The Good Soldier

It was a very hot summer, in August, 1904; and Florence had already been taking the baths for a month.  I don’t know how it feels to be a patient at one of those places.  I never was a patient anywhere.  I daresay the patients get a home feeling and some sort of anchorage in the spot.  They seem to like the bath attendants, with their cheerful faces, their air of authority, their white linen.  But, for myself, to be at Nauheim gave me a sense—­what shall I say?—­a sense almost of nakedness—­the nakedness that one feels on the sea-shore or in any great open space.  I had no attachments, no accumulations.  In one’s own home it is as if little, innate sympathies draw one to particular chairs that seem to enfold one in an embrace, or take one along particular streets that seem friendly when others may be hostile.  And, believe me, that feeling is a very important part of life.  I know it well, that have been for so long a wanderer upon the face of public resorts.  And one is too polished up.  Heaven knows I was never an untidy man.  But the feeling that I had when, whilst poor Florence was taking her morning bath, I stood upon the carefully swept steps of the Englischer Hof, looking at the carefully arranged trees in tubs upon the carefully arranged gravel whilst carefully arranged people walked past in carefully calculated gaiety, at the carefully calculated hour, the tall trees of the public gardens, going up to the right; the reddish stone of the baths—­or were they white half-timber châlets?  Upon my word I have forgotten, I who was there so often.  That will give you the measure of how much I was in the landscape.  I could find my way blindfolded to the hot rooms, to the douche rooms, to the fountain in the centre of the quadrangle where the rusty water gushes out.  Yes, I could find my way blindfolded.  I know the exact distances.  From the Hotel Regina you took one hundred and eighty-seven paces, then, turning sharp, left-handed, four hundred and twenty took you straight down to the fountain.  From the Englischer Hof, starting on the sidewalk, it was ninety-seven paces and the same four hundred and twenty, but turning lefthanded this time.

And now you understand that, having nothing in the world to do—­but nothing whatever!  I fell into the habit of counting my footsteps.  I would walk with Florence to the baths.  And, of course, she entertained me with her conversation.  It was, as I have said, wonderful what she could make conversation out of.  She walked very lightly, and her hair was very nicely done, and she dressed beautifully and very expensively.  Of course she had money of her own, but I shouldn’t have minded.  And yet you know I can’t remember a single one of her dresses.  Or I can remember just one, a very simple one of blue figured silk—­a Chinese pattern—­very full in the skirts and broadening out over the shoulders.  And her hair was copper-coloured, and the heels of her shoes were exceedingly high, so that she tripped upon the points of her toes.  And when she came to the door of the bathing place, and when it opened to receive her, she would look back at me with a little coquettish smile, so that her cheek appeared to be caressing her shoulder.

I seem to remember that, with that dress, she wore an immensely broad Leghorn hat—­like the Chapeau de Paille of Rubens, only very white.  The hat would be tied with a lightly knotted scarf of the same stuff as her dress.  She knew how to give value to her blue eyes.  And round her neck would be some simple pink, coral beads.  And her complexion had a perfect clearness, a perfect smoothness . . .

Yes, that is how I most exactly remember her, in that dress, in that hat, looking over her shoulder at me so that the eyes flashed very blue—­dark pebble blue . . .

And, what the devil!  For whose benefit did she do it?  For that of the bath attendant? of the passers-by?  I don’t know.  Anyhow, it can’t have been for me, for never, in all the years of her life, never on any possible occasion, or in any other place did she so smile to me, mockingly, invitingly.  Ah, she was a riddle; but then, all other women are riddles.  And it occurs to me that some way back I began a sentence that I have never finished . . .  It was about the feeling that I had when I stood on the steps of my hotel every morning before starting out to fetch Florence back from the bath.  Natty, precise, well-brushed, conscious of being rather small amongst the long English, the lank Americans, the rotund Germans, and the obese Russian Jewesses, I should stand there, tapping a cigarette on the outside of my case, surveying for a moment the world in the sunlight.  But a day was to come when I was never to do it again alone.  You can imagine, therefore, what the coming of the Ashburnhams meant to me.  I have forgotten the aspect of many things, but I shall never forget the aspect of the dining-room of the Hotel Excelsior on that evening—­and on so many other evenings.  Whole castles have vanished from my memory, whole cities that I have never visited again, but that white room, festooned with papier-maché fruits and flowers; the tall windows; the many tables; the black screen round the door with three golden cranes flying upward on each panel; the palm-tree in the centre of the room; the swish of the waiter’s feet; the cold expensive elegance; the mien of the diners as they came in every evening—­their air of earnestness as if they must go through a meal prescribed by the Kur authorities and their air of sobriety as if they must seek not by any means to enjoy their meals—­those things I shall not easily forget.  And then, one evening, in the twilight, I saw Edward Ashburnham lounge round the screen into the room.  The head waiter, a man with a face all grey—­in what subterranean nooks or corners do people cultivate those absolutely grey complexions?—­went with the timorous patronage of these creatures towards him and held out a grey ear to be whispered into.  It was generally a disagreeable ordeal for newcomers but Edward Ashburnham bore it like an Englishman and a gentleman.  I could see his lips form a word of three syllables—­remember I had nothing in the world to do but to notice these niceties—­and immediately I knew that he must be Edward Ashburnham, Captain, Fourteenth Hussars, of Branshaw House, Branshaw Teleragh.  I knew it because every evening just before dinner, whilst I waited in the hall, I used, by the courtesy of Monsieur Schontz, the proprietor, to inspect the little police reports that each guest was expected to sign upon taking a room.

The head waiter piloted him immediately to a vacant table, three away from my own—­the table that the Grenfalls of Falls River, N.J., had just vacated.  It struck me that that was not a very nice table for the newcomers, since the sunlight, low though it was, shone straight down upon it, and the same idea seemed to come at the same moment into Captain Ashburnham’s head.  His face hitherto had, in the wonderful English fashion, expressed nothing whatever.  Nothing.  There was in it neither joy nor despair; neither hope nor fear; neither boredom nor satisfaction.  He seemed to perceive no soul in that crowded room; he might have been walking in a jungle.  I never came across such a perfect expression before and I never shall again.  It was insolence and not insolence; it was modesty and not modesty.  His hair was fair, extraordinarily ordered in a wave, running from the left temple to the right; his face was a light brick-red, perfectly uniform in tint up to the roots of the hair itself; his yellow moustache was as stiff as a toothbrush and I verily believe that he had his black smoking jacket thickened a little over the shoulder-blades so as to give himself the air of the slightest possible stoop.  It would be like him to do that; that was the sort of thing he thought about.  Martingales, Chiffney bits, boots; where you got the best soap, the best brandy, the name of the chap who rode a plater down the Khyber cliffs; the spreading power of number three shot before a charge of number four powder . . . by heavens, I hardly ever heard him talk of anything else.  Not in all the years that I knew him did I hear him talk of anything but these subjects.  Oh, yes, once he told me that I could buy my special shade of blue ties cheaper from a firm in Burlington Arcade than from my own people in New York.  And I have bought my ties from that firm ever since.  Otherwise I should not remember the name of the Burlington Arcade.  I wonder what it looks like.  I have never seen it.  I imagine it to be two immense rows of pillars, like those of the Forum at Rome, with Edward Ashburnham striding down between them.  But it probably isn’t—­the least like that.  Once also he advised me to buy Caledonian Deferred, since they were due to rise.  And I did buy them and they did rise.  But of how he got the knowledge I haven’t the faintest idea.  It seemed to drop out of the blue sky.

And that was absolutely all that I knew of him until a month ago—­that and the profusion of his cases, all of pigskin and stamped with his initials, E. F. A. There were gun cases, and collar cases, and shirt cases, and letter cases and cases each containing four bottles of medicine; and hat cases and helmet cases.  It must have needed a whole herd of the Gadarene swine to make up his outfit.  And, if I ever penetrated into his private room it would be to see him standing, with his coat and waistcoat off and the immensely long line of his perfectly elegant trousers from waist to boot heel.  And he would have a slightly reflective air and he would be just opening one kind of case and just closing another.

Good God, what did they all see in him? for I swear there was all there was of him, inside and out; though they said he was a good soldier.  Yet, Leonora adored him with a passion that was like an agony, and hated him with an agony that was as bitter as the sea.  How could he arouse anything like a sentiment, in anybody?

What did he even talk to them about—­when they were under four eyes? —­Ah, well, suddenly, as if by a flash of inspiration, I know.  For all good soldiers are sentimentalists—­all good soldiers of that type.  Their profession, for one thing, is full of the big words, courage, loyalty, honour, constancy.  And I have given a wrong impression of Edward Ashburnham if I have made you think that literally never in the course of our nine years of intimacy did he discuss what he would have called “the graver things.”  Even before his final outburst to me, at times, very late at night, say, he has blurted out something that gave an insight into the sentimental view of the cosmos that was his.  He would say how much the society of a good woman could do towards redeeming you, and he would say that constancy was the finest of the virtues.  He said it very stiffly, of course, but still as if the statement admitted of no doubt.

Constancy!  Isn’t that the queer thought?  And yet, I must add that poor dear Edward was a great reader—­he would pass hours lost in novels of a sentimental type—­novels in which typewriter girls married Marquises and governesses Earls.  And in his books, as a rule, the course of true love ran as smooth as buttered honey.  And he was fond of poetry, of a certain type—­and he could even read a perfectly sad love story.  I have seen his eyes filled with tears at reading of a hopeless parting.  And he loved, with a sentimental yearning, all children, puppies, and the feeble generally. . . .

So, you see, he would have plenty to gurgle about to a woman—­with that and his sound common sense about martingales and his—­still sentimental—­experiences as a county magistrate; and with his intense, optimistic belief that the woman he was making love to at the moment was the one he was destined, at last, to be eternally constant to. . . .  Well, I fancy he could put up a pretty good deal of talk when there was no man around to make him feel shy.  And I was quite astonished, during his final burst out to me—­at the very end of things, when the poor girl was on her way to that fatal Brindisi and he was trying to persuade himself and me that he had never really cared for her—­I was quite astonished to observe how literary and how just his expressions were.  He talked like quite a good book—­a book not in the least cheaply sentimental.  You see, I suppose he regarded me not so much as a man.  I had to be regarded as a woman or a solicitor.  Anyhow, it burst out of him on that horrible night.  And then, next morning, he took me over to the Assizes and I saw how, in a perfectly calm and business-like way, he set to work to secure a verdict of not guilty for a poor girl, the daughter of one of his tenants, who had been accused of murdering her baby.  He spent two hundred pounds on her defence . . .  Well, that was Edward Ashburnham.

I had forgotten about his eyes.  They were as blue as the sides of a certain type of box of matches.  When you looked at them carefully you saw that they were perfectly honest, perfectly straightforward, perfectly, perfectly stupid.  But the brick pink of his complexion, running perfectly level to the brick pink of his inner eyelids, gave them a curious, sinister expression—­like a mosaic of blue porcelain set in pink china.  And that chap, coming into a room, snapped up the gaze of every woman in it, as dexterously as a conjurer pockets billiard balls.  It was most amazing.  You know the man on the stage who throws up sixteen balls at once and they all drop into pockets all over his person, on his shoulders, on his heels, on the inner side of his sleeves; and he stands perfectly still and does nothing.  Well, it was like that.  He had rather a rough, hoarse voice.

And, there he was, standing by the table.  I was looking at him, with my back to the screen.  And suddenly, I saw two distinct expressions flicker across his immobile eyes.  How the deuce did they do it, those unflinching blue eyes with the direct gaze?  For the eyes themselves never moved, gazing over my shoulder towards the screen.  And the gaze was perfectly level and perfectly direct and perfectly unchanging.  I suppose that the lids really must have rounded themselves a little and perhaps the lips moved a little too, as if he should be saying:  “There you are, my dear.”  At any rate, the expression was that of pride, of satisfaction, of the possessor.  I saw him once afterwards, for a moment, gaze upon the sunny fields of Branshaw and say:  “All this is my land!”

And then again, the gaze was perhaps more direct, harder if possible—­hardy too.  It was a measuring look; a challenging look.  Once when we were at Wiesbaden watching him play in a polo match against the Bonner Hussaren I saw the same look come into his eyes, balancing the possibilities, looking over the ground.  The German Captain, Count Baron Idigon von Lelöffel, was right up by their goal posts, coming with the ball in an easy canter in that tricky German fashion.  The rest of the field were just anywhere.  It was only a scratch sort of affair.  Ashburnham was quite close to the rails not five yards from us and I heard him saying to himself:  “Might just be done!” And he did it.  Goodness! he swung that pony round with all its four legs spread out, like a cat dropping off a roof. . . .

Well, it was just that look that I noticed in his eyes:  “It might,” I seem even now to hear him muttering to himself, “just be done.”

I looked round over my shoulder and saw, tall, smiling brilliantly and buoyant—­Leonora.  And, little and fair, and as radiant as the track of sunlight along the sea—­my wife.

That poor wretch! to think that he was at that moment in a perfect devil of a fix, and there he was, saying at the back of his mind:  “It might just be done.”  It was like a chap in the middle of the eruption of a volcano, saying that he might just manage to bolt into the tumult and set fire to a haystack.  Madness?  Predestination?  Who the devil knows?

Mrs Ashburnham exhibited at that moment more gaiety than I have ever since known her to show.  There are certain classes of English people—­the nicer ones when they have been to many spas, who seem to make a point of becoming much more than usually animated when they are introduced to my compatriots.  I have noticed this often.  Of course, they must first have accepted the Americans.  But that once done, they seem to say to themselves:  “Hallo, these women are so bright.  We aren’t going to be outdone in brightness.”  And for the time being they certainly aren’t.  But it wears off.  So it was with Leonora—­at least until she noticed me.  She began, Leonora did—­and perhaps it was that that gave me the idea of a touch of insolence in her character, for she never afterwards did any one single thing like it—­she began by saying in quite a loud voice and from quite a distance: 

“Don’t stop over by that stuffy old table, Teddy.  Come and sit by these nice people!”

And that was an extraordinary thing to say.  Quite extraordinary.  I couldn’t for the life of me refer to total strangers as nice people.  But, of course, she was taking a line of her own in which I at any rate—­and no one else in the room, for she too had taken the trouble to read through the list of guests—­counted any more than so many clean, bull terriers.  And she sat down rather brilliantly at a vacant table, beside ours—­one that was reserved for the Guggenheimers.  And she just sat absolutely deaf to the remonstrances of the head waiter with his face like a grey ram’s.  That poor chap was doing his steadfast duty too.  He knew that the Guggenheimers of Chicago, after they had stayed there a month and had worried the poor life out of him, would give him two dollars fifty and grumble at the tipping system.  And he knew that Teddy Ashburnham and his wife would give him no trouble whatever except what the smiles of Leonora might cause in his apparently unimpressionable bosom—­though you never can tell what may go on behind even a not quite spotless plastron! —­And every week Edward Ashburnham would give him a solid, sound, golden English sovereign.  Yet this stout fellow was intent on saving that table for the Guggenheimers of Chicago.  It ended in Florence saying: 

“Why shouldn’t we all eat out of the same trough? —­that’s a nasty New York saying.  But I’m sure we’re all nice quiet people and there can be four seats at our table.  It’s round.”

Then came, as it were, an appreciative gurgle from the Captain and I was perfectly aware of a slight hesitation—­a quick sharp motion in Mrs Ashburnham, as if her horse had checked.  But she put it at the fence all right, rising from the seat she had taken and sitting down opposite me, as it were, all in one motion.  I never thought that Leonora looked her best in evening dress.  She seemed to get it too clearly cut, there was no ruffling.  She always affected black and her shoulders were too classical.  She seemed to stand out of her corsage as a white marble bust might out of a black Wedgwood vase.  I don’t know.

I loved Leonora always and, today, I would very cheerfully lay down my life, what is left of it, in her service.  But I am sure I never had the beginnings of a trace of what is called the sex instinct towards her.  And I suppose—­no I am certain that she never had it towards me.  As far as I am concerned I think it was those white shoulders that did it.  I seemed to feel when I looked at them that, if ever I should press my lips upon them that they would be slightly cold—­not icily, not without a touch of human heat, but, as they say of baths, with the chill off.  I seemed to feel chilled at the end of my lips when I looked at her . . .

No, Leonora always appeared to me at her best in a blue tailor-made.  Then her glorious hair wasn’t deadened by her white shoulders.  Certain women’s lines guide your eyes to their necks, their eyelashes, their lips, their breasts.  But Leonora’s seemed to conduct your gaze always to her wrist.  And the wrist was at its best in a black or a dog-skin glove and there was always a gold circlet with a little chain supporting a very small golden key to a dispatch box.  Perhaps it was that in which she locked up her heart and her feelings.

Anyhow, she sat down opposite me and then, for the first time, she paid any attention to my existence.  She gave me, suddenly, yet deliberately, one long stare.  Her eyes too were blue and dark and the eyelids were so arched that they gave you the whole round of the irises.  And it was a most remarkable, a most moving glance, as if for a moment a lighthouse had looked at me.  I seemed to perceive the swift questions chasing each other through the brain that was behind them.  I seemed to hear the brain ask and the eyes answer with all the simpleness of a woman who was a good hand at taking in qualities of a horse—­as indeed she was.  “Stands well; has plenty of room for his oats behind the girth.  Not so much in the way of shoulders,” and so on.  And so her eyes asked:  “Is this man trustworthy in money matters; is he likely to try to play the lover; is he likely to let his women be troublesome?  Is he, above all, likely to babble about my affairs?”

And, suddenly, into those cold, slightly defiant, almost defensive china blue orbs, there came a warmth, a tenderness, a friendly recognition . . . oh, it was very charming and very touching—­and quite mortifying.  It was the look of a mother to her son, of a sister to her brother.  It implied trust; it implied the want of any necessity for barriers.  By God, she looked at me as if I were an invalid—­as any kind woman may look at a poor chap in a bath chair.  And, yes, from that day forward she always treated me and not Florence as if I were the invalid.  Why, she would run after me with a rug upon chilly days.  I suppose, therefore, that her eyes had made a favourable answer.  Or, perhaps, it wasn’t a favourable answer.  And then Florence said:  “And so the whole round table is begun.”  Again Edward Ashburnham gurgled slightly in his throat; but Leonora shivered a little, as if a goose had walked over her grave.  And I was passing her the nickel-silver basket of rolls.  Avanti! . . .