Florian

by Felix Salten

  Franz Ferdinand often consoled himself by vowing that the crowns he would inherit would give him, too, diligence, toughness and long life. He told himself this, time and again, and liked to hear his wife say it, his father confessor, and all his sycophants and supporters. Despite this forebodings ate at his heart and would not be stilled for long.

  The new equerry began his incumbency. Prince Buchowsky was a youngish man, slightly over forty, and extremely handsome. His ivory-tinted face was adorned with a thick black mustache. Soft black eyes looked out from under long lashes. He was considered the most brilliant rider in the Army. He understood horses as well as the shrewdest horse trader. He had a lively gay temperament and great initiative.

  However, everything remained as it had been, because everything had to be as it had been.

  Konrad Gruber had known the prince for years and treated him with measured respect but not with servility. The prince handled Gruber jocularly.

  “Well, my dear Gruber,” he said in the beginning, “I think we two will get along together.”

  Gruber kept silent as usual.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the prince pursued, and smiled so that his perfect white teeth shone under his black mustache, “I won’t interfere with you. You’ve been turning your hurdy-gurdy for quite a long time and to the satisfaction of his Majesty.”

  About Gruber’s lips played a furtive smile.

  “But,” the prince concluded very seriously, “I’ll stand for nothing from you, either.”

  Gruber stood motionless. His cheeks paled under the weatherbeaten patina of his face.

  “And now show me the horses which are entrusted to your care,” the prince ordered.

  “In the stable . . . or—?” Gruber murmured.

  “Out here, of course. One after the other. Florian first.”

  Gruber disappeared. Immediately thereafter Bosco bolted from the stable door and casually sprung up at the prince who acknowledged this effusion with a loud halloa.

  Then Florian came out. He was all alone, without a guide and stark nude. At Gruber’s orders Anton had taken everything off the horse. Snowy white, he stepped out into the sunlight.

  “Florian,” Buchowsky called. “Florian. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Come here to me. Come.”

  Florian thrust his head aloft, snorted gaily and stared at the prince with obvious curiosity. The nobleman stood five or six paces away, the gold braid glistening on his uniform. He wore the light coat of the Arcieres Body-Guard, which only few wore.

  “Come on,” Buchowsky coaxed. “This time without sugar. Just for politeness’ sake.”

  Florian approached and touched the prince’s breast softly with his mouth.

  “That’s right,” the equerry laughed. “We’re all good friends. I am delighted. I feel quite honored. Of course, I’ve known you for a long time. Just as one knows a famous stage star. Nice of you to be so condescending.”

  Anton grinned. Gruber’s mien remained inscrutable.

  The prince stroked Florian on nose and forehead, along the back, across his croup. He walked around him, patted his firm limbs, tickled his loins to send a trembling over the light skin, slapped his chest and finally took his head in his hands.

  A small cabriolet driven by Elizabeth entered the yard. Next her sat Neustift, and perched between them the little boy, Leopold, now in the uniform of the Theresianum.

  Buchowsky faced them. “My first visit!” he declared.

  “Our last,” Elizabeth replied.

  They climbed down. Anton rushed over to assist them.

  “Yes, please hold Caesar,” Neustift said to him. “And how are things with you?”

  “Thank you very much, Captain,” Anton answered, and hastily corrected himself: “Beg pardon, Major!”

  Elizabeth joined the prince. “We want to pay a farewell visit to Florian. Yes, to Florian. An old sweet memory ties us to him.”

  “And I have just introduced myself to him,” the prince informed her jokingly. “A matter of duty.”

  “Of course you know,” Neustift said, “that my time as adjutant is over.”

  “I know,” said the prince without releasing Florian. “My time begins. That’s how it is. One goes. Another comes.”

  “We are lucky,” Elizabeth said, “to find both you and Florian.”

  “Yes . . . it’s all a matter of luck,” the prince replied, playfully serious. “Are you staying in Vienna?”

  “I told you we came to say good-bye,” Elizabeth explained. “My husband has four weeks’ leave of absence. We are to spend it at home in the country.”

  “But before then”—Neustift drew little Leopold in front of the prince—“we’ve got to install this young man at the Theresianum.”

  Leopold saluted.

  The prince held out his hand. “Will you be a good boy at the Theresianum?”

  “Very good!” Leopold assured him in earnest.

  “Too bad,” the prince looked down disapprovingly. “To be good is bad. Very, very bad.”

  Fixing the astonished boyish face, the young eyes, with a somber stare, he continued with feigned gravity: “Take my advice, my boy, be as bad as you can, don’t stand for anything. Fight with your comrades, throw the silly books in the fire. That’s the surest way of getting somewhere.”

  “Fine advice that is,” Neustift said, displeased, while he diverted his son’s attention to Florian. “Grand advice! I thank you very much for it.”

  “Why,” Buchowsky protested, “everybody gives a child so much good advice that he’s bound to get sick and tired of it.”

  “And so you want to give bad advice?”

  “My dear friend, I’ll tell you something. Advice like mine impresses a youngster, but he never takes it seriously.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Neustift punctuated.

  “Let me finish,” the other begged him politely. “You preach all the virtues to a boy like that, and he’ll become a rotter. Tell him to be a rotter, and he will automatically be good. Besides that, everybody becomes what he is by nature and by what his surroundings make him.”

  Neustift could not help remarking: “Our youngsters are entirely too well off. Unfortunately, one might say.”

  “Quite right,” Buchowsky agreed. “But you might as well leave the ‘unfortunately’ out. Who knows how long it will last?”

  Prodded by curiosity, Neustift inquired: “Do you mean you actually know something definite? Is there to be a war? Is there any chance? Wouldn’t that be great!”

  “That would be great,” the prince said mockingly. “War—great! That’s too much for me. No, my friend, as long as the old man is alive we’ll have peace.”

  “Unfortunately,” Neustift sighed.

  “You and your everlasting unfortunately!” The prince turned to Elizabeth who stood beside Florian. “Now then,” he said, “we shall combine hello and adieu.”

  Elizabeth surveyed the prince, enterprising and proud. “I wonder how you’re going to do that.”

  “Gruber!” Buchowsky ordered. “The saddle.”

  “Forgiveness, your highness,” Gruber demurred. “His Majesty has given orders. . . .”

  “You shut your mouth!” the prince interrupted calmly. “You talk when I ask you. In five minutes you will have Florian on the track.” To Neustift he said as if nothing had happened: “We’ll wait for Florian inside.”

  They crossed the yard and entered the covered riding track which was part of the stables.

  Konrad Gruber stood stock-still in surprise.

  The new equerry had barked at him as though he were the lowest stableboy, and had disposed of Florian in a momentary whim. That was insufferable. He caught the helpless, undecided look on Anton’s face and regained a hold on himself: “The saddle,” he ordered.

  Gruber had come to the conclusion that he must make no protest. The battle was much too one-sided. He was the weaker, in spite of everything, and would obey.

  Led by Gruber, Florian appeared
on the track. Buchowsky examined the harness, stirrups and reins. Then he swung with easy grace on Florian’s back.

  Horse and rider began to go through the paces of the High School. Florian felt the master and vibrated with readiness. His memory—the memory of his muscles—had retained each step and movement. To be allowed once again to perform those paces was pure joy. As in the past, he set one foot carefully before the other, swayed and swung gracefully from his joints. As in the past, his hind feet during the circular turn remained veritably nailed to the spot. With pure joy he rose high up, forelegs bent.

  Elizabeth and Neustift gasped in admiration. Little Leopold said, enraptured: “Ah!”

  And when Florian, during the change of figures, during the intervals of rest the prince gave him, insisted upon maintaining his Spanish stride as of yore, Buchowsky laughed to his friends as he passed them, and cried: “Fantastic! Upon my soul!”

  It was indeed farewell. It was the last time that Florian rode the Hohe Schule.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ONCE MORE THE SPRING SUN began to pour down its warmth after the long winter. Blue skies smiled upon Vienna, the tips of the church steeples gleamed and the cupolas shone. In the outer court of the Imperial Palace lilac bushes bloomed again, snuggling against the statues.

  Florian was in rare form. Gruber treated him with tender consideration; Franz Joseph, who never had his horses wait when the weather was humid, did likewise; and Anton’s customary care had a great deal to do with it.

  Bosco once again belonged among the contented. The years had taken but little toll of his lively temperament. His gallantry, however, was practically stilled. His love for Pretty sank into the limbo of forgotten things. What did she mean to him now? Hardly a memory. After her last litter of puppies she had grown fat and lazy and old, seeming to realize that she lacked her one-time attractiveness. Bosco clung to his friend, Florian, and to his adored master. He led a blissful, satisfied existence.

  Anton fared similarly. He had long since ceased to think about the strong and willing Kati. She had given him brief happiness and for a while filled him with oppressive anguish. That was a thing of the past.

  A letter came from home. His stepmother wrote that his father was old and ailing. Anton should return home, he was needed for the work. He read the letter three times, read it slowly and as laboredly as it was written. Then he laid it away in an old soiled envelope among other documents he never looked at. He wrote no reply. What for? His father’s wife was a stranger to him, and his father as forgotten as if he had long since died. Go home? Leave Florian? That was not worth thinking about.

  During the first few days after the receipt of the letter; when its import dawned upon him at recurrent moments, he went to Florian, put his low forehead against the white neck, buried his simple face in the white mane, and whispered: “No, no, no . . . I am not going away from you! Certainly not! We’ll stay together . . . that’s all.”

  At such moments Florian turned his head to him and drank in his friend’s image, the while Anton stroked the warm, velvety nostrils and assured him: “You don’t need to be afraid. I couldn’t leave you.” And Bosco braced himself with his forepaws against Anton’s shins and emitted a plaintive yip.

  They were agreed. To stay together was best.

  One day Anton was summoned to the livery room by Gruber. Whenever he received an order outside his regular routine, he was startled; and as always when startled he buried his feelings deeper than usual in stupefaction and disinterest. Only his eyes blinked.

  It was nothing bad.

  He had to try on a white flax peruke from which two horizontal curls drooped at the temples and which ended in a short queue tied by a black silk riband. Then he had to get into the ornate Hapsburg livery. The peruke on his square peasant’s head gave him an extremely comical cut, while he stood there in his shirt. After that came patent-leather pumps, very light pumps called escarpines; and he was shown how to buckle the short black silk pants around the knees after pulling up the white stockings. He also was shown how to fasten the white jabot-ruffles around his neck. Their light, curly, half-starched cascades rippled down his chest. At last he arrived at the crowning glory, a thing that made his eyes wide with admiration: a long frocked coat of vertical black and gold braid. The cloth of precious brocade was as dark as a summer night, and was richly embroidered in gold with the Double Eagle which kept reappearing and glistened like the sun. From his left shoulder hung a yellow band heavily interwoven with gold.

  The tailor busied himself with Anton, selected the fitting pieces, helped correct slight faults with needle and thread, and finally poured a bagful of white cotton gloves on the table so that Anton could choose a pair that would fit.

  When they were ready Anton was completely changed. Now, oddly enough, he would have looked foolish without the peruke! As it was, he was the picture of ceremonious dignity.

  During the proceedings his astonishment had frittered away as no danger seemed to threaten, although he still wracked his brain over the why and wherefore of all this.

  Konrad Gruber sat near by, observing everything intently. He went over the black-and-gold clad Anton searchingly and finished with a terse: “All right.”

  Anton watched him rise and leave. He did not dare to ask a question. Nor did he take the liberty of seeking enlightenment from the tailor or his assistant. He did not speak. He was never talkative and always felt most collected when not expecting a word from anyone. In silence he shuffled back to the stable. There he asked the tormenting question of Florian: “What do they want to do with me? Do you know?”

  Florian threw him a soulful glance that sent a deep peace into Anton’s breast.

  That afternoon the equerry came.

  From one of the unused corridors a large carriage was rolled out and given a long, careful going over. Anton from afar only half surmised that the monstrous thing on the high wheels was something akin to a carriage. However, when six white horses were picked out and two more added, he concluded that it was indeed a carriage.

  Anton was not one to associate ideas, was unable even to guess the simplest relations. He knew what actually was, what visibly existed and what he could touch with his hands. Constantly in the company of Florian and Bosco, reticent, and in spite of his kindness thoroughly unsocial, he never more than half heard, often heard not at all, things that were being said around him. He might long have known that another Feast of Corpus Christi was approaching, and that it was to be celebrated with unusual pomp. During the winter the stablemen had often talked of it, but Anton paid scant attention and had forgotten.

  Corpus Christi dawned.

  At six in the morning Anton along with seven others, coachmen and stablemen, stood ready in his impressive black-and-yellow livery, his white peruke on his head, his rough hands encased in white gloves. The seven others smoked cigarettes which they hastily stamped out at Gruber’s approach.

  He inspected them all and said to Anton: “You’ll lead Florian.”

  Anton did not fathom that it was an extraordinary distinction to be permitted to lead one of the carriage horses, particularly one of the front pair. He remained silent and let Gruber pass. To him it was only natural that none but himself should lead Florian. In a long column they marched to the Imperial Palace.

  It was a dreamlike sunny June morning. Not a single cloud ruffled the azure sky. Refreshed by the dew, the young foliage of the trees and the bushes rustled, the flowers and the grass around the monument of Maria Theresia swayed. The roofs and the towers of the capital lay ahead of them as they crossed the Ringstrasse, and the heart of Vienna seemed to smile at them expectantly.

  The outer court of the Palace stretched in empty immensity before them. From the Volksgarten came the scent of flowers. In the inner court, around the statue of Emperor Franz, a multicolored group of horsemen were assembled. Many of them had dismounted and stood chatting. When at exactly seven o’clock the bells in all the churches began to chime, the riders sw
ung into their saddles.

  The Emperor, followed by the archdukes, and preceded by the Court dignitaries, came out and stepped into the carriage.

  Under triple command, the Guard presented arms, the drums beat, and at the very head of the procession two heralds on horseback blew the general march. They held aloft their long silver trumpets from which hung the black and yellow embroidered pennons of the House of Hapsburg, and the high silvery tones reechoed from the cupolas of the Michael’s portal.

  A squadron of the Arcieres Body-Guard rode behind the heralds. They were followed by the Trabant Foot Guard in scarlet coats, their halberds under their arms. In an old-fashioned calash drawn by four brown horses sat the first chamberlain, alone.

  Finally came the carriage of the Emperor. From this point back an ambulant spalier of Court gendarmes, carrying guns, flanked the procession.

  The Emperor, with the Heir Apparent at his left, sat in the stately carosse which Karl VI had built. The resplendent body of the coach hung on immense, wide belts, shaking lightly on the springs. The wood of the carriage doors, which had been painted by masters of the Baroque, reached only as far as the white damask of the seats. Large crystal panes sparkled on both sides, and their frames bore the top. Thus the Emperor and his heir sat in a moving show-window. Lips sealed, they sat side by side. They had nothing to say to each other. Both might have been thinking of the faraway time when Franz Joseph had driven to St. Stephan’s in this very carriage accompanied by the Crown Prince. To both of them it must have appeared as God’s will that Rudolf slept for over twenty years at the Capuchines.

  But each of them interpreted God’s will differently.

  That was the high wall that separated them as they sat so close together, driving through the stationary rows of troops, amidst the city’s multitudes kept in order by the soldiery.