MALCOLM Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul
Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
By many of these trains hath sought to win me
Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me
From over-credulous haste; but God above
Deal between thee and me, for even now
I put myself to thy direction and
Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself
For strangers to my nature. (4.3.115-126)
Finally, relief: Malcolm’s been testing Macduff, to breaking point but now, at last, Macduff’s distress and despair at his apparent villainy has convinced Malcolm that his offer of help and support is genuine, that he’s not being played. This noble passion, this deeply felt, virtuous emotion, this child of integrity, arising out of a profound sense of right and wrong, and love for country has allayed all Malcolm’s suspicions and doubts, wiped the black scruples from his soul. He hasn’t been able to trust anyone for such a long time, and there’s a suggestion that this paranoid way of living too has itself been morally and mentally corrosive, an impoverishment of the soul. Malcolm’s now wholly certain that Macduff is on his side, is a genuinely good man, full of truth and honour, who only wants the best for Scotland and its rightful king. And now he can reveal that devilish Macbeth by many of these trains hath sought to win me into his power: he’s sent agents, spies, to manipulate Malcolm, to trick him, to convince him to show his hand, perhaps to return to Scotland as a puppet, or simply to be murdered. (Devilish Macbeth almost in passing; Macbeth’s association with hell is going to become more prominent from now on.) Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste: I’ve learned not to trust anyone or to believe anything too quickly; it’s simply common sense. It’s how I’ve stayed alive. A poignant revelation, especially if Malcolm is very young: he’s been terrified, dissembling, unable to trust anyone; alive in exile, and so lonely. But God above deal between thee and me: we’re square, we can speak truthfully to each other, not keep anything back. I put myself to thy direction, submit to you (as if, perhaps, to a father, or certainly to an older-brother figure; someone else can be in charge for a bit, make the decisions) and I unspeak my own detraction. I take back everything I just said about myself, all the faults and appalling sins I accused myself of. I deny them utterly, abjure the taints and blames I laid upon myself for strangers to my nature. It was all a calculated lie, a pretence; I’m nothing at all like the avaricious, lustful, amoral monster I just described.
