ROSS [To Malcolm] Your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight
To doff their dire distresses.
MALCOLM Be’t their comfort
We are coming thither. Gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men—
An older and a better soldier none
That Christendom gives out.
ROSS Would I could answer
This comfort with the like. But I have words
That would be howled out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them. (4.3.187-196)
It seems that things are moving in Scotland, with the possibility of an uprising against Macbeth, and Malcolm’s eye in Scotland, the sight of him, news of his presence and his backing, would create soldiers; people would feel emboldened, rally to his cause. He’d focus the resistance. Even the women would fight, in order to cast off their dire distresses, their troubles and oppressions. (Ross betrays what’s really on his mind, again: the ill-treatment and suffering of women.) And Malcolm’s glad to be able to step up: be’t their comfort we are coming thither. We’re practically on our way, we’re ready, this is it! I can give you good news in this respect! Gracious England hath lent us good Siward and ten thousand men—an older and a better soldier none that Christendom gives out. I’ve got a proper army, ten thousand men, backed by the English crown, and it’s being led by a battle-hardened warrior, an experienced general, none other than Siward! (The implication is that Ross should have heard of him, should be particularly cheered and reassured by this.)
But Ross can’t put it off any longer, he’s got to do it, and so he makes himself say it, or at least ready himself to, preparing them as best he can for terrible news. Would I could answer this comfort with the like. I wish I had something positive to say, good news the equal of what you’ve just said, about the troops. But I have words that would be howled out in the desert air, where hearing should not latch them. What I have to say is so appalling that it goes beyond mere speech, mere words; these words should be howled, not spoken, a scream into the void, the desert air, where they could go unheard, not caught and held by any ear, where no one could hear this horror. (Howl is the word for grief beyond words, or at least beyond articulation; pure sound, pure pain. Howl, howl, howl, says Lear, the body of his daughter in his arms, and it’s not clear whether he says howl or simply howls. That’s the agony that Ross knows he’s about to unleash.) These heavy words I’ve been carrying, that I’ve now got to speak, and that you have now got to hear. I’ve got to say something which is almost, which should be, but is not quite, beyond words, in its horror. And I have to say it.
