MACBETH                  To be thus is nothing

But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo

Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature

Reigns that which would be feared. ’Tis much he dares,

And to that dauntless temper of his mind

He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour

To act in safety. There is none but he

Whose being I do fear; and under him

My genius is rebuked, as it is said

Mark Antony’s was by Caesar.         (3.1.48-57)

Macbeth’s being eaten up by this, and now it all comes pouring out. To be thus—there might be a gesture to the crown, the regalia, to his very self; to be a king—to be like this—is nothing but to be safely thus. All of this makes no difference, if it’s not certain, if it doesn’t feel secure, stable, permanent. (There’s a faint echo of the kings in the history plays, who find again and again that the trappings of monarchy count for nothing, who learn or discover that to be a king is a lonely torment, a lifetime of never feeling or being quite enough.) Macbeth’s not being entirely existential, though, or at least not admitting it; his anxieties are focused on Banquo. Our fears in Banquo stick deep, he says, he can’t shake them off, he can’t get over them (but also, perhaps, the sense of stabbing; his fears will stick deep in Banquo himself). His fear is that Banquo is the real king, born for it: in his royalty of nature reigns that which would be feared. It’s his apparent potential as the father of a line of kings, yes, but also Banquo himself, who is kingly, gracious, to the manor born. I’m a fake! I’m going to be found out! Macbeth has serious imposter syndrome, although he’s channelling it into this sense of specific threat, trying to reclaim some agency in addressing that.

Banquo’s brave—’tis much he dares, and to that dauntless temper of his mind he hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour to act in safety. It’s not just that he’s courageous, see, he’s clever, too. Cleverer than me. He takes care of himself; he’s not a fool. Macbeth the warrior remembers his battlefield comrade and thinks, yep, we were both mad bastards out there—I was madder, obviously—but Banquo had the smarts; a brawn and brain double act, sort of. He’s more of a politician than I am, cannier, more sensible and wary. (And now, cut off from Banquo, Macbeth’s lost that voice of wisdom and common sense that he’s clearly relied on.) I don’t fear anyone else but him—defiant? realistic? Certainly Banquo probably knows him as well as anyone except Lady Macbeth, and that in itself is dangerous. And now I fear his very existence; that’s a threat to me. Not even what he could do to me, but that he is at all. To say that under him my genius is rebuked, as it is said, Mark Antony’s was by Caesar is an arcane reference to Plutarch (it’s referred to again in Antony and Cleopatra; the Caesar is Octavius, not Julius): Macbeth imagines his guardian spirit, his daemon, his guardian angel even being cowed, diminished by Banquo’s presence. Banquo makes Macbeth look bad, and he makes him feel bad, weak, small.