The Good Soldier Ford Madox Ford (good books to read for adults .txt) 📖

have already given you, as to the difficulty one has in really getting to know people when one’s intimacy is conducted as an English acquaintanceship⁠—I asked her whether her husband was not really a splendid fellow⁠—along at least the lines of his public functions. She looked at me with a slightly awakened air⁠—with an air that would have been almost startled if Leonora could ever have been startled.

“Didn’t you know?” she asked. “If I come to think of it there is not a more splendid fellow in any three counties, pick them where you will⁠—along those lines.” And she added, after she had looked at me reflectively for what seemed a long time:

“To do my husband justice there could not be a better man on the earth. There would not be room for it⁠—along those lines.”

“Well,” I said, “then he must really be Lohengrin and the Cid in one body. For there are not any other lines that count.”

Again she looked at me for a long time.

“It’s your opinion that there are no other lines that count?” she asked slowly.

“Well,” I answered gaily, “you’re not going to accuse him of not being a good husband, or of not being a good guardian to your ward?”

She spoke then, slowly, like a person who is listening to the sounds in a seashell held to her ear⁠—and, would you believe it?⁠—she told me afterwards that, at that speech of mine, for the first time she had a vague inkling of the tragedy that was to follow so soon⁠—although the girl had lived with them for eight years or so:

“Oh, I’m not thinking of saying that he is not the best of husbands, or that he is not very fond of the girl.”

And then I said something like:

“Well, Leonora, a man sees more of these things than even a wife. And, let me tell you, that in all the years I’ve known Edward he has never, in your absence, paid a moment’s attention to any other woman⁠—not by the quivering of an eyelash. I should have noticed. And he talks of you as if you were one of the angels of God.”

“Oh,” she came up to the scratch, as you could be sure Leonora would always come up to the scratch, “I am perfectly sure that he always speaks nicely of me.”

I daresay she had practice in that sort of scene⁠—people must have been always complimenting her on her husband’s fidelity and adoration. For half the world⁠—the whole of the world that knew Edward and Leonora believed that his conviction in the Kilsyte affair had been a miscarriage of justice⁠—a conspiracy of false evidence, got together by Nonconformist adversaries. But think of the fool that I was.⁠ ⁠…

II

Let me think where we were. Oh, yes⁠ ⁠… that conversation took place on the 4th of August, 1913. I remember saying to her that, on that day, exactly nine years before, I had made their acquaintance, so that it had seemed quite appropriate and like a birthday speech to utter my little testimonial to my friend Edward. I could quite confidently say that, though we four had been about together in all sorts of places, for all that length of time, I had not, for my part, one single complaint to make of either of them. And I added, that that was an unusual record for people who had been so much together. You are not to imagine that it was only at Nauheim that we met. That would not have suited Florence.

I find, on looking at my diaries, that on the 4th of September, 1904, Edward accompanied Florence and myself to Paris, where we put him up till the twenty-first of that month. He made another short visit to us in December of that year⁠—the first year of our acquaintance. It must have been during this visit that he knocked Mr. Jimmy’s teeth down his throat. I daresay Florence had asked him to come over for that purpose. In 1905 he was in Paris three times⁠—once with Leonora, who wanted some frocks. In 1906 we spent the best part of six weeks together at Mentone, and Edward stayed with us in Paris on his way back to London. That was how it went.

The fact was that in Florence the poor wretch had got hold of a Tartar, compared with whom Leonora was a sucking kid. He must have had a hell of a time. Leonora wanted to keep him for⁠—what shall I say⁠—for the good of her church, as it were, to show that Catholic women do not lose their men. Let it go at that, for the moment. I will write more about her motives later, perhaps. But Florence was sticking on to the proprietor of the home of her ancestors. No doubt he was also a very passionate lover. But I am convinced that he was sick of Florence within three years of even interrupted companionship and the life that she led him.⁠ ⁠…

If ever Leonora so much as mentioned in a letter that they had had a woman staying with them⁠—or, if she so much as mentioned a woman’s name in a letter to me⁠—off would go a desperate cable in cipher to that poor wretch at Branshaw, commanding him on pain of an instant and horrible disclosure to come over and assure her of his fidelity. I daresay he would have faced it out; I daresay he would have thrown over Florence and taken the risk of exposure. But there he had Leonora to deal with. And Leonora assured him that, if the minutest fragment of the real situation ever got through to my senses, she would wreak upon him the most terrible vengeance that she could think of. And he did not have a very easy job. Florence called for more and more attentions from him as the time went on. She would make him kiss her at any moment of the day; and it was only by his making