MACDUFF                  He has no children. All my pretty ones?

Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?

What, all my pretty chickens and their dam

At one fell swoop?

MALCOLM                  Dispute it like a man.

MACDUFF      I shall do so;

But I must also feel it as a man.

I cannot but remember such things were

That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on,

And would not take their part? Sinful MacDuff,

They were all struck for thee. Naught that I am,

Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now.        (4.3.217-229)

The agony and pity of it. Macduff, in stunned disbelief, trying to comprehend what’s happened, to his family and to him, to articulate the magnitude of this loss. He has no children: he can be Malcolm, being rebuked for his (well-meaning) attempt at consolation, there’s no way you can understand this, a young man like you, with no family. Or, perhaps more resonantly and with greater bitterness, he is Macbeth, capable of such wanton, callous cruelty because he cannot comprehend what a loss like this would feel like. I probably prefer it to be Macbeth, especially if a production is playing the suggestion that the Macbeths have lost a child; it gives Macduff’s bitter cry a particular edge, a hint of cruelty even in his grief.

Then the heart breaks again. All my pretty ones? the little babes, a baby, that cheeky boy. Surely not all of them. Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? Macbeth the bird of prey, merciless, ravenous and ravening, a raider of nests, tearer of flesh, claws and terrible sharp beak. (The birds are back, in this birdiest of plays.) The chicken coop violated and destroyed, homely, humble, and the pretty chickens and their dam, the wee chicks and their mother, unable to shelter her babes at the last, slaughtered, cruel violence plummeting from the sky. Blood on soft white feathers, delicate precious eggs shattered, wholesale destruction for the sake of it.

Malcolm tries again: dispute it like a man. Man up. Fight back; avenge them as a father, husband, man. Yes, concedes Macduff. I shall do so. But I must also feel it as a man. Heart breaks, yet again. Not the killing machine, but flesh and blood, human, yes, but also father and husband, precious, cherished ways of being a man in the world. The man who feels as a man, at the broken heart of himself. This is a new masculine identity in this play, a man who feels, not the shamed, anxious, defensive, violent masculinity of Macbeth. I can’t help it, Macduff says, I can’t help remembering such things were that were most precious to me. He sees the children’s faces, his wife; he sees their life as a family, a shared history and an identity. That was my world, he says, all that I treasured. And it’s gone, and gone in such horror. How could it happen? How could a merciful God let it happen? Did heaven look on, and would not take their part, as children were slaughtered? Who does that? And it’s my fault, not just because I wasn’t there, but because they were only targeted because of me, because I’m here, because I’ve gone against Macbeth. They’ve paid the price, not me. Sinful Macduff, they were all struck for thee. Naught that I am, for my faults, not for their own demerits, but for mine, fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now. I couldn’t keep them safe. I failed them.

The agony and pity of it.