‘Could you have me at Crask this autumn?’ [Lamancha] asked…
‘I should jolly well think so,’ cried Archie. ‘There’s heaps of room in the old house, and I promise you I’ll make you comfortable. Look here, you fellows! Why shouldn’t all three of you come? I can get in a couple of extra maids from Inverlarrig.’
(Early exchange from John McNab by John Buchan, page 17)
‘Of course we’re all blazing idiots – the whole thing is insanity – but we’ve done the best we can in the way of preparation. The great thing is for each of us to keep his wits about him and use them, for everything may go the opposite way to what we think.’
(The Earl of Lamancha admitting the absurdity of their prank, page 163)
This is the second of Buchan’s series of books featuring the fictional character, Scottish barrister and Conservative MP, Sir Edward Leithen.
Executive summary
Three posh Scots, eminent figures in the British Establishment, discover they are all bored to tears. They concoct a plan to go stay on the Highland estate of a fourth member of their group and send a challenge to the owners of his three neighbouring estates, to the effect that they will poach game off their estates. They won’t steal the game, they’ll place it on the respective front doorsteps. It’s a bet made in a gentleman’s club like at the start of ‘Around The World in 80 Days’.
Who should these letters of challenge come from? They invent a name, ‘John McNab’. What none of them anticipate is that the very lairds they set out to defeat will themselves come in on their side, that the population around the estates will hear about John McNab’s brave exploits, that they will even be reported in the local and then the national press and even that, in some conversations, some of the characters see in John McNab’s pluck and daring a solution to the widespread malaise afflicting post-First World War Britain.
This atmosphere of comedy reefed with sometimes serious themes, and the way all members of a highly stratified society are brought together in a common endeavour, reminded me of the Powell and Pressburger movie I Know Where I’m Going and, on a lighter tone, the Scotland-based Ealing comedy, Whiskey Galore.
Longer version
Three middle-aged posh Scots meet up at their London club. They were at school and then ‘the University’ together, have prospered in their careers and now discover they are bored and restless, suffering from taedium vitae, ennui. They are:
- Sir Edward ‘Ned’ Leithen (lawyer, Member of Parliament and ex-Attorney General)
- John Palliser-Yeates (banker)
- Charles, the Right Hon. the Earl of Lamancha, M.P., His Majesty’s Secretary of State for the Dominions, possessor of ‘insatiable ambition’
They are joined for dinner by Captain Sir Archibald Roylance, D.S.O., prospective Conservative candidate for Wester Ross and Laird of Crask, an estate in the Highlands, an irritatingly boisterous and good-humoured war veteran (game left leg giving him a pronounced limp).
Over dinner and cigars they tell yarns about figures back in Scotland and one mentions Jim Tarras, the fellow who played a prank by poaching game on other people’s estates (this class of character only knows people who own estates) but warning them in advance that he was coming.
The idea catches fire and the bored threesome agree to travel incognito to the estate of Archie Roylance. It is August, fine hunting weather. They arrange to send out letters to the owners of neighbouring estates announcing that they will poach game off their land between set dates. It is an ironic point of gentlemanly etiquette that they will not remove the game from the estate owner’s land, in fact they will deliver the shot stag or caught salmon to their doors, thus not being guilty of anything as common as theft. Lamancha’s letter template reads:
‘Sir, I have the honour to inform you that I propose to kill a stag [or a salmon as the case may be] on your ground between midnight on – and midnight –. [We can leave the dates open for the present.] The animal, of course, remains your property and will be duly delivered to you. It is a condition that it must be removed wholly outside your bounds. In the event of the undersigned failing to achieve his purpose he will pay as forfeit one hundred pounds, and if successful fifty pounds to any charity you may appoint. I have the honour to be, your obedient humble servant.’
Obviously they can’t sign the letters with any of their real names and so cook up the nom de guerre i.e. fictional name, John McNab, hence the title.
The point of poaching is that it is not only technically challenging in itself i.e. stalking game or catching salmon, but also dangerous in that it is illegal and so getting caught, taken to court, named in the papers, would potentially end all their careers.
For example Roylance, whose mansion they hide in and make their base of operations, is planning to stand as Conservative candidate for his constituency; getting caught poaching would ruin him.
‘You’re an ass, John,’ said Leithen. ‘It’s only a couple of pounds for John Macnab. But if these infernal Edinburgh lawyers get on the job, it will be a case of producing the person of John Macnab, and then we’re all in the cart. Don’t you realise that in this fool’s game we simply cannot afford to lose – none of us?’
The thing is that, unlike the other Buchan books I’ve read, John McNab is a comedy, written in high good humour. Here’s an example of Buchan’s dry, understated humour:
Sir Edward Leithen sighed deeply as he turned from the doorstep down the long hot street. He did not look behind him, or he would have seen another gentleman approach cautiously round the corner of a side-street, and, when the coast was clear, ring the doctor’s bell. He was so completely fatigued with life that he neglected to be cautious at crossings, as was his habit, and was all but slain by a motor-omnibus.
Boisterous young Sir Archie in particular is an upper-class noodle with the same posh mannerisms as Bertie Wooster et al, dropping their gs etc. Here’s an example of some of the replies they get to their letter, this is probably the funniest.
‘Sir, I have received your insolent letter. I do not know what kind of rascal you may be, except that you have the morals of a bandit and the assurance of a halfpenny journalist. But since you seem in your perverted way to be a sportsman, I am not the man to refuse your challenge. My reply is, sir, damn your eyes and have a try. I defy you to kill a stag in my forest between midnight on the 28th of August and midnight of the 30th. I will give instructions to my men to guard my marches, and if you should be roughly handled by them you have only to blame yourself. Yours faithfully, Alastair Raden.’
It’s all done in this kind of joshing, posh tone. The three men draw straws to decide who will poach what on which of Lord Archie’s neighbouring estates.
- Lamancha is set to poach in the Haripol forest
- Palliser-Yeates draws the straw to shoot a stag on the Glenraden estate
- Leithen is set to poach salmon on the estate of Strathlarrig
Highland setting
It’s all set in the Highlands with a regular bombardment of Scots place names which might have well been in Ecuador or ancient Greece for all they meant to me. Here’s Lord Archie explaining that:
‘Haripol is about the steepest and most sportin’ forest in the Highlands, and Glenraden is nearly as good. There’s no forest at Strathlarrig, but, as I’ve told you, amazin’ good salmon fishin’. For a west coast river, I should put the Larrig only second to the Laxford.’
There’s miles of description like this, detailed word portraits of places with venerable Scottish names. In his introduction and notes, Buchan scholar David Daniell makes the elementary point that Buchan grew up in rural Fife with regular family holidays in Tweeddale, many hours spent yomping across the heather, through woods etc. He was a keen and expert fisherman from boyhood, publishing a book on the subject when he was barely 21 and continued fishing throughout his life.
So the point being that the descriptions of the landscape encountered by the three bored poachers, and especially the technical details of Leithen’s fly fishing, are painted from life, deep experience and love. It’s a love poem to the land.
However, it’s also a pretty basic fact that all the placenames in the book are fictional. They combine aspects of the various regions Buchan knew well to create a kind of perfect huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ paradise. There’s a map but all the place names and the entire layout are invented. On reflection, the map is a bit too simple and conveniently arranged around the narrative to be true.
Complications
It’s a comedy so there are comic complications, mainly in the shape of new characters. The poaching forays are set for consecutive 2-day periods, so we are introduced to the owners of each of the targeted estates in order.
The Raden family
First up is Glenraden castle where John Palliser-Yeates is slated to shoot a stag and deposit it at the castle door. We are introduced to father of the house, Colonel Radel. More importantly he has two marrying-age daughters.
The Bandicotts
The eldest Radel girl, Agatha, is falling moonily in love with Junius Bandicott, the grown-up son of an elderly American archaeologist, Mr Acheson Bandicott, who has the Colonel’s permission to excavate an ancient barrow on his land, because he is convinced it’s the burial mound of the renowned Viking Harald Blacktooth.
The Bandicotts have rented the second of the neighbouring estates, Strathlarrig House, whose magnificent but very exposed salmon streams Leithen is set to poach.
Janet Raden
Colonel Radel’s youngest daughter is Janet or ‘Nettie’ for short. She’s small and shrewd. In an early comic encounter she watches Lord Archie jumping over stepping stones in order to test his gammy leg, but when he realises he is being watched he slips off a stone and plunges into three foot of water, further emphasising his character as an upper class twit.
Janet sits in on the meetings convened by her father with their groundsmen and gamekeepers as they plan how to prevent this phantom ‘John McNab’ stalking a deer on their land and it’s she who makes the shrewdest suggestions. In the event, she goes out walking over the heather on the second day McNab has promised to strike and catches him, in this case John Palliser-Yeates.
Mission 1. Palliser-Yeates against Glenraden
Our guys had got wind that the American archaeologist was going to use dynamite (!) to blow out the heavy stones concealing the barrow and so the man tasked with the Glenraden estate, Palliser-Yeates, makes his shot in between this series of small explosions. But unlucky for him, Janet was sitting on hilltop not far away, comes running and confronts him just as he’s bending over to hoist the stag up. Being a gentleman, Palliser-Yeates tips his hat, says it’s a fair catch and he’s lost, but then turns and runs.
Fish Benjie
At this point I need to introduce Fish Benjie. Chapter 4 opens with a long and beguiling description of a certain type of all-purpose tinker and hobo you see on the roads of Scotland, then zeroes in on the life story of the young tinker, hustler and survivor, Benjamin Bogle. He’s acquired his nickname because, with his father in prison and his mother unwell, he’s independently travelling the roads of the area where the novel is set and among other hustles, collects fresh fish from the coast and sells it at the big houses.
The point is that Benjie becomes aware of the three posh strangers hiding at Lord Archie’s house and catches one of them, Leithen, sneaking around. Faced with having their whole scam blown, Leithen makes a snap decision to let Benjie in on the secret and take him on the team. He becomes a spy, recording the comings and goings at each of the estates and in the early evening reporting all to our guys at Crask Lodge.
When Palliser-Yeates shoots his stag the plan had been for him to lug it a hundred yards or so to where Benjie was waiting with his cart, towed by a knackered old horse. But Janet came running up before he could hook up with Benjie and, after Palliser-Yeates took to his heels and Janet came across Benjie a 100 yards down the track, she mistakenly thought he just happened to be passing. In the event, she gets Benjie to help her load the dead stag onto the cart telling him to take it to the castle. In fact being the hustler he is, Benjie instead trots in the opposite direction and finds Palliser-Yeates, offering him the stag. Palliser-Yeates is touched by his loyalty (and cunning) but explains that he (Palliser-Yeates) is a gentleman and has given his word to a lady – so Benjie must turn round and deliver the stag to the castle. Here he is richly rewarded by the Radens for his help, thus getting paid twice, by the attackers and defenders. Benjie is that kind of character and deeply enjoyable for it.
Harald Blacktooth
Incidentally the day of dynamiting turns up trumps for the American archaeologist who does indeed discover impressive relics – two massive torques, several bowls and flagons, spear-heads from which the hafts had long since rotted, a sword-blade, and a quantity of brooches, armlets, and rings – but most strikingly, a necklace of shells which could only have come from North America!
On the basis of which Bandicott Senior makes the wild claim that this Harald Blacktooth must have sailed to and back from America (compare The Saga of Eirik the Red) and the even wilder and comic suggestion that, as a result, the Radel family include among their ancestors the discoverers of America! A trope which is repeated with droll humour by other characters for the rest of the story.
But more than that, Bandicott, being American, is all about press and publicity and so he rings up the local and national press, the British Museum, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, telling them about his amazing discovery.
The practical results of this are that a dozen or more journalists descend on Glenraden Castle and the neighbourhood, snooping round, trespassing and generally making the self-appointed mission of the three toffs significantly more difficult.
Mission 2. Leithen against Strathlarrig
Long story short the next night Leithen manages to catch his salmon but is spotted by one of the Strathlarrig gillies, Jimsie who, with two assistants, quickly captures him. Now Leithen had disguised himself as a tramp with a dirty face, ragged clothes and dishevelled hair and so he tries to pretend the salmon had been caught by an otter, which had taken a chunk out of it and he had come across it half eaten. Jimsie hands him over to the Strathlarrig head-keeper, Angus (‘a morose old man near six-foot-four in height, clean-shaven, with eyebrows like a penthouse’) who doesn’t buy Leithen’s story and has him thrown in the estate garage and the door locked pending arrest and charge for trespassing and poaching the next day.
Now it gets a bit complicated. The Americans who have rented Strathlarrig, the Bandicotts, are hosting a fine dinner for their neighbours and persuaded Sir Archie to go along. Now, Angus’s men not only captured Leithen but one of the many journalists brought to the area by the discovery, who recognised Leithen and Leithen was forced to let in on his secret. In fact Leithen had recruited this man, Crossby, to create a distraction by trespassing up near the house.
Now when Junius Bandicott learns that his zealous head-keeper has imprisoned these men, he thinks he’s over-reacted. Also it’s clear that neither of them are the famous John McNab everyone’s het up about. And so he orders them released.
It’s Agatha who goes to the garages and orders the servants to set the men free. Leithen is so discombobulated at the sight of her that he forgets to put on a yokel accent and speaks with his posh educated accent. Agatha realises he is indeed of her class. Leithen quickly improvises a story about being down on his luck having made many bad life decisions.
It’s only the next morning, when the salmon, complete with the bit Leithen cut out to make it look like it had been caught by an otter, restored, and deposited on the doorstep of Strathlarrig House along with a message from ‘John McNab’ saying here is the poached animal he promised, that Agatha, Junius, Archie and Jimsie all realise the rough old tramp they locked up – then released – was McNab himself!
Lord Archie at the hustings
Another complication is that Lord Archie had forgotten that slap bang in the middle of the McNab campaign he has a pre-arranged appointment to give a political speech, part of his campaign to elected Conservative candidate for Wester Ross (arranged by his enthusiastic agent, Brodie, ‘a lean, red-haired man’) a short train ride from Crask Lodge. Buchan gives a vivid description of what it’s like to stand up in front of an audience of thousands and your mind to go completely blank, completely forgetting the tissue of bromides and clichés he had spent days memorising.
But more than that, he finds himself inspired to use the story of ‘John McNab’ who, of course, his entire audience knows about, taking him up as an example of how we must ‘challenge’ ourselves in order to become fully awake, to test the old values which he, as a Tory, believes in but also believes just be renewed in every generation. To his surprise he gets a standing ovation. McNab has become a figure who lights up political campaigns!
Mission 3. Lamancha against Haripol
The owner of Haripol House is a different kettle of fish. He’s not Scots. He’s an Englander, Lord Claybody, who made his pile from business in the Midlands. He’s bought Haripol House and adorned it in horrendous taste. He reacts worst of the three addressees of the John McNab letters, getting his lawyers to send a formal reply threatening arrest and conviction. Now, while the campaigns against Glenraden Castle and Strathlarrig House have garnered a lot of support among the local population and even among the owners of those houses (!) Claybody’s attitude has hardened. He sees McNab’s prank as an assault on property everywhere. To this end, our heroes learn that Claybody has imported 100 navvies from a major dam building project he is responsible for in the vicinity. These men will guard his property making the McNab assault almost impossible.
But that is precisely why Lamancha is determined to see it through. On the eve of the campaign, there comes a night so dark and stormy night that none of the conspirators, poring over maps and exchanging battle plans, notice the front door open and Colonel Raden and his two daughters cross the threshold to escape the weather. At just the moment that Leithen and Palliser-Yeates enter the hall from different rooms. the two daughters, Agatha and Janet both exclaim ‘John McNab!’ for each man is the John McNab who they’ve encountered.
Lord Archie enters, greets his guests, gets them to take off their wet things, come into the study by a fire, and proceeds to come clean, telling them they see before them the collaborators on the great John McNab scam. To everyone’s merriment, the Colonel accepts the situation and goes so far as to say he and his daughters will help the conspirators poach a deer off Claybody, so much do the old lairds of the locality despise the jumped-up new English owner.
But what with all those navvies the situation seems impossible until Janet and Benjie pull off a masterstroke. They kidnap Lady Claybody’s adored little doggie, Roguie. Janet had paid her a visit and noticed a) how she doted on the little critter and b) how she let it off the leash to run wild. So she got Benjie to kidnap it, the idea being that she will insist on a large number of navvies being sent out to find it. Genius!
Long vivid description of Lamancha being led a-stalking by top Crask gillie Wattie Lithgow. He gets a shot at the oldest biggest legendary stag in the region, doesn’t kill him in one but fatally wounds him. They follow the blood trail and find the stag dead in a burn. Wattie lugs him across country to where Lord Archie and Janet are waiting. They load it up and drive it back to Crask without incident.
(While they waited, Janet and Archie had built a bridge across the river Doran (from old planks) during which they’d both gotten wet and messy and as he watched her wash herself in the stream Archie suddenly realised this slender young women was one with the heather and the hills and he proposes to her. ‘Yes,’ she turned a laughing face, ‘of course I will.’ It’s a festive comedy.)
To cut a long story short:
- Lamancha bags his stag, which is dragged away by Wattie, down to the car where Lord Archie and Janet drive it back to Crask.
- Lord Archie and Janet wash and change and drive over to Haripol House to return Lady Claybody’s kidnapped dog. En route Palliser-Yeates emerges from the heather and they invite him to come along.
- Meanwhile Leithen had been given the task of distracting the gillies and navvies and does a very good job of it, his tortuous journeys and then flight from the navvies described in immense detail. It has a comic denouement when he stumbles down towards Haripol House and is astounded to see Lord Archie and Janet there being politely entertained.
Lamancha, the man who shot the stag, is not, however, so lucky. He is cornered by a tough navvy who he can’t dodge, they get into a clumsy wrestling match, fall into a hollow and the navvy’s leg is broken, only at this point does Lamancha realise the fellow is Stokes, his old orderly in the army. Suddenly (when he no longer poses any threat) Lamancha is all aristocratic concern. When a bunch of other navvies and gillies surround him, Lamancha is only concerned that Stokes gets the best treatment, has his leg splinted, and is carried by the gillies down to Johnson Claybody’s car.
In all this Lamancha displays natural, unforced compassion and gentlemanliness, which is strongly contrasted with Johnson Claybody’s selfishness, ill manners and bad grace. Johnson really hates the way Lamancha makes all the right moral decisions and effortlessly commands Johnson’s own keeper and gillies. He has class, dontcha know, whereas Johnson is forced to resort to caddish bluster: ‘Damn your impudence! What business is that of yours?’ etc.
When Lamancha approaches Haripol House, under guard by the head-keeper etc, he is astonished to find waiting for him, not just Lord and Lady Claybody, but his partners in crime, Palliser-Yeates, Leithen, Lord Archie and the lovely Janet!
Happy ending
And there’s a happy ending worthy of a stage comedy. Lamancha admits they he and his friends as ‘John McNab’, something the other two had not, in fact, let on. After their initial astonishment, Lord and Lady Claybody react well, if perplexed. Claybody says he would have given them free range of his estate if they’d wanted it; or organised a real challenge to poaching on it, if only they’d asked.
As they all discuss it, Ned, John and Lamancha come round to feeling they’ve misunderstood the whole enterprise. They were never in any real danger, it was never a real challenge, they feel silly and heartily apologise. Janet apologises for kidnapping Lady Claypole, which momentarily introduces an ill note into proceedings which is glossed over when Lady C learns that young Archie and Janet are engaged, at which point she gives them a big-bosomed hug. Even Johnson Claybody who has behaved so ill-manneredly to Lamancha, now changes his tune and apologises. Everyone shakes hands and Lord and Lady C say they will hold a big dinner tonight, and invited Lord Radel and the Bandicotts, to celebrate the triumph but also the death of the fictional character of ‘John McNab’. If it was a Jacobean or restoration comedy they would have all joined hands, come forward and bowed to the applauding audience.
Snobbery, class, body shape and clothes
Snobbery
The final part of the third mission exists solely, as far as I can see, to express Buchan’s Tory snobbery. The Right Honourable the Earl of Lamancha, MP, His Majesty’s Secretary of State for the Dominions, is caught by one of the navvies deployed by Claybody. Their bodies reflect their class: Lamancha tall and erect, the navvy bent by labour.
He was a tall fellow in navvy’s clothes, with a shock head of black hair, and a week’s beard—an uncouth figure with a truculent eye.
But the working class navvies are really an extension of Lord Claybody who is depicted as a gauche arriviste, a ghastly industrialist who has earned his wealth instead of inheriting it, as all right-minded aristocrats do. He is depicted as lacking all the depth and class, as faking a tartan kilt, doing up his mansion with hideous modern extension while his wife is depicted as foolishly trying to recreate an English country garden in the Highlands which, Janet waspishly observes, won’t last long.
The correct response to this beastly nouveau rich is expressed by Colonel Radel: ‘He and his damned navvies are an insult to every gentleman in the Highlands.’ When Lamancha has his extended argument with Claybody’s son, he comes within an ace of using the ultimate insult and calling him an ‘infernal little haberdasher.’ This is plain snobbery.
The argument is a dramatised contrast between the true class and gentlemanly attitude and behaviour of Lamancha vividly contrasted with the selfish, ill mannered and unchivalrous behaviour of Johnson Claybody towards his own injured employee. Lamancha insists that Stoke is carried down off the moors and then insists that he is placed in the car and driven to the nearest house which a doctor can be called from, Claybody furiously bridling at being ordered about on his own property.
Buchan vividly describes and explains the nature of aristocratic confidence:
The truth is, that if you belong to a family which for a good many centuries has been accustomed to command and to take risks, and if you yourself, in the forty-odd years of your life, have rather courted trouble than otherwise, and have put discipline into Arab caravans, Central African natives, and Australian mounted brigades – well, when you talk about wringing necks your words might carry weight. If, too, you have never had occasion to think of your position, because no one has ever questioned it, and you promise to break down somebody else’s, your threat may convince others, because you yourself are so wholly convinced of your power in that direction. (p.222)
And draws the Conservative conclusion:
It is a melancholy fact which exponents of democracy must face that, while all men may be on a level in the eyes of the State, they will continue in fact to be preposterously unequal.
Class
Alongside it goes the Tory notion of duty. This is vividly depicted in Lamancha’s fight with the navvie. When he’s just an anonymous navvie, he is depicted as foul-mouthed and bent, leaning over i.e. not straight and erect like a gentleman. But after he’s fallen badly and broken his leg it isn’t the fall as such but Lamancha suddenly recognising who he is which transforms him in Lamancha’s eyes.
He recalled now the man who had once been his orderly, and whom he had last known as a smart troop sergeant…’You remember me – Lord Lamancha?’ He had it all now – the fellow who had been a son of one of Tommy Deloraine’s keepers –a decent fellow and a humorous, and a good soldier.
So long as he is an anonymous working class man, he is just a brute antagonist. As soon as he enters into the network of contacts, via gamekeepers and the army, he acquires an identity, a name, and becomes of value. To the Tory ruling class, the great mass of the population have no identity or worth unless they enter into the aristocrats’ networks of privilege. At that point they cease to be a blundering swearing drunken threat and suddenly swim into focus as a gamekeeper’s son or someone’s servant or orderly etc. Only then do they count as human beings.
Body shape and class
All this, believe it or not, is correlated with body shape. Aristocratic men are tall and thin, like Sir Archie:
No other country, she thought, produced this kind of slim, graceful, yet weathered and hard-bitten youth.
Or Colonel Alastair Raden:
A lean old gentleman dressed in an ancient loud-patterned tweed jacket and a very faded kilt. Still erect as a post, he had a barrack-square voice, and high-boned, aquiline face, and a kindly but irritable blue eye.
Or John Palliser-Yeates:
A tall man, apparently young, with a very ruddy face, a thatch of sandy hair, and ancient, disreputable clothes.
Or Edward Leithen:
A tallish man, they said, lean and clean-shaven, rather pale, and with his skin very tight over his cheek-bones. He had looked like a gentleman and had behaved as such.
And:
Before it became the fashion he had been a pioneer in guideless climbing in the Alps, and the red-letter days in his memory were for the most part solitary days. He was always in hard condition, and his lean figure rarely knew fatigue… (p.198)
By sharp contrast, ghastly nouveau riche types like Lord Claybody and his son, are short and squat:
Lord Claybody entered, magnificent in a kilt of fawn-coloured tweed and a ferocious sporran made of the mask of a dog-otter. The garments, which were aggressively new, did not become his short, square figure…(p.196)
A stout gentleman in a kilt…(p.227)
Same goes for what this class calls the memsahibs. The most salient aspect of lovely Janet who Lord Archie falls in love with is that she is slender and boyish.
A slight girl with what seemed to him astonishingly bright hair and very blue and candid eyes
Compare and contrast Lady Claybody, whose ghastly taste, whose foolish plan to plant an English country garden in the Highlands, and whose tacky obsession with her little yapping dog, are all summed up by the fact that she has an extensive bosom:
Lady Claybody was a heavily handsome woman still in her early fifties. The purchase of Haripol had been her doing, for romance lurked in her ample breast, and she dreamed of a new life in which she should be an unquestioned great lady far from the compromising environment where the Claybody millions had been won.
The contrast between busty vulgarity and slender classiness is explicitly made:
For swelling bosoms and pouting lips and soft curves and languishing eyes Archie had only the most distant regard. He saluted them respectfully and passed by the other side of the road – they did not belong to his world. But that slender figure splashing in the tawny eddies made a different appeal. Most women in such a posture would have looked tousled and flimsy, creatures ill at ease, with their careful allure beaten out of them by weather. But this girl was an authentic creature of the hills and winds – her young slimness bent tensely against the current, her exquisite head and figure made more fine and delicate by the conflict.
Bosoms bad, boyish slimness good.
And clothes
Johnson Claybody is pernickety about being properly dressed, clean and trim. Lamancha is a true gentleman because he doesn’t care. He knows his class will shine through no matter what he’s wearing:
Now Johnson was the type of man who is miserable if he feels himself ill-clad or dirty, and discovers in a sense of tidiness a moral superiority. He rejoiced to have found his enemy, and an enemy over whom he felt at a notable advantage. But, unfortunately for him, no Merkland had ever been conscious of the appearance he represented or cared a straw about it. Lamancha in rags would have cheerfully disputed with an emperor in scarlet, and suffered no loss of confidence because of his garb, since he would not have given it a thought.
So hopefully you agree with me that this novel, harmless entertainment though it appears at first sight, is in fact a kind of primer of snobbish, class consciousness.
Disguises
In my review of Buchan’s novel Prester John, I noted how the baddie, the leader of the black rebellion John Laputa, was a man of many disguises, now a Christian minister, now leader of a pagan ritual, a suited and tied westerner among London MPs, a leopard-clad war leader in Africa, and so on. I’ve just watched a kids TV programme where a class went from uniformed, dull and bored, to being allowed to dress up in garish costumes and dance around, and the change in mood and engagement was startling. Maybe dressing up is just a basic element of play.
Intellectuals, historians, theologians, all lard their descriptions of the religious ceremonies of Catholics, the Byzantine Church, Islamic centres or the African ceremonies Chinua Achebe describes, with serious interpretations of symbolism and deep meanings and so on. But maybe, at the same time, it’s just fun, it’s a release and an escape from everyday routine and it’s also, as women know better than men, a very community and team-building and bonding activity to dress up and fuss and fret over costumes and make-up and presentation.
Comedy has always overflowed with disguise and dressing-up. I think of the comic plays of ancient Rome I read last year where at least one of the characters dressed up as someone else, with comic consequences. Or the cross-dressing in most of Shakespeare’s comedies, or in almost all the Restoration comedies.
In a sense reading fiction is a sort of dressing up, an imaginative dressing-up: it allows our imaginations to assume the persona of other people, narrators and characters, for the duration of the reading. Apart from all the heavyweight moralising which fiction often does, and the arousal of serious or intense emotions, maybe its most primal function is to take us out of ourselves. Maybe we need regular holidays from ourselves.
So a little light dressing up and disguising is the least you’d expect in a humorous novel like this. At least some of the comedy derives from supposedly strict and stern, upright and proper Establishment figures like a top lawyer and banker behaving like children. I imagine this had more impact in 1925 than in 2024.
But dressing up and disguise can, of course, have a serious darker side and this is gestured towards in the fertile imagination of Janet Radel, who over-worries about who John McNab is and what he’s going to do.
Horrible stories which she had read of impersonation and the shifts of desperate characters recurred to her mind. Was John Macnab perhaps old Mr Bandicott disguised as an archaeologist? Or was he one of the Strathlarrig workmen? (p.69)
Visions of John Macnab filled her mind, now a tall bravo with a colonial accent, now a gnarled Caliban of infinite cunning and gnome-like agility. Where in this haunted land was he ensconced—in some hazel covert, or in some clachan but-and-ben, or miles distant in a populous hotel, ready to speed in a swift car to the scene of action?
In this excerpt we can clearly see that disguise allows a large element of indeterminism to enter a narrative. Our everyday lives may contain large amounts of uncertainty – will we be given a mortgage, will the man we fancy agree to a date, will you get the pay rise you’ve asked for etc – but generally within finite and boring limits. You can see how, as soon as you allow disguise into a fictitious narrative, the possibilities hugely expand, whether for comic or tragic purposes.
Making fictions
The book is ostensibly about the poaching, but at its centre it is about making fictions and telling stories. John McNab is a completely invented person, but all four conspirators find themselves drawn, despite themselves, into feeling somehow committed to the idea he represents. Arrived at Crask, on the first evening all express overt reluctance to get drawn into this silly prank, but at the same time find it difficult to let the non-existent figure of John McNab down. This makes no logical sense but a lot of emotional sense. It explains how the thing grows into being described as the ‘John Macnab proposition.’ And once they’ve reconnoitred the ground and weighed up the obstacles and begun to commit to the prank, the entirely non-existent persona of ‘John McNab’ begins to assume greater and greater power.
In a different way, all three of the households which receive the John McNab letter are plunged into speculation about who he is, what he looks like – big and bluff or small and cunning – especially in the vivid imagination of young Miss Janet Raden, with her ‘taste for the dramatic’ (p.83).
So the figure of McNab turns into a kind of symbol of the power of creating a fictional character; he comes to demonstrate the uncanny power of fictional characters. It’s one thing that he imposes himself on the three households he has announced he will ‘attack’, that’s understandable, they know no better. But that he comes to dominate the lives and feelings of the three men who invented him says something fascinating about the power of fiction and invention.
Fictions make news
The newspapermen gathered to report on the Harald Blacktooth find that all their editors give ancient archaeology perfunctory attention before switching their interest to the glamorous mystery of ‘John McNab’. Millions of readers read about his failure to get his stag at Castle Raden, his
Nature painting
There are numerous descriptions of this, Buchan’s idealised Scottish landscape.
Darkness gave place to the translucence of early dawn: the badger trotted home from his wanderings: the hill-fox barked in the cairns to summon his household: sleepy pipits awoke: the peregrine who lived above the Grey Beallach drifted down into the glens to look for breakfast: hinds and calves moved up from the hazel shows to the high fresh pastures: the tiny rustling noises of night disappeared in that hush which precedes the awakening of life: and then came the flood of morning gold from behind the dim eastern mountains, and in an instant the earth had wheeled into a new day. (p.67)
Since the war
‘What about yourself?’ she asked. ‘In the words of Mr Bandicott, are you going to make good?’ She asked the question with such an air of frank comradeship that Sir Archie was in no way embarrassed. Indeed he was immensely delighted. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know…I’m a bit of a slacker. There doesn’t seem much worth doing since the war.’ (p.127)
Various characters express the feeling that the war knocked the stuffing out of the generation who went through it. It’s dramatised in the dinner party Colonel Raden gives:
‘I suppose,’ said old Mr Bandicott reflectively, ‘that the war was bound to leave a good deal of unsettlement. Junius missed it through being too young – never got out of a training camp – but I have noticed that those who fought in France find it difficult to discover a groove. They are energetic enough, but they won’t ‘stay put’, as we say. Perhaps this Macnab is one of the unrooted. In your country, where everybody was soldiering, the case must be far more common.’
Mr Claybody announced that he was sick of hearing the war blamed for the average man’s deficiencies. ‘Every waster,’ he said, ‘makes an excuse of being shell-shocked. I’m very clear that the war twisted nothing in a man that wasn’t twisted before.’
Sir Archie demurred. ‘I don’t know. I’ve seen some pretty bad cases of fellows who used to be as sane as a judge, and came home all shot to bits in their mind.’
‘There are exceptions, of course. I’m speaking of the general rule. I turn away unemployables every day – good soldiers, maybe, but unemployable – and I doubt if they were ever anything else.’
Something in his tone annoyed Janet. ‘You saw a lot of service, didn’t you?’ she asked meekly.
‘No, worse luck! They made me stick at home and slave fourteen hours a day controlling cotton. It would have been a holiday for me to get into the trenches. But what I say is, a sane man usually remained sane. Look at Sir Archibald. We all know what a hectic time he had, and he hasn’t turned a hair.’
‘I’d like you to give me that in writing,’ Sir Archie grinned. ‘I’ve known people who thought I was rather cracked.’
It’s given a comic turn at the end but there are clearly four points of view here. Bandicott Senior, as a foreigner, makes a valid generalisation about young men of Britain, traumatised by the war. Claybody is revealed as a loudmouth reactionary who is down on the young but did not himself serve in the war, classic example of the reactionary armchair expert. Archie himself did serve and was injured, but takes the thing lightest of all. And Janet, type of the zealous young woman who would have been a suffragette 20 years before and would be a woman’s libber 40 years later, takes up the cudgels on his behalf.
In Chapter 8 Janet and Lord Archie go for a walk across the moors, hills and whatnot, and she reveals herself to be quite a radical, not in a doctrinaire socialist way (she herself and various other characters refer to the ‘Bolsheviks’ who were, of course a relatively recent phenomenon in 1924), but in saying that her family are fading out, their time is up and the land should be held by newcomers.
‘I’m quite serious about politics,’ said Lord Archie. ‘I wonder,’ said Janet, smiling. ‘I don’t mean scraping into Parliament, but real politics – putting the broken pieces together, you know. Papa and the rest of our class want to treat politics like another kind of property in which they have a vested interest. But it won’t do – not in the world we live in to-day. If you’re going to do any good you must feel the challenge and be ready to meet it.’
Basically, she believes in force and energy. In the confused landscape after the war, describing her like that makes her sound more like a proto-fascist. Her emphasis on primal values reminds me of D.H. Lawrence.
Janet had got off her perch, and was standing a yard from Sir Archie, her hat in her hand and the light wind ruffling her hair. The young man, who had no skill in analysing his feelings, felt obscurely that she fitted most exquisitely into the picture of rock and wood and water, that she was, in very truth, a part of his clean elemental world of the hill-tops. (p.127)
Later, in his election speech, Lord Archie articulates sentiments which reminded me of Ernest Hemingway’s rejection of the old words and the old values which the war had destroyed, albeit clothed in posh pukka phraseology:
He began by confessing that the war had left the world in a muddle, a muddle which affected his own mind. The only cure was to be honest with oneself, and to refuse to accept specious nonsense and conventional jargon. (p.145)
McNab started as a prank by three bored toffs but it is instructive to discover just how many other people it gives a sense of purpose. Janet reports that her father has never been so energised as in the few days he got his staff together to repel the advertised attack, and the various groundsmen and gillies reflect this excitement. Beginning as a small personal gag the turns out to shine a light on an entire civilisation, revealing how bored and directionless it is.
For 20 years this generation looked for and hoped for something new but, like Janet, struggled to express it in any meaningful way. In the event, all their hopes for new worlds and new values were sunk by the rise of horrifying evil on the Continent and the advent of the Second World War.
(Incidentally, it’s interesting to see the words ‘waster’ and ‘slacker’ which I thought were of contemporary coinage, being freely used a hundred years ago.)
The active narrator
Breaching protocol, the narrator from time to time refers to himself in the first person:
I am at a loss to know how to describe the first shattering impact of youth and beauty on a susceptible mind. The old plan was to borrow the language of the world’s poetry, the new seems to be to have recourse to the difficult jargon of psychologists and physicians; but neither, I fear, would suit Sir Archie’s case. (p.46)
Colonel Raden plucked feebly at his moustache, and Janet, I regret to say, laughed. (p.87)
He even claims to have visited the scene of one of the hunts and of the book’s triumphant conclusion:
If you go to Haripol, as I did last week, you will see above the hall chimney a noble thirteen-pointer, and a legend beneath proclaiming that the stag was shot on the Sgurr Dearg beat of the forest by the Earl of Lamancha on a certain day of September in a certain year.
This makes the story feel very chummy, like a yarn being told you over dinner. At the same time it places that narrator very much among the charmed circle of this blithe and happy circle of aristocrats, lawyers and bankers. A sound member of the British ruling class.
Tory irony
The well-off can afford to enjoy life little’s ironies.
Sir Edward Leithen was a philosopher, with an acute sense of the ironies of life, and as he reflected that here was a laird, a Tory, and a strict preserver of game working himself into a passion over the moral rights of the poacher, he suddenly relapsed into helpless mirth. (p.155)
An awful joy fell upon Sir Archie’s soul. He realised anew the unplumbed preposterousness of life.
Credit
John McNab by John Buchan was published by Hodder and Stoughton in 1925. References are to the 1994 World Classic’s paperback edition, edited and introduced by David Daniell.
Books & Boots 
The Square Egg and Other Sketches by Saki (1924)
Eight amusing short pieces by Hector Hugh Munro (pen name Saki) who was shot dead by a sniper while serving on the Western Front during the First World War. These last few pieces were collected and published posthumously in 1924.
The Square Egg: a badger’s eye view of the mud war in the trenches
The first few pages are a humorous description of life in the First World War trenches, whose main points can be summarised as:
At which point the text morphs into an anecdote about a chap he met in such an estaminet, a shifty French bloke who talked to him about eggs, specifically the way he’s noticed one of the many hens kept by his aunt lays eggs with the hint of angles. Consider how, through a programme of selective breeding, one could eventually create hens which produce only square eggs! Well, this guy claims to have done just that!! (Saki’s narrator makes wry, sardonic references under his breath).
The shifty Frenchie then explains how he had set up a thriving square-egg business but then came the war, he has been sent to the Front and his aunt is now selling his square eggs without any special consideration about keeping the breeding line secure and keeping the money she owes him. Therefore he has decided to take her to court to stop her, but the law is so expensive, monsieur. So, could Saki please lend him a small sum towards his legal fees, 80 francs should do it! The whole thing is, in other words, a scam.
This was a mildly amusing story which confirmed my sense of how many Saki’ stories are set on farms or involve farmyard animals.
Birds of the Western Front
These texts written at the Front highlight, almost exaggerate, Saki’s characteristic upper class nonchalance; everything is cast into an ironical manner which, for example, amuses itself by making elaborate and ironic comparisons. Thus, since the war began:
Rats and mice have mobilized and swarmed into the fighting line, and there has been a partial mobilization of owls, particularly barn owls, following in the wake of the mice, and making laudable efforts to thin out their numbers. What success attends their hunting one cannot estimate; there are always sufficient mice left over to populate one’s dug-out and make a parade-ground and race-course of one’s face at night.
Crows and rooks have become habituated to shellfire and machine guns. Drolly, Saki describes observing a pair of crows fighting a pair of sparrowhawks while above them the same number of English and German airplanes were fighting. Nature red in tooth and claw. He observes that magpies have been bereft of the poplar trees they used to love to nest in, and so on with further observations about buzzards, kestrels, larks and a hen-chaffinch which he noticed unaccountably hanging around a wrecked woodland, even during the most intense bombardment.
He ends with the sardonic observation that English gamekeepers as a breed believe their precious gamebirds and pheasants and whatnot must be protected from the slightest disturbance. They should come to the Western Front and learn how hardy birds are in face of even the most ruinous disruption.
The Gala Programme: an unrecorded episode in Roman history
The scene shifts abruptly from the present war, jumping back in time 2,000 years to ancient Rome.
It is the birthday of the Roman Emperor Placidus Superbus who has arrived at the Circus Maximus to enjoy the games, but just as the first entertainment is about to begin – a thrilling chariot race – hundreds of shouting women are lowered by ropes into the track and completely prevent the race taking place.
‘Who are these furies?’ the emperor demands. ‘The dreaded Suffragetae,’ his miserable Master of Ceremonies explains. The emperor has a brainwave. ‘Skip the chariot race,’ he tells the MC, ‘let’s go straight to part two, the combat of wild animals.’ And so a horde of beasts are let loose among the protesting women, to really very entertaining effect :).
Takes its place with the other 3 or 4 Saki stories entirely dedicated to commenting on / ridiculing the suffragettes.
The Infernal Parliament
Bavton Bidderdale (a typically Sakian preposterous name) dies, but the medical authorities contest the exact cause of death etc and so, although his soul has gone down to hell, the officials there keep it in a kind of limbo until the paperwork is sorted out.
While he’s waiting, the officials offer to show him round and suggest taking a tour of the infernal Parliament, a relatively new innovation. As he arrives the infernal Parliament is having a debate to lodge a formal complaint with the human race for describing events or activities as ‘devilish’ or ‘fiendish’ when they are, in fact, nothing of the sort, but entirely human.
Other details obviously mock contemporary parliamentary debates (and, in the final passage, mock a living playwright, possibly George Bernard Shaw) but these references are lost without some kind of annotation. You can see the comic intention but it would have more bite if included in my dream idea of an ‘Annotated Saki’.
The Achievement of the Cat
A wonderfully suave and ironical tribute to the qualities of the domestic cat:
It is, indeed, no small triumph to have combined the untrammelled liberty of primeval savagery with the luxury which only a highly developed civilization can command; to be lapped in the soft stuffs that commerce has gathered from the far ends of the world; to bask in the warmth that labour and industry have dragged from the bowels of the earth; to banquet on the dainties that wealth has bespoken for its table, and withal to be a free son of nature, a mighty hunter, a spiller of life-blood. This is the victory of the cat.
The Old Town of Pskoff
Not a story at all, but a straightforward description of how this city in west Russia, now referred to as Pskov, represents a kinder, quainter, more colourful and older Russia than the unpleasantly nouveau riche style of Petersburg. Sounds like it’s based on a real visit and the real views of Hector Munro who had been a foreign correspondent in Russia and, indeed, wrote a history of it.
Clovis on the Alleged Romance of Business
The last appearance of Clovis Sangrail, the witty, ironic, ‘languidly malicious’ young man who embodies key aspects of Saki’s droll, langorous, ironic humour.
This one is a short squib, a return to the format of his early Reginald ‘stories’, and amounts simply to a 2-page speech by Clovis, declaiming, fairly predictably, against the so-called Romance of business. In his view, business is deadly dull, which is why all the best adventures have been written about the young men who ran away from it:
The romance has all been the other way, with the idle apprentice, the truant, the runaway, the individual who couldn’t be bothered with figures and book-keeping and left business to look after itself.
The Comments of Moung Ka
Moung Ka is a wise man who lives by the banks of the River Irrawaddy (whichm, upon looking it up, I discover is the longest river in modern Burma).
The opening description of the landscape and birds where Moung Ka lives is a final reminder that, although people routinely describe Saki as a deliciously malicious critic of Edwardian upper class society, he was also obsessed with animals, and wrote a lot of vivid descriptions of landscapes and the wild animals living in them. A collection of excerpts titled ‘Saki’s nature and animal writing’ would be surprisingly extensive.
In the tall reed growth by the riverside grazing buffaloes showed in patches of dark slaty blue, like plums fallen amid long grass, and in the tamarind trees that shaded Moung Ka’s house the crows, restless, raucous-throated, and much-too-many, kept up their incessant afternoon din, saying over and over again all the things that crows have said since there were crows to say them.
Anyway, the story, such as it is, is another political satire. Old Moung Ka reads the paper which is brought up the river and then interprets its contents for his village followers. He comments on two related pieces of news. The recently announced division of Bengal by the (British-run) government of India has been cancelled. In 1905 Lord Curzon divided Bengal along sectarian lines, into a Hindu and Muslim province. The policy was a disaster, leading to an outburst of terrorism and sectarian violence and so was reversed in 1911. This is the news Moung Ka reads out to his followers.
And contrasts with the fact that the newspaper tells him that the United Kingdom itself is about to be partitioned. It isn’t explained what he means so it took me a moment to realise he must have been referring to the granting to Ireland of home rule, which led to vehement protests from Protestant Ulster and a serious crisis which dominated Edwardian politics from 1911 up to the outbreak of the Great War.
The very last joke in this, Saki’s very last published story, is a satirical and political one. Earlier Moung Ka had explained to his followers that Britain is what is called a Democracy. One of the followers doesn’t understand how come, if Britain is a Democracy, it can enact such a big and impactful decision (the partitioning of Ireland) without consulting its people.
Moung Ka clarifies – and this, one imagines, is the point of the whole ‘story’ – that he didn’t say Britain was a democracy; he said Britain is what is called a democracy. The implication being that its alleged democracy is in fact a sham. The implication being that Saki is a Unionist and considers the prolonged political haggling about granting Ireland independence to be squalid and destructive.
There’s plenty of meat in this short text to chew over, it confirmed my sense of Saki as an unrepentant Unionist and conservative and anti-suffragette reactionary, and review in my mind the reactionary views which crop up periodically through the short stories and underpin the entire novel When William Came.
Then again, the world is more full than ever before of division, dispute and angry argument. For my part, I like to take leave of this long journey through Saki’s complete works by remembering the grazing water buffalo like plums fallen amid long grass, and the eternal crows in the tamarind trees.
Saki’s works
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Posted by Simon on July 7, 2021
https://astrofella.wordpress.com/2021/07/07/the-square-egg-and-other-sketches-saki/