No More Parades by Ford Madox Ford (top 10 books to read TXT) 📕
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No More Parades is the second in Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End series. The book, released just a few years after the close of the war, is based on Ford’s combat experiences as an enlisted man in World War I, and continues the story first begun in Some Do Not ….
Christopher Tietjens, after recovering from the shell shock he suffered in Some Do Not …, has returned to the edge of the war as a commanding officer in charge of preparing draft troops for deployment to the front. As the “last true Tory,” Tietjens demonstrates talent bordering on genius as he struggles against the laziness, incompetence, and confusion of the army around him—but his troubles only begin when his self-centered and scandalous wife Sylvia appears at his base in Rouen for a surprise visit.
Unlike Some Do Not …, which was told in a highly modernist series of flash-backs and flash-forwards, Parade’s End is a much more straightforward narrative. Despite this, the characters continue to be realized in an incredibly complex and nuanced way. Tietjens, almost a caricature of the stiff, honorable English gentleman, stoically absorbs the problems and suffering of those around him. Ford simultaneously paints him as an almost Christlike character and an immature, idealistic schoolboy, eager to keep up appearances despite the ruination it causes the people around him. Sylvia, his wife, has had her affairs and scandals, and is clearly a selfish and trying personality; but her powerful charm, and her frustration with both her almost comically stiff-lipped husband and the war’s interruption of civilization, lends her a not-unsympathetic air. The supporting cast of conscripts and officers is equally well-realized, with each one protraying a separate aspect of war’s effect on regular, scared people simply doing their best.
The novel was extremely well-reviewed in its time, and it and the series it’s a part of remain one of the most important novels written about World War I.
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- Author: Ford Madox Ford
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“The lieutenant,” the orderly explained woodenly, “said as ’ow henny departure f’m ’is orders would be visited by the extreme displeasure of Lord Breech’em, K.C.V.O., K.C.B., etcetera.” The orderly was quivering with rage.
“You,” Tietjens said very carefully, “when you fall out with the horses at the Hotel de la Poste, take Schomburg and the roan to the stables of La Volonté Farm, behind No. XVI I.B.D.” The orderly was to close all the windows of the stable, stopping up any chinks with wadding. He would procure, if possible, a sawdust stove, new pattern, from Colonel Gillum’s store and light it in the stables. He was also to give Schomburg and the roan oatmeal and water warmed as hot as the horses would take it … And Tietjens finished sharply, “If Lieutenant Hotchkiss makes any comments, you will refer him to me. As his C.O.”
The orderly seeking information as to horse-ailments, Tietjens said:
“The school of horse-copers, to which Lord Beichan belongs, believes in the hardening of all horseflesh other than racing cattle.” They bred racing-cattle. Under six blankets apiece! Personally Tietjens did not believe in the hardening process and would not permit any animal over which he had control to be submitted to it … It had been observed that if any animal was kept at a lower temperature than that of its normal climatic condition it would contract diseases to which ordinarily it was not susceptible … If you keep a chicken for two days in a pail of water it will contract human scarlet-fever or mumps if injected with either bacillus. If you remove the chicken from the water, dry it, and restore it to its normal conditions, the scarlet-fever or the mumps will die out of the animal … He said to the orderly: “You are an intelligent man. What deduction do you draw?”
The orderly looked away over the valley of the Seine.
“I suppose, sir,” he said, “that our ’osses, being kept alwise cold in their standings, ’as hillnesses they wouldn’t otherwise ’ave.”
“Well, then,” Tietjens said, “keep the poor animals warm.”
He considered that here was the makings of a very nasty row for himself if, by any means, his sayings came round to the ears of Lord Beichan. But that he had to chance. He coud not let a horse for which he was responsible be martyred … There was too much to think about … so that nothing at all stood out to be thought of. The sun was glowing. The valley of the Seine was blue-grey, like a Gobelin tapestry. Over it all hung the shadow of a deceased Welsh soldier. An odd skylark was declaiming over an empty field behind the incinerators’ headquarters … An odd lark. For as a rule larks do not sing in December. Larks sing only when courting, or over the nest … The bird must be oversexed. O Nine Morgan was the other thing, that accounting for the prizefighter!
They dropped down a mud lane between brick walls into the town …
Part II IIn the admirably appointed, white-enamelled, wickerworked, bemirrored lounge of the best hotel of that town Sylvia Tietjens sat in a wickerwork chair, not listening rather abstractedly to a staff-major who was lachrymosely and continuously begging her to leave her bedroom door unlocked that night. She said:
“I don’t know … Yes, perhaps … I don’t know …” And looked distantly into a bluish wall-mirror that, like all the rest, was framed with white-painted cork bark. She stiffened a little and said:
“There’s Christopher!”
The staff-major dropped his hat, his stick and his gloves. His black hair, which was without parting and heavy with some preparation of a glutinous kind, moved agitatedly on his scalp. He had been saying that Sylvia had ruined his life. Didn’t Sylvia know that she had ruined his life? But for her he might have married some pure young thing. Now he exclaimed:
“But what does he want? … Good God! … what does he want?”
“He wants,” Sylvia said, “to play the part of Jesus Christ.”
Major Perowne exclaimed:
“Jesus Christ! … But he’s the most foul-mouthed officer in the general’s command …”
“Well,” Sylvia said, “if you had married your pure young thing she’d have … What is it? … cuckolded you within nine months …”
Perowne shuddered a little at the word. He mumbled:
“I don’t see … It seems to be the other way …”
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” Sylvia said. “Think it over … Morally, you’re the husband … Immorally, I should say … Because he’s the man I want … He looks ill … Do hospital authorities always tell wives what is the matter with their husbands?”
From his angle in the chair from which he had half-emerged Sylvia seemed to him to be looking at a blank wall. “I don’t see him,” Perowne said.
“I can see him in the glass,” Sylvia said. “Look! From here you can see him.”
Perowne shuddered a little more.
“I don’t want to see him … I have to see him sometimes in the course of duty … I don’t like to …”
Sylvia said:
“You,” in a tone of very deep contempt. “You only carry chocolate boxes to flappers … How can he come across you in the course of duty? … You’re not a soldier!”
Perowne said:
“But what are we going to do? What will he do?”
“I,” Sylvia answered, “shall tell the pageboy when he comes with his card to say that I’m engaged … I don’t know what he’ll do. Hit you, very likely … He’s looking at your back now …”
Perowne became rigid, sunk into his deep chair.
“But he couldn’t!” he exclaimed agitatedly. “You said that he was playing the part of Jesus Christ. Our Lord wouldn’t hit people in an hotel lounge …”
“Our Lord!” Sylvia said contemptuously. “What do you know about our Lord? … Our Lord was a gentleman … Christopher is playing at being our Lord calling on the woman taken in adultery … He’s giving me the social backing that his being my husband seems to him to call for.”
A one-armed, bearded maitre d’hôtel approached them through groups of
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