El buen soldado

Por Ford Madox Ford

En una novela tan breve como "El buen soldado", Ford Madox Ford relata dos suicidios, dos vidas arruinadas, una muerte y el descenso a la locura de una joven muchacha. Mediante esta historia de pasión protagonizada por los matrimonios Ashburnham y Dowell se nos muestran las interioridades de lo que se dio en llamar "alta sociedad internacional". El autor nos adentra en esta sociedad entre guerras donde mantener las apariencias era lo más importante y todos los asuntos oscuros y crueles debían mantenerse ocultos.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: EDHASA
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 10 oct 2020
• ISBN: 9788435047371

Ford Madox Ford

Ford Madox Ford (1873-1939) was an English novelist, poet, and editor. Born in Wimbledon, Ford was the son of Pre-Raphaelite artist Catherine Madox Brown and music critic Francis Hueffer. In 1894, he eloped with his girlfriend Elsie Martindale and eventually settled in Winchelsea, where they lived near Henry James and H. G. Wells. Ford left his wife and two daughters in 1909 for writer Isobel Violet Hunt, with whom he launched The English Review, an influential magazine that published such writers as Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad, Ezra Pound, and D. H. Lawrence. As Ford Madox Hueffer, he established himself with such novels as The Inheritors (1901) and Romance (1903), cowritten with Joseph Conrad, and The Fifth Queen (1906-1907), a trilogy of historical novels. During the Great War, however, he began using the penname Ford Madox Ford to avoid anti-German sentiment. The Good Soldier (1915), considered by many to be Ford’s masterpiece, earned him a reputation as a leading novelist of his generation and continues to be named among the greatest novels of the twentieth century. Recognized as a pioneering modernist for his poem “Antwerp” (1915) and his tetralogy Parade’s End (1924-1928), Ford was a friend of James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and Jean Rhys. Despite his reputation and influence as an artist and publisher who promoted the early work of some of the greatest English and American writers of his time, Ford has been largely overshadowed by his contemporaries, some of whom took to disparaging him as their own reputations took flight.

Vista previa del libro

PRIMERA PARTE

CAPÍTULO I

Ésta es la historia más triste que jamás he oído. Habíamos tratado a los Ashburnham durante nueve temporadas en la ciudad de Nauheim con gran intimidad..., o, más bien, habíamos mantenido con ellos unas relaciones tan flexibles y tan cómodas y sin embargo tan íntimas como las de un guante de buena calidad con la mano que protege. Mi mujer y yo conocíamos al capitán Ashburnham y a su señora todo lo bien que es posible conocer a alguien, pero, por otra parte, no sabíamos nada en absoluto acerca de ellos. Se trata, creo yo, de una situación que sólo es posible con ingleses, sobre quienes, incluso en el día de hoy, cuando me paro a dilucidar lo que sé de esta triste historia, descubro que vivía en la más completa ignorancia. Hasta hace seis meses no había pisado nunca Inglaterra y, ciertamente, nunca había sondeado las profundidades de un corazón inglés. No había pasado de sus aspectos más superficiales.

No quiero decir con eso que no conociéramos a muchos ingleses. Viviendo, como nos veíamos obligados a hacerlo, en Europa, y siendo, como nos veíamos obligados a serlo, americanos ociosos, lo cual equivale a decir que éramos muy poco americanos, no nos quedaba otro remedio que frecuentar la compañía de los ingleses de clase alta. Porque París era nuestro hogar, algún sitio comprendido entre los límites de Niza y Bordighera nos proporcionaba cuarteles de invierno todos los años, y Nauheim siempre nos recibía desde julio hasta septiembre. Deducirá usted de estas afirmaciones que uno de los dos estaba, como suele decirse, «delicado del corazón», y, cuando le diga que mi esposa ha muerto, comprenderá que era ella la enferma.

El capitán Ashburnham también estaba delicado del corazón. Pero, mientras pasar un mes al año aproximadamente en Nauheim le dejaba en perfectas condiciones para los otros once, nuestros dos meses apenas bastaban para mantener viva a la pobre Florence de un año para otro. La razón de que el capitán estuviera delicado del corazón era al parecer el polo, o un exceso de deportes violentos durante su juventud. La razón de la destrozada vida de la pobre Florence fue una tormenta en el mar durante nuestra primera travesía hacia Europa, y el motivo básico de nuestra reclusión en el viejo continente era la prescripción de los médicos. Decían que incluso la breve travesía del canal de la Mancha podía muy bien acabar con mi pobre esposa.

Cuando los conocimos, el capitán Ashburnham, de vuelta a casa, por razones de enfermedad, de una India a la que nunca regresaría, tenía treinta y tres años; la señora Ashburnham (Leonora), treinta y uno. Yo treinta y seis y la pobre Florence treinta. De manera que ahora mi mujer tendría treinta y nueve y el capitán Ashburnham cuarenta y dos; mientras que yo tengo cuarenta y cinco y Leonora cuarenta. Ya ve usted, por tanto, que nuestra amistad ha sido un asunto de los primeros años de la edad madura; todos éramos muy tranquilos por temperamento, y los Ashburnham, de manera especial, eso que en Inglaterra se denomina de ordinario «gente muy bien».

Descendían, como probablemente ya habrá usted adivinado, de los Ashburnham que acompañaron al cadalso a Carlos I, y, como también cabe esperar en este tipo de ingleses, no hacían la menor ostentación de ello. La señora Ashburnham era una Powys; Florence, una Hurlbird de Stamford, en Connecticut, donde, como usted sabe, la gente está más chapada a la antigua que los mismos habitantes de Cranford, en Inglaterra. Yo, por mi parte, soy un Dowell de Filadelfia, en Pensilvania, donde –es un hecho históricamente cierto– hay más antiguas familias inglesas de las que podrían encontrarse en seis condados británicos tomados conjuntamente.

Siempre llevo conmigo a todas partes –como si se tratara de la única cosa que me liga de manera invisible con algún lugar sobre la superficie de la tierra– la escritura de propiedad de mi granja, que en otro tiempo ocupaba varias manzanas de casas entre Chesnut y Walnut Street. Estas escrituras de propiedad están compuestas por cuentas cilíndricas hechas de conchas, y son la donación de un jefe indio al primer Dowell, que salió de Farnham en Surrey acompañando a William Penn.

La familia de Florence, como sucede con frecuencia en el caso de los habitantes de Connecticut, procedía de los alrededores de Fordingbridge, donde se encuentra la casa solariega de los Ashburnham. Es allí donde escribo en estos momentos.

Quizá pregunte usted, y con toda razón, por qué escribo. Y, sin embargo, tengo muchos motivos. Porque es frecuente entre los seres humanos que han presenciado el saqueo de una ciudad o la desintegración de una raza el deseo de poner por escrito lo que han visto para beneficio de desconocidos herederos o de generaciones infinitamente remotas; o, si usted lo prefiere, para sacarse esas imágenes de la cabeza.

Alguien ha dicho que la muerte de un ratón a causa del cáncer es lo mismo que el saco de Roma por los godos, y yo le juro a usted que la desintegración de nuestro pequeño círculo con cuatro esquinas fue otro de esos acontecimientos impensables. Supongamos que se hubiera tropezado usted con nosotros cuando estábamos sentados alrededor de una de las mesitas frente al club, en Homburg, pongamos por ejemplo, tomando el té una tarde cualquiera y contemplando el minigolf; sin duda hubiera usted dicho que, tal como está la vida, constituíamos un castillo inexpugnable. Éramos, si usted lo prefiere, uno de esos barcos esbeltos de velas blancas sobre un mar azul, una de esas cosas que parecen las más gloriosas y seguras entre todas las cosas hermosas y seguras que Dios ha permitido concebir a la mente humana. ¿En qué mejor sitio podría uno refugiarse? ¿Dónde mejor?

¿Seguridad? ¿Estabilidad? No puedo creer que hayan desaparecido. No puedo creer que aquella vida lenta y tranquila, que era exactamente como los pasos de un minué, se desvaneciera en cuatro días catastróficos al final de nueve años y seis semanas. Se lo aseguro, créame, nuestra intimidad era como un minué, simplemente porque en cada posible ocasión y en cada posible circunstancia sabíamos dónde ir, dónde sentarnos, qué mesa escoger unánimemente; y podríamos levantarnos y marcharnos los cuatro juntos sin que ninguno diera la señal, siempre al ritmo de la orquesta del balneario, siempre tomando un sol no demasiado fuerte, o, si llovía, refugiándonos en sitios discretos. No, desde luego, no puede haber desaparecido. No se puede matar un minué de la cour. Cabe cerrar el libro con las partituras, bajar la tapa del clavicordio; en la alacena y en el armario quizá las ratas destruyan las cintas de satén blanco; tal vez el populacho saquee Versalles quizá se derrumbe el Trianón; pero sin duda alguna el minué..., el minué en persona se alejará danzando hasta las más remotas estrellas, incluso mientras el nuestro, el de los establecimientos balnearios de Hesse, lleva camino de pararse por completo. ¿Es que no hay ningún cielo donde las antiguas y hermosas danzas, donde las antiguas y hermosas intimidades se prolonguen indefinidamente? ¿No hay algún nirvana pe netrado por la suave vibración de instrumentos que ya se han transformado en el polvo de la amargura pero que poseen sin embargo frágiles, trémulas e imperecederas almas?

¡No, Dios mío, es falso! No era un minué lo que bailábamos; estábamos en una cárcel..., una cárcel llena de vociferantes ataques de histeria, reprimidos para que no hiciera más ruido que las ruedas de nuestro carruaje mientras recorríamos las sombreadas avenidas del Taunus Wald.

Y sin embargo, juro por el sagrado nombre de mi creador que era verdad. Era la verdadera luz del sol; la verdadera música; el verdadero murmullo de las fuentes desde las bocas de los delfines de piedra. Porque, si para mí éramos cuatro personas con los mismos gustos, con los mismos deseos, actuando –o, no, sin actuar–, sentándonos aquí y allá unánimemente, ¿no es eso la verdad? Si durante nueve años he sido dueño de una hermosa manzana que tiene el corazón podrido y sólo descubro su podredumbre al cabo de nueve años y seis semanas menos cuatro días, ¿acaso miento al decir que durante nueve años he poseído una hermosa manzana? Y lo mismo puede suceder con Edward Ashburnham, con Leonora, su esposa, y con mi pobre y querida Florence. Y, si se pone usted a pensarlo, ¿no es un poco extraño que la mala suerte de por lo menos dos de los pilares de nuestra casa con cuatro esquinas nunca se me apareciera como una amenaza para su solidez? Ni siquiera me pasa ahora, aunque los dos están ya muertos. No sé...

No sé nada –absolutamente nada– del corazón de los seres humanos. Sé únicamente que estoy solo, horriblemente solo.

Para mí, ningún fuego de chimenea presenciará ya unas relaciones amistosas. Cualquier salón de fumar estará poblado únicamente por insondables efigies entre espirales de humo.

Y sin embargo, por el amor de Dios, ¿qué es lo que sé yo, si no estoy al tanto de la vida junto al hogar de la chimenea y en el salón de fumar, cuando toda mi vida ha transcurrido en esos sitios? ¡La tibia atmósfera junto a la chimenea...! Ahí estaba Florence, por ejemplo: creo que durante los doce años que sobrevivió a la tempestad que, al parecer, debilitó irreparablemente su corazón..., juraría que no la perdí de vista ni un solo minuto, excepto cuando la dejaba convenientemente arropada en la cama y me iba al piso bajo para hablar un rato con alguien en uno de los salones, o salía a darme la última vuelta fumando un cigarro antes de acostarme. Comprenda que yo no le echo la culpa a Florence. Pero, ¿cómo pudo enterarse de todo lo que sabía? ¿Cómo llegó a saberlo? A saberlo tan exhaustiva mente. ¡Cielo santo! No parece que hubiera tiempo suficiente. Tuvo que ser cuando yo tomaba los baños, o hacía gimnasia sueca, o iba a la manicura. Llevando la vida que llevaba, de enfermero cuidadoso y esforzado, tenía que hacer algo para mantenerme en forma. ¡Tiene que haber sido en esos momentos! Aunque ni siquiera entonces dispuso del tiempo suficiente para mantener las interminables conversaciones llenas de sabiduría mundana que Leonora me ha relatado a raíz de su muerte. Y ¿es posible imaginar que durante nuestros reglamentados paseos por Nauheim y sus alrededores encontrara tiempo para llevar adelante las prolijas negociaciones que de hecho llevaba entre Edward Ashburnham y su mujer? ¿Y no es increíble que durante todo aquel tiempo Edward y Leonora no intercambiaran nunca una sola palabra en privado? ¿Qué debe pensar uno sobre la raza humana?

Porque le juro que formaban la pareja modelo. Edward tenía con Leonora todas las atenciones que es posible tener sin parecer fatuo. ¡Tan apuesto, con unos ojos azules tan sinceros, el adecuado toque de estupidez, y una bondad tan manifiesta! Y ella..., tan alta, tan maravillosa montando a caballo, tan rubia. Sí, Leonora era extraordinariamente rubia y tan exactamente lo que tenía que ser que todo ello parecía demasiado bueno para ser cierto. Quiero decir que, en general, uno no se encuentra de ordinario con tantas perfecciones reunidas. Pertenecer a la aristocracia rural, tener todo el aire de la aristocracia rural, ser rica de una manera tan perfecta y adecuada; tener unos modales tan exquisitos..., con el atenuante incluso de ese toque de insolencia que parece imprescindible. ¡Tenerlo todo y ser todo eso! No; era demasiado bueno para ser verdad. Y sin embargo, esta misma tarde, hablando sobre todo ello, me ha dicho: «Una vez traté de tener un amante, pero me sentí tan enferma, tan destrozada, que tuve que rechazarle». Me ha parecido la cosa más asombrosa que he oído nunca. «Me tenía ya entre sus brazos –dijo–. ¡Un hombre tan apuesto! ¡Tan excelente persona! Y yo me decía, con furia, susurrando entre dientes como dicen en las novelas..., y de verdad apretándolos mucho; me decía a mí misma: Ahora estoy completamente decidida y voy a pasarlo bien por una vez en la vida..., ¡por una vez en la vida!. Estábamos a oscuras en un coche de caballos, regresando del baile con que se celebra el final de una cacería. ¡Teníamos que recorrer dieciocho kilómetros! Y luego, de repente, la amargura de la interminable pobreza, de los interminables fingimientos..., todo ello me cayó encima como una maldición, y lo echó todo a perder. Sí, tuve que darme cuenta de que estaba incapacitada para pasarlo bien incluso cuando se presentaba la oportunidad. Así que me eché a llorar, y estuve llorando y llorando los dieciocho kilómetros. ¿Se lo imagina? ¡Llorando! Y poniendo en ridículo de aquella manera a un chico tan estupendo.

Porque aquello no era jugar limpio, ¿no es cierto?»

No lo sé; no lo sé; esa última observación, ¿era el comentario de una ramera, o es eso lo que toda mujer decente, tanto si es de la aristocracia rural como si no, piensa en lo más hondo de su corazón? ¿O lo piensa todo el tiempo, si vamos a ello? ¿Quién sabe?

Sin embargo, si ignoramos eso hoy y ahora, a la altura de civilización que hemos alcanzado, después de todos los sermones y de todos los moralistas, y de todas las enseñanzas de todas las madres a sus hijas in saecula saeculorum..., aunque quizá sea eso lo que las madres enseñan a sus hijas, no con los labios sino con los ojos, o con un corazón susurrándole a otro corazón. Y, si no sabemos siquiera eso sobre la primera cosa del mundo, ¿qué es lo que sabemos y para qué estamos aquí?

Le pregunté a la señora Ashburnham si le había contado aquel episodio a Florence y qué había dicho mi mujer, y me contestó: «Florence no hizo ningún comentario. ¿Qué podía haber dicho? No había nada que decir. Con la pobreza agobiante que tuvimos que soportar para cubrir las apariencias, y la manera en que se presentó la pobreza..., ya sabe usted lo que quiero decir..., cualquier mujer tendría derecho a echarse un amante y aceptar regalos por añadidura. Florence dijo una vez acerca de una situación muy parecida (estaba un poco demasiado bien educada, era demasiado americana para personalizar) que se trataba de un caso perfecto de viaje sin destino decidido, y que la mujer podía comportarse siguiendo la inspiración del momento. Lo dijo en americano, por supuesto, pero ése era el sentido. Creo que sus palabras fueron exactamente éstas: Era la mujer quien tenía que decidir si tomarlo o dejarlo...».

No quiero que piense que estoy describiendo a Teddy Ashburnham como un desalmado. No creo que lo fuera. Quién sabe, quizá todos los hombres sean así. Porque como ya he dicho, ¿qué sé yo, incluso del salón de fumar? Va llegando la gente y cuenta las historias más increíblemente groseras..., tan groseras que le hacen a uno daño. Y sin embargo, esos hombres se ofenderían si alguien sugiriera que no son el tipo de persona a quien uno dejaría a solas con su mujer. Y es muy probable que tuvieran toda la razón para ofenderse..., es decir, si es que se puede dejar solos a un hombre y a una mujer. Pero ese tipo de individuo disfruta evidentemente más escuchando o contando historias groseras..., más que con ninguna otra cosa en el mundo. Cazarán lánguidamente, se vestirán lánguidamente, cenarán lánguidamente, trabajarán sin entusiasmo y les parecerá muy aburrido mantener una conversación de tres minutos sobre cualquier cosa, y sin embargo, cuando empiece ese otro tipo de conversación, reirán y se despertarán y se revolcarán regocijados en sus asientos. Por ello, si tanto se divierten con esas narraciones, ¿cómo es posible que se ofendan, y que se ofendan con razón, ante la sugerencia de que quizás intenten poner a prueba el honor de nuestra esposa? Edward Ashburnham, en cambio, era la persona de as pecto más honesto que quepa imaginar; excelente magistrado, soldado de primera categoría, uno de los mejores terratenientes, según decían, de Hampshire, en Inglaterra. Con los pobres y con los borrachos impenitentes, yo mismo soy testigo, se comportaba como concienzudo guardián. Y en los nueve años que lo traté, excepto en una o dos ocasiones, jamás contó una historia que no se hubiera podido publicar en las columnas de The Field. Ni siquiera le gustaba oírlas; se ponía nervioso, se levantaba y salía a comprar un puro u otra cosa por el estilo. Cualquiera hubiera dicho que era exactamente el tipo de persona a quien se le podía confiar la propia esposa. Y yo confiaba en la mía, y aquello fue la locura.

Y sin embargo, vuelvo a verme atrapado una vez más. Si el pobre Edward era peligroso en razón de la castidad de sus expresiones (y se dice que ése es siempre el distintivo del libertino), ¿dónde hay que colocarme a mí? Porque afirmo solemnemente que no sólo nunca he permitido que se deslizara en mi conversación ni la sombra de algo indecoroso, sino que salgo incluso garante de la limpieza de mis pensamientos y de la absoluta castidad de mi vida. Entonces, ¿a qué queda reducido todo? ¿Se trata de una locura o de una burla? ¿Es que yo no soy mejor que un eunuco y el hombre auténtico –el hombre con derecho a la existencia– es un semental sin freno siempre relinchando ante las mujeres de la familia de su vecino?

No lo sé. Y no hay nada que nos sirva de guía. Y si todo es tan nebuloso sobre una cuestión tan elemental como la ética del sexo, ¿qué nos servirá de guía en la moralidad más sutil de los demás contactos personales, asociaciones y actividades? ¿O es que estamos hechos para actuar siguiendo únicamente nuestros impulsos? Es todo muy oscuro.

CAPÍTULO II

No sé cuál es la mejor manera de escribir esto..., no sé si sería más conveniente tratar de empezar por el principio, como si fuera un cuento; o narrarlo desde la lejanía en el tiempo, tal como yo lo recibí de los labios de Leonora o del mismo Edward.

De manera que durante un espacio de dos semanas aproximadamente me imaginaré en una casa de campo, a un lado de la chimenea, con un oyente favorablemente dispuesto frente a mí. Y me dedicaré a hablar en voz baja mientras se perci be a lo lejos el ruido del mar, y, por encima de nuestras cabezas, la gran marea negra del viento saca brillo a las estrellas. De vez en cuando nos levantaremos, llegaremos hasta la puerta, contemplaremos la enorme luna y diremos: «¡Caramba, brilla casi tanto como en Provenza!». Y a continuación volveremos juntos a la chimenea, con algo así como la sombra de un suspiro porque no estamos en esa Provenza donde incluso las historias más tristes se vuelven alegres. Considérese si no la lamentable historia de Peire Vidal. Hace dos años Florence y yo fuimos en coche desde Biarritz a Las Tours, que está en los Montes Negros. En medio de un valle tortuoso se alza un inmenso pináculo y sobre él hay cuatro castillos: Las Tours, las Torres. Y el mistral soplaba con tanta fuerza en el interior de ese valle que comunica Francia con Provenza que las hojas gris plateadas de los olivos parecían cabellos flotando al viento, y las matas de romero se introducían furtivamente entre las rocas de color hierro para evitar que el viento las arrancase de raíz.

Fue, por supuesto, la pobre Florence quien quiso ir a Las Tours. Deben ustedes darse cuenta de que, si bien su brillante personalidad procedía de Stamford, en Connecticut, era una graduada de Poughkeepsie. Nunca conseguí imaginarme cómo lo hacía..., cómo lograba ser tan peculiar y tan parlanchina. Con su mirada distante..., que no tenía nada de romántica, sin embargo..., quiero decir que no daba la impresión de estar teniendo sueños poéticos, ni de que le mirase a uno sin verle, ¡porque la verdad es que casi nunca te miraba...!, con una mano en alto, como si quisiera silenciar cualquier objeción... o cualquier comentario, si vamos a ello..., lo cierto es que Florence hablaba. Hablaba sobre Guillermo el Silencioso, sobre Gustavo el Locuaz, sobre los trajes de París, sobre cómo vestían los pobres en 1337, sobre Fantin-Latour, sobre el tren de lujo París-Lyon-Mediterráneo, y sobre si merecía la pena apearse en Tarascón y cruzar el puente colgante barrido por el viento para atravesar el Ródano y ver una vez más Beaucaire.

Nunca visitamos de nuevo Beaucaire, por supuesto..., la hermosa Beaucaire, con la alta torre blanca triangular, que parecía tan delgada como una aguja y tan alta como el Flatiron, entre la Quinta Avenida y Broadway..., Beaucaire con sus murallas grises en lo más alto de la cima rodeando acre y medio de lirios azules, bajo los altos troncos de los pinos piñoneros. ¡Qué cosa tan hermosa es un pino piñonero...!

No; nunca volvimos a ningún sitio. Ni a Heidelberg, ni a Hamelin, ni a Verona, ni al Mont Majour..., ni siquiera a la misma Carcasona. Hablamos de ello, por supuesto, pero imagino que Florence, con una sola mirada, sacaba de un sitio todo lo que quería. Tenía un don especial para ver.

Yo no lo tengo, desgraciadamente, de manera que el mundo está lleno de sitios a los que quiero volver..., ciudades con un sol cegador cayéndoles encima; pinos piñoneros recortados contra el azul del cielo; ángulos de gabletes tallados en su totalidad, con pinturas de ciervos y flores escarlata; y ga bletes con salientes escalonados y un pequeño santo en lo alto; y palazzi de color gris y rosado y ciudades amuralladas a kilómetro y medio del mar poco más o menos, junto al Mediterráneo, entre Liorno y Nápoles. No vimos ni una sola cosa más de una vez, de manera que para mí el mundo entero es como manchas de color en un lienzo inmenso. Si no fuera así, quizás ahora tendría algo a que agarrarme.

¿Todo esto es una disgresión o no lo es? Confieso una vez más que no lo sé. Usted, la persona que escucha, está sentado frente a mí. Pero su silencio es absoluto. No me dice usted nada. Yo, de todos modos, estoy tratando de hacerle ver el tipo de vida que llevaba con mi mujer y cómo era ella. Bueno, Florence era brillante; y bailaba. Parecía bailar sobre los suelos de los castillos y sobre los mares y todavía más sobre los salones de las modistas y sobre las plages de la Riviera... como un rayo alegre y trémulo, reflejado en un techo desde el agua. Y mi cometido en la vida era hacer que aquella cosa brillante siguiera existiendo. Era casi tan difícil como tratar de coger con la mano un reflejo danzante. Y esa tarea duró años.

Las tías de Florence solían decir que yo debía de ser el hombre más perezoso de Filadelfia. No había estado nunca en Filadelfia y tenía la típica conciencia de Nueva Inglaterra. Dése usted cuenta, la primera cosa que me dijeron cuando fui a visitar a Florence a la vieja casa de madera de estilo colonial, bajo los altos olmos con muy escasas hojas..., la primera pregunta que me hicieron no fue cómo estaba sino qué hacía.

Y yo no hacía nada. Supongo que debería haber hecho algo, pero no me sentía en absoluto llamado a hacerlo. ¿Por qué hace uno cosas? Yo me limitaba a dejarme ir y a querer casarme con Florence. Primero me tropecé con ella en un té donde se leía a Browning, o algo por el estilo, en la calle Catorce, que por entonces era todavía residencial. No sé por qué había ido yo a Nueva York; ni por qué fui a aquel té. Ni se me alcanza

Comentarios para El buen soldado

[hemlokgang · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This is quite a novel, not at all what I expected. Set up as a tale told by the author to the reader while sitting by the fire, let's just say it would have lasted all night long! An American couple and a British couple spend 9+ agonizing years as friends. Originally titled "The Saddest Story", the perfect superficial and socially prescribed behavior is stripped away to reveal the deceitfulness, disloyalty, cruelty, manipulativeness, and selfishness of the characters. The visual image I consistently conjured in my mind's eye was a spiral, narrow at the top and ever widening towards the bottom. Essentials of the tale are returned to over and over as the author/narrator expands and furnishes increasing detail as to the unfolding of the melodrama which is this plot. Oddly, the writer tries to impose some modicum of order to the interpersonal chaos by insisting that every single significant event, over 9+ years, occurred on the 4th of the month. Weird, right? Anyway, it was a fascinating read!

[alisony-1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Written in 1914, with the title The Good Soldier you'd be forgiven for expecting this classic to be a war novel. However, the nearest we come to notions of war in this novel are those of the domestic strife kind concerning two couples who Ford refers to as "good people".Ford Maddox Ford was an interesting character. Rubbing shoulders with the literary greats of the time, he co-wrote several novels with Joseph Conrad (touchy subject - Conrad got all of the credit from the publishers), published works in The English Review (which he founded) by the likes of Thomas Hardy, H.G. Wells, Conrad, Ezra Pound and Yeats, and in Paris published work by Hemingway, Joyce, Jean Rhys and Gertrude Stein in The Transatlantic Review. Despite prolifically writing his own memoirs, poetry, novels and critical essays, Ford was ultimately left disappointed and disillusioned that so many of his writing contemporaries, whose work he had championed as a publisher, left him in their wake with their much greater literary successes.That being said, so much about this book fascinated me, despite at times befuddling me. In the introduction (written post it's original publication), Ford claims it was his best book, and I think it deserves to be remembered alongside the much better known publications of the era from his contemporaries. He insists that the book was in his head for 10 years, but as it was about personal friends he had to wait until they'd passed before being able to tell their story. Knowing as we do his own backstory of extra-marital affairs, one suspects that you might not have too look too far to find where his "friend" inspiration came from.Originally Ford wished the novel to be called The Saddest Story before his publishers put their foot down, given the already sad enough reality of being a country at war. This theme plays out throughout the novel as the narrator reflects on the wasteful tragedy of the spiralling events that take place, and the sadness of a story where none of the characters ultimately find happiness.The Good Soldier has been both criticised and revered for the manner in which it is narrated, a chronological hotch-potch that skips back and forth and round and round rather than being a linear retelling. Although I had to check back every now and then to make sure I hadn't missed something important, I'm definitely in the 'it works' camp. The narration style creates complex layers which definitely make you work as a reader, piecing together disjointed narrative which segues and digresses between what was known at the time and what was discovered later by the narrator to be true. However, in making sense of the story as you read it takes you on what feels like quite a literary journey, and when I reached the end and the last piece of the puzzle slipped into place it felt like I'd just experienced a pretty fine novel.4 stars - I doubt that this will be my favourite novel of the year, but it was a good read nonetheless.

[dinadansfriend · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

A classic novel dealing with the dissection of three marriages. But the narrator himself is revealed as unreliable, so where is the reader left by the tales? In addition Ford writes this novel in a series of flashbacks, which aids the general air of revelation, and dissonance. It is good to read, though finally not so much entertaining as engrossing.

[tanyaread · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Published in 1915. It details the interactions of (basically) two couples. I found it often "how on earth could anyone behave in this way" but it was engrossing and gave a picture of life in a time that I have not read about very much before. I can see how the author came to the end provided (a surprise one given the preceding text) but I am pretty sure the way I felt about it and the way he felt about it (given the title) are quite different. I thought it was well worth reading.

[madepercy-1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Reading classic literature is always full of surprises. I did not know that Ford Madox Ford was considered an impressionist. He seems to have moved beyond the more formal yet (then) modern prose of Henry James to capture the nature of English manners while obviously displaying Edwardian characteristics. Yet his prose was exactly like a conversation - I found the so-called illogical flow of the plot to be exactly like listening to someone tell their story as one would over a cup of tea or coffee. This novel is not too taxing and is definitely worth reflecting upon.

[benuathanasia · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Forgettable. Absolutely and woefully forgettable.

[dorritt_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Ford Madox Ford begins the tale with the words “This is the saddest story I have ever heard,” which is a little nervy, I think – kind of like Babe Ruth stepping up to the plate and calling his shot. As if that weren’t enough, FMF “doubles down” in the preface to the version I read, explaining that when offered a chance to make revisions to the text, he decided not to change a word, as he realized the story was perfect the way it was. But d*** if the man doesn’t hit the ball exactly where he pointed. The art of this novel isn’t in the story, which is almost tauntingly simple: an upstanding, well-meaning British officer with a romantic nature that makes him a little bit too susceptible to falling in love ends up inadvertently ruining the lives of his wife (a Catholic who feels unable to divorce him), a good friend (whose wife he succumbs to), and at least two sweetly innocent but emotionally fragile ladies. The art of the novel is a little bit in the characterizations, which are authentic and intricate in a way I associate with Graham Greene, the highest compliment I am capable of giving. With few exceptions, no one in this terribly sad tale is actually evil: indeed, you could make the case that most of them demonstrate the capacity for extreme nobility – Edward, the tale’s tragic swain, is a generous and compassionate landowner; Leonora, his wife, willingly sacrifices her own happiness to secure his; Dowell, the tale’s narrator, similarly sacrifices his needs to accommodate the requirements of his wife’s (supposedly) ill health; Nancy, Edward’s final, fatal femme fatale, is sweet and patient and good. Each, however, additionally possesses a flaw – one tragic, inevitable, Aristotelean little flaw – that ends up perverting their nobility into something corrupt and awful and … yes … terribly sad. As summarized by Dowell (our first person narrator), part-ways through the tale: “I call this the Saddest Story, rather than “The Ashburnham Tragedy,” just because … there is about it none of the elevation that accompanies tragedy; there is about it no nemesis, no destiny. Here were two noble people … drifting down life … causing miseries, hart-aches, agony of the mind and death. And they themselves steadily deteriorated. And why? For what purpose? To point what lesson? It is all a darkness.” Mostly, however, the art of this novel is in FMF’s masterly and novel storytelling. The tale is effectively inverted - told from end to beginning - by a narrator who assumes the reader is already familiar with the ending. In this way, FMF crafts a tale that, instead of building towards tragedy, starts with the tragedy already established and then unfolds the details in a way so maddeningly careless that the effect can only have been achieved through the most deliberate and careful writing imaginable. Instead of waiting and watching for tragedy to unfurl – as happens in most novels – tragedy meets us on the first page and accompanies us all the way through our subsequent journey. Which isn’t to suggest this is a miserable or unpleasant read: on the contrary, I would argue that FMF’s wonderfully ingenious storytelling is what makes this “saddest story ever told” not only bearable, but hauntingly human. No short review could ever hope to capture all the worthy intricacies of this work. The title alone deserves its own paragraph: FMF’s introduction raises more questions than it answers about whether “The Good Soldier” is a literal reference to Edward, or meant in a figurative sense as a reference to all folks in this tale of act the role of “good soldier,” selflessly (or selfishly?) sacrificing themselves for the perceived good of others. Another paragraph might be devoted to FMF’s perception of Catholicism, which takes a beating in this tale. Another might be devoted to an analysis of the actual reliability of FMF’s supposed “reliable narrator”; yet another to debating whether, in this novel, FMF has indeed “laid [his] one egg and might as well die.” All of which would make this the ideal novel for a Lit 301 college course, without in any way undermining its merits as captivating and accessible tale, quickly read but not quickly forgotten.

[iambookish-1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I'm so conflicted on what I really think of this book. It was a struggle to get through and at times I wanted to throw it against the wall, but in the end I powered through and felt satisfied with its conclusion. This to me balances out to "average"!

[vguy_6 · Calificación: 1 de 5 estrellas]

2nd attempt to take this on, and got to the end by force of will. Still not sure if I hate it or just bored by it. Broken time-line and few major "events" make it hard to get to grips with. More importantly, the characters are all well-lined upper-class types who do nothing. Money is readily available (millions) but referred to with sublime indifference. Much jealousy and rivalry and breaking of relationships, an occasional reference to 'emerging from the bedroom' but no sensuality, no sex, no passion - in fact very little physical or visual detail. Seems to be about feelings but much of that is about having no feelings. Much about what is 'correct' or 'normal', with a curled lip, raised eyebrow sort of way, and quite a few reference to the differences between Catholic and Protestant views of the relations between the sexes. So, who the heck cares? And how come this is seen as a classic?

[leslie398 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I waffled a bit between 3.5 and 4 stars for this classic. While there were things about it that didn't appeal to me (some Catholic bashing for example), it made an impression on me & made me think. Two different but equally dysfunctional marriages are laid bare throughout the course of the book. It is written in an unusual style that I am not sure that I liked but worked well here -- the narrator writes as if the reader knew some fact or event that had not been revealed yet and then later explains it. For example, in the beginning of Part II, he is relating his own history talking about how he and Florence became married. He remarks "she might have bolted with the fellow, before or after she married me." What fellow? who is this person never before even alluded to? The reader begins to have suspicions of who it is and then several pages later it is revealed.As the story progresses, it becomes more and more clear that this is a highly unreliable narrator. And his shifting perspective may be not so much of a shift as a revealing of underlying views formerly hidden (from the reader and perhaps from the narrator's own conscious mind).

[booktruffler · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

The Good Soldier has one of the most famous opening sentences, and the rest of the book lives up to it."This is the saddest story I have ever heard." A tale of passion, miscommunication, good intentions, desperation. Two couples' lives become inextricably entwined in the late 1890s. The writing is restrained, narrated as it is by the deceived husband. He has an utterly believable voice as he drifts back and forth in time, trying to make sense of what has happened. Highly recommended if you're a fan of British literature.

[sandydog1_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Chronic, angst, chronic cardiopulmonary disease, chronic longings, chronic nastiness. Give me Dostoyevsky any day. . Crazy (poor) people are much more interesting than eccentric (rich) people.

[datrappert · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

In the beginning this book impresses you with its prose as it lulls you into "the saddest story I have ever heard." The prose at the end of the book is equally good. But what comes in between, well...it speaks of a time and place and perhaps way of life that doesn't exist any more, at least not for those of us who don't immerse ourselves in novels set in the same milieu. Ford's tale of infidelity, jealousy, control, heart disease, insanity, etc. etc. is told out of sequence by its unlikable, untrustworthy narrator, who is know to contradict himself. About 2/3 of the way through, it occurred to me that this was really a very black comedy about a bunch of people who pretty much deserve what they get, and after finishing the book, I'll stick to that point of view. Apparently it is at least somewhat valid based on the Introduction in this Everyman edition. This is a book that will stick with me in some ways, and reading it was mostly a pleasure. But it isn't a great novel.

[oskar_matzerath-1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Let the author and you trust each other, each to his job. Don't worry if at the start you ask, "Who is speaking here?" By the end, after all hope is gone and your heart is broken, you'll know.

[jvioland_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

An impressionistic work of English life right before the outbreak of WWI. Told in a series of flash-backs, it skips around and is nonchronological. Somewhat difficult to read, but worthwhile. You get different views of the "good" soldier and two Americans, each of whom are married. It has twists. What you believe of a character may turn out not to be true.

[japaul22 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I think that Ford Madox Ford should have fought the publishers and stuck with his original title, The Saddest Story. It is a much better descriptor of this intense and depressing short novel. This is the story of the twisted lives of two unhappily married couples and the various affairs they involve themselves in. It's narrated by one of the husbands, John Dowell, whose wife Florence has at least two affairs, one with the husband of the other married couple, Edward, who is the title character. Leonora, Edward's wife, is aware of everything going on and trying to control events as much as possible by managing her husband's affairs - both in love and money. John, the narrator, insists that he never knew that his wife was having affairs. He tells the story of Edward and Leonora through a series of flashbacks after Florence and Edward have both committed suicide, Edward several years after Florence.If the above description was confusing, I'll say I'm just following the layout of Ford's book. The unreliable memories and misunderstanding of events by the narrator and the rambling, out-of-chronological-order retelling make the novel complex and interesting. The writing style is amazing, especially considering this was written in 1915. The characters in this book are all pretty despicable, mostly being either totally passive, like the narrator, or passive aggressive, like Leonora. Usually I can't stand a book where I don't like at least one of the characters, but this book is good enough to overcome that.

[kishields · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Reread this for a book group, which had a very lively discussion about the unlikability of the characters and the confusing character of the narrator and style of narration. The narrator is so passive he almost defines the term. And he is recalling events in an almost stream of consciousness manner, with constant time shifts as more and more is revealed. Or is it? His lack of insight is what drives the narrative as the reader is forced to construct what really happens from inferences and surmises, mostly revealed through other characters' comments as the narrator recalls and reports them. A fascinating look at early experimentation in narratorial technique by one of the outstanding authors of the time, a man who knew all the major writers and encouraged them in their (better known) work. He was especially close to Joseph Conrad, and the similarities in style are fascinating.

[crypto3willobie · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This is certainly one of the saddest stories I have ever heard. It's as if a slow-motion train wreck were described in exquisitely controlled prose. If you insist on having a conventional plot, a good "read", then this isn't for you. The narrator is sometimes described as 'unreliable' but it's more like he's wearing blinders that occasionally flip open and smack him in the face, stunning him. Imagine a Beethoven sonata composed entirely of slow movements in minor keys -- you listen entranced, but every so often the music gives way to a heart-rending shriek, an outburst of insane laughter, or a series of bitter choking aphorisms before subsiding again into music. It's not fun, but it's a fine work of art.

[thatotter-1 · Calificación: 1 de 5 estrellas]

Dreadful. A long, boring non-story with muddled, plodding writing.

[roblong_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

"This is the saddest story I have ever heard." - nice first line. A wealthy American spends time in Europe with his ill wife, and they befriend the Ashburnhams, a couple of similar age who appear to be more or less perfect. They aren't of course, nothing and nobody in the book is. What they actually are is never quite clear - the book is full of uncertainty and the reader is never quite sure how the book's events come about, or how accurate the picture being given of the various characters is (is the narrator really wealthy or even American? Is his wife really ill?). This is really good, it reminded of Conrad in its approach and psychological intricacy, and it turns out that Ford and Conrad were friends, so that's doubtless no coincidence.

[stillatim · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Kind of like watching acid eat into a nice painting- slow, sometimes pleasurably excruciating (look! it's spreading to her eyes!), sometimes just dull. I admit I read this because I felt that I ought to, which isn't usually the best basis for reading a book. Sometimes it works out well, of course, but not so much with this. The third quarter was amazing, and made it worth while, but the first third in particular was a bit of a drag. Like Conrad writing a James novel, except instead of slightly unreliable, anachronistic narrative, it's completely unreliable and there's zero 'progression' of any kind. It reminded me a bit of Catch 22 in that way, except not funny. I suspect this would be great fun to study, too... but for night-time edification I'll stick to Conrad writing Conrad novels and James writing James.

[portm-1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

The characters were interesting, but not even Frank Muller's beautiful audio performance could hold my interest with the meandering monologue that apparently makes up the entirety of this story. I gave up trying about 50 minutes in.

[charlie68_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

A very deep well written novel. A book that sentences have to be read a couple of times to get the full meaning.

[hebephrene · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

I can't remember an experience like this where I began by detesting a writer who then in the course of the book began to admire then finally to love. It was maddening because the first person character "narrating" the book was unequal - to use Julian Barnes quote - to his tale. And yet that was finally exactly what Ford intended. But it made for a slippery slope because it meant that two completely opposite opinions could exist, if not side by side, at least unreconciled. And when you think of it, wasn't that the best choice Ford could have made? The core of the book is that it allows one to see two unreconcilable aspects of a relationship where both love and hate co-exist. To have told a tale that allowed for that from the perspective of a detached narrator would have had us requiring that voice to be certain, straight and true. So by choosing instead to have the tale told by a character who can say one moment that he loves and admires his wife and then not twenty pages on say how he never hated anyone so much, two polar feelings can be shown. There are some like Stanley Fish who admire Ford for his sentences and yet that was the least impressive aspect of the book. Ford is known as a pioneer of an approach that allows the continual looping back to the past. The book's chronology is completely non-linear. We go forward, we go back, we go back further, then inch forward again. Imagine Rashoman but instead of multiple characters there is only one source - the speaker Mr. Dowell. What took time to acclimate oneself to was the speaker's unreliability, if we take unreliability as meaning having a fixed opinion. Now, all that is to the good, however, I would advise you to avoid this edition. Whoever Lits are out of Vegas they produce a cheap and sloppy product. They are involved in ebooks and it looks it. The original copyright isn't even listed and the whole thing looks and feels as if it was run off using a Xerox machine. Nor does the cover photo have any bearing.

[jmoncton_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

December's bookclub selection - a story about two couples and the disaster that arises when one one of the men has an affair with the other man's wife. What made this book such a great read was that it was told by the cuckholded husband as a flashback - the perfect unreliable narrator. His moods and emotions change over the course of the story and my emotions followed. It was an interesting book to discuss - different people felt that different characters were at fault and everyone was pretty flawed. I read this at the same time as listening to Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence. Both books are set in that same time period - turn of the century. Interesting to see how society's rules (divorce was scandalous - affairs were ok) dictacted people's lives.

[brenzi_3 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

”This is the saddest story I have ever heard.”So begins the 1915 novel by Ford Maddox Ford, a book that even he, ten years after its publication, was surprised by the combined intricacies of voice and non-linear construction that make this narrative confusing and just a bit odd. But dang, it seems to have left me considering a reread in the not too distant future.The story itself is fairly straightforward: two wealthy couples, one English (Edward and Leonora Ashburnham), one American (John and Florence Dowell), spend many seemingly happy years together after meeting in a German spa town. At some point, it is revealed that Edward and Florence have carried on a long affair which Lenora knows about but Dowell does not. This affair appears to be the vehicle for a bleak string of deaths, suicides, and one woman’s spiral into mental illness.To say that Dowell is an unreliable narrator would be true but it is not the whole story. He has been duped so he doesn’t really know the whole story but as he pieces it together it goes through several revisions as he tells the story from several different points of view through time, shifting back and forth through many years. This was all very daring and cutting edge in 1915 but also very jumbled and had me scratching my head wondering where the clarity would come from. The clarity does come eventually, and then you think the narrative is finished but wait, Ford throws in the explanation for one last suicide. Dowell’s narration has always been a matter of controversy and for good reason. It’s random, chaotic, sprawling and for the most part, he is looking for sympathy. He actually admires Edward, who carried on with Dowell’s wife for years, right under his nose. ”I can’t conceal from myself the fact that I loved Edward Ashburnham---and that I love him because he was just myself. If I had had the courage and virility and possibly also the physique of Edward Ashburnham I should, I fancy, have done much what he did. He seems to me like a large elder brother who took me out on several excursions and did many dashing things whilst I just watched him robbing the orchards, from a distance.” (Page 257)Huh. That is brilliant. The fact that a reader can be taken in by such a narrator, well, you just have to give a lot of credit to the author. But wait---does he just think I’m incredibly stupid? Whatever the answer is, I am going to have to read this book again in the not too distant future. And that must mean Ford’s a genius.

[pauntley · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is a tale of infidelity, frustration and disappointment with a famous opening sentence: 'This is the saddest story I have ever heard'. There are many ways to read The Good Soldier. I read it for the first time cold, with very little idea about what I was in for. There are annotated editions with a plot synopsis, cast of characters and summaries of recurring themes or motifs but my electronic version was bare of any explanatory Introduction or annotation. Reading it this way was an exploratory process for the narrator, whose first and second names are only revealed incidentally, well into the novel, is unreliable, ignorant much of the time about what's going on and strangely artless. The chronology is fractured. On first reading the novel resembles a random patchwork quilt or William Burroughs cut up. My Kindle copy of the first version I read is heavily annotated with baffled or occasionally derisory comments. It would have been quite possible, of course, to begin with one of the annotated versions and commence reading with knowledge of what to expect. In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't. The Good Soldier is a book to be read several or more times and something significant in my appreciation of the book would have been lost if I had been better prepared for that first encounter. The narrator may be strangely artless in the way he frames his narrative, but Ford Madox Ford is very far from artless. The Good Soldier is ranked by some critics among the most important 20th century novels, in company with Ulysses, The Sound and the Fury, &c. It is certainly possible to disagree with that ranking. One difference is immediately apparent: the prose of The Good Soldier - the surface of the novel - is generally undistinguished. This is a tale told by a blandly imperceptive man whose mind mostly moves in cliches. He is, of course, Ford's creature and the art of the novel lies in the author's deployment of his unreliable narrator, with all his inadequacies of perception and expressiveness, over the shifting terrain of his 'saddest story'.

[jmcdbooks · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Rated: A-Ford masterfully weaves a sordid narrative tale of intrigue of passion in the empty lives of the rich. This book was one that kept calling me back to fill in more of the blanks in the sad story. Great handling of the various points of view from the leading characters.

[eyejaybee · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Ford Madox Ford originally intended to call this beautiful but tragic novella "The Saddest Story", based upon the opening sentence, "This is the saddest story I have ever heard"> His publisher objected, suggesting that such a title would have a disastrous impact upon sales. Ford was not convinced, responding angrily that the publisher should do whatever he thought fit, adding that one might as well just call it "The Good Soldier". "The Saddest Story" might have spelt disaster on the booksellers' shelves but it would certainly have satisfied those who lean towards the "It does what it says on the tin" approach to titles. It is an immensely sad story - the tale of two self-destructive couple touring Europe in the early years of the twentieth century.However, it is also a beautifully written story, to such an extent that one suffers all the pain of the narrator as he recounts his tragic story.Ford was a master of literary criticism and brought all his stylistic knowledge to bear here giving a series of different literary devices (flashback, impressionism, florid conjecture). It is a short book but infinitely rewarding .. yet also heartbreaking.

[craso_3 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

In 20th Century British literature it always stuns me how the characters react so stoicly when it seems more natural to act emotionally. No one is willing to talk about their feelings. This always leads to tragedy. That is why Ford Madox Ford almost named this book "The Saddest Story." Yet it isn't a tale that will make you weep. Infact, I don't feel sorry for any of the characters, because everything that happened they brought upon themselves.The novel is narrated by John Dowell the husaband of Florence. They are a rich American couple who live in Europe and go to a spa every year because Florence has a "heart." There they meet Edward and Leonora Ashburnham, a rich British couple who come to the spa for Edward's "heart." Edward is the "good soldier" who seems honnest and respectable. They start a friendship because Dowell is bored with being Florence's nursemaid and Leonora wants to use Florence to get Edward's mind of a young woman who is the real reason he is at the spa. Florence and Edward, again the only people in this novel that the narrator describes as having a "heart" start an affair and then everything goes down hill from there, or maybe that wasn't the beginning. Florence and Edward are characterized as having heart conditions when really they are two passionate people who married for convience. Their spouses, especially Leonora, are rather cold and unfeeling. Florence isn't the kindest person in the world to poor Dowell, but he is a dim-wit. At the beginning of the novel he describes the tale he is about to tell as the saddest story he has ever heard. What does he mean "heard"? He was living with these people when all the events occurred. This is where we come back to the stoic British. These two couples are portrayed as "good people" and good people never show emotion in public. They put masks on and pretend that they lead happy lives, because they are rich and hob-nob in high society.Dowell is not a reliable narrator. He tells the story in the first person, but he is relating the saga as it was told to him. He wants to state the tale as if he were sitting with the reader next a roaring fire on a cold night. The narrative starts out jumbled and gets clearer as it becomes clearer in Dowell's mind. He comes to realizations and adds his own thoughts as the story progresses.I recommend this novel because of the intriguing way it is written. The use of an unreliable narrator makes it well worth reading. It is also an excellent example of late 19th Century and early 20th Century literature with it's portrayal of members of high society caring more about how they are percieved by others than about how they treat others. It reminded me very much of Edith Warton and Henry James.