Florian: The Lipizzaner

by Felix Salten

  Today, however, Franz Ferdinand appeared as the soft-spoken charming, obedient servant of his sovereign. He didn’t want to be stubborn. What he wanted was to plead and to soften the Emperor by his abject subservience. Franz Joseph immediately read his intention, somewhat too stickily put on, and became the frostier for it.

  The Heir Apparent pleaded, he practically begged, for Florian. Heavens, a horse, a single horse! What could that mean to the monarch? He, on the other hand, wanted it so badly and would truly be eternally grateful.

  “If it is possible, gladly,” Franz Joseph said this in such a friendly tone that the distance between him and the Heir widened immeasurably. “I shall talk to the prince about it.”

  The audience was over. There was nothing more to be done. Franz Ferdinand went away almost suffocating with rage. Florian would never be his.

  Chapter Nineteen

  KING EDWARD CAME TO VIENNA.

  Major von Neustift was in the Emperor’s retinue when he received the English ruler at the station. Franz Joseph wore the uniform of a British marshal, the brilliant red coat, the bronze helmet. He cut an unfamiliar figure. If he wore anything but the uniform of an Austrian general, which is in every Austrian’s mind identified with the Emperor, he invariably appeared foolishly disguised.

  Neustift witnessed a slight mishap at this reception which his memory retained forever after.

  The moment for reporting to the Emperor that the train bearing the visiting sovereign was about to arrive, had been calculated to a nicety. It allowed the Emperor time to inspect the Guard of Honor, to hold a short cercle for the various officials, and to take his position on the small carpet leading to the gala car of the royal guest.

  Thus it was. From the narrow side of the station, where the Court waiting room was located, the Emperor walked along the platform at the end of which, already half in the open, the Guard of Honor and the military band had been stationed; beside them the city commandant, the chancellor, the stadholder of Lower Austria, and the mayor.

  In the van of the Emperor marched a master of ceremonies in a gold-braided uniform, white-plumed, two-cornered hat, white breeches and patent-leather boots, the gold-crested ceremonial baton in his white-gloved hand. Behind the Emperor came the adjutants.

  The captain in charge of the Guard of Honor stood ready, his saber drawn, looking toward the approaching monarch. It was his duty to order the salute as soon as his Emperor reached a certain point. Instead, the captain simply stood and stared, totally unnerved by the sight of the sovereign whom he had never seen before at such close range. He stood there dumb, intimidated by a paralyzing impression of majesty, robbed of his senses.

  Franz Joseph, who knew the precise distance prescribed, knew intuitively when the salute should have come. He took two additional halting steps, stopped, made an impatient gesture with his hand, and muttered angrily: “What’s the matter?”

  The city commandant strode to the fore and bawled “ ’Tention! Company. . . . Eyes right!” Drums rolled. The national anthem blared solemnly to the sky. The soldiers stood stiffly to attention.

  The captain got hold of himself, saluted with his saber and stepped forward to make the prescribed report. But Franz Joseph did not listen, passed him by scornfully, and inspected the Guard of Honor, man by man, with stern and thorough gaze.

  Major von Neustift recognized the unhappy captain. They had been cadets together. The son of bourgeois parents, a capable soldier, an honest man; he was now finished, his career cut short forever. And Neustift did not protest, even inwardly, could not see injustice in the man’s automatic dismissal and immediate retirement on pension. An officer lacking presence of mind simply lacked the qualifications expected of any soldier.

  Thus was a career broken in two by very awe of Franz Joseph. Even awe could turn to guilt.

  Neufstift collected all sorts of experiences during his term as adjutant.

  “It’s the most taxing service of all,” he told Elizabeth subsequently.

  “But the most interesting, too.”

  “Certainly. And not without its dangers. Present and future.”

  “Danger? Present danger, that I understand,” Elizabeth conceded. “With an Emperor like Franz Joseph you must be always on the alert, isn’t that so? Always in control of your nerves, your memory, and your tact, too . . . and sharpen them. . . .”

  “I must be a mind reader,” Neustift pursued. “I must forget I am a gentleman, and at the same time never forget it—else I become a lackey.”

  Elizabeth smiled: “That doesn’t worry me, my dear.”

  “Well, it isn’t so simple,” he said thoughtfully. “You need patience, patience and still more patience.

  “How incongruous the whole thing is: He who is always and under all circumstances right—to him nothing can ever happen. While the other fellow—myself, for instance—to him anything, even the worst, can happen.”

  Elizabeth laid her hand on his shoulder. “What silly ideas!” She shook her head. “His Majesty! Don’t forget—that is no empty phrase.”

  “I dare say!” Neustift exclaimed. “Especially with him. Majesty such as his is unmatched on earth.” After a few moments of silence, he concluded hastily: “But it breeds austerity. . . . For months, since that time in the carriage—you remember—when we talked about Florian . . . not a single word! In the course of my duties, yes, one or two syllables, an order—nothing else. Not one word! It makes me panicky.”

  “Not panicky, surely!”

  He kissed her. “Oh, no, don’t worry. I merely talk. I can say anything to you, can’t I? After I’ve talked to you, I feel easier.”

  “Don’t be heavyhearted.” Elizabeth stroked his hair.

  “It’s not so bad as all that.” He laughed.

  “Many envy you.”

  “Do you really think so?” He sounded doubtful. “Many—maybe. But many more are saving themselves for later.”

  “Can it be—?” she broke off.

  “Naturally!” he cried, not without a trace of anger in his voice. “All the younger officers, all the younger diplomats, the ministers are split into two factions. The ones want to achieve whatever they can now, the others wait for tomorrow or the day after.”

  “They will have a long wait,” Elizabeth replied, but her tone lacked conviction.

  “A long wait?” repeated Neustift. “Who knows? Who can pretend to know in advance? Seventy-seven . . . an old age. You can’t deny that.”

  “Wilhelm I lived more than ninety years,” she rejoined. “And Friedrich II ruled but three months.” She breathed deeply. “Franz Ferdinand . . . I can’t tell you why, but I cannot, I simply cannot picture him as Emperor.”

  “Oh,” Neustift snapped his fingers, “it’s easy enough to explain that feeling. We were born, went to school, grew up, married, had children. . . . And during all that Franz Joseph was Emperor. For us there just is no other. His face, his figure, his manner . . . they call it knightly. Wrong! Imperial, it is, imperial! Majesty . . . you yourself spoke of it a moment ago. He is in our brain, in our blood, in our soul!” The major smiled. “Just like our military horses, we all carry his name indelibly stamped on us. No wonder, then, we have no room to picture another as Emperor.”

  “Habit.” Elizabeth stared down at the ground. “Habit. Perhaps something more. Perhaps we are the last who . . .”

  “What do you mean?” Neustift checked her. “After us there will be others. And others will be sitting on the throne.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “But I mean, perhaps we are the last who shall have such a deep-rooted conception . . . something so personal . . . such a personification of an Emperor. Franz Joseph was eighteen when . . .” She hesitated. “And Franz Ferdinand is already past fifty.”

  Neustift rubbed his chin. “If he should get the scepter today, tomorrow . . . that might happen any time and he is eating his heart out for it . . . then—then everything is over for me.”

  “For you?” She was astonished.
“Why for you?”

  “Franz Joseph’s adjutant,” he said briefly. “What could I expect? In the face of the hatred the Archduke feels for everybody—he calls us all Franz Joseph’s creatures. I am one of them.”

  “Are you ambitious?” Elizabeth asked lightheartedly.

  He did not jest. “Right now I am. I should like to become a general. A long way from major. A very long way.” He sighed. “Oh, if only a war came.”

  Elizabeth half shrieked: “War!”

  “Have no fear,” he reassured her. “As long as Franz Joseph is alive there won’t be any war. He is too old.”

  She laughed, at ease again. “And he has never been lucky with his wars.”

  When Neustift returned from the State dinner a few hours later, he was in ebullient spirits.

  “I’ve met another majesty,” he recounted. “Quite a different type, but undeniably a real majesty. The King of England!” He waxed enthusiastic. “At first we secretly laughed at him and made fun of him. He looks almost like a Jew. Especially in the uniform of our Hussars. And with his fat paunch. But then, Elizabeth . . . he has about him something of a great merchant prince, just a trace. Very much of the great cavalier, too. And he is an epicurean, a man full of the joy of life. But beneath his light manner there is an earnestness that lends to everything he says and does a beautiful dark background. He isn’t easily described. And clever! He has a biting, sparkling wit. And tact. And sensitiveness, too.”

  “You make me curious,” Elizabeth murmured. “Your admiration seems . . .”

  “I admit I am enthusiastic. Maybe because I, like the others, underrated him at first. Honestly, he is above and beyond the virtues I’ve just described.”

  His wife interrupted him with faint irony. “That shows you have a keen insight into human nature, my dear, finding all these virtues in so short a time.”

  “Child,” he retorted, “a monarch who is the guest of another monarch hasn’t very much privacy. A naked man is well-dressed by comparison. His intentions are palpable, or else you notice right away that he is trying to hide them. Since a king can freely dictate his behavior, his character can readily be sized up by what he does and says. His mold involuntarily fits his nature, and betrays his qualities. If, however, he is an actor and selects his own part, then the style in which he plays it is the carte d’identité.”

  “You have developed remarkably, darling, in the short time you have been adjutant,” Elizabeth interposed.

  “Think so?” Neustift grinned. “Maybe. This perpetual vigilance sharpens the instincts, the inner eye. But we are not talking about me. I tell you, it is a joy to know such a man as Edward VII is on the throne. All his virtues, his practicality, his gallantry, good cheer and cleverness, all that is overshadowed by a noblesse, a loftiness, an unapproachable something that impels veneration. Yet he is gracious; you feel he is remote and still somehow you feel intimate with him. You should see how he treats his people. So simply and naturally. . . . And if you stand opposite him, you are spellbound . . . but in a pleasant way, without being embarrassed. Elizabeth, I don’t have to tell you I love our Emperor; nor do I take the liberty of making comparisons. But Edward is a modern king, as kingly as can be, a true modern majesty, and in that sense perhaps the only one alive!”

  The next forenoon King Edward appeared in the Court Box at the Spanish Riding School. He sat between Franz Joseph and the Heir Apparent, both of whom wore the uniforms of Austrian generals. Edward came in civilian clothes and wore his simplicity as nobly as his elegance. Now, in the twilight of his life, with his white head and his high slim figure, Franz Joseph looked as impressive as ever. Against that, King Edward’s comfortably filled figure, his clear, intelligent, aristocratic face and his dark beard intershot with white made a striking contrast. But the impression the two monarchs made was equally compelling. Franz Joseph’s manner, for all his freedom and his personal grace, seemed constrained by a conscious sense of supremacy, possibly accentuated by his upbringing in Hapsburg-Spanish etiquette. Edward, on the other hand, was completely relaxed, carefree even, sans gêne; he ventured far along the paths of normal human conduct and in spite of that lost none of his high-born attributes.

  In their company Franz Ferdinand was eclipsed. His broad fleshy figure betrayed the strength of an ox, but lacked grace and nobility. His countenance—low forehead, short bristly hair, thick, dark brown mustache like a sergeant’s—lacked all trace of spirit and of breeding; a face that revealed only brutal energy and unbending will. So plainly were those traits written over his features that they practically obliterated all marks of higher gifts. Only the waxen complexion and the hard unyielding glance of the night-dark eyes bespoke a powerful personality. In the Court Box, in such close proximity to these two rulers, he was obviously the least mighty, and yet the only ominous one; his mere presence radiated foreboding and dread.

  The assemblages had risen at the entrance of the two monarchs. As they were welcomed by the Heir Apparent, the orchestra hidden behind the escutcheon played God Save the King.

  For a moment before he sat down Edward was absorbed in the sight of this vast hall.

  “Superb,” he remarked to the Emperor, “these dimensions, these simple and yet gorgeous adornments. Really superb!”

  Franz Joseph smiled.

  “Fischer von Erlach, isn’t it?” Edward queried. His host nodded.

  “I already know the Riding School,” Edward said to the Heir Apparent.

  Franz Ferdinand was surprised. “Really? When has your Majesty been here?”

  Edward smiled. “While waiting.” He leaned toward the Archduke and whispered: “As you know, I was Prince of Wales for a long time. A very long time. Console yourself, my dear friend.”

  Franz Ferdinand assented throatily. “Yes, your Majesty, everything has its end. You’ve only to live long enough.”

  Trumpets. The horses appeared, the horsemen offered the time-honored greeting, and the play began.

  The English King was in nowise blasé and did not spare his hands.

  “This is magnificent!” he cried. “This is marvelous!”

  At Florian’s entry Edward was all expectation. “A superb animal. An extraordinary creature. What effortless, thorough mastery!” He didn’t sit still for a moment. “What a graceful courbette! Charming! This stallion is not merely a beauty, he is a genius!”

  Franz Joseph leaned over. “He is the one I wanted to show you.”

  “Oh, I am tremendously grateful.”

  Since Edward had spoken to him, Franz Ferdinand was quite buoyant. “Majesty, you are too kind,” he belittled. “You can see as much in any of the better circuses.” He wanted everyone to know how little he cared about owning Florian.

  The Emperor ignored the remark, but Edward protested with surprise: “My dear Franz, there you are mistaken. In a circus! There is nothing in the entire world to compare with your Spanish Riding School. Nothing!” And as Florian was about to make his adieus, Edward applauded violently.

  Ennsbauer and Florian retired amid thunderous handclapping.

  Franz Joseph had seen through his nephew’s utterance. Sour grapes. Unruffled, he casually said to his guest: “Two hundred years of breeding and training.”

  “Yes,” Edward enthused. “Otherwise such a thing could not be achieved.”

  Franz Ferdinand laughed, his good humor expanding. The future was his. It lay just ahead, directly before his eyes; just like this arena. As wide, as empty, as ready for action, this future of his. And like the multitude in balcony and gallery, humanity waited impatiently in fear and in hope upon the deeds he would do—he, Emperor Franz II of Austria! He laughed.

  “Someday, your Majesty, all this waste must go. . . .”

  “That would be wrong,” Edward protested heatedly. “You would destroy something unique.”

  With three fingers of his right hand Franz Joseph carefully brushed his mustache, controlling his distemper. “Nobody can destroy this,” he said softly but succinctly.
“No successor of mine will be so blasphemous and stupid.”

  In consternation Edward stared at Franz Ferdinand who winked.

  Florian just then was led in again on the long loose rein by Ennsbauer. The shimmering white horse wore practically no trappings. The side-pieces on his head, more massive-looking than before, and the purple rein like a bloody stripe along his snowy back; that was all. At first Florian was shown between the pillars, doing the Spanish stride on the spot. Then he pranced and glided in all his paces through the arena, even lifting into the levade—a heroic moment.

  Edward used the very word—heroic. His whole being shook with admiration.

  “Don’t you find,” he asked the Emperor, “that this affects you erotically and heroically at the same time?”

  “I admit the heroic,” was the smiling answer.

  “No,” pursued the King, “this naked horse . . . trembling with power and passion and restraint . . . and the man beside it—that’s like a man with his beloved. . . .” He applauded heartily.

  Franz Ferdinand breathed heavily. The words of the King had stirred memories of a vanished past. Enchanted anew, he watched Florian. But he could not bring himself to applaud the horse and rider.

  Chapter Twenty

  A WRITTEN ORDER HAD ARRIVED from the equerry, whereupon Ennsbauer mustered the horses.

  “He, of course,” he decided, stopping in front of Florian, “is the outstanding one. In fact he would be best alone.”

  Wary and full of fears ever since the affair with the Archduke, Anton listened. What was in store for Florian?

  “He has been working here for three years now,” Ennsbauer spoke while he stroked Florian’s forehead, “which isn’t very much, really. But with him it is equal to five years of ordinary work. His time has come.”