Voyager: Jamie Teaches Sex Ed

The Outlander novels, on the whole, are preoccupied with sexual education.  There aren't just scenes of sex; there are instructional discussions of sex, sexuality, and matters of reproduction that occur (I believe) in all of the books, beginning as early as Outlander--I'll come back to that in a minute.

In Dragonfly in Amber, for example, Claire--with her 20th Century knowledge, her medical knowledge, and her sexual experience, corrects Mary Hawkins' misperceptions that Frenchmen do anything different from Englishmen or Scotsmen do in bed:

"Well," I said matter-of-factly, "there are only so many things you can do in bed with a man, after all.  And since I see quite a large number of children about the cite, I'd assume that even Frenchmen are fairly well versed in the orthodox methods."
     "Oh! Children.... well, yes, of course," she said vaguely, as though not seeing much connection. "B-b-but they said"--she cast her eyes down, embarrassed, and her voice sank even lower--"th-that he... a French-man's thing, you know...."
     "Yes, I know," I said, striving for patience.  "So far as I know, they're much like any other man's.  Englishmen and Scotsmen are quite similarly endowed."
     "Yes, but they, they... p-p-put it between a lady's l-l-legs!  I mean, right up inside her!"  This bit of stop-press news finally out, she took a deep breath, which seemed to steady her, for the violent crimson of her face receded slightly.  "An Englishman, or even a Scot... oh, I didn't mean it that way..."  Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment.  "But a decent an like your husband, surely he would n-never dream of forcing a wife to endure s-something like that!"
     I placed my hand on my slightly bloated stomach and regarded her thoughtfully.  I began to see why spirituality ranked so highly in Mary Hawkins's catalog of manly virtues.
     "Mary," I said, "I think we must have a small talk." (Dragonfly 254)

She has "the talk" with other young women throughout the Outlander series, and counsels and reassures Mary after an interrupted rape that she will not become pregnant, because he "didn't finish" (Dragonfly 360).

In Voyager, Jamie is a somewhat unlikely sex ed teacher.  Except that, if we consider the romance novel model, maybe it's not so unlikely that Geneva Dunsany's sexual instruction comes from the attractive near-stranger who also provides her sexual initiation (and, indeed, her sole sexual experience).  But his instruction begins immediately after he yields to her blackmail.  Now that he is a "co-conspirator," he gives her advice based on biology, of which she is clearly ignorant:

     “Arrange it, then,” he said, his stomach curdling. “Mind ye choose a safe day, though.”
     “A safe day?” She looked blank.
     “Sometime in the week after ye’ve finished your courses,” he said bluntly. “You’re less likely to get wi’ child then.”
      “Oh.” She blushed rosily at that, but looked at him with a new interest. (208)

There is no indication that this is information that Jamie has learned from Claire; however, because Jamie was a virgin when he and Claire were married, the encounter with Geneva necessarily recalls his own first time, with his own inexperience:

     “How much do you  …   I mean, have ye any idea how it’s done?”
     Her gaze was clear and guileless, though her cheeks flamed.
     “Well, like the horses, I suppose?” He nodded, but felt a pang, recalling his wedding night, when he too had expected it to be like horses.
     “Something like that,” he said, clearing his throat. “Slower, though.  More gentle,” he added, seeing her apprehensive look.  (212)

In Outlander, Claire's first experience as a sexual educator was, in fact, correcting Jamie's assumptions.

Jamie is sensitive to Geneva's desire to watch him undress and conflicting shyness; he addresses in a less direct way the physical change of erection.  He addresses with her whether the act will hurt, reassuring her that the experience will improve after the first time, and gives her the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity about his body (212).  He also imparts something of the sacred nature of sex, though the context is both forced (for him) and (once again) fornication.  First, in the context of a reprimand to Geneva, he indicates that there is honor in the sex act, for men and for women:

“I’ll serve ye properly,” he said, looking down at his working fingers, “for the sake of my own honor as a man, and yours as a woman...." (201)

Even as he acknowledges to himself that the loveless, all-consuming lust he feels in anticipation of a sexual encounter is not honorable:

But overall there was a terrible lust, a need that clawed at his vitals and made him ashamed of his own manhood, even as he acknowledged its power. (213)

Then, as he commences with Geneva, he instructs her in how she should feel about her own body, and how a man should treat her in bed:

“A man should pay tribute to your body,” he said softly, raising each nipple with small, circling touches. “For you are beautiful, and that is your right.” (214)

The emphasis is actually on her dignity.

When the act is complete, Jamie answers her confusion:

     “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t know it would hurt you too.”
     His eyes popped open in astonishment, and he raised himself on one elbow to find her looking at him like a startled fawn. Her face was pale, and she licked dry lips.
     “Hurt me?” he said, in blank astonishment. “It didna hurt me.”
     “But”— she frowned as her eyes traveled slowly down the length of his body—“ I thought it must. You made the most terrible face, as though it hurt awfully, and you  …   you groaned like a—”
     “Aye, well,” he interrupted hastily, before she could reveal any more unflattering observations of his behavior. “I didna mean  …   I mean  …   that’s just how men act, when they  …   do that,” he ended lamely. (216)

He tends to her, and even endures the indignity of her response to his ejaculation, another learning experience for her.

Jamie's final lesson to Geneva about sex is that it should not be confused with love, though there is something more akin to infatuation or puppy love than lust in Geneva's regard for Jamie, and certainly more akin to love than anything she was likely to experience in her arranged marriage.

     “No,” he said, but gently, shaking his head. “That’s the third rule. You may have no more than the one night. You may not call me by my first name. And you may not love me.”
     The gray eyes moistened a bit. “But if I can’t help it?”
     “It isna love you feel now.” He hoped he was right, for his sake as well as her own. “It’s only the feeling I’ve roused in your body. It’s strong, and it’s good, but it isna the same thing as love.”
     “What’s the difference?”
     He rubbed his hands hard over his face. She would be a philosopher, he thought wryly. He took a deep breath and blew it out before answering her.
     “Well, love’s for only one person. This, what you feel from me— ye can have that with any man, it’s not particular.” (217-218)

While he is trying to protect himself from the beginning, he is also trying to protect her.

Jamie's is necessarily a more comprehensive lesson than those usually given by Claire--even more so than her instruction of him, since she was not concerned with honor or dignity or emotion, simply with completing the act, and with pleasure.  Though I have argued that Geneva's tryst with Jamie parallels the expected plot of a romance novel, and though even these moments of instruction have correlations in the romance genre, the nature of the instruction, and in particular Jamie's honest and straightforward communication with Geneva and emphasis on her dignity, distinguish Gabaldon's imitation from the real romance novel genre, even making the romance novel seem a parody of this more serious representation of an inexperienced girl's willful manipulation of a man she desires into her bed for her edification.

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

Voyager: The Romance Novel Within (More Metafiction)

I am not a reader of romance novels, but one or two have passed in front of my eyes over the years.  When I was in high school, one of my teachers (of English and History), one outspoken about her Christian belief and anything else that popped in her head, and who doubted (in a kind? way) my ability to write analysis, was an avid reader of romance novels.  Some of the girls in the class were also avid readers of romance, and she leant them books.  In retrospect, I'm not sure I approve, since the books are completely without substance, explicitly sexual, and promote highly unrealistic expectations of relationships, but at the time, I was curious, so she loaned me one.  I read it, returned it, and was done with the genre.  In fact, as I mentioned up front, I was sort of mortified when I was first reading Outlander to think that I might have to venture in the romance section of the bookstore to buy the next installments, and grateful when I found it shelved in "Literature" instead.  Literacy snob?  Perhaps I share that with Lord John Grey... to a degree.  But the real issue for me is that in order to escape into fiction, I have to have fiction that I can wrap my head around.  Obviously not a problem with Outlander.

If I read more than one romance novel (and I think I must have read one more), I did not notice a great distinction between them.  I did come away with a basic plot formula: strong-willed woman meets attractive, arrogant man with rippling muscles and flowing hair (possibly in disguise); they are attracted to one another, but hate one another; she is sexually naïve while he is sexually experienced; they torment one another, but can't resist the bubbling passion; they "get carried away" and have sex "without meaning to," which compromises her honor; he offers to marry her/marries her against her will; she still hates him, until he tames her, and she doesn't any more.  They live happily ever after many gratuitous scenes of fornication all along the way.  Obviously, Outlander doesn't fit the formula (forced marriage notwithstanding).  But continuing the subtle metafiction joke, which pokes fun at the Outlander novels' characteristic features beginning with Jamie's conversation with Lord John about Pamela, Chapter 14 is a romance novel microcosm.

My first (and almost only) romance novel went something like this:

Arrogant prince has to disguise himself.  He presents himself and his situation to a lesser nobleman, who knows who he is, and reluctantly agrees to permit the prince to work in the stables with the horses--noble beasts with which the prince is well-acquainted.  The nobleman has a daughter--youngish, strong-willed, sexually inexperienced--who is attracted to the new stablehand, but views him with contempt because of his station, and so torments him.  At some point, she asks him to "teach her about kissing," which he does.  When she feels him harden against her copious skirts, and when he begins to feel the inside of her thigh, etc. etc., she asks whether this is "part of kissing." He lies, and continues, eventually losing control and deflowering her in the stables.  She finally realizes what has just happened.  He goes immediately to her father, who is inexplicably overjoyed to see his daughter wed to a stablehand, and he leaves with her--for Scotland.  Yes.  Scotland was part of the scenario.  She is captured by highwaymen and nearly raped (again?), but he saves her.  This part is fuzzy, but I think he offers to set her free, but she realizes she loves him and vice versa.  She finds out that he is the prince, and they live happily ever after.

I have no idea what the name of the book might have been.  I think my second/other romance novel involved pirates, but it was even less memorable than this one.

Compare Chapter 14 of Voyager:

Dispossessed ex-laird and prisoner Jamie is brought by Lord John to Helwater, where he is to serve as groom for a noble, not-so-wealthy family.  He immediately catches the attention of the elder daughter Geneva, a spoiled headstrong girl, but remains carefully aloof.  At some point, she announces to him that she is to be married, that she disapproves of the match, and wants Jamie to come to her bed so that she doesn't have to lose her maidenhead to a nasty old man.  He is completely unwilling, but she threatens and then blackmails him so that he feels he must agree in order to protect those for whom he cares most.  She is completely ignorant, and Jamie must teach her about sex.  He endeavors to be slow, but has been celibate for several years.  He has also never been with a virgin.  So when he enters her, and she protests out of fear, he claps a hand to her mouth, tells her "No," and...  finishes anyway.  She professes love for him, and he gently chastises her.  He also gently fulfills his part of the bargain, serving and servicing her throughout the night as a lover and as the servant he more truly is.  He departs before dawn, and she is married as planned.

The parallel is striking.

If you find any complaints about Jamie or the novel on internet message boards and reviews, they likely cite this scene as rape.  This reading says more about our society's hyper-sensitivity to victimization** than it does about the actual events of the text, as the only time Jamie in the chapter that actually has any power--in the initiation and orchestration of the sexual act--he is, in fact, not in control because, in succumbing to Geneva's demands and beginning the sexual act, he has, in fact, relinquished what control he had of his bodily urges.  Given the circumstances (which include not only explicit consent, but coercion and blackmail from Geneva), 18th Century law would have convicted him--to flogging or perhaps even hanging--but 20th or 21st Century law likely would not.  Public opinion is up for grabs.

However, as my romance novel summary demonstrates, rape is, in fact, a convention of the romance genre--often a catalyst for both love and sensual pleasure, and a means to the "taming" of the spoiled or willful female.  If Jamie's experience at Helwater is a kind of microcosm of the romance novel scenario, then, the rape suggestion is no doubt part of the narrative strategy.  If we unpack the Voyager romance scenario, a kind of critique emerges:

• Sexual power dynamics are not always as they might seem, particularly when the male is of a lower class or inferior station.
• Sex can be scary, even to a woman who feels she is in control.
• Sexual desire is not the same as love--a point that is made explicitly in the dialogue between Jamie and Geneva--nor does it necessarily lead to love.
• When the dearly bought night is over, events continue as they would have anyway.  (Well, almost...)

A point that is perhaps left for the reader to figure out is that things might have gone much, much worse for Geneva had Jamie been like one of the other grooms--that is, had he not been an honorable man who was determined to honor her femininity and his masculinity through the sexual act (210).  But he is a laird in disguise.  Unlike the typical romance hero, Jamie is a very well-developed character, whom the reader recognizes as having self-respect, respect for women, and respect for the power and sacredness of sexuality.  He continually controls his very just anger toward Geneva--anger which, if unleashed, might have lead to true brutality.  The anger and desire for domination and control--which enters into the romance novel sex scene--is not present.  Jamie is "angry, scared, and most mightily roused" (214), but does not wish to dominate or control her. Rather, "[h]e closed his eyes and breathed deeply, striving for calm, seeking for gentleness" (214).  His unwilling empathy, response to her trust, and admiration of her courage does, in fact, lead to a small amount of tenderness.

It is a racy scene, to be sure, but inevitably a sad one, which leaves Jamie "feeling empty of everything" (218)--hardly the desired effect if the novel had been of the romance genre.

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

**Not meaning to undermine the seriousness of rape, simply to critique the ways in which we make everyone a victim on the one hand, and yet confuse the issue when there are real victims involved.

Voyager: Frank's Vocation -or- The Supportive Spouse

In a way, this is another post about Claire's vocation.  But in particular, it is about how her vocation affects her 20th Century husband, Frank, and his own concept of his vocation.  The conflict between a man's and a woman's vocation is a very 20th Century phenomenon.  When women are limited to vocations that complement those of men (and notice I did not say "women's vocation is to serve men," or women's vocations are limited to home and family," because I feel that those statements are too stereotypically feminist and reductive), then there could be no conflict.  Even in the 18th Century, Jamie did not feel that his own role was threatened by Claire's vocation--by other things, certainly, and sometimes by Claire's 20th Century sensibility, but not specifically by her vocation.  The reasons for this difference remain to be seen...

During their discussion of vocation, upon hearing that Frank made Claire's medical career possible, Roger remarks to Claire that he didn't think Frank would have approved.  Claire confirms--Frank did not approve.  This is important in itself, because Claire's vocation did indeed come into direct conflict with Brianna's wellbeing--hence, with Claire's other vocation, and what many today, especially in religious circles, would still see as her primary vocation: motherhood.  The narrative here evokes a long debate, since pioneering voices in women's rights--Wollstonecraft and Gilman in particular, for very different reasons--felt that not every woman (whether or not she had borne a child) was suited for motherhood as a vocation.  The event (which I'm not going to recount) that brings the matter to a head for Frank and Claire is sufficiently dramatic, but, though Frank does, the reader is never expected to judge Claire as an unfit mother.

Nevertheless, Frank, in a not-so-rare moment of clarity, voices the contrast between Roger's sense of a "natural" vocation as something he continued to do out of habit, and Claire's as something she was driven from within to continue to do:

“Ah, Claire.” He spoke impatiently, but with a tinge of affection nonetheless. “You’ve known forever who you are. Do you realize at all how unusual it is to know that?”  (105)

Frank contrasts her passion with his sense of simply doing very well one of many things he might have done well:

"I haven’t got that absolute conviction that there’s something in life I’m meant to do— and you have.”
     “Is that good?” The edges of my nostrils were sore, and my eyes puffed from crying.
     He laughed shortly. “It’s damned inconvenient, Claire. To you and me and Bree, all three. But my God, I do envy you sometimes.” (106)

That envy becomes even more clear as Frank contrasts his own scholarly occupation, which, like Roger's, does not seem to ascend to the level of a vocation, with the men whom he and others study:

“To have that passion for anything”— a small twitch tugged the corner of his mouth—“or anyone. That’s quite splendid, Claire, and quite terribly rare.” He squeezed my hand gently and let it go, turning to reach behind him for one of the books on the shelf beside the table.
     It was one of his references, Woodhill’s Patriots, a series of profiles of the American Founding Fathers.
     He laid his hand on the cover of the book, gently, as though reluctant to disturb the rest of the sleeping lives interred there.
     “These were people like that. The ones who cared so terribly much— enough to risk everything, enough to change and do things.  Most people aren’t like that, you know. It isn’t that they don’t care, but that they don’t care so greatly.” He took my hand again, this time turning it over. One finger traced the lines that webbed my palm, tickling as it went.
     “Is it there, I wonder?” he said, smiling a little. “Are some people destined for a great fate, or to do great things? Or is it only that they’re born somehow with that great passion— and if they find themselves in the right circumstances, then things happen? It’s the sort of thing you wonder, studying history  …   but there’s no way of telling, really. All we know is what they accomplished. (106-107)

In the midst of this HUGE, AMAZINGLY HUGE foreshadowing, I am curious about those "circumstances."  Frank's question seems particularly valid and compelling, considering that Claire and Jamie found themselves in those circumstances, on numerous occasions--Claire in World War II, and then in the 18th Century.  Only back in the postwar 20th Century is she compelled less by circumstance than by inner passion.

Frank lacks that passion, but--like Roger--is drawn by it to Brianna. But he is somewhat absolved, perhaps, because he did not have the circumstances to inspire passion.  He can blame his more lukewarm existence in a more passionless age (World War II notwithstanding).  Here again, as in Outlander, Frank represents a time period that is lacking immediacy and passion.

Frank perhaps redeems himself further when, in deference to Claire's vocation--which he defines with reference to an inner calling and passion--he offers his own brand of support (albeit reluctantly):

“I said,” he repeated patiently, “that I’ll take Bree. She can come from her school to the university, and play at my office until I’m ready to come home.” (107)

This is a gesture that was not only alien to Frank--it was alien to the 1960s.  In fact, in certain academic cultures, it is still alien, though I have believed academia to be more family-friendly than most professions.  For a man to make this kind of sacrifice at this moment in history is about as much an element of fantasy as travel back in time through standing stones. However, as a narrative gesture, it speaks to the necessity of support for a mother who would accomplish external goals.  Claire had to have some support on the parenting side, otherwise she would not--could not--have become a doctor.

However, Frank's attitude does not make things easier for Claire.  His support is itself a condemnation (he has already implied that she will "pay" for her passion), and a punishment, and he remains slightly despicable:

     “Why?” I asked bluntly. “It isn’t that you’re dead keen on my being a doctor; I know that.”
     “No,” he said thoughtfully. “It isn’t that. But I do think there isn’t any way to stop you— perhaps the best I can do is to help, so that there will be less damage to Brianna.” His features hardened slightly then, and he turned away. (108)

However, his actions did facilitate Claire's career.  And perhaps Frank is justified in his hurt, and in his assessment.  Claire is not a motherly mother.  But he is well-established by this time as an unsympathetic character.

As historical commentary, it is worth noting that Jamie was more accepting of Claire's vocation than the 20th Century Frank, just as Claire's healing seems--in some ways--more of an anomaly in the 20th Century.  Frank wants Claire's identity to be more one-dimensional than Jamie.  Which perhaps makes for a reactionary commentary:  do 20th Century men keep tighter reign on women because, unlike in the 18th Century, men's power is not absolute?

As for what motivated Frank...

“So far as he ever felt he had a destiny— something he was really meant to do— he felt that Brianna was it,” Claire said. She stirred her cocoa meditatively.  (108)

This is a moment in the narrative that should give every reader pause, as the implications are painfully profound.  In Outlander, Frank is unable to entertain the notion of adoption--his first revelation of his selfishness--because he does not feel that he can ever truly love a child that is not his own.  And yet, he does more than adopt Brianna--he accepts her as his own, even knowing that she is not a child of his body.  Perhaps a noble act, it nevertheless carries quite a bit of selfishness.  He cannot father children.  He will never have another child.  And... he needs a purpose.

What does it mean to have as your purpose--the closest thing to a passion-driven vocation--the nurturing of the child you will never have?  Particularly as a man obsessed with genealogy.  The position has the potential to be deeply humbling and uncomfortable.  He is, in essence, in love with another man's progeny, when in the first place, he has a debt of honor to receive the woman who has been married to another man and is carrying another man's child--by virtue of the fact that he (Frank) is still married to her.  That's a bit of a twisted cruller.  But in a way, Frank is bound by another debt of honor.  One might wonder if--in her full disclosure--Claire has told Frank about Jack Randall and Jamie.  The Frasers and Randalls seem to be bound by blood and sex--and now, honor.

I have said before that Voyager feels purgatorial in some ways.  Is it too much to suggest that in Frank's adoption of Brianna--by making her the focus and the meaning of his life--he is atoning for his own sin of adultery and his ancestor's sins toward Brianna's father?

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

Dragonfly: No Second Troy?

As the inevitability of war creeps up on Jamie and Claire, it occasions another moment of pondering their role in the success or failure of the uprising, and the question of what good Claire's foreknowledge had been in preventing or facilitating the upcoming events (which we assume will be disastrous, but which they hope now to turn to success).  The themes of honor, and of foreknowledge, time travel, and fate all collide--or coalesce--as Claire (more late- than early-twentieth century) argues that "[h]onor without sense is... foolishness. A gallant foolishness, but foolishness nonetheless."

The narrative leaves some room for debate as to whether a Charles Stuart's cause is, in fact, honorable.  In fact, Charles' reasons seem wholly selfish and his action rash.  The honor, then, is in the adherence of Charles's Scottish supporters to the cause of Restoration.  To attach oneself to a doomed cause for sake of one's preferred affiliation, one's word, or a forged signature is perhaps the foolishness, as I have difficulty thinking (as Claire's words seem to imply) that fighting for the ideal itself is foolish.  After all, the later books deal with the American Revolution, and to apply the same idea that fighting for an ideal is foolish to that conflict would register somewhat differently.

Whatever the ideal of "honor" that is "foolish," Jamie objects to his less-than-honorable role according to standards of his time:

"Aye, it is. And it will change--you've told me. But if I'm to be among the first who sacrifice honor for expedience... Shall I feel nay shame in the doing of it?" (626)

Jamie laments "that bit of myself I have left behind," while Claire also "felt a true sorrow for his corruption, and shared a sense of loss for the naive, gallant lad he had been"--quite a damning admission given that the "naive, gallant lad" was the one who inspired the passion of the previous novel (albeit that passion is ongoing).

All of this is as it is set up in the novel--and I have discussed similar themes here and here.  What sets this particular moment apart is that the facades have seemingly lifted--Jamie and Claire each see their efforts for what they are:  futile, and not quite honorable.  The moment is reinforced by the following narration:

"And... what choice had either of us truly had, being who we were? I had to tell him, and he had had to act on it." (626)

The beauty of this line is that it recalls at least two other women--and one poet.  W. B.  Yeats.  If you didn't think of it immediately (and I don't remember whether or not I caught it on the first read), and if my post title didn't give it away, the lines echo Yeats's "No Second Troy," worth quoting in full (courtesy of Bartleby.com):

WHY should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?	5
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?	10
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

The poem is an extended metaphor comparing Maude Gonne, Irish Nationalist and unrequited love of Yeats's life, to Helen of Troy, for their similar ability to inspire passionate nationalism and violent action in men.  The poem's brilliance extends to the form, which is a 12-line poem written in iambic pentameter, with a rhyme scheme of ababcdcdefef--in short, a Shakespearean sonnet without the concluding couplet.  The syntax of the poem--a series of seemingly rhetorical questions--makes sense of the sonnet's missing conclusion, as does the title, which answers the final question, "Was there another Troy for her to burn?"

So what does it do for the reader, to compare Claire, or even Jamie and Claire, to Yeats's portrait of Maude Gonne by way of Helen of Troy?

When Claire's narrative voice says, "what choice had either of us truly had, being who we were?", the reference is to Jamie's and Claire's attempts to stop the Jacobite Rising of 1745, though the following sentence refers to Claire's need to tell Jamie what she knew of the disastrous outcome of Culloden, and Jamie's need to do something.  So by evoking Yeats, the text contrasts Gonne's passionate Irish nationalism--support of a Celtic identity in opposition to British rule--with Claire's complete lack of nationalistic feeling (and, indeed, of nationality).

To Gonne's tendency to inflame men to her cause, the one line--"what choice had either of us truly had, being who we were?"--compares Claire's efforts to keep men from action.

And turning itself back onto the poem, the sentence, which so closely echoes Yeats, takes the suggestion that Maude's "beauty like a tightened bow, a kind/ that is not natural" in the 20th Century, is, in fact, more suited to the 18th Century.

A reader of Yeats's poem might wonder whether having "a mind/ that nobleness made  simple as a fire" is a good thing.  Most assume not, though there is an undeniable--and wholly deceptive--nobility to the poem itself.  The poem adores her--worships her--in the same breath as it condemns her.  One might turn the poem's questions back on the poet himself--if she were other than what she was, would he love her?  Certainly, his poetry would have suffered from a more peaceful object with less of that primitive fire.  And in fact, the question, "why should I blame her" turns the contemplation of blame back onto the poet.  If not her, than whom?

On the other hand, Claire's beauty is repeatedly compared to those around her, and she, too, is unnatural--out of place in the 18th Century.  And yet, in Claire's postwar 20th Century perspective, might the reader see the kind of sensibility that Maude Gonne lacked, and which--by implication--would have transformed Yeats's love into someone more peaceful and less noble?  Certainly, except in her ability to inflame Jamie's desire--the desire of a man of action rather than the poet's desire--and to persuade him to do her will, Claire represents the opposite of Maude Gonne.  And as Yeats questions the code of honor that Maude represents--while depicting it so eloquently--so Claire's logic questions the code that Jamie represents--while the narrative depicts it as passionate as compared to the lukewarm 20th Century life (and love) that Frank Randall represents in Outlander.

So which side does the narrative ask the reader to take?  For that matter, what side does the poem ask the reader to take?  The side of legendary and passionate honor, or the side of rational compromise?  I come down on the side of intentional ambiguity.  The reader, I believe, is asked to weigh the options, and perhaps never to come to any conclusion except which one is more aesthetically attractive.

One conclusion we can draw, I think, is that the narrative is self-consciously echoing Yeats.  And if there is a Maude Gonne figure in the novels, then--a Scottish nationalist who bewitches men into doing her will, who might she be?  A hint--not Claire, but a time traveler, nonetheless.

Dragonfly: A Question of Honor

My last post addresses the first significant treatment of reproductive issues in the Outlander series, with the question of whether Louise de la Tour, married mistress of Bonnie Prince Charlie, should chemically abort her child.  Although Claire expects that the "solution" to Louise's "problem" will anger Jamie, his reaction to "Louise de la Tour foisting a bastard on her husband" is more measured, revealing how Jamie is having to adapt to the business of espionage:

     "Well, I'm no verra much in favor of it, I'll tell ye, Sassenach, but what's the poor bloody woman to do otherwise?" He shook his head, then glanced at the desk across the room and smiled wryly.
     "Besides, it doesna become me to be takin' a high moral stand about other people's behavior.  Stealing letters and spying and trying generally to subvert a man my family holds as King? I shouldna like to have someone judging me on the grounds of the things I'm doing, Sassenach." (247)

The contrast between Jamie's own actions and Louise's seems an interesting rhetorical move:

"Louise de La Tour had a reason, too," he said. "She wants to save one life, I want ten thousand.  does this excuse my risking wee Fergus--and Jared's business--and you?" (247)

Although there is much more at stake, according to these terms, for Jamie, the sense is one of incongruity.  While she has violated the moral code a couple of times over, Louise's action--saving her unborn child--seems to redeem her betrayal of her husband, if not quite to Jamie's sensibilities. Nevertheless, he does seem to place her in a moral gray area.  Jamie's moral dilution puts him more in line with 20th Century thought--decidedly post-Scarlet Letter.  At the same time, Jamie's idealism was one of his defining characteristics in Outlander, part of what made his character attractive--his unwillingness to compromise his honor and his standards.

By contrast, Louise is already compromised, and, as a woman, her limited options are openly acknowledged.  If discovered as an adulteress, she will be divorced, cast out, possibly excommunicated (243).  By a single act of betrayal--which will be an ongoing act of betrayal if she succeeds in convincing her husband that the child is his--she will certainly save an innocent life.  By several, ongoing acts of betrayal, and by sacrificing his own idealism and honor, Jamie attempts to save the lives of many--an act that should seem noble, but perhaps is tainted by its political aspect, its uncertainty, or the hubris I mention here.

While Jamie has endured physical and psychological suffering--and indeed, has been broken and restored, it is in reference to this sacrifice of his honor--putting his will in the service of betrayal--that his face registers physical change:

The light flickering on his face hollowed his cheeks and threw shadows in the orbits of his eyes.  It made him look older than he was; I tended to forget that he was not quite twenty-four.  (247)

This might also be read as a reference to how differently people age in the past, but most of the time, the references are to Claire's relative preservation compared to 18th C women, and the usual reason is health care (and especially pregnancy).  A 24-year-old Jamie in 1745 would look very different from a 24-year-old in 1945 (and perhaps more different still in 1984 or 2013), but that does not seem to be quite the narrative point at this moment in the novel.

Jamie's struggle with betrayal--of vows, of family, of country--or with others' betrayal of him runs throughout all of the books in the Outlander series.  My sense is that it remains a personal struggle rather than a political or nationalist one, and that any inkling that there is a deeper betrayal in leaving one's country--which is very important to Jamie--in the hands of the conqueror is purely implied, at least with reference to Scotland.  There is an article that includes the Outlander books in a consideration of contemporary "Appropriations of Scottish Identity" that might offer a different perspective, but my sense is that the novels never quite reach postcolonial status.

If there is a postcolonial point to be made, it begins with Jamie's reconstruction of his identity in reference to, but without the comfort of, his native country.  Jamie has been in exile before (fertile backstory territory that Gabaldon covers--in part--in "Virgins," a novella to be published in the anthology Dangerous Women, ed. George R. R. Martin, info publication date to be found at the Outlandish Observations blog), but there was the sense that returning home would be a possibility.  In Dragonfly, the exile seems more absolute (for about half of the narrative), leaving Jamie in a position of  protective nostalgia with reference to his country, and not in a position suitable for fierce defensive nationalism.

The argument in Dragonfly seems to be that doomed nationalism isn't particularly noble, but neither is fruitless sacrifice.  Not a lot to latch onto ideologically, here, and Jamie becomes a rather tragic figure through the course of the novel--literally fighting a losing battle from beginning to end.