Enter a Messenger

MACBETH                  Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

MESSENGER  Gracious my lord,

I should report that which I say I saw,

But know not how to do’t.

MACBETH                              Well? Say, sir.

MESSENGER  As I did stand my watch upon the hill

I looked toward Birnam, and anon methought

The wood began to move.

MACBETH                              Liar and slave!

MESSENGER  Let me endure your wrath if’t be not so.

Within this three mile may you see it coming:

I say, a moving grove.                       (5.5.28-37)

The Messenger has to break the spell of Macbeth’s elegiac response to the death of his wife (and his own situation, and the human condition); enters at a run, perhaps, and it helps if he’s just an ordinary soldier, not a thane, not used to speaking to the king, being in the presence. He’s tongue-tied, perhaps, or out of breath, so that Macbeth can snap himself out of it too, and say, get on with it, out with it: thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. You’re a bloody messenger, deliver your bloody message. The problem is that the Messenger doesn’t know what to say, but he does his best. Gracious my lord—always be polite and courteous, it takes up more time—I should report that which I say I saw, but know not how to do’t. He’s the eye-witness himself, this isn’t hearsay, not something which has got garbled along the way. It’s just that he doesn’t know what to say, how to put it into words. (And he’s scared, both by what he saw and by how Macbeth might react.) Well? Say, sir. Spit it out, we haven’t got all day. A retreat to careful, bland formality, but also making it believable, giving the circumstances, and his own credentials. As I did stand my watch upon the hill—I was doing my job, where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to do, up on the hill, at my post—I looked toward Birnam—as I should, quite naturally, doing my job, etc etc. And then perhaps he falters. And anon methought, well, um, that is, the wood began to move. Cringing silence, waiting for the explosion. Which comes: liar and slave! The two go together: commoner, villain, why should I believe a word you say? Don’t mess me around! Perhaps Macbeth hits or threatens the poor Messenger, who stands his ground: let me endure your wrath if’t be not so. Beat me, I don’t care, I’m telling the truth! I am! Within this three mile may you see it coming. It’s getting closer; it’s moving still. (There should be unease among the others present at this point, a whisper, a shudder; perhaps a move to a window, if it’s that sort of production.) I say, a moving grove. The trees are coming. Birnam Wood is coming to Dunsinane.