Florian (8 page)

Florian wore a loose headgear decorated around the eyes with laurel twigs. So did the other horses. No bit had been clamped between his teeth. When the Viennese lad had insisted on it, Anton's answer had been short: “No need for that.”

The fellow from Vienna, Wessely was his name, wanted to take the guide rope and lead Florian. But Anton was ahead of him, holding the halter loosely in his hand: “Let me.” Then he gulped and became tongue-tied.

On the way Wessely started a conversation which ended before it really began, since Anton would not answer.

After a while Anton asked: “You . . . ?” He halted, and added falteringly: “Tell me . . . how is it in Vienna?”

The description of the Imperial Stables Wessely gave, he didn't hear. All his thoughts, his feelings circled constantly and entirely around one fact: “Now I still lead Florian . . . and tomorrow he is here no more . . . nor the day after . . . never again.” This “never again” he simply could not fathom, the more since Florian, milk-white, dazzling, still walked at his elbow and whinnied every now and then. Deep down Anton knew that this striding, this dancing, this gliding was a going away . . . far away . . . forever. . . .

Anton examined the boxcar as a father examines his son's dormitory in a strange boarding school.

Wessely laughed. “It's just as clean here as in the stables in Vienna.”

He didn't get a response. Anton was too sad, too depressed to find a word of praise for the cleanliness of the boxcar, the abundance of clean straw and oats and water. He stepped into the open door and said softly: “Come.” And much to Wessely's surprise, Florian ran up the narrow gangplank. Bosco came along and stretched comfortably in the straw.

“What else do you want now?” Wessely asked.

Anton paid no heed. He held Florian in a close embrace. “Florian,” he whispered, “my Florian . . . good-bye . . . good-bye.” Again and again the same words: “Good-bye, Florian . . . good-bye.”

“Get out of here!” Wessely cried in exasperation. “We're pulling out.”

It came like a dagger thrust. To be torn from Florian! Anton paid no attention to Wessely; he looked once more at this beautiful soft creature whose white body seemed to fill the boxcar with light. “Well, Florian,” he whispered without touching him, “don't forget me. Do you hear?”

The runway was withdrawn. With a loud metallic clatter of the coupling joints the car lurched. Anton jumped down.

“There's your dog,” Wessely shouted, and flung Bosco out. Anton just managed to catch the yowling terrier. The train rolled faster and faster into the dusk of the landscape.

Anton visioned Florian's astonished face, the last helpless glance of surprise in the large dewy eyes.

Bosco whimpered forlornly. Anton could not quiet him. The terrier refused to budge and had to be carried away.

“Quiet, Bosco,” Anton tried to console him on the way home. “There's nothing to be done about it.” He pressed the dog against his chest, suffered him to lick his face pleadingly, helplessly, and felt like crying himself. “Be sensible, Bosco. Gone is gone.”

That night the stableman, Anton Pointner, sat in the inn for the first time. For the first time he drank, and drank heavily. Bosco lay on the bench by his side, his nozzle thrust between his master's knees. As often as he whimpered or yowled, Anton clutched his glass and downed a big draught.

Opposite him sat the stableman, Franz, and leered. The others sitting at the neighboring tables nodded encouragingly to Franz. Anton did not notice. He saw nobody and nothing around him. He kept on staring into his beer mug or into the thick smoke of the room. If his glass was empty he motioned the waiter to refill it.

“Why, there's Anton!” Franz exclaimed, feigning delighted surprise. “Anton . . . what a rare guest. Tell me, how did you get here?”

Silence.

“Why don't you say something? Aren't you going to bed?”

Silence.

“Look at the fellow—how he can drink! Like a fish. Well . . . I'd never have thought he could guzzle like that.”

Silence.

“Well, sure, of course . . . he hears nothing and sees nothing. He's got to drown his sorrow over Florian. Florian's left him.”

Anton leaned across and lifted his fist. Like a hammer it fell on his tormentor's head. Franz sagged. His chin hit the table.

“Shut up!” said Anton, gnashing his teeth.

Franz stumbled to his feet, rubbed his head and changed his seat. Nobody in the room said a word.

E
ARLY NEXT MORNING THE SPECIAL train drew into the Südbahnhof in Vienna. The nine horses were detrained. Wrapped in warm flannel blankets they stood ready. The night journey had shaken them up. This strange new world disturbed them, but they all remained tranquil and patient.

All, that is, except Florian. In a near frenzy he stamped, lashed his luxuriant tail, reared his head high, and neighed again and again.

He sought Anton. He waited for Bosco. In vain.

Abruptly he gave in, with the instinct of his breed for obedience at all times and in all circumstances. His heart was still with Anton, and he was wracked by longing for Bosco's diverting antics. But he permitted Wessely to lead him by the halter-cord, and submitted to the cold steely bit between his teeth.

The streets were still barely awake.

Stony streets between stony rows of houses were a novelty to Florian. Intently he looked from side to side, his nostrils telling him of the existence of many strange horses in this strange stony world; the innumerable other smells he caught he did not recognize.

A milk-wagon clattered by over the cobblestones. Two scrawny sorrels clop-clopped unrhythmically, pulling it.

Relatives! Florian had an impulse to greet them with a loud neigh. But they looked too shabby. Their eyes were hidden behind black leather blinders. Plodding along so mechanically, they seemed of a different race to their noble kinsman.

Florian snorted and began to curvet.

Slowly, puffing and panting, two heavy Pinzgauers passed dragging a mountainous load of brick. They stepped deliberately and heavily, putting one foot down before the other. Sparks shot from under their shoes.

Florian flicked his ears and settled down to a leisurely gait.

At a light smooth trot, cabs rolled by. It was pleasant to hear the even hoofbeats come closer, thunder by and die away in the distance. Fiacres!

Here and there trees and bushes rustled and nodded in small grassy areas. But to Florian's mild surprise and dismay nobody noticed them or visited them. When they crossed the Ring, he was tremendously bewildered by the spectacle of long red carriages, strung together in twos and threes, which ran by without horses to pull them, all by themselves!

They wended their way through a narrow street which, farther on, nestled close to a wide open square; and came into the shadow of a squat archway, making through a door into a small court. The scent of horses, fresh and pungent, the smell of straw, hay, oats, pinched their nostrils. They were at their goal.

Florian had all the time expected to find Anton awaiting him there, expected Bosco to rush at him with a hymn of joy. Neither Anton nor Bosco was there.

Led into his stall, combed down and brushed by Wessely, Florian ate scarcely a mouthful of oats, took a few hasty sips of water from the brown marble trough, turned away from the crib, pressed his head against the grating which closed him in, looked and listened to every side, wiggled his ears at every footfall he heard.

Anton . . . Bosco . . . Where are you? The open spaces . . . the free and easy play . . . the couch of warm grass . . . the caressing, warming sun . . . where is all that? Where? But above and before all else; Anton and the little dog!

Gone, overnight!

I
N THE SPANISH RIDING SCHOOL they are working the young stallions. The Emperor's equerry, that Excellency who came to Lipizza to make his selections, watches the proceedings. With him are Captain von Neustift and his wife, Elizabeth.

The riding master, Ennsbauer, takes one horse after another on the longe.

But Florian is not present.

“What do you say about Florian, your Excellency?” Elizabeth presses the question.

The equerry brushes his hand nervously over his short gray mustache. “We'll see . . . Perhaps he'll come around. . . .”

“Perhaps!” Elizabeth cries, almost offended.

“Yes. Perhaps.”

This agitates the countess. “Something must have happened to Florian. I cannot understand it.”

“It's quite a puzzle to me, too,” his Excellency replies. “Obviously something has happened to him. But what?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Nobody knows.”

Neustift joins in the conversation. “My wife wanted very much to have Florian . . . very much. It was almost an obsession with her. I was ready to pay any price for him . . .”

“Too bad,” says the equerry. “Too bad, Countess, that you did not get the horse. Now he is
of course
not for sale. I'd rather see him die. Too bad.”

Sadly Elizabeth replies: “A puzzle. Quite a puzzle.”

Neustift adds: “Florian was the nicest foal of the whole lot. Handsome. And in splendid condition.”

“He is losing his beauty,” the older man reveals, “and from day to day he is in poorer condition. I fear the famous Florian is going to be a bitter disappointment. Isn't that so, Ennsbauer?”

Ennsbauer nods and calls back: “A colossal disappointment.”

“May we see him?” asks Neustift.

“Why, certainly.”

The three walk over to the stable.

Florian stands forlornly in his stall.

“He has lost weight,” Neustift observes, shocked.

“Naturally,” Wessely speaks up, disgruntled. “He is off his feed.”

“Sick?” Elizabeth inquires anxiously.

“Not at all.” Wessely stops his work, losing his temper altogether. “Absolutely healthy, the vet says.”

Elizabeth opens the door. “Florian,” she calls, “Florian!”

The stallion, who has stood in his corner with bowed head, slowly cranes his neck and peers around.

“Come here to me . . . come,” Elizabeth beckons.

Florian takes a few steps toward her. His once luminous eyes are dull and wear a sorrowful, blurred expression. He sniffs at the young woman, then at Neustift, and snorts.

“Not really,” Neustift says. “He recognizes us.”

From Elizabeth's palm Florian kisses away a piece of sugar. She strokes his nose and his upper lip.

“Poor Florian,” she whispers, “you would have had things nicer with us. We wanted to take Anton, too. . . .”

Florian's ears tilt forward.

“Anton,” the captain repeats, “Anton and Bosco.”

Florian thrusts his head up, his ears play, his dark eyes dart forth joyous glints of light.

“Anton and Bosco . . . Anton and Bosco . . . Anton and Bosco . . .” Neustift and Elizabeth pronounce the names together, speaking softly in chorus. And Florian livens up, more and more.

Triumphantly Elizabeth turns to the equerry. “That's it! He is lonely, our Florian.”

And the equerry answers with an indulgent smile: “If that's all it is, it can easily be cured.”

As they are leaving the stable, Florian attempts to follow them, and has to be shoved back into his stall.

“How touching!” Neustift philosophizes. “Too bad such an animal cannot speak.”

“He has spoken, our Florian,” his wife corrects him. “He has spoken quite clearly.”