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While nature remains an impassive witness that blossoms with wounded beauty and treacherous storms in “King Lear”, it embodies a mystic underworld rich with esoteric tradition and almost sacrilegious imagery in “Macbeth”.
Apparitions, ghosts and witches dance at the tune of lyrical prophecies and besiege the open plains of Scotland during nighttime. Only Macbeth hears their infantile incantations:
“The weyward sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus go do about, about.
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine,
And thrice again, to make up nine.”
Alliteration, wordplay and riddles acquire supernatural connotations due to the magical significance of the number “three”, for three witches there are and three times they repeat their capricious charms.
It is amidst this confusing, hallucinatory atmosphere that Macbeth arises as the merging point between reality and the afterlife, overshadowing the rest of the noblemen that sort of blur together in an undistinguishable mass of secondary characters.
His presence is so engulfing that defies categorization and the archetypal part of villain or murderer, like Edmund or the deceitful sisters in “King Lear”, becomes but a deficient label to describe the protagonist of this tragedy forged in imagination.
Spurred by the bewitched air and cradled by the shrouding dark, Macbeth covets the crown of Scotland devoid of greed or ambition, and like a frequent seer of the occult, he anticipates his doomed fate:
“She would have died hereafter.
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
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.”
Lady Macbeth’s venomous speech, “unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full Of direst cruelty!” drips with acidity towards her husband’s manliness but neither the reasons for her ambitious aspirations nor her apparent dissatisfaction with her condition as a female are revealed.
Yet it is prematurely disclosed in the opening scenes of Act I that the Macbeths are childless and that after betraying the King and his faithful friend Baquo, Macbeth seems to retaliate exaggeratedly against Madcuff and orders to have not only his wife but all his heirs brutally assassinated.
Can Macbeth’s actions derive from hurt pride? Envy? Fear?
The motives remain elusive, but the result is not. Because when “justice” is done, when the traitor is beheaded and Madcuff has proved his honor in avenging his family, he salutes Malcom, the heir to the throne of Scotland, and the public gathered there with the famous:
“Behold, where stands
The usurper’s cursèd head. The time is free.
I see thee compassed with thy kingdom’s pearl,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine:
Hail, King of Scotland!”
Nevertheless, the escalating grandeur of Macbeth, which grows exponentially towards a climatic explosion, has eclipsed the aberrant bloodshed to secure the kingdom and demoted it to the trivial status of the ephemeral.
Macbeth’s days have been usurped by the dusky scented nights and his visionary faculty has been rewarded with the gift of immortality. He now throws his pennies in the fountain and wishes for nothing else, just like the reader.
Apparitions, ghosts and witches dance at the tune of lyrical prophecies and besiege the open plains of Scotland during nighttime. Only Macbeth hears their infantile incantations:
“The weyward sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus go do about, about.
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine,
And thrice again, to make up nine.”
Alliteration, wordplay and riddles acquire supernatural connotations due to the magical significance of the number “three”, for three witches there are and three times they repeat their capricious charms.
It is amidst this confusing, hallucinatory atmosphere that Macbeth arises as the merging point between reality and the afterlife, overshadowing the rest of the noblemen that sort of blur together in an undistinguishable mass of secondary characters.
His presence is so engulfing that defies categorization and the archetypal part of villain or murderer, like Edmund or the deceitful sisters in “King Lear”, becomes but a deficient label to describe the protagonist of this tragedy forged in imagination.
Spurred by the bewitched air and cradled by the shrouding dark, Macbeth covets the crown of Scotland devoid of greed or ambition, and like a frequent seer of the occult, he anticipates his doomed fate:
“She would have died hereafter.
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
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.”
Lady Macbeth’s venomous speech, “unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full Of direst cruelty!” drips with acidity towards her husband’s manliness but neither the reasons for her ambitious aspirations nor her apparent dissatisfaction with her condition as a female are revealed.
Yet it is prematurely disclosed in the opening scenes of Act I that the Macbeths are childless and that after betraying the King and his faithful friend Baquo, Macbeth seems to retaliate exaggeratedly against Madcuff and orders to have not only his wife but all his heirs brutally assassinated.
Can Macbeth’s actions derive from hurt pride? Envy? Fear?
The motives remain elusive, but the result is not. Because when “justice” is done, when the traitor is beheaded and Madcuff has proved his honor in avenging his family, he salutes Malcom, the heir to the throne of Scotland, and the public gathered there with the famous:
“Behold, where stands
The usurper’s cursèd head. The time is free.
I see thee compassed with thy kingdom’s pearl,
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine:
Hail, King of Scotland!”
Nevertheless, the escalating grandeur of Macbeth, which grows exponentially towards a climatic explosion, has eclipsed the aberrant bloodshed to secure the kingdom and demoted it to the trivial status of the ephemeral.
Macbeth’s days have been usurped by the dusky scented nights and his visionary faculty has been rewarded with the gift of immortality. He now throws his pennies in the fountain and wishes for nothing else, just like the reader.