by Felix Salten
Anton threw a light harness across his back. Like a belt the broad leather encircled his chest. Next he was carefully shoved backward a few steps and found himself between two poles, the thill of a light carriage. He waited impatiently. It did not take long, but each second dropped deliberately, heavily into eternity. He pawed the ground more vigorously, the foam fell in larger specks from his lips, and his ears moved incessantly.
Anton patted his neck, talked soothingly. Florian felt nothing, heard nothing. Everything in him, each nerve and fiber, waited for a sign. He was held fast, that much he knew definitely because of the bit between his teeth and the belt on his chest by which the cart was hitched to him. In his mounting impatience he attempted a step.
“Psst,” he heard from behind and felt a gentle tug at his mouth.
Florian stood motionless.
“Tssk!” The bit grew lax in his mouth.
Florian rushed forward. Gallop! Cleaving in twain the surge of joy which had suddenly befallen him came the voice of his master. “Whoa!” And once again he felt the pressure against his lips. It had all happened in three or four seconds. He understood instantly, and obeyed the order without hesitation, altering his pace to a comfortable trot.
He had never felt so good. The trappings on him did not hamper his running, gave him a sensation of ordered freedom too complicated for him to unravel but delightful notwithstanding. He was conscious of the hand of the driver, the turning of the wheels. The burden of the cart, which was hardly a burden at all, thrilled him. In one burst of gladness he reveled in his youth and in the power of his limbs. With loud snorts he drove the air from his lungs. Drops of foam fell right and left. His flanks grew moist, and sweat purled down his back and neck. Occasionally his gleaming eyes laughed down to Bosco who ran ahead of him and who only by strenuous exertions was keeping up the brisk pace.
Florian enjoyed his debut in a world his ancestors had peopled in the service of men as trusted chargers in battle and attack, as saviors in peril and flight, as skilled and untiring companions at jousts and falconry, and on hunts and overland journeys; as carriers of messages, and as the pride of processions and parades. His heritage flamed within him. He served; he became a carrier, executant of a divine and adored will.
Florian was happy.
A half hour later the carriage rolled to a halt before the stable.
“This Florian is perfect!” the stud-master cried, throwing the reins to Anton and jumping down from the dashboard. “It’s unbelievable!”
“Isn’t he?” Anton smiled happily, bending down to unbuckle the harness.
“I have never seen anything like it! He runs as if he had carried harness for God knows how long. He knows everything himself, the least hint is sufficient. . . .”
“Yes, that’s Florian,” Anton agreed gravely.
“He doesn’t even try a gallop anymore . . . just trots . . . a beautiful, steady trot . . . he rolls along like a billiard ball. . . . Unbelievable!”
Florian, led by Anton, stepped from the thill. “Yes,” Anton reiterated, “that’s Florian!”
He threw a blanket over the steaming stallion and began to unharness him. As he removed the traces and the bit, Florian shook his head vehemently with relief.
“Let him keep the bit,” the stud-master suggested. “So he’ll get used to it.”
With his bare hand Anton brushed the lather from Florian’s heaving chest. “Oh, no . . . if you please, sir . . . he doesn’t need to get used to anything . . . not him . . . he just knows everything.”
Bosco lay, utterly exhausted, where he had sunk down to rest, but his pointed ears kept him apprised of any developments. He had ample time to recuperate. Anton had brush and currycomb ready, and now stripped the blanket from his charge’s back and began to groom him.
Chapter Seven
CAPTAIN VON NEUSTIFT CAME again on a visit, this time alone.
“Where is her Grace, the countess?” Anton asked.
“She is in bed,” Neustift answered, and laughed when Anton showed concern. “Oh, no, my dear Pointner. Not sick! No, on the contrary! Yes, just think of it, we have a son, a very small son, a tiny mite of a son. Leopold Ferdinand Rainer Maria! Just a wee bit of flesh and already Leopold Ferdinand Rainer Maria . . . he is really cute.”
Anton stammered congratulations.
“Perhaps this is to be an important occasion for you, too.” The captain stood with his arms akimbo. “Do you know what brings me here today? I want to buy Florian . . . if I can get him.”
Anton shook his head. “Florian you will not get, Herr Rittmeister,” he said with finality.
“Don’t be silly, Anton, I’ve got to get him. My wife wants Florian . . . do you understand, Anton? Well . . .”
Anton repeated. “I don’t believe . . .”
Neustift laid his hand on the peasant’s shoulder. “And you are to come along. You and Florian, together. What do you say to that?”
But Anton insisted. He laughed as he said for a third time: “I don’t believe . . .”
At that Neustift grew impatient. “Why quarrel? Fetch him and hitch him to the carriage.”
“The carriage . . . ?”
“Yes. Today I am permitted to drive. What do you know about that?”
Anton whistled and Bosco rushed up, stood with head tilted, questioning.
“Go fetch Florian!” Anton demanded.
Bosco fled, and after a short while Florian came at a light canter with Bosco bounding all around him.
The stable-master came over, and when Anton had put the harness on Florian, stepped into the carriage with Neustift. The captain took the reins. “You will be surprised, Herr Rittmeister—” That much Anton heard and then they were off.
Naturally Bosco went along. Anton remained alone. He stared after the disappearing carriage, rubbed his chin and thought: “He won’t get Florian. . . . No, they couldn’t be so stupid as to give him away.”
The cart came back, and with scarcely any slowing down, Florian stopped and stood like a statue.
“Marvelous!” was Neustift’s verdict, climbing down. “It’s absolutely incredible! He knows everything by instinct. Why, a child could drive him.”
Smiling contentedly, Anton busied himself with the harness, and overheard fragments of the conversation between Neustift and the stable-master.
“. . . not up to me, you know that. . . . But I am afraid there isn’t a chance. You see . . .”
“. . . willing to pay any price . . . whatever you ask . . . I’ll pay and . . .”
“Not a chance. You’d better find another . . .”
“I want Florian.”
“. . . another one gladly. Anyone you like. Florian is not for sale.”
Anton led his charge into the stable. Like a conqueror Florian stepped after him.
When Anton came out again the captain had gone.
Chapter Eight
SEVERAL GENTLEMEN OF THE IMPERIAL Court arrived in Lipizza. Their first inquiries were after Florian. And being the first name they mentioned, Florian was the first stallion they saw. He was thoroughly gone over and then tested in harness.
One of the gentlemen read from the stud-book: “. . . son of Berengar out of Sibyl.”
Another, lost in admiration, who was apparently the highest in rank, asked: “Four years old . . . isn’t he?”
“Yes, your Excellency,” the one who had read Florian’s family tree answered. “Born on May 4, 1901. . . . Exactly four years and one month old.”
Anton stood sadly by. Nobody took notice of a stableboy.
Suspiciously Bosco ran to and fro, as if he sensed something ominous.
“He really trots marvelously,” the slender gray-haired important gentleman declared. “He won’t need a great deal of training to make him ready for the carriage of his Majesty.”
“Forgive me, your Excellency,” another ventured to say. He was smaller than the one he addressed, very slim, and had a smooth face and a brown complexion which turned
almost violet at the neck.
“. . . But this Florian is really too valuable for that.”
“Is that so?” said the tall one not without some irony. “Too good for the service of his Majesty? Interesting . . . very interesting.”
The brown face grew a shade darker. “We are all in the service of his Majesty, your Excellency, men and horses. . . .”
The other wrinkled his brow, stroked his short gray mustache, and murmured: “Thank you for your information . . . but there is a difference, I think.”
“That’s just what I meant!” The dark brown face did not lose its strict self-control, yet underneath there had been an explosion at those words. “My God! I was thinking of driving, your Excellency, nothing else. And a carriage is a carriage, after all.”
His Excellency straightened up. “The carriage in which his Majesty the Emperor . . .”
“That is immaterial to the horses,” his adversary interrupted him. “I beseech you, your Excellency, this stallion here . . . for decades we haven’t had anything like it in the Riding School. No, your Excellency, even if you are enraged at me now . . . I simply have to say it . . . it is my duty . . . I beg of you, I entreat you, your Excellency, don’t deny this marvelously gifted animal his God-given destiny. Someday we shall all be proud of him.” And as his Excellency was about to reply to that, he added confidently: “Someday your Excellency will be grateful to me for speaking so freely.”
Florian stood with head held high. Bare of his trappings, he seemed created for no other purpose than to inspire enthusiasm by his matchless beauty and majesty. Those who viewed him were thrilled, refreshed and stimulated.
Florian was not aware that this scene spelled good-bye to the home of his youth, farewell to childhood. Bosco squatted on his haunches with his head tilted and his ears stiffly pointed, attentively studying his beloved friend. Bosco had a presentiment, deep down in his little heart, of an impending change. And he was troubled.
Anton knew what all this meant. He stood a few paces aside, forgotten, hanging on every word that was spoken. Each word, while it sounded melodious to his ears, was like a dagger thrust in his breast. Lovingly his eyes swept over Florian. Yes, it was Florian being lauded and appreciated. And that was right. Yet that very appreciation was causing Anton to lose Florian. And he could not imagine what life without Florian would be.
Without Florian! Anton’s eyes clouded. Had it only been possible for Captain von Neustift to buy Florian! The captain would take him, Anton, along with Florian, and there need be no separation.
Florian pawed the ground. He lifted the slender, well-formed leg with consummate grace, held it gravely and hesitantly aloft, and then struck the ground.
The noble curve of the neck, the head so poised that the chin was pressed to the breast, made an incomparable picture of gentility and humbleness combined. Florian snorted loudly.
His Excellency, who had not answered the brown-faced man during a constrained pause, now said: “Upon my word . . . he is as beautiful as the horse of Colleone.”
“Yes,” the other one agreed. “That was a Lipizzan, too.”
“Well,” his Excellency modified, “not exactly a Lipizzan . . . but at least of a lineage which later came to Lipizza.”
“It’s all the same.” The brown face beamed. “I call the Colleone a Lipizzan. And a rider’s horse that was, too. One to bear a rider, not to drag a carriage. That’s certain. Surely there’s your answer.”
Instead of replying, the courtier stepped over to Florian, took him by the nose-bone and pulled his head close. With his great luminous dark eyes Florian bored into the man. He was asking a question that merely lacked the spoken words. Nor did the courtier say one word. He straightened Florian’s satiny forelock, straightened it as carefully as if this were of vital importance. Then he ran his fingers through the full white mane which lent the curved back its daring note. The expert hand patted the warm sleek shoulder, the broad breast.
“Very well, Ennsbauer.” His Excellency at last came to a decision and moved away from Florian. “I don’t want to quarrel with you. You are convinced Florian belongs to you.”
“As sure as there’s a God above, your Excellency,” Ennsbauer cried, “he belongs in the Spanish School!”
“I repeat, I don’t want to quarrel with you. On your responsibility, then, he won’t be put in his Majesty’s carriage. . . .”
“To any carriage . . . on my responsibility.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“I am right.” Ennsbauer spoke with fanatical conviction.
“All right.” His Excellency brushed everything else aside. “I prefer to say you may be right. We both agree as to the extraordinary qualities of this horse. There is no difference of opinion on that score.” Once more he turned to Florian, stroked his back and, his hand still resting on the stallion, concluded: “We’ll talk about it in Vienna.”
Chapter Nine
TOGETHER WITH EIGHT OTHER young horses Florian was taken to the station to start on the journey to Vienna.
In all, there were five stallions and four mares. A special train stood ready, one that made the trip overnight. Two, and in one case three, animals were confined to a boxcar. Florian remained in the company of another stallion.
A small troupe of stablemen had come down from Vienna to escort the animals to the capital.
The walk to the station, however, the entraining itself, and finally the farewell did not go so smoothly. Anton, Florian and Bosco were too closely bound to one another, Florian was too much a part of their lives for both Anton and Bosco, too much the hub of their existence, to make it simply a matter of tearing the three apart in order to separate the two from the one.
When they left the stud-farm, the misery began. At first only for Anton. For the young stallion and Bosco were as yet blissfully ignorant of what was in store for them. After the courtiers had departed, Bosco had calmed down completely. The Viennese stablemen did not bother him much. Sniffing, he had investigated them carefully and established the fact that they belonged to stables, horses and dogs. Thus he accepted the joint exodus as a novel and adventurous undertaking, scampered with short barks around the cavalcade or else trotted beside Florian and Anton, confirming his undying friendship with the incessant wagging of his tail.
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.
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“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.