Enter a Messenger
MESSENGER Bless you, fair dame. I am not to you known,
Though in your state of honour I am perfect.
I doubt some danger does approach you nearly.
If you will take a homely man’s advice,
Be not found here. Hence with your little ones!
To fright you thus methinks I am too savage;
To do worse to you were fell cruelty,
Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!
I dare abide no longer.
Exit Messenger (4.2.61-69)
And now things get very dark very quickly. A random messenger, never a good sign; by the sound of it, and what he says, just an ordinary man, not a courtier or a thane, someone properly anonymous. A groom, a servant, a labourer, someone who’s noticed something amiss and put two and two together, heard a rumour, read the signs. He’s polite—bless you, fair dame—but he doesn’t employ the same courteous phrases that someone of higher status would; she’s fair dame, not lady, for instance. (And he’s in a hurry, time is crucial; he might be out of breath, and there’s no time to be polite.) You don’t know me, he says, but I know who you are, that you’re a great lady, of high rank; in your state of honour I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly; I fear that something terrible’s about to happen, that you’re in grave danger. Believe me, please, and trust me: if you will take a homely man’s advice, be not found here. Get out, if you can. Hence with your little ones! Take the kids, make a run for it. (This is the first suggestion that it’s not just the little boy; there might well be a baby in a basket, or more, younger children too. Two or three in total, even.) There’s a heart-breaking kindness here—this anonymous, homely man is putting himself at risk—and yet he’s also sorry to be frightening her like this; to fright you thus methinks I am too savage. But he’s got no choice—if he didn’t frighten her it would be to wrong her even more, to do worse, a terrible, fell cruelty. He’s being cruel to be kind—and fell cruelty, and savagery, is already too nigh her person. It’s close at hand, it’s almost there. Heaven preserve you! (because he’s all too aware that he’s probably too late, and that prayer is the only thing left to her). I dare abide no longer. I can’t stay, I’m too frightened, I’ve got to save myself, I’m sorry (and, have I done the right thing at all in warning you, giving you this terror of anticipation—would it be better not to know?)
