No More Parades by Ford Madox Ford (top 10 books to read TXT) 📕
Description
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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She said: “The ten minutes is up, father …” and looked at the round, starred surface between the diamonds of her wrist watch. She said: “Good God! … Only one minute … I’ve thought all that in only one minute … I understand how hell can be an eternity …”
Christopher, very weary, and ex-Sergeant-Major Cowley, very talkative by now, loomed down between palms. Cowley was saying: “It’s infamous! … It’s past bearing … To reorder the draft at eleven …” They sank into chairs … Sylvia extended towards Tietjens a small packet of letters. She said: “You had better look at these … I had your letters sent to me from the flat as there was so much uncertainty about your movements …” She found that she did not dare, under Father Consett’s eyes, to look at Tietjens as she said that. She said to Cowley: “We might be quiet for a minute or two while the captain reads his letters … Have another liqueur? …”
She then observed that Tietjens just bent open the top of the letters from Mrs. Wannop and then opened that from his brother Mark.
“Curse it,” she said, “I’ve given him what he wants! … He knows … He’s seen the address … that they’re still in Bedford Park … He can think of the Wannop girl as there … He has not been able to know, till now, where she is … He’ll be imagining himself in bed with her there …”
Father Consett, his broad, unmodelled dark face full of intelligence and with the blissful unction of the saint and martyr, was leaning over Tietjens’ shoulder … He must be breathing down Christopher’s back as, her mother said, he always did when she held a hand at auction and he could not play because it was between midnight and his celebrating the holy mass …
She said:
“No, I am not going mad … This is an effect of fatigue on the optic nerves … Christopher has explained that to me … He says that when his eyes have been very tired with making one of his senior wrangler’s calculations he has often seen a woman in an eighteenth-century dress looking into a drawer in his bureau … Thank God, I’ve had Christopher to explain things to me … I’ll never let him go … Never, never, let him go …”
It was not, however, until several hours later that the significance of the father’s apparition came to her and those intervening hours were extraordinarily occupied—with emotions, and even with action. To begin with, before he had read the fewest possible words of his brother’s letter, Tietjens looked up over it and said:
“Of course you will occupy Groby … With Michael … Naturally the proper business arrangements will be made …” He went on reading the letter, sunk in his chair under the green shade of a lamp …
The letter, Sylvia knew, began with the words: “Your ⸻ of a wife has been to see me with the idea of getting any allowance I might be minded to make you transferred to herself. Of course she can have Groby, for I shan’t let it, and could not be bothered with it myself. On the other hand, you may want to live at Groby with that girl and chance the racket. I should if I were you. You would probably find the place worth the … what is it? ostracism, if there was any … But I’m forgetting that the girl is not your mistress unless anything has happened since I saw you … And you probably would want Michael to be brought up at Groby, in which case you couldn’t keep the girl there, even if you camouflaged her as governess. At least I think that kind of arrangement always turns out badly: there’s bound to be a stink, though Crosby of Ulick did it and nobody much minded … But it was mucky for the Crosby children. Of course if you want your wife to have Groby she must have enough to run it with credit, and expenses are rising damnably. Still, our incomings rise not a little, too, which is not the case with some. The only thing I insist on is that you make plain to that baggage that whatever I allow her, even if it’s no end of a hot income, not one penny of it comes out of what I wish you would allow me to allow you. I mean I want you to make plain to that rouged piece—or perhaps it’s really natural, my eyes are not what they were—that what you have is absolutely independent of what she sucks up as the mother of our father’s heir and to keep our father’s heir in the state of life that is his due … I hope you feel satisfied that the boy is your son, for it’s more than I should be, looking at the party … But even if he is not he is our father’s heir all right and must be so treated …
“But be plain about that, for the trollop came to me, if you please, with the proposal that I should dock you of any income I might propose to allow you—and to which of course you are absolutely entitled under our father’s will, though it is no good reminding you of that!—as a token from me that I disapproved of your behaviour when, damn it, there is not an action of yours that I would not be proud to have to my credit. At any rate in this affair, for I cannot help thinking that you could be of more service to the country if you were anywhere else but where you are. But you know what your conscience demands of you better than I, and I dare say these hellcats have so mauled you that you are glad to be able to get away into any hole. But don’t let
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