MACBETH                  If thou speak’st false

Upon the next tree shall thou hang alive

Till famine cling thee. If thy speech be sooth,

I care not if thou dost for me as much.

I pall in resolution, and begin

To doubt th’equivocation of the fiend,

That lies like truth. ‘Fear not, till Birnam Wood

Do come to Dunsinane’, and now a wood

Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!

If this which he avouches does appear,

There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here.

I ’gin to be a-weary of the sun,

And wish th’estate o’th’ world were now undone.

Ring the alarum bell.

[The bell rings within]

Blow wind, come wrack,

At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

Exeunt            (5.5.37-51)

 

Fury—if thou speak’st false, if you’re telling a lie about this moving wood, then I’ll see that you’re hanged, and cruelly, not hanged until dead, but from a tree, alive, to starve, till famine cling thee. A terrible, degrading death, hanging in chains, effectively. But then, perhaps as the Messenger cringes, horrified, wondering what on earth to say next, Macbeth more or less collapses, at least momentarily. If thy speech be sooth, if you’re telling the truth about Birnam Wood, then, well, you might as well hang me alive from a tree too, I don’t care. It’s game over. Macbeth’s talking to himself now: I pall in resolution; I’m beginning to lose my nerve, weaken, fail (and pall also suggests going pale)—and, what’s more, I begin to doubt th’equivocation of the fiend. Maybe that spirit wasn’t telling the truth after all! It was ambiguous! (Macbeth is not now ambiguous, however, about the devilish origin of the apparitions.) It lies like truth; it sounded reasonable at the time, that is to say, it sounded impossible, saying ‘Fear not, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane’, and now a wood comes toward Dunsinane. Editors sometimes repunctuate these lines, but the tone is clear, as Macbeth doggedly rehearses something which now rings horribly hollow, the impossible, with which he’s been consoling himself, to which he’s been clinging as a mantra, now apparently come true. A walking wood, and doom, as it all starts to come crashing down. (What he can’t articulate, yet, or even contemplate, is that if this so-called prophecy in which he has so entirely invested is revealed to be a horrendous equivocation, then the other prophecies will be too.)

 

Ah well, as Macbeth snaps himself out of it, and pivots to a kind of fatalism—back to the soldiers who are—staring, in consternation and fear? Arm, arm, and out! We’d better ready ourselves for battle, no time to lose! If what he’s saying is true, if this which he avouches does appear, there is no flying hence, nor tarrying here. It’ll be game over, lads, we’re screwed, whether we make a run for it or stick around here. The couplet can be given a kind of desperate bravado, perhaps one last rally of the old warrior, the trusted, honoured leader of men. (Although he was never much of a team player.) Another moment of interiority, then, perhaps? I ’gin to be a-weary of the sun, and wish th’estate o’th’ world were now undone. It can be played as, I just want this to be over, I’m so tired, a final summoning of night, a desperate hope for sleep. Or it can be, if I’m going down, I’m taking the whole world with me, in as much chaos and destruction as I can manage. Do it, do it, done, done, perhaps, finally, undone. So ring the alarum bell! Signal an attack, to arms, to arms! (A contrast to the ominous tolling that was his cue to go to Duncan’s chamber.) And whatever happens, blow wind, come wrack, come ruin, come death and destruction. At least we’ll die with harness on our back: I’ll die with my boots on, sword in hand, in my armour. I’m going down fighting.