WIFE   Whither should I fly?

I have done no harm. But I remember now

I am in this earthly world, where to do harm

Is often laudable, to do good sometime

Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas,

Do I put up that womanly defence

To say I have done no harm? What are these faces?

Enter Murderers

MURDERER    Where is your husband?

WIFE   I hope in no place so unsanctified

Where such as thou mayst find him.

MURDERER    He’s a traitor.

SON     Thou liest, thou shag-haired villain.

MURDERER    What, you egg?

Young fry of treachery!

SON     He has killed me, mother.

Run away, I pray you.

Exit [Wife] crying ‘murder!’ [Exeunt Murderers]                (4.2.69-81)

 

Awful realisation and resignation: whither should I fly? where can I run to? there’s nowhere I can run. I have done no harm; this sounds as if she’s asking herself why should I run away, when in fact it’s a kind of bitter, weary self-reassurance that is no reassurance at all. I’m innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong; I haven’t hurt anyone. But that’s not enough, that doesn’t count for anything. I remember now I am in this earthly world, the so-called real world, where to do harm is often laudable—people get away with it, advance by it, are praised for it—whereas to do good sometime is accounted dangerous folly. Only fools—like that brave servant who came just now to give an almost certainly pointless warning—do good, and much good may it do them. Why then, alas, do I put up that womanly defence to say I have done no harm? What’s the point, protesting my innocence? It’s pathetic, womanly here suggesting weak, unworldly, and perhaps even the additional implication that it should be said through tears, a weeping protestation: but I haven’t done anything wrong!

 

Too late: what are these faces? who are you? the weirdness of the phrasing makes it creepy, especially if these murderers are like the killers of Banquo (or even the same men), a bit inept, out of their depth, steeling themselves for what they have to do by looking ferocious. Or, perhaps even more, if these are the real deal, hardened killers, psychopaths smiling at the prospect of what they’re about to do. No indication as to number; two at least, and it could well be more. Not impossible that one of them is Macbeth in disguise, a bold choice, or that one of them is Ross, which chills to the bone in its revelation of a moral universe utterly without loyalty, kindness, or honesty.

 

A question which almost has the quality of ritual, addressed to frightened women down the ages: where is your husband?It’s not a request for information, it’s an assertion of power, because it knows that the answer is, not here, I’m alone with little children, unprotected. Lady Macduff knows that, so she’s magnificently defiant: I hope in no place so unsanctified where such as thou mayst find him. Implication: you’re a devil, a monster; he’d have to be somewhere truly hellish for someone as appalling as you to be able to lay hands on him. A snarl, perhaps, but the insult barely registers: he’s a traitor. (So he’s a dead man. You’re in trouble.) And now the little boy, determined to defend his father from this terrible charge: thou liest, thou shag-haired villain! he’s speaking as a courtly little gentleman, as if he were challenging this dead-eyed, cold-blooded man to a duel, a trial of honour, by calling him a liar—he’s also saying, simply, don’t you say that about my dad! shag-haired is not uncommonly an epithet applied to assassins and other villains—long-haired lout? but it’s also quite a childish insult here; you’re ugly! Maybe it’s the insult that lands: what, you egg? kid thinks he can talk back to the big boys? young fry of treachery, traitor’s son. Fair game, like your mother. No stage direction, but it’s implicit: the boy’s killed, by whatever horrible means the production chooses. He has killed me, mother, heart-breaking incredulousness, this is for real, not playing any more, and it really hurts. But his last words are for his mum: run away, I pray you. She tries, cries murder, murder, murder—but the outcome’s clear. Whether she makes it offstage, pursued by the murderers, perhaps half-carrying her son, a baby, another child, or whether they’re all killed on stage—that’s Macduff’s family, dead, slaughtered in cold blood, on the orders of Macbeth.