Florian: The Lipizzaner

by Felix Salten

  Once again Konrad Gruber compressed his lips, his mouth a thin line. He knew exactly what to do, not under orders but by his own tact. The carriage rolled slowly along the middle of the courtyard toward the wide-open gate.

  At the sound of the drums Florian executed his Spanish stride, moved his ears in expectation of music, and rocked his beautifully molded white body from his hocks, taking tiny steps. Capitano tried to imitate him. Their necks bowed low one moment and proudly aloft the next, the two horses turned the departure from Schönbrunn into a triumphant spectacle. In passing, Franz Joseph ran his eyes over the company of soldiers and leaned back against the cushions as the carriage reached the street outside.

  Konrad Gruber knew what he wanted to do.

  The Emperor had not noticed Florian, nor seen Capitano. Gruber was hurt and resolved to compel the Emperor’s attention. Gradually he raised the pace, did it so smoothly that his passengers did not notice. Obliquely cleaving the Volksgarten, and open only to the Emperor, was a paved short-cut from the street. Konrad Gruber covered it faster than he had ever done with other horses. Upon reaching the Rudolfsheimer Hauptstrasse which led to the Mariahilferstrasse, the horses began to race. They tore along with the gliding smoothness of birds in flight.

  The Emperor could not help noticing this extreme pace. He noticed it by the way men tearing off their hats to the royal coach, or just standing agape, disappeared like leaves blown away by a storm. Franz Joseph smiled. He could not adapt himself to the new motorcars, but he loved sweeping along like this straight through the ranks of human beings to whom he was close and yet beyond reach, who longed to see him and who saw but his passing silhouette.

  He was silent. His face grew milder and finally turned gay.

  The Gürtel was passed in no time, in no time Mariahilferstrasse had been reached. The Emperor bowed from the carriage. Would the little girl again be there? Yes, there she stood at the streetcar stop, waiting for her tram. And for the Emperor. A ten-year-old schoolgirl. Slim and of aristocratic bearing. Fresh and pretty. With clever gentle eyes. Each time she made a curtsy and laughed. And the Emperor each time smiled back at her. He could not say what it was, but somehow this child reminded him of his wife, of Elizabeth as a young girl; and that moved him.

  “Have Gruber stop,” he said this time.

  The general-adjutant called to the chasseur who whispered in Gruber’s ear. The horses slowed down and came to a halt, standing like posts rammed into the earth. There had been scarcely any jolt.

  Upon the Emperor’s gesture the little girl approached, without shyness, quite naturally, like one accustomed to daily association with the Emperor. Her simplicity held no artifice. It was dictated by childish trust.

  The adjutant had opened the collapsible step. Unhesitatingly the girl climbed into the carriage and sat down opposite the Emperor.

  “Proceed.”

  The horses flew over the pavement on invisible wings.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gretl Saxl.”

  She answered firmly and blushed deeply to the heart-shaped line of her black hair at the forehead. Her chest heaved and her heart palpitated, but her young mouth and her clear eyes laughed.

  Franz Joseph laughed, too. “Gretl Saxl . . . what a merry name.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said without removing her eyes from him. And all the while an inner voice, which she alone could hear, kept on telling her: “The Emperor! The Emperor! The Emperor!” She found it difficult to keep down her elation.

  “You are going to school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is your school?”

  “In the Fourth District.” She gave the address.

  Franz Joseph lifted his hand, the adjutant transmitted the information to the chasseur. Gruber did not stir when he heard these instructions, didn’t even indulge in a smile, but merely pressed his chin back against his chest. He had ousted the Emperor’s ill humor; in that he had succeeded.

  “Do you like to study?”

  The girl grew serious. “Not always,” she confessed.

  When Franz Joseph laughed at this, she, too, tried to smile. But by now she was highly self-conscious.

  “What lessons do you like best?”

  She had an answer ready: “Biblical history and German.”

  “That’s nice. Biblical history. Beautiful. You are a good girl?”

  The child shook her head and kept silent.

  The old man was astonished: “No?”

  His gaze fixed her eyes. Again she blushed. Slowly the blood crept into her cheeks, up to her forehead; an open, and at the same time, bashful confession. Reluctantly she said: “Not always.”

  “But,” replied the Emperor, “children ought to be always good.”

  Her eyes contradicted him. “Oh, that’s entirely too difficult,” she said impetuously.

  It was the Emperor’s turn to smile again. “Difficult? Why so?” He was altogether too remote from childhood; he not only pictured childhood as a fairyland, but all human beings as “good.” Only “good” people existed for this unworldly old prince. Those few that were disturbing, were dangerous and had to be done away with. To be good, was his people’s duty. . . . So he imagined. There had been sporadic occurrences before which even he had had to bow, without comprehending them or being in accord with them. Parliaments and national demands and political upheavals and majority struggles and such things, which he called rubbish. In his opinion they prevented peaceful rule just as dust or rubbish clogged and hindered the operation of a machine. It was entirely a question of being “good”; that was self-evident and accepted. Difficult? Why so?

  Eye to eye, the little girl insisted: “One can’t always be good.”

  He was amused by this schoolchild. “Why, Gretl Saxl, if you promise me that you will always be good . . . me, you understand? . . . then it will be possible, won’t it?”

  “Maybe. . . .” Her answer contained doubt.

  Their eyes, the shining light blue eyes of the Emperor and the dark ones of the child, smiled into each other. “So, promise me.”

  She couldn’t resist the kindly old man. “Yes, I promise, I’ll always be good. But . . .” Now came the loophole. “But I don’t know whether I can keep my promise.”

  “Why, Gretl!”

  She heard him, heard his implied accusation. . . . “It is impossible to be always good,” she complained, and retreated into the desperate question: “Are grown-up people always good?”

  The mild glance that met her consoled her. What did this child know about this old man who was so lonely, so naïve despite a vast fund of experience with human sins, frailties, vices? “Listen, my child, you have promised me that you will always be good. You won’t forget your good intention, will you?”

  “Oh, never. . . . Never!” she stammered. “I will always think of it . . . and always try.”

  “Well, then, everything is all right.”

  “Thank God.” Straight from her pure heart came the words.

  She remembered, just as the horses stopped, that one said “your Majesty,” to the Emperor. Yet by the dictum of some strange inhibition it seemed wrong to her and she didn’t dare to. And so, suddenly timid, she murmured: “Küss’ die Hand. . . .”

  Gretl Saxl skipped from the Emperor’s landau. She turned quickly to curtsy, to wave her hand; but her eyes met nothing else than the fluttering white plume on the chasseur’s hat and the glittering sheen of the gilded spokes.

  Leaning far back, Franz Joseph sat in silent meditation beside his adjutant. He did not regret the whim that had swept into the little girl’s life an ineradicable mark of the Imperial presence, a memento of his grace. On the contrary, his whole being was suffused by a warmth bordering on gratitude; he would have been conscious of this, had he thought about it even for a moment. He had been refreshed by the free and artless manner of the child. He would doubtless have found it unbearable to have everybody approach him thus, meet his eyes so imperturbably, so disarming
ly. As a rare occurrence, however, as a brief and exceptional incident, this child had been diverting and stimulating.

  Franz Joseph’s now excellent humor infected the adjutant, the chasseur and Konrad Gruber. Even the horses shared the good humor. Florian and Capitano sped over the Ringstrasse. When they turned in at the outer gate of the Palace and were hailed by the guard and the drum corps, they lessened their pace, and pranced through the green vastness of the Heldenplatz. People came rushing from the side streets, waving their hands and hats as they stood bareheaded at the curbing. Under the middle arch of the old castle went the white team and on to the Franzensplatz, the wide, gala inner courtyard. Once again the greeting of the Guard rang out amid the beating of drums, gleaming sabers deflected the sunlight and lowered banners rustled silkily.

  Describing a semi-eight around the statue of Franz I the team drew to a halt in the vestibule of the Prime Minister’s wing, stamping and foaming. The Emperor descended and studied the horses.

  “That’s Florian,” he said. And Florian affirmed that with a few elated nods.

  “At your service, your Majesty,” Gruber acknowledged.

  The Emperor laughed. “He answered before you, Gruber. And who is the other one? . . . Oh, yes, Capitano. I know. They run like the devil, these two. We’ll keep them, won’t we, Gruber?”

  Again: “At your service, your Majesty.”

  Franz Joseph stepped back the better to observe Florian. “He is really faultless. He was the best one in the Riding School. The very best. Triumphs like Caruso’s. And one fine day he lost interest. Temperamental, like all great artists. Well, Gruber, we two gain by it.”

  “At your service, your Majesty.” Gruber hardly ever said anything else to his master. Let Franz Joseph chide or jest—that was his right. The coachman never overstepped his bounds. And he remained in the Emperor’s grace.

  In the vestibule at the foot of the staircase the adjutant stood at attention. The chasseur, hat in hand, waited by the carriage. Konrad Gruber did not have to doff his hat. He sat on the driver’s box, held the reins and watched the horses, relieved of any formality which might upset the performance of his duty.

  “Very good, Gruber.” Franz Joseph smiled up to him. “I was very pleased with the way we drove today. Wait in the stable and give the two a chance to rest.”

  “At your service, your Majesty.”

  Gruber had known, untold, the order of the day. The fact that the Emperor expressed it in person only indicated his particular pleasure.

  Very slowly he drove back to the stables.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  TO ANTON THE COLORFUL LIFE of the Mews was a pleasant diversion. He was ever absorbing new experiences with never-failing eagerness. Nothing could perturb him. Whatever concerned horses was related to him; but these stables he believed capable of any miracle. At no time curious, he kept to himself and devoted himself exclusively to Florian, or else played with Bosco or groomed other horses entrusted to him, this latter competently but without any special enthusiasm. Florian . . . everything centered in Florian. Anton passed the numerous stablemen politely. He had no friends. He sought no friendship. Of the many coachmen he greeted when the occasion arose, only one really existed for him—Konrad Gruber. And this one didn’t ever think of showing Anton the horses, the mules or the asses, the gala carriages, the historical old carosses. Nor did it ever occur to Anton to look around for himself or to get someone to show him around. Consequently it took him a long time to realize what was accomplished here.

  There were carriages for the Emperor’s retinue and for the Court supernumeraries. Coupés, open four-seaters, huge, wide-bellied calashes to fetch the choirboys on Sundays from the Piariste Monastery to High Mass in the Palace Chapel (Anton, incidentally, never saw the boys clad in their decorative uniforms, epée at side, stepping into the carriages as large as children’s nurseries), commissary carriages with very high driver’s seats and nothing but a wooden platform behind them; and smaller, somewhat similar vehicles which were drawn by the brown mules (these mulis wore outlandish harness, red-tasseled red nets over their ears and necks, and on their narrow collars tiny silver bells; to Anton they looked, thus caparisoned, ready for a costume ball).

  Anton’s interest was really captured by Gruber’s attempts to arrange for teams of six or eight horses. Invariably the State coachman placed Florian and Capitano at the head of the team. If six horses were to pull the carriage, Gruber rode astride Florian; if eight, he directed them from the dickey. The Lipizzan stallions used for this purpose—Gruber matched them up expertly—were all good friends. To be grouped together before a coach became a gala occasion for them. They displayed their noblest motions. They were happy to do joint service, regardless of the object; to be together was enough for them.

  It made Florian extremely mettlesome to drive through the vast stable buildings with Capitano at the head of such a group. He was first. He had the absolute conviction of belonging in front. For this reason he was sweet-tempered, friendly to his companions, and contented with his lot.

  The same ambition rages feverishly in man and beast. With one difference. Subterfuge, intrigue, falsehood remain alien to the beast. How frequently a man who really belongs in the ruck wriggles on to the forefront by chicanery, bending or breaking justice, forging ahead by sheer nerve and lack of scruple, or by ignoble commercial enterprise. That man knows what he has done, and in his heart cannot suppress the accusing knowledge of his own trifling value. It thus becomes impossible for him to enjoy, or rise to, or be content with, his rank. He always feels insecure, and tries to hide this feeling from himself and from the world, to stifle it under meretricious gaiety, under false high-flown talk, under challenging conceit. Always and in all circumstances is conceit stupid and the sign of lack of talent. Intelligent and gifted people are strangers to it. Animals, as distinguished from men, know but one way of achieving front rank—by open competition. The capercaillie, the stag maintains its premier place by right of greatest ability, and steps down if one comes who is abler. Animals are simple; and they know of no falsification or trickery. They obey the superior without reserve.

  Florian was first. By tacit competition in the service of the master this fact had evolved. The master did by deliberate arrangement what he could not help doing. Florian had been first at the Spanish Riding School; and he remained first before the coach. The other horses were measured and valued by him. They themselves, purely by intuition, ranked themselves behind him, cheerfully recognized his supremacy, showed him devotion and received in return every sign of a hearty and reliable friendship.

  Anton could not contain his joy when Florian led a team of six. Gruber sat in his saddle and led them briskly through the yards. Bosco ran ahead. On such occasions he never barked. He had a deferential respect for these three pairs of white horses thundering behind him, and for Gruber who was a rider then and not a driver. The terrier did not leap up to Florian’s nose but silently extended himself to keep a few paces ahead of his friend. However, when the carriage rumbled back to the stable, and the harness had been taken off and Florian had followed Anton into his stall, then Bosco could restrain himself no longer and broke into loud rejoicing. The three were united; just Florian, Anton and Bosco, as they had been together for years. No others. Anton and Florian silent, Bosco full of talk, full of fun.

  A team of eight always went slowly. Gruber drove with special care. He watched every movement of the thirty-two legs, the eight necks and heads, the eight tails so much like standards. Bosco paced ahead as if being led on a leash.

  Little Bosco knew far more about the stables than Anton did. When Florian and Capitano were hitched to the carriage with the golden spokes, and Gruber appeared wearing the gold-braided bicorne, then Bosco squatted near by, watched the preparations with ears upright, and did not run along when the carriage rolled off.

  Through interminable hours Bosco wouldn’t budge from Anton’s side. By and by he became more careless, though, strolled in
to every nook and corner of the Mews, peregrinated through the yards. Anything that had four legs Bosco soon knew far better than Anton ever could. He knew, in the stable housing the black horses, a reddish brown bulldog whose fierce expression belied his extreme friendliness. Bosco had a sharp tussle with him when they first met. He displayed such reckless courage that the bulldog promptly sued for peace and their future relations were most cordial. With the mules lived a few pintschers: iron-gray fellows with long matted hair and pointed, solemn faces that gave them a marked resemblance to petty officials. Bosco knew nothing of clerks and the like, but he quickly perceived that these relatives of his had little esprit, no inclination to play and no sense of humor to speak of. He therefore limited himself to a cool exchange of the amenities. There was a chipper Spitz who pleased him more and who in turn took a great liking to him. Fox terriers, his nearest kin, betrayed the usual attitude among close relatives: blood enmity, cousinly envy, and a subtle understanding which compensated for many things.

  During the years at Lipizza and at the Spanish Riding School, Bosco had given no thought to his own kind. After the cramped stable and the small court behind the vaulted thoroughfare, he now found himself surrounded by the Mews with their roomy yards, their high and massive buildings and living quarters, their multitude of horses, dogs, carriages and human beings. His horizon had widened. His attachment to Florian and Anton remained as intrinsic and intimate as ever. From these two creatures he was inseparable. And yet, although nobody troubled about him or thought to interfere with his fate, changes came: crises of the most fundamental nature which no one, outside of Florian perhaps, knew about. Anton noticed a little something. But it was left to Bosco to battle through his own emotional conflicts unaided.

  Blame Pretty for that—for all his happiness, for all his pain and sorrow.