"The Good Soldier" -- A Bad Novel

Ford Madox Ford's The Good Soldier (1915) is considered a classic of sorts from the early modernist era. W.H. Auden thought Ford was a great novelist (he had particularly strong praise for Parade's End, which deals with World War I), and so did Graham Greene. From what I can tell, The Good Soldier, which is not a war novel, but a novel about adultery in the British aristocracy, is still widely taught in college classes on British modernism (see here, here, and here); it's also widely cited in the scholarly literature. But it shouldn't be -- this thing is a mess. (Or more politely, "perhaps it's time for a reassessment"?)

One of the oft-repeated chestnuts about The Good Soldier stems from Ford's early relationship as an editor and collaborator of Joseph Conrad. Ford, it is said, aims to use a version of Joseph Conrad's nested narrators with their various, idiosyncratic approaches to the "truth." But if Ford is aiming for a Conradian effect, it's poorly done, to the point of unrecognizability. The Good Soldier has only one narrator, and the multiple points of view that emerge in the text are never fully explained (in Conrad, by contrast, the different narrators are usually in dialogue with one, primary narrator). The narrator in Ford's novel at once knows implausibly much about what his friends and family were thinking at various moments, and far too little -- it seems unthinkable that he could be such a poor judge of character (more on that below). Moreover, instead of creating a sense of suspense for the reader, the unraveling of the story merely creates confusion, as the story slides back and forth chronologically without leading to new insights on why the characters do what they do in the end.

I won't do a detailed plot summary (see Sparknotes for a refresher), but suffice it to say the novel is about two couples, the Dowells and the Ashburnhams, and the narrator is one of the husbands, John Dowell. Florence Dowell has an affair with Edward Ashburnham that goes on for several years, which John Dowell fails to notice for most of that time. (He also fails to notice that his and his wife's flatmate in Paris is his wife's former lover. For two years.) Leonora Ashburnham, on the other hand, notices it right away -- in fact, Edward is a serial philanderer, who is constantly getting himself into trouble over his various entanglements with women of both high and low classes. Leonora hopes (more implausibility) that her husband will reform and come back to her, and Ford keeps insisting that she loves him despite everything. Florence commits suicide, not when she's discovered by her husband, but once she realizes that Edward has fallen in love with some new floozy. And Edward himself also eventually commits suicide, for reasons that never really make sense.

There are numerous things in the plot and characterization of The Good Soldier that defy logic, and there are some major flaws I haven't even mentioned, but what really bothers me about this book is the way it stacks the decks to make its own narrator unreflectively passive -- to the point where he might as well vanish altogether. What Ford really wants to do is celebrate Edward Ashburnham, whose treatment of women by both Edwardian and our own standards ought to make him a clear villain. It might be understandable if Ford had some kind of point to make about sexual addiction, or some kind of Freudian explanation for Ashburnham's behavior. But in fact, he doesn't -- there's strikingly little psychological reflection in this novel, especially if you consider that both Conrad and Woolf were contemporaries, and many of the writers and artists in Ford's circle were by 1915 smelling Freud. In effect, while the The Good Soldier is often read as an exposé of Victorian Aristocratic mores (with their inherent misogyny), it actually celebrates them by making Ashburnham's suicide the "true" tragedy in the story.

What The Good Soldier does have is moments of "brilliant" writing, paragraphs that clearly suggest Ford was, at least temporarily, in control of things after all. Take the following, which comes near the end of the story:

"I have, I am aware, told this story in a very rambling way, so that it may be difficult for any one to find their path through what may be a sort of maze. I cannot help it. I have stuck to my idea of being in a country cottage with a silent listener, hearing between the gust of the wind and amidst the noises of the distant sea, the story as it comes. And, when one discusses an affair--a long, sad affair--one goes back, one goes forward. One remembers points that one has forgotten, and one explains them all the more minutely since one recognizes that one has forgotten to mention them in their proper places, and that one may have given, by omitting them, a false impression. I console myself with thinking that this is a real story, and that, after all, real stories are best told in the way that a person telling a story would tell them. They will then seem most real."

(Incidentally, Google reveals that Theodore Dreiser quoted the same paragraph near the end of his hostile review of the novel, back in the day.)

When I read the above paragraph, I thought, "yes, rambling -- that's exactly what this damn novel is." At the start the above paragraph seems like a kind of apology; if it seems like I'm doing a bad job, well that's just part of the reality of talking about one's romantic history (or in this case, one's wife's lover's romantic history, since John Dowell has the libido of a bump on a log). While there may be some truth in the idea that memory is rarely truly linear, if this is how the novelist is explaining his method, it falls flat. The reader doesn't want the raw, uncooked reality, but art. It need not be a matter of a conventional beginning, middle, and end -- this is modernism, after all -- but would it be too much to ask for a sense of direction, or perhaps a point? It's entirely possible for a story to be carefully constructed (or crafted) and still "seem most real." Ford Madox Ford doesn't seem to have understood that.

* * *

One final bit of wrongness. This blogger has a quote from one of Ford's many critical essays:

To him, you will address your picture, your poem, your prose story, or your argument. You will seek to capture his interest; you will seek to hold his interest. You will do this by methods of surprise, of fatigue, by passages of sweetness in your language, by passages suggesting the sudden and brutal shock of suicide. You will give him passages of dullness, so that your bright effects may seem more bright; you will alternate, you will dwell for a long time upon an intimate point; you will seek to exasperate so that you may the better enchant. You will, in short, employ all the devices of the prostitute. If you are too proud for this you may be the better gentleman or the better lady, but you will be the worse artist....[T]he artist is, quite rightly, regarded with suspicion by people who desire to live in tranquil and ordered society.

While Ford perhaps starts out with some valid points about the necessity for contour, he goes wrong -- I think, fatally -- when he compares writing a novel to a sort of prostitution. That's just a really sad bit of very bad advice to give an aspiring writer. (Sorry, Peking Duck!)


Falstaff said...

I have to say I disagree. I quite enjoyed The Good Soldier, if only for the way Ford managed to constantly shift the ground from under you, turning the tables on you just when you think you've figured out where the book is going.

And I certainly didn't come away with the impression that Ford was trying to celebrate Ashburnham's point of view. The narrator certainly ends up thinking of Ashburnham's suicide as the 'true' tragedy, but the narrator himself is such an entirely idiotic and unattractive figure that the fact that that's how he sees them as noble only makes Ashburnham's actions more damning. I personally came away from the book entirely unsure about what I believed and / or who I supported - and that, I think, was the only thing that made the book worth reading. Ford's prose gets quite ghastly in places, and I entirely agree that the plot and characters defy logic, though I can't help wondering if some of that isn't deliberate. At any rate it was a pleasant change to come to the end of the novel and still not be sure who or what you believed (and I suspect that was even more true when the book was written than it is now).

The way I see it, The Good Soldier is a very clever one-off conjuring trick. Ford is essentially saying - look, look how I can switch things around completely, tell you the same story four times over from different perspectives but with the same narrator, bring you to the point where you (almost) accept that an unmitigated scoundrel like Ashburnham is actually a noble soul. It's a prank, a cheeky show of power, and not meant to be taken too seriously. There's something very school-boyish about this, it's true, but endearingly so.

electrostani said...

Hi Falstaff -- interesting to hear your perspective. I should have mentioned that I was cross-posting this at The Valve (thevalve.org); over there, a few commenters gave readings that are somewhat similar to yours.

If Ford's goal is to try and convince us that Ashburnham is in some sense a noble soul through the ambiguity created by four different perspectives, the question in my mind is, why? If it's a prank, it's sort of an unpleasant one.

Daniel Pritchard said...

Well it was after WW1, so people were turning the tables on typical morality / perception / cause-effect quite a bit.

Anonymous said...

Wow, all I can say after reading this review is that you have completely missed the point. It is quite difficult to understand at times, but the fact that it challenges you to try and interpret from a more conscientious perception (which Dowell lacks completely), the flaws of the higher class society are made even more clear, which is what Ford attempted to do with this novel.
I was lucky enough to study this in my modern literature class, so I was able to gain more insight into the text through the lectures. That being said, I was never so dull as to think Edward was meant to be seen in a good light, because none of the characters are meant to be seen in such a way.
I really hope no one takes this review seriously enough to be influenced by it.

Lawrence Wang said...

Context: Looking up criticisms of The Good Soldier, and info about Edward Ashburnham for a paper, and came to this.

I think all the commenters who have stated that you have completely missed the point, have missed the point as well.

By creating a narrator so unlikable, so without a personality and with a sad excuse of a backstory, Ford creates a narrator that not only we cannot trust, but WE ARE NOT INTERESTED IN. I read this novel because it is part of my syllabus. If I had to read this for pleasure, I would have burnt the thing.

Dowell's constantly homoerotic love/hate/envying of Edward just gets on your nerve. If Ford's point is to allow the reader to interpret all this despicable behavior from our own perspectives, then he did a shit job at creating an environment for us, the reader, to enter that mindset. Instead I am left with a vague feeling of sickness and a great paper topic about Leonora as the 'good' soldier in 'The Good Soldier'.

My professor commented on how Ford may have been under-appreciated. Off of this one novel, no, no he hasn't. He, or at least this novel, needs to be trounced thoroughly.

beths said...

Thanks, Amardeep and Janshi, you have put me in mind of how I had to read Good Soldier in grad school. To do so, I forced myself to read the thing in the bathtub and not to exit till I'd finished the novel. Janshi, your paper topic sounds like something I would want to read, having done my penance of reading and considering Ford.

Stephen said...

I got half way through, then I put 'Why is The Good Soldier so bad?' into Google search, and got straight to this article.

Says it all, really.

F said...

Not a bad novel but not good either. I wonder that he could have been a good soldier. (Edw) Not much there including his ability to procreate with his wife or the various others. Leanora seems to have put up with him only because she's Catholic. And two minutes later she's pregnant by her new husband one of the few sane acts in the whole work. As for Dowell he is pathetic. He tells us he's loved only the Covent girl and Edward. How silly he is. He knows he can't or won't consummate that ridiculous fantasy and perhaps in another era he could explore his love for Edw for whom he has scant critism always coupled with adoring admiration. Ultimately I found the concluding third or so quite humorous. Dowell's bitchyness towards the ladies, his love for the child, and his affection for Edw were spiteful, ironic, and full of humour. I apologize for not being quite PC but our narrator was often a characture of a silly queen.1