MACBETH      [aside] The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step

On which I must fall down or else o’er-leap,

For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires;

Let not light see my black and deep desires.

The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be

Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

Exit

KING               True, worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,

And in his commendations I am fed;

It is a banquet to me. Let’s after him,

Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome.

It is a peerless kinsman.

Flourish. Exeunt         (1.4.48-58)

The way in which the scene see-saws—what’s Macbeth thinking? has he made any kind of decision? any kind of plan? what are his intentions towards Duncan?—it’s absolutely brilliant. At the end of the previous scene, he seemed to have decided to leave everything to chance and fortune; what would be would be. But now he’s changed his mind; there is a plan, and Malcolm being named as Prince of Cumberland, the heir apparent—that disrupts the plan. (Which hasn’t been explicated, and the object of which hasn’t been articulated either, although it’s pretty clear.) Instead, there’s a fraught, quite frightening sense of forward motion into something which is unseen and unseeable, a sense of stumbling in the dark, because the dark is (marginally) safer; safer not to see, or be seen. The heir to the throne (perhaps being played as a smiling young man, at this very moment) is imagined quite literally as a stumbling block to—what? not going to say, not yet. (Tripping over a body; climbing over it, treading it down; it’s in the way.) That is a step on which I must fall down or else o’er leap, for in my way it lies. It, not he. And a darkening of tone, quite literally, which seems almost abrupt, but which could be thought of, instead, of Macbeth not pretending any longer, but rather acknowledging this sudden, terrible obsession. He’s looking inside himself and what he sees there is darkness, black and deep desires. Stars hide your fires, he says; he wants both to be unseen, for those desires and thoughts and imaginings to be invisible (perhaps even to him); they’re not fit to be brought to light. Stars seems interesting, and the plural is interesting too, because desires could as well be singular. Starlight is cold, albeit twinkly; even pinprick sparkles are to be snuffed out, like so many candles, lest they witness and illuminate. Not just no moon; no stars either. Deep and dark, a stifling, smothering blackness. Even the eye must wink at the hand: close your eyes, you don’t want to see this; if you can’t see it, perhaps it won’t happen, it won’t be real. Yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. Let that be. He’s made up his mind, even if he can’t articulate, admit what that is. But it’s something terrible, an appalling sight. (Macbeth was first heard of in the play as the man who saw and did terrible things, brutal, bloody acts on the battle field, another Golgotha. This unnamed, anticipated act—which we know full well what it is; do we dare name, or picture it to ourselves? our imaginations are doing the work, complicit as hell—this thing is worse. So Macbeth’s off, to contemplate, and set in motion, what the witches call a deed without a name, not yet released into language.

Irony alert: true, worthy Banquo, says Duncan (they’ve apparently been doing a fanboy thing in the corner). Macbeth’s amazing, full so valiant; I can’t get enough of him, he delights me. In his commendations I am fed; it is a banquet to me. Macbeth is himself consumed with darkness; Duncan feeds, as he thinks, on his valour and heroism, and his courtesies. And he’s gone ahead, to get everything ready to bid us welcome; he thinks of everything! It is a peerless kinsman. It is affectionate here, as one might address a child, perhaps, although not exclusively. He’s peerless—there’s no one like Macbeth! And he is, once again, emphasised as Duncan’s kinsman; they’re family, not just sovereign and subject, courtier and king.

And, with the cheerful sound of trumpets, that’s the end of this little scene, which seems on the surface to be almost purely functional—but which twists and turns, all the time gently beginning to tighten the screws, the string, the tension. Excellent.