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No time but the present: parentlessness, childlessness and the absence of a before and after in Macbeth and Othello

“Upon my head they plac’d a fruitless crown
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
Thence to be wrench’d with an unlineal hand,
No son of mine succeeding”
(Macbeth, III.i.62)

“Renew I could not like the moon” (Timon of Athens, IV.iii.68)

       What distinguishes Macbeth and Othello from other tragedies is the fact that their protagonists are neither fathers nor sons, mothers nor daughters. We know nothing of Macbeth or Othello’s parents, and neither of them has children. Lady Macbeth makes a passing reference to having once “given suck” and to “how tender ‘tis to love the babe that milks [her]” but never returns to the subject, and in any case, what remains impressed in one’s memory is the line that follows: “I would, while it was smiling in my face, have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums and dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn” (I.vii.54). Clearly, she is not the maternal type. This is reiterated a few scenes later, with her invocation of the spirits to “unsex me here and fill me from the crown to the toe topfull of direst cruelty; make thick my blood, Stop up th’access and passage to remorse […] Come to my woman’s breasts And take my milk for gall (I.v.40-47).” The notion of cruelty forming inside her cannot but be likened to that of the baby that would grow there if she were not “unsexed,” as if cruelty were somehow taking the place of the foetus. There is a definite sense of this in the phrase “stopping up th’ access and passage”, as if what is being insisted upon were the prevention of either sex/conception (“access”) or childbirth (“passage”). It is as if she will bear fruit to or cultivate cruelty rather than a son or daughter—one has the distinct impression of a misused womb and of maternity gone wrong, heightened by the poison-filled breasts (we might compare this to Iago’s “engender[ing]” of Othello’s destruction, which he depicts as “bring[ing] this monstrous birth to the world’s light” I.iii.394).
Similarly, Desdemona is very distinctly no longer her father’s daughter: she has severed ties with him and no longer feels obliged to associate herself with him or define herself in terms of him, to the point where she claims she “would not [in her father’s house] reside to put [her] father in impatient thoughts by being in his eye” (I.iii.241). She is only “hitherto [his] daughter” (183). It is also interesting to note that the only mention of her mother is made in this passage—we have a brief glimpse of her mother “preferring [Brabantio] before her father” (186) before she vanishes again into obscurity.
That said, what is much more striking is Othello’s complete lack of parentage. After all, one might argue that in Desdemona’s case cutting herself off from her father is acknowledging that she has one. In the case of Othello, there is no mention of a father, a mother, not even a glimpse of a past family. We hear of his past conquests and victories, the battles in which he has fought and the seas he has sailed, but there is no personal history or any sense that someone came before Othello, that he is connected to anything less ephemeral than a list of battles. “The story of [his] life from year to year” is depicted in terms of “battles, sieges, fortunes that [he has] pass’d” rather than parentage (I.iii.128). The same holds true for Macbeth, if not more so given that there is no mention of Lady Macbeth’s origins beyond the chilling “Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done’t” (II.ii.12). The protagonists in the two plays thus lack any claim to lineage, any connection to a past or future history. The fact that Macbeth is safely ensconced in his castle, his social status and reputation unquestioned, indeed, referred to repeatedly, only emphasises his, as well as the play’s, entrenchment in the present. There is neither a past nor future history in the title of “thane”. One is born a nobleman, but besides that, the title does not imply an inheritance or bequeathment. It is Banquo, not Macbeth, who will be “the root and father of many kings” (III.i.5). It is Banquo who speaks in terms of being “forever knit” with “indissoluble ties” (III.i.17), so that one has a sense of his being firmly anchored, indeed, “rooted” and of this somehow aiding his movement towards the future (that he will not be alive to see what he has created is besides the point—what matters is that something of his will be there).
And in some ways that is what both Othello and Macbeth are striving to cement: a future, some semblance of a lasting heritage. It is striking that neither of them does this the way one would expect: Macbeth does not contemplate the thought of having children or of starting a family, and Othello never brings up a future in which he might have children. On one hand we have a distinct sense of lack, of a gap where the past and future ought to be (heightened in Macbeth by Macduff’s having children, one of whom we actually see with his mother); on the other, we have all the attention focused on filling that gap through arguably rather flimsy means—ie the conquest of land, be it one’s own country or distant territories. As if gaining a title will make up for the lack of a past (Macbeth) or accumulating far-off countries give one definition in an environment in which one is painfully aware of being completely out of place (Othello). And it is the fact that the protagonists seem almost programmed to do this, to conquer and take over, to adopt land rather than create their own, that is flawed. For there is no “meat” to such conquest. It is ironic, given how much is made of blood and flesh in Macbeth, that there should be so little of his own blood in the play: in the end, all of the blood that is mentioned will be easily washed away, despite Lady Macbeth’s impression of the “damn’d spot”’s persistence. Nothing will be left—the line has ended.
The notion of lines, I think, is a crucial one, both in terms of the two plays as well as in reference to tragedy as a whole. The lack of lineage in Macbeth and Othello is striking precisely because it is so unusual: particularly in Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannous, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone there is the sense that despite everything that befalls him, Oedipus nevertheless has his daughters. The line may be tainted, the distinction between father and brother, sister and daughter irreparably distorted, but nevertheless something will follow. The future may be horrific, but at least there is a future. Similarly, in Aeschylus’ Oresteia Electra has, if nothing else, the tie to her father and, perhaps less relevant here, to her brother. She has, in any event, an anchor, something to give her definition and a definite place in the space of the story. The very fact that Antigone ends with the chorus speaking of old age and wisdom gives the sense that something has been gained. What does one do with wisdom? One imparts it. The story will, one feels, go on, a dialogue will continue, and while Oedipus is dead, his children remain, to continue the tale as well as to recount his. This sense, if not of fulfillment, then of there distinctly not being an absence or lack, prevails in Oedipus at Colonus as well (I mention this given that one might argue that it is here that we should look for final answers and conclusions, given that it was Sophocles’ last play). Not only are Antigone and Ismene repeatedly addressed as “children”, significant in the natural association with the word “child” to what will come after (ie, a future, however dismal or short), but the last words, spoken by the chorus, are “All of these matters have found their consummation”. One feels that matters can be put to rest. And here images of sleeping babies come to mind—the play’s events have been played out, catharsis has been achieved in much the same way an infant cries one’s self out. Or, alternately, of the completed sexual act. In any case, of closure.  And at the same time, of the possibility of continuation.
Which is exactly what both Macbeth and Othello lack. Here, the sense is of the characters hanging suspended in a limbo: there is no before, there is no after. There is only the present, and it is from this that stems the feeling of urgency. Critics are constantly commenting on Macbeth’s brevity: it is short, the action unfolds quickly, the suspense mounts rapidly, events occur in a whirlwind of speed. A.C. Bradley waxes eloquent on this, as does Maynard Mack. But what no one stops to consider is the fact that there might be a reason for this, that there is a need for speed. Not only is there no time like the present: there is no time but the present. Hence phrases such as “I feel now the future in the instant” (I.v.57) and “If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly” (I.vii.1). Perhaps that is where Macbeth’s insomnia and Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking fit in—in a play in which every second counts, time spent on sleep is wasted. Nighttime becomes an extension of daytime, a way of drawing out time, stretching it to its fullest. And so night becomes a time for action: for keeping watch, for killing, for speaking, for pacing, for doing. We might also think about the fact that besides sleep—which is the opposite of “doing” and crucially, is associated with “repose”, “rest”, “restoration” and “regeneration”—night’s other prime use is sex: ie, procreation. And in Macbeth, as in Othello, we have neither: night and beds are constantly being “misused”. Amusingly, the only one who seems to get it right in Macbeth—that is, to use beds for what they were intended—is the “martlet” who “hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle” in the walls of Macbeth’s castle (I.vi.7). This is actually more than simply amusing, however, since the one to mention the bird is Banquo, who is defined throughout the play not as a soldier or ruler but as the one with children, the one who has been “hail’d […] father to a line of kings” (III.i.61), the one with a guaranteed future: the quintessential family man. And it is significant that he is using an image of procreation and building of familial roots, albeit on the part of a bird, to depict (to Duncan, of all people—the one who is about to die there) the place where the very opposite of such activities occurs. This not only emphasises how intrinsic it is to Banquo’s nature to think in terms of producing and bequeathing, but provides a jolting impression of how unnatural the goings-on in Macbeth’s castle are: outside, nature procreates. Inside, things wilt and die—or worse, they are stunted before they even have the chance to sprout
To return to the idea of consummation and misused beds, the previously mentioned depiction of events as being “consummated” cannot but bring to mind the final scene in Othello, in which the marriage bed becomes a blood bath rather than the site of sexual consummation. The blood-stained sheets recall the other times (arguably the only other times) sheets are stained with blood: after the loss of virginity, in the play’s very close past, and in childbirth. And while the marriage has been consummated, there is a sense of absurdity in the way events in the scene are played out. This is not what ought to be happening, one feels. The characters ought to be “making the beast with two backs” as Iago so tastefully puts it. The perversity of the situation is heightened by the words Othello uses whilst contemplating whether to kill Desdemona: “Yet I’ll not shed her blood, nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow and smooth as monumental alabaster” and “When I have pluck’d thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again; It needs must wither” (V.ii.4-15). While in the first instance he is, of course, referring to the blood that would be shed if he were to go through with the murder, and, in the second, to the fact that if he kills her there will be no turning back, the language he uses is distinctly sexual and clearly likens the act of killing not only to the act of sex, but to the very first one. But there is no act of sex in this scene, no consummation occurs, and the result is a feeling that somehow the events have not been wholly played out—or if they have, it has not brought about an Aristotelian catharsis.
And that is not merely because they are not Greek plays: after all, what more cathartic tragedy is there than Hamlet? Hamlet, indeed, is worth considering for several reasons, for while events are played out to the fullest, it too ends with the future changing hands. That is, the kingdom of Elsinore, like Scotland in Macbeth, passes on to someone else. The difference, however, is that in Hamlet the lack of future or continuation does not actually matter. The future, in Hamlet, exists only in terms of making amends for the past. Once that is done, there is no calling for future generations or for someone to carry on the story. Hamlet is steeped in his past and defines himself in terms of his origins. There is no sense of urgency tied to finding out what will happen, but rather to what already happened. Similarly, there is no need for him to have children, for his story does not need to be told, it needs to be resolved. And no one but Hamlet can do that.
A few things remain to be said. Although this essay has focused on Othello and Macbeth, very similar strands to those I’ve discussed run through Timon of Athens and cannot be ignored. Timon, like the other protagonists, has neither parents nor children, and on top of that is not even married: but for a play in which there are no spouses, parents or children, there is a great deal of maternal imagery, of moaning and denouncing recalling the complaints of a heart-broken parent whose children have drained him dry (“For in my knowing Timon has been this lord’s father, and kept his credit with his purse” III.ii.59; “Son of sixteen, pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire, with it beat out his brains!” IV.i.14), and a very strong sense, at least in the first part, of gift-giving as a way of making up for an absence or lack. The image conjured up by Timon’s incessant giving is of the generous aunt or uncle who, not able to have his or her own children, makes up for this lack by spoiling his/her nieces and nephews. But what is crucial is that there are no blood ties, there is no blood, and money is a poor substitute, as it is not infinite.  So the future comes to a crashing stop and suddenly the protagonist is left, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere, his past as good as erased given that the other characters’ refusal to help basically implies that everything he has done before means nothing, and no future to speak of. From then on we have a quick succession of distorted, horrific depictions of breeding, child-bearing and child-mutilating fit to rival Lady Macbeth and Iago’s: “O blessed breeding son, draw from the earth rotten humidity” (IV.iii.1), “Spare not the babe whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy; think it a bastard, whom the oracle hath doubtfully pronounced the throat shall cut, and mince it sans remorse” (IV.iii.120), “Plague all, that your activity may defeat and quell the source of all erection” (IV.iii.163).  And perhaps most significantly,
“Common mother [nature], thou
Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast
Teems and feeds all, whose self-same mettle,
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed,
Engendered the black toad and adder blue,
The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm,
With all th’abhorréd births below crisp heaven
Whereon Hyperion’s quick’ning fire doth shine;
Yield him, who all the human sons do hate
From forth thy plenteous bosom, poor root. […]
Teem with new monsters […]
Dry up thy marrows” (IV.iii..178-192).
For this passage encapsulates everything I have discussed so far: the notion of giving birth to monsters and monstrous deeds instead of children, the idea of obstructing the possibility of a satisfying ending and denying that of continuation (“Dry up thy marrows” distinctly recalls “stopping up th’ access and passage”), of engendering death and wiping out everything but a transient present. There is the same bitter after-taste as in the other plays, as if we had partaken of the roots Timon is forced to live on, and that same exhaustion that comes from ranting and railing and coming to no satisfying conclusion. The bed is unmade, the sheets are tangled and dirty, our voices are hoarse, and we are none the better for it.