by Felix Salten
“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.”
“Cats . . .” Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “Cats.”
“Well, to be sure,” he smiled, “these horses are a far more interesting race than cats. . . . Why, Hannibal rode across the Alps on the back of one of them . . . just think of it!”
Which set Elizabeth off laughing. “Hannibal . . . on a Lipizzan! You’re joking.”
“At that time they were Spanish stock,” Neustift said, again serious. “Or else from the northern rim of Africa.”
Still Elizabeth laughed incredulously. “Who could make such a claim?”
“Just look at some antique reliefs or old equestrian statues,” he retorted, “and then look at that animal.” He pointed at Sibyl who stood silhouetted against the sky. He became enthusiastic. “That’s exactly what the horses were like then . . . exactly! They had this same magnificent figure, the same heroic pathos in their posture, the same dreamlike rhythm of movement, even that gentle decline from forehead to ram’s-nose—”
“Really?” Elizabeth interrupted him. “And surely her marvelous eyes . . .”
“Surely!” Neustift spoke on, his words pouring forth unrestrainedly due to his enthusiasm: “I am convinced I’m right about Hannibal’s horses, I really believe they are the ancestors of these. Are you conscious of the fact, Elizabeth, that so many things—almost everything beautiful and lofty that we moderns possess—have come to us from the Mediterranean? God and the gods, art and poetry, and . . . and . . .”
“And horses,” Elizabeth interposed and smiled once more.
“Yes, horses, too . . . these horses,” Neustift said emphatically. He patted Sibyl on her croup. �
�Is there anything more beautiful than a horse? And in all the equine world anything comparable to these Lipizzans? Not for me. For me, Elizabeth, a horse is one of God’s truly noble creatures. Excuse me . . . I am only a horseman.”
Elizabeth passed him. “Only a horseman,” she said. “Only!” And drawing Sibyl’s head down she pressed a kiss on her nose. “There . . . my sweet. For me, too, you belong to the noble things of this world; for me, too . . . even if I am but a bad horsewoman.”
“Why, Countess,” Neustift protested, “you ride excellently.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
Anton, who had come shuffling up and remained standing a few steps removed, ventured to remark: “And how well the countess can drive . . . it is simply marvelous.” He could not suppress the desire to air this opinion.
Elizabeth nodded amiably. “Thank you, too.” Anton rocked in embarrassment. She turned to Neustift. “I am really very glad that we drove over. I have never been in Lipizza before. Strange . . . because it isn’t very far from where we live.”
“Yes, you had to wait until someone like myself came into your house,” Neustift said. “I planned to talk you into this visit the moment your parents invited me.”
“And Lipizza?” Elizabeth asked again. “You said a while ago that the stud-farm has existed for a long time.”
“A very, very long time.”
“Tell me more!”
He hesitated.
“Tell me. . . . What are you thinking about?”
“Primarily,” Neustift said softly, “of you. Only of you, Elizabeth. You have asked me, and therefore I dare speak. Of your copper-brown hair, of your lovely brown eyes, of your little proud nose, of the brave curve of your lips, of . . .”
“Stop,” she checked him. “Stop!”
“. . . of your whole beautiful self. . . .”
“Don’t.” Elizabeth, too, was whispering. “Not here, please. . . .” And in her natural voice she went on. “You wanted to tell me some more about Lipizza. . . .” From the corner of her eyes she glanced at Anton who was following them. But Anton paid but scant attention to human beings, ever. Right now he was preoccupied with Florian and Sibyl.
“Oh, yes, Lipizza,” Neustift acceded, his voice trembling slightly as he struggled for an easy conversational tone. “There is little to be said, really, Countess . . . if I want to be brief, that is. Archduke Karl founded all this. . . .” He waved his arm in an encompassing gesture.
“He of the battle of Aspern, who conquered Napoleon?”
Neustift suppressed a faint smile. “No, no, this was an archduke who lived in the sixteenth century. The father of the Styrian Ferdinand. . . .”
“The Styrian Ferdinand? And who was he?”
“He? He was the Holy Roman Emperor during whose reign the Thirty Years’ War was fought.”
“I see . . . and why?”
“A religious war . . . Catholics against Protestants . . . the Styrian Ferdinand was a pious Catholic. He said that he would rather rule over a graveyard than over heretics.”
“Oh, I am so ashamed . . . I know so little.” Elizabeth’s girlish voice grew sad.
Neustift took her arm, which she suffered without a word. “You are wonderful as you are,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. And then, his lips pursing: “I hate educated people.”
Elizabeth released her arm. “You, Neustift?” she evinced surprise. “A scholar like you?”
He laughed a quick bitter laugh. “I . . . a scholar? I know just about as much as an Austrian should know to understand what Austria is. . . .”
“At home you will tell me . . . will you . . . about the Styrian Ferdinand?” Elizabeth begged.
“Gladly, gladly,” Neustift replied in quickening syllables. “And about Matthias . . . and about Rudolf II, who shared a room in the Hradschin, his castle in Prague, with lions and eagles. . . .”
“The same room?”
“Yes. He was the incarnate, the mysterious Majesty! We know hardly anything about the overpowering personalities among the Hapsburgs. Since 1866 history has falsified much in connection with these matters.” Neustift now spoke heatedly. “This Rudolf, this glorious figure . . . he was really the first art collector. He felt the aura . . . the spiritual essence . . . which emanated from a painting, a statue, a goldsmith’s piece. Since Maximilian, that ill-starred genius, he was the first to understand these things. And he loved horses. Do you know . . . after he was crowned Emperor he never sat in a saddle again; but he came to his stables every day to enjoy the sight of his noble chargers and to pet them. . . .”
“We ought to go home,” Elizabeth suddenly suggested. She was highly animated. “We could sit and talk . . . and . . .” She said no more.
“We shall be together . . . always!” Neustift could hardly contain his joy.
Elizabeth helped him. “So this is Lipizza,” she said. “Lipizza . . . and centuries old . . . ?” She turned completely around, slowly, pivoting on her heel.
“Well.” He laughed. “It is almost four hundred years old . . . which isn’t so terribly much, after all.”
“For human beings, plenty . . . and for these noble four-footed beings, too. . . .”
Straight through the swarm of horses they sauntered slowly toward the exit-gate. Intentionally Elizabeth pressed between the closest crowded mares each time they encountered a small cluster. “Ho!” she cried, “step aside.” Or: “Go away, child,” soothingly, in a friendly tone. She knew it was necessary to talk to the animals in order not to startle them. Of course, she did not know that a Lipizzan rarely shies.
Neustift paced behind her or beside her, just as it happened. He whistled softly—cavalry signals.
Sibyl and Florian followed the pair as if the visit had been meant for them alone and it was their agreeable duty to see the guests out. Anton did not leave his wards.
Continuing on their way, Elizabeth and Neustift caressed a horse here, slapped some beautifully rounded hindquarter there, stroked a broad, healthy chest, or a proudly curved neck, the satiny down of a young filly’s pelt . . . and were themselves quietly and searchingly inspected by deep dark eyes and velvety nostrils.
They were in the middle of the herd, completely hemmed in, breathing deeply of the salt-laden air wafted over the meadows from the sea and of the pinching odor of these big strong forms. Out here in the open the animal odor contained something refreshing, something warm, frank, innocent. Milk-white horses there were, iron-grays, others whose snowy flanks seemed flecks of clouds; here a pearl-gray color appeared in irregular but always delicate designs on back or breast and loins or legs. Most of them were white of mane, with long bushy tails like rich plumes. Sometimes it was an ivory-tinted white, sometimes the white of moon-spun gossamer.
“Honestly,” Elizabeth said, awed, “here one is among the noblest . . . one might very well become timid and feel like an upstart.”
“Why . . . Countess!” Neustift smiled. “We human beings have had something to do with preserving their nobility. True, they don’t know it . . . but we shouldn’t forget it . . . although”—and he waited until Sibyl edged up and he could stroke her back—“a feeling of humbleness . . . yes, of humbleness . . . never quite leaves me when I am among blooded horses. . . .” He faced Elizabeth. “Even if it be nothing else than some sort of genuflection before Nature for the generous gratitude with which she rewards us for our endeavors.”
“Au revoir,” Elizabeth almost sang, such was the joy in her voice, “au revoir . . . very soon, Lipizza.”
Somebody softly touched her shoulder. “Oh, Sibyl,” she breathed in ecstasy, “I certainly would have said good-bye to you . . . you don’t need to remind me. I know what is proper.”
Again she held out a lump of sugar. “There . . . as a farewell gift . . . and I won’t ever forget the kiss of your lips.” There was more between the white horse and Elizabeth than the lump of sugar: The joy of existence, the willing deliverance to Fate which unites every living thing.
But neither the girl nor the horse knew it. They knew only that they liked each other.
“Au revoir, Sibyl.”
Florian began his grotesque foal’s dance. He galloped about his mother, about Elizabeth and Neustift, while Anton cried: “Florian!” shouted, “Florian! Florian!”
Florian wouldn’t listen.
“Let him be,” Elizabeth begged Anton. “I have always been against forcing little children to say good-bye.”
Long after they had gone, Anton stood there, pressing Florian’s soft little head against his chest, stroking him with both hands over neck and shoulders, and murmuring into his ear: “Was that nice? Now you are all hot, all hot you are . . . and you wouldn’t come when I called you. Is that nice? You know it isn’t. But you won’t do that again, will you? You want to be a good little horse. Don’t you, Florian? The very nicest little horse”—he released him—“for you are already the most beautiful one anyway.”
Enraptured he watched how the fumbling colt, on his stiff little legs, approached his mother who appeared to be waiting; watched the innocent, graceful poses Florian adopted while he pulled thirstily at the teat.
Chapter Three
ONE DAY BOSCO CAME.
Bosco was a fox terrier barely two months old. His mother’s name was Maya; she lived in Lipizza, was owned by Herr Voggenberger, spent her time in the stable with the stallions and had been married to her stable-fellow, the handsome fox terrier, Jackie. A litter of five had constituted the first blessed event of this halcyon marriage: five round, stumbling, struggling, squirming, lively fox terriers. Voggenberger insisted on leaving Maya only three; five were too much for poor Maya. He had been on the point of drowning two of them, had even a large pail of water ready, when Anton arrived. “Give me one,” he begged, “I’ve wanted a dog for a long time.” Herr Voggenberger had given him the tiny blind ball which stretched out four silly paws and devotedly but without success sucked Anton’s finger when he put it in its mouth. Voggenberger, noticing that, had remarked: “If he remains alive, his name will be Bosco.” Anton was satisfied. “All right . . . for all I care, Bosco. Thank you very much.”
