by Felix Salten
That night the stableman, Anton Pointner, sat in the inn for the first time. For the first time he drank, and drank heavily. Bosco lay on the bench by his side, his nozzle thrust between his master’s knees. As often as he whimpered or yowled, Anton clutched his glass and downed a big draught.
Opposite him sat the stableman, Franz, and leered. The others sitting at the neighboring tables nodded encouragingly to Franz. Anton did not notice. He saw nobody and nothing around him. He kept on staring into his beer mug or into the thick smoke of the room. If his glass was empty he motioned the waiter to refill it.
“Why, there’s Anton!” Franz exclaimed, feigning delighted surprise. “Anton . . . what a rare guest. Tell me, how did you get here?”
Silence.
“Why don’t you say something? Aren’t you going to bed?”
Silence.
“Look at the fellow—how he can drink! Like a fish. Well . . . I’d never have thought he could guzzle like that.”
Silence.
“Well, sure, of course . . . he hears nothing and sees nothing. He’s got to drown his sorrow over Florian. Florian’s left him.”
Anton leaned across and lifted his fist. Like a hammer it fell on his tormentor’s head. Franz sagged. His chin hit the table.
“Shut up!” said Anton, gnashing his teeth.
Franz stumbled to his feet, rubbed his head and changed his seat. Nobody in the room said a word.
Chapter Ten
EARLY NEXT MORNING THE SPECIAL train drew into the Südbahnhof in Vienna. The nine horses were detrained. Wrapped in warm flannel blankets they stood ready. The night journey had shaken them up. This strange new world disturbed them, but they all remained tranquil and patient.
All, that is, except Florian. In a near frenzy he stamped, lashed his luxuriant tail, reared his head high, and neighed again and again.
He sought Anton. He waited for Bosco. In vain.
Abruptly he gave in, with the instinct of his breed for obedience at all times and in all circumstances. His heart was still with Anton, and he was wracked by longing for Bosco’s diverting antics. But he permitted Wessely to lead him by the halter-cord, and submitted to the cold steely bit between his teeth.
The streets were still barely awake.
Stony streets between stony rows of houses were a novelty to Florian. Intently he looked from side to side, his nostrils telling him of the existence of many strange horses in this strange stony world; the innumerable other smells he caught he did not recognize.
A milk-wagon clattered by over the cobblestones. Two scrawny sorrels clop-clopped unrhythmically, pulling it.
Relatives! Florian had an impulse to greet them with a loud neigh. But they looked too shabby. Their eyes were hidden behind black leather blinders. Plodding along so mechanically, they seemed of a different race to their noble kinsman.
Florian snorted and began to curvet.
Slowly, puffing and panting, two heavy Pinzgauers passed dragging a mountainous load of brick. They stepped deliberately and heavily, putting one foot down before the other. Sparks shot from under their shoes.
Florian flicked his ears and settled down to a leisurely gait.
At a light smooth trot, cabs rolled by. It was pleasant to hear the even hoofbeats come closer, thunder by and die away in the distance. Fiacres!
Here and there trees and bushes rustled and nodded in small grassy areas. But to Florian’s mild surprise and dismay nobody noticed them or visited them. When they crossed the Ring, he was tremendously bewildered by the spectacle of long red carriages, strung together in twos and threes, which ran by without horses to pull them, all by themselves!
They wended their way through a narrow street which, farther on, nestled close to a wide open square; and came into the shadow of a squat archway, making through a door into a small court. The scent of horses, fresh and pungent, the smell of straw, hay, oats, pinched their nostrils. They were at their goal.
Florian had all the time expected to find Anton awaiting him there, expected Bosco to rush at him with a hymn of joy. Neither Anton nor Bosco was there.
Led into his stall, combed down and brushed by Wessely, Florian ate scarcely a mouthful of oats, took a few hasty sips of water from the brown marble trough, turned away from the crib, pressed his head against the grating which closed him in, looked and listened to every side, wiggled his ears at every footfall he heard.
Anton . . . Bosco . . . Where are you? The open spaces . . . the free and easy play . . . the couch of warm grass . . . the caressing, warming sun . . . where is all that? Where? But above and before all else; Anton and the little dog!
Gone, overnight!
Chapter Eleven
IN THE SPANISH RIDING SCHOOL they are working the young stallions. The Emperor’s equerry, that Excellency who came to Lipizza to make his selections, watches the proceedings. With him are Captain von Neustift and his wife, Elizabeth.
The riding master, Ennsbauer, takes one horse after another on the longe.
But Florian is not present.
“What do you say about Florian, your Excellency?” Elizabeth presses the question.
The equerry brushes his hand nervously over his short gray mustache. “We’ll see . . . Perhaps he’ll come around. . . .”
“Perhaps!” Elizabeth cries, almost offended.
“Yes. Perhaps.”
This agitates the countess. “Something must have happened to Florian. I cannot understand it.”
“It’s quite a puzzle to me, too,” his Excellency replies. “Obviously something has happened to him. But what?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Nobody knows.”
Neustift joins in the conversation. “My wife wanted very much to have Florian . . . very much. It was almost an obsession with her. I was ready to pay any price for him . . .”
“Too bad,” says the equerry. “Too bad, Countess, that you did not get the horse. Now he is of course not for sale. I’d rather see him die. Too bad.”
Sadly Elizabeth replies: “A puzzle. Quite a puzzle.”
Neustift adds: “Florian was the nicest foal of the whole lot. Handsome. And in splendid condition.”
“He is losing his beauty,” the older man reveals, “and from day to day he is in poorer condition. I fear the famous Florian is going to be a bitter disappointment. Isn’t that so, Ennsbauer?”
Ennsbauer nods and calls back: “A colossal disappointment.”
“May we see him?” asks Neustift.
“Why, certainly.”
The three walk over to the stable.
Florian stands forlornly in his stall.
“He has lost weight,” Neustift observes, shocked.
“Naturally,” Wessely speaks up, disgruntled. “He is off his feed.”
“Sick?” Elizabeth inquires anxiously.
“Not at all.” Wessely stops his work, losing his temper altogether. “Absolutely healthy, the vet says.”
Elizabeth opens the door. “Florian,” she calls, “Florian!”
The stallion, who has stood in his corner with bowed head, slowly cranes his neck and peers around.
“Come here to me . . . come,” Elizabeth beckons.
Florian takes a few steps toward her. His once luminous eyes are dull and wear a sorrowful, blurred expression. He sniffs at the young woman, then at Neustift, and snorts.
“Not really,” Neustift says. “He recognizes us.”
From Elizabeth’s palm Florian kisses away a piece of sugar. She strokes his nose and his upper lip.
“Poor Florian,” she whispers, “you would have had things nicer with us. We wanted to take Anton, too. . . .”
Florian’s ears tilt forward.
“Anton,” the captain repeats, “Anton and Bosco.”
Florian thrusts his head up, his ears play, his dark eyes dart forth joyous glints of light.
“Anton and Bosco . . . Anton and Bosco . . . Anton and Bosco . . .” Neustift and Elizabeth pronounce the names together, speaking softly in chorus. And
Florian livens up, more and more.
Triumphantly Elizabeth turns to the equerry. “That’s it! He is lonely, our Florian.”
And the equerry answers with an indulgent smile: “If that’s all it is, it can easily be cured.”
As they are leaving the stable, Florian attempts to follow them, and has to be shoved back into his stall.
“How touching!” Neustift philosophizes. “Too bad such an animal cannot speak.”
“He has spoken, our Florian,” his wife corrects him. “He has spoken quite clearly.”
Chapter Twelve
IN A FEW DAYS ANTON arrived.
When he received orders to proceed at once to the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, Anton was not surprised. It struck him as no more than natural that Florian should send for him. Whatever Florian wanted had to happen. Nothing in the world could be simpler.
Anton packed his belongings. He told Bosco that they were leaving together to go to Florian, and would have sworn that Bosco understood.
During the train ride he sat bolt upright and didn’t shut an eye all night long. For the first few hours the dog sat upright by his side, but in the end he curled up comfortably on the hard wooden seat and slept until morning. Anton tenderly laid his arm across the terrier’s neck, his hand resting on the lean flank.
In Vienna, Anton, his bundle on his shoulder, and accompanied by his dog, marched stolidly from the station to the Spanish Riding School. It was the first time in his life that he found himself in the great, rich, beautiful capital; yet he paid no attention. He had to ask his way, stopped a few passersby to get information. But in reality he virtually guessed where he had to go.
A battalion of infantry, parading back from the Prater, barred his passage along the Schwarzenbergplatz. He waited without growing impatient, and instead of watching the soldiers on their musical way, he stood transfixed, staring up at the bronze horse of the monument that dominated the square. “He is far more beautiful,” he said to Bosco. The terrier did not disagree.
When at length he was able to proceed, he said repeatedly, “Quiet . . . wait . . . we’ll be there in no time. Not so fast.” Once he even bent down and spoke to the terrier: “Don’t be in such a hurry. Haven’t we stood it for two months? We’ll stand it another half hour.”
Bosco could not repress his nervous impatience and became more unruly from minute to minute. His tongue hung out of his gaping mouth. He panted, tugged at the leash Anton had been forced to put on him. His master could not tell whether it was the trundling tram-cars along the boulevards that put the dog in such a feverish state, or the knowledge of the imminent reunion, or both.
Beyond the narrow Augustinerstrasse the Josephsplatz spread its monumental expanse. Anton showed no interest. He did not waste a glance on the statue of Joseph II which rose austerely in the center of the square. He knew when he got there: this is the Imperial Palace. And he felt certain that the three mighty facades his eyes beheld comprised all the home the Emperor had.
Who can say what impelled Anton to open the small door of the massive portal under the archway? Was it because Bosco had caught the beloved scent and begun to leap against this door? Or could it have been that Anton himself had detected the scent? In any event, the porter upon being questioned directed him toward the stable, and Anton murmured: “At last.”
He crossed the courtyard with unhurrying steps. He merely held the leash shorter. Bosco was not to get to Florian a second sooner than he. At the entrance to the stable stood Wessely with a group of other stablemen. He greeted Anton affably and started right in. “Now we’ll see whether things improve with Florian.”
“Are things bad with him, then?” Anton asked gravely.
Bosco yowled his fretful eagerness and for his pains received so hard a jerk at the leash that he nearly fell over. “Quiet!”
“Are things bad with him?” Anton repeated.
“Rotten!” cried Wessely, and asked the other men to bear witness. “He refuses to eat or work. Isn’t that so?”
Herr Ennsbauer, the riding master, emerged from the stable. Anton stood at attention and gave his name as well as his destination.
“A good thing you came, Pointner,” Ennsbauer remarked. “This is the last thing we are going to try with him.” And noting Anton’s dubious expression, he added: “Yes, the last thing. If this goes wrong”—he shrugged his shoulders—“well, then, we can’t do a thing with the beast.”
Without another word Anton passed Ennsbauer by and entered the half-dark stable. He did not see that all the others followed him. In a moment he came to the ell where, stretching away to both sides, were the compartments of the horses.
“Right,” came from somebody behind him.
But Anton went no farther.
“Florian,” he called. “Florian!” And Bosco broke into a jubilant baying.
Hooves suddenly beat against a wooden partition.
Anton did not stir from the spot, but he released the dog.
Wessely rushed down the corridor and swung wide the door behind which the hooves thundered. Florian broke out, almost knocking the man down. Bosco leaped high in the air, again and again, like a rubber ball, shrieking.
There stood the white stallion, looking hoary, as he used to when still a knock-kneed foal, his forelegs slightly apart. His bushy tail lashed the air excitedly, his neck bent downward, his head near the terrier on the ground. Bosco hopped about, whimpered as if saying: “So long to be separated,” then exulted again shrilly: “At last I am with you!”
Florian, with rapid, gasping movements of his lips, softly touched the nose, the forehead, the back of his little comrade.
Anton, still rooted to the spot, said quietly: “And I, Florian?”
As if struck with a whip, Florian threw up his head. Step by step he came closer, his beautiful ears pointed. The dark soulful eyes blazed in the sun of recognition. He came up so close to Anton that he pushed him gently backward with his nose, pushed him against the wall and covered him with facial caresses, until Anton, who had rapturously accepted it all, raised his hand to the rose-tinted muzzle and whispered: “Enough.”
From that hour on Florian was changed, was what he had been before, the courtly and obedient Lipizzan, displaying no sorrow or ill-will. He began to feed again, hungrily, his body rounded out once more, and once more the silky bloom came over that sleek white skin.
Ennsbauer was plainly flabbergasted when he took him on the longe. “What an uncanny animal!”
“Countess,” he later told Elizabeth, “as fine a horse as Florian we have never had in my time at the Riding School. Not one!”
Elizabeth and her husband came often. And just as often she came alone or with her little son. Neustift had been promoted to the rank of major and was the Emperor’s adjutant. They both watched Florian on the longe, stood with Ennsbauer and observed how Florian guessed the slightest wish, the faintest command; how smoothly he changed pace, from walk to trot, from trot to gallop—short gallop or long gallop, as was desired—and how he halted on the instant and stood motionless as stone.
Shaking his head, Ennsbauer marveled: “No correction is ever necessary. He does everything perfectly, by instinct.”
Elizabeth responded with a smile: “And in the beginning how different it was.”
“My God!” Ennsbauer sighed happily. “In the beginning I almost despaired. He balked and sulked and didn’t want to do anything.”
“. . . Until my wife recognized what he really wanted,” Neustift concluded.
Ennsbauer wagged his head again. “Yes . . . strange as it may seem . . .”
In a serious vein, Elizabeth now said: “Just think how much soul an animal like that has. And how much loyalty.”
Whereupon Neustift added: “And to think how quietly, how patiently, such an animal endures everything . . . loneliness, misunderstanding, longing.”
“Yes,” Ennsbauer concurred, “you wouldn’t believe it possible.”
Florian walked around in a cir
cle, taking short paces at first, then longer strides. His milk-white powerful body in some devious manner reminded his observers of beautiful naked human beings, and this subconscious memory only augmented the impression of stark beauty, of the perfect harmony of youth, force and fettle, that he made. He snorted and his foam scattered in large flecks to the ground. He had a peculiarly graceful way of nodding his slightly tilted head while running, as if with these movements he was beating time to an inner music audible to himself alone.
Elizabeth and Neustift were thrilled. Their little son stared at Florian for a long time and then cried: “Mumsy, he sings . . . only we can’t hear it.”
Chapter Thirteen
ANTON SLOWLY ACCOMMODATED himself to his new surroundings. Of the city of Vienna he still knew next to nothing, for he stuck stubbornly to his stable, hung around even on his day off, roamed no farther than the courtyard which, surrounded by the high buildings of the old castle, was a universe in itself. At least it was Anton’s. He never dreamed of taking a walk. The outside, the overwhelming, voluptuous, elegant city and its gay scintillating life, held no attraction or lure for him. Within the walls of the gigantic Hofburg he lived his life. There stood Florian behind the grating of his stall; there lay his terrier, Bosco. That was all and enough. Now and then a short conversation with a comrade. Anton was close-lipped and, as is frequently the case among those who devote themselves to the care of animals, extremely shy, almost timid.
At first the stable in all its glory filled Anton with a feeling of awe. The ornate brass-studded wood of the grilled doors and the expensive appointments of the stalls aroused his admiration. Here each horse had its own wide crib, and inlaid in the crib itself a water trough of red marble into which fresh water poured from the faucet. An elaborate leather harness, incrusted with the gilded Imperial crown and in some cases even Franz Joseph’s initials, hung in front of every stall. There were fine, warm flannel blankets bordered with leather, accoutered with buckles, and the finest grooming utensils, brushes and currycombs. Bandages there were to soothe eyes pricked by straw, soft leather muzzles to prevent the animals from licking the salve from raw wounds.
