Florian: The Lipizzaner

by Felix Salten

  Then one morning Anton did not find him there. He had got away during the night and joined Florian. Bosco had waited until Anton was fast asleep; he knew just when Anton had reached the depth of his deep slumber and would hear nothing short of a thunderclap or a pistol-shot. And as Bosco could neither thunder nor shoot, he had succeeded in slipping out.

  This became his practice.

  He would press his paw against the unlocked door, usually standing slightly ajar, and would push it open just enough to let his slender body through. In case the latch held, for a change, he by no means lost hope; it only required a little more cunning. He would climb up on the chair that stood by the door and shove against the latch until it gave—he knew when by the short metallic click. He would remain utterly still for a while, not daring to breathe, and listen for any sound from Anton’s bed. If nothing stirred, he would then steal out on cautious pads and make straight for the stable. Truth to say, his conscience would trouble him, but his craving for the company of Florian outweighed all else.

  Snuggling up close against Florian’s back, he was blissfully content. He slept in a profound repose. Often, waking before his comrade, he rested his chin on Florian’s back; another day of happy activity would soon begin.

  When Anton appeared in the morning, Bosco would greet him with a spasm of enthusiastic tail-wagging, his eyes popping from their sockets, his body convulsed by joyous yelps and barks. That was always a great scene. He feigned utter innocence; as if his making off in the night had been a natural thing which Anton understood and agreed to.

  All Anton understood, however, was that Bosco had shamelessly deserted. He took Bosco’s noisy greeting for a sort of regret, and was always consoled immediately and anxious on his part to calm Bosco. “You rascal,” he whispered, “you sneak . . . well . . . well . . . that’s all right.” But Bosco did not rest until Anton stopped grooming the horses to come and catch hold of him, petted his back or rubbed his head, and said: “Nice Bosco . . . nice doggie.” Then Bosco would sprint up and down the whole length of the stable once or twice, inordinately proud of that public testimonial. And Anton laughed and proceeded with his work.

  Evening after evening Anton stubbornly carried Bosco to his room and laid him to sleep, thinking his will would prevail against the dog’s seemingly inexplicable predilection. He had to carry him because Bosco refused to obey his order and come along voluntarily.

  Once, just after Anton had picked up the terrier and walked toward the door, he heard light hoofbeats at his back. There stood Florian with a naïve face, his ears tilted forward and his large expressive eyes on Bosco.

  Anton did not quite grasp what it all meant.

  Florian edged nearer and stretched his neck. His nose touched Bosco’s as the little dog struggled up in Anton’s arms. It was as though the two were kissing each other good night. Or else, as if Florian were asking Bosco, “Please stay,” and Bosco answering, “I can’t, don’t you see?”

  Anton bent low and set Bosco on the floor.

  Whereupon Florian swung around and sauntered back to his stall where Sibyl stood watching. He walked slowly, and Bosco, with wagging tail, walked slowly beside him.

  Anton followed them with his eyes until they disappeared in the stall. So Florian wanted his friend with him. That much he suddenly understood. There was nothing to be done about it. “All right with me,” he thought, and went to bed alone.

  Chapter Five

  LIPIZZANS TAKE LONGER TO ARRIVE at maturity than other horses.

  Florian grew slowly. A year after his birth he still had the physical attributes and the mannerisms of the foal. Younger than he, Bosco was already running around, grown-up, gay, intelligent, and attached to Florian with an unwavering loyalty. They had to be always together. Each grew restless when out of the other’s sight, even if for only a few brief minutes.

  Florian still clung to his mother although he was almost as big as she; he had yet to show the least sign of independence. Bosco, on the other hand, had learned, knew life, was absolutely self-reliant and considerably cleverer than his big playmate. In spite of that, or perhaps just because of it, Bosco admired Florian, admired his mother, admired all the great, white, majestic beings living here. Within him there was a bond of sympathy which somehow united him with these gentle quiet giants; a bond wrought by the realization that all, all of them, belonged to mighty Man, whom Bosco adulated as Man does his God. Bosco’s lot was a happier one than Man’s. He could see his god, smell him, hear him. From the hands of his god he received caresses, from his mouth kindly words; and besides that, Bosco had an especially good god, one who never beat him and never seriously scolded. Anton could not maltreat any living thing. He understood animals too well, was too close to them.

  Oftentimes, when Sibyl was harnessed and put before a light barouche to drive around the estate of Lipizza for a half hour or so, Florian ran alongside her, so close, so well attuned to her stride, he might have been harnessed with her. Bosco would dash ahead, whirl around dizzily, bark merrily at first, and soon fall silent—as if to prove that he could be as self-contained as his friends. As much as he might like to, at times, he never outstripped them by too far. He always maneuvered to stay near Florian, except once or twice to circle the carriage, and after a few introductory caprioles always settled into his dog’s trot.

  The reins were held by this or that stud-master, or by one of the higher officials of the stud-farm. The driver invariably held a whip in his hand but never lashed a horse. Such a thing did not happen at Lipizza. The horses did not need it. They were not allowed to be whipped, and were not whipped. This system had produced such extraordinary results that in the course of many generations it had become an unwritten but religiously observed law to be gentle with these gentle animals. And thus had been bred in the Lipizzan strain an inherited insight into the human will, an atavistic readiness to obey willingly and promptly. Thus the long whip flicked only lightly and softly, barely to be felt, over hindquarters, tickled back of the ears—and these signals were sufficient to change the tempo. A scarcely perceptible tug at the reins, or a sound from the lips of the driver, arrested the horse in its course. Never was an animal torn at the mouth. Soft and delicate from birth, so they remained, even after they were lodged in the Imperial Stables in Vienna.

  Anton knew all that. Nevertheless it always gave him a mild shock to see Sibyl in her harness, driving off accompanied by Florian and Bosco. He would stare after them full of anguish, and be freed of the strange feeling only after he had unharnessed Sibyl, brushed her and Florian down, and fastened their blankets over them.

  Time lazied by in a placid unbroken rhythm. Only by the passing of summer into winter, of long days into long nights, did the clock of eternity tell man that the earth once again completed her circular flight.

  Florian finished the third year of his existence. Now he enjoyed his splendid full growth. And of the entire herd of horses at Lipizza he was the most beautiful. None of the others was as dazzling white as he. Not a false tinge anywhere mottled his perfect coat. He shone like silver, like milk, like freshly fallen snow, like moonlight. No comparison quite fitted. Florian shimmered as only Florian could. Already it was fabled in Lipizza that only once, and that already ten decades ago, had any of Florian’s ancestors been as pure white.

  Florian’s body had the flawless symmetry of physique of all Lipizzans. He carried his neck in a proud regal curve, and his marvelous head, with its well-formed ears, its wonderful dark liquid eyes, enthralled everyone. The white of his head was shaded around the nostrils and lips a delicate rose-tinted gray which still preserved the undertone of white. Those nostrils and voluptuous lips—they really were voluptuous and suggested unstilled sensuality—were tempting under the touch.

  Anton would stand in front of Florian and press those nostrils and lips with his palm, would fondle and stroke and rub; and Florian would accept it patiently for a while. As for Bosco, he would squat on his haunches and look on reverently. At length Fl
orian would thrust his head up high, snort and glance at Anton half-apologetically: “Don’t be angry—but that’s enough.” Then Anton would slap the white back and say: “Don’t be angry . . . Florian, you are quite right . . . that’s really enough.”

  Florian would execute a few side steps, beat his flanks with his silvery white tail which he bore on a short handle like a flag, and shake his mane of spun ivory. Bosco would be already waiting, his snout raised in a mute query. After this slight pause—the equivalent of consideration for Anton—Florian would lope decorously across the meadow with Bosco playfully pacing him.

  Florian danced when he walked, glided when he galloped. He seemed molded out of power, fire, grace and softness; was temperament and measured force.

  This summer Captain von Neustift once again visited Lipizza. He was accompanied by his wife, Elizabeth, in appearance as much a girl as ever. They strolled across the rolling meadows in and out of clusters of horses.

  Anton smiled when he saw them, stood at attention and saluted.

  “Ah, Pointner!” Neustift stopped and glanced around. “The Florian can’t be very far away. Am I right? Where is he?”

  “By your leave, Herr Rittmeister.” Anton saluted again. “I am sure you can find him yourself.”

  Neustift’s eyes roved. “I am to find him . . . it isn’t as easy as all that.”

  “Oh, yes: it is,” Anton assured him, “very easy.”

  “There!” Elizabeth cried, and with her outstretched arm she pointed at the white stallion. “There he is! It must be!”

  “Your Grace is right,” Anton nodded, “that’s him . . . that’s Florian.” He turned around, waved, whistled and hallooed: “Florian . . . Bosco . . . Here, Florian!” And, again to the visitors: “Just a moment . . . he’ll be right here.”

  They did not have to wait long. Florian sauntered near. The two visitors paid no attention to the terrier who ran ahead of him; they fell silent in sheer admiration as if a prince were approaching.

  Like a creature of light Florian stood before them, almost majestically innocent, bewitching in his beauty and in his serene confidence.

  Neustift whispered: “Have you a piece of sugar?”

  “Yes!” replied Elizabeth with bated breath. As if awakened from a dream, she rummaged through her pocketbook and then proffered the lump on her palm. Florian took it with careful lips.

  Elizabeth smiled: “He kisses it away.” She, too, spoke in a whisper: “You really can’t describe it as anything else . . . he kisses it right out of my palm.”

  They were both a little embarrassed in the presence of this innocent young animal.

  “Do you remember, child . . . ?” Neustift asked.

  Elizabeth countered with another question: “Could anyone forget?”

  “That was the day of our betrothal,” Neustift said, and stroked Florian.

  “How strange,” Elizabeth mused, “that we have not been here once since then. . . . It seems ungrateful.”

  “Ungrateful!” her husband protested. “Oh, no. There was our marriage . . . our honeymoon . . . the garrison in Galicia . . . You can’t always do just as you wish. . . . This has really been our first chance.”

  In the meantime Florian had come a step closer and sniffed at Elizabeth’s hands and then at her pocketbook. His breath was warm mist.

  “He wants more. Just look at the beggar,” she exclaimed. She was pleased, and her pleasure rose out of a subconscious feeling of youth and health.

  Hastily she found another lump and offered it, and while Florian accepted it with gentle courtliness, she said to Neustift: “How big he has grown! . . . and how handsome. . . .” she added.

  Florian stared into her face expectantly, pleadingly, and yet with a certain proud air; a mien so expressive, so spiritual, so noble, that it was impossible to withstand.

  “He’s coming along, Pointer,” Neustift said approvingly. “He’s coming along . . . He will be the pride of the Spanish Riding School.”

  Anton agreed gloomily: “That’s true, Herr Rittmeister . . . There’s nothing to be done about it . . . I hate to think of the day when Florian’s got to leave here.”

  Chapter Six

  GRIM REALITY SENT ITS ADVANCE messengers masquerading in festive garb.

  Anton alone did not share the high spirits of his comrades and of the officials of the stud-farm; the director, the stable-master, the veterinary and all the rest of them.

  When Anton took Florian over to the smithy, that day, for his first set of shoes, Florian seemed quite happy. This event and its consequences excited him, intensified his self-assurance and his love of life. To Anton he was just like a child going to be confirmed by the bishop. With a group of other three-year-olds Florian stood in the smithy. Bosco lay on the ground at his feet, his dangling tongue feverish with curiosity, and studied first Florian, then Anton, and in turn all the horses and the men around him, his gaze coming to rest on the roaring open fire of the forge.

  Anton held Florian lightly by his mane and was the only sad one there. He had to force a smile when the other stableboys called out compliments and praise to Florian. He was accustomed to that. All the other horses wore traces to which their halters were attached. Some champed nervously at their bits, flecks of foam dripping down; for they had only just been broken to the bridle.

  “Naturally,” one of the men said, “Florian is still free . . . still has nothing on his head or in his mouth.” There was no trace of admiration in his voice.

  Curtly and arrogantly Anton replied: “He doesn’t need anything.”

  “That’s what I said,” the other one confirmed. “He’s still free.”

  One of the smiths came up. “And what the devil is this?” he asked uncouthly. “How are we to hold the nag?”

  “This isn’t a nag,” Anton retorted. “Don’t be afraid . . . he’ll hold still, all right.”

  “Afraid?” the smith growled. “Who’s afraid?”

  Anton took one of Florian’s legs by the fetlock. “There . . . look at that,” he said, bragging. And indeed Florian permitted Anton to do with his leg as he pleased; he was as docile as a little dog learning to give his paw. “Try the size,” Anton ordered the smith. “You don’t need big ones anyway . . . he has such a small hoof,” he felt obliged to add. And he cautioned: “Light and thin irons. They are his first ones.”

  The smith growled: “I see that, stupid.”

  But Anton decided not to hear the insult. He wanted to be on friendly terms with the man who gave Florian his first shoes. Obediently Florian lifted one leg after the other. He felt Anton’s fingers spanning his ankles. Each blow of the hammer coming down on his small yellow hoof, sent his head higher, arched his neck more proudly.

  “Watch out, he’ll buck in a minute,” one of the lads laughed.

  “And bolt,” another one yelled.

  “Like hell he will!” Anton barked without straightening up or releasing Florian’s leg. “He’s an angel,” he whispered into the smith’s ear, “there’s never been one like him.”

  The smith laughed. “I know him.” And he hammered on.

  At first Bosco had barked at the sight of the smith hitting his comrade with a hammer, and had been scolded by Anton. Now he looked on attentively, his ears pointed, his head cocking now to this, now to the other, side. He followed the two men around from one leg to the next, and stood close up, as if he had to supervise the goings-on.

  At last the task was done. Florian had his shoes.

  “Jesus, he is glad,” Anton said to the smith, who patted Florian’s hindquarters, leaving traces of his sooty fingers on the white rump.

  “He has every reason to he,” the smith rejoined. Anton did not quite catch the meaning of his words but didn’t bother to think about them.

  “Let’s go,” he addressed Florian and walked ahead.

  With Bosco in his wake, Florian followed Anton, picking his way right through the crowd of foals waiting around. When he passed Nausicaa he threw up his head
and whinnied longingly.

  Nausicaa answered. She was a young mare, well built, with a beautiful white head and rosy nostrils. But her body was white only at the neck, loins and middle. The rest of her was a cloudy gray that grew darker down her legs; just as if she wore pearl-gray leggings.

  “Come, Florian, come,” Anton adjured. And Florian did not tarry.

  The turf sounded different under his hooves. He noticed this, and sensing an added importance in himself, moved about in something of a trance.

  He was habitually self-controlled. That was in his blood. And so now he did not run wild, nor did he neigh indecorously again. He enjoyed his exalted mood quietly, for himself. Only in the springiness of his gait, in the lofty poise of his head, in the fire that flashed from his eyes, was it noticeable.

  With no other filly was he on such friendly terms as with Nausicaa. He had romped and rolled around in the grass with her while their mothers stood by. He had raced with her, with her alone, among all the fillies. They understood each other perfectly, had become inseparable and in all innocence agreed never to part. When Florian greeted Nausicaa in the smithy he had no idea that there was such a thing as leave-taking, as separation.

  Anton walked on before him. Bosco was as frolicsome and diverting as ever. But they did not go back to where his mother, Sibyl, was. Unaware, Florian had forever left the home of his childhood. He joined the young stallions, separated from the mothers, parted from the young mares. He entered a strange stable and received a stall of his own. Bosco stayed with him. So did Anton, who had managed to have himself transferred.

  The new home, too, wore a holiday air. His longing for his mother Florian felt only dimly, although the longing for Nausicaa—that was sharper. He did not know what was behind his desire, and what beyond. . . . However, there was but scant time left to brood.

  One day the stud-master came and forced a cold iron chain between Florian’s teeth. Anton put the traces on his head, thin leather strips that lay flush against forehead and cheeks. Florian suffered it, there being no instinct of protest within him. Down through countless ancestors had come his willingness to subject himself to the will of Man. His instinct knew that his days of service had begun. And so, on this hallowed occasion, he stood pawing the ground with one hoof, champing to accustom himself to the bit which rested on his tongue. Bubbles of foam formed at the mouth-corners. He scattered them around in big white blobs when he shook his head. A slight pressure in his mouth, at the corners . . . Florian understood the order and obeyed.