Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate

FIRST WITCHWhy, how now, Hecate? You look angrily.

HECATE         Have I not reason, beldams as you are?

Saucy and over-bold, how did you dare

To trade and traffic with Macbeth

In riddles and affairs of death,

And I, the mistress of your charms,

The close contriver of all harms,

Was never called to bear my part

Or show the glory of our art?

And, which is worse, all you have done

Hath been but for a wayward son,

Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,

Loves for his own ends, not for you.           (3.5.1-13)

 

Ah, Middleton, much as I love you… This scene is usually thought to be by Middleton; I don’t think I’ve ever seen it in the theatre, and it’s hard to imagine it working in the sparse, contemporary, claustrophobic productions of the play which are currently being staged. A longer version of the scene adds even more spirits, including one like a cat, who sing and fly with Hecate, but, no; it pains me to say it, but I don’t want to see Macbeth with a flying cat spirit musical interlude.

Hecate is more or less chief witch, goddess of witchcraft; although she’s a classical figure she’s got a bossy local busybody aspect here, come to tell the other witches off for not including her in their schemes, and for getting involved with Macbeth in the first place. You’re looking a bit put out, the First Witch suggests, you look angrily. And have I not reason, she retorts, beldams as you are? you vile hags, I’m angry with good cause. You’ve been getting above yourselves, saucy and over-bold, daring to trade and traffic with Macbeth in riddles, those prophecies and prognostications, and affairs of death. And you thought you could leave me out, the mistress of your charms, the close contriver of all harms, the best, most secret and most proficient with witchcraft of them all. I was never called to bear my part—you thought you could get away without involving me,  your line manager, your boss? I could have helped, made a useful contribution, seen that everything was done properly! And shown the glory of our art, really made it spectacular, proper witching. (It’s very hard to write about this without sending it up. It sends itself up.)

But there’s a sting of truth in Hecate’s words, once she gets through the huffing and puffing. What’s even worse is that you’ve done all this, gone to all this trouble, for a wayward son. He’s perverse, he doesn’t care, and he’s not grateful. He’s spiteful and wrathful; he’s only in this for himself. He—as others do—loves for his own ends, not for you. He’s only motivated by self-interest. This suggestion of love between the witches and Macbeth, if that’s what it is, seems to come from another play, and from popular early modern ideas about witches; it really doesn’t fit with the strangeness and the power of the witches as they’ve so far appeared. Spiteful and wrathful, though, is quite a useful description of Macbeth to have to hand at this point. He’s justified his killing of Banquo, and hinted at action against Macduff, both arising out of his insecurity and paranoia—but his savagery does have an element of spite to it, and wrath too. In some ways Macbeth is cold and ruthless, but he’s also passionate, driven by anger and shame and fear.