Florian (2 page)

This came in handy as a subsidiary education when he went to serve his three obligatory years with the Dragoons. Not only did he know horses intimately; he belonged to them as completely as anybody belongs to his life's work. He led an exemplary life; didn't drink, didn't run after girls too much, avoided quarrels, was even-tempered, cheerful and willing. While he was in the Army, his father, a widower, had married again; with Anton gone for at least three years the old man had been alone and in need of help, and a wife was cheaper in the long run than a farmhand or a servant girl. Anton did not particularly long for home. He owed to the commander of his regiment his job as a stable-hand on the stud-farm in Lipizza. “I doubt that you could find a better man in the entire Army,” the colonel had written to the head of Lipizza after Anton had served his time. “Corporal Anton Pointner is cracked about horses, and as honest and industrious a man as you can find.” The colonel's praise had got Anton the job over many applicants.

He had come to Lipizza as fatedly as a pious soul finds its way into Heaven. He had already passed three years among the aristocratic animals, sharing their sylvan existence with all his heart, so that there was no room in it for anything else.

Neustift straightened out, smoothed the blouse of his uniform and smiled. “All right, Anton. The little one shall be called Florian.” He patted Sibyl's neck. “Don't say any more . . .” he added. “Of course the name does not fit the son of Berengar and Sibyl at all . . . but all right . . . say no more. I'll do what I can.”

Anton was silent. Not even a “Thank you” escaped his lips. His face shining, he stood at attention, and raised his hand to his temple in salute. And this said all and more than he could have expressed in mere words.

From far away, wafting softly through the air and yet clearly audible, came the solemn strains of the national anthem. A military band was playing.
“Gott erhalte, Gott beschütze. . . .
”

Neustift stiffened. “That's his Imperial Highness,” he said. “He is inspecting the troops.”

But Anton had eyes only for Florian. He thought: Just as they play the Emperor's hymn the rascal lifts his head for the first time. . . . A good sign.

Florian had indeed raised his small fawn-like head, somewhat befuddled and still trembling. The thin neck shook, uncertain of this first movement. The long narrow face was piteously unfinished, and just because of that was as touching as the face of a baby. The eyes had as yet taken in too little light and were without luster. As they looked vacantly around, helpless surprise welled up in their dark pools, a surprise that quivered through the body which, recently flung from its accustomed warm dark home into the cool void of existence, was still shaken by the mystery of its transition.

Stretching her neck, Sibyl neighed melodiously, the sound mingling with the closing strains of the anthem.

“Signs . . .” Anton thought. But he remained silent.

T
HE KARST PLATEAU OF LIPIZZA lay sweltering under the summer sky. On the meadows the horses moved about, leisurely nuzzling at the parched grass, and every now and then the sound of their cropping could be heard. They sought out the thick shade of the old chestnut trees, threw themselves down and rubbed their backs and their loins against the cool soil. The mares and their young were kept separate from the stallions. But the two- and three-year-olds, here still considered foals, stayed with their mothers. From time to time the high gay whinnying of one of the males broke the stillness of the landscape; challenging, longing, vibrating with life. At that, several mares wiggled their ears coyly, while others began to gallop around; but most of them, in sheer animal comfort, rolled over and stretched even more comfortably than before, as if they had heard nothing, although the challenging cry deepened the voluptuous leisure in which they basked. Sometimes a male foal would give answer in his high young treble, when the neighing sounded. But his mother would act as if she hadn't noticed that one of her sons had been impudent. Or else, she might raise her head and glare disapprovingly at the innocent offender.

Neustift walked through the meadows beside a young girl, walked among the trees and the horses. Anton followed them. Suddenly the captain turned around and asked: “Where is Florian? I can't seem to pick him out among all these youngsters. Where is he?”

“Why,
Herr Rittmeister
,” Anton replied, “right in front of you.”

A snow-white colt, his spindly legs spread far apart, stood awkwardly to one side, seemingly wrapped in deep thought.

“
Herr Rittmeister
should recognize him by his mother,” Anton made bold to add with hardly concealed reproach.

“Yes, if I saw Sibyl, I certainly should—” Neustift didn't finish the sentence for Anton interrupted him eagerly:

“Here! She is right in front of you!”

Sibyl lay on her back, her hindlegs drawn close to her body and her forefeet stretching toward the sky.

“Well,” Neustift teased, “in this undignified position she hardly looks like herself. No wonder I didn't recognize her.”

Anton would not brook any slight to his favorite, “Whatever position she is in . . . she is always like herself. Siebele,” he called, “Siebele, come here.”

In one unbroken motion of incomparable grace, Sibyl rose to her legs.

“Come, come,” he summoned her.

Slowly she came over.

Now Florian awoke from his reverie, startled by the sudden appearance of his mother. Stumbling and swaying, he too came up close. It seemed each second as if he would change his course, as if distracting ideas or utter aimlessness were setting him off in another direction at every step. But all he wanted was to get close to his mother, and there he got after all.

The girl laughed aloud.

The sound made Florian stop short; he spread his forelegs far apart, then inanely jumped aside. He hopped into the air on all fours and much higher than was necessary. As a matter of fact the whole attempt at flight was not necessary, for neither the girl nor the officer had made any move toward him.

Calming down, the skinny little colt again stumbled close to his mother and the human beings standing by her side. In some hilarious fashion—from his spare frame, from the disproportion of his limbs, from his narrow ram-nosed head and the play of his childlike features—he appeared to be play-acting without knowing how amusing his comedy was. He seemed at once sillier than the silliest being on earth, and shrewder and cannier than anyone could guess.

“A clown,” the girl said and laughed again.

“Just like all healthy foals,” Neustift told her.

Anton felt obliged to break into a song of praise in order to elicit admiration for his ward. “Oh, yes . . . this Florian,” he began modestly, “among a thousand foals you pick him out . . . because . . . there is not another one like him . . . not one.”

He already saw the growing beauty of Florian from his as yet undeveloped fine points, and already accepted as accomplished what was still in the making. In this his experience helped him; his devotion and his love.

“A clown,” the girl repeated, and it was not clear whether she meant Florian, or Anton, or both of them.

Anton was silent.

On his open palm Neustift held out a piece of sugar for Sibyl. She sniffed at it and took it. The sugar crunched between her teeth. A moment later, with ears tilted forward and head lowered to Neustift's hand, she asked for more.

The young girl offered a piece of sugar to Florian. Curious, he stretched his muzzle far out, sniffed at the hand, brushed the lump into the grass, made a jump, and nestled by his mother.

“He doesn't understand yet,” Anton excused him. “He is still sucking.”

“Oh!” The girl was disappointed and a little ashamed of herself.

Neustift caught Florian and put his arm across his back. Florian tried to free himself but a light pressure of the man's arm was sufficient to quiet him, and he yielded. Sibyl pressed close to the captain, the better to see.

“Do you notice, Countess,” Neustift said, “how patient and friendly these Lipizza horses are?”

“Really,” the girl agreed, “born courtiers.”

“Quite so,” Neustift answered with a broad smile. “These Lipizza horses belong to the Emperor. They have that faith and trust which his Majesty has a right to demand . . . and they are far less egotistic than most other courtiers. They are neither intrigants nor snobs. Incidentally, look here. . . .” He forced open Florian's mouth. “Do you see these tiny milk teeth? Only when they get sharp at the edges and hurt the mother, does she stop suckling him.”

He released Florian who, stumbling and lurching, began to chase around the group in a narrow circle.

“Florian,” Anton called. “Florian!” But Florian didn't listen, wouldn't listen. In his erratic course it looked as if he would have to take a tumble. But nothing of the sort happened. He was simply jubilant. In silent rapture Anton watched Florian celebrate his regained freedom.

“These Lipizza horses teethe much more slowly than others,” Neustift went on explaining to the girl. “Everything happens more slowly with them. Mother Nature goes very circumspectly about her task of forming a completely masterful creature.”

As Sibyl kept on nosing at his hands and his pockets, the captain gave the girl a lump of sugar. “Here, Countess, you give that to Sibyl.”

Sibyl accepted the tidbit daintily and the girl rubbed her palm dry. “Strange,” she said, blushing, “it felt as soft and tender . . . as a kiss.” Again she blushed.

Neustift did not seek her eyes and did not answer, and thus they strolled away.

On top of a hillock the girl stopped and looked to the four winds. “Ah,” she cried, her arms spread wide. “Ah, beautiful! Beautiful!” And after a moment's hesitation, added: “And all these wonderful horses . . . like a fairyland!” She fell silent for a moment. “Has it been here long?”

“What?”

“Well, all this. Lipizza.”

Neustift swept an arc with his raised hand. “For centuries, Countess, for centuries.”

“Is that a fact . . . or do you just imagine so?”

“Oh, well . . . I know a few things. . . .”

“Have you studied the subject?”

“Not really studied . . . I just know. . . . After all, I am a horseman.”

The girl eyed him with an approving glance. “Tell me what you know,” she said. It sounded like an order.

From the sea a cooling breeze rolled in, caressing the Plain of Lipizza and tempering the brooding heat of the fiery sun.

Florian stood directly in front of the girl and looked at her as at a miracle. “Clown!” She smiled and, turning, stood face to face with Sibyl who had followed them. “What rare soulful eyes,” the girl remarked. “Eyes of love,” she added half-involuntarily.

The captain fixed her with a look. “Do you know the eyes of love?”

With averted gaze she whispered: “No . . . but this is the way I imagine them to be . . . so dark . . . so full of kindness, full of boundless understanding. . . .” Suddenly she could say no more. She turned crimson.

There was a pause. The girl stroked Sibyl's smooth neck.

“My eyes, too,” Neustift ventured humbly, “are the eyes of love when I look at you, Elizabeth. . . .” He stopped.

With a pressure so light as to make contact only with the down of her lips, Sibyl accepted a piece of sugar from the girl's palm.

“Like a kiss,” Neustift said softly and went on: “I would like to know what brought that simile to your mind, Elizabeth. . . . It's right . . . the comparison is perfect. . . .”

Elizabeth stroked Sibyl. “How delicate . . . how fine.” Then abruptly she asked in a matter-of-fact tone: “Full-blooded, of course?”

And with equal matter-of-factness Neustift informed her: “Full-blood is difficult to claim. Two hundred years ago these Spaniards were crossed with Neapolitans, and later on with Arabs. Half-blood, to be quite exact—but of the noblest.”

“Spaniards? Why do you call these Lipizzans Spaniards?”

Neustift collected his thoughts. He walked over to Florian and tapped his breast and loins. “This little fellow is of older and nobler lineage than either of us. Even if we added our families together, plus the dynasty, it wouldn't be enough, by far. . . .”

Surprised and intrigued Elizabeth came and stood opposite him on the other side of the colt. Florian held his peace, permitted them both to stroke him, and sniffed at his mother who had joined the group, standing crosswise. “Why, that would be . . . that would be thousands of years.” Elizabeth's voice sounded doubtful. “Thousands of years . . . isn't that slightly exaggerated?”

“Oh, no,” Neustift returned. “Our cats, that came down to us from ancient Egypt, are thousands of years old, too.”