Mostly Illiterate - Macbeth's Christian Dagger

Disclaimer:

The scripts featured on this website are intended for future YouTube videos and reflect a working draft format. While I strive for academic honesty and transparency in all my work, please note that these scripts may lack formal citations or the refined phrasing found in my more traditional academic writing.

Additionally, the tone of these scripts is often less formal to align with the conversational style of video content. Scripts may undergo further changes, refinements, and revisions when it’s time to film. That said, I am committed to accuracy and thoughtful exploration of the topics I cover. Thank you for understanding and joining me on this creative journey!

Macbeth's Christian Dagger

The dagger soliloquy—one of the most iconic moments in Macbeth—is a haunting exploration of ambition, guilt, and moral paralysis. Positioned at the tipping point of the play, Act 2, Scene 1 sees Macbeth standing on the precipice of murder. As he stares into the void of his ambition, the dagger—a hallucination, a vision, or perhaps a demonic temptation—pulls him toward his grim fate.

At this moment, Macbeth embodies the conflict between divine grace and human sin, between moral hesitation and the dark forces driving him to seize the crown. The soliloquy doesn’t just deepen Macbeth’s character; it provides a window into the theological and moral struggles of the time, raising questions about predestination, free will, and the eternal consequences of sin.

But before diving into its Christian undertones, let’s consider how this soliloquy has been portrayed in notable productions over the centuries.

Historical Representations of the Soliloquy

From the early days of Macbeth on stage, this soliloquy has been a litmus test for any actor playing the titular role. During Shakespeare’s time, Macbeth was likely played by Richard Burbage, one of the leading actors of the King’s Men and a frequent collaborator of Shakespeare. Burbage was renowned for his ability to embody deep emotional conflict, making him the perfect candidate to deliver lines like:

“Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.”

In more recent history, the 1976 Trevor Nunn production, starring Ian McKellen as Macbeth and Judi Dench as Lady Macbeth, is often cited as a masterclass in minimalist staging and psychological intensity. McKellen’s performance of the dagger soliloquy is intimate and chilling, delivered directly to the audience as though confiding his darkest thoughts. The absence of an actual dagger on stage underscores the ambiguity—is it real, or a manifestation of Macbeth’s guilt? This production remains one of the most celebrated interpretations of the play, and McKellen’s delivery of this soliloquy is still studied for its depth and complexity.

Other notable portrayals include Patrick Stewart’s 2010 performance, set in a Soviet-style dystopia, and Denzel Washington’s 2021 version in The Tragedy of Macbeth, directed by Joel Coen. Each actor brings their own interpretation of Macbeth’s fractured psyche, but the soliloquy’s power remains constant, a timeless meditation on the collision of ambition, guilt, and morality.

Christian History in Scotland and the Jacobean Context

To fully appreciate the Christian undertones of the dagger soliloquy, we need to understand the religious backdrop of both Scotland and the Jacobean era. By the time Macbeth was written (1606), Scotland had undergone a seismic religious transformation.

In the 16th century, Scotland embraced the Protestant Reformation, largely inspired by John Knox and his fiery preaching. Knox, a student of John Calvin, established a Presbyterian Church in Scotland that rejected Catholic traditions, emphasized predestination, and promoted the Bible as the sole authority. By the early 17th century, Scotland’s Christian identity was firmly tied to this Calvinist framework, with a focus on moral discipline, divine justice, and human depravity.

At the same time, King James VI of Scotland (later James I of England) was a deeply religious ruler who saw himself as a defender of Protestantism. James’s 1603 ascension to the English throne united England and Scotland under one king, but religious tensions persisted. England’s Anglican Church retained more Catholic rituals than the Scottish Presbyterian Church, creating friction between the two kingdoms.

Shakespeare wrote Macbeth against this backdrop, and the play reflects these religious tensions. The dagger soliloquy is steeped in the language of sin and moral reckoning, aligning with Calvinist ideas of human fallibility and the ever-present danger of succumbing to temptation. The image of the dagger—a seductive, intangible symbol of Macbeth’s ambition—echoes the Christian idea of spiritual warfare, where believers must resist the devil’s snares and choose the path of righteousness over sin.

By aligning Macbeth’s inner conflict with Christian themes, Shakespeare speaks not just to the theological anxieties of his time but also to universal questions of morality, guilt, and redemption.

In the 11th century, during the historical period in which Macbeth is set, Christianity was firmly established in Scotland. The Christianization of Scotland began in the early medieval period, notably with figures like Saint Ninian in the 4th century and Saint Columba in the 6th century. By the time of Macbeth's reign (1040–1057), the Christian faith had permeated Scottish society, influencing its culture, politics, and daily life.

The presence of Christian symbols, such as crosses, in Macbeth's castle would have been plausible. Castles and noble residences of that era often featured chapels or designated spaces for worship, adorned with Christian iconography. These symbols served not only religious purposes but also demonstrated the ruler's piety and legitimacy.

Shakespeare's knowledge of Scottish Christian history would have been shaped by the sources available to him in the late 16th and early 17th centuries. His primary reference for Macbeth was Raphael Holinshed's Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland (1587), which provided detailed accounts of Scottish history, including the reigns of Duncan and Macbeth. Holinshed's work, in turn, drew from earlier sources like Hector Boece's Scotorum Historiae (1527). These chronicles, while not exhaustive in their coverage of religious practices, would have offered Shakespeare insights into the Christian context of the period.

Additionally, Shakespeare's contemporary audience, including King James I, had a vested interest in Scottish history and its Christian heritage. King James, who ascended the English throne in 1603, was of Scottish origin and had a deep interest in his homeland's history and culture. This context likely influenced Shakespeare to incorporate elements that resonated with the Christian themes and historical narratives familiar to his audience.

In summary, the depiction of Christian elements in Macbeth aligns with the historical reality of 11th-century Scotland. Shakespeare's portrayal was informed by the historical texts of his time and tailored to engage an audience well-versed in the Christianized history of Scotland.

Setup, Motivation, and Intent

Before diving into the soliloquy itself, let’s establish a critical context: this is not a moment of indecision. By the time Macbeth utters the dagger soliloquy, he’s already resolved to murder Duncan. That decision was made back in Act 1, Scene 7, where Macbeth admits, “I have no spur / To prick the sides of my intent” (1.7.25-26). Lady Macbeth’s manipulative influence in the same scene tips the scales, solidifying his resolve to “bend up” for the “terrible feat” (1.7.80-81) ahead.

So, if Macbeth isn’t debating the act, what is the purpose of this soliloquy? It’s about his mentality in the moments before committing murder. Shakespeare offers us a chilling look into Macbeth’s mind—a space filled with guilt, temptation, and a chilling descent into a darker, more dangerous persona. This is not the Macbeth of Act 1, hesitating and philosophizing. This is a warrior, fully armed with intent, on the brink of committing a horrific act.

That brings me to my very strong opinions about certain portrayals of this soliloquy. I have to say it: Kenneth Branagh’s version of Macbeth—though brilliant in many ways—misses the mark for me here. His Macbeth, spinning in what looks like a meth-induced haze, feels less like a brave, dangerous soldier and more like a disheveled man stumbling into his doom. While theater allows for abstraction, I firmly believe that Macbeth needs to come across as dangerous—terrifyingly so. He is a murderer, after all, not a victim of his own clumsiness.

This brings us to my directorial vision for this scene. My goal is to emphasize Macbeth’s menace and the deliberate nature of his movements. He is not a man unraveling but a predator preparing for the kill.

Stage Setup

The stage is sparse but purposeful, designed to evoke unease and draw attention to Macbeth’s internal conflict. Across the back of the stage, a series of archways stretch in a line, their shadows elongated and looming, like doorways to an unknown fate. The uniformity of the arches suggests inevitability, as though Macbeth is stepping into a corridor from which there is no return.

On the right side of the stage, there is a single door. This door, if included, faces the left side of the stage rather than the audience, creating a sense of spatial realism without direct engagement. It symbolizes Duncan’s chamber—silent and imposing—but its omission would not detract from the visual storytelling.

At the center of the stage, a small, stone cross is embedded into the castle wall, a fixture for momentary prayer and protection. This cross serves as a subtle yet powerful reminder of the divine forces Macbeth is about to defy. As Macbeth places the torch on its mount near Duncan’s door, the flickering light casts a long shadow of the cross at Macbeth’s feet, visually aligning him with the burden of sin he is about to undertake. The shadow, shifting with the flame’s movement, creates an ominous interplay between the sacred and the profane. Macbeth does not notice this shadow yet.

The lighting remains minimal, reflecting the moonless, starless night noted earlier in the play. The torchlight is the primary illumination, its warm glow battling the pervasive darkness, much like Macbeth’s fleeting morality struggles against his ambition.

The Dagger Shows Itself

The soliloquy begins as Macbeth notices the shadow cast by the torchlight:

“Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand?” (2.1.34-35)

Kneeling on one leg—neither fully submissive nor fully defiant—Macbeth reaches toward the shadow of the dagger, drawing his hand slowly from the top of the shadow (the cross’s handle) toward the source: the cross itself. As he says, “Come, let me clutch thee” (2.1.35), his movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as though testing whether this vision has substance.

He stops abruptly, knowing full well the dagger is an illusion born of the cross’s shadow. But this moment becomes an opportunity for reflection—on faith, morality, and his own unraveling mind:

“I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but

A dagger of the mind, a false creation,

Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?” (2.1.36-41)

These lines are directed toward the cross, but they carry an air of mockery, as though Macbeth is taunting Christianity itself. The emphasis on “false” in “false creation” suggests a deep skepticism—perhaps even anger—toward the intangible nature of morality. If morality cannot be seen or touched, he wonders, is it not merely a construct, a “dagger of the mind” designed to restrain ambition and action? Macbeth grapples with the invisible weight of morality, questioning whether it is a divine force to guide him or a human fabrication to suppress him.

This moment explicitly ties the dagger to faith. The “fatal vision” Macbeth sees is not just a premonition of his murderous act but also a reflection of Christian sacrifice. It echoes Christ’s own foreknowledge of his death and the moral burden he bore in accepting his fate. Both Macbeth and Christ wrestle with a destiny determined by higher forces, but the parallels end there.

The key difference lies in the origins of their respective fates. Christ’s sacrifice is divinely ordained, a redemptive act guided by God’s will. Macbeth, however, sees his fate as determined by unnatural, devilish forces—the witches who foretold his rise to power. For Macbeth, the dagger represents not salvation but temptation, a symbol of his own guilt and his inevitable descent into sin.

Macbeth’s taunting tone toward the cross reflects his internal rebellion against morality and faith, even as he acknowledges their power. The dagger soliloquy becomes a battle between his ambition and his conscience, between the tangible crown he desires and the intangible morality that seeks to stop him. Ultimately, the “dagger” may not exist in the physical sense, but its presence—whether as conscience, morality, or divine intervention—threatens to unravel Macbeth’s mind even before he commits the murder.

Macbeth draws his dagger, placing it deliberately on top of the shadow of the cross, aligning the physical blade with its shadowy counterpart.

“I see thee yet, in form as palpable

As this which now I draw.” (2.1.41-42)

He crouches at the base of the dagger, his gaze tracing how its tip aligns perfectly with Duncan’s door on the far side of the stage. The imagery is precise, almost surgical, as if Macbeth is plotting not just the murder but the very path his dagger will take. Rising to his feet, he begins to circle the shadow and dagger, pacing like a predator as he speaks:

“Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going;

And such an instrument I was to use.” (2.1.43-44)

His tone is calm, almost contemplative, as he begins walking toward the right side of the stage. The pacing matches his internal debate, but his movements suggest the inevitability of his actions. As he nears the cross’s light, he continues:

“Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses,

Or else worth all the rest.” (2.1.45-46)

Now standing just to the right of the cross, his shadow does not yet disrupt the torchlight. He pauses, turning his gaze toward the cross, the dagger still in his hand.

“I see thee still,

And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,

Which was not so before.” (2.1.46-48)

This line, directed toward the cross, drips with layered meaning. The “gouts of blood” evoke the murder he is about to commit, but also Christ’s sacrifice—the blood shed for humanity’s sins. Here, Macbeth’s ambition and Christ’s sacrifice stand as opposites. Macbeth’s act is wholly selfish, a choice to spill blood for personal gain. In this moment, he is not sorrowful but hostile, exuding malevolence. He seems to mock Christ for his selflessness, as if scornful of the divine example. The line carries an almost Miltonian air, with Macbeth foreshadowing the rebellious pride of Satan, who declares in Paradise Lost: “Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.”

Macbeth’s anger crescendos as he steps fully into the light, placing himself between the torch and the cross. His body blocks the cross’s shadow, plunging it into darkness. He declares:

“There’s no such thing!” (2.1.48)

A deliberate pause follows, as Macbeth looks down at his shadow now consuming the cross’s light. He seems to savor this moment, the visual metaphor reinforcing his belief that he is now in control—not of morality, but of his destiny. His posture is proud, his gaze defiant.

The pause softens as he shifts his tone and steps away from the cross. Moving toward the dagger, he crouches and picks it up, continuing in a quieter voice:

“It is the bloody business which informs

Thus to mine eyes.” (2.1.48-49)

This admission is not one of regret but of grim acceptance. Macbeth acknowledges that the dagger—and its connection to morality and faith—exists only because of his own ambition. The “bloody business” is no longer an external force guiding him; it is his own creation, a product of his darkest desires.

Tarquin's Ravishing Strides

At this moment, Macbeth adopts a calm, contemplative demeanor. He strides toward the arches at the back of the stage, peering into the dark night as if searching for answers in its emptiness. The silence is palpable, broken only by the faint flickering of the torchlight. He turns his back to the darkness and faces the audience, his expression one of futility.

As he delivers the next lines, his tone suggests a resigned acceptance of the world’s cruel mechanics. In his mind, events unfold as they always have—unchangeable and inevitable. If murder secures the throne, so be it. If witches hold the strings of fate, he too is merely a puppet.

“Now, o'er the one half world

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates

Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder,” (2.1.50-53)

Gesturing to himself, he emphasizes “withered murder” as though acknowledging his role in this grim play. Then, pointing toward a distant bell tower, he assigns “The wolf” to Lady Macbeth, his sentinel and accomplice, the one who keeps watch and signals the act. This interplay between him and the unseen Lady Macbeth underscores their shared complicity.

He begins to crouch, stalking across the stage in long, deliberate strides, physically acting out the murder he is about to commit.

“Thus with his stealthy pace,

With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design

Moves like a ghost.” (2.1.55-57)

Macbeth embodies the specter of Tarquin, the tyrannical Roman king who seized power through violence and lust. He channels this historical figure, recognizing himself as another tyrant bound for ruin. He is the ghost—unseen, unnatural, and doomed. His steps, crouched and stealthy, betray his sense of fatalism. He knows the act will end poorly, but he is no longer the master of his will. He is, instead, a tool of fate and the witches’ cruel prophecy.

Reaching the door, Macbeth halts. He turns slowly, abandoning his crouch, and begins walking normally but with deliberate slowness. His eyes drop to the stones beneath his feet as if seeking to avoid the gaze of the heavens or hell.

“Thou sure and firm-set earth,

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear

Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,

And take the present horror from the time,

Which now suits with it.” (2.1.57-61)

These lines, spoken softly, carry the weight of dread. Macbeth personifies the earth itself, fearing that even its stones might betray him with sound, breaking the fragile silence that matches the horror of the moment. He appeals to the unnatural quiet of the night, pleading for complicity in his crime.

Finally, Macbeth shifts his tone, delivering the next lines with a surreal calmness, as though his meditation on murder has made the act itself feel unreal.

“Whiles I threat, he lives.

Words, to the heat of deeds, too cold breath gives.” (2.1.61-62)

His words reflect a deep frustration with his own hesitation. The longer he lingers in thought, the more he delays the inevitable, allowing Duncan to live while his own resolve cools.

The Bell Invites

The bell rings. Its sound pierces the silence, acting as a trigger that snaps Macbeth out of his contemplation. His body stiffens, his head turning sharply—not toward Duncan’s door, but toward the cross in the center of the stage.

His feet have carried him back to where he began the soliloquy, as if the act of reflection has come full circle. No longer the thoughtful figure of a moment ago, Macbeth is now a man of action. The time for reflection on fate is over. The bell tolls not just for Duncan, but for Macbeth’s own soul.

With a final glance at the cross, he steps forward, fully committed to the path he has chosen, and exits toward the door, leaving behind the shadow of the cross as a silent witness to his fate.

At this moment, Macbeth is no longer the contemplative, hesitant figure of earlier scenes. The transformation is complete—a reflection of his unconscious self overtaking his persona. As though Jung’s concept of the shadow has fully consumed his being, Macbeth’s voice lowers, his movements sharpen, and his entire presence exudes violence and certainty. This is no longer a man debating morality or fate; this is a man fully surrendered to his delusions, willingly giving power to the witches’ words. They hold sway only because Macbeth allows it, their prophecy feeding the darker recesses of his ambition and self-destruction.

He utters the final lines of the soliloquy, his voice filled with cold certainty and vehemence:

“I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.

Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell

That summons thee to heaven or to hell.” (2.1.63-65)

The phrase “Or to hell” is delivered with particular venom, his aggression surfacing as his shadow self speaks directly. In this moment, Macbeth is both executioner and victim, throwing himself into the act of murder with a subconscious recognition that it will ultimately lead to his own ruin. The aggression is not just directed at Duncan but at the entire moral structure he is about to shatter.

As he strides across the stage, dagger drawn, his left hand brushes the stone cross aside. The deliberate motion sends the cross collapsing to the floor, the brittle stone shattering upon impact. This act is more than incidental—it is the symbolic breaking of divine morality, an irreversible rejection of faith and the moral law that once bound him. Macbeth does not look back. His focus is fixed solely on Duncan’s door and the act that will forever define him.

Macbeth exits through the door, the lights cutting to darkness. What follows is not shown but heard: the muffled groans and cries of Duncan as the murder takes place offstage. The disembodied sounds are haunting, a reminder of the life extinguished and the soul that has been irrevocably stained. The cries fade into silence, leaving the audience in an oppressive void, reflecting the moral vacuum Macbeth has entered.

The destruction of the cross and the offstage murder reinforce the play’s central themes of moral collapse, free will versus fate, and the destructive power of ambition. Macbeth’s journey from hesitant conspirator to self-destructive tyrant is complete, marking the soliloquy as a critical turning point in both his character arc and the play’s exploration of human frailty.

To Close

The dagger soliloquy is just one thread in a tapestry of aggression, ambition, and unraveling morality, and I’ve aimed to weave a consistent and compelling portrayal of Macbeth’s transformation. But this vision doesn’t end at the soliloquy—it reverberates throughout the play, shaping the dynamics between Macbeth and those around him.

Take, for instance, the aftermath of Duncan’s murder. In this moment, Lady Macbeth chides her husband with biting words: “My hands are of your color, but I shame / To wear a heart so white” (2.2.63-64). Many productions portray Macbeth as broken and fragile here, his guilt overshadowing his aggression. In my interpretation, however, Macbeth retains his steely, isolated demeanor. He is dismissive, almost detached, seeing Lady Macbeth’s bravado for what it truly is—a shallow attempt at control, a facade of strength.

This approach redefines Lady Macbeth’s arc as well. Her descent into madness becomes not merely the result of guilt, but of realization. She comes to see the futility of her grandest ambition, her attempt to wield power through manipulation. Macbeth already knows this—he understands how society dismisses women’s roles, and he sees her bravado as doomed from the start. Lady Macbeth’s ultimate despair, then, stems not from murder but from the crushing insignificance imposed upon her by the very world she sought to defy.

Then there’s the dinner scene—one of the most chaotic and visceral moments in the play. Here, I must applaud Michael Fassbender’s interpretation. While his Macbeth received fair criticism for its trimming and reworking of Shakespeare’s lines, I found his portrayal of aggression and unraveling power to be electrifying. My Macbeth would channel that same ferocity. Some lines may be lost, but their spirit would remain, heightening the raw, violent energy that defines my interpretation of the character.

This brings me to a broader point about Macbeth and Shakespeare in general: the beauty of his work lies in its openness to interpretation. Every actor, director, and reader brings something new to the table, reshaping these timeless texts to reflect their own visions. Whether it’s Ian McKellen’s haunting subtlety, Patrick Stewart’s regal weight, Denzel Washington’s measured gravitas, or even Kenneth Branagh’s manic energy, each portrayal adds to the plurality of Shakespeare’s legacy. I'm happy to live in a world where all of these interpretations exist.

So here’s my own Macbeth—violent, contemplative, fractured, and fully consumed by his shadow self. A man who brushes aside morality and faith but remains haunted by their echoes. A dagger. A daydream. My small addition to a vast and enduring tradition.

Written and Posted by Pavel Tretyak on November 20, 2024

Last Edited November 20, 2024