MACDUFF Your royal father’s murdered.
MALCOLM O! By whom?
LENNOX Those of his chamber, as it seemed, had done’t.
Their hands and faces were all badged with blood.
So were their daggers, which unwiped we found
Upon their pillows. They stared and were distracted.
No man’s life was to be trusted with them.
MACBETH O, yet I do repent me of my fury,
That I did kill them.
MACDUFF Wherefore did you so?
MACBETH Who can be wise, amazed, temp’rate and furious,
Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
Th’expedition of my violent love
Outran the pauser, reason. (2.3.94-105)
Macduff steps in: leadership? wanting to see the princes’ reaction, as swiftly and brutally as possible? There has to be a sense of everyone watching everyone else, full of suspicion. Does Malcolm sound genuinely shocked, or disingenuous? Is this really news to him? (The audience knows the truth, but those on stage certainly don’t, especially not if they have any political sophistication whatsoever.) Macbeth and Lady Macbeth must hold their breath—should Macbeth answer?—but Lennox steps in; the story’s already running. The murderers were surely those of his chamber; they had done’t—as it seemed (much virtue in seemed; Macbeth and Lady Macbeth made it look plausible enough then). Their hands and faces were all badged with blood. So were their daggers, which unwiped we found upon their pillows. Lady Macbeth’s work: bloody daggers, bloody faces, bloody hands, the badge of murderer replacing the customary livery badge of the faithful servant. (In this moment the hapless servants are not simply the victims of the Macbeths, collateral damage, but surrogates for them.) The details of the bloody daggers, unwiped, on the pillows is particularly vivid, yet another domestic violation, stained linen, red on white. They stared and were distracted: well, that would be the drugs and the drink, these innocent grooms starting awake to hangover and horror, wide-eyed, confused. No man’s life was to be trusted with them: clearly they looked distressed and disoriented enough to seem a threat. Macbeth butts in, trying to seize the initiative, to control the story: yet I do repent me of my fury, that I did kill them. Lady Macbeth exhales, surely; that threat’s removed. The servants can no longer talk; the only possible witnesses are dead. (No one mourns the servants, nameless and probably unseen; a sign of the brutality of this world.) Wherefore did you so? Macduff’s amazed; he wouldn’t have done so, he’d have kept the servants safe, questioned them. Is he actively suspicious of Macbeth? Maybe, maybe not. Whatever, he can’t comprehend an action which seems so rash, so imprudent. I couldn’t help myself, blusters Macbeth; a bit dangerous, this, a risk of losing control again even as he describes losing control. I was just overcome with—feelings—who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man. Too much to cope with, out of control. I did it because I loved my King! How could I remain loyal to Duncan at the same time as remaining impartial, neutral, towards his killers? The expedition of my violent love outran the pauser, reason. It was a moment of irrationality when I couldn’t control myself, my grief, my violent love. (Violent love is a good oxymoronic keynote for Macbeth more generally.)
