MACBETH                  Seyton!—I am sick at heart

When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push

Will cheer me ever or disseat me now.

I have lived long enough. My way of life

Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf,

And that which should accompany old age,

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not look to have; but in their stead

Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.       (5.3.21-30)

Macbeth calls for another attendant, perhaps hoping he’ll have better news, or at least be more reliable. In performance Seyton’s sometimes elided with the Porter, and his name may be pronounced ‘Satan’, rather than ‘Seaton’. Macbeth’s confused, not concentrating: I am sick at heart when I behold—what? the situation? his attendants and the thanes who remain with him, who are apparently standing there, doing nothing? Seyton will stir things up! But Macbeth also reflects, albeit indirectly, on the other servant’s news: this push, this advance by the rebel forces and the English power, will cheer me ever or disseat me now. This is it. Either it’ll all be good, a positive outcome, or else I’ll be dethroned (there’s probably a pun on cheer/chair and disseat).

But then there’s this extraordinary swerve into clear-eyed, bleak, fatalistic self-reflection. I have lived long enough. This is it (and, frankly, I find that I don’t care, much). My way of life is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf. (Sometimes way has been changed to may by editors, suggesting the promise of springtime, blossom; w and m are easily confused in handwriting, but it’s not really a necessary emendation in order to make the point.) Middle age, decline, a withered, brittle dryness; not a bounteous autumn harvest, but something utterly desolate, like his land. A blasted heath, where nothing grows, where no new life can come. A wasteland. And that which should accompany old age (Macbeth has been reading his Cicero, like a good humanist schoolboy, De senectute, On old age) as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have. I’ve messed up everything, lost everything—no one honours me, loves me, or properly obeys me, or at least not willingly—and the direct echo of the marriage service, love, honour, and obey, suggests that he’s lost his wife, his marriage too. I don’t deserve any of it. And he doesn’t have any friends either—well, he’s killed them, Banquo chiefly, but presumably others too. (In another favourite classroom text, Cicero’s De amicitia, On friendship, it is stated that the most precious kind of friendship is that which lasts until death.) Is Macbeth speaking directly to his companions in the scene, or is this properly soliloquy? Either is interesting in performance: direct speech is more challenging, daring his silent attendants to confirm that yes, they curse him under their breath, heartfelt; that they do him honour, praise and obey him only with their mouths, lip-service, in mere words, rather than meaning what they say and do. It’s breath only, which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. They’re only still there with him, telling him what he wants to hear rather than speaking up against his tyranny, defying him, because they’re weak, and afraid.