| Friday, September 11, 2020

Dear Friend, 

One night, after we had been installed in our leaky, freezing château for almost a year, and had seen spring flourish, summer‘s golden gaze come and go, and autumn pass into early winter, I lay awake staring into the darkness and listening to the wind blow the rain against the windows. 
 

“I’ve got to find something to do!” I said aloud. My husband, drifting into slumber beside me answered, sleepily, “You can pick out the paint for the kitchen tomorrow.” 

But I already knew about the paint. The new slates for the roof.  The gutters. The tilting chimney on the west wing. And the rotting stone parapet on the upper story. 
 
I knew about the children’s homework and getting the piano tuned.
 
No, I wanted something just for myself.  Something that would be an “Invitation au Voyage,” in the romantic words of the poet Charles Baudelaire, though not necessarily “Luxe, calme et volopté…” The latter is perhaps a bit dangerous for a married mother of five. I found the solution in a tall bay horse with friendly eyes, intelligent ears, and a mildly playful temperament. He had a fast, floating thoroughbred canter. He was racé -- elegant, handsome, distinguished…in a word, well-bred. He had done a few top competitions and then been retired.  Above all, Azur Mirand was a companion. We went on long expeditions on those first winter days, returning as the watery afternoon sun was waning and it was time to pick up the children from school.
 
A year later, we moved to Paris. Azur stayed in the country, the perfect weekend horse. But…there was a stable that was only a 20-minute bicycle ride away from our apartment. I started taking riding lessons. I participated in a few competitions. And soon, I was looking for a second horse.
            
My riding school teacher offered to introduce me to his friend.
 
“But don’t say you like any of the horses,” he warned me. “And before you fall in love, have the veterinarian check it out.” Horse dealers have a bad reputation everywhere, it seems. Even one as fancy as François, who had been the trainer for the French junior Olympic team in eventing.
 
“Pfft!” exclaimed Didier, who had known François since they were both promising youths on the French equestrian scene. “He made all those kids buy horses from him before he made the selection. 
 
“Of course,” he added, more charitably, quoting the French playwright Giraudoux: "Le cheval, comme chacun sait, est la part la plus important du chevalier"…it’s the horse that does all the work. One has to know it can win."
 
“I just want a nice one,” I said.
 
“Celui qui monte sur un tigre ne descend aisément, » replied Didier, in a moralizing tone. 
 
“Exactly!” (He who gets up on a tiger won’t get down easily.)
 
We drove off to Normandy.
 
François was delighted to see us. He had three horses for me to try. There was a burly mare with an impressive derrière.
 
"Quelle moteur," he said, admiringly. But I didn’t know where to find the brake.
 
Another horse was too young. I could imagine flying through the air as he bucked me off. Didier confirmed my sentiments with a shake of his head.
 
The last horse was reliable, pleasant and – well, ugly. And it was white. Not easy to keep clean.
 
François sighed. He shrugged. 
 
“Bring me Gavotte du Loup!” he commanded his young assistant.
 
“Gavotte du Loup?” she asked. 
 
"Oui!" replied Francois, imperiously.
 
In a few minutes, I heard hooves clattering on the cobbles of the stable yard. Gavotte du Loup appeared. A dark, intelligent eye, alertly pricked ears, and a queenly tilt to her head. All one long, slender well-made muscle; a real sport horse. And a dark bay with a floating thoroughbred canter.
 
Gavotte du Loup was racée, just like Azur, and that means a lot in France. Her sire was the famous I Love You, and she shared the same grandfather as Azur. This was the great Almé, bred, born and raised near Château de Courtomer at Brullemail. And as François, under Didier’s approving gaze, went on to tell me, Almé was the most successful son of none other than the mythical Ibrahim.

Ah, Ibrahim! Born in the 1950s on the Cotentin peninsula of Normandy, sold at a local horse fair for un rien, a nothing, he was a founding sire of the Selle français breed, the French sport horse. 
 
“Where would we be today without Ibrahim?” asked François, looking heavenward with what might have been piety, as he pulled out a tattered copy of L'Eperon, the French horse magazine of reference, to read me a snippet of Ibrahim’s eulogy:

"Il arborait un air de bonne race avec une tête bien proportionnée, à l'oeil ouvert, le tout donnant une impression générale de force tranquille...la silhouette qu'il conférait non seulement à ses fils mais surtout à ses filles avait fini par en faire l'archétype du "meilleur normand.""

 A reverent silence fell while I digested these words.

“He had a well-bred air with a well-proportioned head, an open eye, he gave an impression of calm strength of purpose…the conformation, which he conferred not only on his sons but above all on his daughters, created the modern archetype of the “best Norman” horse.” 

I thought over my impression of Gavotte. Indeed, she was very special. And a great-grand-daughter of Ibrahim. As was also said of her great grandsire, she had a back “comme une table.” Comfortable and strong.
 
She did refuse a jump in the arena that day, but I didn’t care; she gave me a good feeling. I could imagine the two of us flying across green meadows and over stone walls and hedges – and staying together.
 
François, Didier and I had lunch after I’d tried Gavotte. I’d already been to see her in her stall. She was standing in the shadows of a corner, lofty and reserved, but still polite. The stable was new to her and I was a human, after all. It’s hard to know how much horses and humans communicate to each other, but I felt I understood Gavotte. After all, I’d been a stranger in a strange land, too.
 
Despite my earnest desire to drive home with Gavotte, I felt a bit of bargaining was called for. After a rich and delicious blanquette de veau, copious red wine, cheese, a fruit tart and coffee, I brought up the subject of price. Didier discreetly vanished outside to make a phone call. 
 
François looked grave. He pursed his lips. He almost tut-tutted. He shook his head, reluctant and a trifle saddened.
 
He really couldn’t reduce the price. After all, he’d practically promised her to another rider. A junior with a promising future in eventing. He hadn’t meant for me to buy Gavotte, just to try out a different type of horse. But he could find me something cheaper. I said nothing, but my eyes must have implored him:
 

“Don’t sell Gavotte to anyone but me!”
"Alors! Je vous propose Sarastro. Pour vos vieux jours, quand vous montez votre élevage." He beamed benevolently.

Pour rectifier le tir, “to straighten the shot” or as we say in less bellicose language, to sweeten the deal, François offered breeding rights with his stallion Sarastro.

When, in my declining years, I was ready to start my own stud, Sarastro would be available as a sire for free. I took the offer.
 
Afterwards, we went to see Sarastro. He was a tall, rangy stallion, almost black, with a long neck that twisted like a cobra as he lunged out at us from over his stall door. François chuckled at his boyish fun, but neither of us went near him.

"Le cheval: le seul animal dans lequel on puisse planter les clous," whispered Didier, as we walked away. "The horse: only animal in which you can pound a nail." A quote from Jules Renard, a 19th-century writer born in Normandy. I didn't quite understand the inference, but I could appreciate the implication. 
 
Although things didn’t work out so well with Sarastro, I never regretted Gavotte. She was a loyal good sport, and the best sport horse I ever owned or rode. Across country, she indeed flew. And she did her best to keep me with her.

       A bientôt,

P.S. This week is the Festival du Cinéma américain in Deauville, an hour and a half from Château de Courtomer. Hommage to  Kirk Douglas, new and classic American films, plus international selections from Cannes, which was cancelled this year. It’ll be a sunny weekend and we’ll be reporting on our visit to this chic and historic seaside town next week.