Florian (29 page)

One day when it had rained and Lovely wanted once more to indulge in one of her peccadillos, she lost her footing on the smooth asphalt and fell. She lay on her side, back down, and began to thrash around like mad. Florian pressed to one side to evade her flying hooves. She did not try to find her footing, or consider for a moment rising; she just stupidly struck out with her legs and actually landed on her white partner. At this moment Schleinzer, who had jumped down from his seat, undid the harness and rescued Florian, otherwise Lovely would certainly have crippled him.

This time Lorenz Schleinzer did not need liquor to stimulate his rage. The mare's behavior was enough. He pulled madly at the reins, once Lovely had regained her feet, and favored her with hissing smacks. She became at once ruly and obedient.

Several strokes fell on the innocent Florian's shoulders and croup. Such pain as he had never known tore into him; and this, together with the feeling of humiliation and injustice, caused him to stamp his hooves in despair and refuse to go on.

Just in time Schleinzer recollected Gruber's counsel. He climbed down hastily and started to stroke Florian's long forehead and nostrils. But Florian reared his head high in the air, stared terrifiedly into the distance, and had to be forced down by his reins.

“There, there,” Schleinzer murmured soothingly, “it wasn't as bad as all that. A miscarriage of justice, let's say. It's nothing at all, at all.”

Mollified, Florian snorted aloud. Nevertheless it happened again, shortly thereafter. Schleinzer was drunk. In causeless wrath he kept on beating the horses, cursing the while with all the vituperative violence only a bad-humored Viennese cabman can muster.

The iron-gray who accompanied Florian this time did his best to satisfy his master. But Florian simply stood immovable. Stroke upon stroke rained down on his back, on his flanks, on his ears. Every inch of his body smarted like a raw wound. His whole body, emaciated by malnutrition, burned with terrible pain. And his soul writhed in humiliation. He did not take a single step forward. He would rather have died than submit to this miserable treatment.

The waiting customers voiced their impatience. Schleinzer was half insane. He beat still harder.

Suddenly Florian rose, stood almost perpendicular for an instant, fell down on his forefeet, took the bit between his teeth, and began to buck. His hooves drummed against the carriage, against the driver's board.

“What kind of a stubborn beast is this?” was asked from inside the carriage. “He ought to be at the knacker's.”

Schleinzer had to give in. Florian pulled once more. But he would never again be reconciled.

Florian was not so young as he had once been. He was close to twenty now—not so old for a stallion of his race, since Lipizzans attain forty and even forty-five. But misery finished him much sooner. He experienced the lot of many, many a man, who after a well-guarded, comfortable existence, is unexpectedly confronted by poverty and despair on the threshold of old age. Accustomed to do his full share of work, if given the proper rest and recreation, life's descent, instead of sparing him, bequeathed him only sorrow, mortification, friendlessness and maltreatment. No moment of rest was his toward the end.

T
HEY'VE GOT TO GIVE US back our estates! God damn them,” Neustift fumed, “they're our property. Our inherited property!”

“Not so loud about property,” Elizabeth admonished him. “These days it isn't any too safe to shout about one's property.”

They were walking along the Herrengasse in the direction of the Michaelerplatz.

“And even if we get our estates back immediately,” she argued, “what are we going to do with them? They are overburdened with debts, they produce nothing. Where shall we get the money to make them productive?”

“Just the same,” Neustift growled, “they are our property. Ours by right!”

Elizabeth laughed. “No. The right belongs to the victor. You were an enemy general.” And as an afterthought: “And anyway—right? Who gives us the right, these days?”

He shook his head gloomily. “Elizabeth, we can't discuss things calmly with each other any longer. Whether you want to or not—opposition makes for opposition.”

“I hope not.” She smiled. “We are bound by so many unforgettable memories. Nothing would be more terrible for me than to find us becoming really opponents. But I am telling you one thing, and I shan't recede one step from that: I will never allow you to implant your attitude in our son. Never. Not another word. Never!”

“And why not?” he demanded. “I want the boy to know loyalty! Loyalty to his origin, to everything that has been. Loyalty!”

Quietly, full of determination, Elizabeth answered: “You are mistaken, my dear. And no mistake is as devastating as a mistake with one's own child.”

“Leopold is no longer a child,” he corrected.

“Adolescent, for all I care.” Her words tumbled out. “Youth, if you want to call it that. So much the worse. So much the more dangerous. You will remain loyal. As it seems, you have to remain loyal, even though it would not be a breach of loyalty to submit before elemental catastrophes. . . . Well, never mind that. Now we are not discussing you. You're suffering enough for your loyalty as it is.”

“I suffer,” he complained, “hellish torment.”

“And that hellish torment you would hand down to your son?” Her voice betrayed nervous excitement. “With the boy it isn't a question of loyalty or disloyalty. He must be spared any conflict with this day. Another, a different world is being born. We don't know it, we don't even guess what's coming. You and I—we submit, or we protest futilely. That's our affair. But my son is young. He can and he must grow into this new world without prejudice, without taking sides. Sides! An inexperienced, unripe youngster. What knowledge, what rectitude, what superiority it takes to judge in such vital things, to side, to find clarity in this chaos!”

“Today,” he retorted, “every schoolboy has his political convictions.”

“Really?” She took that up. “Really? Suddenly you point out today's attitude—which you condemn! Well, I don't condemn it at all, today's attitude. I understand it. I even feel admiration for today. And as a mother I love youth. I want to give it all the freedom possible, every right, every demand which it has by nature. But is this thoroughly political-minded youth responsible for itself? Right? Is it possible that these schoolboys, these twenty-year-old boys, if you will, who know nothing of life, who know nothing of the interrelations, of the development, of the fate of humanity, who have experienced nothing, who have suffered nothing—is it possible that these children represent a firmly grounded conviction? We have watched the bloom and the decay of an empire. We have gone through the débâcle and stand practically helpless in the face of it. And suddenly youth is supposed to know everything better and is supposed to arrive at its own decisions! Instinct? There is no instinct for things of that sort. Not in such a general way. It's the sickness of today and the temptation of those who are easily led into temptation. I do not want my son to grow sick, I do not want him to be led into temptation.”

Neustift changed the subject. “Do you know where I could find Buchowsky?”

“At the Spanish Riding School. There everything is as it was before.” Elizabeth smiled.

“Yes,” he declared, “I heard about that. Lipizza is lost. But they have saved a number of horses, and in Piver, which I believe is somewhere near Graz, they have started a new stud-farm. I wonder whether it will last.”

“Certainly it will,” Elizabeth said confidently. “The Riding School was always crowded. And the Lipizzan stallions were adored!”

“Thank God for that!” Neustift sighed devoutly. “Even if we have gone to the dogs, I am glad something is left of the old magnificence, that something of the old splendor shines in this darkness. They will carry on their beauty, the brave Lipizzans; carry on the fine art of riding, the secrets of pure breeding. There is something good in that. Something good for a time which will never be able to produce anything as perfect.”

L
ORENZ SCHLEINZER HAD LEARNED to drive an automobile and passed the test. Horse teams had become so scarce that people on the street stopped in their tracks and stared at them. Schleinzer drove his car through the streets and was satisfied. Now he was able to take people places faster than ever before. Just step on the gas, and the car flew!

“This is better business,” he observed to himself when hardly a half hour passed before he had another fare.

Florian stood alone in the stable and starved.

The flayer had called for the iron-gray, and Lovely had gone to the butcher.

But Florian somehow still looked impressive and Schleinzer felt an irresistible reluctance to send the Imperial animal to such a horrible end.

“By thunder!” he complained as often as he filled Florian's manger with food. “What the devil am I going to do with this damned nag? Couldn't even get anything for him these days. Not a stinking copper.”

A timely coincidence brought about a solution, brought salvation for Florian.

Schleinzer drove a pair of lovers into the Wienerwald. They didn't want to drive too far out, merely wanted to walk by themselves a bit among the trees, and later to eat together at the Kobenzl. At Sievering Schleinzer passed the last inn, and continued up toward the Hermannskogel. Where the street to Weidling branched off, he took the direction toward Scheinblingstein. He drove and drove.

The pair in the taxi could not make love while riding. The man was a shrewd grafter who had got rich during the inflation. He owned his own car but decided not to use it today, lest his chauffeur talk of this excursion to the servant girl or his valet, and in that fashion relay it to his wife. The girl was a young, rather pretty dancer in a cabaret. She wasn't as yet in the habit of giving herself for money; a meretricious comedy of affection had to be played first.

By the fence of a farmhouse they stopped.

“Wait here,” the gentleman ordered, and helped the girl to alight. “We'll take a little walk and will be back soon.”

Left alone, Schleinzer proceeded to grow bored. He climbed out of the car, stepped across to the gate in the fence, and shouted: “Hallo!” He had to repeat that a few times before a man appeared and asked him what the matter was.

“Can I get something to drink?” Schleinzer asked.

The man replied that he had no license; a glass of milk which he offered was rejected with shudders. The man laughed good-naturedly and invited Schleinzer to come in; he would be glad to give him a glass of schnapps.

They sat together in front of the wide, comfortably squatting farmhouse, and the man, who apparently liked having company, waxed eloquent.

He had been in the war. From the first to the last day. And nothing had happened to him. No wounds. No gas. No sickness. The four years' struggle had had a happy ending for him. For on his return home he had told the woman who lived here about the death of her husband, and had stayed on ever after. First he had helped with the work, and after a few months he had married the widow. He, a poor stableman. He, Karl Wessely, with no hope of being taken back into the Imperial service, since there was no Emperor any longer. What luck.

Now this beautiful farm here belonged to him, Karl Wessely. At least it was as good as his. For, damnation, he was master in the house!

He pointed all around.

Encircling the house was a meadow. Then came a narrow strip of wood, and a second meadow, which sank and rose again like a green wave. From here, the top of the mountain, one had a wonderful view. Far down, swimming in a blue haze, lay the city of Vienna. But Wessely didn't speak of that. And Schleinzer paid no attention to it.

Six cows stood in the barn. Many chickens ran around. Geese were on their way to a narrow rivulet that ran through the fields.