Enter Servant
MACBETH The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!
Where gott’st thou that goose-look?
SERVANT There is ten thousand—
MACBETH Geese, villain?
SRVANT Soldiers, sir.
MACBETH Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-livered boy. What soldiers, patch?
Death of thy soul!—those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
SERVANT The English force, so please you.
MACBETH Take thy face hence.
[Exit Servant] (5.3.11-21)
The main point here is that the Servant is pale with fear, which is not surprising, given the mood that Macbeth is in, let alone taking into account the news that the Servant has to deliver. He is a cream-faced loon, which is far less exciting and also less messy than it sounds, a loon simply being lout, peasant, villain, a mild insult for someone of low status. And he’s cream-faced because he’s pale. (Macbeth’s just said that he won’t taint with fear, blench, and now here’s someone who has apparently lost his colour with fright, the blood drained from his face.) So the devil damn thee black, as the opposite of white; in effect, Macbeth’s saying, go to hell, perhaps to be blackened with smoke and fire, you pasty-faced idiot. Where gott’st thou that goose-look? Why are you looking so pale (like a white-feathered goose) and also, why are you looking so pathetic and weak and foolish, like a silly goose? The servant tries to stammer it out—there is ten thousand—but Macbeth’s impatient as well as irascible: well, spit it out, ten thousand what? Geese? (There might be sycophantic laughs from his attendants; if he’s bullying the servant, at least he’s not bullying them.)
Soldiers, sir. Ten thousand soldiers. Not welcome news. But Macbeth—brushes it off? refuses to believe it? or at least to be moved by it. A nasty suggestion, to go prick thy face, to make it bleed, and so over-red thy fear with blood. Get a grip, pull yourself together, show some gumption. (Red the colour of courage.) Thou lily-livered boy, the liver being the seat of passion, which should be red with blood, not pale with fear—unlike me, the big man, in control, invincible. What soldiers, patch? A name for a clown. Death of thy soul (it’s an insulting oath: damn you to hell?) those linen cheeks of thine—pale again, and also soft, perhaps even womanly—are counsellors to fear. You’re provoking fear, alarming people, as well as frightening yourself. What soldiers, whey-face? (Another sycophantic laugh, possibly.) Weak, left-over, watery. No longer even cream. But the Servant has to squeak it out somehow: it’s the English force, so please you. They’ve come, ten thousand of them. Soldiers, for real. Take thy face hence. Get out of here. Piss off, loser.
