Florian (30 page)

Wessely delivered milk to the city; butter, eggs, and now and then fowl.

Shrewdly Schleinzer asked how these deliveries were made.

Well, by God, Wessely confessed, before the war there had been a horse on the place. They still had the cart. But now the innkeeper next door undertook to deliver to market. Not regularly, though.

Schleinzer began: “I've got a horse I can't use no more. A hell of a fine horse. A Lipizzan. Cheap, I'll tell you, a real bargain.”

Wessely looked baffled. “A Lipizzan?”

“And a genuine one, too,” Schleinzer emphasized. “A stallion. You know, it once pulled the carriage of Emperor Franz Joseph!”

Wessely sprang to his feet and shouted into the house: “Mali! Mali! Come quick!”

A thin wizened woman, prematurely old, appeared and stared suspiciously at Schleinzer. When she had heard the offer she insisted on seeing the horse first.

Wessely described the Lipizzans, told many tales, pointed out the advantages that would accrue from driving daily down to the market in Vienna.

Frau Mali admitted that a horse was desirable. “But it's got to be healthy.”

“The horse is all right,” Schleinzer said dryly.

“Well, then,” said Mali, who seemed to be in love with her husband and doted on him, “all right. You know something about horses, go and look the beast over.”

Thus Florian became the property of the couple, Karl and Amalia Wessely.

When Wessely brought him home he knew, of course, that it was Florian, the admired, the renowned Florian, once the pride of the Spanish Riding School. Wessely exhibited Florian to his wife as one does an impoverished prince or a genius gone to the dogs—a prince, even though impoverished; and, though gone to the dogs, a genius.

Florian stood on the grass and inhaled the smell of the verdure, the scent of the wood. Again he was offered kind words, was gently stroked again . . . after a long, long time.

A feeling of happiness stirred timidly in his heart. His head rose, his beautiful neck regained a bit, a wee bit, of the proud stiff curve of yore. The bottomless pools of his eyes, which had been full of despair and fear, once more shone with a joyous light.

Gratefully he accepted the large chunks of bread which Frau Mali gave him, kissed each piece daintily out of her calloused hand. He was hungry. He didn't think of sugar. It was so long since anyone had given him sugar. And Frau Mali didn't even think of offering him sugar.

Karl Wessely couldn't say enough in Florian's praise.

“Mali,” he cried, time and again, “that's Florian! And he belongs to us now. You don't know what that means. . . . Florian! Understand? Florian!”

But then he put Florian in the cowshed. He didn't have any other place for him.

Now Florian trotted down to the city every morning. Not into the elegant sections, nor through the magnificent streets he knew; he reached only their periphery. To Ottakring or Hernals. There the milk, the butter and the eggs found their purchasers. Florian pulled the cart on which the tin cans clanked. The high, stout, iron-rimmed wheels rattled deafeningly on the cobblestones. Harnessed to a shaft meant for two horses, the harness itself shabby, Florian and the cart made an incongruous sight.

Nor did Florian have the noble bearing of long ago, when Ennsbauer had ridden him or Konrad Gruber driven him. The privations of the war years, of the years following the war, the heavy work and the evil treatment he had endured at the brutal hands of the cabman Schleinzer, had slackened his resilient nature, had blunted his sensitive instincts.

Wessely was nevertheless inordinately proud to have a horse of Florian's rank. He would never have dared to dream of possessing such aristocratic property, he who belonged to those people favored by the upheaval. But in spite of his satisfaction and in spite of his innate respect for Florian, he beat the noble animal now and then, without rhyme or reason, simply because he held a whip in his hand. That Florian had to live in the cowshed was not Wessely's fault; he had no better quarters to offer him.

Florian accepted everything, even the whippings. As first he protested, meekly, without tantrums. But even this he gave up. He trotted to the market-place and patiently stood around in the midst of many other carts and horses for hours. The company was really what tormented him most. They were more unpleasant to him than the cows. The cows remained strangers, and in their doltish fashion were even companionable. These horses, however, were relatives. And he who was accustomed to the very best-mannered relatives and comrades, he who had been reared in an atmosphere of luxury and noble refinement, suffered because of the hatred, the coarseness and the low attitude of his present companions. They were all hard-worked, badly nourished, constantly irritated by torments of the most horrendous kind. They gave their utmost without thanks or recognition. They were in a state of embitterment brought on by misery and envy. They who had never been shown pity, constantly held Florian's noble past up to him, cursed his lineage, mocked him because he was as low as they. Florian had no answer for them and remained aloof and unresponsive. His unhappy suffering silence was interpreted as conceit. With every movement of their heads and their ears, with all the pawing of their hooves and the mute vulgarity of their language, they hurled abuse at him.

On the way home Florian always breathed more freely. He was rid of his persecutors and defamers, and soon forgot the unearned taunts and offenses. He was no longer nauseated by the hundredfold noisome smells of the market. When the road led up-hill through the woods, he was permitted to walk, and then he imbibed the scent of the meadows, of the foliage, and a zephyr of hope always blew refreshingly through his soul.

The rest of the day and all night long he stood with the cows. He suffocated from their smell, and hated to inhale the steam that rose from their dung. He accustomed himself only slowly to the green fodder, to the sour hay that was put before him.

There was a big, black, hairy dog of indeterminate breed on the farm. His name was Nero. During the day he lay on his chain. During the night he roamed around the house and kept watch.

Florian made a bid for his friendship. He thought of Bosco, and the poignant memory conjured up a picture of Anton. But Nero took no interest in horses, and kept his distance.

In his loneliness, Florian never ceased to ruminate over the past. Where had Bosco gone? And why had Anton disappeared? What had become of his staunch comrades, of the magnificent stables, of the luxurious existence he had once known? How had he got here among cows? What had he done to have to lead such an ugly dreary existence? These thoughts did not etch themselves clearly in his mind. They floated like clouds, like vaporous pictures, foggily by.

A long time passed.

One day Wessely asked his wife: “Now that we've got the truck, what are we to do with Florian?”

Mali replied dryly: “He'll go to the butcher, or to the flayer.”

Wessely voiced his dismay. “To the butcher! But he's still quite all right. Why, Mali! A horse that has belonged to the Emperor. . . .” He looked at her helplessly.

“I don't care,” Mali decided. “Keep him. He doesn't cost much. What he eats does not mean much.”

Wessely laughed. “You're right. That little food doesn't matter at all.”

A
LATE SUMMER EVENING. FROM the mountaintop through the green wood comes a man. He reaches the road at the foot of the ascent, the road that stretches down toward Sievering and thence on to the capital.

Here on the road between the trees there still lingers a trace of the dying day.

The man walks erect. His slenderness is somewhat gnarled, shriveled. He has grown old too soon, though he is no longer young. But if his appearance is that of an old man his carriage and his firm gait disaffirm it. He wears clothes of faded elegance; they are visibly worn and betray the attentive care that people grown poor devote to their wearing apparel.

Wessely stands before the latticed door of his farm, his eyes fixed on the solitary wanderer. As the man comes close, Wessely cries out:

“Oh, Herr General! My compliments!”

The man stops in his tracks. “You know me?” he asks sternly.

“Why, of course!” Wessely is glad-faced and full of excitement. “Oh, of course, I know General von Neustift.”

“From war days?” Neustift asks.

“From war days, too,” says Wessely stiffening to attention. “And from long before. At that time you were Major, and adjutant to his Majesty.”

Neustift's stern face relaxes. The expression, “his Majesty,” has placated him. “And now you have a job here?” he inquires.

“A job?” Wessely laughs happily. “I am the owner.”

“Really?” Neustift is disinterested. “Well, good evening,” and starts to go on.

Wessely steps into his path. “May I take the liberty . . . Excuse me, your Excellency, I would like to have the honor to have the General as my guest. . . .”

“Thank you,” Neustift declines. “I've got to get home.”

But Wessely detects the indecision in his answer. “Herr General,” he pleads, “a coincidence like this . . . after these many years. . . . I am so happy. . . . You would do that to me—just walk by?”

“It's almost night,” the older man protests.

“Not by a long shot,” Wessely insists, his voice overflowing with veneration. He is anxious to show his home. “Back of the house I have a nice little spot, really very nice . . . on the grass. . . . If the General would do me the honor . . .” The words tumble over one another. “The General will surely like it . . . and it will do him good . . . to rest . . . and a glass of fresh milk. . . .”

Neustift admits to himself that he is tempted to rest a while and quaff a refreshing drink.

Before long he is actually seated on the rustic bench before a rough table, has his milk, and even a mouthful of bread. Wessely and old Mali soon notice that he wants to be alone, and they slip away.

Around him is the pulsating quiescence of the dusk. Crickets chirp shrilly. Bats wing noiselessly under the wide sky which has gradually turned gray.

Neustift closes his eyes. He is tired. Tired of the journey, tired of worries, and tired of his unsoftened bitterness. His head nods.

Suddenly he straightens up, for a warm breath has blown upon his neck. By him stands a white horse.

Neustift is startled. He hasn't heard the horse approach and hasn't had a glimpse of the animal till now. Yet there the white horse stands, close by him, stretches his neck and sniffs at Neustift's face and hands, confidently, sweetly.

“What is it you want?” Neustift murmurs. “Oh, the bread. . . . Yes, yes. . . . That you shall have. Gladly.”

He breaks off a piece and holds it out on his palm. As the white horse takes the proffered bread with, careful lips, a phrase rushes through Neustift's mind: “Just like a kiss.”

He holds out another piece of bread, and as the soft velvety lips again kiss his palms, he suddenly says: “Florian.”

The ears of the white horse come forward, small, delicate ears.

“Florian,” Neustift repeats, “Florian.”

Florian raises his head.

Neustift stares into the mirror-clear eyes which suddenly become dewy.

Neustift rises. “Dear Florian,” he whispers, “old friend . . .”

Florian snorts and his lips quiver with his escaping breath. And then Neustift realizes that Florian's lower lip is not closed, that it has become limp and sags a little.

“Poor fellow,” he says, “you've grown old, too.”

He strokes the forehead, the neck, the back.

“I was there, in Lipizza, when you were born.” He caresses him tenderly. “That was a different world, an entirely different world. And yet it seems to me as if it weren't so long ago, after all . . . as if it had been the day before yesterday, or two or three weeks ago. . . .”

He smiles. “What have I gone through since then . . . and you, old Florian.” He continues to smile, “Old Florian . . . how strange! Yes, my dear Florian, what we men call time has something strange about it.” He pats Florian's shoulder. “Something droll and cruel.”

Florian enjoys the patting hand, holds his head bent. His ears play, drinking in what is being said to him. But it is the consolation they really drink in, the sympathy. For as he sniffs at Neustift he remembers, not clearly, yet unerringly, that this is a man from the strangely vanished past for which he is forever longing. In misty pictures the past rises before him. Neustift embraces Florian, takes his lowered head in his encircling arms. Florian nestles contentedly against his breast.

“We two,” Neustift says in his ear, “what have we been? Once upon a time. Once! Now we are through, we two. Nobody needs us any longer. And we mean nothing. We are through, you and I. . . .”

How he would have loved to hear a word, one single word from Florian. He is so close to him, feels so bound to him through their like fate. The bond between him and Florian he has known with no other creature for years. But the secret door which divides man and beast never opens, no matter how longingly they beat against it.