Florian

by Felix Salten

  A ravishing beauty, she had all the wiles and was well versed in the art of love. These dangerous attributes she hid under a guise of complete innocence, thus instinctively following the trait of every true woman to become the more alluring. Her temperament was stormy; she could be crazily playful, although the erotic element stirred at the bottom of her very nature; she could be tenderly endearing and coldly repelling in two moments—just as her moods dictated. She changed from minute to minute; none of her suitors ever really knew what mood she was in.

  With Florian away for hours at a time, and Anton taken up with work, Bosco sallied forth on expeditions through the stables, making and renewing all sorts of acquaintances with dogs, horses and men; and in this fashion he met Pretty. He succumbed to her charms in one fell swoop. He was enmeshed in that all-consuming passion that befalls the mature man who has till then despised and scorned everything female. He was thrown into a state of erotic obsession.

  Together with him Pretty would chase through the stables and across the immense yard, tumbling about in coquettish playfulness. She lay on her back and let him sniff her all over, laughing at him and with her tiny red tongue kissing his eyes, his lips and his forehead. Once, however, Bosco caught her playing the same game with Tobby, the black and white terrier. She appeared so innocent and guileless, it was hard to suspect her of any deliberate infidelity. Yet Bosco was hurled into an abyss of unspeakable sorrow. The ravings of jealousy seethed within him. He lunged madly at Tobby, sank his teeth into the surprised and cowering creature’s neck and gave no quarter. The blood that spouted from Tobby’s wound tasted warm in his mouth, somehow aggravating his rage, robbing him of the last shred of decorum.

  Pretty had made off. Things having become serious, she took the discreet and cautious course; retired, lay down coyly on her pillow and gave every overt sign of being a good little dog.

  His wound had scattered all of Tobby’s good sense along with his courage. He knew no better than to yowl in pain, alarming the vicinity.

  The two dogs were doused in a pailful of cold water, a tidal wave that knocked the breath out of them and, for a few moments at least, the fear of drowning into them. Tobby fled. Just as Bosco was about to laugh at his comically retreating rival, he received a kick that actually lifted him into the air. On bent legs, his belly close to the ground, he limped into Florian’s empty stall. Soaking wet. In pain. Miserable. Never before had he been mistreated by man. Now he had lived through the tragedy of disappointed first love, had fought his first real battle, had been drenched to the bone and driven out. And he was all alone.

  He felt ashamed as never before in his life.

  Anton discovered him trembling in the straw, lifted him, wrapped him in a towel and rubbed him dry. Rolled in a warm blanket he laid him outside in the sun. Throughout this entire procedure Anton asked over and over: “What have you been up to? What happened to you?”

  Bosco stuck his intelligent face out from under the enveloping woolly mountain, and would have liked to tell what evil things had befallen him, but could only whimper. Anton stroked his forehead and murmured: “There, little one, be quiet. It’ll pass all right. Good Bosco. Nice Bosco.”

  That soothed the disturbed soul. It almost consoled him. Almost. For there was the inexorable boundary-line between man and animal, that impassable barrier in the face of the closest intimacy. Anton had no inkling of what had inwardly shaken Bosco. He left the dog, went back to his work, and considered the trivial incident closed.

  But it wasn’t closed; Bosco was still madly in love. And jealousy ate at his heart. True, he had emerged victorious from the combat with his rival. That was proved by the way Tobby and all the other terriers evaded him, retreated whenever he came seeking Pretty.

  Pretty lavished great tenderness on him, and inexhaustibly, in hoyden, coquettish play, now showered him with love and again repelled him with hateful disapproval, but invariably was glad of his presence. He was completely under her spell. His jealous tantrums grew milder, and disappeared. He ceased to have any reason for them. Yet he had no peace. His existence swung like a pendulum between bliss and despair. On top of that, he had pangs of conscience before Florian. After each happy or unhappy tryst with his beloved when he returned to Florian he squirmed and writhed before his great friend, whipped the straw with his tail and begged forgiveness. Of his adventure, of his passion he told nothing. He simply begged forgiveness.

  Florian lowered his beautiful head, on these occasions, and sniffed at him kindly and knowingly, scented Pretty’s perfume and guessed Bosco’s fate. It befell every creature. . . . Of course he forgave him, even tried by a teasing snort to assert that such matters did not require forgiveness but understanding.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  CAME A DAY OF UPSETS, of quarrels, of excitement in the Mews.

  Emperor Franz Joseph was sick at Schönbrunn. He had contracted a cold. The news sounded serious, thanks to certain Court factions who set exaggerated rumors going. The faction surrounding the Heir Apparent became mysteriously active. People who hoped for Franz Ferdinand’s accession carried their heads higher, their necks stiffer. They gave orders where hitherto they had learned the habit of silence; they domineered where heretofore they had hemmed and hawed. Their actions implied that the succession to the throne had as good as taken place. The faithful servants of the old Emperor suffered all these things browbeaten and resigned.

  On the morning of this day Anton rushed into Konrad Gruber’s room. Gruber had just shaved and eyed the intruder questioningly.

  “Florian is gone . . . and Capitano, too!” Anton stammered.

  Gruber’s mien asked him to tell more.

  “I put them in harness—” Anton explained. And still getting no response he added in his own behalf: “Orders from the councilor. . . .”

  Silence.

  Now Anton spoke haltingly: “For—the Archdukes—Franz Ferdinand. . . .”

  A wave of a hand and he bolted from the room.

  Gruber grabbed the telephone and called Schönbrunn. . . . No, the colonel of the House Ministry would not do. He wanted to talk to the chief adjutant. At once! . . . When he heard that official’s voice, he reported what had happened, quietly and clearly. But his voice quivered with wrath.

  The adjutant chuckled. “Not really! . . . Such impatience. . . . And, praise God, much too soon.”

  Emboldened by anxiety, Gruber asked: “Is he better?” his voice unsteady.

  “His Majesty is out of bed. But don’t tell anybody.”

  That was that.

  Konrad Gruber had to sit down. His knees trembled. He mopped his forehead, breathed deeply, and then started to pray, silently. His head lay on his devoutly folded hands. Only his lips moved.

  Later, just as he finished dressing, the telephone rang. An order from Schönbrunn, in the name of the Emperor: “Demand the immediate return of Florian and Capitano. These horses, and all the private horses of his Majesty, must be used only for his Majesty’s purposes.”

  The colonel of the House Ministry repeated: “And only for his Majesty’s purposes.”

  Fully dressed, Gruber left his room and walked over to the main building to call on the councilor. On the way he observed that a few coachmen, stablemen and lower officials greeted him less respectfully than usual; some of them ignored him. He made a mental note of each one. He compressed his lips so that his mouth formed a cruel gash.

  The councilor kept him waiting purposely. Gruber knew the man wanted him to feel “through.” When finally he stood in front of the desk, the councilor toyed for a long time with his papers before he asked disinterestedly: “What do you want?”

  Without mincing words, Gruber said: “Have his Majesty’s horses been ordered to Castle Belvedere?”

  The councilor somewhat amusedly looked out of the window: “I am not accountable to you.”

  “Wrong!” Gruber was slow and precise of speech. “If you have taken the liberty—”

  “How dare you!” the co
uncilor shouted. “Who are you? An ordinary coachman! You don’t seem to know that your glory is at an end? And you are impudent? Get out!”

  Konrad Gruber held his ground; an immovable boulder the councilor could not dislodge by shouting. After a short pause he said with the same equanimity: “Your glory is at an end—if you have sent the Emperor’s favorite horses to Belvedere.”

  Pale as a corpse the councilor listened. If Gruber spoke so definitely and unflinchingly he must know more than the others around the stables. The miracle might have happened. The eighty-year-old Emperor might have arisen from his sick-bed a healthy man.

  “I am transmitting his Majesty’s orders,” Gruber continued icily. “The team is to be brought back at once, and like all the other personal horses of his Majesty must not be used for any other purpose whatsoever.”

  Without another word he walked out.

  The secretary had heard the councilor shouting and had put his ear to the keyhole, overhearing Gruber’s words. As Gruber passed through the anteroom the man bowed deferentially.

  Full of desperate zeal the councilor telephoned Belvedere, telephoned wherever Franz Ferdinand might be. In a panic of haste he gave orders to send the regular carriage of the Archduke, as quickly as possible, to Breitensee. The Imperial equipage he had already ordered home from there.

  As gun-cotton lights the hundred candles of a candelabra—in one puff—word of these occurrences made the round of the Mews. Just what happened at Schönbrunn, nobody knew. But everyone knew that Franz Joseph had given an order. That was enough.

  Gruber stationed himself at the entrance of the stables to await the return of his horses.

  Anton sat on his small portable bench in front of the door, Bosco at his feet.

  Gradually a group of people came from the stables, from the carriage sheds, from the offices, and gathered around Gruber. When it was apparent that he would not engage in talk but wanted to be alone, they kept their distance.

  The Imperial carriage arrived. At a comfortable trot Florian and Capitano swept up. They caused the same sort of sensation as on a first appearance.

  While Anton unharnessed the horses, Gruber took a good look at the driver, Pawlitschek, who usually drove the Heir Apparent. Gruber did not say one word, but he silently vowed that Franz Ferdinand would have to get used to another driver; hereafter Pawlitschek would ride on servant and kitchen carts.

  The voice of the councilor intruded upon his thoughts. “Well, there they are again, the favorite horses of his Majesty. Now everything is in order, isn’t it?”

  Gruber did not hear him, refused to hear him.

  The councilor gulped, stepped directly up to Gruber, and said in his most unctuous tone: “It was a mistake, nothing but a mistake. Things like that can happen, after all. I beg of you, don’t cause me any trouble. We always got along so well together. . . .”

  Tight-mouthed, Gruber turned his back on the man, followed Anton into the stable, and shut the door behind him—something that wasn’t done at this time of the year.

  A week later the councilor was pensioned—without the customary service medal, with every indication of being in the equerry’s bad grace. As for the coachman Pawlitschek, he drove heavy freight.

  From the Belvedere, however, emanated a story its hearers accepted partly with gloating and partly with sympathy. Franz Ferdinand, it ran, had by no means been thrown into a tantrum by the incident. Quietly, deeply moved, he had thrust his hands toward the skies. The incident with the horses was immaterial to him; but the unexpected and complete recuperation of Franz Joseph had shaken his soul. “Never! It is not my destiny. He lives! He lives eternally! He will outlive me!”

  Deaf to all consolation, he kept repeating: “He will live so long that it will be too late. So long that the realm will be irrevocably lost.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  FLORIAN, CAPITANO AND A HOST of other horses—brown Kladrubers, Hungarian Juckers, ponies and Haflingers which served for mountain climbing—were unloaded early one morning at the station of Ischl.

  There wasn’t much time for loafing. Anton could just get a glimpse of the verdant landscape. Florian and Capitano had to be fed, watered, and after a lukewarm bath groomed with brush and currycomb.

  The intimidated Bosco sat near Florian in a corner of the new stable. Gruber had instructed Anton not to allow the dog to roam at large in the park, for the children and grandchildren of the Emperor had dogs of their own; and it was better to be careful. Anton had then taken Bosco aside and for the first time catechized him sternly. Bosco didn’t understand a word, but Anton’s earnestness and unusually long speech had a shattering effect upon him. He was all broken up.

  Court gendarmes with their horsehair-plumed helmets had taken up their positions in the park and at the doors of the Imperial villa. The House Ministry, the adjutants were installed; postal, telephone and telegraph clerks were carefully instructed; as a matter of fact most of the functionaries knew the routine from years of practice. The private detectives of the Secret Police sauntered around the grounds of the villa, along the streets and on the esplanade of Ischl. They prided themselves on their impenetrable disguises. In truth, the most rustic villager spotted them at a distance of fifty paces.

  In the afternoon the Emperor arrived. On the station platform the stadholder, the district commander and the burgomaster stood in readiness. Just outside the station a large gathering waited; natives and summer guests.

  In the midst of the hubbub the Imperial coach, driven by Gruber and drawn by Florian and Capitano, kept driving round and round on the roomy square in front of the station. The people cheerfully drew back on every side. Such fiery steeds couldn’t and shouldn’t stand still. They realized that. Florian’s and Capitano’s heads, the curve of their proud necks, the gold-braided bicorne Gruber wore, the empty seat for the chasseur beside him—made a picture of joyous expectancy.

  When the train chugged into the station, Konrad Gruber held the carriage at the exit. The horses heard the shrill hiss, the powerful hoarse breathing of the engine, and swung their beautiful heads higher, making the metal of their traces jangle melodiously. The cries of acclaim that burst forth did not fluster them. Gruber had them firmly in hand; they stood like statues as Franz Joseph came through the exit. He took his place in the carriage. The general adjutant sat at his left. The agile chasseur climbed to the driver’s box.

  They set off at a pace appropriate to the occasion. In concert, their leg action reminiscent of the Spanish stride, the two white horses took the chalk-white ground under them. The vociferations of the throng, the waving of hats and kerchiefs bothered them not at all. Their measured gait, the gleaming, gold-spangled white of their bodies, the liveried coachman on his perch, the flowing white plume of the chasseur’s hat, the close phalanxes accompanying the carriage and partly hiding it from the public’s gaze, lent a very distinct, a very Austrian, a musical impression which, completely summed up, spelled Franz Joseph.

  The mountain air of Ischl refreshed Florian. Like a man who has been drinking champagne and by it been lifted into an ever airier frame of mind, so were Florian’s flagging spirits revivified by the odor of pine, of resinous damp wood, of lush earth, mixed with the snowy breath from the mountains. He had never run through woods, never trotted along the bank of a trout stream. Now there were excursions along the smooth road to Ebensee, with the River Traun murmuring just below. There were drives through the leafy Weissenbacher forest whenever Franz Joseph went hunting.

  To Florian it was of course immaterial that at such times the Emperor wore a short Styrian coat and Styrian hat, that Konrad Gruber was less pretentiously garbed than usual, and that the chasseur and the gun-loader wore the simple green hunter’s costume. But that the carriage he and Capitano drew was lighter, that he could feel. Also that the man who sat in the carriage, this man who meant so little to Florian, was alone most of the time.

  Florian drank deeply of the scented air of the Weissenbacher forest. The grassy
clearing before the hunting lodge enchanted him. He had never seen such a meadow . . . encircled by towering old firs, and overgrown with sweet grass and strong-smelling herbs. The many mixed scents stimulated him pleasantly and made him curious. He did not know that the forest abounded in stags, hinds, foxes, hares, martens, fitchets and weasels. Wild animals were as alien to his ken as true freedom. And so, coming across their spoors for the first time, he was not able to explain them.

  As his soul interpreted and loved music—instinctively—in much the same fashion, only by no means as definitely, did he sense the benign and happy abandon that pervaded the forest. Rushing with Capitano along the Ebensee road, and turning left in Mitter-Weissenbach to climb the steep curves of the path always meant the meadow before the hunting lodge, and Florian always felt sure this had been arranged for his special benefit. He took the sharp incline, took the long steep climb to the Kapellenberg, with incomparable vim, carrying Capitano along at the spirited pace as if they had been on an even grade all the way.

  Once when they trotted back to Ischl from an evening’s hunt they came, in the deep dusk of the forest, directly upon a stag. The light from the carriage lanterns flickered over his ruddy skin and crown of antlers. Then he bounded into the thicket and disappeared.

  With a quickened play of their ears and surprised eyes the two horses had spied the shadowy figure. Florian wanted to ask Capitano: “Do you know who that is?” But Capitano asked the very question first. Before they could puzzle out an answer the whole intermezzo was over.

  Whether they drove to the Hotel Elisabeth, over to the villa of the Emperor’s daughter, Gisela, or elsewhere, Florian enjoyed this furlough from the strained going between high stone walls on paved streets. He enjoyed the quaint abiding charm of this village set like a jewel in the midst of forests and mountains. His enjoyment, of course, was not the product of his brain; he simply showed his gratitude for the freer form of existence in the more intense exhilaration of his being.