Florian (5 page)

A
FTER CLOUD-HIDDEN DAYS, AFTER raging storms, a thin crust of snow covered the meadows of Lipizza. From horizon to horizon blue skies, and a pallid sun that gave weak warmth but still spread good cheer. Crystal clear and motionless hung the air.

All the horses roamed around in the open, trotted, galloped, sauntered over the snow which is so rare in this region; and the white animals on the white ground made it appear that Nature had arranged a costume fête for the sake of the human carnival.

In crisscrossing tracks the horses wrote the screed of their hooves into the melting snow. Some of them sucked up soft snow through half-closed lips, the cold sending their heads up with a powerful heave and making them snort loudly and gallop aimlessly. Not one of them tried to throw himself down, to stretch or to roll. The snowy coverlet scintillated in the light of the sun but did not invite recumbent rest.

Bosco and three or four other terriers, however, were soon on intimate terms with the snow, gamboling and scampering about like children coming home from school to whom snow is an invitation to frolic.

Bosco exchanged brief courtesies with his kinsmen, did not care that there might be close relatives among them. He did not engage any of them in lengthy conversation. He did whatever good form among fox terriers dictated, as briefly as possible, and thereafter devoted all his time and attention to Florian.

Florian was apparently unable to get along without Bosco. He stood motionless and waited whenever Bosco strayed farther afield than usual. Sibyl, too, stood and waited. At last Bosco came. Already from afar he called to them: “Here I am. Here!” He leaped up to them, always in front, always so that they could see him. He might have been wanting to bite their noses. But that wasn't true at all; he remembered well being catapulted through space by Florian's legs!

He frisked around Florian, ran on ahead, rolled in the snow, jumped up again and shook vigorously from his body a rain of tiny drops. Hither and yon he darted, and every once in a while Florian had to come to a jarring stop to avoid stepping on the roly-poly terrier in the snow. At such times Florian turned a sharp angle and made off in another direction followed by Sibyl, so that Bosco had hardly time enough to rise and shake off the wet clinging snow, in order to catch up.

Bosco had grown considerably; he was about half again the size he had been when he first met Florian. He was riper, and despite all the earmarks of youth his slender figure approximated the proportions of the grown terrier, the sturdy smooth figure which betrayed carefreeness, grace and reckless courage. No longer did a fat little milk-belly distort his waistline; for now he drank very little milk and when he did, lapped it up out of a saucer, baring his sharp almost full-grown teeth.

Bosco slept with Sibyl and Florian in their box. They had arranged that among them. To accomplish this, a trifling breach of faith had been necessary, a breach which Bosco had lightheartedly committed against Anton. He loved Anton, recognized in him his master, and without hesitation would have sacrificed his life for him. Yet he was closer to Florian; they were closer to each other than man and beast could ever be.

In the beginning Bosco still had to fall back on his cunning and his intrepid terrior stubbornness.

The first time he sneaked away from Anton in the commissary Anton searched high and low for him: out by the hurdles, in the house, at his comrade's. He whistled and shouted; but Bosco, who heard distinctly, refused to budge from his place next to Florian in the straw. Anton was desperate until somebody suggested that he take a look in the stable. Bosco pretended to be fast asleep. Anton lifted him tenderly and carried him to his room.

The second time, Bosco escaped from Anton's bed shortly before it was time to retire. Anton promptly missed him and fetched him back.

So Bosco made a practice of slinking out of bed during the night; and in the morning Anton, finding him curled up at the foot of the bedstead, thought it must have been too hot for the dog and suspected nothing.

Then one morning Anton did not find him there. He had got away during the night and joined Florian. Bosco had waited until Anton was fast asleep; he knew just when Anton had reached the depth of his deep slumber and would hear nothing short of a thunderclap or a pistol-shot. And as Bosco could neither thunder nor shoot, he had succeeded in slipping out.

This became his practice.

He would press his paw against the unlocked door, usually standing slightly ajar, and would push it open just enough to let his slender body through. In case the latch held, for a change, he by no means lost hope; it only required a little more cunning. He would climb up on the chair that stood by the door and shove against the latch until it gave—he knew when by the short metallic click. He would remain utterly still for a while, not daring to breathe, and listen for any sound from Anton's bed. If nothing stirred, he would then steal out on cautious pads and make straight for the stable. Truth to say, his conscience would trouble him, but his craving for the company of Florian outweighed all else.

Snuggling up close against Florian's back, he was blissfully content. He slept in a profound repose. Often, waking before his comrade, he rested his chin on Florian's back; another day of happy activity would soon begin.

When Anton appeared in the morning, Bosco would greet him with a spasm of enthusiastic tail-wagging, his eyes popping from their sockets, his body convulsed by joyous yelps and barks. That was always a great scene. He feigned utter innocence; as if his making off in the night had been a natural thing which Anton understood and agreed to.

All Anton understood, however, was that Bosco had shamelessly deserted. He took Bosco's noisy greeting for a sort of regret, and was always consoled immediately and anxious on his part to calm Bosco. “You rascal,” he whispered, “you sneak . . . well . . . well . . . that's all right.” But Bosco did not rest until Anton stopped grooming the horses to come and catch hold of him, petted his back or rubbed his head, and said: “Nice Bosco . . . nice doggie.” Then Bosco would sprint up and down the whole length of the stable once or twice, inordinately proud of that public testimonial. And Anton laughed and proceeded with his work.

Evening after evening Anton stubbornly carried Bosco to his room and laid him to sleep, thinking his will would prevail against the dog's seemingly inexplicable predilection. He had to carry him because Bosco refused to obey his order and come along voluntarily.

Once, just after Anton had picked up the terrier and walked toward the door, he heard light hoofbeats at his back. There stood Florian with a naïve face, his ears tilted forward and his large expressive eyes on Bosco.

Anton did not quite grasp what it all meant.

Florian edged nearer and stretched his neck. His nose touched Bosco's as the little dog struggled up in Anton's arms. It was as though the two were kissing each other good night. Or else, as if Florian were asking Bosco, “Please stay,” and Bosco answering, “I can't, don't you see?”

Anton bent low and set Bosco on the floor.

Whereupon Florian swung around and sauntered back to his stall where Sibyl stood watching. He walked slowly, and Bosco, with wagging tail, walked slowly beside him.

Anton followed them with his eyes until they disappeared in the stall. So Florian wanted his friend with him. That much he suddenly understood. There was nothing to be done about it. “All right with me,” he thought, and went to bed alone.

L
IPIZZANS TAKE LONGER TO ARRIVE at maturity than other horses.

Florian grew slowly. A year after his birth he still had the physical attributes and the mannerisms of the foal. Younger than he, Bosco was already running around, grown-up, gay, intelligent, and attached to Florian with an unwavering loyalty. They had to be always together. Each grew restless when out of the other's sight, even if for only a few brief minutes.

Florian still clung to his mother although he was almost as big as she; he had yet to show the least sign of independence. Bosco, on the other hand, had learned, knew life, was absolutely self-reliant and considerably cleverer than his big playmate. In spite of that, or perhaps just because of it, Bosco admired Florian, admired his mother, admired all the great, white, majestic beings living here. Within him there was a bond of sympathy which somehow united him with these gentle quiet giants; a bond wrought by the realization that all, all of them, belonged to mighty Man, whom Bosco adulated as Man does his God. Bosco's lot was a happier one than Man's. He could see his god, smell him, hear him. From the hands of his god he received caresses, from his mouth kindly words; and besides that, Bosco had an especially good god, one who never beat him and never seriously scolded. Anton could not maltreat any living thing. He understood animals too well, was too close to them.

Oftentimes, when Sibyl was harnessed and put before a light barouche to drive around the estate of Lipizza for a half hour or so, Florian ran alongside her, so close, so well attuned to her stride, he might have been harnessed with her. Bosco would dash ahead, whirl around dizzily, bark merrily at first, and soon fall silent—as if to prove that he could be as self-contained as his friends. As much as he might like to, at times, he never outstripped them by too far. He always maneuvered to stay near Florian, except once or twice to circle the carriage, and after a few introductory caprioles always settled into his dog's trot.

The reins were held by this or that stud-master, or by one of the higher officials of the stud-farm. The driver invariably held a whip in his hand but never lashed a horse. Such a thing did not happen at Lipizza. The horses did not need it. They were not allowed to be whipped, and were not whipped. This system had produced such extraordinary results that in the course of many generations it had become an unwritten but religiously observed law to be gentle with these gentle animals. And thus had been bred in the Lipizzan strain an inherited insight into the human will, an atavistic readiness to obey willingly and promptly. Thus the long whip flicked only lightly and softly, barely to be felt, over hindquarters, tickled back of the ears—and these signals were sufficient to change the tempo. A scarcely perceptible tug at the reins, or a sound from the lips of the driver, arrested the horse in its course. Never was an animal torn at the mouth. Soft and delicate from birth, so they remained, even after they were lodged in the Imperial Stables in Vienna.

Anton knew all that. Nevertheless it always gave him a mild shock to see Sibyl in her harness, driving off accompanied by Florian and Bosco. He would stare after them full of anguish, and be freed of the strange feeling only after he had unharnessed Sibyl, brushed her and Florian down, and fastened their blankets over them.

Time lazied by in a placid unbroken rhythm. Only by the passing of summer into winter, of long days into long nights, did the clock of eternity tell man that the earth once again completed her circular flight.

Florian finished the third year of his existence. Now he enjoyed his splendid full growth. And of the entire herd of horses at Lipizza he was the most beautiful. None of the others was as dazzling white as he. Not a false tinge anywhere mottled his perfect coat. He shone like silver, like milk, like freshly fallen snow, like moonlight. No comparison quite fitted. Florian shimmered as only Florian could. Already it was fabled in Lipizza that only once, and that already ten decades ago, had any of Florian's ancestors been as pure white.

Florian's body had the flawless symmetry of physique of all Lipizzans. He carried his neck in a proud regal curve, and his marvelous head, with its well-formed ears, its wonderful dark liquid eyes, enthralled everyone. The white of his head was shaded around the nostrils and lips a delicate rose-tinted gray which still preserved the undertone of white. Those nostrils and voluptuous lips—they really were voluptuous and suggested unstilled sensuality—were tempting under the touch.

Anton would stand in front of Florian and press those nostrils and lips with his palm, would fondle and stroke and rub; and Florian would accept it patiently for a while. As for Bosco, he would squat on his haunches and look on reverently. At length Florian would thrust his head up high, snort and glance at Anton half-apologetically: “Don't be angry—but that's enough.” Then Anton would slap the white back and say: “Don't be angry . . . Florian, you are quite right . . . that's really enough.”

Florian would execute a few side steps, beat his flanks with his silvery white tail which he bore on a short handle like a flag, and shake his mane of spun ivory. Bosco would be already waiting, his snout raised in a mute query. After this slight pause—the equivalent of consideration for Anton—Florian would lope decorously across the meadow with Bosco playfully pacing him.

Florian danced when he walked, glided when he galloped. He seemed molded out of power, fire, grace and softness; was temperament and measured force.