Florian: The Lipizzaner

by Felix Salten

  Before the whip could graze the other leg, Florian had duplicated the performance. He stepped—not to take himself anywhere but merely to make the gestures. Festive, pathetic, declamatory gestures.

  The light touch of the whip, the touch as a breath, comparable to the fluttering wing of a passing butterfly, had been enough for Florian. His nerves and his instincts had guessed what his blood carried as latent knowledge. All his ancestors and their training slumbering in his breast, in his brain, awoke at the flick of the whip. Age-old tradition, spanning many centuries, struggled forth in Florian as something akin to genius, making it easy for him to fulfill his destiny, a destiny his forebears had again and again fulfilled down the ages.

  Within him to a great degree that happened which happens in its purest form in all selected species of thoroughbred animals. Racehorses, the offspring of victors, inherit the craving for the race. And hounds, still unschooled, come into the field for the first time and prove after the first shot and the first pheasant has dropped, that they know all that is expected of them, instinctively, with but few last-minute instructions.

  “Ennsbauer,” the equerry called down.

  Ennsbauer softly said: “Pssst.”

  Florian stood still.

  “Your Excellency?”

  “How often has this stallion been between the stanchions?”

  “Never before.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Why, your Excellency,” Elizabeth burst in, almost wild with enthusiasm, “just remember other horses, after such a short time, are still on the longe!”

  Ennsbauer offered no reply, but lowered the whip and once again Florian swung into his syncopated striding. While in action the whip touched the inner side of his fore- and hindlegs. Florian understood. Ever slower, ever more ceremoniously he lifted his legs. The play of his muscles and of each individual joint was visible from shoulder to croup. He was an animate statue. In each of his movements was silent music.

  The young ladies began to applaud and the officers followed suit. The thin ripple of applause floated down into the arena.

  “He piaffes like a thoroughly trained School horse.”

  “What does that mean—to piaffe?” the princess asked curiously.

  “What you see there,” Elizabeth explained. “That striding is called piaffing.”

  “I’d like to know what young ladies of today really learn at school,” Neustift whispered to his wife and chuckled.

  Florian accompanied his exercises with a rhythmic waving of his head.

  “He has an incredible sense of rhythm,” Elizabeth commented.

  The equerry agreed with her. “It is really hard to believe how musical some horses are.”

  “This one in particular!” cried Elizabeth.

  And Neustift added: “He loves his work, our Florian.”

  Again Ennsbauer made the sound, “Pssst,” thinking: “Enough for today.” He was highly gratified. “That went rather well. Only I can’t stand so many spectators.”

  He saluted the ladies and officers in the balcony with a brief bow.

  The equerry leaned over the balustrade and shouted down: “You were right, my dear Ennsbauer.” And when the riding master eyed him questioningly, he added: “In Lipizza, don’t you remember?”

  Ennsbauer bowed once more. In silence.

  As they left, the equerry told the others: “I wanted the stallion for the carriage of his Majesty, but . . .”

  The riding master motioned Anton to free Florian from the posts and lead him back to his stall.

  Florian snorted and neighed metallically, musically, full of the indestructible joy of life.

  In the dark corridor Florian answered Anton’s caresses by pushing nose and forehead against his shoulder, a gesture denoting satisfaction. Florian knew he had achieved a triumph.

  When they crossed the street under the archway and stepped into the light of the outer court, Anton saw that Florian’s eyes were full of laughter.

  Anton, too, laughed soundlessly.

  The Josephsplatz lay empty. The carriages had disappeared. Only Gabriele Menzinger’s coupé still stood there.

  Ennsbauer stepped from the doorway and peered around, outwardly indifferent. Nobody about to spy on them. Only in the street along the far side of the square did the life of the capital pulsate; there flocks of passersby were on the move, but none took any notice of the solitary vehicle. Ennsbauer slipped into the carriage and hid in a corner.

  “Bravo,” Gabriele gurred. “It was thrilling!”

  “What do you know about it?” he mumbled. Then he slipped an arm about her waist and said: “I’d dare to ride the Hohe Schule on Florian today.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  NEUSTIFT HAD BEEN ON ADJUTANT’S duty for weeks. Today he had been chosen to accompany the Emperor on his ride from Schönbrunn, where Franz Joseph was residing, to the Imperial Palace.

  From the summer castle to the Imperial Palace was not a great distance. On the few occasions, however, that Neustift had ridden with the Emperor, the way had seemed interminable. Sitting at the left hand of the monarch he had to be careful to keep his figure in the background as much as possible and yet keep his eyes peeled. Regicide, however far-fetched, was an omnipresent possibility. This called for quickness of mind, called for greater tenseness than any other service in the immediate orbit of the Emperor.

  Personal contact, for Neustift as for everyone else, dissolved all the current Franz Joseph legends and heroic schoolbook tales, and made him conscious of the man Franz Joseph, Emperor though he was.

  His exalted status Franz Joseph never forgot, and it remained indelibly stamped on the consciousness of everyone surrounding him. Rarely, indeed, only at exceptional and fleeting moments, did others perceive in the august person of this Emperor the human being. Always he was a solitary, majestic, towering figure. Unworldly, he was at the same time wise; shrewd, and yet narrow; almost pedantically conscientious, and withal irresistibly masterful. Possessing the dry sardonic wit of the Hapsburgs, he was nevertheless close-lipped, almost bashfully reticent. But there were times when he could be crushingly direct and candid. This princely man could hide his emotions, unless it be that jealousy occasionally shone through the veneer. His outbursts of rage were dreaded as death or the clutching hand of fate is dreaded. And more than others, the members of the Imperial family quailed before him. He was supreme and sovereign, with power over life and death, over imprisonment, exile and liberty, for the archduke as for the peasant; and he was accountable to no one.

  In his personal service he consumed an enormous amount of human material drawn from the ranks of the diplomats and the military. Without ado he discarded anyone who threatened to become popular, banished whosoever challenged his carefully guarded popularity. In spite of this arrant faithlessness he yet preserved lifelong fealty toward certain individuals.

  His character cannot be portrayed in a few words. It is wrong to say: “He was good”; wrong to claim: “He was wicked”; wrong to insist: “He was untrustworthy, irascible, vindictive”—just as it is erroneous to think: “He was without suspicion, open and condescending.” Whoever makes such claims is equally right and wrong. That he was unapproachable is all that could be claimed truthfully and incontrovertibly. Unapproachable, and a true gentleman, he was the embodiment of meticulousness in the performance of duty; exact, reliable and punctual in his work and in his associations. His style of living was Spartan in its simplicity, although he loved the finest, the most cultivated in luxury.

  Neustift, of course, did not dare address the Emperor. On their few previous drives together Franz Joseph had maintained a stony silence. Today he came out of his study in high spirits, and had his valet brings him a cigar. Ketterer, the first valet, on handing him the cigar ventured to remark: “Your Majesty should not smoke in the open carriage.”

  The Emperor laughed: “And why not?”

  Ketterer held firm. “Your Majesty has already smoked one cigar today. . . .” />
  “Well,” replied the Emperor good-humoredly, “perhaps you are right,” and returned the cigar.

  With a deep obeisance Ketterer said: “I am right, your Majesty.”

  Still laughing, the aged monarch walked down the stairs and stepped into his carriage. His chasseur spread a blanket over the Emperor’s and his adjutant’s knees, and hopped up on the box.

  When the heads of the two white Lipizzans came into view on the terrace, the foot guard leaped to attention.

  Three times came the barked: “Present arms!”

  Drums beat the general march. The company presented arms. The commanding officer saluted with his saber and the flag was lowered while the light elegant carriage, its gilded spokes glinting, rolled through the portal.

  The Emperor saluted and as usual scanned each soldier in passing; another sign of high good humor.

  “Too bad,” he murmured. “I should have liked to smoke.” And smiling wearily, he said: “He is an old tyrant, this Ketterer. . . .”

  Neustift sat erect, immobile. An answer was neither desired nor possible; he smiled uncompromisingly.

  The carriage, already signaled from Schönbrunn and easily identified by the white plume on the chasseur’s hat and by the livery of the State coachman, rolled along the center of the broad avenue. In perfect step the two white horses trotted along, nodding their proud heads. They did not slacken their pace for street-crossings or anything else. Every vehicle on the road ahead of them had been waved aside. Traffic laws did not exist for the Imperial carriage.

  Again the Emperor spoke, the while he repeatedly raised his right hand in gracious acknowledgment of the bowing throngs.

  “Bertingen was telling me yesterday about a stallion Ennsbauer is breaking in . . . marvelous things. . . .”

  Bertingen was the equerry, General Count Bertingen.

  “Wait a minute. . . . What was the name of the beast—?”

  “At Your Majesty’s service . . . perhaps Florian?” Neustift suggested in a low voice.

  “Yes, that’s it. Florian,” Franz Joseph said, brightening. “Queer name for a horse from Lipizza, Florian. . . . But how do you know?”

  Neustift hastened to explain: “Son of Berengar out of Sibyl—”

  “Never mind that,” the Emperor interrupted. “But how did you guess Bertingen was talking about this . . . this comical Florian?”

  “Your Majesty, there is no horse like—”

  The Emperor cut in again. “According to Bertingen it is something unheard of. . . . Unless Bertingen exaggerates. . . .”

  Emboldened, Neustift said: “With your Majesty’s permission, his Excellency Count Bertingen did not exaggerate. Florian is the handsomest and most gifted horse in decades.”

  “Really?” Franz Joseph turned his still handsome old face to his informant. A face that was a silver sheen. The white mustache and the white sideburns framed the reddish brown cheeks and the steely blue eyes. At this moment Neustift loved his Emperor fiercely. “Really? You grow quite excited. . . .”

  “Forgive me, your Majesty.”

  “Well,” the Emperor went on amiably, “I am glad to hear it. At last a star performer who won’t embarrass us.”

  Obediently Neustift laughed at the bon mot.

  After a while the Emperor began once more. “Bertingen begged me to come to the Riding School . . . to watch this fabulous animal. He has really tormented me with this matter.”

  Silence.

  The carriage crossed Mariahilferstrasse.

  Neustift thought of a story his father had told him long ago. In the year 1866, after the defeat at Königgrätz, Franz Joseph had to avoid Mariahilferstrasse and go to Schönbrunn by a roundabout way, because the widows and mothers of the fallen soldiers had been lying in wait for him, shouting: “Our husbands! Our sons!” Franz Joseph had then been as unloved and unadmired as any man in the shadow of defeat. And today! How seldom has success been his lot, thought Neustift; and he could not repress an inward surge of veneration for the man who sat by his side. His long life was in itself a measure of achievement: his unbroken power of existence! Fate had bloodily torn his son from him, and laid out his wife under a murderer’s dagger thrust. But Franz Joseph sat on his throne. He, inaccessible to man, seemed inaccessible to Fate. It was this that inspired the veneration of the masses and the devotion of his servitors, that tore the hats from the people’s heads and caused them to break into vivas whenever they caught sight of the white-bearded old man as he drove trustingly through their ranks.

  Insignificant as the conversation with the Emperor had been, it left Neustift shaken to his depths. He thought: “My grandfather was cabinet minister when Franz Joseph began his reign; my father was then a cadet—and he died a field-marshal. And here sit I, beside this self-same monarch, a major, his adjutant!”

  This was the only Emperor! Any other Emperor was unthinkable, any other Emperor could not be.

  The carriage swerved toward the Ring.

  “Perhaps I shall really visit the Riding School someday,” the Emperor mused aloud. “You make me curious, you and Bertingen.”

  Neustift bowed.

  The Emperor chatted on. “I haven’t visited the Lipizzans for a long time.” He sighed briefly. “Oh, lord, how long ago that is.”

  Just then they passed through the outer Palace gate. The shouts of the Guard, the roll of the drums—it all sounded hushed in the great wide square.

  Franz Joseph faced around and his glance rested on the two bronze horsemen, then wandered to the clean blue sky, the trees in the public park, the overshadowing roof of the Parliament and the marble frieze of the Court Theater.

  Neustift did not move his head. He saw these things only with his mind’s eye, and reflected: “All that has come during his reign, has begun with him and through him, and has grown.”

  To the salutes, the drums and the shouts of the watch, the carriage rolled into the courtyard, described a graceful curve around the monument of Emperor Franz, and stopped directly in front of the Michael wing.

  While the horses pawed the ground, their hooves resounding from the vaulted ceiling, the Emperor stepped from the carriage and in a casual matter-of-fact tone commanded: “You will remind me when all is ready.”

  Neustift understood that his Emperor referred to the Spanish Riding School and the completed education of Florian. He followed Franz Joseph up the stairs past the motionless guards.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE DAY SOON CAME.

  Ennsbauer had been notified of the Imperial disposition and became more assiduous than ever.

  Florian was also afire with ambition, as if aware of what was to follow.

  The equerry came often, and from day to day his amazement grew.

  “Bravo, Ennsbauer!” he praised. “This will be your masterpiece.”

  Ennsbauer thanked him mutely. He refused to give his superior the satisfaction of showing his pleasure. You could never tell. One fine morning Florian might forget all that he had learned and slip back into the beginner’s stage. It was possible for the horse to get the colic or to suffer some other mishap that would incapacitate him for days and possibly weeks. Everything was possible. And Ennsbauer had a superstitious fear of every eventuality; he believed only in the good fortune of the moment.

  Once he rebuked Anton because of Bosco.

  “Since when has the dog been sleeping in Florian’s stall?”

  “Always.”

  “This must stop! Do you hear me?” he roared.

  “Merciful God!” said Anton, on the verge of tears, “then we’ll have our cross to bear with Florian.”

  “Nonsense!” the riding master thundered. “Our cross? Why our cross?”

  Bosco sat on his haunches, his head cocked, and listened to the two men. Florian stood at his bin, complacently grinding oat kernels between his teeth.

  “Get out of here!” Ennsbauer shouted. “Git!” and aimed a kick at Bosco which the terrier evaded as he fled down the corridor.

/>   Like a shot Florian veered around, let the oats in his mouth fall into the straw, and stalked out of the stall.

  “Whoa!” cried Ennsbauer, holding him back.

  Over his shoulder Florian stretched his head and searched for Bosco who came up wagging his tail.

  “You see for yourself, Herr Oberreiter,” Anton managed to say, half timidly, half triumphantly. “They are friends . . . and such friends have never been. . . .”

  “Shut up!” Ennsbauer scowled.

  Anton had to defend his beloved comrades. “They’ve been together ever since they were little, in Lipizza. They mustn’t be separated. There’s nothing to be done about it. You remember, Herr Oberreiter, how sad Florian was at first? Without Bosco. . . .”

  Ennsbauer checked him: “All right.”

  He looked at Florian who had dropped his head to watch the mercurial Bosco; they acted like long parted friends just reunited. He knew these attachments of the stable, knew the moods of horses, knew how stubbornly they clung to preferences and habits. He did not deem it wise to upset Florian right now at any price.

  “All right,” he said in a more conciliatory tone, and on the way out he cautioned Anton: “Watch out that the dog doesn’t run away.”

  “I’ll watch him all right,” Anton laughed, placated. “And Bosco won’t run away either. Not he!”

  But Ennsbauer didn’t hear a word.

  A few weeks later the equerry reported: “The other stallions are not ready yet. But Florian can be introduced at any time.”

  The equerry did not dream of reporting this to the Emperor. Neustift had received the command, consequently Neustift had to make the report. This was the procedure; to deviate was to risk an Imperial frown. Neustift, then, reported to the Emperor.

  Franz Joseph mentioned the trifling matter to his chief adjutant, Count Paar, saying: “Perhaps Bertingen remembers that he begged me. . . .”

  Count Paar notified the equerry at once. Forthwith Count Bertingen made inquiry of the secretariat of the Cabinet as to whether it would be possible to see the Emperor.