ANGUS Now does he feel
His secret murders sticking on his hands.
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach.
Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love. Now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
MENTEITH Who then shall blame
His pestered senses to recoil and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself for being there? (5.2.16-25)
Angus gives a compelling account of Macbeth’s current mental state. Is this wishful thinking, or actual observation and insight? In the moment, it doesn’t matter. Macbeth feels his secret murders sticking on his hands, the blood (and its stench) that can never really be washed off. Easy enough for the audience to transfer what they’ve just seen of Lady Macbeth to her husband, the obsessive washing and rubbing. And it seems that the secret murders are secret no longer; the thanes know about Banquo, and Duncan, and Macduff’s family (and presumably others). Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach: it’s all falling apart, there are new revolts and rebellions all the time, acts of disloyalty which reproach Macbeth’s own greater disloyalty, as usurper and regicide. His thanes no longer feel that they must keep their oaths to him; they no longer respect him or regard him as their sovereign—for all his battlefield reputation and even his enduring courage. Those he commands move only in command, nothing in love. His men may still, just, be following orders, but that’s all they’re doing; they act out of obedience (and, implicitly, fear), not because they have any affection for him. And now does he feel his title hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe upon a dwarfish thief. The great man, the great warrior, is out of his depth, found out and revealed as imposter and thief. He’s not a king, and he knows it; he’s simply been playing dress-up, and he’s swamped in this ridiculous mantle of kingship. He’s no leader any more, and certainly no king; he’s a frightened little man. Now, now, now, now says Angus: this is where we are. It’s urgent; now’s the time to act. It’s time. (Previously, it’s been the Macbeths who’ve been the ones to say, it’s time.) It’s not surprising that Macbeth’s, well, gone mad, responds Menteith. Who then shall blame his pestered senses to recoil and start, when all that is within him does condemn itself for being there? His whole body and his mind are disordered and out of control. It’s as if Macbeth’s rebelling against himself, just as his country is rising against him, revolted by what he has done and who he’s become, hating and harming himself.
