Enter Macduff
ROSS Here comes the good Macduff.—
How goes the world, sir, now?
MACDUFF Why, see you not?
ROSS Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed?
MACDUFF Those that Macbeth hath slain.
ROSS Alas the day!
What good could they pretend?
MACDUFF They were suborned.
Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons,
Are stol’n away and fled, which puts upon them
Suspicion of the deed.
ROSS ’Gainst nature still.
Thriftless ambition, that will raven up
Thine own life’s means! (2.4.20-29)
It’s a very neatly constructed little scene, this, just over forty lines long, and here, at its mid-point, it pivots, from talking about what’s happened (the wild night, the unnatural behaviour of birds and horses) to discussing the latest news, and what’s going to happen next. It’s significant, therefore, that Macduff, so far a minor character, is the catalyst for that discussion (and it matters, too, that he’s casually introduced by Ross as the good Macduff). He’s about to put down an important marker in this scene which will shape the rest of the play. But not quite yet. First, he has the latest news: How goes the world, sir, now? asks Ross. Macduff is politely incredulous, but there’s a bit of an undercurrent of, where have you BEEN? Are you STUPID? Why, see you not? (This gets added force if, as in the 1976 RSC production, the Old Man is portrayed as being blind. And, what does Ross see? What does Macduff himself see, even if he’s not quite prepared to put it into words?) So Ross rephrases; he’s after the latest news, from someone whom he seems to assume will be more on the inside track than he is. Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed? Bloody, again, just a reminder, but also that it’s not just any old murder; this was regicide and treason. And Macduff’s answer shows that Macbeth’s got away with it, that the framing of the servants, and his swift killing of them—that was enough. Macbeth’s story, his lie, has become the accepted version. Ross’s turn to be incredulous:alas the day! what good could they pretend? what on earth did they think they were doing? how could they hope to justify it, what good could they pretend? (Assumptions about class, again: what could a couple of lowly servants hope to get out of killing their king? they’d surely know they wouldn’t get away with it.) They were suborned. An ominous phrase. They were bribed, enough money to overcome their scruples, their loyalty to their master, and to make it worth their while, undertaking an enterprise which surely they would have known would likely end with their own deaths. There’s an irony here: there are numerous hired killers in this play, and spies too—but these servants were utterly innocent, victims as much as Duncan.
What Malcolm and Donalbain feared has indeed come to pass: they’re now suspected of ordering their own father’s murder, because of their flight: they are stolen and fled away, which puts upon them suspicion of the deed. Stolen here is more or less redundant, what matters most is that they’ve fled, but stolen certainly makes it seem more suspicious, that they left stealthily, precipitately, like thieves in the night. It makes them sinister. More unnaturalness, says Ross: ’gainst nature still! (A recollection here, perhaps, of Gloucester in King Lear, deceived into thinking that he’s been betrayed by one son, Edgar, by his Machiavellian bastard Edmund: ‘Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide. In cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ’twixt son and father…’, 1.2.) Thriftless ambition, that will raven up thine own life’s means! Ambition without moderation, unthinking, careless; thriftless also, perhaps, makes Malcolm and Donalbain into prodigal sons, wastrels, standard figures of opprobrium in early modern drama. (And this, perhaps, sets up Malcolm’s misleading characterisation of himself as a monster in 4.3, but that’s really getting ahead.) Raven here has nothing to do with ravens, although the reader’s eye can’t avoid making that connection, scavenging, ominous; to raven is to be ravenous, greedy, voracious. A swallowing gulf, and so self-defeating, to consume, to destroy that which has given you life, and which continues to nourish you (Malcolm, just named Prince of Cumberland). Everything that Ross and Macduff are saying gives subtle emphasis to the fact that none of this makes sense, neither the killing of Duncan itself, nor the received explanation of what’s happened. But they’re not going to question it, not in so many words. Not yet.
