BIG IVOR AND JOHN CALVIN: CHRISTIANITY IN
TWENTIETH-CENTURY GAELIC SHORT STORIES
Donald E. Meek
My aim in this paper is to
consider a very small part of a very large theme. The presentation of aspects
of the Christian faith in twentieth-century Gaelic prose is a subject worthy of
much deeper study and reflection than can be attempted here. For our purposes it suffices to note that, in
the course of the century, Gaelic writers adopted a much more critical attitude
towards the Protestant church in the Highlands than had been evident in the
nineteenth century. This was due partly
to the loss of the church's authority in key domains. It had been the primary vehicle of Gaelic
publishing in the nineteenth century, but in the twentieth century, and
particularly in the second half of that century, Gaelic publishing was
diversified and largely secularised, thus allowing new voices to challenge
older ones. Voices within the church
also became more critical of its role, as is evident in the writings of the
Rev. Donald Lamont, the editor of the Gaelic Supplement of the Church of
Scotland magazine, Life and Work,
from 1907 to 1951. Lamont's 'Cille
Sgumain' sketches, which focused on an imaginary parish and its minister, the
Rev. Neil MacFarlane, B.D., included letters allegedly sent to him by
parishioners. By using such devices,
Lamont was able to create 'critical distance', and to produce mildly satirical
accounts of parish events.[1] Lamont
stimulated other, non-clerical, writers, most notably Finlay J. MacDonald, whose
hilarious story, 'Am Basàr' ('The Bazaar'), daringly took passing swipes at
communions, conventions and other church meetings. MacDonald's main character - a talkative lady
called 'Seonag' - was a development of Lamont's 'Seònaid Eachainn'.[2]
MacDonald's theme - rather
out-of-touch Highland characters trying to come to terms with new trends in
church life, such as the holding of a bazaar - is echoed in the concerns of
several Gaelic short stories from the 1950s, which appears to have been a decade
of particular significance in the development of this genre. In what follows, I intend to restrict myself
to a trinity of modern Scottish Gaelic short stories, and to concentrate on
only one of these stories before discussing some wider aspects of the theme as
reflected in two recent novels.
Two of the three short
stories are by well-known writers. The one is Derick Thomson's 'Bean a'
Mhinisteir' ('The Minister's Wife'), first broadcast on radio in 1953, and the
other is Finlay J. MacDonald's 'Air Beulaibh an t-Sluaigh' ('Before the
Public'), first published in the Gaelic periodical Gairm in 1958. Both short
stories deal with aspects of Christianity in the Scottish Highlands, and
particularly with the power and influence of the evangelical Protestant church. Thomson's 'Bean a' Mhinisteir' concerns the
most important family in the church's hierarchy, namely that in the manse, and
explores the worldviews of the minister and his wife. The wife is an incomer to the Gaelic
community, with a love for, and interest in, the world of Nature, while her
husband is the conventional Gaelic minister.
He conforms until he has a serious accident, and falls over a cliff in
pursuit of his wife's dog. During a
brief period of recovery and prior to insanity, he temporarily appears to
embrace his wife's perspectives.[3]
MacDonald's 'Air Beulaibh an
t-Sluaigh' likewise focuses on the manse family, but specifically on the
minister's daughter, Seonag. She is very
much aware of the pressures exerted by her privileged position. She is expected to conform to the expectations
of the community and of the manse family; but she becomes pregnant, and has to
make some difficult decisions relative to these pressures. Her friend and the father of her child is
Pàdraig, a medical student. Pàdraig comes under the influence of her father's
new-style American preaching, and, just before Seonag tells him her news, he
informs her that he has made a far-reaching decision to abandon medicine and
become a minister.[4] Both stories
share some common ground, since they explore the theme of community
expectations and the individual's conformity, or non-conformity, while also
introducing a very subtle interplay of deep human instincts and primordial
pressures.
The provenance of 'Iomhar Mòr'
My main concern, however, is
with the oldest of the trinity of tales, namely 'Iomhar Mòr' ('Big Ivor'), a
story which first appeared in 1950 in An
Cabairneach, the innovative Gaelic magazine of the Portree branch of Comunn na h-Oigridh, the young people's
branch of An Comunn Gaidhealach. Its
authorship is unknown, and therefore we do not have the problem of
'privileging' the story with an authorial context. In the case of the other two tales, we know
something about Derick Thomson and Finlay J. MacDonald, and we may find it hard
not to search for biographical dimensions and personal agendas in their
work. With regard to 'Iomhar Mòr', we may speculate that so assured a
tale did not come from the pen of a secondary school pupil, and we may suppose
that it was contributed by a mature writer.
We could suggest possible authors among the 'usual suspects' of that
period, but no writer among those who have published a collection of stories
has owned up. We may have our suspicions, and these may be enhanced by the
present discussion, but we are not at liberty to go beyond the general mask of An Cabairneach. The magazine was edited by the Gaelic teacher
at Portree High School, Iain Steele, and appeared only occasionally - in 1944,
1945, 1950, and 1962.[5]
The publication of 'Iomhar
Mòr' in 1950 is interesting in the light of later developments in Gaelic
literature. It pre-dates the founding of
Gairm in 1952, and it contains within
it some themes which were to appear in subsequent Gaelic writing, most notably
Iain Crichton Smith's novella, An
t-Aonaran (1976).[6] I am not
suggesting that Smith is the author of this tale; the stylistic evidence, in
fact, rules this out. I am, however,
implying that 'Iomhar Mòr' has a very important place in the history of modern
Scottish Gaelic literature, and that its significance is worthy of some
acknowledgement.
The rediscovery of 'Iomhar
Mòr' after some twenty years of neglect is due to Dr Donald John MacLeod, who
included it in his very useful anthology of Gaelic short stories, Dorcha Tro Ghlainne (1970). There 'Iomhar Mòr' was presented sequentially
as the ninth out of thirteen stories edited by Dr MacLeod. MacLeod's selection was organised round the
theme of mothachadh an duine a' fàs, air
a chumadh, is a' crìonadh ('the awareness of man as he grows, is moulded,
and declines').[7] To some
extent, MacLeod's selection was a response to a new surge of interest in the
short story among Gaelic writers of the late 1960s, and owed much to John
Murray's contributions to the genre.
Murray's 'Feòil a' Gheamhraidh' ('Winter Meat') is the first story in
MacLeod's selection.[8] I myself first encountered 'Iomhar Mòr' in MacLeod's
anthology, and I never forgot it after my first spine-tingling reading. It has lived menacingly in my mind since
1970, and recently it sprang to the forefront of my thinking when I was
teaching a first-level class on modern Gaelic literature. Here I wish to suggest alternative
interpretations of 'Iomhar Mòr'. I aim
to place it within the context of the two other tales that I have summarised,
but I hope also to relate it to some key themes of late twentieth-century
Gaelic literature, both prose and verse.
In today's terminology, I want to re-read and re-position 'Iomhar Mòr'.
Summary
First, let me offer a very
brief summary of 'Iomhar Mòr'. The tale
begins with a flash-back to a funeral in Cill Cheidh, which is that of Iomhar
Mòr, recently deceased. The author tells
us of his - and, for the moment, I presume authorial masculinity! -
considerable unease when attending the interment of Iomhar in a particularly
hallowed part of the graveyard, Reilig nan Naomh, where only the truly great
men of the faith have been buried in the past, and where no-one in the recent
past has been buried. He recollects that
his grandfather told him of an occasion on which the earth of Reilig nan Naomh
spewed up the coffin of a stranger who had been buried there at an earlier
period. By this stage, however, the old
traditions about the graveyard had been largely forgotten or were regarded as
mere superstitions. The author, however,
feels that he must warn the men of the community not to be so precipitate in
placing Iomhar there, but he is over-ruled by Dòmhnall Chaluim, who has a very
bad conscience about the way in which the community first treated Iomhar.
Dòmhnall Chaluim relates that Iomhar Mòr
is worthy of his place of rest, having repaid the disdain of the community with
kindness, and that he himself has been the beneficiary. The author submits to Dòmhnall's view, albeit
reluctantly. He goes on to tell how
Iomhar Mòr came to Geàrraidh. Nobody
knew where he had come from; he just appeared, and took up residence in a black
house on Dòmhnall Chaluim's croft.
Iomhar's abrupt assumption of tenancy caused great anger to Dòmhnall,
and the matter was the talk of the town.
Indeed, after an unsuccessul attempt to evict Iomhar, Dòmhnall and
Iomhar fought it out, and Dòmhnall got the backing of the local youth in a
sustained attack on the house. Matters
reached the law-court, but the judge ruled in favour of Iomhar's remaining in
the house. Thereafter the village was
filled with fear and tension, and Iomhar and Dòmhnall were at daggers
drawn. However, a complete change in
attitude occurred, and Iomhar came to be highly esteemed. The cause of this remarkable shift was a
child who had gone missing - Dòmhnall Chaluim 's child. Every place was searched, and eventually the
author and a companion found their way to Iomhar's house. Iomhar showed immediate sympathy for the
community, and changed his usual frown to a look of pity. He also made straight for Dòmhnall Chaluim
and promised to help him in every possible way to find the child. The two men were reconciled, and went to
search the shore together. The child was
not found - but a left shoe belonging to a child was discovered on the edge of
the machair. Thereafter, matters
improved; Iomhar was accepted as a member of the community, and he and Dòmhnall
buried the hatchet. The author got to
know Iomhar reasonably well, and went to visit him on his death-bed. Iomhar asked him to clear the house after his
death, and to return the key to Dòmhnall Chaluim. After the funeral the author began to search
the house, and began in the lower part.
As he was at work in a dark corner - not quite as dark as the rest - he
found something which, he claimed, explained his feeling of unease at the
funeral. His discovery was no less than
a little shoe - the shoe for the right foot of a child. And there, with the reference to the second
shoe, the story ends.
The chilling twist in the
tail of this story is memorable, and all the more since it resonates with
public concerns in the present time.
Though this story is set somewhere in the Highlands, it is broad in its
theme, and timeless in its relevance.
That in itself is no small achievement.
Interpretations
How then should we interpret
'Iomhar Mòr'? We can understand the
tale in different ways, but I would suggest three possible routes to take:
(1) We can see this as no
more and no less than 'a good story'. We
are given a lot of emotional ups and downs in the course of the tale; fear and
unease (at the very beginning), mystery (with the stranger's arrival), conflict
(between the stranger and the village and between him and Dòmhnall Chaluim),
sorrow (the missing child), reconciliation (between Iomhar and Dòmhnall Chaluim
and the village), and finally that spine-chilling sense of injustice, right at
the end, culminating in the cliff-hanger on which the storyteller positions the
possible deed of the stranger. We ask
ourselves whether Iomhar found the shoe and kept it, so as not to cause further
pain in the community, or whether he is directly involved in the disappearance
of the child. We can 'enjoy' all of the
various tensions created throughout the work, and leave the story there.
(2) We may read 'Iomhar Mòr'
without making too much of the identity of the main character, and confine our
interpretation to the reactions of the community which is portrayed in the
story. Iomhar need be no more and no
less than an incomer who has an abundant measure of the rather arrogant style
that Highland people attribute to such new arrivals; his particularly
overbearing manner causes tension at communal and individual levels. This tension is resolved by a crisis; the crisis causes the stranger
to pull close to the community, and reconciliation is thereby achieved. The
stranger is then given a place of esteem.
Vulnerability is thus a key theme; the community is able to resist the
stranger to a certain extent, but capitulates when something goes wrong. The sympathy of the stranger at a time of
crisis is sufficient to reverse previous antipathies, and to gain him lasting
respect. We may read the story as a
warning to Gaelic communities not to to accept sweets from strangers. Like children, Gaelic communities are
vulnerable to the blandishments of outsiders.
(3) Our third interpretation would carry forward
the points made in the second interpetation, but it would make much more of the
person of Iomhar Mòr. He is not just an alien
person; he is an alien power. That alien power can be interpreted in various
ways. Is the new power personal or collective?
If the latter, is the power that of the church? Or a new power within the church? Or a new
power within society, of which the church is a part? How, then, is that power regarded by the
writer? Is it seen as benevolent or intrinsically evil, or both, wearing the
mask of benevolence and concern at critical moments in the life of a community,
but using the weak moments in community confidence to gain a dangerous foothold
in its value-system?
The opening paragraph of the
story identifies the source of the author's unease as Iomhar Mòr's funeral, and
the decision to give him a resting place in Reilig nan Naomh, which was
reserved for the fathers of the faith.
This suggests that we are meant to read the story as a spiritual
allegory of some kind. We may note the
words that are actually used to portray Iomhar Mòr and his actions. Dòmhnall Chaluim talks of him in terms which
are reminiscent of the biblical account of Christ, 'despised and rejected of
men', but repaying rejection with kindness:
Thainig e nur measg...gun daoine, gun chuideachd, gun
chàirdean, agus cha be a' bhàidh a nochd sibh dha; thionndaidh sibh ur cùlaibh
ris agus mhag sibh air. Ach an uair a
thainig an dòrainn an rathad a bha mo theaghlach-sa, phàigh Iomhar Mòr
ana-ceartas le caomhalachd agus coibhneas, agus bhon latha sin gus an latha 'n
diugh bha e na chùl-taic s na chomhartachd dhòmhsa agus dhuibhse.[9]
('He came among you...without
relatives, without companions, without friends, and it was not a warm side that
you showed him; you turned your backs on him, and you mocked him. But when distress came the way of my family,
Big Ivor paid for injustice with compassion and kindness, and from that day
until today he has been a support and a comfort to me and to you.')
One can hear the homiletic
cadences in that commendation.
Yet Iomhar is also described
as an duine caol àrd dorcha ud ('that
tall thin dark man'). He has na sùilean dubha nimheil ud ('those
black poisonous eyes') as he skulks down the road. The only sound that comes out of his house is
bragadaich mar gum bitheadh am fear a bha
stigh a' briseadh mhaidean ('banging as if the man inside were breaking
sticks'). Children are immediately in
fear of him: Cha leigeadh tu leas ach Iomhar Mór ainmeachadh ris an leanabh bu
mhiosa sa Gheàrraidh agus bha e cho modhail ris an uan ('You had only to
mention the name of Big Ivor to the worst child in the Geàrraidh and he became
as well mannered as a lamb').[10]
Unquestionably, Iomhar is seen by the writer as a bogey-man, and an evil
power - but whom or what does he represent?
Those of us who know the
poetry of Derick Thomson will think fairly readily of another incomer who is
very similarly portrayed - fear àrd caol
dubh / is aodach dubh air ('a tall, thin black-haired man / wearing black
clothes'). This is, of course, Thomson's
Bodach-ròcais, the title of a poem
first published in An Rathad Cian
(1970). The bodach-ròcais ('scarecrow') comes into the cèilidh house and
destroys or represses the natural cultural pursuits of the story-tellers,
singers and card-players who are inside.
Like Iomhar Mòr, he is a destructive force, and possesses a supernatural
ability to take the goodness from pastimes previously regarded as wholesome - thug e 'n toradh as a' cheòl ('he took
the goodness out of the music').
Thomson's scarecrow figure is, of course, the stereotypical, evangelical
Calvinist minister of nineteenth-century Lewis.[11] Iomhar Mòr
appears to carry a similar symbolic significance. Part of his persona is religious, and it also
has destructive tendencies. But he is
unlikely to be a symbolic John Calvin. Can we find a more convincing
contemporary context?
The contemporary context
We have already noted that
the story first appeared in 1950, and that it predates two stories, by Thomson
and MacDonald respectively, which have religion and evangelical Christianity as
their theme. These were written in 1953 ('Bean a' Mhinisteir') and 1958 ('Air
Beulaibh an t-Sluaigh').[12] The 1950s,
and particularly the period 1950-55, were a time of heightened religious
activity in both the Highlands and Islands and the wider Scottish
mainland. In Lewis between 1949 and
1953, the Faith Mission evangelist, Duncan Campbell, was at the centre of a
religious awakening which is often regarded as the last significant religious
revival in the British Isles, though there smaller awakenings elsewhere in the
Hebrides in the later 1950s.[13] We may note that
Duncan Campbell was not a native of Lewis; he hailed from Benderloch in Argyll,
and was technically a stranger in Lewis, even though he spoke and preached in
Gaelic.[14]
Evangelical campaigning was
also found in the Scottish Lowlands. In
1955, the Kelvin Hall in Glasgow was the focus of the Tell Scotland crusade
conducted by the American evangelist, Billy Graham. The impact of Billy Graham on both ministers
and people throughout Scotland was substantial.[15] This is
reflected in the story 'Air Beulaibh an t-Sluaigh', in which the change of
style and emphasis evident in Seonag's father is ascribed to the influence of
the American evangelist. Seonag is
portrayed as being dismayed at her father's new style:
S bha gràin a beatha aice air an t-searmonachadh ùr
ris an robh a h-athair riamh bho chaidh e gu coinneamhan an
Amaireaganaich. Cha robh guth air na
seann searmoin chiùine, chomhartail a b' àbhaist cridheachan a bhlàthachadh;
cha robh ann a-nise ach an t-iompachadh, an t-iompachadh. Agus an èigheach.[16]
('And she truly hated the new
preaching which her father had adopted ever since he went to the American's
meetings. There was no mention of the
old, gentle, comforting sermons that used to warm hearts; there was nothing now
but conversion, conversion. And the
yelling.')
It is of significance that
Seonag's father adopts the new preaching mode at a time of family crisis,
following his wife's death. Unable to
derive consolation from his 'traditional' faith, he goes to Glasgow, and comes
back a changed man, with a new gleam in his eye and a new power in his
preaching.[17] Billy Graham
is the 'stranger' who helps him to conquer his crisis, and whose style is
absorbed into a Highland community through imitation. The minister is thus the conduit through
which new and disturbing expressions of the Christian faith enter the
community, and challenge its earlier values.
The parallel with 'Iomhar Mòr' is striking, and suggests that the two
stories may have been composed by the same author.
Gaelic poets as well as prose-writers
were aware of new religious influences in the Highlands and Islands. A change of emphasis in contemporary Lewis
preaching in this period is noted also by Donald MacAulay in a poem pointedly
entitled 'Soisgeul 1955':
Bha mi a raoir anns a' choinneamh;
bha an taigh làn chun an dorais,
cha robh àite suidhe ann
ach geimhil chumhang air an staighre.
Dh'éisd mi ris an t-sailm: am fonn
a' falbh leinn air seòl mara
cho dìomhair ri Maol Dùn:
dh'éisd mi ris an ùrnaigh
seirm shaorsinneil, shruthach -
iuchair-dàin mo dhaoine.
An uair sin
thàinig an searmon
- teintean ifrinn a th' anns an fhasan -
bagairt neimheil, fhuadan
a lìon an taigh le uamhann is coimeasg.
Here the poet recollects his
experience of being at a cottage meeting in which the music and prayer were in
tune with the culture, but in which the sermon was hostile and alien. Although the poet was saved (in another
sense) by the pins and needles in his feet, this new, passionate evangelicalism
affected many young people at broadly the same stage of life as Seonag and
Pàdraig in MacDonald's story.[19]
This brings us back to
'Iomhar Mòr'. In particular, we may note the manner in which the stranger
commandeers a cottage, and is potentially implicated (by the author's parting
shot) in the fate of a missing child, perhaps implying that the new force has
the power to steal children from the community.
If the main thrust of 'Iomhar Mòr'
is religious, its primary concern is likely to be not the old-style
'Calvinism' of an earlier day, but the new evangelists and the passionate new
evangelicalism, entering the Highlands and Islands forcefully in the late 1940s
and early 1950s. An Geàrraidh, the
setting of 'Iomhar Mòr', already has a Christian tradition, symbolised by
Reilig nan Naomh, the section of the graveyard reserved for the finest local
saints. The impact of the new
evangelicalism and people's reactions to it may be one of the writer's
concerns. Thus, after an initial period
of opposition and rejection, Dòmhnall Chaluim is converted (in the religious
sense) to Iomhar Mòr as others were to Christ.
But could the thrust of the
tale be broader than contemporary evangelicalism? The primary concern of the
writer, it seems to me, is to ponder how much is gained - or lost - by both the
individual and the community in the process of accommodating the stranger. As a consequence of the new understanding
between Iomhar and Dòmhnall Chaluim, old customs and time-honoured traditions
are over-ruled in deference to the former enemy of the community, as the ironic
burial of Iomhar Mòr in Reilig nan Naomh indicates.
Here it is relevant to
recollect that the late 1940s and the 1950s were a time of reassessment in the
Gaelic communities after the Second World War. The war had made these
communities vulnerable to intrusion by big powers such as the British army and
the Royal Air Force. By 1950, when
'Iomhar Mòr' was composed, new initiatives were being undertaken in an attempt to
preserve some of the riches of Gaelic culture in the Highlands and Islands, as
the creation of the School of Scottish Studies in Edinburgh in 1951
indicates. These new initiatives
proceeded alongside further major intrusions in the later 1950s, like the
Rocket Range in Benbecula, which was stoutly resisted initially, but came to be
a mainstay of the local economy, while also acting as a de-Gaelicising
influence.
We should note, in fact, the
quiet symbolic subtlety with which 'Iomhar Mòr' has been written. We have to read between the lines, and
extrapolate these wider concerns from the text in a manner reminiscent of short
stories such as John Murray's 'Feòil a' Gheamhraidh'. In this respect, the story contrasts with
'Bean a' Mhinisteir' and 'Air Beulaibh an t-Sluaigh', where the targets are
identified clearly. 'Bean a' Mhinisteir'
is more restrained and symbolically closer to 'Iomhar Mòr'. The minister's wife, who is the 'stranger' in
terms of the conventions of the village, is the catalyst for her husband's fall
- a concept charged with theological and biblical significance. The outcome of the tragedy makes us think
deeply, since it results in the minister's temporary awareness of a wider world
before insanity finally takes over. 'Air
Beulaibh an t-Sluaigh', which leaves little to symbolism, is probably the
frankest story yet written in Gaelic on a religious theme, since it uses 'shock
tactics' to galvanise the reader. It is
thus at the other end of the spectrum from 'Iomhar Mòr', though the two stories
do have significant points in common.
'Stranger fiction'
The theme of 'Iomhar Mòr',
namely the stranger who comes into the community and causes tensions of all
sorts, became a very marked feature of Gaelic writing after 1970. It is particularly evident in Iain Crichton
Smith's An t-Aonaran ('The Loner') of
1976. The frame of Smith's novella is
strikingly reminscent of 'Iomhar Mòr'. Indeed, the two are so close as to
suggest that 'Iomhar Mòr' may have been something of a catalyst for Smith. In An
t-Aonaran, however, the stranger's presence is used by the author as an
opportunity to explore the existential theme of meaninglessness. The stranger has opted out of normal
existence, and his impact on the village is described by a retired schoolmaster
called Teàrlach. In reacting with deep mistrust and suspicion to the newcomer
in their midst, he shows that such 'loneliness' is an integral part of his own
existence, and that it is also a malaise found more generally within the
village. Few are devoid of its
symptoms. Even the minister suffers a
loss of verbal articulation, and comes to the schoolmaster for advice because
he is unable to declaim the sermon which he has prepared for a particular
Sunday service.[20] In Smith's
novella, evangelicalism hovers on the edge of existentialism, and is seen to
lose power as a communicative force when the arrival of the aonaran plunges the village into its
fatal bout of second-guessing and self-examination. The church and its members are almost
invariably portrayed as somewhat distasteful people who are spiteful and
negative in their views of others.
Indeed, one is left to wonder to what extent the author wishes to imply
that the church is largely responsible for the alienation of people from one
another, in terms of understanding both 'incomers' and those who are natives of
Gaelic communities. It is significant that, apart from the schoolmaster
himself, it is Cairistìona, boireannach
dona Crìosdaidh ('a bad Christian woman') who never misses the communions,
who thinks the worst of the stranger. In a manner directly recalling 'Iomhar
Mòr', she suggests that he may even be a child-molester.[21] Eventually,
the schoolmaster 'arranges' the departure of the stranger from the
village. The plot of Smith's novella
therefore works in the opposite way from that of 'Iomhar Mòr'. The stranger is ejected in the former, while
he is accepted in the latter, but loss and a nasty feeling of injustice
accompany both processes.
The 'stranger' motif in
modern Gaelic literature, and particularly the presence of the aonaran ('loner'), is thus used very
effectively to comment on common modern dilemmas. As it develops beyond 'Iomhar Mòr', the motif
retains a surprisingly close link with religious matters. Religious influence
in Gaelic communities is one of the strands in a much more recent story with
another aonaran at its heart, namely
Alasdair Campbell's short novel, Am Fear
Meadhanach ('The Man in the Middle') (1992).[22] This aonaran
is not a stranger to the Gaelic world but a native of Lewis, namely Murchadh
MacLeòid, who is suffering from cancer and returns to spend his last days in
his native community. He is therefore meadhanach
('middling') in terms of his health. The 'returning exile' has been a teacher
in Glasgow, and obtains a part-time teaching post in a school not far from his
village. He belongs to a family of four,
and is meadhanach ('in between')
since he has two brothers, the younger a doctor and the elder a highly regarded
minister in the Free Church. The latter
is Dòmhnall M. MacLeòid, regularly referred to in the novel as an t-urramach ('the reverend'). The novel is to some extent a satirical
overview of a number of different but interlocking communities, notably the
main character's family, his local community and the wider Gaelic world, as well
as the ever-present network of the church. The speaker's elder brother, an t-urramach, is a thinly disguised
caricature of a well-known Free Church minister of a similar name. Murchadh
often contrasts himself with his brothers, but particularly with an t-urramach. Most importantly,
Murchadh has no faith in God, in contrast to an t-urramach's dogmatic certainty. The difference between the two
brothers is worked out at various practical levels. An
t-urramach is a 'high achiever', as is Uilleam, the doctor, who writes books
and belongs to the 'arty' Gaelic set.
Murchadh, on the other hand, has had a humdrum existence as a
schoolteacher of the kind in Iain Crichton Smith's An t-Aonaran, and regards himself as a failure. Murchadh is unable to appreciate either
Uilleam's books or an t-urramach's
best-selling volume of Gaelic sermons, and all three brothers are shut out from
one another's literary worlds:
Nàire air an urramach nach do leugh e a-riamh leabhar
a sgrìobh a bhràthair bho cheann gu ceann.
Thuirt mi ris nach b'urrainn dhomhsa treabhadh tromhpa a bharrachd. Bidh an t-urramach fhèin a' sgrìobhadh. Bha laoidh a sgrìobh e anns a' Mhonthly Record.
Agus leabhar beag shearmon, cruaidh trì notaichean, bog not' agus
leth-cheud sgillinn. Searmoin, leis
an Urr. Dòmhnall M. MacLeòid, M.A. Sin an tiotal a tha air. Chaidh mi 'm bogadh annsan aig Searmon 1,
duilleag 1, ach cha d'fhuair mi na b'fhaide na sin fhèin; ach cheannaich gu leòr
chrìosdaidhean an leabhar, thathas air ath-chlò-bhualadh ceithir turais, 's tha
'n t-urramach a' dèanamh prothaid bheag às, chan eil fhios a'm an ann dha fhèin
no dhan eaglais. Ach chan e sgrìobhaiche
nàdurrach a th' anns an urramach. Tha e
nas ealanta le theanga na tha e le peann.[23]
('Shame upon the reverend
that he never read a book that his brother wrote from beginning to end. I said to him that I could not plough through
them either. The reverend himself
writes. There was a hymn which he wrote
in the Monthly Record. And a little book of sermons, hard-back three
pounds, soft-back a pound and fifty pence.
Sermons by the Rev. Donald M.
MacLeod, M.A. That's its
title. I immersed myself in it at
Sermon 1, page 1, but I got no further than that; but plenty of Christians
bought the book, it has been reprinted four times, and the reverend makes a
little profit from it, though I do not know whether it is for himself or for
the church. But the reverend is not a
natural writer. He is more skilful with
his tongue than he is with his pen.')
The satire in this passage
will not be lost on those familiar with the writings of the real Macleod. The speaker goes on to state that, in his
opinion, the most gifted writer in the family was his sister Margaret, who
wrote splendid, but grammarless, letters about her global travels until she
married a widowed missionary in Malaya.
Thereafter, her grammar improved markedly, but her topics became much
more serious, embracing the corruption of human nature and the plight of the
world.[24]
The speaker's view of the
destructive effect of religious experience is transparent. It is particularly interesting that the Lewis
Revival of the 1950s, with Duncan Campbell at its centre, is recalled in a
section in which Murchadh reflects on why the Headmistress of the school in
which he works never married:
Eadar dleasdanas is diadhachd, ciamar a bha dol a
shoirbheachadh le fear-suirghe co-dhiù?
Thàinig an cùram oirre, mar a thàinig air iomadach tè dhe seòrs', nuair
a bha Donnchadh Caimbeul air chaoch anns na h-Eileanan, aig toiseach nam
50s. Làithean neònach, daoine mòr a'
toirt na leap' orr' aig àird a' mheadhan-latha, daoine eile a' bruidhinn mun
deidhinn; oidhcheannan cho murrainneach, sàmhach 's gun cluinneadh tu, air
leth-siar a' bhail' againn, fuaim na h-aibhne a' dòrtadh, man morghan, fon an
drochaid shìos anns a' ghleann.[25]
('Between duty [to her
parents] and devotion to God, how would any suitor have got anywhere
anyway? The cùram (i.e. concern of soul) came upon her, as came upon many a
woman of her kind, when Duncan Campbell was going mad in the Islands, at the
beginning of the 50s. Strange days,
grown-ups taking to their beds at the height of mid-day, other people talking
about them; nights so sultry and quiet that you could hear, on the far side of
our township, the sound of the river pouring, like rough sand, under the bridge
down in the glen.')
Yet the writer provides a
warm-hearted picture of Iseabail, the Headmistress. Despite her religious commitment, she retains
her sharp wit and good humour, and is herself subjected to local criticism for
her choice of hat at a Christmas service: 'Abair
bonaid air tè-aidich!' ('What a hat for a professing woman!').[26]
This deft portrait and the
ongoing discussion of the impact of the 'Campbell revival' on reproductive
patterns (an age-old canard) reinforces the argument at the heart of this
paper, namely that the religious experiences of the early 1950s stimulated not
only the churches, but also a group of modern Gaelic writers who began to adopt
a critical, and at times strongly dismissive, stance towards the new crusade-
or revival-based brand of evangelicalism.
Conclusion
'Iomhar Mòr' deserves to be
taken out of its somewhat obscure place in the history of Gaelic writing in the
twentieth century. The present study
suggests that it belongs, at least in part, to a small but formative cycle of
tales and poems produced in the 1950s which adopted a critical attitude towards
evangelical experience in the Highlands, as themes and styles of preaching
changed. This was the period which
helped to determine how the Gaelic poets and prose-writers of the later
twentieth century viewed Highland evangelicalism, and it is important to note
that they were reacting, not so much against what might be termed 'traditional
Highland religion', but against the hybrid species which was being created
partly through the influence of American crusade-evangelism. This too was the period when the Highlands
and Islands began to accommodate both alien intrusions for the sake of economic
regeneration and initiatives for the
preservation of Gaelic culture. The
uneasy relationship between the old and the new, between the outsider and
insider, is the central theme of 'Iomhar Mòr'.
It anticipates - brilliantly - many of the stresses and strains and hard
choices that were to afflict the Gaelic communities in the second half of the
twentieth century.
'Iomhar Mòr' is also
generically important. Appearing in
1950, it was the first in a series of modern creative interpretations of
strangers in the Gaelic communities. The stranger depicted within it offered
a powerful symbol which could be deployed at various levels, and was
particularly useful in identifying and 'earthing' a complex range of forces
which were vexing Gaelic writers and their communities. In particular, the 'stranger/loner motif'
allowed writers sufficient distance and disguise to engage in a critical
evaluation of the impact of religion in the Highlands and Islands, as seen from
a number of different angles. The
tension which such evaluation could create, even when using masks, is reflected
in the fact that 'Iomhar Mòr' was published anonymously and the writer has
never owned up. Subsequent writers felt
no such need for anonymity. Yet, despite
the freshness which each writer brought to the picture, their themes and even
their images overlap, and some of these can be traced back to 'Iomhar
Mòr'. 'Iomhar Mòr' thus appears to have
foreshadowed and encouraged a major development in the Gaelic literary output
of the second half of the twentieth century.
Pardoxically, therefore, it seems that the stimulus of contemporary
evangelicalism and social change, however negative in the eyes of the poets and
prose-writers, has greatly aided the growth of modern Gaelic literature.[27]
[2] Iain A. MacDhòmhnaill (ed.), Crìochan Ura (Glasgow, 1958), pp. 28-34.
[4] Ibid., pp. 46-57.
[5] Ibid., pp. 73-79, 126.
[8] Ibid., pp. 22-25.
[9] Ibid., p. 74.
[11] Donald MacAulay (ed.), Nua-Bhàrdachd Ghàidhlig: Modern Scottish Gaelic Poems (Edinburgh,
1976), pp. 164-5, which contains an English translation.
[12] MacLeòid, p. 126.
[13] Nigel M. de S. Cameron et al. (eds), The Dictionary of Scottish Church History
and Theology (Edinburgh, 1993), p. 715.
[14] Ibid., p. 217.
[15] Ibid., p. 376.
[16] MacLeòid, p. 47.
[17] Ibid.
[18] MacAulay, pp. 192-5.
[19] For a discussion of twentieth-century Gaelic poets
and the Christian faith, see Dòmhnall E. Meek, 'An Aghaidh na
Sìorraidheachd? Bàird na Ficheadamh Linn
agus an Creideamh Crìosdail', in Colm Ó Baoill (ed.), Rannsachadh na Gàidhlig: Proceedings of the Scottish Gaelic Studies
Conference held at Aberdeen University in August 2000 (forthcoming).
[20] Mac a'
Ghobhainn, pp. 67-71.
[21] Ibid., pp.
7-9.
[22] Alasdair Caimbeul, Am Fear Meadhanach (Conon Bridge, 1992).
[23] Ibid., pp. 33-34.
[24] Ibid., p. 34.
[25] Ibid., pp. 51-52.
[26] Ibid., p. 53.
[27] I am very grateful to Professor Donald MacAulay for
his comments on an early draft of this paper.
