My Ideal Man
An idle glance at my bookcase today opened a line of inquiry that I thought would be fun to pursue and polish up as today’s Shiny Thought.
I’m an eclectic reader but have developed a fierce devotion to a few authors, a loyalty that has stood the test of time. While other writers, series, genres and passions have come and gone, these few still share coveted and hard-held shelf-space in the dog-eat-dog real estate climate of my bookcase.
When asked, I will ever call Scotswoman Dorothy Dunnett my favourite author of all time. I feel that way not just because of her gripping, convoluted plotlines (woven with the intricacy of Belgian lace through eleven books in two series) or her flare for the hilarious, or her poetic understanding of history, or her perfect grasp on the politics, religion, culture, and aesthetic of a world gone by. No, it’s because I’m in love with one of her characters: Francis Crawford of Lymond. Lymond of the cornflower blue eyes, the athlete’s grace, the scholar’s erudition, and the careless yet consummate love-making skills of the ultimate ladies’ man. And yet, he’s no romance novel hero; he’s intensely human, drawn with a master’s skill. 
Is there anything Lymond can’t do? Well, no. Except perhaps control the excesses of behaviour brought on by a too-sensitive character trying to function in the harsh world of sixteenth century Europe. Lymond is brilliant, but Lymond is also his own worst enemy, unless the love of a good and sensible woman can reach the vulnerable, storm-battered vessel that is his soul and offer it safe harbour. I’d volunteer for the job, gargantuan as it is, because the pay-off would be looking into Lymond’s cornflower blue eyes for the rest of my life. One problem, though. Although he seems it to me, Francis Crawford isn’t real…
But perhaps such a paragon exists. or at least the possibility of such a paragon. Apparently, Dunnett modeled Lymond on her husband, Sir Alastair Dunnett, editor of The Scotsman newspaper. All I can say is that Sir Alastair must have been a man of tremendous intelligence and accomplishment, to keep ahead of the sheer brilliance of his wife, and to keep her interested in him.
She was a renaissance woman; as well as turning out the eleven meticulously researched books of the Lymond and House of Niccolo series, and a mystery series, she was also a professional portrait painter, had a keen interest in opera, was a trustee of the National Library in Scotland, and was awarded an OBE for her services to literature. She must have been a livewire around the house. Imagine the dinner table talk! Not to mention the pillow talk!
One of my other favourite authors is Dick Francis. You couldn’t ask for a writing style, or an archetypal hero, to be any more the antithesis of Dunnett and Lymond than Francis, writer of forty-odd novels, and his unassuming, get-the-job-done-no-matter-what, modest everyman heroes. Francis rarely used the same characters twice. Yet, his heroes are iconic and, I suspect, very much a reflection of Dick Francis’ own character. Understated in that beautifully British way, this is a man who put his life on the line as a fighter pilot during World War II and later as a jockey in some of the premier racing events in the world, and who returned nightly to be devoted husband to his wife, Mary.
What speaks to me about this everyman? I’ve asked myself this question before, as I read and reread some of my favourite Francis novels. First of all, he has an unerring sense of right and wrong, a moral compass that informs his decisions, even if that means putting himself in the way of danger. Although sometimes he may be down on his luck, or an underachiever, his exposure to a wrong to be righted brings out his best instincts, his courage, and his unswerving loyalty to the innocents who he feels obliged to protect. He uses all his physical and intellectual capabilities to that end; although he is ever modest and understated, he is a man of prowess, skill and ingenuity.
And, like Lymond, vulnerable. Whether mourning a lost love, or coping with the obligations of a disabled spouse, a difficult parent, or the poverty that often accompanies the life of an artist, this guy has suffered. Like Lymond, he doesn’t say much about it. Yet, he doesn’t act out in the flamboyant, sometimes clownish and sometimes cruel ways that Lymond does. No, this guy’s suffering is quiet and internal. Again, pretty sure the love of a good woman would help him move past his pain. And quite often, he finds her.
There is an apocryphal attribution to Francis’ wife Mary, as the author of these books. Who knows? For my part, I don’t care. The author, whether Dick or Mary, has forged a bullet-proof connection between a man of quality and circumstances that allow (or force) him to the extremes of his ability, and ask for physical courage and stamina, as well as adherence to his ideals in the face of danger, that would fell a lesser man.
Interesting how, in spite of the two at-first seemingly disparate characters, there are common threads that speak to me. Is that guy, the synthesis of all that is Lymond and all that is Francis’ everyman, out there?
I’m going to say: yes. In a way, yes. Knowing that an ideal is just that and the reality will always ask for an adjustment of the image, yes. He’s out there. There are lots of them out there, quietly, or not so quietly, doing the right thing; upholding high ideals; physically, mentally and emotionally putting their all into the causes they care about; pushing themselves to protect the innocent and be the best they can be. And needing the support, love and understanding of a good woman.
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Hi, all heroes, or protagonists look like Jude Law, didn’t you know?