DEAR MAMA,--My last letter was from Dinard, where I was nestling in the
bosom of my family and enjoying the repose and the rest that family bosoms
alone can give. I told you of my intention to visit Helen at her place on
the Rhine, and here I am enjoying another kind of rest: the rest of my
income.
Paul is at present Minister in Madrid; Helen and I lead a very quiet life.
Driving to Wiesbaden to see the Nassaus and other friends is our favorite
occupation. We linger in the shady walks of the park, look in at the
gambling-rooms, sometimes we go to the races, and always come home tired.
And then, how we enjoy the garden and the beautiful view over the Rhine!
Some days we go out riding in the lovely forest, which leads to the most
prettily situated little "bad" place in the world--Schlangenbad.
Helen has in her stables three horses, two of which are the "fat ponies"
and the third is the war-horse that Paul used in the French-German
campaign. We take the war horse in turn, as he has to be exercised. When
it is my day I shudder at the thought of it. Riding is not my strong
point; in fact, it is my weakest point, and I feel that I am not at all in
my element; and when I see the tall beast being led up to the door, and I
know that at a given moment I am to be fired up on to his back, my heart
sinks. He has a gentle way with him which makes the process of getting on
him extremely difficult. Just as my foot is in the groom's hand, and I say
one--two--three, and am in midair, the horse moves gently to one side, and
I either land on the hard pommel or, more often, I fill an empty space
between the horse and the groom, which is awkward. However, when, after
repeated efforts, I _do_ manage to hit the saddle on the right place
I stick there.
He is full of fancies--this horse--and reminiscences, and sometimes gets
the idea into his head that he hears the bugle-call to arms. Then off he
goes to join his imaginary companions, and charges the trees or anything
that occurs to him, and nothing on earth can stop him, certainly nothing
on his back can. My hair comes down and my hat flies off, and I feel I am
not doing the _haute école_ in proper style. Fortunately Helen and I
are alone, and as the war-horse is miles in front of the "fat pony," she
does not see the _école_ I am doing, and I rather enjoy the wild way we
career over space. I do not attempt to guide his martial steps, but let
him come into camp when he feels inclined.
The groom is never surprised if I come an hour too late. I fancy he knows
what I have gone through: brambles, branches, and--agony.