Caroline Curry
Shakespeare
9.5.07
Diary of Lady Mac
10 August
O Lord, if my purpose be false then into thine arms I will never be enfolded. Much hath transpired in the prolonged and short hours of this day. My bloody husband does now sleep; he who returned in the waning hours of the afternoon, his preceding message bearing great weight upon my mind that is now fraught with fear and helpless insecurity. King Duncan did follow my husband home; he, in the likeness of my father, who doth now lie cold in his chamber of false security. With chilling conviction and complete absence of my feminine gentleness I have urged my good husband to murder the helpless Duncan in his sleep…O what have I done? Perhaps…but no. As Macbeth wrote to me of the three witches who hailed him Glamis and Cawdor, the latter which has been bestowed upon him in more than timely fashion, there can be no mistake in my resolve. My wicked words convinced pale Macbeth to grant himself what he doth deserve; what I deserve as my rightful due. I, who cheated as only a woman can be, my first husband and only babe untimely torn from me…What? Should I be made to live and suffer the meaningless existence of a Thane's wife for the rest of my short life? Too many tomorrows creep into this petty pace from day to day…I shall not nod my weak-hearted assent. My black desires overcome the lily-white nature of my sex and I do breathe a poisoned air, thick with the fated death of things deemed good. Macbeth has not murdered sleep, as he is afraid, but I…his goodly wife, am responsible for the murder of the innocent sleep. The blood of two is on my hands tonight. Yet only one is cleansed…the other lingers, invisible from the start; a fleeting whisper of despair that can only burgeon in its horror. My faith doth fail; my mind doth falter in its resolve. Yet…out! These thoughts must be purged; to bed I will go. In sleep...dead sleep, innocent and murdered sleep shall I look to find my peace.
26 August
My husband in his resolve doth strengthen and falter. Banquo he hath killed; and he would have Fleance too, had the fated boy not fled. Out of fear he doth act rather than conviction. Plagued is he by spirits of his guilt, though he insist and reassure his men in order to assure himself. Gone to seek the Weird Sisters…he flees in search of certainty for no longer doth it come from me. Me whom he called 'dearest partner in greatness'…methinks he forgets more and more each day of my part. Pale and sick was he yesterday at the banquet; frequented by compunctious visions of Banquo. Would that I had the power to take from him the throne! He doth become sick of mind and weak of heart with each passing moment…yet to usurp from my husband as he did from Duncan; if the image of my long-dead father I could not put out, to extinguish my husband's flame I certainly would never achieve. Though he hath wronged me dear, his love for me I do not doubt, nor mine for him. Still I remember his fleeting courtship; 'dearest love' he did say, among other endearments strange to my ear…though quick and hurried for his father's death, I did not think them false. Strange…throughout, I have not found him false. In conviction only he falters; true to me hath he always been. That much I must admit.
But hark…he does return. Perhaps with news from the sisters; I must away.
5 November
Strange news to my ears doth a messenger bring. From the castle of Macduff did he fly; horrid words of slaughter…of young babes, torn naked from their soon raped nurses arms. The Lady too…her only son killed…before her eye was he snuffed. O Hell doth smile upon my black heart for this! Too close to mine own comes this deed.
For this Macbeth is to blame. Surer hath he grown than my mind now, which I fear doth waver in her once-stone resolve. But…but fear not, dear one. Fear not, for how could you be wrong? The Weird Women hath proclaimed it truth, and from their unnatural lips the future hath poured and been correct. Thane of Glamis thou wert, and Thane of Cawdor thou became without the aid of any. King of men…impossible it was without intervention; nothing I have done is without purpose. Nothing I have purposed is without doing…but why? Why does my heart flutter in the cage of my chest? What bird is trapped there that was not killed by my black resolve at the start? A bird troubled by the cries and fate of one so dear, one so close as to create in me…remorse? Ah, remorse! Remorse and sorrow for this untimely murdered dove with unblacked feathers; this dove who hath lost her mate and now her fledges.
Macbeth! Macbeth thou art my love, my black love that doth pain my heart but make it beat still. Away thou have been; alone am I for long hours while thy madness sinks in…mine doth creep upon me as slow as night upon the day.
15 November
Alas! Heaven damn and Hell bless my life, for no longer am I worthy of divine pleasure.
Lady Macduff doth haunt my dreams…her children, her babes-in-arms around me twine their sword-hewn limbs; her eyes, her sightless eyes do burn my own and I sleep not. Lo, she comes now…her hair matted with blood and…Out, demon! Haunt me no more, for the fault is not of mine! Your bloody breast does bring in me a chill…thy hand upon my brow is cold; my hand doth tremble and without eyes I see…I see! Curse me, dove! Thy son clings to thy robes…resembles he my own…my own babe! Dear one come to me! Yet…yet no, touch me not! Demon do not wrap your fingers 'round my throat! For love of all that still bears pity for me, go to and leave me be! I would sleep, but thy faces do cloud my vision…I would that dead sleep would fall upon me now…
8 December
Unclean….unclean am I. Unclean shall I be forever. My stained hands do betray my white intention and now…now forever. Forever shall this spot upon my hand be crimson and scarlet; carmine blood upon my hand…my hand is stained and eternally shall this spot remain. This light….light shall be my saviour. Come, light…be my guide. Guide this soiled hand in the final words and strength….give me strength to continue! For tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death…
Done…it is done. No more….no more have I to say. Macbeth hath been slaughtered; in my mind…my sick but blooming mind hath seen his blood spilled and his head rolls before my eyes! O love, O dear love! My heart doth break…break for thee. Thy flame is quenched, thy hope is gone!
My heart doth break…break for thee. Break now more….my body shall no more; know more….Sweet Macbeth; I fly. I fly for thee, for thy love and they fledge that shall never see the light o' day nor his mother's face!