Florian (16 page)

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.

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.”

Anton was terrified.

But when he learned that Florian was to return to Lipizza to be mated, to have offspring, he breathed easily. Intoxicating joy swept through him when Ennsbauer answered his timid question bruskly. “Of course, you ass, you'll have to go along. You and this beast of a dog. You three are inseparable.”

During the days leading up to the time of departure, Anton showered Florian and Bosco with tender discourses.

Everything had awakened in Anton. The four years they had spent together at the place of Florian's birth, childhood and youth, the carefree existence, the wide meadows, the invigorating, salt-laden air that wafted over from the sea. . . . In his dull brain these memories began to seethe. To return there was a homecoming. It was even a triumph, for Florian returned crowned with laurels. Anton's early dreams had all come true.

For hours he held Florian's head in his arms, his mouth pressed to Florian's twitching ears, and whispered: “Lipizza! Do you remember? Lipizza! A baby you were! A lovely, helpless little fellow! Do you remember? You were hardly born when the national anthem was played! Do you remember? And today Emperors and Kings know you. Now we are going back to Lipizza. Lipizza, dear Florian! Do you understand? Lipizza!”

Patiently Florian listened to the tender words, moved his delicate ears, while his eyes shone opalescent in the semi-obscurity of the stable. Anton would have sworn an oath that Florian knew the meaning of every word, and that Bosco did also.

He lifted Bosco, pressed him to his breast and whispered to him: “We're going to Lipizza, Bosco. In Lipizza we shall be together again. Isn't that nice? You will recognize the meadows and the trees and everything . . . you will be happy, won't you? Won't you, Bosco, my little one?”

Bosco wagged so vigorously during this speech that his tail beat sharply against Anton's hip. He stretched and turned his tapering head, and washed Anton's smooth face with his tongue. Then he yawned, bashful with enthusiasm, and comprehending the question by its melody, he launched into a long drawn out yowling that sounded both mournful and gay.

On the meadows of Lipizza Florian at first stood stunned. Years had passed and he had known nothing, had seen nothing, except the short distance over the cobbled ground from the stable to the Riding School; had never breathed any air other than that in the old courtyard where during the summer months he had been exercised, mornings. Now he stood upon a meadow, breathed the sea breeze, the perfume of the trees, the tang of the limited freedom which is yet untrammeled—for the truly wild, untrammeled freedom his forebears had lost and forgotten in unthinkably far-off ages. A long line of ancestors had helped Florian to conquer his most fundamental instincts, through the alchemy of breeding reshaping them into instincts of service and subservience to man's will. In his soul, though, the bond with Nature had never weakened. Restored to the open he became fiery; the shock of renewal sharpened his temperament; his blood flowed more freely as the intoxicating freshness about him stimulated his senses. Although his aroused and growing exhilaration was hampered by his Hapsburg-Spanish education, the control was superficial; just as, for example, Franz Joseph's merriment was held in bounds by Hapsburg-Spanish decorum. In this sense Florian could be accepted as a sort of Hapsburg prince.

Bosco, the fox terrier, romped about him as of yore whenever he galloped across the grounds. Without reins, without fetters, bare and free, he could ride the wind! Soon Bosco began to pant, his tongue hung far out of his mouth and swung with the racing tempo of his pulse like a galvanized leaf. In Vienna Bosco had grown deplorably fat. He had had no opportunity to run as a fox terrier must to retain his shape. He had usually lounged around, loafed, stretched on the strong-smelling but agreeably warm straw. He had not been allowed in the Riding School. To run along the street or saunter about like a vagrant had ceased to be attractive after he was once almost run over in the vaulted passageway; and he had retained a deathly fear of the terrible Viennese streetcars which, in his estimation, made much too much noise anyway. Anton had never gone walking and for this reason never taken Bosco out or given him a chance to live rationally. Thus Bosco had become the Imperial Stable fox terrier, grown fat as an old lackey and known no other terrain than the old gray Court and the stable. There he had chased after his own scent, learned to distinguish the smells of medicines and liquors which were stored in the magazine for the adjacent Court Apothecary. That boring him soon enough, he had come to use the courtyard only for the essential things.