MALCOLM      What will you do? Let’s not consort with them.

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office

Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.

DONALBAIN  To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune

Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are,

There’s daggers in men’s smiles; the nea’er in blood,

The nearer bloody.

MALCOLM      This murderous shaft that’s shot

Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way

Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse,

And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,

But shift away. There’s warrant in that theft

Which steals itself when there’s no mercy left.

Exeunt             (2.3.129-140)

 

These two poor shocked young men. Donalbain in particular is sometimes played very young, and they have grasped that they’re in an impossible situation. Some of the thanes suspect them of plotting their father’s murder: if they flee, they’ll confirm that suspicion, but they know they’re in terrible danger if they stay. Malcolm doesn’t think that the displays of grief from at least some of the thanes are genuine: to show an unfelt sorrow is an office which the false man does easy. He fears dissembling hypocrites; it’s all too easy to make a pretence of shock and grief. (Is Macbeth pretending or not? In some ways, he’s not, actually; he’s absolutely overloaded with mixed up reactions to what he’s just done, as well as the terrible burden of keeping up appearances so that what he’s done remains worth his while.) And Malcolm makes a snap decision: I’ll to England. Donalbain is smart, even if he’s younger: To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune shall keep us both the safer. We’re less of a threat, perhaps, but also, they’ll have to expend more time, resources, energy going after both of us if we’re in different places. It increases the chance of one of us surviving. He demonstrates his perceptiveness with a powerful observation: there’s daggers in men’s smiles; they’d kill us, soon as look at us, let alone give us their most sincere condolences. And the nearer in blood, the nearer bloody: we’re the most in danger, because we’re Duncan’s closest family. It makes it even more poignant, therefore, that they’re about to go their separate ways, two brothers precipitately taking their leave of each other, with no idea if they’ll ever see each other again. Malcolm’s got some political and strategic wisdom: this murderous shaft that’s shot hath not yet lighted, and our safest way is to avoid the aim. This is just the beginning of some plot, the purpose and the origin of which aren’t yet apparent, like an opening salvo, an arrow shot in the air that hasn’t yet come back to earth. So we need to get clear. To horse, and let us not be dainty of leave-taking—of each other? of anyone else?—but shift away, slip away, get away as quickly and quietly as possible, and then ride as fast as we can, not taking any time over our goodbyes. There’s warrant in that theft, in stealing away in such an underhand fashion, as if stealing itself, when there’s no mercy left. A bleak vision for two young men, suddenly fatherless and in fear of their lives, unable to trust any of the men whom they had regarded, only a few hours earlier, as their father’s most loyal subjects and supporters.

 

And that’s the end of this absolute rollercoaster of a scene, which started with the Porter and a knock at the gate.