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- Herausgeber: Carcanet Fiction
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011
A Man Could Stand Up -the third volume of Parade's End, brings Ford's characters to the 'crack across the table of History', across which lie their uncertain post-war futures. Divided into three parts, the novel is a kaleidoscopic vision of society at a climactic moment. The Armistice Day fireworks heard by Valentine Wannop in London with which the novel opens are echoed in the nightmare bombardment of the second part, as we are taken back to the war and Christopher Tietjens, staggering through the mud of No Man's Land with a wounded soldier in his arms. The final section returns to Armistice Day and joins the two characters in a frenetic dance, while Tietjens' wartime comrades smash glasses drunkenly around them. For the first time, the four novels that make up Ford Madox Ford's First World War masterpiece Parade's End are published in fully annotated editions, with authoritative corrected texts. Each novel is edited by a leading Ford expert. A Man Could Stand Up - includes -- the first reliable text, based on the hand-corrected typescript and first editions -- a major critical introduction by Sara Haslam, Senior Lecturer in Literature at the Open University and author of Fragmenting Modernism: Ford Madox Ford, the Novel and the Great War -- an account of the novel's composition and reception -- annotations explaining historical references, military terms, literary and topical allusions -- a full textual apparatus including transcriptions of significant deletions and revisions -- a bibliography of further reading. Cover painting: Paul Nash, The Menin Road,1919, IWM Art 2242 (detail). By permission of the Imperial War Museum. Cover design StephenRaw.com
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FORD MADOX FORD
Parade’s EndVOLUME III
A Man Could Stand Up – A Novel
Edited by Sara Haslam
CONTENTS
Title Page
Acknowledgements
List of Illustrations
List of Short Titles
Introduction
A Note on this Edition of Parade’s End
A Note on the Text of A Man Could Stand Up –
A MAN COULD STAND UP –: A NOVEL
Textual Notes
Select Bibliography
About the Author
Also by Ford Madox Ford from Carcanet Press
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My first thanks are due to my fellow editors, Max Saunders, Joseph Wiesenfarth and Paul Skinner. I have found this a hugely rewarding project, not only because of the brilliance of Ford’s text, but because of the collaborative nature of the endeavour. My initial notes date from a balcony meeting at a conference in Genoa in 2007. Though I recall the sense that we were embarking on an important and necessary edition I had little idea then how fascinating the project would become – or how much collective concentration would be required. I am extremely grateful to all three friends and colleagues for making the experience such a positive one, and for the astute and detailed comments that they have made on all aspects of this text. Max Saunders assumed the vast majority of the burden of chairing electronic and face-to-face discussion, and produced much of the editorial material that we then refined together. I should like to thank him for this, and, more generally, for all the professional generosity he has extended to me since we first met.
I have been greatly assisted throughout by my mother and stepfather, Olwen Haslam and Paul Bywaters. My mother has, once again, proved to be an invaluable proofreader (much better than Ford), and many of the notes contain material she researched either alone or alongside Paul. I shall not forget the semi-complete patrol of their grandchildren marching around a kitchen in North Wales singing ‘Some talk of Alexander’ as a result of one reference in Ford’s text. My husband Paul, as well as building a spreadsheet to help me make sense of the typescript, has provided insightful comments throughout. My thanks go to him for this, and for the weekends he spent with our children Maisie and Caspar (I missed you) so that I could work.
Ashley Chantler deserves special thanks for his editorial advice, especially on the comparability of work across all four volumes. I am also very grateful to other friends and colleagues who helped by providing information and discussing editorial issues, including Jason Andrew, John Attridge, Pete Clasen, Tony Hume, Kate Lindsay, Bob Owens, Martin Stannard and Shaf Towheed.
I have had most direct contact with Laura Linke at the Carl A. Kroch Library, Cornell University, and I am especially grateful to her for her detailed answers to questions concerning Ford’s typescript. I should also like to thank Katherine Reagan, and other staff at the Library, as well as staff at the Royal Artillery Museum and Apsley House for their assistance. Cornell University, Michael Schmidt, and the estate of Janice Biala have granted kind permission to quote from Ford’s translation of Euripides and from Ford’s and Biala’s letters.
Our editor at Carcanet, Judith Willson, deserves special thanks for all her valuable advice. Finally, I’d like to thank Michael Schmidt, as director of Carcanet Press, for his confidence in the project; and, as Ford’s executor, for contributing in this and many other ways to the general knowledge and experience of his work.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Dust-jacket from the first edition of A Man Could Stand Up – (Duckworth, 1926)xii
Leaf from the original typescript of A Man Could Stand Up – (copyright © the Carl A. Kroch Library, Cornell University)lx
LIST OF SHORT TITLES
INTRODUCTION
Ivor Gurney’s poem ‘War Books’ imagines his fellow writers at work at Corbie Ridge, or Fauquissart, or Ypres. Yet he himself was writing after the First World War was done – ‘War Books’ was drafted between 1922 and 1925. By the end of this period, two volumes of Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End had already been published. Ford’s war tetralogy was therefore one of the earliest, as well as one of the most impressive, examples of how ‘men would gather sense / Somehow together’, as Gurney put it in his poem.1 Ford’s four books were called by William Carlos Williams the ‘English prose masterpiece of their time’.2A Man Could Stand Up –, volume III, appeared in 1926. As this Introduction is intended to show, it built on the strengths of its predecessors, and contributed to Ford’s overall success in his treatment of the war, in a number of notable ways.
On 12 January 1927 Punch magazine carried an unsigned ‘review’ of A Man Could Stand Up –. It began as follows:
Provided you’ve—wisely, I count it—kept trace Of FORD MADOX FORD on the War,
A Man Could Stand Up will fall into its place As Tale Three in a series of four.
Two further verses point readers towards volumes I and II, in case of any difficulty as to plot or character. The review then concludes:
But you’ll find, when you’ve sorted each separate clue
That the story (from DUCKWORTH) is such
That life in the trenches is brought to your view
With a wholly remarkable touch.
It is a humorous, positive piece, its composer appreciating the novel’s individual – ‘wholly remarkable’ – merits as a war book, as well as its contribution to the larger fictional project of which it was a part: ‘Tale Three in a series of four’. Perusal of the previous volumes (Some Do Not … and No More Parades) is recommended. At the same time, the rightful ‘place’ of volume III is emphasised, one that it holds by virtue of and in relation to its companions. This is an advertisement for A Man Could Stand Up –, for Duckworth, and also for what would become Parade’s End.
A Man Could Stand Up – in the Series
The focus of this Introduction will be A Man Could Stand Up –, but Punch’s notice should serve as a reminder that the novel was not intended to be seen or to stand alone. Furthermore, the magazine’s reviewer was sure about the quality of volume III, as well as the number of volumes that should be read alongside it. (Although Last Post was not yet out, Ford described A Man Could Stand Up – as the ‘penultimate’ in the series in its dedicatory letter.)3 Different opinions have been expressed on both counts. This is to be expected regarding reviews, of course, and the novel’s critical reception forms a later section in this Introduction. Less predictable, though, were the occasional presentations of Ford’s magnificent series as a trilogy instead of a tetralogy. Details can be found in the Introduction to Last Post; suffice it to say here that (the clue being in the title) Last Post is an integral part of Parade’s End.4 ‘Tale Three’, however, as Punch called A Man Could Stand Up –, was always going to be its climax.
A Man Could Stand Up – treats the reader to at least two high points. The first comes when protagonist Christopher Tietjens, at war, has been under bombardment, narrowly escaping death. After rescuing one of his men he undergoes a transformational experience, in which the ‘complete taciturnity’ to which we were introduced in Some Do Not … is overthrown. (Ford made it clear there that Tietjens believed not only that you didn’t ‘talk’ about how you felt, but it was possible you didn’t think about it either, I.i.)5 Forced by a combination of hellish circumstance and his own instinctive response into new psychological territory, Tietjens does now consider how he feels. He appraises his physical performance, realises ‘for the first time’ that he is grateful for his strength and capability, and thanks God resoundingly for them (II.vi). The second, related, high point of the text is the formal climax, found in the last lines of the last page, as Valentine, the woman Christopher loves, celebrates her approaching union with him. It is Armistice Day. They are not alone. Fellow soldiers who promised to ‘look old Tietjens up’ have kept on arriving at the door. Accordingly, though not seamlessly, the celebration expands to take account of them all. The strains of a French nursery rhyme help to conjure this specifically post-war reconstruction of a ‘domaine perdu’ – ‘Ainsi font, font, font / Les petites marionettes / Ainsi font, font, font / Trois petits tours’.6 There is noise and dancing, and smashing glasses, and faces swim in and out of focus before her.7 Above all, Valentine experiences the happiness and hope of the only kind of wedding the two of them might know: there is no priest and there are no vows, and Tietjens is already married, but ‘They were the centre of unending roaring circles’ (III.ii), and this is a wedding in all but name. As A Man Could Stand Up – comes to a close Tietjens is dancing (Tietjens is dancing!) with Valentine. The English language alone cannot do justice to the joy, so there is French too; prose, and speech, cannot achieve it either, so there is rhyme and song; and Ford deploys ellipsis one final time, unwilling to complete the picture of the future filling Valentine’s head and heart.8
The tripartite structure of A Man Could Stand Up – is carefully planned, and certainly contributes overall to the deep satisfactions the novel provides in scenes such as these. There may be no beginning, middle and end in classical style: Ford’s modernist use of time-shift prevents it. There are, however, clearly developed patterns of character interaction as well as individual protagonists who progress. Parts I and III take place on Armistice Day, while the much longer middle section returns us in time and space to the Front during the war. Part I gives us Valentine in her work at the school – during which she thinks and talks about Christopher; Part II concentrates on Christopher at war – often reminded of Valentine. Part III, later on Armistice Day, brings the two of them together, realising or anticipating their congress sexually, intellectually, and emotionally. Valentine is welcomed into the soldiers’ ‘family’, a stark contrast to the common projection in war writing of an unbridgeable divide between those who fought, and those who did not.
The sense of optimism and excitement in this novel is testament to Ford’s focus on his fiction and belief in its potential, and it is true to say that none of the other three volumes achieves its heights in these respects. Close attention to his life during 1926, not to mention his devastating experience of war, mean readers might expect a considerably more murky and complex picture; and the threat posed by Tietjens’ absent wife Sylvia is still very real in volume III, as are the fear and suffering in the face of war. Overall, though, its structure and its hope can only mean that Ford is seeing some things, at least, clearly in this novel and, in the final analysis, positively too. In Some Do Not … Ford had found the perspective necessary for treating the war in fiction. This had been facilitated by the passage of time, and by his leaving England for France in 1922. (His swift interpretation of the need for such a move contributed to the fact that his novels came out earlier than many of the other ‘big’ war texts.)9 The individual qualities of A Man Could Stand Up – represent a development of that same perspective, one which enabled him, in addition, to acknowledge and at the same time imagine moving on from the mental suffering caused by the war, itself complicating an early history of agoraphobia and neurosis. A man could stand up, in order first of all to show that he had endured and survived; and then he would look properly about him. Siegfried Sassoon, also an infantry officer in the war, believed something similar, though like Ford took several years to work it out, and say so:
I saw [Armageddon] then, as I see it now – a dreadful place, a place of horror and desolation which no imagination could have invented. Also it was a place where a man of strong spirit might know himself utterly powerless against death and destruction, and yet stand up and defy gross darkness and stupefying shell-fire, discovering in himself the invincible resistance of an animal or an insect, and an endurance which he might, in after days, forget or disbelieve.10
Though I will return to Ford’s choice of title in more detail later on, it is this related writerly aim of being able to see the subject clearly, without fear or flinching, that is perhaps most important in the initial approach to the book. ‘It is unbearable to exist’, as Ford put it later, ‘without some view of life as a whole.’11 War had taken this ability away from him in a variety of terrible ways.
Biography
Ford was born in 1873. He began to publish his writing well before the century was out. At first there were fairy tales, inspired or illustrated by the painters of his grandfather’s circle. He wrote poetry too, and initiated what would be a lifelong interest in recording lives and impressions when he published a biography of his grandfather, Ford Madox Brown, in 1896. He married young, and he and Elsie had two daughters. When he enlisted in July 1915, he was forty-one years old.
At his age and at that date (conscription was not introduced until the following year) he didn’t need to fight, and he was not really fit enough to do so, but his decision was founded on more than one aspect of his life in those times. It is important to remember that he was still known then as Ford Madox Hueffer. His father was a German émigré, but even in the year of the sinking of the Lusitania, when atrocity-mongering and anti-German feeling became increasingly prominent aspects of the cultural milieu, he did not feel the need to change his name before joining up.12 Later he himself described ‘Hueffer’ as both ‘suspect and unpronounceable’,13 yet, citing ‘native stubbornness’, he did not choose to become Ford Madox Ford until after the war.14 It would have been hard to question seriously his loyalty at this point – though, as I will suggest later, such questioning would have led to an interesting discussion. After all, he enlisted, and soon afterwards he produced two volumes of propaganda when asked to by his friend, the Liberal Cabinet minister C. F. G. Masterman. One of these, Between St. Dennis and St. George, reported the sinking of the Lusitania as well as the horrific possibility that German sailors had filmed the deaths of women and children as it sank.15 And Ford believed in the war, increasingly through its first months. When he had finished with the propaganda, that belief – widely shared, as it turned out – became more evidently nuanced and complicated. No Enemy, which he began writing in 1919, and then Parade’s End, show how.16
There are at least three discernible stages in Ford’s early response to the First World War. The first was brief. It belongs to the weeks following the declaration of war on 4 August 1914 and was characterised by a lack of understanding and acceptance of its aims, mainly contextualised by Ford’s perception of himself as both a ‘cosmopolitan’ and a poet, a member of a supra-national ‘republic of letters’ dedicated above all to the cause of great literature. (At this time, too, he expressed his belief that his ‘own heart is certain to be mangled’ whichever side won.) Ford felt he could trust nothing he read in the newspapers, and experienced only ‘depression’ at the bellicosity of the language employed to describe what he still wanted to call ‘the gallant enemy’.17 At this time he found himself unable to write a poem about the war, though he tried, because of ‘the hazy remoteness of the war-grounds’, and because he could believe nothing of what was said about the conflict.18 In the second stage, he wrote ‘Antwerp’, the war poem T. S. Eliot, among others, so much admired. The city had surrendered to the Germans in October 1914, and Ford saw with his own eyes the resulting refugees. He found that he did begin to believe some of the things he heard about the experiences of these civilians, or, at least, could not ignore them. This ushered in a third stage, which resulted in the following section from his ‘Literary Portraits’ series in the Outlook, as well as the (somewhat idiosyncratic) propaganda he would write for Wellington House:
Three months ago [he wrote in January 1915], I remember – and it seems as if it were a dream of another age on this planet – I wrote that I wished the war could be conducted in terms of ‘the gallant enemy’. Now I should thank God to know that a million Germans were killed; and my gentle companion would have thanked God, and every soul in that building would have uttered words of gratitude to that Most High, Who presumably made the Germans as well as ourselves.19
Despite the strength of feeling expressed here, Ford never completely lost his sense of the ‘good and kindly Germans’20 who co-existed with the spirit of Prussian militarism that he was writing against in When Blood is Their Argument and Between St. Dennis and St George. This combination would resurface in key scenes in A Man Could Stand Up –, when violence and fearfulness can also be matched with pity and understanding for the men in the trenches opposite. It is, in part, what his long-term partner Stella Bowen responded to in Ford after the war: ‘I soon found that if he was a militarist, he was at the same time the exact opposite.’ 21 Receiving his commission in the Welch Regiment, however, he felt he was, at least, ready to fight.
Ford had other motivating factors for leaving London. His relationship with Violet Hunt, the novelist and socialite with whom he had begun an affair, was deteriorating.22 He wanted to leave her, and it was proving very difficult to do. He was also still married, to Elsie, who did not want to grant him a divorce. Emotional difficulties like these would be persistent throughout his life.23 Perhaps you cannot create a character like Sylvia Tietjens without having experienced particular kinds of torment first. (One hopes it was never as dramatically awful in reality for Ford as Mark Tietjens imagined it was for his brother: Sylvia, according to Mark, ‘was as thin as an eel, as full of vice as a mare that’s a wrong un, completely disloyal’; what’s more she’s a ‘harlot’ and a ‘bitch’, Last Post I.v.)
The War
Having received his commission as a second lieutenant in the Welch Regiment (Special Reserve), Ford went first (probably) to the Chelsea Barracks, then to Wales for training: Tenby and Cardiff. He left for France on 13 July 1916. In an essay written later about the journey, its scenes are reconstructed in Pre-Raphaelite and cubist pictures (the ‘clouds, shadows, pale faces, spirals of violet smoke, out of which loomed the iron columns supporting the station roof’ at Waterloo station; the meadows under the summer sun and the small pink clouds in France).24 In Rouen he found time to focus on Flaubert, before being attached to the 9th Battalion and sent to the Somme. He was stationed with battalion transport near Bécourt Wood – a key location in A Man Could Stand Up –. From here, he provides less evidence of his responses to colour (although the landscape and its trees are detailed), but his very first letters signal a total attention to the soundscape of war that would mark his writing about it for good.25
It is the overwhelming experience of sound that Mary R. Habeck argues was most commented on by soldiers, particularly novices, as they arrived at the Front. ‘I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns’, is how Siegfried Sassoon put it in one famous example.26 This experience was mostly related to the shells and other forms of artillery. The noise often terrified Ford, and yet the results of his simultaneous literary alertness can be seen in the precise transcriptions of different artillery sounds – in the air, and exploding on impact – throughout his war books. In fact, Ford used his own responses to the noise to test his skills, writing to his friend Joseph Conrad in September 1916 about his experiences during a terrible storm in what he hoped was a ‘constatation of some exactness’ – he was under artillery bombardment too.27 The sense of writers’ exercises persisted in subsequent communications to his friend; one letter begins ‘I will continue, “for yr information and necessary action, please,” my notes upon sound’ and proceeds to detail the noises made by different forms of artillery meeting specific landscapes.28 Though Tietjens ‘was never much good at identifying artillery by the sound’ (II.iv), it was evidently crucial to Ford that he did so – and who better to write about it to than Conrad, his mentor and erstwhile collaborator, who professed faith in both the ‘force of a word’ and the ‘power of sound’.29
Ford’s soundscape, however, was also made up of birds: the swallows and larks in particular that would punctuate so pointedly the action of A Man Could Stand Up – as well as numerous other accounts of this war. To Lucy Masterman he wrote of the way he was able still to hear the singing of the ‘innumerable larks’ through a bombardment, and of how the sky was full alike of ‘sausage balloons, swallows, larks & occasional aeroplanes’. ‘I have jeered against the nature-love of the English’, Ford was to admit in It Was the Nightingale, ‘but I will confess that I am never completely easy unless I have the sense of the feathered things near me.’30 Birds bring blessings (the flight of birds means they have long served as symbols of the links between heaven and earth). The year is ‘sanctified’ once the nightingale’s song has been heard for the first time, and Ford weaves birdsong into his understanding of the creative spirit. The ‘amazing bouquet of sounds’ is like ‘an incredible spray of sparks from an anvil’ but does not disturb his ‘tranquil penmanship’.31 In his war writing, Ford is also clear about the beauties and benefits of swallows and thrushes. The experience of walking through a field of thistles, full of swallows, makes both Gringoire (Ford’s persona in No Enemy)32 and Tietjens feel immortal, like Greek gods, as the rush of beating wings, the colour and the sensation combine in something like a ‘miracle’ to exalt them.33 To Ford, however, ‘larks were less inspiring’ (II.vi). While some writers use them in ways one might expect, as a reminder of life beyond war (in Sebastian Faulks’ novel Birdsong (1993), a lark ‘singing in the unharmed air above him’ signals the end of the war for protagonist Stephen Wraysford),34 there is often ambivalence here. Commentary on John McCrae’s poem ‘Flanders Field’, written at Ypres in 1915, for example, picks up on the way that the ubiquitous larks, singing ‘bravely’, sanction defiance; and yet some soldiers took potshots at them because of the unbearable contrast they made in their song and flight with the men’s earth-bound experiences.35 In Tietjens’ mind, they also provide a symbol of the differences between him and his men. Rendered almost paranoid on more than one occasion, he feels that they are hostile towards him, that they are ‘screaming imprecations and threats’, and that they make a ‘heartless noise’ which he relates to a poem by Mathilde Blind (a poet known to Ford who scared him to death: see the relevant footnote to the text in II.vi).
Ford would return repeatedly to this aspect of the war – its sounds – which impressed him immediately. But his war moved on very fast. Either later the same day on which he wrote to Lucy Masterman about the larks, or on the following day, he was blown up by a shell. In the Introduction to No More Parades, volume II of Parade’s End and the first of the series to feature the war, Joseph Wiesenfarth points out that Ford ‘was on the scene of the two bloodiest actions of the Great War’: the Somme and, later in 1916, Ypres. It would have been miraculous if he had escaped injury in both, though he was with battalion transport and therefore removed from the front line (his C.O.’s decision, due to his age). His physical injuries cannot have been too serious, because he was at Ypres by 16 August, but he was suffering from shell-shock. The regular relapses he suffered, along with the damage to his memory – he forgot his name and lost completely and for good the narrative of three weeks of his life – also contributed to the fact that it took Ford Madox Ford some years to write in any prolonged way about the war.
Later war duties included training and lecturing, in France and back in England and, as he would later re-imagine in A Man Could Stand Up –, guarding German prisoners at Abbeville. He left the army in January 1919. Though he started off living in London once more, recovery for him meant the country and his new love, the Australian painter Stella Bowen. Red Ford, his first stop, was a ‘leaky-roofed, tile-healed, rat-ridden seventeenth-century, five-shilling a week, moribund labourer’s cottage’.36 He had some writing to attempt, and though he felt very much as though he was starting again at his craft, he did write.37 He also had some reading to do. While he had absorbed himself in fiction during what Tietjens calls the ‘eternal waiting that is war’ (II.ii), he now wanted to turn – in what would become an obsession with notions of perspective – to ‘the events of war and of the world outside my own three inches on the map’.38 And his lungs needed to heal. First of all, though, Ford grew vegetables, got to know locals and animals, especially pigs, and cooked simple food. Simple things, because whatever he was doing at that time he was also contending with a ‘horde of minor malices and doubts’ that were alive in the shadows, and ‘whispering beings that jeered’ behind his back through the ‘dark, gleaming panes of the windows’ – the main psychological legacy of his war.39 These ‘malices and doubts’ were inextricably linked to his sense of his abilities as a writer and, therefore, whether or not he would be able to make a living post-war. (He and Stella were expecting a child by the beginning of 1920.) This most vivid account of them comes immediately after he has remembered an experience at the Somme when, ‘during gunfire that shook the earth’, he prayed that his reason might be preserved, in order that he could, later, just continue to do his job. Yes, he needed the money. But he also wanted others to know what war was like. More than that, he would eventually be prepared to put aside his maxim that a writer’s job is not to moralise and write a work with a purpose: of ‘obviating all future wars’.40
Considering the title Ford chose for volume III of Parade’s End, one might have expected him to begin writing it, or something similar, at the house he and Stella bought together after Red Ford. It was called Coopers Cottage and was in Bedham, Sussex, in what Bowen described as an ‘extravagantly beautiful and quite inaccessible spot on a great wooded hill’.41 It had an amazing view – locals said twelve counties, Ford would almost swear to three from one window. Even this setting, combined with such peace, was not enough to kindle the next great creative phase of his writing life. A greater remove (from the war, but also from the hard physical labour of running a smallholding) in the end proved necessary. But he had to earn a living, and there was other writing he began with: a translation of Euripides’ Alcestis; poetry, including the prize-winning ‘A House’, which celebrated his life with Stella at Red Ford; some articles for the New Statesman (later to be re-worked into No Enemy); reminiscence, and some fiction too. His production rate does seem, on the face of it, to have slowed. In the period 1910–14 he published seven novels, three volumes of poetry and five other works. In the war years he published one novel – that first masterpiece, The Good Soldier, mostly written before the war began – one volume of poetry and four others.42 Between 1918 and 1923 there was only one novel (The Marsden Case), poetry publications, including the long poem Mister Bosphorus and the Muses, and Thus to Revisit:Some Reminiscences. Though he was certainly writing, if not publishing so much, in this period, it is clear that he needed to wait until he could write properly about the war.43 Three books came in 1924, one of them Some Do Not ….
Stella Bowen describes in her letters her life with Ford in ways that reveal how much he must have needed her at that time, to live, but also to work. He acknowledged that debt often, but particularly movingly in a letter he wrote to her from America in November 1926 when he was ill: ‘So, as this is a quiet moment I’ll seize it and say that if I’ve done anything during these last years and if I am anything it has been entirely due to you.’44 Aspects of Bowen’s forthright intelligence are clearly drawn on by Ford in his creation of Valentine Wannop’s character, though there are other likely sources too.45 Her care was fundamental. He did not begin his ‘immense novel’, however – it is intriguing to wonder if he ever would have done if they had remained in Sussex – until the poet and editor Harold Monro offered them the loan of a small villa at Cap Ferrat, near Villefranche.46 ‘I was no sooner installed on those heights from which one could throw a biscuit on to the decks of the men of war in Villefrance bay – and see the octopus and mullet swim beneath those keels … than, at once […] I wrote the first words.’47 Another hill, then, with a different view, and a rediscovery of his identity as a writer, and he could begin.
Writing A Man Could Stand Up –
The detail as to Ford’s composition of volumes I and II of Parade’s End can be found in the Introductions to Some Do Not … and No More Parades. Their appearance set the scene for his writing of A Man Could Stand Up – in more ways than those obvious ones of character and plot. First of all, they were very popular.48SomeDo Not … sold ‘like hot cakes’ Ford said, and was reprinted in 1924.49 The reviews of No More Parades were even better, and it sold very well indeed, making Ford proper money – the Boni first edition in the United States sold 9000 copies and went through five reprints before the end of 1926 (when volume III came out). Ernest Hemingway called Ford at this point one of ‘the two most generally admired novelists in America’.50 Hemingway’s description is interesting, because of the intense rivalries of their relationship perhaps, but also, when coupled with those sales figures, because of his precise use of ‘America’. In the time between the publication of Some Do Not … and his writing of A Man Could Stand Up – Ford had become a novelist who sold well, with all the attendant benefits to his confidence and self-esteem.51 He also became a novelist who sold better in the States. His life as a writer and editor in Paris/Provence in the early twenties expanded accordingly, and – tiring and disruptive as it was – he began to travel regularly to the US. Elements of all these transformations fed into the tone and structure of A Man Could Stand Up –, and also allowed him, I suggest, to write this novel as fast as he did. He knew he was at the top of his game.
Ford began A Man Could Stand Up – in January 1926, at Toulon. He and Stella were on holiday while work was completed on their new Paris studio. They both worked as they travelled, visiting Ezra and Dorothy Pound at Rapallo as well. It was not just building work that they were leaving behind them. Ford was involved in a new affair, with the novelist Jean Rhys, and she had been staying with them. Though it is entirely possible that Rhys gave Ford some assistance with the novel in its later stages – perhaps it was she who took Ford’s dictation, as I suggest in the Note on the Text – it must have been easier to write away from that particular domestic set up. By Easter, though, he and Stella were on their way home. A Man Could Stand Up – is not a long novel (around 70,000 words), but he may not have been quite as far on with it as he thought when he wrote to his publisher, Gerald Duckworth, on 9 March from Toulon saying ‘A month’s good work will finish it’.52 It is likely that he completed a draft in mid-May. This would mean that if he had worked steadily, in his usual routine, he would have been almost halfway through when he wrote to Duckworth, a short while before returning to Paris. (The signs of possible dictation begin at roughly mid-point.) Five months later, the novel was published in the UK and the US.
Publication and Reception
In the UK A Man Could Stand Up – was published in the second week of October, most likely on the 8th or 9th.53 Duckworth made sure the launch emphasised the series of which it was a part. The back of the dust-jacket ran with two reviews of each of Some Do Not … and No More Parades (as well as one of The Marsden Case), while the inside flap provided a summary of the novel:
In this novel Mr. Ford continues the survey of his own times which began so brilliantly with “Some Do Not” and “No More Parades”. The whole series constitutes the most remarkable picture of the reactions of the civilian and military populations, and, more particularly, of the sexes one to the other, in a prolonged war. “A Man Could Stand Up—” is a vivid and startlingly outspoken description of the state of men’s minds during the period of growing disillusionment which ended in the Armistice.
The publisher also made sure that readers knew Ford had previously been known as ‘Ford Madox Hueffer’, bracketing this name both on the spine and on the inside flap after the first reference to the title and author. The design on the cover makes it one of the more interesting jackets of the series; there is a line drawing of the top half of a soldier, in profile, seeming to duck, and holding onto the edge of his tin hat (see image, p. xii).
The American edition, released by Albert & Charles Boni, came out shortly afterwards, possibly only a week later. The dust-jacket of this edition carried the title front and centre, in large bold white type in a black box. A write-up of the volume, and the series, ran from the top down to the bottom, around the edges of the title box. It began, ‘The Third in a series that is, to put it mildly, a breathtaking, Herculanean project …’
The first review of the novel cited by Ford’s bibliographer was penned by Gerald Gould, in the Observer on 10 October. (Though a few more reviews have been uncovered since David Harvey published his bibliography, none of them predates this one by Gould.) It is a very favourable write-up, which calls Part II ‘the best thing that Ford has ever done—and that is saying a lot’. Gould evidently did not appreciate the presentation of Tietjens’ character in the previous volumes, but feels that here something has changed: ‘It is as if his hero […] who in the previous volumes […] was a nightmare of almost incredible incredibility, had come to life under the urgent threat of death.’ The Times Literary Supplement review four days later agreed: ‘the second part is magnificent’, with its ‘wonderfully blended mosaic of incidents, speeches, reflections’. H. C. Harwood, in the Outlook, felt that the book was not as consistently impressive as its predecessor, but admitted that Ford’s ‘genius’ continued to command ‘an almost awed attention’ nevertheless. Isabel Paterson’s name has featured already, and she was one of Ford’s most vocal champions in the United States. Writing in the New York Herald Tribune in the first American review (17 October) she takes a similar line to Duckworth on its dust-jacket. She emphasises the vast social shift that Ford had taken for his subject and had then gone on to realise in what she called an ‘astonishing achievement’.
Though there is undoubted warmth in the reviews of A Man Could Stand Up – and some high praise (‘it is about the most exciting thing to have happened to the novel since “The Way of All Flesh”’ was John Crawford’s response in the New York Times) it was not, overall, as acclaimed as No More Parades. If reviewers stated a preference as to its constituent parts, they found its strengths to be in Part II, at war; if they liked this section, they tended to like it greatly. Too much ‘psychology’, or its rendering in overly impressionist style, formed the basis of the criticism of its first and last sections, though on one occasion in terms that sound rather like success instead (Valentine’s ‘confusions are too faithfully reproduced’, according to Harwood’s Outlook review). Time magazine (10 January 1927), among others, however, appreciated greatly the effect of this very style: ‘The total effect is vivid, clear and all the stronger for its slow fusing.’ ‘Each moment,’ L.P. Hartley had said in the Saturday Review, ‘is like a re-birth, a re-awakening to pain and perplexity.’ ‘We are sorry,’ he continued, ‘to say goodbye to Tietjens.’ He didn’t know yet that he didn’t have to.54
The novel had its second printing in the US in December 1926, and it sold well there, as No More Parades had done (Boni gave Harvey figures indicating that the first three novels of the series all sold over 10,000 copies). In the UK the figures were lower, as one might expect, and the total, of around 1000, was a disappointment to Ford despite his success elsewhere. His autumn trip to the US to publicise the novel convinced him of his popularity, however. The audiences he pulled in at clubs and colleges were sometimes very large, and allowed him to write home to Bowen on his birthday in 1926 saying that he had been ‘speaking triumphantly’ every day that week.55A Man Could Stand Up – sold 200 copies the morning after the first weekly article he wrote as a visiting critic in the New York Herald Tribune Books, and 600 orders came in on 27 December.56
Summary of the Novel
Despite being only the third of the series, A Man Could Stand Up – acts climactically, and cathartically, in ways related to form as well as content. Most obviously, perhaps, it contrives a final scene on Armistice Night, but the conclusion is not, of course, quite as simple as that implies. Nor is the tripartite structure as neat as it might first appear. Parts I and III, which take place on Armistice Day, number three and two chapters respectively, and Part I is longer as one might expect. Part II takes the reader back in time. It is significantly longer than the other two parts put together, containing six out of eleven chapters and 164 out of 275 pages in the UK first edition. It bears the weight, then, and might be said to halt the sense of progression, retaining more of the reader’s attention on its prolonged presentation of Tietjens and his men at war. How does A Man Could Stand Up – contribute to Antony Fowles’ description of ‘the decorum of the tetralogy’s handling of time’?57 There are, on the face of it, a couple of glitches in relation to the chronology of the previous volumes. Such glitches might bear witness to the difficulty of handling a series of four novels over five such years in Ford’s life,58 but more to the point is that his protagonist has been suffering from memory loss and shell-shock. In fact, time itself is seemingly both stretched and foreshortened in all kinds of ways throughout the tetralogy as a deliberate component of Ford’s technique. It is worthy of particular comment in A Man Could Stand Up –. The action of Part I takes place during approximately twenty minutes of ‘real time’. The whole six chapters of Part II occupy a real-time slot of around forty-five minutes. During Part III Armistice Day evening turns into night. Ford’s creative debt to the man he had recently termed ‘the Master from New England’, Henry James, most particularly his interest in the detailed representation of consciousness, is starkly visible here.59 Overall, though, its structure is such that it realises very effectively Arthur Mizener’s description of A Man Could Stand Up – as a novel in which Christopher and Valentine both ‘reach the climax of long struggles’ and move on, consciously, from their Edwardian selves into a new world.60 Sylvia is notably absent throughout.
A Man Could Stand Up – opens with Valentine on the telephone, having been called away from her duties in the girls’ school where she is a physical instructress. It is around 11 a.m. on Armistice Day. There is excessive noise, from the street and from the girls in the playground, though she has missed the bells, sirens and maroons signalling the eleventh hour.61 At first unclear as to whom she is talking, it eventually transpires that Edith Ethel Duchemin (now Lady Macmaster) is informing her that Christopher Tietjens is in London once more and in need of help. It is a tortuous conversation, as well as a cunning device. Edith Ethel is malicious, and has managed to link Valentine’s name compromisingly with Tietjens’ in an earlier part of her conversation – with the headmistress of the school. By the end of this call, and the other conversation in Part I that completes the triangle (Valentine talks to her headmistress face to face; all three women thus talk to each other),62 we have been reminded of significant events from Some Do Not …, as well as of the characters of those involved. Valentine has also reflected on her place in what is now the after-war world, and decided that if he still wants her she will attach herself, for good or ill, to Christopher, whom she loves.
Part II shifts time and place dramatically, returning us to the Front, though not immediately to a bombardment, on a morning in April 1918. Soon the noises of war begin, first of all a ‘sulky’ cannon; then, immediately, the larks. The conversations between men follow on – paralleling those between women in Part I – as Tietjens discusses the larks, among other things, with his sergeant and also feels, like Valentine, alienated: ‘[the men] look at me as a sort of atheist’, he thinks, shortly before he begins to brood on his statistical chances of surviving the imminent massive German attack (II.i). The bombardments, when they come, are perhaps less bloody and desperate than in No More Parades, though Tietjens does remember at one point the terrible death of O Nine Morgan. Up to and even including the final explosive scene, with one notable exception (in a flash-back to when a German soldier invades their trench and Christopher prepares to stab him),63 his emotional and psychological responses through the several periods of shelling are subject to a greater sense of an evolving character. Ford, against the background of high tension, is carefully setting out the ways in which his subject will change. From the start of Part II the process is in train that culminates in Tietjens’ own declaration as to his place in the post-war world: he will retreat from his professional and personal encumbrances in order to live with Valentine and sell antiques to make a living. Pictures from the past help him to believe in, and enact, this transformation. He recalls some of the same scenes as Valentine from their previous time together; their consciousness-raising is intertwined with similar memory and feeling, though it occurs in different times and – particularly – places.
Part III of A Man Could Stand Up – begins as Valentine comes to Gray’s Inn in order to meet Christopher. The one remaining hurdle to their becoming lovers is presented by Mrs Wannop, Valentine’s mother, and the wife of Christopher’s father’s oldest friend. She telephones them, in an echo of that first triangulate of telephone conversations which insinuated an adultery that had not taken place. Both Christopher and Valentine talk to Mrs Wannop, and there is a nice irony in the fact that she, in fact, eases the whole matter forward for them by inadvertently letting Christopher know that Valentine is prepared to become his lover. Valentine begins to learn about his war experiences as men from his unit arrive, honouring their promises to look him up; Tietjens, meanwhile, has confessed something of his continuing psychological and emotional terrors to Mrs Wannop on the phone. The drunken celebration and dance that ensues contains within it all the tensions of the inter-relationships between the men, as well as their combined experiences. Valentine has found herself thinking of Sylvia more than once. This is why the energy of the dance is so compelling, its level so high. They dance together, and it is as though the ‘whole world round them was yelling and prancing round’: a microcosm of Armistice Day, and a temporary conclusion to Parade’s End.
Communication
The organising principles of absence and presence around which A Man Could Stand Up – coheres, and related issues of communication, are effectively signified by the repeated use of the telephone in the novel. The conversation between Valentine and Edith Ethel with which it opens has often attracted the attention of critics, because of the ways in which this particular technology amplifies gossip, exacerbating Valentine’s fear and doubt. That scene ends with Valentine ‘smashing’ the telephone, and severing the connection between her and Edith Ethel’s world of social climbing and hypocrisy (I.ii). Its use in Part III is as significant. When Valentine adapts Shakespeare (‘It broke the word of promise to the ear, the telephone’),64 she is still caught by her fantasy of Tietjens as the murderous Bluebeard while wrestling with her own agency in the affair. She imagines his telephone has been disconnected, so she will not be able to scream for the police through it when his ‘madness caused by sex obsessions’ means he tries to strangle her. She, so the fantasy goes, cannot escape. When it actually rings, proving her wrong, she is no longer in the same psychological place. Thanks to her exploration of the house and its furniture – with all they symbolise of Tietjens – she is, instead, prepared to be caught. She answers the phone, and in this mediated fashion, Ford lets us know she will sleep with Tietjens. Readers who are familiar with Ford’s Edwardian novel A Call (1910) will make a different connection at this point as well, identifying a development between Ford’s pre-war and post-war fiction. Robert Grimshaw suffers a prolonged nervous breakdown as a result of answering a telephone when in a very similar situation, though the sexes are reversed. Valentine does not care who knows she is there: ‘Her voice might be recognised. Let it be recognised. She desired to be known in a compromising position! What did you do on Armistice Day!’ (III.i). The fact that it is her mother on the phone does, however, test her resolve. The plot slows, as it becomes more fraught (and Ford’s difficulty with writing this section of the novel is detailed in the Note on the Text), and then Christopher takes over, meaning that her resolve, whatever its status, becomes temporarily irrelevant. Instead of being with her, he will talk to her mother about her. Those most directly involved in a situation rarely discuss it with each other, Armistice Day or not.
In the Introduction to Some Do Not …, Max Saunders discusses the characteristic conversation pattern between Valentine and Christopher in its hesitations and obliquenesses. Ellipsis, signifying suppression, repression, doubt, hesitation, nervousness or expectation, remains Ford’s most frequent stylistic device here.65 Valentine and Christopher are seen together even less in A Man Could Stand Up – than they are in that first novel and, despite the different tone overall, the telephone is also an important symbol of the indirectness of communication (between them, but not just between them) that persists into volume III. They do not talk to each other on the phone, though they pass a receiver between themselves in order to talk to Mrs Wannop about each other – and Valentine, remember, was telephoned about Tietjens by Edith Ethel in Part I. On first being reunited, they leave sentences unfinished, necessitating ellipsis of course, and almost immediately Valentine’s mind is elsewhere, thinking about the telephone. When they do speak directly, as the novel comes to a close, they are saying something completely different (and more boring, less passionate) from what they had wanted to say, creating another level of running, unspoken dialogue. There is, therefore, a notable contrast when Tietjens begins to talk to Mrs Wannop on the telephone and discovers some fluency.66 Each hears what the other is saying and is able to respond. It is tempting to read this as a deliberate reference to the comparative simplicity of the past world in which their relationship is rooted: his father and Mrs Wannop’s husband were each other’s ‘oldest friend’. The fluency and self-expression do not last for long, however: the interruptions from drunk soldiers begin, and our attention is taken away from Tietjens’ honest and open expression of his war experience. Its most compelling and pitiable aspect (‘It’s that that’s desperate. I’ll tell you. I’ll give you an instance. I was carrying a boy […]’) is relayed in the next section, by Valentine. From then on, we are left with Valentine’s overheard snippets until, in the following chapter when the subject has changed again, Tietjens himself becomes the focaliser. Now he constructs his own dual dialogue, thinking slowly yet desperately on his feet about how to continue this conversation with a mother ‘pleading with infinite statesmanship for her daughter’, while retaining his intention to make love to Valentine. When, finally, he hangs up, he cuts himself off from Mrs Wannop’s rather desperate perception of the ‘high-minded’, and their particular brand of ‘irregular union’ (III.i). He smiles as he comes down-stairs.
Communication was, of course, vitally important to Tietjens as a commander at the Front. Although there would have been scope for Ford to persist in his use of the telephone to express the difficulty of communication at war too, there are only passing references to telephone calls in Part II.67 That difficulty of communication is still very much shown through ellipsis (though this device is deployed as regularly in Part II to show the internal hesitations and problems Tietjens experiences as he responds to or thinks about his world and his place in it) but also in the dialect conversations, which presented copy-editors and American publishers with evident difficulty.68 Tietjens does not ever seem to struggle to understand the cockney that Ford renders so phonetically. But it does have the effect of increasing his sense of isolation at the times when that is most apparent. A good example occurs in II.i, two pages after one of the most problematic renderings of dialect – ‘was it n smashed. Hin a gully; well beind the line’ – with no apostrophes.69 Tietjens remarks at the end of this exchange with his sergeant:
“Do you mean to say, then, that your men, Sergeant, are really damned heroes? I suppose they are!”
He said “your men,” instead of “our” or even “the” men, because he had been till the day before yesterday merely the second-in-command – and was likely to be to-morrow again merely the perfectly inactive second-in-command of what was called a rag-time collection that was astonishingly a clique and mutely combined to regard him as an outsider. (II.i)
Though he understands it, the use of dialect does help to reinforce this sense of himself as the outsider. As he is an officer, this is about his rank too, one that he is proud of but cannot inhabit for fear of its impermanence, as indicated in the quotation. However, there is something else going on here that has a more profound, though subtle, effect on the text, and on our understanding of Tietjens’ character and the extent to which he is marginalised. Between the instance of dialect and the passage quoted above, the sergeant’s speech over several lines is rendered in free indirect style. Tietjens’ viewpoint has been temporarily invaded; taken over in fact. The novel’s editors did not know what to make of this, and the confusion in their decisions as to what to do with speech marks, for example, can be seen from the relevant textual notes accompanying the chapter. Ford, however, knew exactly what he was doing (the typescript is far less confused than any other of the textual witnesses): he was forcing home this impression of a man under siege, and bending the rules of narrative to do so.
Though the sergeant is not aware of the effect he is having on his senior officer, McKechnie is not such an innocent. He worries away at Tietjens’ sense of himself and his authority (‘whispering in the ear of the C.O.’ says Tietjens, II.ii) in a deliberate attempt to destabilise him, thereby totalising the assault. In many cases, Tietjens manages to deflect the tensions in his relationship with this character away from direct verbal encounters into the intellectual constraints of Latin composition, but McKechnie’s paranoid nervousness threatens to break out into full-blown mutinous behaviour on more than one occasion. Tietjens must develop an effective psychological trick for dealing with him, based on his anachronistic understanding of feudal order – and ability to translate it into forceful military parlance.70 One wonders often, when reading the six chapters that make up Part II of the novel, whether any real leader of men during the war could possibly have been as beleaguered as Tietjens. And this is before discussion of his problems with his commanding officers, complicated as they are by Sylvia’s notorious behaviour.71 His alienation – from his peers, from his superiors, and sometimes from his men – is what turns his final transformation in Part II from being merely impressive into a miracle. It also makes Valentine’s acceptance of him seem all the more tender, especially when it occurs (Valentine is ‘amazed’ that it does, and so, perhaps, are we) in the context of similarly complex communication
Regeneration/rebirth
Pat Barker’s celebrated series of books about the First World War is known as the Regeneration Trilogy.72 Long before W. H. R. Rivers, the real-life doctor who features prominently throughout, had anything to do with shell-shocked soldiers’ minds, he had been engaged in more practical experiments, such as the one in 1903 with his colleague Henry Head at Cambridge, in which a cutaneous nerve in Head’s forearm was severed. The ends of the nerve were then rejoined, sewn together with fine silk sutures, and the men commenced their task: to chart the healing process of the separated nerve. In his later writings on this medical experiment, Rivers cited his ‘observations on the sensory changes which accompany the regeneration of a divided and reunited nerve’.73
The keyword in Rivers’ description is ‘regeneration’, and it is one that Barker exploits in all its symbolic strength in her trilogy. (Ford worked with this idea rather earlier, as I go on to suggest.) Biological processes serve as a foundational layer in her fictional exploration of what war can do to a man’s mind. Unlike in the experiments of the pre-war world, however, the fractures of shell-shock, memory loss and repression are not easily balanced by the curative processes Rivers and others are able to bring to bear upon them. In A Man Could Stand Up – there is no Rivers, nor anyone like him. Tietjens bears his psychological wounds alone, but knows in the end that he needs to talk about them – not to a doctor, but to Valentine, and to her mother as well.74 Tietjens, though, despite suffering from nightmares and flashbacks, and physical injuries too, has been spared the worst traumas the war could inflict. War itself is also regenerative for him, and this emphasises the size and scale of the character with whom we are dealing.75 As the key scene in Part II approaches (in which he is rescued and then in turn rescues one of his men), Tietjens works out that the real reason he hates the Germans is because they are preventing him from being with Valentine, whom he loves. As a ‘Younger Son’ the word ‘love’ has been very little in his vocabulary, along with anything else reflective, ambitious, driven or self-interested. Until now, this defining sense of himself has only been compounded by his role in the war: ‘He had been a sort of eternal Second-in-Command’ (II.vi). Tietjens’ moment of regeneration in A Man Could Stand Up – is, therefore, as dramatic as any healing of a nerve could be. It is as though some connection is effected that has been missing in his make-up; a systemic link is forged between mind and body that allows him to inhabit himself, to feel all his extremities, and to contemplate ‘standing up’, which he then does, under fire, carrying the wounded Aranjuez. His relationship to the world around him is simultaneously changed, because it ‘was a condemnation of a civilisation that he, Tietjens, possessed of enormous physical strength should never have needed to use it before’ (II.vi). (Protected, as he was, from physical labour by his background of course.) Rather than fear any increased alienation, a reader at this point is only aware of his increased potential, immediately fulfilled when he ‘felt tender, like a mother, and enormous’ in charge of the boy.76
