The Good Soldier

by Ford Madox Ford

  ‘You might just take that wire to Leonora.’ And he looked at me with a direct, challenging, brow-beating glare. I guess he could see in my eyes that I didn’t intend to hinder him. Why should I hinder him?

  I didn’t think he was wanted in the world, let his confounded tenants, his rifle-associations, his drunkards, reclaimed and unreclaimed, get on as they liked. Not all the hundreds and hundreds of them deserved that that poor devil should go on suffering for their sakes.

  When he saw that I did not intend to interfere with him his eyes became soft and almost affectionate. He remarked:

  ‘So long, old man, I must have a bit of a rest, you know.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say, ‘God bless you’, for I also am a sentimentalist. But I thought that perhaps that would not be quite English good form, so I trotted off with the telegram to Leonora. She was quite pleased with it.

  V

  I call this the Saddest Story, rather than ‘The Ashburnham Tragedy’, just because it is so sad, just because there was no current to draw things along to a swift and inevitable end. There is about it none of the elevation that accompanies tragedy; there is about it no nemesis, no destiny. Here were two noble people – for I am convinced that both Edward and Leonora had noble natures – here, then, were two noble natures, drifting down life, like fire-ships afloat on a lagoon and causing miseries, heartaches, agony of the mind and death. And they themselves steadily deteriorated. And why? For what purpose? To point what lesson? It is all a darkness.

  There is not even any villain in the story – for even Major Basil, the husband of the lady who next, and really, comforted the unfortunate Edward – even Major Basil was not a villain in this piece. He was a slack, loose, shiftless sort of fellow – but he did not do anything to Edward. Whilst they were in the same station in Burma he borrowed a good deal of money – though, really, since Major Basil had no particular vices, it was difficult to know why he wanted it. He collected – different types of horses’ bits from the earliest times to the present day – but, since he did not prosecute even this occupation with any vigour, he cannot have needed much money for the acquirement, say, of the bit of Genghis Khan’s charger138 – if Genghis Khan had a charger. And when I say that he borrowed a good deal of money from Edward I do not mean to say that he had more than a thousand pounds from him during the five years that the connection lasted. Edward, of course, did not have a great deal of money; Leonora was seeing to that. Still, he may have had five hundred pounds a year English, for his menus plaisirs139 – for his regimental subscriptions and for keeping his men smart. Leonora hated that; she would have preferred to buy dresses for herself or to have devoted the money to paying off a mortgage. Still, with her sense of justice, she saw that, since she was managing a property bringing in three thousand a year with a view to re-establishing it as a property of five thousand a year and since the property really, if not legally, belonged to Edward, it was reasonable and just that Edward should get a slice of his own. Of course she had the devil of a job.

  I don’t know that I have got the financial details exactly right. I am a pretty good head at figures, but my mind, still, sometimes mixes up pounds with dollars and I get a figure wrong. Anyhow, the proposition was something like this: Properly worked and without rebates to the tenants and keeping up schools and things, the Bramshaw estate should have brought in about five thousand a year when Edward had it. It brought in actually about four. (I am talking in pounds, not dollars.) Edward’s excesses with the Spanish Lady had reduced its value to about three – as the maximum figure, without reductions. Leonora wanted to get it back to five.

  She was, of course, very young to be faced with such a proposition – twenty-four is not a very advanced age. So she did things with a youthful vigour that she would, very likely, have made more merciful, if she had known more about life. She got Edward remarkably on the hop. He had to face her in a London hotel, when he crept back from Monte Carlo with his poor tail between his poor legs. As far as I can make out she cut short his first mumblings and his first attempts at affectionate speech with words something like:

  ‘We’re on the verge of ruin. Do you intend to let me pull things together? If not I shall retire to Hendon on my jointure.’ (Hendon represented a convent to which she occasionally went for what is called a ‘retreat’ in Catholic circles.)

  And poor dear Edward knew nothing – absolutely nothing. He did not know how much money he had, as he put it, ‘blued’ at the tables. It might have been a quarter of a million for all he remembered. He did not know whether she knew about La Dolciquita or whether she imagined that he had gone off yachting or had stayed at Monte Carlo. He was just dumb and he just wanted to get into a hole and not have to talk. Leonora did not make him talk and she said nothing herself.

  I do not know much about English legal procedure – I cannot, I mean, give technical details of how they tied him up. But I know that, two days later, without her having said more than I have reported to you, Leonora and her attorney had become the trustees, as I believe it is called, of all Edward’s property, and there was an end of Edward as the good landlord and father of his people. He went out.

  Leonora then had three thousand a year at her disposal. She occupied Edward with getting himself transferred to a part of his regiment that was in Burma – if that is the right way to put it. She herself had an interview, lasting a week or so – with Edward’s land-steward. She made him understand that the estate would have to yield up to its last penny. Before they left for India she had let Bramshaw for seven years at a thousand a year. She sold two Vandykes140 and a little silver for eleven thousand pounds and she raised, on mortgage, twenty-nine thousand. That went to Edward’s money-lending friends in Monte Carlo. So she had to get the twenty-nine thousand back, for she did not regard the Vandykes and the silver as things she would have to replace. They were just frills to the Ashburnham vanity. Edward cried for two days over the disappearance of his ancestors and then she wished she had not done it; but it did not teach her anything and it lessened such esteem as she had for him. She did not also understand that to let Bramshaw affected him with a feeling of physical soiling – that it was almost as bad for him as if a woman belonging to him had become a prostitute. That was how it did affect him; but I dare say she felt just as bad about the Spanish dancer.

  So she went at it. They were eight years in India, and during the whole of that time she insisted that they must be self-supporting – they had to live on his Captain’s pay, plus the extra allowance for being at the front. She gave him the five hundred a year for Ashburnham frills, as she called it to herself – and she considered she was doing him very well.

  Indeed, in a way, she did him very well – but it was not his way. She was always buying him expensive things which, as it were, she took off her own back. I have, for instance, spoken of Edward’s leather cases. Well, they were not Edward’s at all; they were Leonora’s manifestations. He liked to be clean, but he preferred, as it were, to be threadbare. She never understood that, and all that pigskin was her idea of a reward to him for putting her up to a little speculation by which she made eleven hundred pounds. She did, herself, the threadbare business. When they went up to a place called Simla,141 where, as I understand, it is cool in the summer and very social – when they went up to Simla for their healths it was she who had him prancing around, as we should say in the United States, on a thousand-dollar horse with the gladdest of glad rags all over him. She herself used to go into ‘retreat’. I believe that was very good for her health and it was also very inexpensive.

  It was probably also very good for Edward’s health, because he pranced about mostly with Mrs Basil, who was a nice woman and very, very kind to him. I suppose she was his mistress, but I never heard it from Edward, of course. I seem to gather that they carried it on in a high romantic fashion, very proper to both of them – or, at any rate, for Edward; she seems to have been a tender and gentle soul who did what he wanted. I do not mean
to say that she was without character; that was her job, to do what Edward wanted. So I figured it out, that for those five years, Edward wanted long passages of deep affection kept up in long, long talks and that every now and then they ‘fell,’ which would give Edward an opportunity for remorse and an excuse to lend the Major another fifty. I don’t think that Mrs Basil considered it to be ‘falling’; she just pitied him and loved him.

  You see, Leonora and Edward had to talk about something during all these years. You cannot be absolutely dumb when you live with a person unless you are an inhabitant of the North of England or the State of Maine. So Leonora imagined the cheerful device of letting him see the accounts of his estate and discussing them with him. He did not discuss them much; he was trying to behave prettily. But it was old Mr Mumford – the farmer who did not pay his rent – that threw Edward into Mrs Basil’s arms. Mrs Basil came upon Edward in the dusk, in the Burmese garden, with all sorts of flowers and things. And he was cutting up that crop – with his sword, not a walking-stick. He was also carrying on and cursing in a way you would not believe.

  She ascertained that an old gentleman called Mumford had been ejected from his farm and had been given a little cottage rent-free, where he lived on ten shillings a week from a farmers’ benevolent society, supplemented by seven that was being allowed him by the Ashburnham trustees. Edward had just discovered that fact from the estate accounts. Leonora had left them in his dressing-room and he had begun to read them before taking off his marching-kit. That was how he came to have a sword. Leonora considered that she had been unusually generous to old Mr Mumford in allowing him to inhabit a cottage, rent-free, and in giving him seven shillings a week. Anyhow, Mrs Basil had never seen a man in such a state as Edward was. She had been passionately in love with him for quite a time, and he had been longing for her sympathy and admiration with a passion as deep. That was how they came to speak about it, in the Burmese garden, under the pale sky, with sheaves of severed vegetation, misty and odorous, in the night around their feet. I think they behaved themselves with decorum for quite a time after that, though Mrs Basil spent so many hours over the accounts of the Ashburnham estate that she got the name of every field by heart. Edward had a huge map of his lands in his harness-room and Major Basil did not seem to mind. I believe that people do not mind much in lonely stations.

  It might have lasted for ever if the Major had not been made what is called a brevet-colonel during the shuffling of troops that went on just before the South African War.142 He was sent off somewhere else and, of course, Mrs Basil could not stay with Edward. Edward ought, I suppose, to have gone to the Transvaal. It would have done him a great deal of good to get killed. But Leonora would not let him; she had heard awful stories of the extravagance of the hussar regiment in wartime – how they left hundred-bottle cases of champagne, at five guineas a bottle, on the veldt and so on. Besides, she preferred to see how Edward was spending his five hundred a year. I don’t mean to say that Edward had any grievance in that. He was never a man of the deeds of heroism sort and it was just as good for him to be sniped at up in the hills of the North Western frontier, as to be shot at by an old gentleman in a top-hat at the bottom of some spruit.143 Those are more or less his words about it. I believe he quite distinguished himself over there. At any rate, he had had his D.S.O. and was made a brevet-major.

  Leonora, however, was not in the least keen on his soldiering. She hated also his deeds of heroism. One of their bitterest quarrels came after he had, for the second time, in the Red Sea, jumped overboard from the troopship and rescued a private soldier. She stood it the first time and even complimented him. But the Red Sea was awful, that trip, and the private soldiers seemed to develop a suicidal craze. It got on Leonora’s nerves; she figured Edward, for the rest of that trip, jumping overboard every ten minutes. And the mere cry of ‘Man overboard’ is a disagreeable, alarming and disturbing thing. The ship gets stopped and there are all sorts of shouts. And Edward would not promise not to do it again, though, fortunately, they struck a streak of cooler weather when they were in the Persian Gulf. Leonora had got it into her head that Edward was trying to commit suicide, so I guess it was pretty awful for her when he would not give the promise. Leonora ought never to have been on that troopship; but she got there somehow, as an economy.

  Major Basil discovered his wife’s relation with Edward just before he was sent to his other station. I don’t know whether that was a blackmailer’s adroitness or just a trick of destiny. He may have known of it all the time or he may not. At any rate, he got hold of, just about then, some letters and things. It cost Edward three hundred pounds immediately. I do not know how it was arranged; I cannot imagine how even a blackmailer can make his demands. I suppose there is some sort of way of saving your face. I figure the Major as disclosing the letters to Edward with furious oaths, then accepting his explanations that the letters were perfectly innocent if the wrong construction were not put upon them. Then the Major would say: ‘I say, old chap, I’m deuced hard up. Couldn’t you lend me three hundred or so?’ I fancy that was how it was. And, year by year, after that there would come a letter from the Major, saying that he was deuced hard up and couldn’t Edward lend him three hundred or so?

  Edward was pretty hard hit when Mrs Basil had to go away. He really had been very fond of her, and he remained faithful to her memory for quite a long time. And Mrs Basil had loved him very much and continued to cherish a hope of reunion with him. Three days ago there came a quite proper but very lamentable letter from her to Leonora, asking to be given particulars as to Edward’s death. She had read the advertisement of it in an Indian paper. I think she must have been a very nice woman…

  And then the Ashburnhams were moved somewhere up towards a place or a district called Chitral. I am no good at geography of the Indian Empire. By that time they had settled down into a model couple and they never spoke in private to each other. Leonora had given up even showing the accounts of the Ashburnham estate to Edward. He thought that that was because she had piled up such a lot of money that she did not want him to know how she was getting on any more. But, as a matter of fact, after five or six years it had penetrated to her mind that it was painful to Edward to have to look on at the accounts of his estate and have no hand in the management of it. She was trying to do him a kindness. And, up in Chitral, poor dear little Maisie Maidan came along…

  That was the most unsettling to Edward of all his affairs. It made him suspect that he was inconstant. The affair with the Dolciquita he had sized up as a short attack of madness like hydrophobia. His relations with Mrs Basil had not seemed to him to imply moral turpitude of a gross kind. The husband had been complaisant; they had really loved each other; his wife was very cruel to him and had long ceased to be a wife to him. He thought that Mrs Basil had been his soul mate, separated from him by an unkind fate – something sentimental of that sort.

  But he discovered that, whilst he was still writing long weekly letters to Mrs Basil, he was beginning to be furiously impatient if he missed seeing Maisie Maidan during the course of the day. He discovered himself watching the doorways with impatience; he discovered that he disliked her boy husband very much for hours at a time. He discovered that he was getting up at unearthly hours in order to have time, later in the morning, to go for a walk with Maisie Maidan. He discovered himself using little slang words that she used and attaching a sentimental value to those words. These, you understand, were discoveries that came so late that he could do nothing but drift. He was losing weight; his eyes were beginning to fall in; he had touches of bad fever. He was, as he described it, pipped.

  And, one ghastly hot day, he suddenly heard himself say to Leonora:

  ‘I say, couldn’t we take Mrs Maidan with us to Europe and drop her at Nauheim?’

  He hadn’t had the least idea of saying that to Leonora. He had merely been standing, looking at an illustrated paper, waiting for dinner. Dinner was twenty minutes late or the Ashburnhams would not have been
alone together. No, he hadn’t had the least idea of framing that speech. He had just been standing in a silent agony of fear, of longing, of heat, of fever. He was thinking that they were going back to Bramshaw in a month and that Maisie Maidan was going to remain behind and die. And then, that had come out.

  The punkah swished in the darkened room; Leonora lay exhausted and motionless in her cane lounge; neither of them stirred. They were both at that time very ill in indefinite ways.

  And then Leonora said:

  ‘Yes. I promised it to Charlie Maidan this afternoon. I have offered to pay her ex’s144 myself.’

  Edward just saved himself from saying: ‘Good God!’ You see, he had not the least idea of what Leonora knew – about Maisie, about Mrs Basil, even about La Dolciquita. It was a pretty enigmatic situation for him. It struck him that Leonora must be intending to manage his loves as she managed his money affairs and it made her more hateful to him – and more worthy of respect.

  Leonora, at any rate, had managed his money to some purpose. She had spoken to him, a week before, for the first time in several years – about money. She had made twenty-two thousand pounds out of the Bramshaw land and seven by the letting of Bramshaw furnished. By fortunate investments – in which Edward had helped her – she had made another six or seven thousand that might well become more. The mortgages were all paid off, so that, except for the departure of the two Vandykes and the silver, they were as well off as they had been before the Dolciquita had acted the locust. It was Leonora’s great achievement. She laid the figures before Edward, who maintained an unbroken silence.

  ‘I propose,’ she said, ‘that you should resign from the Army and that we should go back to Bramshaw. We are both too ill to stay here any longer.’

  Edward said nothing at all.

  ‘This,’ Leonora continued passionlessly, ‘is the great day of my life.’ Edward said: