Florian (6 page)

This summer Captain von Neustift once again visited Lipizza. He was accompanied by his wife, Elizabeth, in appearance as much a girl as ever. They strolled across the rolling meadows in and out of clusters of horses.

Anton smiled when he saw them, stood at attention and saluted.

“Ah, Pointner!” Neustift stopped and glanced around. “The Florian can't be very far away. Am I right? Where is he?”

“By your leave,
Herr Rittmeister
.” Anton saluted again. “I am sure you can find him yourself.”

Neustift's eyes roved. “I am to find him . . . it isn't as easy as all that.”

“Oh, yes: it is,” Anton assured him, “very easy.”

“There!” Elizabeth cried, and with her outstretched arm she pointed at the white stallion. “There he is! It must be!”

“Your Grace is right,” Anton nodded, “that's him . . . that's Florian.” He turned around, waved, whistled and hallooed: “Florian . . . Bosco . . . Here, Florian!” And, again to the visitors: “Just a moment . . . he'll be right here.”

They did not have to wait long. Florian sauntered near. The two visitors paid no attention to the terrier who ran ahead of him; they fell silent in sheer admiration as if a prince were approaching.

Like a creature of light Florian stood before them, almost majestically innocent, bewitching in his beauty and in his serene confidence.

Neustift whispered: “Have you a piece of sugar?”

“Yes!” replied Elizabeth with bated breath. As if awakened from a dream, she rummaged through her pocketbook and then proffered the lump on her palm. Florian took it with careful lips.

Elizabeth smiled: “He kisses it away.” She, too, spoke in a whisper: “You really can't describe it as anything else . . . he kisses it right out of my palm.”

They were both a little embarrassed in the presence of this innocent young animal.

“Do you remember, child . . . ?” Neustift asked.

Elizabeth countered with another question: “Could anyone forget?”

“That was the day of our betrothal,” Neustift said, and stroked Florian.

“How strange,” Elizabeth mused, “that we have not been here once since then. . . . It seems ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful!” her husband protested. “Oh, no. There was our marriage . . . our honeymoon . . . the garrison in Galicia . . . You can't always do just as you wish. . . . This has really been our first chance.”

In the meantime Florian had come a step closer and sniffed at Elizabeth's hands and then at her pocketbook. His breath was warm mist.

“He wants more. Just look at the beggar,” she exclaimed. She was pleased, and her pleasure rose out of a subconscious feeling of youth and health.

Hastily she found another lump and offered it, and while Florian accepted it with gentle courtliness, she said to Neustift: “How big he has grown! . . . and how handsome. . . .” she added.

Florian stared into her face expectantly, pleadingly, and yet with a certain proud air; a mien so expressive, so spiritual, so noble, that it was impossible to withstand.

“He's coming along, Pointer,” Neustift said approvingly. “He's coming along . . . He will be the pride of the Spanish Riding School.”

Anton agreed gloomily: “That's true,
Herr Rittmeister
 . . . There's nothing to be done about it . . . I hate to think of the day when Florian's got to leave here.”

G
RIM REALITY SENT ITS ADVANCE messengers masquerading in festive garb.

Anton alone did not share the high spirits of his comrades and of the officials of the stud-farm; the director, the stable-master, the veterinary and all the rest of them.

When Anton took Florian over to the smithy, that day, for his first set of shoes, Florian seemed quite happy. This event and its consequences excited him, intensified his self-assurance and his love of life. To Anton he was just like a child going to be confirmed by the bishop. With a group of other three-year-olds Florian stood in the smithy. Bosco lay on the ground at his feet, his dangling tongue feverish with curiosity, and studied first Florian, then Anton, and in turn all the horses and the men around him, his gaze coming to rest on the roaring open fire of the forge.

Anton held Florian lightly by his mane and was the only sad one there. He had to force a smile when the other stableboys called out compliments and praise to Florian. He was accustomed to that. All the other horses wore traces to which their halters were attached. Some champed nervously at their bits, flecks of foam dripping down; for they had only just been broken to the bridle.

“Naturally,” one of the men said, “Florian is still free . . . still has nothing on his head or in his mouth.” There was no trace of admiration in his voice.

Curtly and arrogantly Anton replied: “He doesn't need anything.”

“That's what I said,” the other one confirmed. “He's still free.”

One of the smiths came up. “And what the devil is this?” he asked uncouthly. “How are we to hold the nag?”

“This isn't a nag,” Anton retorted. “Don't be afraid . . . he'll hold still, all right.”

“Afraid?” the smith growled. “Who's afraid?”

Anton took one of Florian's legs by the fetlock. “There . . . look at that,” he said, bragging. And indeed Florian permitted Anton to do with his leg as he pleased; he was as docile as a little dog learning to give his paw. “Try the size,” Anton ordered the smith. “You don't need big ones anyway . . . he has such a small hoof,” he felt obliged to add. And he cautioned: “Light and thin irons. They are his first ones.”

The smith growled: “I see that, stupid.”

But Anton decided not to hear the insult. He wanted to be on friendly terms with the man who gave Florian his first shoes. Obediently Florian lifted one leg after the other. He felt Anton's fingers spanning his ankles. Each blow of the hammer coming down on his small yellow hoof, sent his head higher, arched his neck more proudly.

“Watch out, he'll buck in a minute,” one of the lads laughed.

“And bolt,” another one yelled.

“Like hell he will!” Anton barked without straightening up or releasing Florian's leg. “He's an angel,” he whispered into the smith's ear, “there's never been one like him.”

The smith laughed. “I know him.” And he hammered on.

At first Bosco had barked at the sight of the smith hitting his comrade with a hammer, and had been scolded by Anton. Now he looked on attentively, his ears pointed, his head cocking now to this, now to the other, side. He followed the two men around from one leg to the next, and stood close up, as if he had to supervise the goings-on.

At last the task was done. Florian had his shoes.

“Jesus, he is glad,” Anton said to the smith, who patted Florian's hindquarters, leaving traces of his sooty fingers on the white rump.

“He has every reason to he,” the smith rejoined. Anton did not quite catch the meaning of his words but didn't bother to think about them.

“Let's go,” he addressed Florian and walked ahead.

With Bosco in his wake, Florian followed Anton, picking his way right through the crowd of foals waiting around. When he passed Nausicaa he threw up his head and whinnied longingly.

Nausicaa answered. She was a young mare, well built, with a beautiful white head and rosy nostrils. But her body was white only at the neck, loins and middle. The rest of her was a cloudy gray that grew darker down her legs; just as if she wore pearl-gray leggings.

“Come, Florian, come,” Anton adjured. And Florian did not tarry.

The turf sounded different under his hooves. He noticed this, and sensing an added importance in himself, moved about in something of a trance.

He was habitually self-controlled. That was in his blood. And so now he did not run wild, nor did he neigh indecorously again. He enjoyed his exalted mood quietly, for himself. Only in the springiness of his gait, in the lofty poise of his head, in the fire that flashed from his eyes, was it noticeable.

With no other filly was he on such friendly terms as with Nausicaa. He had romped and rolled around in the grass with her while their mothers stood by. He had raced with her, with her alone, among all the fillies. They understood each other perfectly, had become inseparable and in all innocence agreed never to part. When Florian greeted Nausicaa in the smithy he had no idea that there was such a thing as leave-taking, as separation.

Anton walked on before him. Bosco was as frolicsome and diverting as ever. But they did not go back to where his mother, Sibyl, was. Unaware, Florian had forever left the home of his childhood. He joined the young stallions, separated from the mothers, parted from the young mares. He entered a strange stable and received a stall of his own. Bosco stayed with him. So did Anton, who had managed to have himself transferred.

The new home, too, wore a holiday air. His longing for his mother Florian felt only dimly, although the longing for Nausicaa—that was sharper. He did not know what was behind his desire, and what beyond. . . . However, there was but scant time left to brood.

One day the stud-master came and forced a cold iron chain between Florian's teeth. Anton put the traces on his head, thin leather strips that lay flush against forehead and cheeks. Florian suffered it, there being no instinct of protest within him. Down through countless ancestors had come his willingness to subject himself to the will of Man. His instinct knew that his days of service had begun. And so, on this hallowed occasion, he stood pawing the ground with one hoof, champing to accustom himself to the bit which rested on his tongue. Bubbles of foam formed at the mouth-corners. He scattered them around in big white blobs when he shook his head. A slight pressure in his mouth, at the corners . . . Florian understood the order and obeyed.

Anton threw a light harness across his back. Like a belt the broad leather encircled his chest. Next he was carefully shoved backward a few steps and found himself between two poles, the thill of a light carriage. He waited impatiently. It did not take long, but each second dropped deliberately, heavily into eternity. He pawed the ground more vigorously, the foam fell in larger specks from his lips, and his ears moved incessantly.

Anton patted his neck, talked soothingly. Florian felt nothing, heard nothing. Everything in him, each nerve and fiber, waited for a sign. He was held fast, that much he knew definitely because of the bit between his teeth and the belt on his chest by which the cart was hitched to him. In his mounting impatience he attempted a step.

“Psst,”
he heard from behind and felt a gentle tug at his mouth.

Florian stood motionless.

“Tssk!”
The bit grew lax in his mouth.

Florian rushed forward. Gallop! Cleaving in twain the surge of joy which had suddenly befallen him came the voice of his master. “Whoa!” And once again he felt the pressure against his lips. It had all happened in three or four seconds. He understood instantly, and obeyed the order without hesitation, altering his pace to a comfortable trot.

He had never felt so good. The trappings on him did not hamper his running, gave him a sensation of ordered freedom too complicated for him to unravel but delightful notwithstanding. He was conscious of the hand of the driver, the turning of the wheels. The burden of the cart, which was hardly a burden at all, thrilled him. In one burst of gladness he reveled in his youth and in the power of his limbs. With loud snorts he drove the air from his lungs. Drops of foam fell right and left. His flanks grew moist, and sweat purled down his back and neck. Occasionally his gleaming eyes laughed down to Bosco who ran ahead of him and who only by strenuous exertions was keeping up the brisk pace.

Florian enjoyed his debut in a world his ancestors had peopled in the service of men as trusted chargers in battle and attack, as saviors in peril and flight, as skilled and untiring companions at jousts and falconry, and on hunts and overland journeys; as carriers of messages, and as the pride of processions and parades. His heritage flamed within him. He served; he became a carrier, executant of a divine and adored will.

Florian was happy.

A half hour later the carriage rolled to a halt before the stable.

“This Florian is perfect!” the stud-master cried, throwing the reins to Anton and jumping down from the dashboard. “It's unbelievable!”

“Isn't he?” Anton smiled happily, bending down to unbuckle the harness.

“I have never seen anything like it! He runs as if he had carried harness for God knows how long. He knows everything himself, the least hint is sufficient. . . .”

“Yes, that's Florian,” Anton agreed gravely.

“He doesn't even try a gallop anymore . . . just trots . . . a beautiful, steady trot . . . he rolls along like a billiard ball. . . . Unbelievable!”