Who dares receive it other?

And this is repeated in the sleep-walking scene:  ’What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?’ Her passionate courage sweeps him off his feet.  His decision is taken in a moment of enthusiasm: 

               Bring forth men-children only;
     For thy undaunted mettle should compose
     Nothing but males.

And even when passion has quite died away her will remains supreme.  In presence of overwhelming horror and danger, in the murder scene and the banquet scene, her self-control is perfect.  When the truth of what she has done dawns on her, no word of complaint, scarcely a word of her own suffering, not a single word of her own as apart from his, escapes her when others are by.  She helps him, but never asks his help.  She leans on nothing but herself.  And from the beginning to the end—­though she makes once or twice a slip in acting her part—­her will never fails her.  Its grasp upon her nature may destroy her, but it is never relaxed.  We are sure that she never betrayed her husband or herself by a word or even a look, save in sleep.  However appalling she may be, she is sublime.

In the earlier scenes of the play this aspect of Lady Macbeth’s character is far the most prominent.  And if she seems invincible she seems also inhuman.  We find no trace of pity for the kind old king; no consciousness of the treachery and baseness of the murder; no sense of the value of the lives of the wretched men on whom the guilt is to be laid; no shrinking even from the condemnation or hatred of the world.  Yet if the Lady Macbeth of these scenes were really utterly inhuman, or a ‘fiend-like queen,’ as Malcolm calls her, the Lady Macbeth of the sleep-walking scene would be an impossibility.  The one woman could never become the other.  And in fact, if we look below the surface, there is evidence enough in the earlier scenes of preparation for the later.  I do not mean that Lady Macbeth was naturally humane.  There is nothing in the play to show this, and several passages subsequent to the murder-scene supply proof to the contrary.  One is that where she exclaims, on being informed of Duncan’s murder,

                  Woe, alas! 
     What, in our house?

This mistake in acting shows that she does not even know what the natural feeling in such circumstances would be; and Banquo’s curt answer, ‘Too cruel anywhere,’ is almost a reproof of her insensibility.  But, admitting this, we have in the first place to remember, in imagining the opening scenes, that she is deliberately bent on counteracting the ‘human kindness’ of her husband, and also that she is evidently not merely inflexibly determined but in a condition of abnormal excitability.  That exaltation in the project which is so entirely lacking in Macbeth is strongly marked in her.  When she tries to help him by representing their enterprise as heroic, she is deceiving herself as much as him.  Their attainment of the crown presents itself to her, perhaps has long presented itself, as something so glorious, and she has fixed her will upon it so completely, that for the time she sees the enterprise in no other light than that of its greatness.  When she soliloquises,