Florian (26 page)

T
HEY WERE SOON AT ISCHL.

In Vienna Florian had not ceased to look for Bosco. Or else he kept his eyes on the corner where Bosco used to sleep and indicated thus that he mourned his dead comrade.

Drearily Anton passed his days. He missed the fox terrier, missed the ministrations he had given the poor sick, blind dog. Whenever he saw Florian in that corner of the box, he would put his hand on his croup, hoping thereby to console himself and Florian. Or he would simply stand with arms hanging. But most of the time he would hurry away lest he meet the questioning dark eyes.

Anton hoped that he would forget his grief during the sojourn at Ischl. It was not to be. Even in the railroad car Florian began to think again of the dead companion of his youth.

In Ischl, Anton did not resume his walks. He found no joy in wandering through the landscape without Bosco.

The stay at Ischl was abruptly curtailed.

Franz Ferdinand and his wife, the Duchess of Hohenberg, had been murdered.

Anton hardly remembered the Heir Apparent and had no idea what great hopes were thus blasted. On Corpus Christi Day, Franz Ferdinand had ridden in the State carosse next the Emperor. That was all Anton knew.

Murdered.

During the ensuing days the ghastly event, the double murder, was excitedly discussed in the stables and in the living quarters; the murders of King Humbert of Italy and of King Alexander and Queen Draga of Serbia were cited as examples. And Anton mused: to be murdered—that is the fate of kings and princes. Why? He didn't break his head over this riddle. He accepted the state of things. Anything that did not concern Florian did not concern him either.

Orders to return to Vienna failed to upset his stolid self. Well and good—Vienna.

And in Vienna he groomed Florian as lovingly as ever.

Uneventful days came for Florian. Only rarely did they telephone from Schönbrunn for the carriage. Franz Joseph hardly ever drove out now.

The new Heir Apparent came with Prince Buchowsky.

Archduke Karl Franz Joseph was a young man, simple, kind and unobtrusive. In him was no trace of the universal fame of his father, Otto, of his overweening hunger for life and his senseless frivolity. He had the simple bourgeois make-up of the Saxon-Wettins and looked like his uncle, King Freidrich August.

Having become Heir Apparent, he had the right to a carriage, a team and a saddle horse from the Imperial Stables.

“I probably won't need a carriage,” he told the prince. “My wife and I use an automobile.”

“I know that,” Buchowsky replied, “but your Imperial Highness is aware of his Majesty's aversion to automobiles. . . .”

“Yes,” the Archduke smiled, “for official functions, then . . . send me the same carriage, and the same—” His youthful face fell dark, adopting suddenly a funereal look. Then, animated anew, as if pushing his dreary thoughts aside: “My riding horse must naturally be lighter than . . . than . . .” Again he didn't finish the sentence. He had meant to say: than the dead Franz Ferdinand's.

They entered the Riding School and the equerry gave orders that the horses be introduced.

The new Heir Apparent felt neither the active nor the passive resistance his slain predecessor had contended with his whole life long.

A few days later a storm of excitement swept over Vienna, over the entire realm. It blew from the Russian border to the Lake of Constance, from Tetschen, the northern rim of Bohemia, to the Bocche di Cattaro on the Adriatic.

In the stables everybody was gripped by terrific nervousness which spread like a contagious disease. The men were driven to useless, yet feverish tasks, although nobody, from the prince to lowest stableboy, could have said what purpose this activity served.

Anton alone remained quiet and stolid as always. He did his duty. He couldn't do other than his duty. The memory of Bosco wrenched his soul and he looked for consolation to Florian. Otherwise he sat in a semi-stupor on the little bench before the stable door. And there, more than elsewhere, he was tormented, recollecting Bosco's bed in the sun. Otherwise he thought about nothing.

Unintentionally he overheard a conversation between the prince and the Neustifts.

Elizabeth and her husband had visited the prince here. They came up to the spot where Anton sat and he jumped up, stood at attention, and tried to greet Neustift and Elizabeth with the old smile; but the faint smile he might have forced was forgotten. Their serious countenances prevented it.

“Sit down, Anton,” Neustift ordered. Obediently Anton sat down again and pressed his shoulders against the wall.

“No,” Neustift spoke excitedly, “whether you grieve for Franz Ferdinand or are glad he is dead—I know there are such people.”

The prince interrupted him: “His huntsmen, if you please—it's not a question of the higher-ups, the lower-downs, of political adversaries—his own huntsmen danced when the news arrived from Sarajevo.”

“How horrible!” Elizabeth cried out. “Just as in
Wilhelm Tell. . . .
”

“What do you mean?” the prince asked, and Elizabeth recited, “ ‘Has madness seized these people, that they would make music to celebrate murder?' ”

“Right you are!” Neustift broke out. “Horrible! He was a stern master, this Franz Ferdinand. For his underlings, perhaps too stern. To servants, a master who insists upon his due may very easily appear a tyrant. But since Franz Ferdinand's death the huntsmen are not the only ones who have gone mad. No, and it's not just his official staff. Nor just the people. It seems that all of Europe has plunged into insanity!”

“Where will it all end?” Elizabeth sighed.

The prince was about to reply when Neustift said rapidly: “Who can say? I want to explain to Buchowsky what I have said from the first. I am deeply moved by this murder! And it must move every decent human being, whether he was for or against Franz Ferdinand. A man of force, of energy, of far-reaching plans for the future, of impatient desire for his work. . . . A rare man, and—say what you may—an extraordinary and important man. . . .”

“You are all enthusiasm,” Buchowsky said with cool sarcasm.

“I am shaken!” Neustift cried. “I had nothing to hope for from Franz Ferdinand. On the contrary! But that a man like him, just before he has the chance to say his first word, should be silenced for all eternity—that overwhelms me!”

Elizabeth said, looking at the ground, “I have never been able to picture him as Emperor.” Very softly, she repeated: “Never.”

In a matter-of-fact tone the prince recited the facts: “Two pistol shots—two bulls'-eyes! History has seen nothing like it!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Fate!”

With mounting passion Neustift again flung his words at the prince:

“And how they buried him! Is that fate, too? The Heir Apparent of a great empire! The victim of inexcusable neglect . . .”

“Whom are you accusing?” The prince's tone became caustic.

“I accuse no single person,” Neustift defended himself. “I establish what has happened. Franz Ferdinand knew how badly guarded he was. He sensed what would happen to him. Before his departure he received the Last Sacrament at his own castle.”

“What does that prove?” Buchowsky challenged. “Emperor Ferdinand was forced by Metternich at the beginning of the Revolution of ‘48 to drive through the streets of Vienna. Ferdinand received the Last Sacrament, too, at that time . . . and nothing happened to him.”

“Oh, my dear friend,” Elizabeth said, “eighteen-forty-eight is not nineteen-fourteen. And Vienna, even a rebellious Vienna, is not Sarajevo. . . .”

The prince bowed. “I happen to know that. The two pistol-shots Princip fired are a signal. The beginning of a new epoch.”

“But why,” Neustift could not resist asking, “why has the old epoch been buried so shamefully?”

Buchowsky rejoined: “The old epoch, my friend, is still sitting on the throne. If you mean Franz Ferdinand—that was a future gone, a dawn without sunrise.”

“Did one have to do away with it so—so disgracefully?” Neustift asked loudly.

“Artstetten,” the prince answered soothingly. “His last wish. A grave in Artstetten instead of the Capuchines. That had to be respected.”

“Respected!” Neustift echoed curtly. “The two coffins lying around in the small station at Pöchlarn, surrounded by the volunteer fire-guard, veterans with their steins and their sausages! Respected! Then the crossing to the other side of the Danube. The
cortège
on a float in the midst of lightning and thunder. The horses plunging and trying to jump into the water. . . .”

“Who can help that?” The theme became distasteful to the prince. “The hand of fate.”

“Madness from beginning to end,” Neustift insisted. “The whole world has gone mad.”

“If only,” said Elizabeth hesitatingly, “if only this cup will pass from us.”

“War?” Neustift stiffened.

“Quite possibly,” Buchowsky replied uneasily.

“War!” Neustift almost sang. “That would be a way out. That would be a salvation!”

Elizabeth faced the prince. “My husband and I understand each other very well. Really. In everything. Only in this we shall never agree.”

“Why, my dear,” Neustift retorted, “you must understand! I am a soldier. What am I good for? If we have a war I shall become a general. And then . . . and then . . .”

“And then?” Elizabeth took up in profound sorrow. “Who knows what then? Who? But that there will be hordes of widows and orphans and cripples . . . that we know beforehand. It is the only thing we know for sure.”

“Think,” her husband argued, “think! Our boy is still little. Someday the war will have to come. Better now than when he is old enough. . . .”

“A strange point of view,” mused the prince.

“Only an appeal to a mother,” Neustift shot back. “Only to make her accept the idea of war.”

“Never!” Elizabeth shook her head. “I'll never accept the idea of war!”

Anton had heard everything and understood nothing. For him this was an alien language.

As they left, Neustift clapped Anton on the shoulder: “Anton, get your military papers in order. It might become necessary.”

Anton stood at attention, having understood hot a single word, and stammered:

“At your service,
Herr Oberstleutnant
!”

T
HE INNER COURT OF THE Imperial Palace was thronged with people.

When the guard was changed and the colors handed over, the military band played a few bars of the national anthem. This was the formality. In the middle of the anthem the band always broke off. Today, as usual.

But today the people sang on. Alone at first. Then the band joined in. Stanza after stanza they sang, jubilantly and sorrowfully, and when they came to the passage:
“Lasst uns seiner Väter Krone schirmen wider jeden Feind,”
the Palace walls shook with
vivas
and
hochs.
And at the end:
“Österreich wird ewig stehn,”
a storm of enthusiasm broke loose.

All eyes were fixed on the Emperor's windows. Everybody hoped to see the familiar, beloved old face that was dearer to them at this moment than ever before.

But Franz Joseph was not at the Imperial Palace. Henceforth he remained invisible to his subjects.

During the early afternoon hours a rumor passed electrically through the streets: Peace!

Toward nightfall came the spectral truth: War!

Once more the streets seethed. Groups of men roamed them, singing, shouting, befogged by patriotic intoxication.

In a few days came the manifesto:
“An meine Völker.”

The conflagration burst out in sky-high flames.

General mobilization was decreed. Thousands upon thousands had to leave wives, children, parents.

Anton, too, had to say farewell.

The call to the colors hit him like a bolt from the blue. He had given all this no thought because he was not accustomed to thinking. He had not imagined that he, like all the others, was a pawn in a vast chess game. He had taken heart in the conviction that no power on earth could separate him from Florian.

Konrad Gruber tried to reassure the dumfounded man.

“Doesn't mean a thing,” he said. “Just a short maneuver.”

“But,” Anton stammered, “but . . .”

“Don't worry,” Gruber said, “in two or three months you'll be home again.”

“Two, three months,” Anton groaned. “That's so long, so terribly long. And . . . and . . .”

“Don't worry! We'll take care of everything here.” And when he saw that Anton's face became a mask of anguish, he added: “What's the difference? It's only a matter of a few weeks. That's all. The war can't last long.”