Florian (7 page)

Florian, led by Anton, stepped from the thill. “Yes,” Anton reiterated, “that's Florian!”

He threw a blanket over the steaming stallion and began to unharness him. As he removed the traces and the bit, Florian shook his head vehemently with relief.

“Let him keep the bit,” the stud-master suggested. “So he'll get used to it.”

With his bare hand Anton brushed the lather from Florian's heaving chest. “Oh, no . . . if you please, sir . . . he doesn't need to get used to anything . . . not him . . . he just knows everything.”

Bosco lay, utterly exhausted, where he had sunk down to rest, but his pointed ears kept him apprised of any developments. He had ample time to recuperate. Anton had brush and currycomb ready, and now stripped the blanket from his charge's back and began to groom him.

C
APTAIN VON NEUSTIFT CAME again on a visit, this time alone.

“Where is her Grace, the countess?” Anton asked.

“She is in bed,” Neustift answered, and laughed when Anton showed concern. “Oh, no, my dear Pointner. Not sick! No, on the contrary! Yes, just think of it, we have a son, a very small son, a tiny mite of a son. Leopold Ferdinand Rainer Maria! Just a wee bit of flesh and already Leopold Ferdinand Rainer Maria . . . he is really cute.”

Anton stammered congratulations.

“Perhaps this is to be an important occasion for you, too.” The captain stood with his arms akimbo. “Do you know what brings me here today? I want to buy Florian . . . if I can get him.”

Anton shook his head. “Florian you will not get,
Herr Rittmeister
,” he said with finality.

“Don't be silly, Anton, I've got to get him. My wife wants Florian . . . do you understand, Anton? Well . . .”

Anton repeated. “I don't believe . . .”

Neustift laid his hand on the peasant's shoulder. “And you are to come along. You and Florian, together. What do you say to that?”

But Anton insisted. He laughed as he said for a third time: “I don't believe . . .”

At that Neustift grew impatient. “Why quarrel? Fetch him and hitch him to the carriage.”

“The carriage . . . ?”

“Yes. Today I am permitted to drive. What do you know about that?”

Anton whistled and Bosco rushed up, stood with head tilted, questioning.

“Go fetch Florian!” Anton demanded.

Bosco fled, and after a short while Florian came at a light canter with Bosco bounding all around him.

The stable-master came over, and when Anton had put the harness on Florian, stepped into the carriage with Neustift. The captain took the reins. “You will be surprised,
Herr Rittmeister
—” That much Anton heard and then they were off.

Naturally Bosco went along. Anton remained alone. He stared after the disappearing carriage, rubbed his chin and thought: “He won't get Florian. . . . No, they couldn't be so stupid as to give him away.”

The cart came back, and with scarcely any slowing down, Florian stopped and stood like a statue.

“Marvelous!” was Neustift's verdict, climbing down. “It's absolutely incredible! He knows everything by instinct. Why, a child could drive him.”

Smiling contentedly, Anton busied himself with the harness, and overheard fragments of the conversation between Neustift and the stable-master.

“. . . not up to me, you know that. . . . But I am afraid there isn't a chance. You see . . .”

“. . . willing to pay any price . . . whatever you ask . . . I'll pay and . . .”

“Not a chance. You'd better find another . . .”

“I want Florian.”

“. . . another one gladly. Anyone you like. Florian is not for sale.”

Anton led his charge into the stable. Like a conqueror Florian stepped after him.

When Anton came out again the captain had gone.

S
EVERAL GENTLEMEN OF THE IMPERIAL Court arrived in Lipizza. Their first inquiries were after Florian. And being the first name they mentioned, Florian was the first stallion they saw. He was thoroughly gone over and then tested in harness.

One of the gentlemen read from the stud-book: “. . . son of Berengar out of Sibyl.”

Another, lost in admiration, who was apparently the highest in rank, asked: “Four years old . . . isn't he?”

“Yes, your Excellency,” the one who had read Florian's family tree answered. “Born on May 4, 1901. . . . Exactly four years and one month old.”

Anton stood sadly by. Nobody took notice of a stableboy.

Suspiciously Bosco ran to and fro, as if he sensed something ominous.

“He really trots marvelously,” the slender gray-haired important gentleman declared. “He won't need a great deal of training to make him ready for the carriage of his Majesty.”

“Forgive me, your Excellency,” another ventured to say. He was smaller than the one he addressed, very slim, and had a smooth face and a brown complexion which turned almost violet at the neck.

“. . . But this Florian is really too valuable for that.”

“Is that so?” said the tall one not without some irony. “Too good for the service of his Majesty? Interesting . . . very interesting.”

The brown face grew a shade darker. “We are all in the service of his Majesty, your Excellency, men and horses. . . .”

The other wrinkled his brow, stroked his short gray mustache, and murmured: “Thank you for your information . . . but there is a difference, I think.”

“That's just what I meant!” The dark brown face did not lose its strict self-control, yet underneath there had been an explosion at those words. “My God! I was thinking of driving, your Excellency, nothing else. And a carriage is a carriage, after all.”

His Excellency straightened up. “The carriage in which his Majesty the Emperor . . .”

“That is immaterial to the horses,” his adversary interrupted him. “I beseech you, your Excellency, this stallion here . . . for decades we haven't had anything like it in the Riding School. No, your Excellency, even if you are enraged at me now . . . I simply have to say it . . . it is my duty . . . I beg of you, I entreat you, your Excellency, don't deny this marvelously gifted animal his God-given destiny. Someday we shall all be proud of him.” And as his Excellency was about to reply to that, he added confidently: “Someday your Excellency will be grateful to me for speaking so freely.”

Florian stood with head held high. Bare of his trappings, he seemed created for no other purpose than to inspire enthusiasm by his matchless beauty and majesty. Those who viewed him were thrilled, refreshed and stimulated.

Florian was not aware that this scene spelled good-bye to the home of his youth, farewell to childhood. Bosco squatted on his haunches with his head tilted and his ears stiffly pointed, attentively studying his beloved friend. Bosco had a presentiment, deep down in his little heart, of an impending change. And he was troubled.

Anton knew what all this meant. He stood a few paces aside, forgotten, hanging on every word that was spoken. Each word, while it sounded melodious to his ears, was like a dagger thrust in his breast. Lovingly his eyes swept over Florian. Yes, it was Florian being lauded and appreciated. And that was right. Yet that very appreciation was causing Anton to lose Florian. And he could not imagine what life without Florian would be.

Without Florian! Anton's eyes clouded. Had it only been possible for Captain von Neustift to buy Florian! The captain would take him, Anton, along with Florian, and there need be no separation.

Florian pawed the ground. He lifted the slender, well-formed leg with consummate grace, held it gravely and hesitantly aloft, and then struck the ground.

The noble curve of the neck, the head so poised that the chin was pressed to the breast, made an incomparable picture of gentility and humbleness combined. Florian snorted loudly.

His Excellency, who had not answered the brown-faced man during a constrained pause, now said: “Upon my word . . . he is as beautiful as the horse of Colleone.”

“Yes,” the other one agreed. “That was a Lipizzan, too.”

“Well,” his Excellency modified, “not exactly a Lipizzan . . . but at least of a lineage which later came to Lipizza.”

“It's all the same.” The brown face beamed. “I call the Colleone a Lipizzan. And a rider's horse that was, too. One to bear a rider, not to drag a carriage. That's certain. Surely there's your answer.”

Instead of replying, the courtier stepped over to Florian, took him by the nose-bone and pulled his head close. With his great luminous dark eyes Florian bored into the man. He was asking a question that merely lacked the spoken words. Nor did the courtier say one word. He straightened Florian's satiny forelock, straightened it as carefully as if this were of vital importance. Then he ran his fingers through the full white mane which lent the curved back its daring note. The expert hand patted the warm sleek shoulder, the broad breast.

“Very well, Ennsbauer.” His Excellency at last came to a decision and moved away from Florian. “I don't want to quarrel with you. You are convinced Florian belongs to you.”

“As sure as there's a God above, your Excellency,” Ennsbauer cried, “he belongs in the Spanish School!”

“I repeat, I don't want to quarrel with you. On your responsibility, then, he won't be put in his Majesty's carriage. . . .”

“To any carriage . . . on my responsibility.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“I am right.” Ennsbauer spoke with fanatical conviction.

“All right.” His Excellency brushed everything else aside. “I prefer to say you
may
be right. We both agree as to the extraordinary qualities of this horse. There is no difference of opinion on that score.” Once more he turned to Florian, stroked his back and, his hand still resting on the stallion, concluded: “We'll talk about it in Vienna.”

T
OGETHER WITH EIGHT OTHER young horses Florian was taken to the station to start on the journey to Vienna.

In all, there were five stallions and four mares. A special train stood ready, one that made the trip overnight. Two, and in one case three, animals were confined to a boxcar. Florian remained in the company of another stallion.

A small troupe of stablemen had come down from Vienna to escort the animals to the capital.

The walk to the station, however, the entraining itself, and finally the farewell did not go so smoothly. Anton, Florian and Bosco were too closely bound to one another, Florian was too much a part of their lives for both Anton and Bosco, too much the hub of their existence, to make it simply a matter of tearing the three apart in order to separate the two from the one.

When they left the stud-farm, the misery began. At first only for Anton. For the young stallion and Bosco were as yet blissfully ignorant of what was in store for them. After the courtiers had departed, Bosco had calmed down completely. The Viennese stablemen did not bother him much. Sniffing, he had investigated them carefully and established the fact that they belonged to stables, horses and dogs. Thus he accepted the joint exodus as a novel and adventurous undertaking, scampered with short barks around the cavalcade or else trotted beside Florian and Anton, confirming his undying friendship with the incessant wagging of his tail.