Florian: The Lipizzaner

by Felix Salten

  “I can’t stand any more,” he explained to Isabella and Friedrich. “After Florian—impossible.”

  To the equerry, who appeared in the box, he said: “I have no more time . . . you know. . . .”

  Count Bertingen ventured to remark: “Too bad . . . Florian on the longe is really magnificent, your Majesty.”

  Franz Joseph’s mettle was still high: “Quite. But I, too, am on the longe—of my duty.”

  The equerry bowed.

  The Emperor smiled: “I thank you, my dear Bertingen. It was really beautiful. An unusual performance.”

  He stopped. “This is something for the King of England when he visits us.” And in accents as sharp as before, while his laughing eyes took on a steely glint: “He won’t be bored with it. . . . Not he.”

  He walked out.

  Franz Ferdinand made a face, shook his head and murmured: “How mad he is. Marvelous!”

  Everybody heard it. Even the Emperor might have heard it.

  Franz Joseph stood in front of the open door and talked with the equerry. “Tell Ennsbauer that I am very pleased.”

  Then he departed, and the rest did likewise, since Bertingen announced that the final number on the program, Florian on the longe, had been canceled.

  Count Bertingen sent for the riding master who arrived full of dour forebodings. But the equerry had good news.

  “Congratulations, Ennsbauer!” he began, obviously aping the Emperor in tone and attitude, a rather necessary and unsubtle cliché in Court circles. “Congratulations! His Majesty has condescended to have me express to you his very highest satisfaction.”

  Ennsbauer bowed. His face remained unchanged, his mien as inscrutable as that of a statue. His eyes, however, shone.

  “A great success, Ennsbauer,” Count Bertingen went on. “The performance will be repeated on the occasion of the visit of his Majesty the King of England. Then you may show Florian on the longe also.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A FEW DAYS LATER FRANZ Ferdinand came to the Riding School accompanied by his wife. Count Bertingen, who had been apprised of the impending visit, was there.

  Ennsbauer introduced Florian.

  Franz Ferdinand, when not cramped by the presence of Franz Joseph and not rankled by the ever aggravating sight of the Emperor, was quite a different man. Free and easy, witty and obliging. He knew of the relationship between Ennsbauer and Gabriele Menzinger. He condemned such illicit love, although nobody would have been able to explain his singular attitude nor whence it sprang; for as a bachelor Franz Ferdinand had been wild and unregenerate. But whether his attitude lay rooted in his gratitude to God for ridding him of tuberculosis, or in his love for Sophie whom he had finally won after embittered quarrels with Franz Joseph, or in the strictly moral viewpoint of the future ruler, nobody could say. Perhaps the three wells had united to form one stream sweeping everything unclean from the being of the Heir Apparent.

  Today, however, the Successor to the Throne was in an affable mood.

  “Well, you Casanova,” he addressed Ennsbauer, “show the duchess the tricks of your wonder horse.”

  Ennsbauer’s mien remained unchanged. He bowed and prepared to back away.

  “Just a moment,” the Prince Heir called. “First I shall have to present you to her Highness.” He turned to his wife. “Permit me, Sopherl, to introduce the Don Juan of the Spanish Riding School.”

  He did not mention Ennsbauer’s name. By the terms Casanova and Don Juan, he desired nothing more than to indicate to the riding master that he knew of his clandestine relations with Gabriele Menzinger and disapproved. Ennsbauer did not move a muscle of his face as he bowed before the Duchess Hohenberg, who greeted him with a friendly smile.

  “I can’t endure this person,” Franz Ferdinand told the equerry while Ennsbauer was walking off but still within earshot.

  “A remarkably capable man,” the count replied.

  In return he received one of those glances of abysmal hatred which could darken the eyes of the Heir Apparent almost into blackness.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Bertingen, that’s ridiculous. Because this person knows a little something about horses, you immediately laud him to the sky!”

  The duchess awarded Bertingen that peculiar smile of hers with which she tried so frequently to overcome the harshness of her husband.

  But Count Bertingen countered reservedly: “Gifts such as Ennsbauer’s are extraordinary.”

  “I don’t care,” came the still angrier reply. “The liaisons of a stableman are even more extraordinary.”

  In a frigid tone Bertingen said: “Excuse me, your Imperial Highness, Ennsbauer was never a stableman. He is the Imperial riding master . . . and”—preventing Franz Ferdinand from interrupting him—“his liaisons are his private affair.”

  “Is that so?” the Successor to the Throne snorted. “Is that so? Not a stableman? I don’t make such fine distinctions. For me, whoever has anything to do with horses is a stableman. Without exception. Do you understand?”

  Bertingen shrugged his shoulders. “I understand,” he replied ironically.

  Threateningly the Archduke swept on: “Private affairs! Ha! A nice attitude that is! He will be the first to be thrown out, when . . . when I . . . In my service there are no liaisons!”

  “Oh,” Count Bertingen said in an innocent, almost jocular tone, “your Imperial Highness, until then . . .” He dragged his words. “Ennsbauer will long since have ceased having gallant affairs and will doubtless be pensioned.” And just as the Heir Apparent turned a livid face on him, he added quite amiably: “Just remember, your Imperial Highness, that his Majesty the Emperor is only seventy-six.”

  “Oh, how beautiful!” thrilled the duchess at this moment. “Really, divine . . .”

  Florian, ridden by Ennsbauer, had appeared in the arena and terminated the unpleasant scene.

  “No, really, Franzi,” the duchess gushed. “You really didn’t say too much. A wonderful animal. I am enchanted.”

  Franz Ferdinand underwent a metamorphosis. “Do you like him, Sopherl?” he asked tenderly. “I knew you would.”

  Unaided by music, Florian impressed purely by the power of his own personality. He was musical enough, his body completely alive with harmony; his being vibrated so tensely with unspent power that the mere sight of him imbued his observer with high spirits. He rose into the levade, rose with bent hindlegs; his forefeet upraised he performed the capriole, the jump into the air from a standing position. He did this as if it were no effort at all, thrusting his hindlegs into a horizontal position parallel with the front legs as if his body were more buoyant than air. Then in the long Spanish trot he gave the impression of touching the ground only for fun. He glided. He wafted himself like some winged horse starting out to scale the heights of Olympus. Then he set one leg carefully across the other in cadenced paces until he appeared to be enjoying this exercise like a game.

  The Archduke and his wife entered the arena. Count Bertingen followed them.

  “Come here,” Franz Ferdinand ordered.

  Ennsbauer dismounted and dropped the reins.

  Florian approached the group, slowly, with the friendliness of his kind which expects friendliness in return.

  “Why didn’t the ass remain in the saddle?” Franz Ferdinand shouted at Count Bertingen. “He heard me tell him to come here.”

  Ennsbauer remained where he was. Hat in hand. Silent. But when Bertingen glanced toward him questioningly, he reluctantly said: “I thought it would please their Imperial Highnesses if Florian came by himself.”

  The Heir Apparent did not give him another glance. To the equerry he growled: “These people shouldn’t think, they should obey. That’s all I expect of them.”

  Meanwhile the duchess had taken Florian by the reins, since the horse at the sound of harsh voices had raised his head and begun to retreat. She held him by his nose-bone, patted him and cooed in his ear. Florian listened and moved his shapely ears, his great swimming eye
s questioning. He exhaled in tiny snorts and sniffed at her gown.

  “Too bad,” Countess Sophie said, “I haven’t a lump of sugar.”

  “Sugar!” Bertingen called. And Ennsbauer quickly handed him a few pieces.

  Franz Ferdinand came and stood very close to his wife, and while Florian crunched the sweets patted him on the neck. As if it was all settled, he said:

  “What did I tell you, Sopherl? A horse for me! Absolutely made for me! Isn’t that true?”

  “Certainly, Franzi, just made for you.”

  The equerry said not a word.

  “Well, Bertingen,” the Archduke demanded, “why don’t you say something?”

  Bertingen shrugged his shoulders. “All I can do is obey.”

  “Quite right,” the Archduke laughed. “But I want to know what you think about it?”

  “Your Imperial Highness is the only one who has the right, upon his Majesty’s orders, to take a horse from the Mews.”

  “Don’t tell me things I already know.” Franz Ferdinand had regained his good humor. He stroked Florian’s neck and flanks. “I ask whether you agree with me.”

  “Provided,” Bertingen assumed an innocent mien, “provided your Imperial Highness is not too heavy for Florian. . . .”

  “Nonsense. Too heavy for such a strong beast!”

  Bertingen protested: “Your Imperial Highness has ridden Irish horses till now.”

  Franz Ferdinand changed his tone: “Very well, then. Provided, as you say, Bertingen, I am not too heavy. Well and good.” He addressed his wife: “But you . . . you, Sopherl, will make an excellent figure on this horse.”

  “—Oh, I?” The Duchess showed surprise. “I?” And then her head drooping in resignation: “They will never give me that horse, Franzi. . . . You know . . . not me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” her husband temporized, his stubbornness stirring again.

  He took his leave coldly. Bertingen could still hear him telling his wife: “I’ll see this through. I want to. You on that white stallion. Only when you ride him will he be complete. Like a fairy tale.”

  The visit of the Heir Apparent and his wife was excitedly discussed among the stablemen. Anton had listened behind the door of the arena and was horrified by Franz Ferdinand’s intention. He worked up the courage later to ask Ennsbauer: “What will happen to me and Bosco . . . ?”

  Ennsbauer informed him readily enough. It did him good to talk disparagingly of the Successor to the Throne who had offended him.

  “Nothing will happen,” he said with sarcasm. “Neither to you nor to the dog.” He leaned down and for the first time stroked Bosco, much to the terrier’s amazement. When he straightened up he added: “Nor will anything happen to Florian either. He stays where he is.”

  Anton’s baffled expression launched the riding master into an almost obscene description of the Imperial ostracism against which Franz Ferdinand fought vainly. “He? The Emperor can’t stand him. Maybe he can do something with the Army. Yes, something. But here, in the Imperial Palace? Not that much!” he snapped his fingers. “All he has to do is ask for something, and everybody will be more than happy to say ‘no’ to him.”

  He was right as usual.

  The equerry reported Franz Ferdinand’s visit to the first chamberlain and mentioned his request.

  The first chamberlain laughed aloud. “I wouldn’t have thought our good Franz quite as naïve as all that. But . . . he must have been joking.”

  Franz Ferdinand was the last person to joke with the Imperial courtiers. He had been smitten with Florian, fallen victim to the idée fixe of winning this horse for his wife. He did not easily desist from his desires. . . . The first chamberlain was ordered to appear before the Heir Apparent in Castle Belvedere.

  “Look here, my dear Prince,” Franz Ferdinand addressed him, cajoling, “you really could do me the small favor. . . . It’d be the first one anyway. And this would be a favor which would oblige my wife very much.”

  The Prince remained unmoved. He pointed out that it wasn’t up to him to grant favors, particularly not favors that were in contradiction to his line of duty.

  “Why, I ask you!” the Archduke fumed, losing his patience rapidly. “You do your duty a little more punctiliously than is absolutely required of you.” And before the prince could ask him whether this were possible, he cut him short. “I want a horse, a horse I happen to like. . . . Is that so much?”

  The prince explained that Florian had been appointed to perform before King Edward.

  “But later,” Franz Ferdinand persisted, “when that’s over?”

  “I shall ask his Majesty for his decision,” the prince declared.

  “No!” cried the Prince Heir with mounting rage. “No, I don’t want you to do that.” Overcome by his temper, he broke out: “Just imagine for a moment that it is already my turn . . . that might happen any day now . . . and that it is my command—”

  Icily the prince replied: “Then another—not I—will obey, your Imperial Highness!”

  He was dismissed curtly.

  Franz Ferdinand went straight to the Emperor to ask for Florian. It meant much to him, not only to get the horse, but once, just this one time, to enforce his will on the hated first chamberlain. At the time when he had decided to marry the Countess Chotek, he had implored the Emperor, the princes, the entire Court for their good offices. In vain. Since then, however, he nursed his bitter enmity. He understood the attitude of the Emperor. He understood the father who had lost his only son, the monarch who had seen his heir laid in the grave. Later, though, after Franz Ferdinand had recuperated from his lung affection, had returned, and had felt strength surging into his once sick body, he had come to regard himself as one chosen by God to lead the moribund realm of the Hapsburgs to new glory. He viewed Franz Joseph’s reign with critical eyes. His crafty, alert mind disapproved of the chronic tendency of the monarch to give in. It was said that his marriage to the Czech countess had made Franz Ferdinand a foe of the Magyars and a friend of Slavism. Perhaps so. But his unbending iron will did not becloud his political foresight. He recognized instinctively that the dualistic construction of the realm, the twin personality of Austria-Hungary precluded any other national structure; that any abortive rearrangement would only threaten the very existence of the empire.

  His impatience had grown from day to day, from year to year. Franz Joseph clung to life entirely too long to suit him. He said it at home, said it quite openly to courtiers, to politicians and friends. Naturally it reached Franz Joseph’s ears. Both true and invented utterances were brought back to the Emperor. Franz Ferdinand’s plan, formulated during this period of waiting, during these years of burning impatience to ascend the Throne, grew and developed to its minutest details. It provided the Czechs with state sovereignty and a coronation at Prague, the new form of monarchy to be a federation of states which would guarantee to all its nations equal rights. Franz Ferdinand entertained seriously the possibility of an alliance with Russia, dreamed of reestablishing the old alliance of three emperors and the reinstallation of the world-wide power of the Vatican. Hungary, of course, would resist to the last. He knew how jealously Hungary’s politicians guarded the special privileges granted them by the compromise of 1867, and knew well how little love the Hungarians bore the Russians. The Magyars had not yet forgotten that Russian soldiers had crushed their successful revolution and forced them to lay down their arms at Vilagos.

  Franz Ferdinand feverishly waited for the day of his succession. The alliance of Russia, Germany and Austria would be unassailable, or at least unconquerable; a realm reaching from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific which could scoff at any attempted blockade. Perpetual peace would be assured, and the Hapsburg dynasty would be secure for centuries to come.

  For the sake of this vast dream he even accepted the friendship of the Protestant, Wilhelm II. Besides, Wilhelm had treated the Duchess von Hohenberg as the future Empress and thereby gained Franz Ferdinand’s gratitude. True
, in his eyes Wilhelm was a heretic and wore the Holy Roman Crown of Charlemagne—illegally. For half a thousand years it had rested on Hapsburg heads, and even now reposed, with all the other crown insignia, in the Imperial Palace at Vienna. Wilhelm wore it in name due to the breach of faith Friedrich II had started, and Bismarck, in another war against Austria, had finished. Franz Ferdinand cared little about the Germanic cause. Of first moment, to him, was the influence of the House of Hapsburg which had been thrust outside the purely German sphere of interest. He could do nothing against this historical development; he thought of the many nations the Hapsburgs had ruled at one time or another, and felt Slavic sympathies stirring in his heart. He always received Wilhelm II cordially. But each time Wilhelm departed he had his rooms fumigated of the desecrating presence of a Protestant and consecrated anew by a Catholic priest.

  The Hungarians were not to disturb or interfere with his plans. He’d handle them.

  There was a story told to Franz Joseph: One day, during maneuvers, the Heir Apparent had stood in Bruck on the River Leitha which divides Austria from Hungary, pointed across to the other bank, and exclaimed: “We’ll have to conquer Hungary all over again.”

  The more pronounced Franz Ferdinand’s hostility to the régime became, the more openly he admitted how fiercely he longed for the day when he would have the power to do away with the “old trash” of a misguided reign, the deeper grew Franz Joseph’s resentment against his heir. He had never cared for his brother’s children anyway, had always referred to them as the “Carl Ludwig brood.” He realized, of course, how helpless he was before the future, which would begin only with his death; but as long as he lived he did all in his power to embitter the existence of Franz Ferdinand, did it with finesse and relish. The Duchess of Hohenberg had to appear at formal Court functions and take her place behind the youngest of the archduchesses. As a result, Franz Ferdinand, who was entitled to the first place directly behind the Emperor, had to make a display of joining his wife. The Emperor did not tamper with that. He left it to the first chamberlain, who could be sure at the slightest opportunity to make the Heir feel the continual pinpricks of Imperial disfavor and his complete divorcement from any influence. And the first chamberlain was always certain of Franz Joseph’s approval. Often scenes between Franz Joseph and Franz Ferdinand were engendered in this fashion. An irritable, touchy atmosphere pervaded the Imperial household.