SIWARD                     Then he is dead?

ROSS               Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow

Must not be measured by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

SIWARD         Had he his hurts before?

ROSS                           Ay, on the front.

SIWARD         Why then, God’s soldier be he.

Had I as many sons as I have hairs,

I would not wish them to a fairer death;

And so his knell is knolled.

MALCOLM      He’s worth more sorrow,

And that I’ll spend for him.

SIWARD         He’s worth no more.

They say he parted well and paid his score,

And so God be with him.       (5.11.9-19)

 

A slightly odd exchange that can jar a bit? It’s taking up time, delaying Macduff’s entrance, increasing suspense—and also, if the fight to the death between Macduff and Macbeth has been full-on and protracted, enabling the actor playing Macduff to catch his breath. Siward learns of the death of his son, so it could be a version of Macduff being told of his family’s murder—and it sort of is, with Siward asking for it to be repeated: then he is dead? but it’s also the opposite, partly because Young Siward is at least a teenager, not a young child. Ross is gentle: ay, yes, he’s dead, and brought off the field. His body is safe, he’s saying, not lost; you’ll be able to bury him. And your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end. If you were to grieve in proportion to how good a death he made, what a fine young man he was, then you’d be grieving for ever—and so you won’t be able to. It’s a knotty, rather bittersweet attempt at compliment and consolation.

 

But Siward the warrior father has other concerns: had he his hurts before? He’s not asking whether his son was wounded before his death, which is illogical, but rather, was he wounded on the front of his body—that is, not on his back, as he turned and ran away. A gesture will probably be needed to clarify: Siward wants to know that his son died fighting, brave and honourable. Ross understands: ay, on the front; he was wounded on the face. Siward might perhaps crumple a little at that, imagining the hurt to his boy. But he pulls himself together, unbending, old-school: why then, God’s soldier be he, as if such wounds on his face were the sign of the cross in baptism, enrolling Young Siward in the heavenly host, a warrior for God, eternally. Had I as many sons as I have hairs—heirs, the ear partly hears—I would not wish them to a fairer death; he died in a just cause, bravely and honourably, and that’s all I can ask and hope for of a son of mine. The implication might be that Young Siward was an only son? (It’s an anticipation of Volumnia’s ferocity in support of her warrior son Coriolanus, an extreme stoicism.) And so his knell is knolled, his passing bell is rung; he’s dead, in effect, but also, perhaps, and that’s the end of the matter, that’s all that can be said.

 

Malcolm speaks up, again putting down a marker of compassion and sensitivity: he’s worth more sorrow than his father has been able or willing to express, and that I’ll spend for him. He will mourn Young Siward, and by implication all those who have lost their lives in his cause. He’s recalling Macduff, again, the capacity for hurt and feeling, sorrow and love, of feeling as a man. Either Siward’s grateful, accepting the compliment that the man who is about to be crowned king will mourn his son, you can’t ask for a greater tribute than that, or else he’s standing his ground: he’s worth no more than I’ve just said. I’d prefer the former, and also for Siward to be only just holding it together, as he consoles himself: they say he parted well and paid his score, and so God be with him. He died bravely. Bless my boy.