Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gentlewoman
DOCTOR I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
GENTLEWOMAN Since his majesty went into the field I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed, yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
DOCTOR A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching. In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what at any time have you heard her say?
GENTLEWOMAN That, sir, which I will not report after her.
DOCTOR You may to me, and ’tis most meet you should.
GENTLEWOMAN Neither to you nor anyone, having no witness to confirm my speech. (5.1.1-15)
Another night-time scene: they’ll have a candle, probably, being indoors rather than outside, where they’d have a lantern. Neither character has a name; they’ll be identifiable by what they’re wearing, perhaps a gown for the Doctor, court dress for the Gentlewoman (who will almost certainly be played by one of the Witches)—but in a modern dress, more realist production, there might also be the sense that it is the middle of the night: a white coat over informal clothes, a dressing-gown. The Gentlewoman could more explicitly be a nurse, the night shift, reporting to her boss, suggesting that Lady Macbeth is being monitored around the clock. The atmosphere is one of suspicion and mistrust: I have two nights watched with you, watch meaning to stay awake as well as to make observations, but can perceive no truth in your report. The Doctor’s resentful as well as sceptical: I’m beginning to think you’ve seriously inconvenienced me without good cause. When was it she last walked? Ah, sleepwalking. That’s what they’re watching and waiting for.
The Gentlewoman is adamant: since his majesty went into the field, that is, since he left with the army, on active duties (so, there’s an uprising already, or at least Macbeth’s jumpy enough to be on manoeuvres) I’ve seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed. The Gentlewoman is giving exact circumstances to address the Doctor’s suspicions, when and how and what. Lady Macbeth gets up and puts on her nightgown, her dressing gown in effect, either over a smock or over her naked body. She unlocks her closet, goes not to a cupboard or a chest, but to her study, her office, small and private (and kept locked, probably the defining characteristic of closets; it might be adjacent to her bedchamber or somewhere else in the house) and takes forth paper, from a chest. She implicitly sits down at a table, folds the paper (which must be in a larger sheet) small enough to write on, in half or in quarters, which also—as this is implicitly a letter—establishes which parts of the sheet will be left blank as the exterior of the letter, which parts she can write on. And then she writes, reads what she’s written, seals it (so there must be a candle, wax, a signet) and then she returns to her bed. A long and involved process, complex actions, walking, unlocking, writing, reading, sealing. Yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
The Gentlewoman’s account is stark and factual; the Doctor medicalises it, polysyllabically: A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching. That’s not good, that’s really messed up, apparently to be asleep (although whether it’s ever been beneficial, good sleep is surely moot) and to do the effects of watching, to act as if awake. The idea of a perturbation in natureis also another instance of the disruption of the natural order, the disordering of things (birds and horses; witchcraft; regicide) that’s marked the play. Now it’s a body and a mind that have become disordered, broken down. Besides her actions in this slumbery agitation (a nicely unsettled phrase; slumbers should be deep, peaceful, undisturbed)—has she said anything?What at any time have you heard her say?
The Gentlewoman’s on her guard: the Doctor’s made it clear from the start that he doesn’t trust her, and so she’s not going to say anything risky. That, sir, which I will not report after her. Polite but firm; if she’s been characterised as a nurse, then patient confidentiality. It’s OK, you can tell me, says the Doctor, and actually you don’t have a choice: You may to me, and ’tis most meet you should. You have to tell me. The Gentlewoman tries again, suggesting again the climate of suspicion that now exists in the court, and in the land: I won’t say anything to you nor anyone, having no witness to confirm my speech. The Gentlewoman knows how evidence works, and that she needs a witness; that’s why she’s persuaded the Doctor to watch with her, because she needs him to see and hear for himself what’s going on with Lady Macbeth; she can’t risk having her words used against her if it all goes wrong in some way. She’s worried about Lady Macbeth, but she’s also concerned for herself.
