Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch before him
BANQUO How goes the night, boy?
FLEANCE The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
BANQUO And she goes down at twelve.
FLEANCE I take’t ’tis later, sir.
BANQUO Hold, take my sword. There’s husbandry in heaven;
Their candles are all out. Take thee that too.
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,
And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers,
Restrain in me the cursèd thoughts that nature
Gives way to in repose. (2.1.1-9)
A drastic change, from the intensity of the previous scene, but one can’t help wondering: what’s Macbeth up to? What’s Lady Macbeth doing at this precise moment? Banquo and son, a direct contrast to the childless Macbeth, and the scene begins by establishing, once again, that it’s night. The torch does it first (either carried by Fleance or by a servant), and then it’s confirmed in dialogue: how goes the night? He could as well say, what is’t o’clock, but the suggestion—at least to modern ears—of, how’s the night going? what sort of night is it? is a useful one. It’s late and dark: the moon is down, so that light source is gone. And Fleance hasn’t heard the clock, but Banquo knows that the moon sets around midnight, so it’s after midnight: I take’t ’tis later, confirms Fleance. Incrementally, the details stack up. Banquo’s uneasy; he’s wearing his sword, perhaps not entirely usual after dinner in a private house? But the detail passes. More darkness though: there’s husbandry in heaven; their candles are all out. Good, thrifty housekeeping: it’s time for bed, so they’ve put out the candles. Not only no moon, but no stars either. Clouds, fog? Take thee that too: Banquo gives Fleance something else, it doesn’t matter what (it could be a cloak, a scabbard)—the sense, however, is that he’s unburdening himself physically, when what he really wants to do is unburden himself mentally, talk over what’s going on with someone else. But he can’t do that with his son. All he can do is speak generally: a heavy summons lies like lead upon me, and yet I would not sleep. He’s exhausted, but he’s worrying that when he goes to bed, he’ll only be able to think about what’s on his mind—the witches, and their prophecy. He’s afraid of going to bed, and perhaps of going to sleep; he fears bad dreams. (This he will have in common with Macbeth.) And so he prays: merciful powers, restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to in repose. Give me quiet rest; calm my racing mind; don’t let me have nightmares. Protect me, not least from my own cursed thoughts, my own terrible imaginings.
