by Marvin Kaye
“Hm.” It was Whelan. “I wondered what we were going to do about that.”
I tried to recall reading Macbeth in high school, but it was no good. I vaguely remembered something about Macbeth disguising himself as a Third Murderer, but I couldn’t pin it down any more specifically than that.
“Macbeth,” said Godwin, placing the tips of his fingers together like a child playing church steeple, “is probably Shakespeare’s most enigmatic play. There are many riddles and unanswered—”
“Sit back and relax,” Melanie interrupted mischievously. “He’s delivering one of his Wagnerian prefaces.”
“Should I take notes?” Hilary whispered behind her hand. The exchange, though impromptu, had an air of familiarity, as if the two had played such schoolgirl antics many times in the past.
“Class, come to order,” Godwin said with mock severity. “Let’s see, now. What are the major questions about Macbeth?” He ticked off the points on his fingertips. “First of all, the dating of the play. No one’s sure when it was first performed, or for what occasion. Then there’s the text. How corrupt is it? Is scene 36 suspect?* Should it be cut, along with the Hecate scenes? Did Middleton really write the latter? Why stick a classical deity in with garden-variety witches? Or do the weird sisters have more stature than old-fashioned crones? Are they Norns, embodiments of Fate? And what about the music for the D’Avenant version—was it written by Purcell or Matthew Locke? The handwriting—”
“Slow down!” Hilary exclaimed. “I haven’t read the play in years! Do you think any of us know what you’re talking about?”
Godwin regarded her with a twinkle in his eye. “I warned you that you’d have to be a Shakespearean scholar.”
Hilary uttered a mild obscenity, and his wife began to remonstrate with Godwin, but he raised his hand to forestall further argument.
“Very well,” he said melodramatically, “I shall be round with thee.”
“And pray enlighten those of us who are ignorant,” Hilary entreated tartly. She was behaving rather well, all things considered. If anyone else condescended to her, even in jest, she might incinerate them with sarcasm, but Godwin was near and dear to her, and he got off cheap.
“I’ll take it from the top,” he promised. “The problem of the Third Murderer is very likely the most mystifying single thing in Macbeth. It crops up in the third act, when Banquo is slaughtered.”
“Scene 33,” Harry put in.
“Here’s what leads up to it,” Godwin said. “Macbeth and Banquo are fierce warriors. On the way back from fighting a bloody battle for their cousin Duncan, the king of Scotland, the pair meet a trio of hideous old women who prophesy that Macbeth will become ruler of the country. The witches also foretell that Banquo will be father to a line of Scottish monarchs. Got the picture?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re going too fast,” Hilary said dryly.
“Macbeth decides the best way to make the prediction come true is to murder Duncan, which he does. The nobles proclaim Macbeth king. So far, so good, but now Macbeth starts to worry for his own life. What’s to prevent someone from assassinating him in turn? He’s especially afraid of Banquo, who knows too much, and he’s jealous of his former comrade-in-arms, too. The witches—”
“Wait a minute,” said Whelan, passing him his copy of the play-script open to a page in the middle. “Here’s the passage.”
Godwin took it, nodded, and put his finger on a speech. “Right. Here’s what Macbeth says about Banquo. Start from here.” He waited for Hilary to read it, and I craned my neck to see, wondering why he simply didn’t say it aloud himself.
Our feares in Banquo sticke deepe,
And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes that
Which would be fear’d. ’Tis much he dares,
And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,
He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,
To act in safetie. There is none but he,
Whose being I do feare: and under him,
My Genius is rebuk’d, as it is said
Mark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,
When first they put the Name of King upon me,
And bad them speake to him. The Prophet-like,
They hayl’d him Father to a Line of Kings.
Upon my Head they plac’d a fruitlesse Crowne,
And put a barren Scepter in my Grip,
Thence to be wrencht with an unlineall Hand,
No Sonne of mine succeeding. ...
Godwin continued. “Macbeth has no children, which makes Banquo even more odious to the monarch, because his comrade-in-arms does have a son, Fleance. Macbeth is determined to prevent Banquo from siring kings, so he plots to murder both father and child. But being a politician, he doesn’t want to be connected with their deaths, and so he arranges to have them butchered in a lonely park some distance away.”
“Here comes the big mystery,” said Whelan.
“Right,” Godwin agreed. “Macbeth learns that Banquo and Fleance are riding off on private business, but will return that night to attend a coronation banquet. He sets two killers to wait in ambush in the park, which the intended victims will have to cross on foot to get to the castle.
“Get the picture now: two villains lurk in the dusk as the moment of the bloody deed approaches. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a Third Murderer pops up and joins the other two. Who is he? Another character in disguise? Where did he come from? The assassins naturally are suspicious, but he seems to know all the secret instructions and claims to have been sent to them by Macbeth, so they figure he’s legitimate and bid him accompany them in their silent vigil. ...”
“It’s coming back,” said Hilary. “They attack Banquo, but somebody blows out the light?”
“Correct. The text indicates that the First Murderer got the plan wrong and doused the torch. As a result, Banquo is slain, but Fleance gets away. It could hardly have happened otherwise—since popular legend claimed Banquo as ancestor to the Stuart dynasty. Shakespeare’s audiences knew that if Fleance didn’t escape, James I might not be ruling them at that very moment.”
A waiter began to clear away plates. We asked for coffee and Hilary ordered a chartreuse. Whelan leaned over to say something to her I couldn’t hear, and as he did, Melanie glanced over my shoulder with a faint frown on her lips. I tried to stretch without appearing impolite. After the postprandials were served, I asked Godwin what was so unusual about the identity of the Third Murderer. “Does he have to be someone other than an unnamed thug?”
“Yes,” he replied. “First of all, we’re dealing with a theatrical script, not just a literary property. Unfortunately, most critics have neglected that crucial consideration. They treat Macbeth solely as a dramatic poem, forgetting it must be spoken by live actors. Now I look at it as a director first, and scholar second. I have a large cast to train and pay, so it’s necessary to double-cast one of them to play a small part like the mysterious murderer. But the Third Murderer is not just an extra’s role. The introduction of this character by Shakespeare is highly dramatic: clearly, the audience is meant to wonder who this person is—which implies it’s a character with whom they’re already familiar, someone in disguise. But who? It can’t be anyone who just walked off in the last scene—not if you’re staging the play the way Shakespeare intended. There’s not enough time for an actor to exit in an Elizabethan play as himself and come back in three seconds incognito.”
“Macbeth could do it,” said Whelan. “All he has to do is throw a cloak around his shoulders, stoop down, and walk right back onstage. The audience will know who it is immediately.”
“I seem to remember that Macbeth is the Third Murderer,” I put in, “but I don’t remember why.”
“Because,” Whelan explained, “he’s so anxious about murdering Banquo and Fleance that he’s afraid to entrust the job to hirelings. But some productions cast Ross, instead—”
“Ross?”
“One of the Scottish nobles
. One scholar argued that Ross is Macbeth’s closest henchman.”
Hilary drank some liqueur and chased it with coffee. “So,” she addressed Godwin, “I assume that you’ve got a new idea about which character is disguised as the Third Murderer?”
He nodded. “The trouble with other theories is that they’re based on psychological hypotheses, which are riddled with loopholes. But I’ve uncovered actual textual evidence to support my idea. What’s more, the mechanics of Shakespearean staging tradition back me up!”
“All right,” Hilary exclaimed, “so impress us with this marvelous brainstorm! Who is the Third Murderer?”
“That’s my secret.” Godwin smiled enigmatically. “I haven’t even told the actor who’s going to be playing the part. But when I do, the two of us are going to rehearse in private until dress rehearsal. I’m not taking any chances on my theory leaking to the press beforehand. I want it to hit everybody like a thunderbolt!”
Which it did, but not in the way that Godwin intended.
I met Macbeth just as the conversation started to turn to business. Hilary and Godwin agreed to talk to Fred Grilis, the producer, the following afternoon in order to get official approval of Hilary as PR director in New York. She asked whether we shouldn’t take a few days first to work out a campaign presentation, but Godwin said no on the grounds of insufficient time. Hilary started to make a remark about the doubtful business skills of theatrical people when I noticed Godwin looking over my head at someone whose presence I could feel looming behind me. I swiveled partially around and found myself staring straight into the familiar face of Armand Mills.
If you’re under thirty, you may not remember him, but anyone who went to college about ten years ago probably saw him in one of his innumerable touring shows. Mills used to make a career out of trouping truncated Shakespeare, Shaw, Molière, and so on, from state to state—wherever there was a college campus. The productions, directed by Mills himself, always featured him in the starring roles, and though the scripts were sometimes heavily cut, no blue pencil ever excised one of his speeches. He was one of those grandiloquent actors who could turn in a fine performance if sternly directed, but otherwise lacked the discipline to rise above hammery. Still, he had a commanding presence, with great stature and a bearing almost military in posture. His eyes were gray, sharp, and protrusive and his narrow jaw was fringed with a spiky brown beard into which flowed a down-curved mustache. The effect was calculatedly Mephistophelian.
His big voice boomed. “What ho, fellows, well met!” he addressed Harry and Godwin. People at other tables turned their heads, a fact noted by the actor with tacit gratification. He smiled at Melanie. “Nymph, in thy orisons be all my prayers remembered.”
“It’s ‘sins,’ ” murmured Whelan.
Mills flashed him a sardonic smile. He had the unconscious actor’s habit of standing far enough away from seated people so as to physically dominate them, at least so far as anyone watching from a distance was concerned. When he spoke, he turned not just his head, but his whole trunk to face in Whelan’s direction—a swiveling motion common onstage when a performer wishes to keep audience attention on himself.
“Do you presume to correct me, upstart?” he asked. “Accursed be that tongue that tells me so.”
The color drained from Whelan’s face. “For God’s sake, Armand,” he whispered, “don’t do that!”
Mills laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re superstitious, Harry?”
We never heard the answer, because Godwin interrupted to introduce Mills to Hilary and me. “Armand is our Macbeth,” he explained.
“This place,” said Hilary, “is certainly popular with your cast.”
“A matter of convenience,” the director said. “We’re holding rehearsals in a loft down the block. We adopted this place right away, or maybe it was vice versa.”
“It’s like being in the Mermaid Tavern,” Harry observed.
“Speaking of adopting,” Mills said in a confidential murmur, “how about if I ask Bill Evans to join us? The poor boy’s standing at the bar like an orphan, drinking by himself.” He tried to sound solicitous, but his voice was too unctuous to be believed.
At the mention of Evans’ name, Godwin looked embarrassed. “Has it occurred to you that Evans may not want to be disturbed?”
“Nonsense,” Mills scoffed. “No actor chooses to be alone when kindred spirits are near. Our lives are solitary enough.” He held out a hand palm up toward Melanie and smiled sardonically. “Surely you have no objections to asking a lonely company member to carouse with the elite?”
“Of course not,” she said, giving him an equally artificial smile. “But we’re getting ready to leave, you know.”
“A pity. Then I’ll only be a second.” Pivoting, Mills strode toward the bar.
When he was gone, Hilary spoke in a low voice. “It’s funny how you can take an instant dislike to some people.”
“If it’s Armand Mills,” Melanie said, “it’s not at all odd.”
“Compulsive entertainers like him rub a lot of people the wrong way,” Godwin agreed. “Their facility with language makes them believe they know what they’re talking about, when half the time they’re just paraphrasing some eloquent idiot they met the week before.”
“The trouble with Mills,” Whelan added, “is that he’s always playing Great Actor. He’s on all the time! You never know where the character ends and the real man begins, because he never drops the pose.”
“Unless the pose is the man,” I suggested.
“I’m surprised you cast him,” Hilary told Godwin. “You’ve always had an aversion to histrionic hams.”
“True. But Macbeth is a bitch of a part, and you need someone with the physique, voice, and emotional scope to tackle it. For all Armand’s posturing, he can be brilliant, if you really sit on him in rehearsals. If not—”
“If not?”
“He chews the scenery.”
Whelan shushed Godwin and Hilary as Armand Mills hove into view, one arm draped around the narrow shoulders of a thin youth with straggly blond hair and rimless glasses over watery, red-rimmed eyes. The pair drew up chairs and sat at opposite ends of the long table.
Mills introduced Evans and explained that he was playing the part of Macbeth’s servant, an important, though minor, role. Evans mumbled shyly to Hilary and merely ducked his head in my direction, but his eyes lingered on mine for an uncomfortably long time, and I had to turn away.
The gratuitous presence of the two thespians put a damper on the evening. The conversation degenerated into desultory shoptalk and polite inquiries into the state of Melanie’s antenatal physical condition. Mills talked incessantly, monopolizing every subject, while Evans never once opened his mouth.
After one round of beer, Godwin declared it was time to leave, and the conclave started to break up. I rose to pull back Hilary’s chair, but Whelan beat me to it. While we were struggling to yank on overshoes and don our topcoats, Mills informed Hilary that if she was appointed to handle PR for the production, he would supply us with copious material for preparing publicity releases on his career. He also told her he expected her to set up several meaningful interviews with the press, and I thought she would blow the whole thing at that point with some withering sarcasm, but in deference to her friends she held her tongue.
Mills turned to the other members of the group and included them in a sweeping gesture. “When shall we all meet again?” he declaimed. “If it’s like today, it will surely be in thunder, lightning, or in rain. But faith, we’ll talk tomorrow. Is’t far you ride?”
“Damn it, Mills, cut it out!” Harry snapped. “You’re going to bring the Furies down on all our heads!”
“Not a whit! We defy augury,” Mills retorted, laughing. “How does that strike you, Mr. Whelan?”
“So long as you’re quoting Hamlet,” Harry growled, tossing his scarf over his shoulder, “I don’t give a good goddamn.”
The elder actor bowed to us as we a
ll made our way to the door. As I stepped through the portal, I glanced back and saw Mills leading Evans back to the bar.
Outside, the tempest had quieted down to an icy drizzle; a biting wind pinched us wherever our flesh was exposed, and a steaming mist rose from the streets of the city. We walked through the fog like abandoned souls in an underworld designed by Cocteau.
Our way lay in the same direction for a block or two, and we stayed in a compact group for warmth, Hilary between Whelan and me. Godwin took his wife’s arm to keep her from slipping on the damp patches that made the sidewalk a concrete fen to be negotiated with caution.
“What was that business between you and Mills?” Hilary asked Whelan. “Something about Hamlet?”
“That wasn’t the problem, Hilary. The son of a bitch was paraphrasing lines from Macbeth!”
“So what?”
“Are you kidding?” Harry asked incredulously. “That’s worse than whistling in the dressing room before a performance!”
Godwin intervened. “You have to remember, Hilary, that actors are a notoriously superstitious lot. According to theatrical tradition, Macbeth is supposed to be unlucky.”
“It is unlucky,” Whelan declared. “Quoting from it when you’re not rehearsing or actually performing it is an invitation to disaster.”
“You’re putting us on!” Hilary said. “You don’t really believe that?”
“Don’t I? Every production I’ve ever been in or heard about, somebody got hurt or killed in a freak accident.”
“You’re exaggerating, surely.”
“Am I?” He held up the fingers of his left hand. “How do you think I got this?” I looked closely and saw that the pinkie and ring finger seemed unnaturally stiff. “Five years ago,” the actor said, “I was playing Ross in rep. At the end of the third scene, my foot snagged in my robe during the blackout and I pitched forward on my face. I stuck out my hand to break my fall and these fingers slid over the edge of a wagon unit just as a stagehand slammed another platform into place against it. Smashed both of them, and I haven’t been able to move them much ever since.”
Hilary threaded her way around a network of filthy pools of rainwater that had collected in recesses where the sidewalk slabs were cracked. “That’s a single incident,” she admitted, “and I can see how it’d make you feel, but—”
