Florian: The Lipizzaner

  Anton came to love the place. The high smooth walls curved concavely toward the ceiling and above every compartment was a beautifully modeled horse’s head. How many generations these heads had looked down upon, didn’t occur to Anton. He knew nothing of Karl VI, the founder of the Spanish Riding School. As a matter of fact he knew nothing about such things The Imperial Palace had stood for ever and aye, just as the Hapsburgs had ruled Austria for ever and aye. That had always been so and would always be so. That was that. Anton wasted no thought on the hazy future or on the unknown past. For him, as for Florian, only the present existed.

  To reach the Riding School, the street leading underneath the archway had to be crossed. Anton regarded this street as something profane, something encroaching, and sometimes he wondered why the Emperor permitted all the people to walk and drive to and fro underneath his home.

  When Anton entered the Riding School for the first time he stopped short in the entrance and put his hand to his mouth so that nobody should hear the soft exclamation which escaped his lips: “Jesus Mary!” Deeply moved, as in church, he stared and stared at this cathedral of the art of riding.

  The wide hall was incredibly high, reaching to the very roof. The pale, ivory tone of the walls, the white arabesques of the balcony encircling it, the pilastered gallery above it, the curve of the faceted ceiling, the decorations of the balustrades, the two rows of windows, the grandiloquent escutcheon held triumphantly by genii high above the Court box, the larger than life-size portrait of Karl VI on the end wall—Anton could never quite take it all in, for his eyes invariably blurred. He grew bewildered before the majestic pathos which these figures and emblems declaimed in their stony impressive language of postures and designs.

  The greatest event of his whole life occurred when he was granted permission to be present during the riding of the High School. Those gentlemen whom he had hitherto seen only in civilian garb wore brown frock coats with gold buttons, white stag-leather breeches taut about their thighs, and high patent-leather boots. They had on white gloves, white perukes with stiff white curls and a black silk riband tied about the queue, and two-cornered cocked hats.

  The horses, on the other hand, were sparingly though richly bedecked. A narrow, gold-encrusted leather belt ran across each animal’s breast, with a glittering little round gold shield or brooch dangling from it.

  Anton observed how horses and riders entered the arena which they called the Kobel. The riders swung their hats low before the portrait of Karl VI.

  The riding began.

  Anton laughed. The noiseless, helpless grin that sat on his face made him appear more of a simpleton than usual. Only the ecstatic light in his eyes revealed that he was at this moment beside himself, completely self-effaced but assuredly not stupid. He was overwhelmed. Here before his eyes were presented the highest accomplishments of horsemanship. He saw the almost fabulous unity of horse and rider, recognized the invisible harmony uniting beast and man, the stream of will which poured itself forth like molten steel and mingled with a surging desire to love and to serve. He heard the silent language of human nerves speaking to expectant, listening equine nerves. Anton was figuratively swept off his feet, dazed. He had never fancied such things as this could be; he had paid little heed whenever the High School had been mentioned in the stable, never tried to picture what it was like.

  Now everything was clear to him. He understood at last the reason for the stud-farm at Lipizza, understood the motive behind the sybaritic luxury of the stable appointments, understood the majestic grandeur of the great luminous hall where the white stallions from Lipizza performed their wondrous dance.

  Those fanatical aspirations which Anton had had for Florian, up to that time, had been rather vague and in themselves devoid of any tangible goal. Now in a flash they became very definite. He moved around like one drunk, stood beside Florian and held his head in his arms while he whispered into the trembling ears: “You can do it, Florian. You can do better . . . much better than the others.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ENNSBAUER ASSISTED THE ACTRESS, Gabriele Menzinger, out of her coupé. He had been awaiting her at the portal of the Riding School on the Josephsplatz. When the light carriage drove up, drawn by two huge Russian horses, he had stepped forward and offered her his arm.

  “Grüss’ dich, Gabi,” he murmured.

  And she answered melodiously, “Leopold,” and nothing more.

  For months these two had been having an affair. Nobody knew anything definite, but all Vienna guessed, prattled and tattled, lifted eyebrows, shrugged shoulders, smiled and let things go on as they might.

  Gabriele Menzinger was the reigning favorite of the Viennese stage. No other woman appearing before the public dared to measure herself with Menzinger. Even old theatergoers, gentlemen and ladies who still revered the memory of Geistinger, Gallmeyer, and Wolter, admitted that Gabriele Menzinger was incomparable. Princes and artizans, officers and bankers, all without distinction fell into a turmoil of erotic desire when discussing her. And they discussed her continually. When this young woman appeared on the stage, her face framed in coppery hair, her eyes seeming to say: “Come, my beloved,” her mouth formed as if ready to kiss, her lusciously graceful figure freely outlined or shrouded in costumes—then all men who watched her were gripped by fierce longing.

  Her voice, too, voluptuously throaty and laden now with the soft accents of her emotional ecstasy and now with the shrill wrath that was like a whiplash on raw nerves—her voice ever and again aroused tumults of the blood. From the first row in the orchestra to the farthest row in the gallery all were set ablaze by this voice.

  But Gabriele Menzinger’s movements, her gestures of surrender, of resistance, of coquetry, of sentimentality, constituted a strange mixture of girlish chastity and a harlot’s abandon, of aristocratic aloofness and of crass vulgarity, of the knowledge of every vice and of touching innocence. No man could withstand her witchery. Everyone, the prince in his loge and the apprentice standing in the rear, felt convinced; one hour alone with this woman and she would be his. The women, without exception, the young misses as well as the dowagers, the staid wives and the bachelor girls, the noble ladies and the salesgirls, the virtuous and the cocottes, adulated her, maligned her and tried to fathom the secret of her terrific allure.

  Gabriele Menzinger had had many amours. Many more had been imputed to her. She had lovers who for years took regal care of her and either knew nothing of one another or pretended they didn’t. In between were episodes with young artists and officers and millionaires’ sons, who ruined themselves over her. For the Menzinger’s demands, her craving for luxury, were beyond bounds. Her palace in the Ambassadors’ quarter, her castle in Moravia, her wealth, had become legend. The Shah of Persia, on the occasion of a visit to Vienna, had seen her, asked her to come to Marienbad, and made her a gift of twenty diamonds of rare size and luster. She had thereafter worn the necklace as proudly as one wears a high order.

  As a past master in the art of love she was esteemed above all of her sex. During one of Eleonora Duse’s guest appearances Gabriele went on the stage, devoutly kissed the hand of the great artiste, and received in return a kiss on the forehead from this queen of the theater. The scene had been described graphically in every newspaper. The Viennese remembered that in Gabriele Menzinger they had not only a hetæra of genius but also a great histrionic artist; and her fame grew.

  About Leopold Ennsbauer the papers were silent. Never did a word about him leak out in print, never was he exposed before the public. Despite that, he was one of the most famous figures of the monarchy. He enjoyed a unique and exclusive fame. At Court, among the nobility, in the Cavalry regiments of the Army, with the regular patrons of the racetrack in the Freudenau, the square-built Ennsbauer cut the ideal figure of a horseman. His close-shaven, dark brown face carried the stamp of an unfathomable and courageous will-power. He was habitually very quiet, so that some were inclined to think him phlegmatic; but his Buddha-f
ace that was like chiseled bronze attracted women and caused picaresque tales to be told of his stormy temper. He sat a horse as no one else could, and was without a peer with rein and stirrup; everyone conceded this. He broke in the horses for Emperor Franz Joseph himself. And he was the only one who dared contradict the Heir Apparent without having to fear bodily injury or other dire consequences.

  Ennsbauer had had countless adventures with ladies of the Court. Nobody ever talked of them! His reticence, his tact, his absolute trustworthiness offered no opportunity. Furthermore, the scandalmongers feared this man whose solitary existence was somehow forbidding.

  He met Gabriele Menzinger one day when she visited the Riding School in the company of a tall handsome officer of the Imperial Bodyguard. He was aware of her existence, of course, and had occasionally seen her pictures in the illustrated journals. But he had never attended the theater, and what had nothing to do with horses held absolutely no interest for him. The Menzinger in turn had no idea that a man like Ennsbauer lived, that in his own world he was as famous as she in hers. In short order she dismissed her officer of the Guards. She fell in love with Ennsbauer. Madly. Fell in love with the nonchalant way he treated her, with the fiery storm of his embraces. Fell in love with his acceptance of her as a woman and his complete indifference to her artistry. Her success meant nothing to him; he never even wanted to hear of it.

  Through her alone, because she was forever in the spotlight, news of their relationship leaked out and started a flood of gossip. And, ironically enough, only in this fashion did the name Ennsbauer come to the attention of the newspapers. Still, they remained silent. Ennsbauer wisely surrounded his life with a wall of silence.

  Now, then, he approached the two big Russian blacks harnessed to her carriage. “Rather nice,” he murmured while he patted one of them on the neck. To Gabriele, who started toward him, he said briefly: “Go inside.”

  She obeyed, slipped hastily into the dark vestibule.

  Like somebody totally disinterested Ennsbauer casually followed her. He glanced around. A few carriages waited on the Josephsplatz. He knew every livery and its owner.

  In the vestibule he overtook the actress. She pressed his arm. “So you like my horses?”

  He disengaged his arm. “New?”

  “Today. How do you like them?”

  “I told you . . . rather nice.”

  She flared up. “Rather nice! They are divine! Wonderful! The finest coach team in Vienna.”

  “For all I care,” he growled.

  Meekly she asked: “And how are things with him, with Florian?”

  Ennsbauer at once grew animated. “Today I try him,” he said. “Today I shall take him between the stanchions!”

  Gabriele produced dramatic astonishment. She halted in her tracks. “Today? Today? My God! Isn’t that entirely too soon? For heaven’s sake, don’t be rash, Leopold.”

  He walked past her. She ran after him.

  “Rash?” he echoed, so quietly he might have been saying it to himself. “Am I rash?”

  “No, no, no!” she apologized. “I am only talking. But today? After such a short time? Florian is hardly through with the longe. . . .”

  Ennsbauer cut her short. “That’s something you know nothing about! Why do you cluck about things that are beyond you?”

  “Why . . .” she threw in, her voice high-pitched. She knew how to make this man talk.

  “I know exactly what I am doing,” he declared. “Florian can do anything. Yes! He isn’t like any other horse. I have never come across a fellow like him.”

  They had reached a glass door. Ennsbauer veered to the boy standing guard and made a gesture with his hand which meant:

  “Show her the way.”

  Gabriele had to follow the boy, had to follow him to the gallery. Ennsbauer wouldn’t permit her to use the balcony. Members of the Court were to be present today. They might arrive at any moment, unexpectedly. Ennsbauer had no idea what impression the famous artiste might make on the various countesses, princesses and ladies-in-waiting. In any case, he took every precaution to avoid creating a sensation or even attracting undue attention.

  “Good luck,” Gabriele whispered to him as she disappeared.

  He did not bother to answer her. Quietly he opened a small side door and let himself into the arena.

  Down from the low balcony came loud careless voices. The equerry was ensconced there, along with a cavalry commander, Major von Neustift and his wife, several young officers and a group of young women. They felt quite at home.

  Only the equerry acknowledged Ennsbauer’s curt bow officially. Neustift raised his fingers to his vizor, while Elizabeth nodded and smiled.

  Anton led Florian into the hall. In the presence of Ennsbauer he did not dare walk ahead of Florian to demonstrate how Florian would follow him unled. The people in the balcony did not exist for Anton.

  Florian wore a saddle and complete harness. From the balcony came cries of admiration.

  “Wonderful creature!”

  “Faultless!”

  “Not a speck on him.”

  “What is his name?” a girl inquired.

  The equerry informed her: “Florian, Princess.”

  The girl laughed, whereupon the others began to giggle also.

  “How amusing!” another girl exclaimed mirthfully. “Florian—how droll.”

  “Quite so,” ventured the equerry. “I have never learned how he acquired that strange name.”

  Gaily the girls called down: “Florian! Oh, Florian!”

  Florian pricked up his ears, raised high his head and neighed. It was as melodious as a song.

  “He answers!” The girls laughed more. “How courteous.”

  Elizabeth turned and addressed them. “Florian is an old friend of ours.”

  “Not really?”

  “How nice.”

  In the meantime Anton had removed the two leather belts that lay like reins on the saddle. Florian now stood between the two upright posts in the middle of the arena, the “pillars.” Anton fastened the two belts, left and right, to rings on the posts so that it was impossible for the horse to move forward or backward.

  “Princess,” the equerry explained, “these are the rudiments, the first basic rules. Here the horse must learn the Spanish stride.”

  The princess tried to put on a thoughtful mien. “Is that very difficult?”

  “To be sure. Most difficult.”

  She put her fingers on her lips. “Oh, dear, then he is sure to be beaten.”

  The officers and some of the ladies laughed aloud at that. The equerry smiled. “Oh, no, Princess. The horses are never beaten. To use the whip would be a grave mistake. That would ruin them forever.”

  The princess breathed deeply. “Thank God for that.” She turned to the other girls to defend herself. “How should I have known? This is the first time I’ve been in Vienna. And”—this to Elizabeth—“at the Sacrè Coeur in Paris there was nobody to tell me.”

  “Attention!” Neustift cried. “Attention!”

  They looked down.

  Florian’s head was drawn in by a double white belt. His powerful neck rose in a stiff curve from the shoulders. His posture was an expression of replete pride.

  The ladies went on with their chatter almost immediately, for the princess in her youthful vivacity felt like talking of her plans. “We’ll stay in Vienna only a few weeks.”

  “For the wardrobe?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to have a few clothes. The others we shall order after Christmas when we return.”

  “Where are you going from here?”

  “Oh, first to Zistavety, and then to Mezohaza for the hunts.”

  “And later?”

  “I am telling you. Then we shall return and I shall be presented at Court. And then we have our ball. . . .”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Very happy . . . and yet I am afraid . . .”

  “Afraid? Why afraid?”

  The convers
ation was interrupted by Neustift’s loud outcry: “Marvelous! Marvelous!”

  All the officers had leaped to their feet, leaned across the balustrade and fixed intent eyes on the scene in the arena.

  The chattering of the girls ceased. The officers in subdued whispers expressed appreciation, admiration, astonishment.

  “Unbelievable!”

  “Sapristi!”

  “This animal hasn’t an equal on earth!”

  “If you told anyone about this you would be called a liar.”

  “Quite right. You’ve got to see it to believe it.”

  “Why, why,” the princess exclaimed, pointing down, “this man does have a whip . . . your Excellency!”

  The equerry reassured her. “He uses that only to give the horse signals . . . only for that.”

  Ennsbauer had approached the stanchions, patted Florian’s neck, then touched his upper lip with his palm. A quick inspection of the harness, of the body belts, and then he accepted the whip Anton held ready for him, waiting until Anton disappeared.

  Anton joined the other stablemen standing outside the wooden enclosure and peeped across the high rim. His heart pounded.

  Florian stood motionless. He was inwardly aquiver. His heart beat a violent tattoo, but he had himself under control. He concentrated and gradually submerged everything but his curiosity and his instinctive willingness to respond to the master. His beautiful dark eyes shone. His ears showed listening expectancy. His whole body listened, waited.

  He had an impulse to neigh but thought better of it. He would have liked to snort but his instinct commanded him not to disturb the fluid seconds of waiting. His nostrils opened wide, exposed their rosy interiors, contracted and opened again.

  Then the whip touched his left forefoot. Very softly. Like a falling leaf. Florian promptly lifted his leg. Involuntarily he also lifted his right hindleg. He did that slowly. Ceremoniously. He made no attempt whatever to walk forward, did not cause the slightest strain on the belts that fettered him to the posts. He set his hooves down on the exact spot he had raised them from.