Voyager: Candles before Images

At the beginning of Lent, and at the beginning of my blogging about Voyager, I suggested that the novel was somehow Purgatorial, because in many ways, the action was either waiting or stasis, and when movement happened, it was a going forward that stood in direct contrast to the stasis and waiting.  The novel is also full of punishment, deprivation, and prayer.  As I have wound my way slowly through, lingering on more moments than I anticipated, the Purgatorial thread has been obscured while others presented themselves to the reader.

Now that it is the Easter season, I have reached Jamie's brief parting conversation with his son.  In this scene, as Jamie prepares to make a sacrifice, forsaking his own feelings and removing himself from Helwater for the child's sake, we find a simple and elegant explanation of a much-maligned Catholic practice (and Gabaldon has a knack for giving simple, elegant explanations of Catholic practices):

     “What’s that little candle for?” Willie asked. “Grannie says only stinking Papists burn candles in front of heathen images.”
     “Well, I am a stinking Papist,” Jamie said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “It’s no a heathen image, though; it’s a statue of the Blessed Mother.”
     “You are?” Clearly this revelation only added to the boy’s fascination. “Why do Papists burn candles before statues, then?”
     Jamie rubbed a hand through his hair. “Aye, well. It’s  …   maybe a way of praying— and remembering. Ye light the candle, and say a prayer and think of people ye care for. And while it burns, the flame remembers them for ye.”

The scene culminates in a declaration by Willie, an "emergency" baptism, by which Willie is made a "stinking Papist, too" (239), and the gift of a rosary--in short, all of the trappings of Catholicism that can be conjured in a stable.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition. 

Voyager: The Scourging of Jamie

In Dragonfly in Amber there is a scene of extended biblical allusion that seems to add little to the novel, and almost functions as a parody of the biblical scene--when Jack Randall's brother gives his beloved, pregnant Mary to Jack as his wife.  In Voyager, a scene of Jamie being flogged, arms outstretched, similarly evokes a biblical scene--the scourging of Christ leading up to the Crucifixion:

The man’s muscles tightened in resistance to the pain. Again and again, until each separate muscle stood hard under the skin. His own muscles ached with tension, and he shifted inconspicuously from one leg to another, as the brutal tedium continued. Thin streams of red ran down the prisoner’s spine, blood mixed with water, staining the cloth of his breeches. (183)

And yet, it is difficult to say what this scene contributes to the novel.  The reader has seen Jamie flogged before with no references to Christ, but here, the mixture of blood and water echoes the Crucifixion very clearly.  Perhaps it taps into the idea that Voyager is a purgatorial novel.  But it never quite reaches that level of significance, since the point seems to be how Jamie has allowed himself to be flogged, not merely as sacrifice for Angus McKenzie, but to force Lord John to punish him, and so perhaps divert Grey's sexual attraction.  

If I were forced to find significance in this allusion, given that the emphasis is on Grey's response rather than Jamie's pain, I would have to conclude that Jamie has, in fact, sacrificed himself for? because of? John's sin.  John does feel "self-disgust," but mainly because his eyes are fixed to the "wrenching beauty" of the scene of agony--a narrative commentary from Grey's voice that evokes artistic representations of Christ's agony.

Regardless of possible symbolism, I am forced by Jamie's sacrifice and John's gaze to remember Jamie's last (debasing) homosexual encounter(s)--with a man (Jack Randall) who would have derived more punishment from seeing Jamie flogged than from the sexual act.  After the flogging, ordered by Grey, Jamie dreams of the aftermath of the flogging by Jack Randall that nearly killed him.  Having himself flogged in response to Grey's desires recalls Randall's sadism, linking the two homosexual characters through violence to Jamie's body--perhaps to distinguish John Grey's homosexual desire (what Grey calls love*) from Randall's sadism.  Or perhaps it suggests that there is an element of sadism in homosexual desire--contributing to my sense that Gabaldon's narratives never wholeheartedly embrace homosexuality--and perhaps also that there are elements of sadism and homoeroticism in Christian artwork, which has been argued before.

And also masochism . . . I am tempted to resist it as self-punishment, because Jamie does not seem guilty of a crime towards Grey or towards himself.  However, there is the hint of something--again, a Purgatorial resonance.  The punishment--represented as a removal, and almost a scourging of temptation--seems to have brought peace:

He felt relieved at once of many things. Of the weight of immediate responsibility, of the necessity for decision. Temptation was gone, along with the possibility of it. More important, the burden of anger had lifted; perhaps it was gone for good.  (189)

But what is the temptation?  To yield to loneliness and accept John's advances? Or to sell his body for continued warmth and nourishment--and freedom?   (There are two conflicting suggestions in this and other works--that Jamie is incapable of giving his body to John freely, and that he could offer John use of his body only as an absolute sacrifice.  But as a prisoner, perhaps the promise of companionship is enough?)  Or perhaps it's the more benign temptation to place himself in Lord John's company once again, and potentially leave himself open for further advances.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition. 

*Lest my statement "what Grey calls love" be taken as more jaded than I intend it to be, let me say that I have no doubt that John does feel sexual attraction to Jamie.  He might feel the beginning of philia.  He certainly feels philia later--but perhaps not here, as his acquaintance with Jamie is at this point too brief, and exists in a context (of prisoner/imprisoned) that precludes romantic love (eros) or selfless love (agape).   A confusion of friendly and sexual feelings at this point marks John's same-sex attraction, marking it as a hybrid and even disordered as compared with the ideal of love in the novels, the love between Jamie and Claire, though it is worth noting that to John at least, his love for Hector (a play on the Illiad,  no doubt, in which Hector kills Achilles' lover--friend, fellow-soldier--Patroclus) is akin to Jamie's for Claire (see Voyager p. 172-173, 178).

Voyager: Chivalry, Body Hair, and Civilization

In isolated moments in the narrative, the contrast between civilization and a sort of "state of nature" (but not really) is thrown into relief.  It is not a true state of nature, because while Jamie is living outside of civilization, and in nature, civilization still exists, and he is aware of it, and how he has been shaped by it.  Also, there are no Others in Jamie's uncivilized state to compete for resources and cause the conflicts that necessitate the formation of government.  Indeed, it is the unjust tyranny of a foreign government after Culloden that leads to Jamie's retreat into nature.

If it is not the State of Nature, Jamie's living arrangements are somewhat Purgatorial.  He is living in a cave, reminiscent of a desert hermit--isolated, celibate, unshaven, practicing secular reading and meditation.  However, rather than becoming closer to God, in the manner of a Christian saint, Jamie becomes closer to Celtic pagan Nature:

He pulled the dirk from his belt and knelt by the deer, hastily saying the words of the gralloch prayer. Old John Murray, Ian’s father, had taught him. His own father’s mouth had twisted slightly, hearing it, from which he gathered that this prayer was perhaps not addressed to the same God they spoke to in church on Sunday. But his father had said nothing, and he had mumbled the words himself, scarcely noticing what he said, in the nervous excitement of feeling old John’s hand, steady on his own, for the first time pressing down the knife blade into hairy hide and steaming flesh. (56)

In keeping with the Purgatorial theme, this is, in fact, a prayer, though a pagan one.  The mouth twist from Jamie's father indicates a tension between the Celtic prayer and the Christian faith of Brian Fraser that is generally absent, but which is appropriate in this context, when Jamie's removal from civilization threatens to overwhelm him.  The suggestion that Christianity is a "civilized" religion that ceases to exist, somehow, in the wild is a thread that will reemerge in America, in future books.

That the presence of others is the key to civilization becomes explicit:

It was only as the lights of Lallybroch manor came into view that he felt at last the mantle of humanity fall upon him, and mind and body joined as one again as he prepared himself to greet his family. (58)

Part of this transformation into a civilized man--a ritual of his "return to civilization"--is the act of shaving.  When he enters the house, and begins to shave his full beard--a month's growth--the boys in the household gather to watch, anticipating their own rite of passage to adulthood within civilization.  When Jamie describes shaving as "one of the plagues of Adam," the boys begin to speculate on the removal of the various hair that signifies adulthood:

     “But what about the other hair?” Rabbie demanded. “Ye dinna shave there!” Young Jamie giggled at the thought, going red again.
     “And a damn good thing, too,” his elder namesake observed. “Ye’d need the devil of a steady hand. No need of a looking glass, though,” he added, to a chorus of giggles. (54)

When Fergus mentions women's body hair, Jamie jests,

     “Oh, well, that’s no a curse,” he told his rapt audience, picking up the basin and tossing the contents neatly through the open window. “God gave that as a consolation to man. If ye’ve ever the privilege of seeing a woman in her skin, gentlemen,” he said, looking over his shoulder toward the door and lowering his voice confidentially, “ye’ll observe that the hair there grows in the shape of an arrow— pointing the way, ye ken, so as a poor ignorant man can find his way safe home.”  (54)

In this passage is an echo of man's desire to return to the womb--albeit couched in a bawdy joke.  However, Jamie regrets his unchivalrous words quickly:

     He turned grandly away from the guffawing and sniggers behind him, to be struck suddenly with shame as he saw his sister, coming down the hall with the slow, waddling stride of advanced pregnancy. She was holding the tray with his supper on top of her swelling stomach. How could he have demeaned her so, for a crude jest and the sake of a moment’s camaraderie with the boys?

     “Be still!” he had snapped at the boys, who stopped giggling abruptly and stared at him in puzzlement. He hastened forward to take the tray from Jenny and set it on the table. (54-55)

It is a symptom of his living apart from civilization that he stoops to make unchivalrous jokes to the young boys of whom his sister has custody, and he realizes both his misstep in demeaning her, and the cause--his desire for companionship.

This moment of realization and compensation for unchivalrous words demonstrates again that 18th Century code of honor, contrasting with the 20th Century doctor's attitude toward Claire, and insinuations about her marital sexuality.  To demean women is, for Jamie, to be uncivilized and ungracious, in spite of--and perhaps because of--the difficult burdens that Jenny--a sort of ideal everywoman of the 18th C--has to bear.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

Voyager: A Novel of Purgatory?

Claire. The name knifed across his heart with a pain that was more racking than anything his body had ever been called on to withstand. 

If he had had an actual body anymore, he was sure it would have doubled up in agony. He had known it would be like this, when he sent her back to the stone circle. Spiritual anguish could be taken as a standard condition in Purgatory, and he had expected all along that the pain of separation would be his chief punishment— sufficient, he thought, to atone for anything he’d ever done: murder and betrayal included. (Kindle ed. 4)

Voyager begins with Claire's present--1968--and Jamie's past forming parallels.  Though separated by 200 years, the paradox of time travel allows the events to exist in a kind of simultaneous state of happening.  Jamie lives the past that Claire and Roger try to reconstruct.  So in the early pages of the novel, Jamie believes he has died.  Concluding that he must be in Purgatory, his meandering thoughts hint at a repeated thread:  that his absence from Claire is itself a as a Purgatorial state.

This moment is one that highlighted, but almost did not analyze, until I considered... why the constant references to Purgatory, and Jamie's sins?  How might Voyager be a Purgatorial novel?

In Dante's Commedia, Purgatory is a place of movement.  The closer one gets to heaven, the more movement there is.  To stop moving is to delay the journey toward heaven.   The object is becoming--becoming purified and holy, worth of the rewards of heaven.  In Catholic thought, the earthly journey is the same.  "Voyager" suggests movement. It does not necessarily suggest movement forward, but it could.  There is a subtle difference, I think, between a "voyager" and a "traveler."  Perhaps a traveler has a less finite destination.  Perhaps there are many destinations, with a circuitous route.  A "voyager," by contrast, does not necessarily return to a starting point.  In some ways, as Claire reminisces and and the novel flashes back to Jamie's experiences, the novel outlines the process of becoming for both while deprived of the light of each others' presence (see my hint at the redemptive power of physical/human love).  But though it is preoccupied in the beginning with a replay of the identity-shaping moments that lead up to the "present" (present past?  past present?) the novel makes it clear that there is no going back.  Claire may return to Jamie, but she does not return to a starting point. Moving forward.  Becoming.  

Yet when the novel opens, Jamie is in stasis.  And in fact, his journey without Claire, though a journey of becoming, is marked by long periods of delay--in a cave, in prison, at Helwater, and finally, in Edinburgh.  She is the necessary element of his voyage toward whatever concept of heaven there is in the Outlander series (a heaven that may be characterized by ghostly togetherness, as in the film version of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, mentioned in the same post as redemptive human love).  It is not until Claire returns that reconciliations happen (well, sort of) and the journey--a purgatorial journey marked by confession and guilt--continues.