The Outlandish Companion

by Diana Gabaldon

The Duke of Sandringham

  Now, the Duke of Sandringham actually is gay; that’s evident from the story that Jamie tells during supper at Castle Leoch [Outlander, page 482–487 (U.S. paperback)]. Frankly, that scene was an accident, and so was the Duke.

  One of my chief reasons for writing Outlander was to learn how to write. Consequently, I very often tried to write a specific sort of scene, simply because I didn’t know how to do it, and wanted to learn. When I wrote this dinner party scene, I had no idea what would be said, or how it might fit into the book at large; it was simply that I had never (at that point) written a dialogue scene involving more than two characters.

  Most dialogue scenes in novels do involve only two characters, for good reason; it’s very difficult to handle a conversation with several participants without either losing track of who’s saying what, or hopelessly confusing the reader. I had written several dialogue scenes in a row, involving two characters—Jamie and Claire—and had begun to find this monotonous. So I thought I’d try a scene in which a number of people take part in an ongoing conversation, just to learn how to do that. Hence, Colum’s dinner table, and the conversation that evolved into Jamie’s rather ribald story, inviting comments from his hearers.

  The story itself did evolve; I didn’t plan it. However, in Outlander, the Duke is a shadowy character who never appears onstage; he was simply a prop at that point, and—as the hilarity at Jamie’s story makes clear—homosexuality was not regarded with any particular popular revulsion in the eighteenth century.13 In the social context shown, it was rather simply accepted as one known idiosyncrasy of this particular nobleman. I found no particularly negative attitude toward homosexuality anywhere in the Scottish sources consulted; a rather scornful dismissal of the behavior of James I14 being about as far as it went.

  As I’ve said elsewhere, I do not plan these books out before writing them—I certainly didn’t plan the whole series (I couldn’t very well, since I didn’t know it was a series). However, when working on a book, I often do suddenly perceive a good use for elements or characters from a previous book.

  So, as I was writing along in Dragonfly, and wondering how to make the necessary connections between the Scottish Highlands and the French Court (since these connections did exist and were historically important), I thought of using the Duke. He was, after all, the only member of the nobility appearing in Outlander, and as such, he might well have entree to the Court of Louis XV, as well as be associated with the Stuarts.

  I had already written the scene [Dragonfly, chapter 10, “A Lady, with Brown Hair Curling Luxuriantly”] in which Claire first meets Alexander Randall; the Duke’s presence provided both a simple explanation for Alex’s presence in France—and a Really Useful connection to the Randall family, thus allowing me to drag Black Jack back into the story without too much standing on my head.

  Now, Black Jack being who he is, he seldom appears without some kind of sinister sexual overtone. Still, the Duke himself is not shown engaging in any really discreditable behavior as a gay man. He’s a major-league political plotter, and thoroughly conscienceless in terms of his goals, but beyond Jamie’s story in Outlander and the Duke’s vague remarks about Jack Randall, we never see him in a sexual context. In other words, his homosexuality is incidental; simply one facet of his character, but not one that particularly affects our perception of him as good or evil.

  When he revealed himself (so to speak) as being gay in Outlander, I decided to keep him as a sort of grace note in counterpoint to Jack Randall—that is, making it clear that simple homosexuality was neither inherently evil nor regarded as such, whereas Jack Randall’s particular perversion was Something Quite Different. Most readers fortunately observed the distinction.

  Lord John Grey

  I could—as a few readers suggest—have included an admirable homosexual character in the first two books, as “balance” to Black Jack Randall—but that would be perversion of its own sort; distortion of a story for purposes of political correctness—and you already know what I think about that. It would also have been overkill; while homosexual people have undoubtedly always been represented in any population, to have a noticeable proportion of the characters in a story be gay is to draw more attention to them than is historically or artistically appropriate—unless the story is focused specifically on a gay community or deals with homosexual issues as a major theme.

  However. I mentioned above my habit of looking back and picking up useful characters from earlier books. Having decided that Jamie Fraser was going to be “the Fraser, of the Master of Lovat’s regiment” who escaped the slaughter of the Jacobite officers at Culloden, I had the problem of figuring out just how he was to escape.

  I could have managed it in any of various ways, of course, but looking back, I spotted the young man whom Jamie had met and overpowered on the eve of the battle of Prestonpans [Dragonfly, chapter 36, “Prestonpans”]. Now, I had intended him to meet that young man again, somewhere down the line, since John William Grey15 had made such a dramatic parting threat. I had no idea where they might meet, though.

  At first, I thought the young man himself might rescue Jamie from Culloden. That didn’t seem quite right, though; the boy was young and essentially powerless, as well as being physically slight. I knew Jamie was wounded (because all the Jacobite officers in the cottage were), and I didn’t think John Grey would be able to get him away plausibly. Also, I wasn’t at all sure that Grey would consider his earlier rescue a debt of honor—he had promised to kill Jamie, after all.

  An elder brother, though, would see the debt and the honorable necessity of repaying it. So far, so good—and no reason to assume any particular sexual orientation on Lord John’s part. But then, it was obviously necessary for Lord John to meet Jamie in person somewhere else, later—and the situation with the prison popped into my head immediately. What better sort of conflict? A man with a profound hatred of another man, put in a position where he holds complete power over his enemy—but is prevented by honor from using that power.

  What better sort of conflict? Well, what if the man in the position of power finds his hatred being gradually… changed to something else? And then, what if the man to whom he tentatively offered his budding affection could not under any circumstances accept even the thought of it—owing to the secrets of his own traumatic past?

  Well, heck, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to make things difficult. So we—and Jamie—discover that Lord John is gay, with concomitant complications.

  However, Lord John revealed himself as a gay man because he was; i.e., that facet of his personality was key to the part of the story in which he appears—rather than because I felt any need to include a “good” gay character as an antidote to Jack Randall.

  On a tangential issue:

  Why did Jamie offer himself to Lord John [Voyager, chapter 59, “In Which Much Is Revealed”]? A few readers (male and female) said the very thought made them ill; many others (male and female) said they found the scene [pp. 929–930, U.S. paperback] intensely arousing and emotionally moving. As I said above, novelists really can’t be trying to figure out how readers will respond to anything, because there’s simply no telling.

  In answer to the question, though: Jamie feels a deep—and deeply disturbing—sense of obligation to Lord John. Lord John, after all, has saved him from a dangerous fate (being transported was often a death sentence, even for those without acute seasickness) and from permanent separation from his loved ones, given him as much freedom as possible, freely offered his friendship—and made no attempt at all to demand any sort of return.

  Now Lord John has revealed that he knows Jamie’s secret—that is, Willie’s true paternity—and will not only protect the secret, but the boy as well. Knowing that Jamie must leave Willie, Lord John is willing to alter his entire life—even going so far as to marry Isobel Dunsany—in order to safeguard Jamie’s son and ensure that Jamie will still have some connection with the boy.

  Jamie, in hi
s present position, can offer Lord John nothing at all as a gesture of gratitude or acknowledgment—except himself. His offering this particular gift is both an effort to acknowledge the great debt he feels he owes, and to show his final acceptance of Lord John, as a friend and as a man.

  That is, he is aware that his earlier rejection (and the method he chose to implement it) has hurt John deeply. Though it is impossible for him to overcome his repugnance at the thought, he can force himself to the action (Jamie’s made himself do quite a lot of things that he didn’t want to do, after all), and thus show Lord John that he does not hold Lord John’s nature against him—Jamie accepts him as he is.

  Still, Lord John is quite aware of Jamie’s true feelings, and thus gently refuses the offer—while accepting the gift of Jamie’s friendship.

  ABORTION

  I must say, I had expected to receive quite a bit of comment on the abortion scene in Drums [chapter 49, “Choices”], if only because this is a subject on which a great many people hold extremely strong opinions. I’ve encountered surprisingly few comments about it, though (mind you, I’m not looking for any more).

  One lawyer generously sent me a four-page treatise on the legal meaning of “murder,” presumably in reference to Claire’s remark about justifiable homicide committed in self-defense [page 831, U.S. paperback]. This is irrelevant (also immaterial) to the book, given that Claire isn’t a lawyer, there were no such interpretations in the eighteenth century, and law doesn’t apply to personal opinions anyway—but I certainly appreciate the effort this person took to share her knowledge with me.

  Beyond that, I’ve seen only two or three comments (not made directly to me, but seen on electronic services) regarding this scene. One person said that the scene made her uncomfortable (I should certainly hope so), and she wished that Claire had not made the offer to abort the child. Two others said they approved heartily of Claire’s actions; they sympathized with Jamie’s anguish, but the decision was Brianna’s and no one else’s. That’s what I think, too.

  WIFE-BEATING

  This is, by a wide margin, the single biggest topic of controversy about the books. I refer, of course, to the notorious scene in which Jamie, completely fed up with Claire’s (he thinks) irresponsible behavior, Takes Steps [Outlander, chapter 22, “Reckonings”].

  Frankly, this is one of my favorite scenes in that particular book. It illustrates perfectly the cultural and personal clashes going on between these two characters—clashes in which each one is absolutely convinced that he or she has the right of it—and they both do!

  By Claire’s lights, she was behaving with great courage and moral responsibility. She’s tearing herself away from Jamie at great personal cost, setting off alone and on foot to return to the stone circle, in an attempt to return to Frank, her first husband, doing violence to her own feelings in an effort to keep faith with a man to whom she’s made vows. She couldn’t reasonably explain her circumstances to Jamie, with any hope of being believed; to stay with him longer would merely increase his pain when she left. She’d failed with earlier attempts to escape; this looks like not only the best, but perhaps the only chance she’ll get. By accident, she falls into the hands of Captain Randall, with horrific consequences—but that, she feels, is hardly her fault.

  From Jamie’s point of view, his wife has—for no apparent reason beyond stubbornness—flagrantly disobeyed instructions meant only to keep her safe, and has fatheadedly wandered into a situation endangering not only her and himself, but all the men with him. Beyond that, she’s brought him into face-to-face contact with the man he most despises, caused him to reveal himself in a way that will ensure determined pursuit, and worst of all—allowed Jack Randall to assault her sexually.

  He’s not only annoyed with her for her original thoughtless (he thinks) behavior, he’s sexually outraged at its results, and—unable to deal properly with Randall—is strongly inclined to take it out on the available guilty party. Even so, he might not resort to violence, save for two things: his own history of physical discipline, which leads him to consider the punishment he intends inflicting not only reasonable, but quite moderate—and more important, his notions of the Tightness of things, (which includes, though less important, the moral pressure of his companions’ opinion).

  The man is twenty-three years old, and while he’s an accomplished warrior, he’s very new to this husband business, and anxious to do it right. That means dealing responsibly with his wayward wife, in a manner that will not only keep her safe, by convincing her of the wisdom of obeying his orders, but will redeem her socially.

  He therefore declares his intention of taking a strap to her. He isn’t seeking personal revenge, or exercising a taste for sadistic violence; he’s trying to do justice. Historically and geographically, this was an entirely appropriate thing to do,16 and Jamie sees nothing even faintly questionable about it.

  Claire does. From both a personal and a historical (her history) point of view, she sees quite a lot wrong with this proposition. In the end, of course, this clash of viewpoints comes down to the… er… bottom line—which is that Jamie is nearly a foot taller than she is, and outweighs her by a good eighty pounds. Over the greater span of historical time, might has made right.

  The public response to this particular scene is fascinating. Most readers find it hilarious, erotic, or simply very entertaining. A few find it absolutely unacceptable—a “good” man, they argue, would never beat his wife, no matter what the circumstance!

  Well, but he would. Jamie Fraser is arguably a “good man,” but he’s an eighteenth-century good man, and he’s acting not only from a completely different perception of the situation, but from a completely different set of assumptions as to what constitutes appropriate behavior.

  Those readers who object to this scene seem to respond in one of two ways: a) They simply can’t sympathize with a man who resorts to violence, no matter what. Ergo, I should not have allowed him to do so! or b) Even if Jamie’s behavior is historically appropriate, it’s wrong for me to have shown it, because women who are in abusive relationships will read this and conclude that it is okay for their husbands to beat them!

  It is not the business of a novelist to pursue political agendas. Still less is it the business of a historical novelist to pursue modern political agendas. It deprives the reader of any sense of perspective or notion of social ambiguity, and reinforces a smug, narrow-minded belief in the self-righteousness of modern Western cultural values that is highly detrimental to the evolution of thought or values.

  (Curiously, no one at all has ever complained of the rampant child abuse that takes place in the books. Perfectly okay for Jamie to beat his nephew [Voyager, chapter 32, “The Prodigal’s Return”] and his foster son (age ten or so) [Dragonfly, chapter 14, “Meditations on the Flesh”], and no objections whatever to Jamie’s graphic descriptions of his own disciplinary experiences while growing up [Outlander, chapter 22, “Reckonings”]—but to see him using violence on a woman is evidently enough to cause a major reaction in some women.)17 Still, people’s perceptions will always be colored by experience. Response to some material on the basis of personal experience is entirely understandable and I sympathize with such attitudes, but I can’t in good conscience think them relevant to my own work.

  MINOR ISSUES

  “Minor issues” are those subjects on which I have received obviously sincere letters—but from only one or two people. I respect their opinions, but apparently these fall into the realm of responses that depend on the reader’s individual perception and experience. Following are my responses to the letters in question (the content of the original letters being plain from the replies).

  Body Image

  May 5, 1994

  Dear S:

  Thanks for your thoughtful letter; I enjoyed it, and your analysis of historical attitudes toward plumpness, which are of course accurate.

  However… are we possibly overreacting a bit here? Claire has not got an eating disorde
r, nor is there the slightest implication that she has, in any of the three books. She eats rather heartily, whenever food is available (as you note, it often wasn’t), appears to enjoy it, judging by her descriptions of aromas and tastes, and there isn’t any indication at all of her dieting, obsessing about food, allowing eating to control her behavior, or worrying in the least about her food intake or whether she’s getting fat.

  I took some pains to make sure she didn’t appear as the “standard” heroine in Outlander, including the historically accurate (as you note) appreciation for a well-endowed rear. I didn’t do so out of any political position on what women ought to look like; merely out of a sense of contrariness (having read way too many novels with eighteen-year-old slender heroines), and an urge to make Claire as believable and human as possible.

  I don’t know quite what you mean, that “the second book had not a peep about Claire’s physical attributes, other than Jamie’s continued enjoyment of them.” Since she’s pregnant through the first half of Dragonfly, descriptions of her weight and/or build seemed more or less irrelevant—she describes her heaviness, and “waddling up to take a nap,” along with the loosening of joints, breast swelling, etc., which surely ought not to give anybody the notion that she’s a slender waif. Jamie certainly continues to be physically attracted to her, pregnant or not, which I would think might convey the notion that slenderness is not one of his—or Claire’s—criteria. Hardly “not a peep,” though; Claire talks about her body and is aware of it throughout the books; whether or not she refers constantly to the size of her bottom seems rather irrelevant.

  What seems to bother you is the third book—that Claire would have examined herself in the mirror before going back through the stones, and that she included “don’t get fat” in her letter of motherly advice to Brianna.