There were four things that brought Macbeth down, and I along with him—four things that caused the undeserved death of hundreds, and the wounds of many more.
Love; ambition; pride; honour.
My husband was a man of all of those—and I had no honour, and no pride, and the only ambition and love I felt were for him.
You see—if my husband had not been ambitious, than he would not have told me about the witches' prophecy—but he did, and everything he'd worked for, lived for, began to fade.
And if I did not love him, I would never have loved him, never have felt ambition for his sake—but I did.
And were he not proud, I would not have been able to goad him—did I not goad him, saying to him, telling him that he was not a man and would not be unless he killed his king? But he was proud, and I did.
But my husband was a man of honour, as I was never a woman of honour, and he could not live in sanity with the fact that he was thrice dis-honourable: once for killing a guest, once for killing his kinsman—and once, worst of all, for killing his king.
And so he went insane, killing people who had no need to die as Duncan did—or as we'd thought he did, for my lord to be king—and every death he caused sent him deeper into madness, and his madness drove him to kill more people—a terrible curse.
I think he wasglad to die, in the end, to be free of all that haunted him in his short time as King of Scotland. I watched and I could tell that though he was fighting his best—how could his pride allow him to fight at less than that?—his heart was not in his fighting. He did not try to kill Macduff.
He is gone, now, not stayed on in death like I have, and I pray for him, and wonder if he is in heaven or hell.