Florian (9 page)

I
N A FEW DAYS ANTON arrived.

When he received orders to proceed at once to the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, Anton was not surprised. It struck him as no more than natural that Florian should send for him. Whatever Florian wanted had to happen. Nothing in the world could be simpler.

Anton packed his belongings. He told Bosco that they were leaving together to go to Florian, and would have sworn that Bosco understood.

During the train ride he sat bolt upright and didn't shut an eye all night long. For the first few hours the dog sat upright by his side, but in the end he curled up comfortably on the hard wooden seat and slept until morning. Anton tenderly laid his arm across the terrier's neck, his hand resting on the lean flank.

In Vienna, Anton, his bundle on his shoulder, and accompanied by his dog, marched stolidly from the station to the Spanish Riding School. It was the first time in his life that he found himself in the great, rich, beautiful capital; yet he paid no attention. He had to ask his way, stopped a few passersby to get information. But in reality he virtually guessed where he had to go.

A battalion of infantry, parading back from the Prater, barred his passage along the Schwarzenbergplatz. He waited without growing impatient, and instead of watching the soldiers on their musical way, he stood transfixed, staring up at the bronze horse of the monument that dominated the square. “He is far more beautiful,” he said to Bosco. The terrier did not disagree.

When at length he was able to proceed, he said repeatedly, “Quiet . . . wait . . . we'll be there in no time. Not so fast.” Once he even bent down and spoke to the terrier: “Don't be in such a hurry. Haven't we stood it for two months? We'll stand it another half hour.”

Bosco could not repress his nervous impatience and became more unruly from minute to minute. His tongue hung out of his gaping mouth. He panted, tugged at the leash Anton had been forced to put on him. His master could not tell whether it was the trundling tram-cars along the boulevards that put the dog in such a feverish state, or the knowledge of the imminent reunion, or both.

Beyond the narrow Augustinerstrasse the Josephsplatz spread its monumental expanse. Anton showed no interest. He did not waste a glance on the statue of Joseph II which rose austerely in the center of the square. He knew when he got there: this is the Imperial Palace. And he felt certain that the three mighty facades his eyes beheld comprised all the home the Emperor had.

Who can say what impelled Anton to open the small door of the massive portal under the archway? Was it because Bosco had caught the beloved scent and begun to leap against this door? Or could it have been that Anton himself had detected the scent? In any event, the porter upon being questioned directed him toward the stable, and Anton murmured: “At last.”

He crossed the courtyard with unhurrying steps. He merely held the leash shorter. Bosco was not to get to Florian a second sooner than he. At the entrance to the stable stood Wessely with a group of other stablemen. He greeted Anton affably and started right in. “Now we'll see whether things improve with Florian.”

“Are things bad with him, then?” Anton asked gravely.

Bosco yowled his fretful eagerness and for his pains received so hard a jerk at the leash that he nearly fell over. “Quiet!”

“Are things bad with him?” Anton repeated.

“Rotten!” cried Wessely, and asked the other men to bear witness. “He refuses to eat or work. Isn't that so?”

Herr Ennsbauer, the riding master, emerged from the stable. Anton stood at attention and gave his name as well as his destination.

“A good thing you came, Pointner,” Ennsbauer remarked. “This is the last thing we are going to try with him.” And noting Anton's dubious expression, he added: “Yes, the last thing. If this goes wrong”—he shrugged his shoulders—“well, then, we can't do a thing with the beast.”

Without another word Anton passed Ennsbauer by and entered the half-dark stable. He did not see that all the others followed him. In a moment he came to the ell where, stretching away to both sides, were the compartments of the horses.

“Right,” came from somebody behind him.

But Anton went no farther.

“Florian,” he called. “Florian!” And Bosco broke into a jubilant baying.

Hooves suddenly beat against a wooden partition.

Anton did not stir from the spot, but he released the dog.

Wessely rushed down the corridor and swung wide the door behind which the hooves thundered. Florian broke out, almost knocking the man down. Bosco leaped high in the air, again and again, like a rubber ball, shrieking.

There stood the white stallion, looking hoary, as he used to when still a knock-kneed foal, his forelegs slightly apart. His bushy tail lashed the air excitedly, his neck bent downward, his head near the terrier on the ground. Bosco hopped about, whimpered as if saying: “So long to be separated,” then exulted again shrilly: “At last I am with you!”

Florian, with rapid, gasping movements of his lips, softly touched the nose, the forehead, the back of his little comrade.

Anton, still rooted to the spot, said quietly: “And I, Florian?”

As if struck with a whip, Florian threw up his head. Step by step he came closer, his beautiful ears pointed. The dark soulful eyes blazed in the sun of recognition. He came up so close to Anton that he pushed him gently backward with his nose, pushed him against the wall and covered him with facial caresses, until Anton, who had rapturously accepted it all, raised his hand to the rose-tinted muzzle and whispered: “Enough.”

From that hour on Florian was changed, was what he had been before, the courtly and obedient Lipizzan, displaying no sorrow or ill-will. He began to feed again, hungrily, his body rounded out once more, and once more the silky bloom came over that sleek white skin.

Ennsbauer was plainly flabbergasted when he took him on the longe. “What an uncanny animal!”

“Countess,” he later told Elizabeth, “as fine a horse as Florian we have never had in my time at the Riding School. Not one!”

Elizabeth and her husband came often. And just as often she came alone or with her little son. Neustift had been promoted to the rank of major and was the Emperor's adjutant. They both watched Florian on the longe, stood with Ennsbauer and observed how Florian guessed the slightest wish, the faintest command; how smoothly he changed pace, from walk to trot, from trot to gallop—short gallop or long gallop, as was desired—and how he halted on the instant and stood motionless as stone.

Shaking his head, Ennsbauer marveled: “No correction is ever necessary. He does everything perfectly, by instinct.”

Elizabeth responded with a smile: “And in the beginning how different it was.”

“My God!” Ennsbauer sighed happily. “In the beginning I almost despaired. He balked and sulked and didn't want to do anything.”

“. . . Until my wife recognized what he really wanted,” Neustift concluded.

Ennsbauer wagged his head again. “Yes . . . strange as it may seem . . .”

In a serious vein, Elizabeth now said: “Just think how much soul an animal like that has. And how much loyalty.”

Whereupon Neustift added: “And to think how quietly, how patiently, such an animal endures everything . . . loneliness, misunderstanding, longing.”

“Yes,” Ennsbauer concurred, “you wouldn't believe it possible.”

Florian walked around in a circle, taking short paces at first, then longer strides. His milk-white powerful body in some devious manner reminded his observers of beautiful naked human beings, and this subconscious memory only augmented the impression of stark beauty, of the perfect harmony of youth, force and fettle, that he made. He snorted and his foam scattered in large flecks to the ground. He had a peculiarly graceful way of nodding his slightly tilted head while running, as if with these movements he was beating time to an inner music audible to himself alone.

Elizabeth and Neustift were thrilled. Their little son stared at Florian for a long time and then cried: “Mumsy, he sings . . . only we can't hear it.”

A
NTON SLOWLY ACCOMMODATED himself to his new surroundings. Of the city of Vienna he still knew next to nothing, for he stuck stubbornly to his stable, hung around even on his day off, roamed no farther than the courtyard which, surrounded by the high buildings of the old castle, was a universe in itself. At least it was Anton's. He never dreamed of taking a walk. The outside, the overwhelming, voluptuous, elegant city and its gay scintillating life, held no attraction or lure for him. Within the walls of the gigantic Hofburg he lived his life. There stood Florian behind the grating of his stall; there lay his terrier, Bosco. That was all and enough. Now and then a short conversation with a comrade. Anton was close-lipped and, as is frequently the case among those who devote themselves to the care of animals, extremely shy, almost timid.

At first the stable in all its glory filled Anton with a feeling of awe. The ornate brass-studded wood of the grilled doors and the expensive appointments of the stalls aroused his admiration. Here each horse had its own wide crib, and inlaid in the crib itself a water trough of red marble into which fresh water poured from the faucet. An elaborate leather harness, incrusted with the gilded Imperial crown and in some cases even Franz Joseph's initials, hung in front of every stall. There were fine, warm flannel blankets bordered with leather, accoutered with buckles, and the finest grooming utensils, brushes and currycombs. Bandages there were to soothe eyes pricked by straw, soft leather muzzles to prevent the animals from licking the salve from raw wounds.

Anton came to love the place. The high smooth walls curved concavely toward the ceiling and above every compartment was a beautifully modeled horse's head. How many generations these heads had looked down upon, didn't occur to Anton. He knew nothing of Karl VI, the founder of the Spanish Riding School. As a matter of fact he knew nothing about such things The Imperial Palace had stood for ever and aye, just as the Hapsburgs had ruled Austria for ever and aye. That had always been so and would always be so. That was that. Anton wasted no thought on the hazy future or on the unknown past. For him, as for Florian, only the present existed.

To reach the Riding School, the street leading underneath the archway had to be crossed. Anton regarded this street as something profane, something encroaching, and sometimes he wondered why the Emperor permitted all the people to walk and drive to and fro underneath his home.

When Anton entered the Riding School for the first time he stopped short in the entrance and put his hand to his mouth so that nobody should hear the soft exclamation which escaped his lips: “Jesus Mary!” Deeply moved, as in church, he stared and stared at this cathedral of the art of riding.

The wide hall was incredibly high, reaching to the very roof. The pale, ivory tone of the walls, the white arabesques of the balcony encircling it, the pilastered gallery above it, the curve of the faceted ceiling, the decorations of the balustrades, the two rows of windows, the grandiloquent escutcheon held triumphantly by genii high above the Court box, the larger than life-size portrait of Karl VI on the end wall—Anton could never quite take it all in, for his eyes invariably blurred. He grew bewildered before the majestic pathos which these figures and emblems declaimed in their stony impressive language of postures and designs.

The greatest event of his whole life occurred when he was granted permission to be present during the riding of the High School. Those gentlemen whom he had hitherto seen only in civilian garb wore brown frock coats with gold buttons, white stag-leather breeches taut about their thighs, and high patent-leather boots. They had on white gloves, white perukes with stiff white curls and a black silk riband tied about the queue, and two-cornered cocked hats.

The horses, on the other hand, were sparingly though richly bedecked. A narrow, gold-encrusted leather belt ran across each animal's breast, with a glittering little round gold shield or brooch dangling from it.

Anton observed how horses and riders entered the arena which they called the
Kobel.
The riders swung their hats low before the portrait of Karl VI.

The riding began.

Anton laughed. The noiseless, helpless grin that sat on his face made him appear more of a simpleton than usual. Only the ecstatic light in his eyes revealed that he was at this moment beside himself, completely self-effaced but assuredly not stupid. He was overwhelmed. Here before his eyes were presented the highest accomplishments of horsemanship. He saw the almost fabulous unity of horse and rider, recognized the invisible harmony uniting beast and man, the stream of will which poured itself forth like molten steel and mingled with a surging desire to love and to serve. He heard the silent language of human nerves speaking to expectant, listening equine nerves. Anton was figuratively swept off his feet, dazed. He had never fancied such things as this could be; he had paid little heed whenever the High School had been mentioned in the stable, never tried to picture what it was like.