Florian (12 page)

“Forgive me, your Majesty.”

“Well,” the Emperor went on amiably, “I am glad to hear it. At last a star performer who won't embarrass us.”

Obediently Neustift laughed at the
bon mot.

After a while the Emperor began once more. “Bertingen begged me to come to the Riding School . . . to watch this fabulous animal. He has really tormented me with this matter.”

Silence.

The carriage crossed Mariahilferstrasse.

Neustift thought of a story his father had told him long ago. In the year 1866, after the defeat at Königgrätz, Franz Joseph had to avoid Mariahilferstrasse and go to Schönbrunn by a roundabout way, because the widows and mothers of the fallen soldiers had been lying in wait for him, shouting: “Our husbands! Our sons!” Franz Joseph had then been as unloved and unadmired as any man in the shadow of defeat. And today! How seldom has success been his lot, thought Neustift; and he could not repress an inward surge of veneration for the man who sat by his side. His long life was in itself a measure of achievement: his unbroken power of existence! Fate had bloodily torn his son from him, and laid out his wife under a murderer's dagger thrust. But Franz Joseph sat on his throne. He, inaccessible to man, seemed inaccessible to Fate. It was this that inspired the veneration of the masses and the devotion of his servitors, that tore the hats from the people's heads and caused them to break into
vivas
whenever they caught sight of the white-bearded old man as he drove trustingly through their ranks.

Insignificant as the conversation with the Emperor had been, it left Neustift shaken to his depths. He thought: “My grandfather was cabinet minister when Franz Joseph began his reign; my father was then a cadet—and he died a field-marshal. And here sit I, beside this self-same monarch, a major, his adjutant!”

This was the
only
Emperor! Any other Emperor was unthinkable, any other Emperor could not be.

The carriage swerved toward the Ring.

“Perhaps I shall really visit the Riding School someday,” the Emperor mused aloud. “You make me curious, you and Bertingen.”

Neustift bowed.

The Emperor chatted on. “I haven't visited the Lipizzans for a long time.” He sighed briefly. “Oh, lord, how long ago that is.”

Just then they passed through the outer Palace gate. The shouts of the Guard, the roll of the drums—it all sounded hushed in the great wide square.

Franz Joseph faced around and his glance rested on the two bronze horsemen, then wandered to the clean blue sky, the trees in the public park, the overshadowing roof of the Parliament and the marble frieze of the Court Theater.

Neustift did not move his head. He saw these things only with his mind's eye, and reflected: “All that has come during his reign, has begun with him and through him, and has grown.”

To the salutes, the drums and the shouts of the watch, the carriage rolled into the courtyard, described a graceful curve around the monument of Emperor Franz, and stopped directly in front of the Michael wing.

While the horses pawed the ground, their hooves resounding from the vaulted ceiling, the Emperor stepped from the carriage and in a casual matter-of-fact tone commanded: “You will remind me when all is ready.”

Neustift understood that his Emperor referred to the Spanish Riding School and the completed education of Florian. He followed Franz Joseph up the stairs past the motionless guards.

T
HE DAY SOON CAME.

Ennsbauer had been notified of the Imperial disposition and became more assiduous than ever.

Florian was also afire with ambition, as if aware of what was to follow.

The equerry came often, and from day to day his amazement grew.

“Bravo, Ennsbauer!” he praised. “This will be your masterpiece.”

Ennsbauer thanked him mutely. He refused to give his superior the satisfaction of showing his pleasure. You could never tell. One fine morning Florian might forget all that he had learned and slip back into the beginner's stage. It was possible for the horse to get the colic or to suffer some other mishap that would incapacitate him for days and possibly weeks. Everything was possible. And Ennsbauer had a superstitious fear of every eventuality; he believed only in the good fortune of the moment.

Once he rebuked Anton because of Bosco.

“Since when has the dog been sleeping in Florian's stall?”

“Always.”

“This must stop! Do you hear me?” he roared.

“Merciful God!” said Anton, on the verge of tears, “then we'll have our cross to bear with Florian.”

“Nonsense!” the riding master thundered. “Our cross? Why our cross?”

Bosco sat on his haunches, his head cocked, and listened to the two men. Florian stood at his bin, complacently grinding oat kernels between his teeth.

“Get out of here!” Ennsbauer shouted. “Git!” and aimed a kick at Bosco which the terrier evaded as he fled down the corridor.

Like a shot Florian veered around, let the oats in his mouth fall into the straw, and stalked out of the stall.

“Whoa!” cried Ennsbauer, holding him back.

Over his shoulder Florian stretched his head and searched for Bosco who came up wagging his tail.

“You see for yourself,
Herr Oberreiter,”
Anton managed to say, half timidly, half triumphantly. “They are friends . . . and such friends have never been. . . .”

“Shut up!” Ennsbauer scowled.

Anton had to defend his beloved comrades. “They've been together ever since they were little, in Lipizza. They mustn't be separated. There's nothing to be done about it. You remember,
Herr Oberreiter,
how sad Florian was at first? Without Bosco. . . .”

Ennsbauer checked him: “All right.”

He looked at Florian who had dropped his head to watch the mercurial Bosco; they acted like long parted friends just reunited. He knew these attachments of the stable, knew the moods of horses, knew how stubbornly they clung to preferences and habits. He did not deem it wise to upset Florian right now at any price.

“All right,” he said in a more conciliatory tone, and on the way out he cautioned Anton: “Watch out that the dog doesn't run away.”

“I'll watch him all right,” Anton laughed, placated. “And Bosco won't run away either. Not he!”

But Ennsbauer didn't hear a word.

A few weeks later the equerry reported: “The other stallions are not ready yet. But Florian can be introduced at any time.”

The equerry did not dream of reporting this to the Emperor. Neustift had received the command, consequently Neustift had to make the report. This was the procedure; to deviate was to risk an Imperial frown. Neustift, then, reported to the Emperor.

Franz Joseph mentioned the trifling matter to his chief adjutant, Count Paar, saying: “Perhaps Bertingen remembers that he begged me. . . .”

Count Paar notified the equerry at once. Forthwith Count Bertingen made inquiry of the secretariat of the Cabinet as to whether it would be possible to see the Emperor.

Franz Joseph, who had been expecting the request, received him immediately and set a date for his visit to the Riding School.

There was little time left, scarcely half a week.

The Emperor had expressed a wish that there be present “a very intimate gathering,” but had granted permission to have the announcement transmitted to the archdukes.

Elaborate preparations were set on foot. In the chancelleries of the Imperial Palace, in the depots where the furniture and gobelins were stored, unnecessary excitement reigned; for the preliminaries ran smoothly and excitement only disturbed the well-oiled mechanism. Although haste was imperative, it was not difficult to observe the traditional formalities.

In the stable, under the lid of iron self-control clamped down by Ennsbauer, nervousness seethed like water boiling in a kettle. Count Bertingen never left. The master of ceremonies appeared from time to time. High functionaries strutted about giving the impression of actually functioning.

Ennsbauer put Florian through all his paces. Everything went smoothly. That did not allay the high-strung riding master's morbid fears. In the saddle, in oneness with Florian, he found calm. The stallion seemed to anticipate everything, translated hardly perceptible tactile and vocal signs into immediate action. At every phase he proved himself ready, capable of merging his identity with his rider's so well that he even corrected Ennsbauer when the latter seemed about to err or to miss a given tempo by a hairsbreadth. Then it was that Ennsbauer guided Florian into an even pace and patted him gratefully on the neck.

Before long Anton took charge of Florian and went into the stable with him. On the way they exchanged all kinds of pleasantries. Anton, to be sure, was on edge. The universal nervous suspense had contaminated even his stolid nerves. At last he was to see—the Emperor! But since the Emperor came really to see Florian, Anton's curiosity was overshadowed by stage fright.

Of Emperor Franz Joseph I this peasant had a supernatural idea. A flea, if it can think, must have such an idea of man. Anton had overheard the talk of the courtiers and listened to the tales told by coachmen who came over from the Mews to visit the Spanish Riding School. He had heard it said that there was a Hungarian general, Knight of the Order of Maria Theresia, a hero universally acclaimed for his bravery, who, every time he had to come before the Emperor, quaked from head to foot and lost his power of speech. Once someone mentioned the Emperor's brother, Archduke Ludwig Victor, who had been permanently banished to Castle Klesheim and could, only rarely and with the Emperor's special sanction, drive over to neighboring Salzburg. Those engaged in the conversation had stopped and said no more about this delicate subject.

At the very thought of the Emperor Anton froze with fear and awe, as a sinner must before a wrathy god. To him the wrath of the Emperor was an elemental force; none could withstand it. It was a far-reaching, annihilating force to which everyone was inexorably delivered. Thus Anton was astonished at the pride and ease of the courtiers who, to his lights, lived in perpetual danger. It began to dawn on him how lucky one was to be “in the Emperor's grace,” a phrase which had hitherto told him nothing.

While Ennsbauer rehearsed with Florian, work in the Riding School had to be suspended. He would not suffer the noise made by the carrying in of laurel and palm trees, nor permit them to go on decorating the balcony with purple drapes and bunting.

“The horse must not be disturbed.”

Could he have had his way, the courtiers and their ladies would also have been eliminated from the Riding School, or at least forbidden to do more than whisper. This, of course, he dare not propose. Thus he often rode angrily, bitterly, and saw to it that society kept away from Florian when visiting the stables. Even Elizabeth had to refrain from seeing Florian.

“Please, Countess,” he entreated her, thereby making her his ally, “Florian must under no circumstances be made restive. Please speak a word in his behalf.”

Elizabeth interceded with everyone as Ennsbauer had asked her to.

As for Florian himself, he remained free from nervousness and stage fright. Emperor Franz Joseph meant nothing to him. He knew nothing of the man and hadn't the remotest idea of the fabulously magnificent Court and the difference in rank among human beings. He did not so much as guess that he belonged to the Imperial house, that for centuries his ancestors had led select existences at the behest of the Hapsburg monarchs, no less. No instinct apprised him of the fact that he was the property of the Emperor of Austria. In his own mind he belonged to Anton and Bosco, his beloved companions, and his ambition was to subjugate himself to the will of his rider.

In the very heart of the gay variegated life about him, Florian remained a fragment of Nature. Molded by the intelligence of man to superfine service, and dependent upon human hands as one can be dependent only upon a supreme and ofttimes enigmatic fate, Florian had all the disarming naïveté and the simple unwavering trust of gentle, serving creatures.

He made mischief with Anton whose manner, whose hand and whose scent were dear to him. Anton played on him and he on Anton the same pranks over and over. When Anton removed his harness, Florian would bury his downy nose in his friend's neck and snort faintly. He would nudge his shoulder as he was leaving the stall. He would drum against the woodwork of his stall with his hooves to call him. And if Anton came to groom him he would retreat with feigned displeasure; then Anton would stop and murmur: “Well, do you want to or don't you?” And Florian would come forward and touch Anton's hands with his lips. “Here I am,” his clear innocent eyes would say; and ever anew Anton would be deeply moved.

Bosco, the untiringly attentive and ever gay Bosco, who was ready for mischief at any time, accompanied every prank with a short bark. Not loud, not a real bark; rather subdued merriment. Florian often amused himself with Bosco. As soon as they were alone together they played; always the same game. Bosco would run to and fro between Florian's legs, spring upward and with his black cold nose touch Florian's breast and lips. Suddenly Florian would lie down. Bosco, informed beforehand of this intention, would squeeze himself into a corner and wait until the heavy body of the white horse rested on the straw. Then he would sniff him all over. Carefully. Seriously. From forehead down to stomach. At last he would crawl under Florian's chin and nestle against his neck. And so they would sleep for a few hours.