Florian (3 page)

“Cats . . .” Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “Cats.”

“Well, to be sure,” he smiled, “these horses are a far more interesting race than cats. . . . Why, Hannibal rode across the Alps on the back of one of them . . . just think of it!”

Which set Elizabeth off laughing. “Hannibal . . . on a Lipizzan! You're joking.”

“At that time they were Spanish stock,” Neustift said, again serious. “Or else from the northern rim of Africa.”

Still Elizabeth laughed incredulously. “Who could make such a claim?”

“Just look at some antique reliefs or old equestrian statues,” he retorted, “and then look at that animal.” He pointed at Sibyl who stood silhouetted against the sky. He became enthusiastic. “That's exactly what the horses were like then . . . exactly! They had this same magnificent figure, the same heroic pathos in their posture, the same dreamlike rhythm of movement, even that gentle decline from forehead to ram's-nose—”

“Really?” Elizabeth interrupted him. “And surely her marvelous eyes . . .”

“Surely!” Neustift spoke on, his words pouring forth unrestrainedly due to his enthusiasm: “I am convinced I'm right about Hannibal's horses, I really believe they are the ancestors of these. Are you conscious of the fact, Elizabeth, that so many things—almost everything beautiful and lofty that we moderns possess—have come to us from the Mediterranean? God and the gods, art and poetry, and . . . and . . .”

“And horses,” Elizabeth interposed and smiled once more.

“Yes, horses, too . . . these horses,” Neustift said emphatically. He patted Sibyl on her croup. “Is there anything more beautiful than a horse? And in all the equine world anything comparable to these Lipizzans? Not for me. For me, Elizabeth, a horse is one of God's truly noble creatures. Excuse me . . . I am only a horseman.”

Elizabeth passed him. “Only a horseman,” she said. “Only!” And drawing Sibyl's head down she pressed a kiss on her nose. “There . . . my sweet. For me, too, you belong to the noble things of this world; for me, too . . . even if I am but a bad horsewoman.”

“Why, Countess,” Neustift protested, “you ride excellently.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

Anton, who had come shuffling up and remained standing a few steps removed, ventured to remark: “And how well the countess can drive . . . it is simply marvelous.” He could not suppress the desire to air this opinion.

Elizabeth nodded amiably. “Thank you, too.” Anton rocked in embarrassment. She turned to Neustift. “I am really very glad that we drove over. I have never been in Lipizza before. Strange . . . because it isn't very far from where we live.”

“Yes, you had to wait until someone like myself came into your house,” Neustift said. “I planned to talk you into this visit the moment your parents invited me.”

“And Lipizza?” Elizabeth asked again. “You said a while ago that the stud-farm has existed for a long time.”

“A very, very long time.”

“Tell me more!”

He hesitated.

“Tell me. . . . What are you thinking about?”

“Primarily,” Neustift said softly, “of you. Only of you, Elizabeth. You have asked me, and therefore I dare speak. Of your copper-brown hair, of your lovely brown eyes, of your little proud nose, of the brave curve of your lips, of . . .”

“Stop,” she checked him. “Stop!”

“. . . of your whole beautiful self. . . .”

“Don't.” Elizabeth, too, was whispering. “Not here, please. . . .” And in her natural voice she went on. “You wanted to tell me some more about Lipizza. . . .” From the corner of her eyes she glanced at Anton who was following them. But Anton paid but scant attention to human beings, ever. Right now he was preoccupied with Florian and Sibyl.

“Oh, yes, Lipizza,” Neustift acceded, his voice trembling slightly as he struggled for an easy conversational tone. “There is little to be said, really, Countess . . . if I want to be brief, that is. Archduke Karl founded all this. . . .” He waved his arm in an encompassing gesture.

“He of the battle of Aspern, who conquered Napoleon?”

Neustift suppressed a faint smile. “No, no, this was an archduke who lived in the sixteenth century. The father of the Styrian Ferdinand. . . .”

“The Styrian Ferdinand? And who was he?”

“He? He was the Holy Roman Emperor during whose reign the Thirty Years' War was fought.”

“I see . . . and why?”

“A religious war . . . Catholics against Protestants . . . the Styrian Ferdinand was a pious Catholic. He said that he would rather rule over a graveyard than over heretics.”

“Oh, I am so ashamed . . . I know so little.” Elizabeth's girlish voice grew sad.

Neustift took her arm, which she suffered without a word. “You are wonderful as you are,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. And then, his lips pursing: “I hate educated people.”

Elizabeth released her arm. “You, Neustift?” she evinced surprise. “A scholar like you?”

He laughed a quick bitter laugh. “I . . . a scholar? I know just about as much as an Austrian should know to understand what Austria is. . . .”

“At home you will tell me . . . will you . . . about the Styrian Ferdinand?” Elizabeth begged.

“Gladly, gladly,” Neustift replied in quickening syllables. “And about Matthias . . . and about Rudolf II, who shared a room in the Hradschin, his castle in Prague, with lions and eagles. . . .”

“The same room?”

“Yes. He was the incarnate, the mysterious Majesty! We know hardly anything about the overpowering personalities among the Hapsburgs. Since 1866 history has falsified much in connection with these matters.” Neustift now spoke heatedly. “This Rudolf, this glorious figure . . . he was really the first art collector. He felt the aura . . . the spiritual essence . . . which emanated from a painting, a statue, a goldsmith's piece. Since Maximilian, that ill-starred genius, he was the first to understand these things. And he loved horses. Do you know . . . after he was crowned Emperor he never sat in a saddle again; but he came to his stables every day to enjoy the sight of his noble chargers and to pet them. . . .”

“We ought to go home,” Elizabeth suddenly suggested. She was highly animated. “We could sit and talk . . . and . . .” She said no more.

“We shall be together . . . always!” Neustift could hardly contain his joy.

Elizabeth helped him. “So this is Lipizza,” she said. “Lipizza . . . and centuries old . . . ?” She turned completely around, slowly, pivoting on her heel.

“Well.” He laughed. “It is almost four hundred years old . . . which isn't so terribly much, after all.”

“For human beings, plenty . . . and for these noble four-footed beings, too. . . .”

Straight through the swarm of horses they sauntered slowly toward the exit-gate. Intentionally Elizabeth pressed between the closest crowded mares each time they encountered a small cluster. “Ho!” she cried, “step aside.” Or: “Go away, child,” soothingly, in a friendly tone. She knew it was necessary to talk to the animals in order not to startle them. Of course, she did not know that a Lipizzan rarely shies.

Neustift paced behind her or beside her, just as it happened. He whistled softly—cavalry signals.

Sibyl and Florian followed the pair as if the visit had been meant for them alone and it was their agreeable duty to see the guests out. Anton did not leave his wards.

Continuing on their way, Elizabeth and Neustift caressed a horse here, slapped some beautifully rounded hindquarter there, stroked a broad, healthy chest, or a proudly curved neck, the satiny down of a young filly's pelt . . . and were themselves quietly and searchingly inspected by deep dark eyes and velvety nostrils.

They were in the middle of the herd, completely hemmed in, breathing deeply of the salt-laden air wafted over the meadows from the sea and of the pinching odor of these big strong forms. Out here in the open the animal odor contained something refreshing, something warm, frank, innocent. Milk-white horses there were, iron-grays, others whose snowy flanks seemed flecks of clouds; here a pearl-gray color appeared in irregular but always delicate designs on back or breast and loins or legs. Most of them were white of mane, with long bushy tails like rich plumes. Sometimes it was an ivory-tinted white, sometimes the white of moon-spun gossamer.

“Honestly,” Elizabeth said, awed, “here one is among the noblest . . . one might very well become timid and feel like an upstart.”

“Why . . . Countess!” Neustift smiled. “We human beings have had something to do with preserving their nobility. True, they don't know it . . . but we shouldn't forget it . . . although”—and he waited until Sibyl edged up and he could stroke her back—“a feeling of humbleness . . . yes, of humbleness . . . never quite leaves me when I am among blooded horses. . . .” He faced Elizabeth. “Even if it be nothing else than some sort of genuflection before Nature for the generous gratitude with which she rewards us for our endeavors.”

“Au revoir,”
Elizabeth almost sang, such was the joy in her voice, “
au revoir
 . . . very soon, Lipizza.”

Somebody softly touched her shoulder. “Oh, Sibyl,” she breathed in ecstasy, “I certainly would have said good-bye to you . . . you don't need to remind me. I know what is proper.”

Again she held out a lump of sugar. “There . . . as a farewell gift . . . and I won't ever forget the kiss of your lips.” There was more between the white horse and Elizabeth than the lump of sugar: The joy of existence, the willing deliverance to Fate which unites every living thing. But neither the girl nor the horse knew it. They knew only that they liked each other.

“
Au revoir
, Sibyl.”

Florian began his grotesque foal's dance. He galloped about his mother, about Elizabeth and Neustift, while Anton cried: “Florian!” shouted, “Florian! Florian!”

Florian wouldn't listen.

“Let him be,” Elizabeth begged Anton. “I have always been against forcing little children to say good-bye.”

Long after they had gone, Anton stood there, pressing Florian's soft little head against his chest, stroking him with both hands over neck and shoulders, and murmuring into his ear: “Was that nice? Now you are all hot, all hot you are . . . and you wouldn't come when I called you. Is that nice? You know it isn't. But you won't do that again, will you? You want to be a good little horse. Don't you, Florian? The very nicest little horse”—he released him—“for you are already the most beautiful one anyway.”

Enraptured he watched how the fumbling colt, on his stiff little legs, approached his mother who appeared to be waiting; watched the innocent, graceful poses Florian adopted while he pulled thirstily at the teat.

O
NE DAY BOSCO CAME.

Bosco was a fox terrier barely two months old. His mother's name was Maya; she lived in Lipizza, was owned by Herr Voggenberger, spent her time in the stable with the stallions and had been married to her stable-fellow, the handsome fox terrier, Jackie. A litter of five had constituted the first blessed event of this halcyon marriage: five round, stumbling, struggling, squirming, lively fox terriers. Voggenberger insisted on leaving Maya only three; five were too much for poor Maya. He had been on the point of drowning two of them, had even a large pail of water ready, when Anton arrived. “Give me one,” he begged, “I've wanted a dog for a long time.” Herr Voggenberger had given him the tiny blind ball which stretched out four silly paws and devotedly but without success sucked Anton's finger when he put it in its mouth. Voggenberger, noticing that, had remarked: “If he remains alive, his name will be Bosco.” Anton was satisfied. “All right . . . for all I care, Bosco. Thank you very much.”

Whereupon Voggenberger had grabbed the other puppy and prepared to stick its head into the pail. Anton couldn't endure any form of cruelty.

“Wait a while, Herr Voggenberger,” he had stammered timidly.

Voggenberger was not cruel by nature. He had not enjoyed the prospect of killing even one of the young brood. He only wanted to make things easier for Maya. “What do you want me to wait for?” he asked. “How long do you want me to wait?”

“Well, till tomorrow,” Anton replied. “At most till the day after tomorrow. There is that game warden, Woinovich, down in the village.” He hesitated for a moment.

“Well, and—?” Voggenberger had demanded.

“His cat has lost all her kittens except one . . . he could put this little one with the mother cat. . . .” Anton's face shone.

“All right,” Voggenberger said. On his palm he had carried the little bundle of fluff from the kitchen into the stable, to Maya. Anton had hidden Bosco under his coat and accompanied Voggenberger, who said on the way: “I'll call your attention to the fact, Pointner, that this last one is a female . . . if she lives, her name is Faline. Don't forget.”