Voyager: Prison Literacy

Of all of the details about prison life in the chapters dealing with Jamie's incarceration, the scenes of literacy and orality stand out as particularly well-formed.  The place of honor in the prison is the hearth--reserved for anyone with a story to tell, a preservation of the bardic tradition, and a narrative nod to the tradition of oral storytelling.  Jamie, aka Mac Dubh, does oral storytelling a bit differently:

Mac Dubh never took his place on the hearth, even when he told them the long stories from the books that he’d read— The Adventures of Roderick Random, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, or everyone’s favorite, Robinson Crusoe. (119)

First, he refuses the seat of honor, presumably because of either humility or because he already holds a privileged position--or a combination of the two.  Second, the stories he is telling orally are novels.  So Jamie sets himself up not only as literate, but also as well-read. This account takes Jenny's reading aloud to a different level.  Novels were frequently read aloud in communal settings in the18th Century [citation needed--but not right now], but here is a hybrid--the story is text-based, but the text is remembered rather than being present.  Yet it is not like oral storytelling or oral-formulaic because there is a fixed, linear storyline that asks to be remembered in the same order in which it exists in the text--in oral-formulaic poetry, the idea is that the basic elements of the story, as well as formulaic poetic elements, were compiled anew by each performer, resulting in a story with a basic storyline that varied some with each telling. However, Jamie is shaped more by his literacy than the oral highland tradition, and so is concerned with remembering plot details exactly--a point that becomes clear in his first encounter with the new Governor of Ardsmuir prison:  Lord John Grey.

From the earliest moments of their relationship, Jamie's and Lord John's interactions are literate encounters:

     When Grey came through the door from his bedroom a few moments later, he found his guest standing by the bookshelf, apparently absorbed in a copy of Nouvelle Héloïse.
     “You are interested in French novels?” he blurted, not realizing until too late how incredulous the question sounded.
     Fraser glanced up, startled, and snapped the book shut. Very deliberately, he returned it to its shelf.
     “I can read, Major,” he said. He had shaved; a slight flush burned high on his cheekbones.
     “I— yes, of course I did not mean— I merely—” Grey’s own cheeks were more flushed than Fraser’s. The fact was that he had subconsciously assumed that the other did not read, his evident education notwithstanding, merely because of his Highland accent and shabby dress. (151)

Grey is in a position of authority over Jamie.  He is coming from a place of privilege.  Immediately, he makes assumptions about Jamie's literacy based on his dress and accent.  Accent is important as a marker of class throughout English literature--D. H. Lawrence and G. B. Shaw provide particularly good examples, and Joyce's "The Dead" provides an Irish-flavored example of speech as a marker of class and education.  However, "shabby dress" seems a bit much, given that Jamie is a prisoner, and does not possess the ability to clothe himself as a free man might.  The unstated assumption is that prisoners are uneducated.

There is nevertheless a difference between Jamie's protest, "I can read, Major," and Grey's own assumption that "the other did not read."  The difference is that Grey's assumption is not an assumption of illiteracy, but rather not reading.  And that is interesting because it resembles contemporary literacy crises--we don't so much worry about the ability to read--at least in suburbia; the question is whether people read or what they read.  I'm thinking about a not-atypical comment by a professor of mine from graduate school, that his daughter's friends' homes had no books.  They simply didn't read.  And that indictment is perhaps more serious than illiteracy (especially from an English professor), because to be able to read, and not to do it, is--more or less--a middle class snubbing of literacy.  Which is a greater excuse for snobbery than the inability to read.  And Grey is a first class literacy snob.

Jamie explains:

“I have been telling the men the story, but it has been some time since I read it; I thought I would refresh my memory as to the sequence of the ending.” (152)

So he is not only literate, and reads; Jamie has in fact read the novel in question, which is interesting since this scene takes place in 1755, and Rousseau's novel seems to have been published in 1761 (oops!).  But what I was going to say before I looked it up is that the novel was contemporary, and in French, and yet Jamie has already read it.

Having been corrected in his impressions of Fraser's literacy, and having been told Fraser's purpose in consulting the book, Grey turns his snobbery to the men:

     “I see.” Just in time, Grey stopped himself from saying “They understand it?”
     Fraser evidently read the unspoken question in his face, for he said dryly, “All Scottish children are taught their letters, Major. Still, we have a great tradition of storytelling in the Highlands.” (152)

And so Jamie sets himself up as more or less a typical Highlander--a hybrid of literacy and oral tradition, though his fact-checking--or sequence-checking--suggests that he is more indebted (or perhaps enslaved) to his literacy.

Grey's snobbery might be a product of his position as an Imperial authority.  Elsewhere (in other novels), and primarily in his sexual exploits, he is more... egalitarian.  But being illiterate, unintelligent, uneducated, and savage, is part and parcel of being a Highlander in the English imagination, as represented by Lord John Grey.

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

Voyager: Faith in Literacy and Orality (A Literacy/Orality Moment)

Claire settles in to read the account of Jamie's exodus from Culloden and Inverness in Lord Melton's journal, which Roger just received in the mail from a fellow-scholar.  The experience of reading has the ability to transport her to the place, particularly since it is a place she already knows:

I accepted a cup of tea myself, and sat down in the wing chair with the pages of Melton’s journal. The flowing eighteenth-century handwriting was surprisingly clear, in spite of the archaic spelling, and within minutes, I was in the confines of Leanach farmhouse, imagining the sound of buzzing flies, the stir of close-packed bodies, and the harsh smell of blood soaking into the packed-dirt floor.
     “ …   in satisfaction of my brother’s debt of honor, I could not do otherwise than to spare Fraser’s life. I therefore omitted his name from the list of traitors executed at the farmhouse, and have made arrangement for his transport to his own estate. I cannot feel myself either altogether merciful toward Fraser in the taking of this action, nor yet altogether culpable with respect to my service toward the Duke, as Fraser’s situation, with a great wound in his leg festering and pustulent, makes it unlikely that he will survive the journey to his home. Still, honor prevents my acting otherwise, and I will confess that my spirit was lightened to see the man removed, still living, from the field, as I turned my own attentions to the melancholy task of disposing of the bodies of his comrades. So much killing as I have seen these last two days oppresses me,” the entry ended simply. (96)

Some of the difficulties of archival research and working with primary sources--the handwriting and archaic spellings--figure into the account, but by contrast, since Melton's handwriting is legible.  The limits of the research in this case are the limits of Melton's first hand knowledge.  It is as Brianna asserts her faith in Jamie's identity as the "Dunbonnet" of legend that the research moves from textual sources into the realm of oral history:

     “The Dunbonnet?” Fiona, tut-tutting over my cold cup of undrunk tea, looked over her shoulder in surprise. “Heard of the Dunbonnet, have ye?”
     “Have you?” Roger looked at the young housekeeper in astonishment.
     She nodded, casually dumping my tea into the aspidistra that stood by the hearth and refilling my cup with fresh steaming brew.
     “Oh, aye. My grannie tellt me that tale, often and often.”
     “Tell us!” Brianna leaned forward, intent, her cocoa cupped between her palms. “Please, Fiona! What’s the story?”
     Fiona seemed mildly surprised to find herself suddenly the center of so much attention, but shrugged good-naturedly.  (97)

When written sources have been exhausted, oral tradition fills in the gaps, and puts Roger on Jamie's scent once more:

     “Jesus Christ,” Roger breathed. He set his cup down carefully, and sat staring into space, transfixed. “Prison.”
     “You sound like that’s good,” Brianna protested. The corners of her mouth were tight with distress, and her eyes slightly shiny.
     “It is,” Roger said, not noticing her distress. “There weren’t that many prisons where the English imprisoned Jacobite traitors, and they all kept official records. Don’t you see?” he demanded, looking from Fiona’s bewilderment to Brianna’s scowl, then settling on me in hope of finding understanding. “If he went to prison, I can find him.”  (99)

Roger has a sort of opportunistic attitude that does not register as amiss, since the reader wants Roger to find Jamie.  But there is some insight into what it means to think like a scholar in Brianna's dismay as compared to Roger's enthusiasm--a man's misfortune is a scholar's gold, and in this case, the man in question is the focus of much narrative sympathy:

     “He’s in there,” Roger said softly. “On a prison roll. In a document— real evidence! Don’t you see?” he demanded again, turning back to me. “Going to prison made him a part of written history again! And somewhere in there, we’ll find him!” (99)

Though Roger's enthusiasm is in part because of his now-intimate connection with the story through Claire and (especially) Brianna, there is a certain coldness in his jubilation to find that Jamie went to prison.  The contrast with Fiona's more personal connection with the tale is sharp:

“So he made a bold plan, the Dunbonnet did,” Fiona was continuing. Her round face was alight with the drama of her tale. “He arranged that one of his tenants should go to the English, and offer to betray him. There was a good price on his head, for he’d been a great warrior for the Prince. The tenant would take the gold o’ the reward— to use for the folk on the estate, o’ course— and tell the English where the Dunbonnet might be taken.”  (98)

Even though the story is far removed, the connection to the oral tale seems more emotional--more human than the connection documents can provide.

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