Florian (13 page)

A
N EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY FANFARE sounded through the wide hall as the Emperor stepped into the Court Box at the Riding School. Above the box was the escutcheon held aloft by genii and martial emblems. Behind it had been placed the bugle-sextet, musicians from the orchestra of the opera.

Purple velvet hangings covered the balcony and enlivened the hall with their luminous tints. Few people occupied the balcony; officers, ladies, chamberlains of the archdukes present, ladies-in-waiting, and the wives of various Court officials.

In the Court Box five archdukes sat waiting, the Heir Apparent, Franz Ferdinand, in their midst. He had “decided” to come without his wife. In other words, the House Ministry had once again answered the request which he stubbornly made before every function, by refusing to grant his wife admittance to the Court Box. Defiant, he came alone. He did not acknowledge the greeting of the equerry and showed the Imperial princes an unfriendly countenance. “Blessings, blessings, blessings!” he said in rapid succession while his right hand described the sign of the cross in the air. That precluded the necessity of shaking hands.

He blandly refused to notice the Archduke Friedrich and his wife. A hearty friendship had once existed between him and them. Since his marriage to Countess Chotek, however, Friedrich and Isabella were his enemies. Franz Ferdinand feared the short plump Isabella for her sharp tongue. Whenever somebody informed him of a pointed remark she had made, he went into paroxysms of rage and swore to avenge himself, later, when he should be Emperor.

The old Archduke Rainer addressed him informally: “How are your wife and children, Franz?”

Franz Ferdinand shot a suspicious glance at him but could detect no hidden malice in this question, simply the uncalculating kindness of old age. He also scanned the faces of the others, his eyes glittering with ill-concealed wrath. All of them acted as if they had heard nothing. He smiled and replied:

“Thank you!” He spoke with demonstrative loudness. “My Sophie is very well, and the children also. The fact is, we are very happy.”

He glared at everyone of them, noticed that Isabella smiled mockingly, her look saying, “Believe it who will,” and bit his lips.

Then the fanfare.

Franz Joseph entered. After their obeisances the princes remained silent. The archduchesses rose from their deep curtsies.

A brief “Good morning” from the Emperor was accompanied by a circular movement of his hand. The moment he sat down, a door in the opposite wall was thrown wide, and four horsemen rode into the arena. In a straight line they swept toward the Court Box and stopped at an appropriate distance. Simultaneously they doffed their two-cornered hats and swung them until their arms were horizontal. Then they wheeled and to the strains of the
Gypsy Baron
began their quadrille.

The circle and capers cut by the four horses were precisely alike, and gave the effect of music in the flowing rhythm of their execution. The regularity of the horses' strides, and the horsemanship of the four riders aroused the spectators to a gay pitch, no one could have said why; it was sheer rapture evoked by the beautiful, blooded animals and their artistry.

Everyone in the hall could ride, knew horseflesh, and enjoyed the spectacle with the relish of a connoisseur. Franz Joseph, too, was stimulated by it all, his brows contracted. His white-gloved right hand kept pushing up his thick white mustache.

Suddenly a voice close to him whispered: “How boring!”

The Emperor recognized the Heir Apparent. Turning his head, he said with some heat: “Whoever is bored ought to leave.” His voice betrayed rising anger.

Franz Ferdinand mock-apologetically replied: “Forgive me, your Majesty. I didn't mean the quadrille.”

With a negligent wave, his uncle commanded: “Be still.”

Franz Ferdinand obeyed, remained sitting, and grinned covertly behind his thick black mustache. He had succeeded in ruffling the Emperor.

The quadrille was over, the horsemen had made their exit. The wooden door remained wide open.

Next seven mounted stallions entered and filed in front of the Court Box. Seven bicornes were removed from seven heads, swung to a horizontal position, and replaced.

Florian stood in the center. To his right stood three older stallions, thoroughly trained, and to his left three equally tested ones. He resembled a fiery youth among men. In a row of white steeds he stood out as the only
pure
white one. His snowy skin, unmarred by a single speck, called up memories of cloudless sunny days, of Nature's gracious gifts. His liquid dark eyes, from whose depths his very soul shone forth, sparkled with inner fire and energy and health. Ennsbauer sat in the saddle like a carved image. With his brown frock coat, his chiseled, reddish-brown features and his fixed mien, he seemed to have been poured in metal.

The Emperor had just remarked, “Ennsbauer uses no stirrups or spurs,” when the sextet began to play.

The horses walked alongside the grayish-white wainscoting. Their tails were braided with gold, with gold also their waving manes. Pair by pair they were led through the steps of the High School; approached from the far side toward the middle, and went into their syncopated, cadenced stride.

The Emperor had no eyes for any but Florian. Him he watched, deeply engrossed. His connoisseur's eye tested the animal, tested the rider, and could find no flaw that might belie the unstinted praise he had heard showered on them. His right hand played with his mustache, slowly, not with the impatient flick that spelled disappointment over something.

Ennsbauer felt the Emperor's glance like a physical touch. He stiffened. He could hope for no advancement. Nor did he need to fear a fall. Now—in the saddle, under him this unexcelled stallion whose breathing he could feel between his legs and whose readiness and willingness to obey he could sense like some organic outpouring—now doubt and pessimism vanished. The calm, collected, resolute animal gave him calmness, collectedness, resolution.

At last he rode for the applause of the Emperor, of Franz Joseph himself, and by Imperial accolade for enduring fame. Now it was his turn. . . .

Away from the wall he guided Florian, into the center of the ring. An invisible sign, and Florian, as if waiting for it, fell into the Spanish step.

Gracefully and solemnly, he lifted his legs as though one with the rhythm of the music. He gave the impression of carrying his rider collectedly and slowly by his own free will and for his own enjoyment. Jealous of space, he placed one hoof directly in front of the other.

The old Archduke Rainer could not contain himself: “Never have I seen a horse
piaffe
like that!”

Ennsbauer wanted to lead Florian out of the Spanish step, to grant him a moment's respite before the next tour. But Florian insisted on prolonging it, and Ennsbauer submitted.

Florian strode as those horses strode who, centuries ago, triumphantly and conscious of the triumphant occasion, bore Caesars and conquerors into vanquished cities or in homecoming processions. The rigid curved neck, such as ancient sculptors modeled; the heavy short body that seemed to rock on the springs of his legs, the interplay of muscle and joint, together constituted a stately performance, one that amazed the more as it gradually compelled the recognition of its rising out of the will to perfect performance. Every single movement of Florian's revealed nobility, grace, significance and distinction all in one; and in each one of his poses he was the ideal model for a sculptor, the composite of all the equestrian statues of history.

The music continued and Florian, chin pressed against chest, deliberately bowed his head to the left, to the right.

“Do you remember,” Elizabeth whispered to her husband, “what our boy once said about Florian? He sings—only one does not hear it.”

Ennsbauer also was thinking of the words of little Leopold von Neustift as he led Florian from the Spanish step directly into the
volte.
The delight with which Florian took the change, the effortless ease with which he glided into the short, sharply cadenced gallop, encouraged Ennsbauer to try the most precise and exacting form of the
volte,
the
redoppe,
and to follow that with the
pirouette.

As though he intended to stamp a circle into the tanbark of the floor, Florian pivoted with his hindlegs fixed to the same place, giving the breathtaking impression of a horse in full gallop that could not bolt loose from the spot, nailed to the ground by a sorcerer or by inner compulsion.

And when, right afterward, with but a short gallop around, Florian rose into the
pesade,
his two forelegs high in the air and hindlegs bent low, and accomplished this difficult feat of balance twice, three times, as if it were child's play, he needed no more spurring on. Ennsbauer simply had to let him be, as he began to
courbette,
stiffly erect. His forelegs did not beat the air, now, but hung limply side by side, folded at the knee. Thus he carried his rider, hopped forward five times without stretching his hindlegs. In the eyes of the spectators Florian's execution of the
courbette
did not impress by its bravura, or by the conquest of body heaviness by careful dressure and rehearsal, but rather as an exuberant means of getting rid of a superabundance of controlled gigantic energy.

Another short canter around the ring was shortened by Florian's own impatience when he voluntarily fell into the Spanish step. He enjoyed the music, rocked with its rhythm. These men and women and their rank were nothing to him. Still, the presence of onlookers fired him from the very outset. He wanted to please, he had a sharp longing for applause, for admiration; his ambition, goaded on by the music, threw him into a state of intoxication; youth and fettle raced through his veins like a stream overflowing on a steep grade. Nothing was difficult any longer. With his rider and with all these human beings around him, he celebrated a feast. He did not feel the ground under his feet, the light burden on his back. Gliding, dancing with the melody, he could have flown had the gay strains asked for it.

On Florian's back as he hopped on his hindlegs once, twice, Ennsbauer sat stunned, amazed.

Following two successive
croupades,
a tremendous feat, Florian went into the Spanish step still again. Tense and at the same time visibly exuberant, proud and amused, his joyously shining eyes made light of his exertions. From the
ballotade
he thrust himself into the
capriole,
rose high in the air from the standing position, forelegs and hindlegs horizontal. He soared above the ground, his head high in jubilation. Conquering!

Frenetic applause burst out all over the hall, like many fans opening and shutting, like the rustle of stiff paper being torn.

Surrounded by the six other stallions Florian stepped before the Court Box, and while the riders swung their hats in unison, he bowed his proud head just once, conscious, it seemed, of the fact that the ovation was for him and giving gracious thanks in return.

Franz Joseph himself had given the signal for the applause by lightly clapping his hands together. Now he rose and turned to Archduke Rainer, who, as the most distant claimant to the Throne, sat farthest removed from him. Rainer was the oldest among all the archdukes, older even than the seventy-six-year-old Emperor himself. “Well, did you ever see anything like it?” Franz Joseph asked.

“Never!” Rainer answered.

“Well, then,” said the Emperor, enunciating each word sharply, “I cannot understand how anyone could be bored by it.”

Rainer tried to pacify him.

“Nobody could have said it bored him.”

“Oh, yes,” Franz Joseph shot back, the point in his words as sharp as a knife's tip. “Oh, yes!”

Franz Ferdinand stifled a yawn.

What ensued, four young stallions between the pillars and on the longe, did not interest the Emperor. He became impatient and made ready to leave.

“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.