_Louisville, Ky.,
April._
Such a wonderful trip as we have had on the train! We are now in the
land of the clayeaters, moonshine, and mountain feuds, in the region
of blue grass, fast horses, and pretty women. Every man is a colonel
and every woman a cousin. Our days are filled with hearty handshakes
and racy stories, our mouths cooled with mint juleps in silver frosted
cups, and our appetites satisfied with beaten biscuits and other
delicious Southern dishes.
Sports from all over the country have gathered here for the great
Derby--forty thousand or more were at the races--such a mixed crowd,
men in checked suits, painted ladies, blacks, whites, all together.
First we watched them making bets, then we strolled into the paddock
to see the race-horses being led round and round in an enclosed ring,
covered with blankets so that only their beautiful heads and bandaged
legs could be seen. Each one had his pony or stable companion, as he
is called. We hung over the railing and I did love it. Such a variety
of names the horses had--By Golly, Up Shot, Bungo Buck. The great race
we watched from a box in the grand stand. There was much excitement,
cheering, clapping, and money changing hands. On came the horses round
the track, faster and faster, till Speed Limit unexpectedly won the
race, leaving some people very sad and others wildly hilarious.
Checkers has won--not money on the races--but something else. And
what? A girl! Guess if you can--Sybil! ! ! And she is the dearest girl
in the world. Checkers is in kingdom come; he declares, “She’s as
pretty as a pair of pink boots and as enticing as a glass of Kentucky
moonshine. I can go to the races and lose; I can pick a horse with
nothing but a mane and a tail; can’t pick a clown in a circus, but I
can pick a blue-eyed doll all right!”
How did he ever do it? Why, those two scamps pretended, just to amuse
each other and everybody else, to have a mock engagement--Checkers
called it a “trial hitch.” He says it worked like magic and they’re
onto it for all time and that you must give him “the glad hand.” But
oh, how unexpected for the rest of us--they’ve known each other for
years. Seeing them so happy together makes me very lonely, A. D. I am
glad to hear the new secretary has started over.
The house where we are staying is quite beautiful--of gray stone built
in the château style, surrounded by formal gardens and terraces with
fountains and statues. Mrs. Courtney serves mint juleps every
afternoon in the gallery where superb tapestries hang on the walls,
and the enormous stone fireplace has logs as big as trees burning in
it. The German Ambassador, an old friend of Boris’, by the way, is
here, and also some racing swells.
Boris and I took a walk in the garden today and he pretended to tell
me the story of his life, how his father was a Russian, his mother a
German countess,--how he had lived in St. Petersburg till his father
died,--how (and then he became vague), he wandered from place to
place, but perhaps you know all this. He is passionately fond of
horses, “me much Cossack” he said, whereupon I proposed a ride.
My mare pulled a good deal and Boris tightened the bit, but as we
galloped along, both our mounts became excited and went faster and
faster. Nearing a sharp corner, I sang out a warning to the Prince who
was just behind. Then, suddenly his horse stumbled and fell. My mare
stopped for I turned off the road into a brook. Looking back, I saw
Boris lying on the ground very still, the horse standing by.
The terrifying thought swept over me that he had been killed and it
was my fault, but he was only stunned and his face considerably cut
and scratched. Though pretty well knocked out, Boris was game enough
to mount again, so back we rode. He is going to wear a scar, but says
it is nothing to the wound I have made on a more vital organ. Rather
neat, don’t you think so? Of course I have to be extra sweet to him on
account of the accident.
We had great fun at dinner, just a series of jokes and laughs.
Afterwards Mrs. Courtney went to the piano and we danced and danced
till the clock struck twelve. The whole house is like fairyland, it is
so wonderful, and oh, there’s a winding secret stairway that is very
mysterious. I can’t make out where it comes from or where it goes, but
in one place Mrs. Courtney can suddenly emerge into the library by
slipping back a concealed panel. The Prince is greatly intrigued with
it; I surprised him as he was trying to make a diagram of its
wanderings.
Aunt is still adamant against our marriage. She says I’m to wait till
we return to New York before even talking wedding or dreaming of
setting a date. But she doesn’t know what I’ve done! And that is,
I’ve despatched you a cablegram, suggesting the thirty-first of May,
tra-la! And added Checkers’ news. No more tonight, for I’m sleepy,
dear.
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