Florian (20 page)

Franz Joseph's now excellent humor infected the adjutant, the
chasseur
and Konrad Gruber. Even the horses shared the good humor. Florian and Capitano sped over the Ringstrasse. When they turned in at the outer gate of the Palace and were hailed by the guard and the drum corps, they lessened their pace, and pranced through the green vastness of the Heldenplatz. People came rushing from the side streets, waving their hands and hats as they stood bareheaded at the curbing. Under the middle arch of the old castle went the white team and on to the Franzensplatz, the wide, gala inner courtyard. Once again the greeting of the Guard rang out amid the beating of drums, gleaming sabers deflected the sunlight and lowered banners rustled silkily.

Describing a semi-eight around the statue of Franz I the team drew to a halt in the vestibule of the Prime Minister's wing, stamping and foaming. The Emperor descended and studied the horses.

“That's Florian,” he said. And Florian affirmed that with a few elated nods.

“At your service, your Majesty,” Gruber acknowledged.

The Emperor laughed. “He answered before you, Gruber. And who is the other one? . . . Oh, yes, Capitano. I know. They run like the devil, these two. We'll keep them, won't we, Gruber?”

Again: “At your service, your Majesty.”

Franz Joseph stepped back the better to observe Florian. “He is really faultless. He was the best one in the Riding School. The very best. Triumphs like Caruso's. And one fine day he lost interest. Temperamental, like all great artists. Well, Gruber, we two gain by it.”

“At your service, your Majesty.” Gruber hardly ever said anything else to his master. Let Franz Joseph chide or jest—that was his right. The coachman never overstepped his bounds. And he remained in the Emperor's grace.

In the vestibule at the foot of the staircase the adjutant stood at attention. The
chasseur,
hat in hand, waited by the carriage. Konrad Gruber did not have to doff his hat. He sat on the driver's box, held the reins and watched the horses, relieved of any formality which might upset the performance of his duty.

“Very good, Gruber.” Franz Joseph smiled up to him. “I was very pleased with the way we drove today. Wait in the stable and give the two a chance to rest.”

“At your service, your Majesty.”

Gruber had known, untold, the order of the day. The fact that the Emperor expressed it in person only indicated his particular pleasure.

Very slowly he drove back to the stables.

T
O ANTON THE COLORFUL LIFE of the Mews was a pleasant diversion. He was ever absorbing new experiences with never-failing eagerness. Nothing could perturb him. Whatever concerned horses was related to him; but these stables he believed capable of any miracle. At no time curious, he kept to himself and devoted himself exclusively to Florian, or else played with Bosco or groomed other horses entrusted to him, this latter competently but without any special enthusiasm. Florian . . . everything centered in Florian. Anton passed the numerous stablemen politely. He had no friends. He sought no friendship. Of the many coachmen he greeted when the occasion arose, only one really existed for him—Konrad Gruber. And this one didn't ever think of showing Anton the horses, the mules or the asses, the gala carriages, the historical old carosses. Nor did it ever occur to Anton to look around for himself or to get someone to show him around. Consequently it took him a long time to realize what was accomplished here.

There were carriages for the Emperor's retinue and for the Court supernumeraries. Coupés, open four-seaters, huge, wide-bellied calashes to fetch the choirboys on Sundays from the Piariste Monastery to High Mass in the Palace Chapel (Anton, incidentally, never saw the boys clad in their decorative uniforms,
epée
at side, stepping into the carriages as large as children's nurseries), commissary carriages with very high driver's seats and nothing but a wooden platform behind them; and smaller, somewhat similar vehicles which were drawn by the brown mules (these
mulis
wore outlandish harness, red-tasseled red nets over their ears and necks, and on their narrow collars tiny silver bells; to Anton they looked, thus caparisoned, ready for a costume ball).

Anton's interest was really captured by Gruber's attempts to arrange for teams of six or eight horses. Invariably the State coachman placed Florian and Capitano at the head of the team. If six horses were to pull the carriage, Gruber rode astride Florian; if eight, he directed them from the dickey. The Lipizzan stallions used for this purpose—Gruber matched them up expertly—were all good friends. To be grouped together before a coach became a gala occasion for them. They displayed their noblest motions. They were happy to do joint service, regardless of the object; to be together was enough for them.

It made Florian extremely mettlesome to drive through the vast stable buildings with Capitano at the head of such a group. He was first. He had the absolute conviction of belonging in front. For this reason he was sweet-tempered, friendly to his companions, and contented with his lot.

The same ambition rages feverishly in man and beast. With one difference. Subterfuge, intrigue, falsehood remain alien to the beast. How frequently a man who really belongs in the ruck wriggles on to the forefront by chicanery, bending or breaking justice, forging ahead by sheer nerve and lack of scruple, or by ignoble commercial enterprise. That man knows what he has done, and in his heart cannot suppress the accusing knowledge of his own trifling value. It thus becomes impossible for him to enjoy, or rise to, or be content with, his rank. He always feels insecure, and tries to hide this feeling from himself and from the world, to stifle it under meretricious gaiety, under false high-flown talk, under challenging conceit. Always and in all circumstances is conceit stupid and the sign of lack of talent. Intelligent and gifted people are strangers to it. Animals, as distinguished from men, know but one way of achieving front rank—by open competition. The capercaillie, the stag maintains its premier place by right of greatest ability, and steps down if one comes who is abler. Animals are simple; and they know of no falsification or trickery. They obey the superior without reserve.

Florian was first. By tacit competition in the service of the master this fact had evolved. The master did by deliberate arrangement what he could not help doing. Florian had been first at the Spanish Riding School; and he remained first before the coach. The other horses were measured and valued by him. They themselves, purely by intuition, ranked themselves behind him, cheerfully recognized his supremacy, showed him devotion and received in return every sign of a hearty and reliable friendship.

Anton could not contain his joy when Florian led a team of six. Gruber sat in his saddle and led them briskly through the yards. Bosco ran ahead. On such occasions he never barked. He had a deferential respect for these three pairs of white horses thundering behind him, and for Gruber who was a rider then and not a driver. The terrier did not leap up to Florian's nose but silently extended himself to keep a few paces ahead of his friend. However, when the carriage rumbled back to the stable, and the harness had been taken off and Florian had followed Anton into his stall, then Bosco could restrain himself no longer and broke into loud rejoicing. The three were united; just Florian, Anton and Bosco, as they had been together for years. No others. Anton and Florian silent, Bosco full of talk, full of fun.

A team of eight always went slowly. Gruber drove with special care. He watched every movement of the thirty-two legs, the eight necks and heads, the eight tails so much like standards. Bosco paced ahead as if being led on a leash.

Little Bosco knew far more about the stables than Anton did. When Florian and Capitano were hitched to the carriage with the golden spokes, and Gruber appeared wearing the gold-braided bicorne, then Bosco squatted near by, watched the preparations with ears upright, and did not run along when the carriage rolled off.

Through interminable hours Bosco wouldn't budge from Anton's side. By and by he became more careless, though, strolled into every nook and corner of the Mews, peregrinated through the yards. Anything that had four legs Bosco soon knew far better than Anton ever could. He knew, in the stable housing the black horses, a reddish brown bulldog whose fierce expression belied his extreme friendliness. Bosco had a sharp tussle with him when they first met. He displayed such reckless courage that the bulldog promptly sued for peace and their future relations were most cordial. With the mules lived a few
pintschers:
iron-gray fellows with long matted hair and pointed, solemn faces that gave them a marked resemblance to petty officials. Bosco knew nothing of clerks and the like, but he quickly perceived that these relatives of his had little esprit, no inclination to play and no sense of humor to speak of. He therefore limited himself to a cool exchange of the amenities. There was a chipper Spitz who pleased him more and who in turn took a great liking to him. Fox terriers, his nearest kin, betrayed the usual attitude among close relatives: blood enmity, cousinly envy, and a subtle understanding which compensated for many things.

During the years at Lipizza and at the Spanish Riding School, Bosco had given no thought to his own kind. After the cramped stable and the small court behind the vaulted thoroughfare, he now found himself surrounded by the Mews with their roomy yards, their high and massive buildings and living quarters, their multitude of horses, dogs, carriages and human beings. His horizon had widened. His attachment to Florian and Anton remained as intrinsic and intimate as ever. From these two creatures he was inseparable. And yet, although nobody troubled about him or thought to interfere with his fate, changes came: crises of the most fundamental nature which no one, outside of Florian perhaps, knew about. Anton noticed a little something. But it was left to Bosco to battle through his own emotional conflicts unaided.

Blame Pretty for that—for all his happiness, for all his pain and sorrow.

She was a slender, delicate thing belonging to a family of smooth-haired terriers. On her white skin she had yellowish brown spots bordered by black, and similar spots above her leaflike ears dividing the top of her head, so that a fine white stripe ran down to her white, black-bordered snout and shiny black nose. Her dark eyes were full of roguishness.

A ravishing beauty, she had all the wiles and was well versed in the art of love. These dangerous attributes she hid under a guise of complete innocence, thus instinctively following the trait of every true woman to become the more alluring. Her temperament was stormy; she could be crazily playful, although the erotic element stirred at the bottom of her very nature; she could be tenderly endearing and coldly repelling in two moments—just as her moods dictated. She changed from minute to minute; none of her suitors ever really knew what mood she was in.

With Florian away for hours at a time, and Anton taken up with work, Bosco sallied forth on expeditions through the stables, making and renewing all sorts of acquaintances with dogs, horses and men; and in this fashion he met Pretty. He succumbed to her charms in one fell swoop. He was enmeshed in that all-consuming passion that befalls the mature man who has till then despised and scorned everything female. He was thrown into a state of erotic obsession.

Together with him Pretty would chase through the stables and across the immense yard, tumbling about in coquettish playfulness. She lay on her back and let him sniff her all over, laughing at him and with her tiny red tongue kissing his eyes, his lips and his forehead. Once, however, Bosco caught her playing the same game with Tobby, the black and white terrier. She appeared so innocent and guileless, it was hard to suspect her of any deliberate infidelity. Yet Bosco was hurled into an abyss of unspeakable sorrow. The ravings of jealousy seethed within him. He lunged madly at Tobby, sank his teeth into the surprised and cowering creature's neck and gave no quarter. The blood that spouted from Tobby's wound tasted warm in his mouth, somehow aggravating his rage, robbing him of the last shred of decorum.

Pretty had made off. Things having become serious, she took the discreet and cautious course; retired, lay down coyly on her pillow and gave every overt sign of being a good little dog.

His wound had scattered all of Tobby's good sense along with his courage. He knew no better than to yowl in pain, alarming the vicinity.

The two dogs were doused in a pailful of cold water, a tidal wave that knocked the breath out of them and, for a few moments at least, the fear of drowning into them. Tobby fled. Just as Bosco was about to laugh at his comically retreating rival, he received a kick that actually lifted him into the air. On bent legs, his belly close to the ground, he limped into Florian's empty stall. Soaking wet. In pain. Miserable. Never before had he been mistreated by man. Now he had lived through the tragedy of disappointed first love, had fought his first real battle, had been drenched to the bone and driven out. And he was all alone.