Man Alone

After two good and capable reviews of this novel, the first a radio broadcast by John Reece Cole, the second by James Bertram in the Listener, it might seem that no new ground could be broken. Both reviewers, however, dwelt mainly on the social implications of the book. One may consider briefly its more subjective aspect.

Despite the deceptive simplicity of Mulgan’s style Man Alone is a novel of highly complex structure. Two levels of thought, two themes almost, combine, contrast, and interpenetrate. From the viewpoint of social analysis, Johnson, the dour English immigrant, is a blank cheque on whom the post- war Depression years write themselves corrosively; a mirror of the times, reflecting with equal detachment the Auckland riots or the squalid grind of a mortgaged cow farm. Mulgan has shown acumen in selecting a non- indigenous hero, since this approach allows him to present features of this country familiar to New Zealanders in a fresh and unfamiliar light. But the theme from which the title draws its significance is ultimately not concerned with ‘social’ issues. It concerns rather Johnson’s personal isolation, his place on the outskirts of society, perpetually a spectator. When he does at length acquire a kind of status, it is the inverted status of a criminal. One is reminded inevitably of Camus’ The Outsider. But Mulgan, unlike Camus, has no ideological axe to grind. The novel develops organically from Johnson’s personal dilemma. When he finally joins a volunteer contingent to fight on the Leftist side in the Spanish War the decision seems to spring as much from purely personal as from political motives. It is simply another move made by that lonely and enigmatic man in his private war with Fate.

In the first chapters the story is slow-moving and discursive. One feelspage 56 that Mulgan has not yet penetrated to the heart of his theme. At this stage the most moving passages seem grafted from the diary of a mass observer. That superb study in crowd psychology, the description of the Queen Street riot in Auckland, could have been written around almost any character. The conversation between Johnson and the old derelict in the railway truck has, however, a quality unlike that of any other section of the novel – unlike, indeed, the work of any other New Zealand writer except perhaps that of Dan Davin in a moment of brilliance. The oracular remarks of the old man embody and illuminate the tragic spirit of the entire book and seem the epitaph of a civilisation. From this point the momentum of the narrative increases and Johnson becomes a character in his own right.

Inevitably he accepts the offer of a job from Stenning, the paranoid yet affable dairy farmer. Inevitably a triangular situation develops between Stenning, himself, and Rua, the farmer’s irresponsible half-caste wife. Mulgan treats this situation with admirable delicacy, charting every cross-current, and emphasising the casual nature of Johnson’s relationship with Rua. When the storm breaks in one brief nightmare scene, and Stenning is shot, the two survivors are left with no common ground, only their mutual suspicion and antagonism.

Johnson’s flight over the ranges is an occasion for some of Mulgan’s most evocative writing. The struggle with weather in the Rangipo desert, and his hermit existence in the river cave, though described in a manner almost pedestrian, have all the size and flavour of a myth. He emerges in a state of emaciation and exhaustion to be befriended by Bill Crawley, an old and eccentric prospector whose life is scarcely less lonely by choice than Johnson’s has been through force of circumstances. Here, as throughout the novel, the minor character is drawn with breadth and care, set vividly against Johnson’s own grey personality.

When Johnson returns to the outside world it is as a creature of a new and different species. His power to form social ties, his desire for a normal routine have been sterilised; and from thenceforward he remains always in some degree an outlaw. The doubtful reinstatement of surrender to the police he rejects, choosing rather to escape from the country. A chance meeting with Rua intensifies his awareness of danger. With the somewhat unwilling and niggardly assistance of a past employer (Mulgan remains well clear of heroics) he wangles a job as deckhand on a Greek boat and leaves without regret the country which has brought him only misfortune.

The epilogue in England and Spain lacks the tension of earlier parts of the novel. For the chief crisis in Johnson’s life is behind him. He has looked for a ‘place in the sun’ and been defeated – partly by economic circumstances, partly by some inertness in himself which casts a chill over all his relationships, freezing the springs of feeling and action. Finding no permanent place in present society he is drawn to fight for a future in which he may claim a part.

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Man Alone, despite its overwide scope and uneven structure, is a powerful novel. Without a trace of shrillness Mulgan lays bare the roots of social antagonism in our society. In Johnson he has created a character seemingly nondescript who yet grips the imagination of the reader. As James Bertram remarks, he is a man without graces. The same may be said of Man Alone. It is a bare book; and one that will be remembered even if the conflicting causes of its composition are themselves resolved.

The State Literary Fund is to be commended for making possible the publication of this edition of Mulgan’s novel. Whitcombe and Tombs has done a workmanlike job of plain, quiet printing easy on the eyes.

1949 (40)