

Did what, my good lord?

(to the Ghost) You can't say I did it! Stop shaking

your bloody hair at me!

Gentlemen, on your feet — His Highness is unwell.

Sit, sit, worthy friends! My lord gets like this sometimes —

has since he was a boy. (She is inventing this on the spot.) Please, keep your seats.

The fit only lasts a moment; give him a second

and he'll be himself again. If you stare at him,

you'll offend him and make the episode last longer.

Eat, and pay him no attention. — (aside, to Macbeth) Are you a MAN?

Yes — and a brave one, to keep looking at something

that would horrify the devil.

Oh, wonderful. Perfect.

This is your fear doing the painting again —

just like that floating dagger you said

led you to Duncan. These jumps and twitches —

counterfeits of real fear — belong in

an old wives' tale by a winter fire,

certified by grandma. You should be ashamed!

Why are you making those faces? At the end of the day,

you're staring at a stool.

Please — look there! Look! LOOK! There!

What do you say now?

Fine — why should I care? (to the Ghost) If you can nod, you can talk.

If bone-vaults and graves mail back

the people we bury, then we should skip tombs entirely

and let the vultures' stomachs be our monuments.

Well? Has this nonsense completely unmanned you?

As sure as I'm standing here — I saw him.

Disgraceful. Shame on you!

Blood was spilled long before now, in the old days,

before laws made society gentle —

and plenty since then too: murders

too gruesome to describe. But there was a time

when knocking a man's brains out meant he died,

and that was that. Now they get back up

with twenty fatal wounds crowning their heads

and shove us off our own chairs. That's stranger

than the murder itself.

My worthy lord —

your noble friends are waiting.

Of course — I forgot myself.

Don't puzzle over me, worthy friends;

I have an odd condition — nothing at all

to people who know me. Come — love and health to everyone,

and then I'll sit. Wine here — fill it to the brim.

I drink to the joy of this whole table,

and to our dear friend Banquo, who couldn't be here.

How I wish he were! To everyone — and to him. Drink up,

all, to all! (He toasts the man he murdered. The Ghost takes this personally.)

Our loyal respects — we drink the toast.

BACK! Out of my sight! Let the earth swallow you!

Your bones are hollow. Your blood is cold.

There's no sight left in those eyes

you're glaring with!

Good lords, think of this

as a routine thing — that's all it is.

It just spoils the pleasure of the evening.

Anything a man dares, I dare.

Come at me as a shaggy Russian bear,

an armor-plated rhinoceros, a Hyrcanian tiger —

take any shape but THAT one, and my nerves

won't so much as tremble. Or come back to life

and challenge me to a duel in the wilderness —

and if I hide indoors shaking, you can call me

a little girl's doll. Away, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery — AWAY!

There. Now that it's gone,

I'm a man again. Please — everyone, stay seated.

You've driven out the cheer and wrecked a fine gathering

with this astonishing performance.

How can things like this happen

and pass over us like a stray summer cloud,

without astonishing us? You make me a stranger

to my own character,

when I see you can watch sights like these

and keep the natural red in your cheeks

while mine are bleached white with fear.

What sights, my lord?

Please — no questions. He's getting worse by the second;

questions send him into a rage. Good night, everyone — now.

Don't stand on ceremony about who leaves first —

just GO. All of you. At once.

Good night — and better health

to His Majesty!

A kind good night to all!

It wants blood. They say it: blood will have blood.

Stones have been known to move, and trees to talk;

fortune-readers, decoding the omens, have used

magpies and jackdaws and rooks to drag

the best-hidden murderer into the light. — How late is it?

Night is wrestling with morning — too close to call.

And what do you make of Macduff refusing to appear

when his king commands it?

Did you actually send for him, sir?

I heard it indirectly — but I'll send. And by the way:

there isn't one of these lords who doesn't have

one of my paid informants on his household staff. Tomorrow —

early — I'm going back to the weird sisters.

They'll tell me more. I'm determined to know the worst now,

by the worst possible means. Where my own safety's concerned,

everything else yields. I have waded so far

into this river of blood that even if I stopped here,

going back would be as exhausting as crossing over.

There are strange things in my head that are headed for my hands —

things that must be done before they're examined too closely.

You're missing the preservative of every living thing: sleep.

Come — we'll sleep. This strange self-torment of mine

is just a rookie's fear that needs breaking in.

We're still beginners at this. (This is somehow the most frightening line in the scene.)