The Good Soldier

This is the saddest story I have ever heard.  We had known the Ashburnhams for nine seasons of the town of Nauheim with an extreme intimacy—­or, rather with an acquaintanceship as loose and easy and yet as close as a good glove’s with your hand.  My wife and I knew Captain and Mrs Ashburnham as well as it was possible to know anybody, and yet, in another sense, we knew nothing at all about them.  This is, I believe, a state of things only possible with English people of whom, till today, when I sit down to puzzle out what I know of this sad affair, I knew nothing whatever.  Six months ago I had never been to England, and, certainly, I had never sounded the depths of an English heart.  I had known the shallows.

I don’t mean to say that we were not acquainted with many English people.  Living, as we perforce lived, in Europe, and being, as we perforce were, leisured Americans, which is as much as to say that we were un-American, we were thrown very much into the society of the nicer English.  Paris, you see, was our home.  Somewhere between Nice and Bordighera provided yearly winter quarters for us, and Nauheim always received us from July to September.  You will gather from this statement that one of us had, as the saying is, a “heart”, and, from the statement that my wife is dead, that she was the sufferer.

Captain Ashburnham also had a heart.  But, whereas a yearly month or so at Nauheim tuned him up to exactly the right pitch for the rest of the twelvemonth, the two months or so were only just enough to keep poor Florence alive from year to year.  The reason for his heart was, approximately, polo, or too much hard sportsmanship in his youth.  The reason for poor Florence’s broken years was a storm at sea upon our first crossing to Europe, and the immediate reasons for our imprisonment in that continent were doctor’s orders.  They said that even the short Channel crossing might well kill the poor thing.

When we all first met, Captain Ashburnham, home on sick leave from an India to which he was never to return, was thirty-three; Mrs Ashburnham Leonora —­was thirty-one.  I was thirty-six and poor Florence thirty.  Thus today Florence would have been thirty-nine and Captain Ashburnham forty-two; whereas I am forty-five and Leonora forty.  You will perceive, therefore, that our friendship has been a young-middle-aged affair, since we were all of us of quite quiet dispositions, the Ashburnhams being more particularly what in England it is the custom to call “quite good people”.

They were descended, as you will probably expect, from the Ashburnham who accompanied Charles I to the scaffold, and, as you must also expect with this class of English people, you would never have noticed it.  Mrs Ashburnham was a Powys; Florence was a Hurlbird of Stamford, Connecticut, where, as you know, they are more old-fashioned than even the inhabitants of Cranford, England, could have been.  I myself am a Dowell of Philadelphia, Pa., where, it is historically true, there are more old English families than you would find in any six English counties taken together.  I carry about with me, indeed—­as if it were the only thing that invisibly anchored me to any spot upon the globe—­the title deeds of my farm, which once covered several blocks between Chestnut and Walnut Streets.  These title deeds are of wampum, the grant of an Indian chief to the first Dowell, who left Farnham in Surrey in company with William Penn.  Florence’s people, as is so often the case with the inhabitants of Connecticut, came from the neighbourhood of Fordingbridge, where the Ashburnhams’ place is.  From there, at this moment, I am actually writing.

You may well ask why I write.  And yet my reasons are quite many.  For it is not unusual in human beings who have witnessed the sack of a city or the falling to pieces of a people to desire to set down what they have witnessed for the benefit of unknown heirs or of generations infinitely remote; or, if you please, just to get the sight out of their heads.

Some one has said that the death of a mouse from cancer is the whole sack of Rome by the Goths, and I swear to you that the breaking up of our little four-square coterie was such another unthinkable event.  Supposing that you should come upon us sitting together at one of the little tables in front of the club house, let us say, at Homburg, taking tea of an afternoon and watching the miniature golf, you would have said that, as human affairs go, we were an extraordinarily safe castle.  We were, if you will, one of those tall ships with the white sails upon a blue sea, one of those things that seem the proudest and the safest of all the beautiful and safe things that God has permitted the mind of men to frame.  Where better could one take refuge?  Where better?

Permanence?  Stability?  I can’t believe it’s gone.  I can’t believe that that long, tranquil life, which was just stepping a minuet, vanished in four crashing days at the end of nine years and six weeks.  Upon my word, yes, our intimacy was like a minuet, simply because on every possible occasion and in every possible circumstance we knew where to go, where to sit, which table we unanimously should choose; and we could rise and go, all four together, without a signal from any one of us, always to the music of the Kur orchestra, always in the temperate sunshine, or, if it rained, in discreet shelters.  No, indeed, it can’t be gone.  You can’t kill a minuet de la cour.  You may shut up the music-book, close the harpsichord; in the cupboard and presses the rats may destroy the white satin favours.  The mob may sack Versailles; the Trianon may fall, but surely the minuet—­the minuet itself is dancing itself away into the furthest stars, even as our minuet of the Hessian bathing places must be stepping itself still.  Isn’t there any heaven where old beautiful dances, old beautiful intimacies prolong themselves?  Isn’t there any Nirvana pervaded by the faint thrilling of instruments that have fallen into the dust of wormwood but that yet had frail, tremulous, and everlasting souls?

No, by God, it is false!  It wasn’t a minuet that we stepped; it was a prison—­a prison full of screaming hysterics, tied down so that they might not outsound the rolling of our carriage wheels as we went along the shaded avenues of the Taunus Wald.

And yet I swear by the sacred name of my creator that it was true.  It was true sunshine; the true music; the true splash of the fountains from the mouth of stone dolphins.  For, if for me we were four people with the same tastes, with the same desires, acting—­or, no, not acting—­sitting here and there unanimously, isn’t that the truth?  If for nine years I have possessed a goodly apple that is rotten at the core and discover its rottenness only in nine years and six months less four days, isn’t it true to say that for nine years I possessed a goodly apple?  So it may well be with Edward Ashburnham, with Leonora his wife and with poor dear Florence.  And, if you come to think of it, isn’t it a little odd that the physical rottenness of at least two pillars of our four-square house never presented itself to my mind as a menace to its security?  It doesn’t so present itself now though the two of them are actually dead.  I don’t know. . . .

I know nothing—­nothing in the world—­of the hearts of men.  I only know that I am alone—­horribly alone.  No hearthstone will ever again witness, for me, friendly intercourse.  No smoking-room will ever be other than peopled with incalculable simulacra amidst smoke wreaths.  Yet, in the name of God, what should I know if I don’t know the life of the hearth and of the smoking-room, since my whole life has been passed in those places?  The warm hearthside! —­Well, there was Florence:  I believe that for the twelve years her life lasted, after the storm that seemed irretrievably to have weakened her heart—­I don’t believe that for one minute she was out of my sight, except when she was safely tucked up in bed and I should be downstairs, talking to some good fellow or other in some lounge or smoking-room or taking my final turn with a cigar before going to bed.  I don’t, you understand, blame Florence.  But how can she have known what she knew?  How could she have got to know it?  To know it so fully.  Heavens!  There doesn’t seem to have been the actual time.  It must have been when I was taking my baths, and my Swedish exercises, being manicured.  Leading the life I did, of the sedulous, strained nurse, I had to do something to keep myself fit.  It must have been then!  Yet even that can’t have been enough time to get the tremendously long conversations full of worldly wisdom that Leonora has reported to me since their deaths.  And is it possible to imagine that during our prescribed walks in Nauheim and the neighbourhood she found time to carry on the protracted negotiations which she did carry on between Edward Ashburnham and his wife?  And isn’t it incredible that during all that time Edward and Leonora never spoke a word to each other in private?  What is one to think of humanity?

For I swear to you that they were the model couple.  He was as devoted as it was possible to be without appearing fatuous.  So well set up, with such honest blue eyes, such a touch of stupidity, such a warm goodheartedness!  And she—­so tall, so splendid in the saddle, so fair!  Yes, Leonora was extraordinarily fair and so extraordinarily the real thing that she seemed too good to be true.  You don’t, I mean, as a rule, get it all so superlatively together.  To be the county family, to look the county family, to be so appropriately and perfectly wealthy; to be so perfect in manner—­even just to the saving touch of insolence that seems to be necessary.  To have all that and to be all that!  No, it was too good to be true.  And yet, only this afternoon, talking over the whole matter she said to me:  “Once I tried to have a lover but I was so sick at the heart, so utterly worn out that I had to send him away.”  That struck me as the most amazing thing I had ever heard.  She said “I was actually in a man’s arms.  Such a nice chap!  Such a dear fellow!  And I was saying to myself, fiercely, hissing it between my teeth, as they say in novels—­and really clenching them together:  I was saying to myself:  ’Now, I’m in for it and I’ll really have a good time for once in my life—­for once in my life!’ It was in the dark, in a carriage, coming back from a hunt ball.  Eleven miles we had to drive!  And then suddenly the bitterness of the endless poverty, of the endless acting—­it fell on me like a blight, it spoilt everything.  Yes, I had to realize that I had been spoilt even for the good time when it came.  And I burst out crying and I cried and I cried for the whole eleven miles.  Just imagine me crying!  And just imagine me making a fool of the poor dear chap like that.  It certainly wasn’t playing the game, was it now?”

I don’t know; I don’t know; was that last remark of hers the remark of a harlot, or is it what every decent woman, county family or not county family, thinks at the bottom of her heart?  Or thinks all the time for the matter of that?  Who knows?

Yet, if one doesn’t know that at this hour and day, at this pitch of civilization to which we have attained, after all the preachings of all the moralists, and all the teachings of all the mothers to all the daughters in saecula saeculorum . . . but perhaps that is what all mothers teach all daughters, not with lips but with the eyes, or with heart whispering to heart.  And, if one doesn’t know as much as that about the first thing in the world, what does one know and why is one here?

I asked Mrs Ashburnham whether she had told Florence that and what Florence had said and she answered:—­“Florence didn’t offer any comment at all.  What could she say?  There wasn’t anything to be said.  With the grinding poverty we had to put up with to keep up appearances, and the way the poverty came about—­you know what I mean—­any woman would have been justified in taking a lover and presents too.  Florence once said about a very similar position—­she was a little too well-bred, too American, to talk about mine—­that it was a case of perfectly open riding and the woman could just act on the spur of the moment.  She said it in American of course, but that was the sense of it.  I think her actual words were:  ‘That it was up to her to take it or leave it. . . .’”

I don’t want you to think that I am writing Teddy Ashburnham down a brute.  I don’t believe he was.  God knows, perhaps all men are like that.  For as I’ve said what do I know even of the smoking-room?  Fellows come in and tell the most extraordinarily gross stories—­so gross that they will positively give you a pain.  And yet they’d be offended if you suggested that they weren’t the sort of person you could trust your wife alone with.  And very likely they’d be quite properly offended—­that is if you can trust anybody alone with anybody.  But that sort of fellow obviously takes more delight in listening to or in telling gross stories—­more delight than in anything else in the world.  They’ll hunt languidly and dress languidly and dine languidly and work without enthusiasm and find it a bore to carry on three minutes’ conversation about anything whatever and yet, when the other sort of conversation begins, they’ll laugh. and wake up and throw themselves about in their chairs.  Then, if they so delight in the narration, how is it possible that they can be offended—­and properly offended—­at the suggestion that they might make attempts upon your wife’s honour?  Or again:  Edward Ashburnham was the cleanest looking sort of chap;—­an excellent magistrate, a first rate soldier, one of the best landlords, so they said, in Hampshire, England.  To the poor and to hopeless drunkards, as I myself have witnessed, he was like a painstaking guardian.  And he never told a story that couldn’t have gone into the columns of the Field more than once or twice in all the nine years of my knowing him.  He didn’t even like hearing them; he would fidget and get up and go out to buy a cigar or something of that sort.  You would have said that he was just exactly the sort of chap that you could have trusted your wife with.  And I trusted mine and it was madness.  And yet again you have me.  If poor Edward was dangerous because of the chastity of his expressions—­and they say that is always the hall-mark of a libertine—­what about myself?  For I solemnly avow that not only have I never so much as hinted at an impropriety in my conversation in the whole of my days; and more than that, I will vouch for the cleanness of my thoughts and the absolute chastity of my life.  At what, then, does it all work out?  Is the whole thing a folly and a mockery?  Am I no better than a eunuch or is the proper man—­the man with the right to existence—­a raging stallion forever neighing after his neighbour’s womankind?

I don’t know.  And there is nothing to guide us.  And if everything is so nebulous about a matter so elementary as the morals of sex, what is there to guide us in the more subtle morality of all other personal contacts, associations, and activities?  Or are we meant to act on impulse alone?  It is all a darkness.