Some Do Not … by Ford Madox Ford (story read aloud txt) 📕
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Some Do Not … opens at the cusp of World War I. Christopher Tietjens, a government statistician, and his friend Vincent Macmaster, an aspiring literary critic, are visiting the English countryside. Tietjens, preoccupied with his disastrous marriage, meets Valentine Wannop, a suffragette, during a round of golf. As their love story develops, the novel explores the horrors of the war without the narrative ever entering the battlefield.
The characters are complex and nuanced. Tietjens is an old-fashioned man even by the standards of his day; he’s concerned with honor and doing the right thing, but he lives in a society that only pays those values lip service. Yet he himself isn’t free of a thread of hypocrisy: he won’t leave his deeply unhappy marriage because that would be the wrong way to act, but the reader is left wondering if he tolerates his situation simply because he married up in class. He wants to do to the noble and right thing, but does that mean going to war?
The men and women around him each have their individual motivations, and they are often conniving and unlikable in their aspirations even as the propaganda of England at war paints the country as a moral and heroic one. The delicate interplay of each character’s subtleties paints a rich portrait of 1920s English society, as the romantic ideals of right and wrong clash with notions of ambition and practicality.
The prose is unapologetically modernist: unannounced time shifts combine with a stream-of-consciousness style that can often be dense. Yet Ford’s portrayal of shell shock, the politics of women in the 1920s, and the moral greyness of wartime is groundbreaking. The book, and its complete tetralogy—called Parade’s End—has garnered praise from critics and authors alike, with Anthony Burgess calling it “the finest novel about the First World War” and William Carlos Williams stating that the novels “constitute the English prose masterpiece of their time.”
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- Author: Ford Madox Ford
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Tietjens said:
“Yes! They almost exaggerated it. … I had to be called in to take Mrs. Duchemin home. … It caused, apparently, misunderstandings. …”
Port Scatho—full of enthusiasm at the thought that at least two unhappy victims of the hateful divorce laws had, with decency and circumspectness, found the haven of their desires—burst out:
“By God, Tietjens, if I ever hear a man say a word against you. … Your splendid championship of your friend. … Your … your unswerving devotion …”
Tietjens said:
“Wait a minute, Port Scatho, will you?” He was unbuttoning the flap of his breast pocket.
“A man who can act so splendidly in one instance,” Port Scatho said. … “And your going to France. … If anyone … if anyone … dares …”
At the sight of a vellum-cornered, green-edged book in Tietjens’ hand Sylvia suddenly stood up; as Tietjens took from an inner flap a cheque that had lost its freshness she made three great strides over the carpet to him.
“Oh, Chrissie! …” she cried out. “He hasn’t … That beast hasn’t …”
Tietjens answered:
“He has …” He handed the soiled cheque to the banker. Port Scatho looked at it with slow bewilderment.
“ ‘Account overdrawn,’ ” he read. “Brownie’s … my nephew’s handwriting. … To the club … It’s …”
“You aren’t going to take it lying down?” Sylvia said. “Oh, thank goodness, you aren’t going to take it lying down.”
“No! I’m not going to take it lying down,” Tietjens said. “Why should I?” A look of hard suspicion came over the banker’s face.
“You appear,” he said, “to have been overdrawing your account. People should not overdraw their accounts. For what sum are you overdrawn?”
Tietjens handed his passbook to Port Scatho.
“I don’t understand on what principle you work,” Sylvia said to Tietjens. “There are things you take lying down; this you don’t.”
Tietjens said:
“It doesn’t matter, really. Except for the child.”
Sylvia said:
“I guaranteed an overdraft for you up to a thousand pounds last Thursday. You can’t be overdrawn over a thousand pounds.”
“I’m not overdrawn at all,” Tietjens said. “I was for about fifteen pounds yesterday. I didn’t know it.”
Port Scatho was turning over the pages of the passbook, his face completely blank.
“I simply don’t understand,” he said. “You appear to be in credit. … You appear always to have been in credit except for a small sum now and then. For a day or two.”
“I was overdrawn,” Tietjens said, “for fifteen pounds yesterday. I should say for three or four hours: the course of a post, from my army agent to your head office. During these two or three hours your bank selected two out of six of my cheques to dishonour—both being under two pounds. The other one was sent back to my mess at Ealing, who won’t, of course, give it back to me. That also is marked ‘account overdrawn,’ and in the same handwriting.”
“But good God,” the banker said. “That means your ruin.”
“It certainly means my ruin,” Tietjens said. “It was meant to.”
“But,” the banker said—a look of relief came into his face which had begun to assume the aspect of a broken man’s—“you must have other accounts with the bank … a speculative one, perhaps, on which you are heavily down. … I don’t myself attend to client’s accounts, except the very huge ones, which affect the bank’s policy.”
“You ought to,” Tietjens said. “It’s the very little ones you ought to attend to, as a gentleman making his fortune out of them. I have no other account with you. I have never speculated in anything in my life. I have lost a great deal in Russian securities—a great deal for me. But so, no doubt, have you.”
“Then … betting!” Port Scatho said.
“I never put a penny on a horse in my life,” Tietjens said. “I know too much about them.”
Port Scatho looked at the faces first of Sylvia, then of Tietjens. Sylvia, at least, was his very old friend. She said:
“Christopher never bets and never speculates. His personal expenses are smaller than those of any man in town. You could say he had no personal expenses.”
Again the swift look of suspicion came into Port Scatho’s open face.
“Oh,” Sylvia said, “you couldn’t suspect Christopher and me of being in a plot to blackmail you.”
“No; I couldn’t suspect that,” the banker said. “But the other explanation is just as extraordinary. … To suspect the bank … the bank … How do you account? …” He was addressing Tietjens; his round head seemed to become square, below; emotion worked on his jaws.
“I’ll tell you simply this,” Tietjens said. “You can then repair the matter as you think fit. Ten days ago I got my marching orders. As soon as I had handed over to the officer who relieved me I drew cheques for everything I owed—to my military tailor, the mess—for one pound twelve shillings. I had also to buy a compass and a revolver, the Red Cross orderlies having annexed mine when I was in hospital. …”
Port Scatho said: “Good God!”
“Don’t you know they annex things?” Tietjens asked. He went on: “The total, in fact, amounted to an overdraft of fifteen pounds, but I did not think of it as such because my army agents ought to have paid my month’s army pay over to you on the first. As you perceive, they have only paid it over this morning, the 13th. But, as you will see from my passbook, they have always paid about the 13th, not the 1st. Two days ago I lunched at the club and drew that cheque for one pound fourteen shillings and sixpence: one ten for personal expenses and the four and six for lunch. …”
“You were, however, actually overdrawn,” the banker said sharply.
Tietjens said:
“Yesterday, for two hours.”
“But then,” Port Scatho said, “what do you want done? We’ll do what we can.”
Tietjens said:
“I don’t know. Do what you like. You’d better make what explanation you can to the military authority. If they court-martialled me it would hurt you more than me. I assure you of that. There is an explanation.”
Port Scatho began suddenly to tremble.
“What … what … what explanation?” he said. “You … damn it … you draw this out. … Do
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