Let’s talk about Macbeth—not just the play, but the fascinating historical moment it inhabits. Written in 1606, Macbeth holds a unique place in Shakespeare’s writing. It’s the first major play he wrote after King James I ascended to the English throne in 1603. For context, James wasn’t just any king—he was also King James VI of Scotland, the first ruler to unite England and Scotland under one crown.
This backdrop is key to understanding the play. James had a well-documented fascination with witchcraft and the supernatural—he even authored a treatise, Daemonologie, exploring the dangers of witches and demons. Shakespeare infused Macbeth with these elements, crafting a play that reflected the king’s interests and fears. The witches, their prophecies, and their influence on Macbeth’s downfall resonate with the cultural anxieties of James’s time, many of which James himself helped cultivate.
But Macbeth is more than just a supernatural thriller designed to entertain. It’s also a play that speaks directly to James—something few works in history attempt. Yet Macbeth stands apart as both a lesson and, perhaps, a veiled warning.
Here’s why: Macbeth serves as a cautionary tale, delving into the dangers of unchecked ambition, tyranny, and the unlawful seizure of power. It flatters King James by aligning him with Banquo, a figure of loyalty and virtue, whose descendants, according to the witches, will rule for generations. Notably, James is indirectly referenced in Act 4, Scene 1, during the witches’ prophecy of eight kings. The eighth figure in this vision, holding a mirror to reflect even more kings, is often interpreted as a nod to James himself and the enduring Stuart lineage Banquo represents.
At the same time, Macbeth boldly portrays the downfall of a tyrannical Scottish king—a daring choice, given that Shakespeare’s audience now included a Scottish monarch. Even Banquo, a distant ancestor claimed by James, is sliced like a Scottish ham on stage, highlighting the brutal consequences of political betrayal on the innocent and brave adjacent to the regicide.
It’s as if Shakespeare is saying: “This is what happens to bad kings.” This dual purpose—flattery for James’s lineage and a warning against poor governance—imbues Macbeth with a sharp political edge.
Let’s be honest: Act 4, Scene 3 is the part of Macbeth where many readers and viewers hit the brakes. You’ve been enthralled by the chaos of murder, witches, and ambition, only to find yourself slogging through what feels like a dense, extended dialogue between Malcolm and Macduff. In my youth, I skimmed through this scene, brushing it off as filler—a mistake I now regret. But I notice many of my students today make the same error. They rush through it, eager to see how Macbeth meets his doom, without stopping to consider the implications of this moment.
So let’s say the quiet part out loud: if this scene were removed, the play would still function. The basic plot would remain intact, and you could replace this scene with a quick four-line update in Act 5. But this scene isn’t about plot—it’s about theme. Specifically, it’s about kingship, lineage, and the responsibilities of a ruler. It’s Shakespeare laying out his expectations for a king—not just for the fictional world of Macbeth, but for King James I and the real world. Whether or not James was sitting in the audience, Shakespeare is addressing him and his people, defining what makes a king and warning against the qualities that lead to tyranny.
The scene opens with Malcolm lamenting his nation’s suffering, expressing his fragility as he says, “Weep our sad bosoms empty” (4.3.2). His grief is immediately countered by Macduff, who urges action over despair: “Let us rather / Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men / Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom” (4.3.2-4). This dynamic sets the tone for the rest of the scene. Malcolm’s youth and hesitation are repeatedly checked by Macduff, who challenges him to “man up” and face the responsibilities ahead.
To understand Malcolm’s mentality here, let’s consider his circumstances. Throughout the play, he’s seen Scotland repel Nordic invaders under his father’s crown. But no sooner is that victory celebrated than his father is murdered, and Malcolm is forced to flee under the advice of his counselors. He hasn’t had time to process the trauma of Act 1, let alone his father’s death. He’s been thrust into a position he wasn’t prepared for, and the relative stability of his father’s reign likely left him believing kingship was a distant concern. Malcolm is not ready to rule, and he knows it.
As the scene progresses, Malcolm’s self-doubt comes into sharp focus. He questions his abilities and lists the qualities of an ideal king, lamenting his own shortcomings: “But I have none, the king-becoming graces / As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, / Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, / Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude ” (4.3.91-94) Here, Shakespeare isn’t just speaking through Malcolm—he’s speaking directly to King James and his subjects. This list of virtues—justice, patience, mercy, courage—defines what a king should aspire to be. It’s a standard that contrasts sharply with Macbeth, whose rule has devolved into chaos and tyranny.
Consider Macbeth’s qualities, as outlined by Malcolm earlier in the scene: “I grant him bloody, / Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, / Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin / That has a name.” (4.3.57-60) This stark comparison drives home the moral lesson of the play: kingship demands virtue, and the absence of those virtues invites ruin. Macbeth’s flaws—greed, deceit, impulsivity—are what doom him. By juxtaposing these traits with the “king-becoming graces,” Shakespeare sets up a clear framework for good governance, one that James—and any ruler—would do well to heed.
But Malcolm doesn’t stop there. He takes his self-criticism to an almost absurd extreme, confessing his supposed lustful nature: “But there's no bottom, none, / In my voluptuousness. Your wives, your daughters, / Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up / The cistern of my lust.” (4.3.60-63) This grotesque exaggeration serves two purposes. First, it allows Malcolm to test Macduff’s loyalty, gauging whether he’ll accept a deeply flawed ruler out of desperation. Second, it reinforces the theme of self-awareness. Malcolm may not yet be ready to rule, but his ability to recognize and confront his own flaws marks him as fundamentally different from Macbeth, who never acknowledges his own moral decay.
Malcolm’s self-flagellation crescendos with his grim assertion: “If such a one be fit to govern, speak. / I am as I have spoken.” (4.3.101-102) In essence, Malcolm declares that with all his supposed flaws, he’s unfit to rule. But Macduff’s response is nothing short of devastating: “Fit to govern! / No, not to live” (4.3.103-104). Modern-day productions of Macbeth might as well cue Malcolm calling an emotional support hotline after this, because this is pure savagery. Macduff doesn’t stop there—he doubles down, eviscerating Malcolm’s despair with a pointed reminder of his lineage: “Thy royal father / Was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee, / Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, / Died every day she lived.” (4.3.105-108)
Ouch.
Macduff not only exalts Malcolm’s father, King Duncan, as a paragon of virtue but also venerates Malcolm’s mother as a figure of self-sacrifice and devout service. The implication is clear: Malcolm is squandering their legacy. His reluctance to embrace the mantle of leadership is not merely a personal failing but an affront to the memory of his parents and the values they upheld. By proclaiming his own vices and asserting his unfitness to rule, Malcolm further diminishes and tarnishes their legacy.
Macduff’s caustic reprimand proves effective. Malcolm first unveils his true plan to Macduff, calling him a “child of integrity” (4.3.134) in whom he places his trust. Malcolm then begins to retract his earlier claims of moral impurity, ultimately confessing, “My first false speaking / Was this upon myself” (4.3.127–128), acknowledging the falseness of his self-depiction. He resolves to “reconcile [his] thoughts / To thy good truth and honor,” signaling his readiness to reclaim Scotland from Macbeth’s tyranny. Most importantly, Malcolm demonstrates a desire to surround himself with virtuous allies rather than demand blind obedience.
At this turning point, Malcolm provides key pieces of information: he is “unknown to woman,” contradicting his earlier claims of unchecked lust, and he already has 10,000 men ready to fight under the command of Old Siward. The scene pivots from hesitation to determination as Malcolm steps into his role as a leader, bolstered by Macduff’s unwavering support.
Macduff responds to this newfound clarity with a line that sums up the emotional rollercoaster of the scene: “Such welcome and unwelcome things at once / ’Tis hard to reconcile.” (4.3.129-130). This uncertainty in Malcolm mirrors the uncertainty in Scotland. Malcolm’s self-doubt isn’t just about his personal readiness; it reflects the collective doubt and suffering of a nation. Scotland is fractured, its people burdened by Macbeth’s tyranny. In this moment, Malcolm ceases to be a lone figure grappling with his inner turmoil and becomes a reflection of Scotland itself—a land searching for stability and salvation.
Ross’s arrival adds further exigency for Macduff’s and Malcolm’s plans. His report paints a grim picture of a country that has lost its sense of self under Macbeth’s rule: “Alas, poor country, / Almost afraid to know itself. … Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air / Are made, not marked” (4.3.164-65, 169-70). This is a portrait of a nation drowning in cruelty, where suffering is so pervasive it has become unremarkable. Scotland yearns for a ruler who can restore unity and compassion, qualities that Macbeth lacks entirely. The scene serves as a reminder that kingship is not just about power—it’s about the bond between a ruler and their people. And right now, that bond is broken.
Then, Ross drops the bombshell: Macduff’s entire family has been murdered. You remember that chilling moment from the last scene? “What you egg?” Yeah, we’re not going into that. Instead, let’s focus on the aftermath.
This moment isn’t just about grief—it’s about Macduff’s defining divergence from Macbeth. Before Duncan’s assassination, both men occupied similar positions of power and loyalty. So, what sets them apart? For one, Macduff has a family, which symbolizes his ties to the human, emotional world. But more importantly, Macduff remains a loyal and brave subject to Malcolm, while Macbeth betrays his king and murders his way to the throne.
It’s this loyalty, combined with the murder of his family, that sparks one of the play’s most poignant responses: “He has no children. All my pretty ones, / Did you say all? O hell-kite, all? / What, all my pretty chickens and their dam / At one fell swoop?” (4.3.216-219) Macduff’s anguish and disbelief are raw, and his use of “pretty ones” and “chickens” underscores the tenderness he feels for his family—a tenderness that Macbeth utterly lacks. It’s a moment where Macduff’s humanity shines, even as his grief consumes him.
And how does Malcolm respond? “Dispute it like a man” (4.3.220). In other words, “man up.” This brings us back to one of the play’s central themes: masculinity. Malcolm’s view of manhood, at least in this moment, reflects the prevailing notion of stoicism and action—of bottling up feelings and using them as fuel for vengeance. But Macduff’s reply offers a counter-definition, one that challenges this reductive ideal:
“I shall do so,
But I must also feel it as a man.
I cannot but remember such things were
That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee — naught that I am.
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now.” (4.3.220-228)
For Macduff, to “feel it as a man” means embracing his emotions, not suppressing them. His anguish over his family’s death and his guilt—believing they died because of him—show that masculinity, for him, is about accepting vulnerability alongside strength.
Compare this with Macbeth and Lady Macbeth earlier in the play, where they equate masculinity with the suppression of feeling and the embrace of violence. For instance, when Macbeth hesitates to murder Duncan, Lady Macbeth chastises him: “When you durst do it, then you were a man; / And to be more than what you were, you would / Be so much more the man.” (1.7.49-51) For the Macbeths, masculinity is about dissolution—abandoning feeling, morality, and human connection in favor of ambition and violence.
But Macduff offers a different vision of manhood. He embraces his grief, allowing himself to feel the weight of his loss while still committing to action. His masculinity is defined by balance—strength tempered by vulnerability, vengeance guided by morality. This contrast makes Macduff the antithesis of Macbeth, and his humanity becomes the force that ultimately defeats tyranny.
The scene’s significance lies in this redefinition of what it means to be a man. Shakespeare challenges the audience—and perhaps even King James—to consider that true kingship and manhood require more than strength and stoicism. They demand compassion, vulnerability, and an acceptance of human frailty.
To King James, Men, and Binaries
All of this—the grief, the definitions of manhood, and the contrasting portraits of kingship—returns us to the heart of Macbeth: a play where Shakespeare critiques not only tyrannical rule but the very language and constructs that define it. At its core, Macbeth deconstructs masculinity, revealing it as a farce—a series of signifieds molded by language and cultural expectations. The tyrant Macbeth becomes enslaved not to ambition alone, but to an unattainable and distorted ideal of “manhood” that exists only in the space between words and their meanings.
Macbeth’s downfall begins when he surrenders to this construct. The dagger he cannot clutch, the weird sisters’ prophecies, and the weight of the signifier “man” itself become spectral forces, driving him deeper into a binary vision of masculinity that demands violence, domination, and the rejection of all that is considered “feminine.” Lady Macbeth’s invocation to “unsex” (1.5.43) herself and replace her “milk for gall” (1.5.55) epitomizes this distortion. By rejecting the nurturing qualities associated with femininity, she crafts a version of manhood so extreme and so dependent on the exclusion of vulnerability, compassion, and care that it consumes both herself and her husband. Macbeth becomes a hollow figure—a man in title alone—ruled by language and its imposed binaries rather than by any authentic sense of self.
By contrast, Malcolm and Macduff navigate beyond the binary. They are not bound by the rigid language of masculinity that defines Macbeth. Malcolm, initially hesitant and uncertain, learns that effective leadership does not come from brute strength or the denial of emotion, but from self-awareness and the balance of traits often arbitrarily assigned to gender. He understands that kingship requires the compassion to heal and the justice to act, rejecting the purely “masculine” vision of power that destroyed Macbeth.
Macduff embodies this balance most vividly. His grief over his family is not weakness but a reclamation of his humanity—a refusal to sever himself from the nurturing and emotional traits that Lady Macbeth dismisses as “feminine.” By openly embracing his vulnerability, Macduff undermines the very foundation of Macbeth’s constructed masculinity, proving that strength and emotion are not opposites but coexistent traits that transcend gendered expectations.
Shakespeare’s message is not just a critique of tyranny but a dismantling of the linguistic structures that uphold it. The signifier “man” is exposed as a mold, shaped and reshaped by those who wield it—whether Lady Macbeth’s manipulative rhetoric or the societal expectations that valorize ambition over empathy. Macbeth’s tragedy is not just his overreach for power but his belief in the binary ideals of manhood that language imposes on him. His obsession with the constructed image of a “man” ultimately isolates him from his humanity and the community he governs.
Malcolm and Macduff, however, escape this fate by rejecting the binary altogether. They embody a vision of leadership that acknowledges the fluidity of human traits and the falsity of rigid categories. In doing so, they not only reclaim their humanity but offer a model of rulership that unites strength with vulnerability, action with compassion. Shakespeare, through their example, deconstructs the notion of manhood itself, revealing it as a linguistic specter—powerful only to those who believe in its false absolutes.
For James, still a relatively new monarch in 1606, this play would have resonated deeply. Macbeth not only flatters his lineage through Banquo but also lays out a moral framework for governance. Shakespeare isn’t just entertaining here; he’s teaching. He’s reminding James—and all who follow—that the crown is more than a symbol of authority. It’s a responsibility to balance ambition with virtue, action with empathy, and strength with humanity.
And if King James doesn’t listen to the message? Well, Shakespeare also gave the British people a guide for that. And that path is rooted far more in the “gouts of blood” Macbeth sees on the phantom dagger that would be cutting through a kingly throat.