If anything of grace and beauty is to survive man's passion for functional perfection, it may well be the famed race courses or another day. Just as it did Snow White's wicked stepmother, the search for beauty fascinates us all, and among racetracks the competition is fierce: California's Santa Anita, with its backdrop or purple mountains; gracious Saratoga, at ease in the shade or stately elms; England's bucolic Goodwood, sprawling among the Sussex hills; Australia's spacious, beflowered Flemington. Our mirror, however, reflects Chantilly, an hour's drive from Paris—Chantilly, with its verdant turf, its winding gallops through the birches, lindens and oaks of the ancient forest, its Renaissance ch√¢teau. Chantilly has been the seat of classical French racing since 1830, a place which every summer attracts those people who love beauty and good racing. Chantilly, we feel, is the fairest of them all.
With the ch√¢teau as backdrop, restive horses and jockeys await the start
A horse takes a long lead into the woods
Under vivid sun umbrellas, some linger over strawberries and champagne
June 7, 1964
But the race is the thing; here the horses are rounding tne ch√¢teau turn