The American eye...how I became an "éleveur" of French horses in France

Chère amie, cher ami,

For the past couple of weeks, I've been off-line while on a trip to visit my family...and various horses. Recently, we had a new arrival, a filly named Nanking de Courtomer.

Quelle joie!
 
Later, I went to see young Finn... 
 
Hélas!
 
...and to ride four-year-old India. Both these youngsters, half-siblings to Nanking, are in training.

**
 
“We wouldn’t want him to go feral,” said Louise, with a doubtful glance at Finn. He was staring out the window of his box stall, switching his silvery grey tail. He swung around and snuffed loudly, popped his ears forward, and looked toward me. He stretched out his lips playfully.
 
But there were no treats for Finn.
 
Not having seen Finn for several months, I had arrived at the stables equipped for a ride. But moments earlier he had torn off a front shoe and part of his hoof while galloping and bucking across a field.
 
“We thought he’d better get some exercise before you rode him,” explained Louise. “I’m sorry about the foot.”
 
We all looked glumly at Finn.
 
Another shoe can’t be fitted until the hoof wall grows back. Stall rest is recommended. But inactivity is problematic for Finn. The gelding has du tempérament. 
 
Worse, he has been slightly lame for two months. A contract of sale as a hunter-jumper to a rider in Florida fell through in April. We were trying to ride him back to shape and tempt another buyer.

Finn was born 7 years ago, bred from the daughter of my first mare, the beloved and much-regretted Gavotte. His father, grandfathers and great-grandfathers are famous stallions. Based on his personal beauty, bloodlines and early jumping ability, Finn always seemed destined for fine things. 
 
Meanwhile, his half-sister, not quite five, should also have a bright future. These days, though, she is learning to concentrate and put her feet in the right place when jumping. Valérie, her trainer, warned me to be careful going into a canter. 
 
“She stiffens her back, especially on the left.”
 
Code for bucking!
 
I prudently rode her at the trot. Once she stopped throwing up her head to look eagerly at the passing scene, she settled into a balanced, rolling gait. But that stiff back... if it’s caused by some permanent problem, it’s a cloud on her bright horizon. 

India is also a grandchild of Gavotte. Her father, who belonged to me, died last year at the ripe age of 23, having spent two-thirds of his life in retirement.
 
Once, Keywest was a rising star. At age 3, he was judged “best Anglo-Arab stallion” at the Haras de Pompadour in France. He was a top-ranked eventer for the first year I owned him. Then, his career was over. He chipped a bone in his hock and never recovered.
 
Meanwhile, Finn and India have another sister, Katia. I proudly showed a picture to Valérie.
 
“That eye,” she said dubiously, ignoring the beautiful dapple-grey coat and brightly perked ears. 
 
Katia, like Finn, has a touch of what the French call “l’oeil américain.” The “American eye” is a funny sidelong look. It indicates du tempérament.
 
My career as a breeder of horses has not been all that I lightheartedly expected.
 
I am an “éleveur” by accident. Several years ago, my riding teacher in Paris seized on my passion for horses and the fact that I had pastures in the country. He sold me his old broodmare.
 
“Vous êtes eleveur!” Didier had exclaimed, unloading her from the truck.
 
Bye Bye Love was a dainty, dark-bay thoroughbred, bred for the track. Attempted réforme as a jumper had ended quickly. Didier next tried breeding her. Now, he was tired of her, tired of paying her monthly pension, and tired of raising her colts. We could ride her on weekends in the country, he said.
 
Bye Bye had other ideas. I saddled her up. As we approached the gate of the Chateau, she reared up on her hind legs and tried to walk back to the stables.
 
“Aha!” chuckled Didier. 
 
“She can walk a serpentine on two legs!” he said admiringly.
 
Eventually, Bye Bye and I worked out an agreement. But I couldn’t let the children ride her.
 
So like Didier, I fell into l'élevage, horse-breeding. No-one other than Monsieur, my husband, tried to stop me.

Châtelain rîme avec polain! jested Didier. Chatelain rhymes with foal.

I had the chance to breed Bye Bye to a stallion. The foal was named Quote d’Azur as a tribute to my noble, dear and first Selle Français, Azur. Quote’s father was a dark bay stallion called Sarastro.
 
“Watch out, he bites,” warned his groom, when I went to see this prospective parent. The stallion’s eyes bulged and his nostrils were distended like the barrels of a shotgun. His head wove to and fro, hydra-like. 
 
Sarastro did not seem very happy, I observed tentatively. The groom shrugged.
 
But Didier was friends with his owner. I had free breeding rights. Also, Sarastro had been a Grand Prix jumper. And, as his owner urged, he descended from the “père de race” Nithard on his mother’s side and the fabled Nasrullah on his father’s.
 
Nithard, born in France in 1948, sired show-jumping winners for generations. He was one of the founding fathers of the Anglo-Arab breed. 
 
Nasrullah, born in 1940, had taken the British racing world by storm. Bred in Ireland, owned by the Aga Khan, he was the top-rated 2-year-old colt on the track in 1942. Gordon Richards, often considered the greatest jockey of all time, rode him. Very quickly, Nasrullah’s “temperament compromised his racing career.” He’d misbehave all the way to the starting box, bolt down the track, and then lose interest. Nonetheless, Nasrullah became one of the 20th century’s most successful sires.

Sarastro, unfortunately, had inherited Nasrullah’s imperious tempérament but not his breeding success. While I bred Bye Bye Love to him, his owner was waging a last-ditch campaign to revive interest in the stallion. When I went to see my little Quote compete as a 4-year-old, I understood why interest might wane. The horse galloped out of the cross-country starting box and then stopped short at the first log. The rider flew over his shoulder. Quote was skittish. When the trainer had fallen off too many times, he sold poor little Quote for 900 euros.
 
“I was afraid you’d ride him,” he explained, brushing off my concern about Quote’s fate.
 
“Sarastro!” he added and shook his head in scorn.
 
Soon thereafter, Bye Bye Love died of old age. I forgot about being an “éleveur.” I forgot the lesson I might have learned, too.
 
Then, a few years later, Gavotte was badly injured. 
 
“Let her be a broodmare,” my vet consoled me. Gavotte gave birth to a filly to which I gave the hopeful name, “Victoire.” Unlike her cool-headed mother, Victoire had so much tempérament that she was never ridden at all. She must take after her father, reflected the véto.
 
“Know the breed, know the dog,” my grandfather once advised me. 
 
I had been about to acquire a Chesapeake Bay retriever. The Chesapeake has a mean streak, said my grandfather, frowning darkly.
 
But nor do glorious bloodlines guarantee progeny of glory. The qualities that make a successful horse in competition aren’t necessarily transmitted to its offspring.

Curious, I had a look at Sarastro’s results as a sire. Sure enough, he was listed as “médiocre.” No wonder he was bad-tempered.

L’espoir fait vivre, says the French proverb. Hope gives life.

On May 1, Finn, India, and Katia had another half-sister, Nanking de Courtomer.And what a beauty she is! Long-legged, graceful, balanced, strong...

Her father is none other than Conte Bellini, owned by the Haras du Bois Margot. This illustrious stud is just down the road from Courtomer at Le Pin. Conte Bellini was a five-star show jumper in his youth and prime. His ancestors were equally extraordinary. And, say his owners, he’s got “le caractère en or” --  a golden temperament!

Nevertheless, Nanking will be the last of my home-bred foals. J’espère! 

I hope. Perhaps Nanking has inherited the vaunted “regard doux” – the kind eye – of her father. 

A bientôt,

Elisabeth