White Stallion of Lipizza

by Marguerite Henry

  He thought of Rosy, and of his family, and he longed to crawl away and sneak home. He failed to hear footsteps on the carpeted floor until the Colonel was standing almost in front of him. Hans leaped to his feet, his face reddening. There was complete silence in the room.

  Then Colonel Podhajsky suddenly laughed out loud. “Ja, ja, Hans,” he said, his dark eyes twinkling, “I would not have missed last night’s performance for all the coffee in Vienna.”

  “Sir?” Hans’s mouth fell open. “S-sir?”

  The Colonel looked at the boy’s stricken face and realized what was troubling him. “Ach, Hans,” he said quickly, “Borina’s unexpected performance was a sensation. The papers are loud in praise of him. It was a great triumph for Madame Jeritza, too. The audience seemed to share it.”

  “But what about the Herr Direktor?” Hans stammered. “Is he not furious with me?”

  The Colonel’s laugh was deep and hearty. “Is ever a director displeased if an audience demands ten curtain calls?”

  “Then I am not fired?”

  “On the contrary! My message to you comes from both Madame Jeritza and the Herr Direktor. Now that she knows what to expect from Borina, you are to roll up the carpet each night.”

  “And after the opera closes?” Hans swallowed hard. “What then?”

  It seemed that the Colonel had not heard. So dead a silence hung in the room that the ticking of a tiny gold clock sounded like hammer strokes. The Colonel turned to look at the hour, then without a word went over to the sofa, gently lifted the dachshund’s head and retrieved his gloves.

  Hans stood rigid, waiting.

  “The Reitschule will be closed for the summer,” the Colonel said at last. He pulled on his gloves, taking longer than necessary. After an eternity he added, “Yes, you may report for training in the fall. The first of September comes on a Monday. You be here the night before. Then we shall find out if Hans Haupt has the endurance and courage required.”

  Hans accepted the warm handclasp. Looking at the Colonel, seeing the future, he felt a frightening joy.

  • • •

  The summer dragged by in an agony of waiting. Hans had to work for Henri. He went back to the delivery cart while Jacques had a summer of play. Occasionally Hans caught a glimpse of the white stallions being exercised in the outdoor arena between the high walls of the Hofburg. But it was disappointing. There were no aerial maneuvers at all. A groom simply rode one horse and led another alongside, and they just walked and jog-trotted as if they were all on vacation.

  The days fell away. July spun itself out. The first two weeks of August seemed without end. But of a sudden, as though someone had ripped the pages off the calendar, the summer was gone.

  On the eve of September, with his few clothes neatly packed in his father’s old brown satchel, Hans presented himself at the Reitschule.

  Kurt Wagner, one of the apprentices, took him in tow. They had spoken to each other before, but now Hans felt himself scrutinized by a pair of sharp eyes that seemed to be measuring him for muscle and stamina.

  “Come this way.” Kurt turned on his heel and led Hans up dark stairs that circled steeply. Together they entered a long, sparsely furnished room.

  Three iron beds were lined up against one wall, with a plain wooden chair beside each. Three wooden wardrobes stood against the opposite wall, and in between were pegs for jackets and caps. In one corner there was a stove. In the other a young man was pouring water from a pitcher into a basin. He was in his undershirt with a towel over his shoulder.

  “Herr Braun,” Kurt addressed him with deference, “this is the new apprentice, Hans Haupt.”

  Hans set down his satchel and stood at attention. Again he felt himself pinned and examined like a butterfly on a drawing board.

  The man’s voice was crisp but kind. “Good evening, Hans. Kurt here is your senior in age and has had some previous training, and I myself am a Rider-Candidate. So now you, instead of Kurt, will polish my boots.”

  Hans’s face lit up. He nodded happily. Nothing would be too little or too big.

  Herr Braun pointed to the bed farthest from the washstand. “That will be yours,” he said. “And the wardrobe opposite. Morning bell at five-thirty. Downstairs at six for stable duties. Then we have coffee and rolls up here before the morning lessons.”

  “We bring our own rolls,” Kurt put in. “You have a bakery, don’t you?”

  “The best in Vienna,” Hans said proudly, washing his brother-in-law out of his mind.

  And so at last, after years of waiting, Hans’s new life had begun. He found the discipline stern but the tasks simple. Wishfully he had pictured himself on a horse the very first day, with Colonel Podhajsky giving him individual instruction. Instead, he was put to tasks that would have made him blush at home—washing windows, polishing brass, sweeping the floor, dusting ledges and railings. And all of it he did with a fierce intensity, to be done with it.

  But there were other tasks which satisfied him completely. On the first morning he was assigned three horses to water and feed and groom. His old friend, the stablemaster, explained this duty. “You will be responsible for three stallions,” he said briskly, and he began naming the three. “Siglavy Brenta, Neapolitano Santuzza, and . . .” The man slowly let his eye travel over the stable, stall to stall.

  Hans could scarcely breathe. Had the man forgotten that he, Hans Haupt, knew Borina well, had taken him to and from the opera for days, watched over him like a mother? And just when the anguish was more than he could bear, the man’s face creased into a grin. “Your third charge will be . . . Maestoso Borina!”

  “Oh, Herr Stallmeister, how can I . . .”

  The man chuckled. “You can thank me by work! Polishing brass and boots, cleaning tack better than anybody, washing leg bandages. That’s how! Now you may help feed.”

  Postponing the exquisite moment of facing Borina, Hans gave the other two horses their grain first. Then he went empty-handed to Borina’s stall. He stood very still in a moment of panic. Would Borina remember him, accept him in his new role? Or would he be so eager for oats he would not care who fed him? Hans looked into the purple-brown eyes without saying a word. The stallion gazed back serenely. His nostrils opened wide, contracted, and opened again. He gave a low, rumbling whinny, then with infinite grace came over and nudged Hans’s shoulder.

  Hans was in paradise. From that instant his life took on a wholly new meaning. He took care of his charges zealously. When he dealt out their grain, he riffled it between his fingers, sifting out any dust or weed seeds. When he watered his horses, he made certain the water was fresh and cool. When he combed tails, he used his fingers as a comb, separating each long hair so none would be pulled out. When he saddled, he laid the pad carefully on the withers, then slid it back so that the body hairs were smoothed the right way.

  The vast stable and the room above it were Hans’s world. He was almost completely happy . . . except that each morning he saddled Borina and walked him across the Josefsplatz for someone else to ride. The man was Bereiter Wittek. Hans envied him, hated him, worshipped him. He could make Borina dance and leap and march as if it were the stallion’s idea, not his own. It looked so easy, so effortless.

  As the weeks passed, Hans began to chafe. A gnawing worry crept into his mind. When would he ever get to ride and learn the courbette? He had not had a single word with Colonel Podhajsky, had barely caught a glimpse of him. At night he thought of asking Kurt or Herr Braun, but always they were busy playing a never-ending game of chess, and Hans couldn’t bring himself to put the question. So he kept on working and hiding his worry deep inside.

  Chapter 19

  THE FOUR-LEGGED PROFESSOR

  Hans had almost despaired of ever speaking to Colonel Podhajsky again when the stablemaster tapped him on the shoulder one early morning. “Quickly go and wash. Put on a clean uniform. Herr Hofrat is summoning all the apprentices to the Riding Hall. Sharp at seven!”

  Hans and Kurt almost
collided running upstairs. They dressed in a fever. While Hans polished shoes for both, Kurt sewed missing buttons and a ripped seam. They took turns washing and combing before the tiny mirror, then went rattling down the steps as if the building were afire. Promptly they fell into line with the other apprentices. There were six in all. Being the oldest, Kurt led the procession. Hans brought up the rear.

  Like foot soldiers they marched, step-in-step, across the street to the Riding Hall. Hans took a quick sidelong glance at the spot where he and Rosy used to watch daily for the Lipizzaners. She and Jacques were there now, first in the line of traffic, waiting for the stallions to go by. Without turning his head Hans waved to them by moving the fingers of one hand.

  Clop, clop. Clop, clop. The boys boots made clumping sounds on the cobbles. To Hans they echoed the pounding of his heart.

  In single file the little company marched through the horses’ entrance, through the anteroom where the horses were mounted, and into the Riding Hall. Just as the bells of St. Michael’s were chiming seven, the austere figure of Colonel Podhajsky emerged from a side entrance. He strode briskly to meet the boys and nodded formally as they lined up in front of him.

  “Good morning!” he said, a smile softening his face.

  “Good morning,” six voices murmured in unison.

  Again Hans was aware of the driving intensity of the man. He was aware too of a warmth that radiated through to him. He felt the dark eyes probing him, as if no one else were in the room, just the two of them.

  “Young learners!” The Colonel’s voice sounded deep and resonant, as if the earth spoke. “I hope some day to be addressing you as Rider-Candidates, and later as full-fledged Riding Masters. Meanwhile, your days of apprenticeship mark an epoch in your life. Here in the Spanische Reitschule,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “the great art of classical riding is brought to its highest perfection. This art is a two-thousand-year-old heritage which has come down to us from Greece, Spain, Italy, and of course France.”

  He spoke now with a kind of urgency. “Our Reitschule is a tiny candle in the big world. Our duty, our privilege is to keep it burning. Surely, if we can send out one beam of splendor, of glory, of elegance into this torn and troubled world . . . that would be worth a man’s life, no?”

  He stopped and waited in silence. No one said a word.

  Hans nodded in solemn agreement.

  “I congratulate you on your choice of a career,” the Colonel went on. “But can you meet the challenge? How deep and passionate is your love for your profession, and toward the noble creatures entrusted to you?”

  Again he stopped and waited, and again no one said a word.

  “To learn this finest art,” he resumed, “requires absolute mastery over body, heart, and mind. We test the young stallions for character and stamina. And we test apprentices for these same qualities.”

  He took a breath.

  “This morning each of you will be assigned two professors. The first will be a Senior Riding Master who knows the strong and weak points of your horse and will be able to give you the right instruction at the right moment.

  “The second . . .” he gazed intently from boy to boy “. . . will be a four-legged professor! The youngest apprentices will be given the oldest stallions to ride.”

  Hans’s heart turned a somersault. That would mean Borina for him!

  “Let me warn you, however, that your four-footed professor takes his role very seriously and his teaching methods are not always a joy to his pupils.”

  He paused. “It is a nice coincidence that there are six of you and that we have six teacher-stallions, each a member of a different dynasty.” He began telling them off on his fingers: “Pluto, Conversano, Neapolitano, Favory, Siglavy, and Maestoso.”

  The names crackled in the stillness of the hall. It was strange how the mere mention of one name could make Hans tremble. His mind raced ahead. He saw in a flash Borina teaching him the courbette. How quickly he would learn . . . in one or two lessons! He saw himself in the saddle, erect as a carven image, giving the signals with such skill that Borina again became the champion courbetteur of the world.

  The Colonel interrupted Hans’s vision. “There was once a wise horse-master, Antoine de Pluvinel, whose holiest commandment was, ‘Be miserly with punishment, generous with rewards.’

  “But I am getting ahead of myself. What all of you want to know, what everyone wants to know, is the mysterious language between horse and rider; namely, what signals are given to inspire the stallions to perform their wonderful feats above the ground.”

  An audible sigh traveled down the line as six young men waited, all senses alert.

  “Ach, my children, those aids,” the Colonel said almost mischievously, “must remain a mystery. For now. You see, in many ways you are like the Lipizzaners. Their training takes, on an average, five years. Yours will take no less.”

  Five years! Five years! Hans felt the heavy finality of the words. They were like a physical weight on his head, his shoulders.

  On the way back to the stables they rang in his ears, like a bell that will not stop tolling. “That’s so long,” he cried inside. “Why, it’s forever.”

  Chapter 20

  THE FIRST MILESTONE

  Immediately after the lecture Hans was assigned his two professors. Maestoso Borina he trusted and loved, and the stallion returned that trust in full. The mystery of what he knew and what Hans did not know was to be shared at last. Like magic, the weight of the five years lifted.

  Proudly Hans stood in the deep sawdust of the Riding Hall alongside his snow-white professor. He was in a state of high excitement over their first lesson together, never doubting that in a month, or two at most, he and Borina would be courbetting across the arena to the complete amazement of Colonel Podhajsky.

  Hans’s two-legged professor was Bereiter Wittek. The man had a sharply chiseled face, like a face on a coin, and he had the bluest eyes Hans had ever seen. Hans soon learned to regard them as a barometer. If they were mild blue, like a cloudless sky, all was well. But if they froze ice-blue, then Hans knew something had gone wrong.

  Within the hour the riding arena became a whirl of merry-go-rounds. White horses on white lunge-lines were trotting around and around in a circle, each horse held on a guide rein by a Riding Master, each one mounted by a young apprentice without reins or stirrups.

  The longed-for moment had come at last. Hans was riding Borina! But it was not like the dream. It was a shock, a defeat. Without reins he felt awkward and insecure as a baby. What was the matter? As a five-year-old he had ridden a Haflinger bareback. Could reins make that much difference? He was tossed and bounced on the saddle like a ship on a rough sea. Borina seemed to be going a hundred kilometers an hour, and at any moment might buck. In desperation Hans tried cramping himself with knees and legs to keep from kiting into the air. Even so, the slap of his seat on the saddle resounded like the slap of waves on the hull of a ship.

  His muscles balked at the cramped position. He grabbed onto the pommel of his saddle, clinging for dear life.

  Directions came spitting at him like flak:

  “Sit in the saddle, not on it!

  “Sit on your two seat bones.

  “Push the horse ahead with your seat.

  Hans blanched. He did not want to push Borina ahead; he was going fast enough! He longed to pull him down to a walk, but he had no reins!

  The jolting trot went on, and the pelter of commands:

  “Head up! Don’t pull it in like a turtle.

  “Your legs dangle like spaghetti. Keep them steady.

  “Heels down!

  “Shoulders back!

  “Hips forward! Don’t collapse at the waist!

  “Eyes ahead!”

  And just when Hans felt that his spine might snap in two, Bereiter Wittek reeled in the lunge-line, slowing Borina to a walk.

  The man was patience itself. “Ach, Hans,” he pleaded, “riding a Lipizzaner is like music. Music has r
hythm, a beat. You must adapt your rhythm to that of Borina’s. You should enjoy it, like flying on a magic carpet. What must he think, Hans, when your arms and legs flap like a bird? Now then, try again, try to be with Borina through your seat bones.”

  And so Hans’s first lesson was a rude awakening. How much there was to learn! But his devotion to his purpose never flagged. The difficulties only made him more determined.

  At the end of six months Hans was still riding without reins, without stirrups.

  “Do not think stirrups,” Bereiter Wittek cautioned. “Do not admit them into your mind, ever.”

  Hans obeyed to the letter. He did not even look at pictures where riders sat snug and secure, their hands steady on the reins, their feet in the stirrups. Was not the courbette ridden without stirrups? For the goal ahead he could endure the slow and painful months of learning.

  His progress was as changeable as the weather. Sometimes he seemed to forget everything, even such elementary rules as focusing straight ahead, eyes on a line between Borina’s ears. At other times he did everything right.

  One day he and Borina seemed especially attuned. They were cantering around and around in lilting rhythm, the same number of paces each lap. Hans felt himself immortal, like some Greek god flying along the plains of Olympia. The breeze—of Borina’s own making—washed his face, and the cadenced rhythm carried him so effortlessly he wondered if people ever died of sheer happiness. “What does it matter,” he asked himself, “that Bereiter Wittek holds the guide reins? What does it matter if he paces Borina? It is Borina I ride! Borina skimming me around and around, and up, down, up, down, on coiled springs. Oh, Mamma,” he sighed, “it wonders me if I am in a dream.”

  “Gut! Sehr gut!” the Bereiter beamed. “I like it how you sit firm yet relaxed. Your spine is now a fine shock absorber.”