Enter Banquo

BANQUO        Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all

As the weyard women promised, and I fear

Thou played’st most foully for’t. Yet it was said

It should not stand in thy posterity,

But that myself should be the root and father

Of many kings. If there come truth from them

(As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine)

Why by the verities on thee made good

May they not be my oracles as well,

And set me up in hope? But hush, no more.           (3.1.1-10)

And so the next movement of the play begins, with Banquo in soliloquy, in a moment that’s a clear parallel to Macbeth’s soliloquy about killing Duncan, when he’s ducked out of the feast. There’s perhaps the same sense here, therefore, of Banquo being somewhere he shouldn’t quite be, or at least that he should be somewhere else; as is about to become clear, that somewhere else is Macbeth’s coronation. And, as Macbeth has a habit of doing, Banquo’s not making his addressee, or his subject, immediately clear, although it’s apparent soon enough. He’s talking to Macbeth, meant to be his friend, his comrade; did they ever have that chat they were going to have? About—you know? Perhaps (probably?) not. In any case, as Banquo reflects, it’s all come true. Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all as the weyard women promised. Yes, and far more swiftly than might ever have been imagined, that strange day on the heath, in the aftermath of battle. (Recapitulating the terms of the prophecy is a reminder of the encounter itself, its specificity.) And I fear thou played’st most foully for’t. Banquo is deeply suspicious; foully is a witch word too, especially buttressed aurally, as here, by fear and for’t, not quite fair, but suggestive of it, sliding, uncanny near-homophones, alliteratively reinforced, and sticking out, heavily weighted, as the only polysyllable in the line. Foully.

Then a shift that is perhaps unexpected, that makes Banquo’s character far more complex. He remembers the rest of the witches’ prophecy, of course he does: yet it was said it, that is, the crown, should not stand in thy posterity, it should not remain with thy descendants—but that myself should be the root and father of many kings. Root here is origin, source, not least as the putative ancestor of James VI and I, but it’s a subtle tree reference, too, in a play where trees and the language of plants more generally act as a kind of tangled undergrowth, a murky mental forest of association. And so Banquo, quite understandably, ponders: if there come truth from them, that is, the witches (as upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine—well, it’s all come good for you, hasn’t it? although shiningis not a quality one would associate with Macbeth, it’s got an ironic sting here)—why by the verities on thee made good may they not be my oracles as well, as set me up in hope? It tumbles out in a rush, all those unspoken hopes, and possibilities. Since everything they prophesied for you has come true so far, maybe they can be my oracles too, maybe they told the truth about my future too? that my children shall be kings? That would raise my expectations, give me the hope of a brighter future, for my heirs, if not for myself? In this fraught, marginal moment, he’s articulating his deepest thoughts and desires, just as Macbeth has, in similar circumstances. But here Banquo’s got to break off: someone’s coming? But hush, no more. He silences himself—out of prudence? But also, perhaps, because he knows that something terrible has happened already, thanks to the witches and the effects of their prophecies, and he shouldn’t even be entertaining such thoughts. Perhaps. Nicely ambiguous.