Florian Read online

  “Wait a while, Herr Voggenberger,” he had stammered timidly.

  Voggenberger was not cruel by nature. He had not enjoyed the prospect of killing even one of the young brood. He only wanted to make things easier for Maya. “What do you want me to wait for?” he asked. “How long do you want me to wait?”

  “Well, till tomorrow,” Anton replied. “At most till the day after tomorrow. There is that game warden, Woinovich, down in the village.” He hesitated for a moment.

  “Well, and—?” Voggenberger had demanded.

  “His cat has lost all her kittens except one . . . he could put this little one with the mother cat. . . .” Anton’s face shone.

  “All right,” Voggenberger said. On his palm he had carried the little bundle of fluff from the kitchen into the stable, to Maya. Anton had hidden Bosco under his coat and accompanied Voggenberger, who said on the way: “I’ll call your attention to the fact, Pointner, that this last one is a female . . . if she lives, her name is Faline. Don’t forget.”

  Thus Anton had saved the lives of the two puppies. For the matter with Game Warden Woinovich and his cat was easily arranged.

  Anton had carried little Bosco to his room. There he had procured a milk bottle with a rubber nipple and thus replaced the mother. The tiny fellow, soon over his blindness, grew fast and pleased Anton no end. By day as well as by night Anton let him sleep in his bed. Sometimes he carried him around sheltered between his shirt and his coat; he liked to feel the warmth of the restive little body against his own, knew when Bosco slept there peacefully, and laughed when he curiously stuck his head out from under and gnawed at Anton’s hands or anything else within reach of his needle-sharp teeth.

  By and by Bosco had begun to wriggle so, in his place between Anton’s shirt and coat, that he had to be scolded. But one day when Anton was wandering through the enclosure of the stallions he had seen Herr Voggenberger’s Maya playing with her offspring among the horses. Grabbing hold of one of the puppies, he had, with a feeling tantamount to motherly pride, established the fact that Bosco was a little bigger and that his distended little milk-belly was fuller and smoother.

  Later, outside with Sibyl and Florian, the frisky little dog had once more begun to struggle, and Anton had to open the two lower buttons of his coat. Bosco fell to the ground, rolled over and suddenly, to his own consternation, found himself standing on his own legs; slowly and with growing curiosity he raised his head and began to inspect the world.

  Thus did Bosco appear among the Lipizzans.

  It was a mild November day. In from the sea came a faint sirocco, and the sun, although pale, was warm and pleasant.

  Bosco blinked and sneezed, and his expressive face seemed to say: “What shall I do now?” Like any other creature, particularly a very young one, when confronted with a realm of infinite possibilities, he could not reach a decision.

  Suddenly Florian, who stood near where Bosco had fallen, gave a jump. He had been startled by Bosco’s sudden appearance because heretofore he had seen dogs only from afar, or else been too young to notice them at close range. So from sheer surprise he jumped with stiff legs into the air. Bosco greeted this spectacle with one shrill yelp. It sounded like a child soprano emitting a shout of joy.

  Florian and Bosco stared at each other.

  Bosco’s eyes beheld a gigantic creature, a monster, a fabulous something. Yet he was not afraid for a single moment. He felt curiosity, nothing but curiosity.

  Before Florian, on the other hand, stood an incongruous, energetic little ball—all white, with two black spots around the eyes, and a forehead and ears separated by a thin white line running from the top of his head down to the pink nose.

  Neither of them—neither Bosco nor Florian—knew he himself was white. Nor cared.

  It was strange, however, that at sight of the little creature Florian felt a slight aversion and for the first time in his life a sensation akin to fear.

  Just then Bosco ceased to consider what to do first. He rushed at Florian, yelping and yowling playfully.

  Florian turned tail and ran.

  Bosco chased after him, and Anton’s “Florian! Bosco!” did not do a bit of good. Neither paid any attention. They dashed across the meadow. Little Bosco, burdened by his full belly, was far in the rear. He still wasn’t used to running fast.

  But Florian quickly tired. He noticed that he had outdistanced his fearsome pursuer; from his gallop he fell into a trot, from the trot into a leisurely saunter, and soon he came to a halt beside Sibyl. Anton approached just as Bosco arrived quite out of breath. With the proverbial stubbornness of the terrier, Bosco rushed at Florian’s hindlegs and was about to bite into one of them, without malice, just for fun, when Florian, who apparently did not think highly of such harlequinade, shot both his hindlegs so high that, looked at from the front, with his neck and head bent, he seemed to execute a formal bow.

  Bosco soared into the air. The hooves hadn’t hurt him, but the spring of Florian’s legs sent him gracefully up and away in a high curve. He rolled over a few times in flight, turned a few somersaults after coming to earth, and when he had caught his breath broke into a pitiful whining interspersed with short angry barks. His tail between his legs and his back arched, he finally got up but remained at a respectful distance.

  This stormy and not altogether painless experience of Bosco’s produced excellent results. He never again—really, never again—dared rush at a horse’s legs, or even snap at them.

  Florian was angry, and, with his ears laid back against his head, he clung to his mother’s side.

  Anton felt that the time had come to make peace between the two youngsters.

  He called to the flabbergasted, inconsolable Bosco, who hesitantly and shyly crawled near. Anton had to meet him halfway, whereupon Bosco rolled over on his back. That meant: “Do with me what you please.” It spelled at once a complete surrender of his own will and boundless trust.

  Anton lifted him up and carried him over to the colt. “There,” he said, holding Bosco in front of Florian’s nose. “There . . . why aren’t you nice to each other . . . there.” More he didn’t know.

  Florian recognized his puny foe and was still huffy, an attitude he indicated by ears laid back. He didn’t seem the least bit kind, or intelligent . . . only slightly malevolent. This upset Anton. Malevolence—that did not go with Florian at all; it couldn’t and mustn’t. Meanwhile Bosco had struggled up in Anton’s arm and was audibly sniffing at Florian’s muzzle, becoming visibly gayer and affectionate.

  Florian was tickled. He blew his breath at his tiny flatterer and brought his ears up again. The great dark eyes were questioning and full of expectation.

  Anton grinned with joy. That was better. Ever since he had come to work here at the stud-farm he had never seen a Lipizzan either angry or malevolent or pugnacious—not to speak of his Florian who, in Anton’s eyes, was the most beautiful, most faultless Lipizzan that ever grew toward a glorious destiny.

  Bosco began to wash Florian’s nose with his quick little red tongue. It looked like a passionate declaration of love, an ecstatic explosion of friendship. Only the very young can love thus, innocently, can follow an impulse with such complete abandon. Florian plainly enjoyed it, for he bent his head and allowed Bosco to plant moist kisses on his nose and forehead.

  “That’s enough,” Anton said, his calm restored, and set Bosco down.

  The terrier scurried around Florian with an expression of rapture in the gaze he cast up at his big newly won friend, singing for him in the highest pitch tiny love songs that ended abruptly and then started again in hasty, uneven little stanzas.

  “Now I go,” Anton cogitated, “I’ve got to go, I’ve got work to do. Bosco!” he called, ambling away. “Bosco!”

  Once, twice, Bosco chased after him, ran around him and darted back to Florian.

  Again Anton called, whistled, shouted and whistled again. Bosco could not tear himself away from his friend. The two played all kinds of games, som
e that had a serious background and were slow-paced, and others so gay and active that they verged on madness.

  When Anton had left and ordered the little dog to come along, Bosco had said to Florian approximately: “Excuse me . . . I’ve got to obey.”

  And Florian’s answer had been something like this: “Too bad . . . too bad.”

  That had torn Bosco’s heart between Anton and Florian. He chased away, rushed back, ran away a second time, came back again and intimated to Florian: “Here I am.”

  And it may be taken for granted Florian answered: “That’s nice of you. I am very pleased.”

  On Bosco’s second return he was all out of breath. He stretched out in front of Florian’s legs and let his tongue dangle from his open snout.

  “Bosco!” came the sound from afar.

  Bosco listened and closed his mouth. A sigh, indicating: “Oh, I am so tired.” A second one, meaning: “Oh, I would much rather stay with you.”

  Florian bent down and snorted: “Why don’t you, my friend?”

  Sibyl trotted over, bent her head and heartened the terrier with a stare that implied as much as: “You just stay with us.”

  The two horses, mother and son, stood side by side, their heads bent down to the little fellow who lay there and flicked the grass with his tail. Bosco peered up into the dark shining eyes, first into Sibyl’s and then into Florian’s, and waited.

  All at once he sprang up. He had rested long enough. “What do you think?” asked his posture, betraying coiled speed and good humor.

  Florian raised his head sharply. His ears wiggled and his closed lips assumed a gay and curious expression. Sibyl raised her head.

  Like mad Bosco whirled round on his axis, danced for the audience of two. A sign from Florian must have told him: “I am with you.” A sign from Sibyl: “All right.”

  He gave everything he had: breath, legs, heart and brain. He darted away as if shot from a pistol . . . a white, longish projectile streaking across the meadow.

  Florian followed him rather nonchalantly, as if it were but a small matter to catch up, should he so desire.

  Sibyl came after them only to supervise their play, to keep an eye on Florian. She purposely stayed somewhat in the background, adapted her stride to Florian’s. It was obvious that she could easily have shown quite a different speed, but she partook in the game with the controlled energy of a staid grown-up; she wanted to spare her child.

  For a while it amused Florian to keep little Bosco in front of him. Then the desire to overtake him awoke in his breast. He fell into a trot . . . in vain. He forced a still faster pace . . . in vain. He began to pant.

  Sibyl heard that. Lengthening her stride she came abreast of him, forged ahead and thrust herself in his path. His legs dug into the turf, but momentum carried him along until he bumped into his mother’s hard stifle-joint and fell to sucking.

  What a cooling draught. . . .

  Cuddling against his mother’s body he felt her pulse-beat on his lips. His own quickened pulse hammered in his face, neck and temples.

  When the rhythmic double beat of the hooves behind him broke off, Bosco halted in his tracks and looked around, his first sense of triumph changing to perplexity at the disappearance of his two companions. Sniffing, he raised his nose to the air and smelled the scent of many, many horses, yet recognized Sibyl’s scent among all the rest, and easily sifted out Florian’s. In a beeline he went bobbing over to where they were.

  He stood for a few seconds in the shadow of the mother and son, reverently watching the scene which had temporarily ended the game. He had no memory of his own mother, none of stretching out voluptuously to be nourished from her body. His first blind days were too far away in the haze of infancy, completely forgotten, and Anton’s bottle did not offer any salient points of comparison. But being of the very best pedigree, a fox terrier through whose veins coursed canine blue-blood handed down to him from prized ancestors, he had finely sensitized instincts and rare understanding. Well-mannered, he looked on at mother and son, and never for a tiny second thought of disturbing them. Quietly he slunk into the grass and lay down opposite the two horses. His tongue lolled from his mouth and by its staccato lapping betrayed how strenuously his lungs and heart were working. Nevertheless he laughed at them: “Wasn’t that grand fun?” His shining terrier-eyes said distinctly: “How wonderful to be with you.”

  Over from the domain of the stallions came loud passionate neighs.

  Bosco pointed his ears. He liked the world.

  Sibyl rolled in the grass, rubbed her back and displayed the sweeping lines of her belly as she lazily beat the air with her four hooves. She rubbed her cheeks against the grass, in sheer comfort, urging Florian to be gay.

  He was glad to oblige. He performed mad contortions in the grass, cut funny capers with his legs, rolled on his side and drummed against his mother’s high back with his small hooves.

  Bosco was intensely interested. He stood up, unable to lie, carried away by the sight of mother and son enjoying each other. He was tremendously exhilarated . . . and amused by each of them and by himself. These two exalted creatures he constantly looked up to, whose faces always swung so high above him, had shrunk almost to his own dimensions. He frolicked in front of Sibyl and Florian, then jumped over them; and jumping over such mighty beings gave him as much subconscious satisfaction as the welcome intimacy it engendered. Sometimes his paws grazed Sibyl’s neck, and once Florian’s crest. He jubilated, he yipped incessantly, he created a Lillipution bedlam in contrast to the vast silent contentment of the two horses. And judging from their attitude, his noisy behavior seemed less disturbing than complementary to their mute serenity.

  When Anton returned, after a few hours, he found the triumvirate peacefully resting.

  Bosco greeted him stormily, wagging his tail, spinning round and round, leaping up to his master again and again. Sibyl simply looked at the man with large dark eyes shining as if in meditation. And Florian stretched, bent his neck far back, and showed in this fashion how good he felt.

  Chapter Four

  AFTER CLOUD-HIDDEN DAYS, AFTER raging storms, a thin crust of snow covered the meadows of Lipizza. From horizon to horizon blue skies, and a pallid sun that gave weak warmth but still spread good cheer. Crystal clear and motionless hung the air.

  All the horses roamed around in the open, trotted, galloped, sauntered over the snow which is so rare in this region; and the white animals on the white ground made it appear that Nature had arranged a costume fête for the sake of the human carnival.

  In crisscrossing tracks the horses wrote the screed of their hooves into the melting snow. Some of them sucked up soft snow through half-closed lips, the cold sending their heads up with a powerful heave and making them snort loudly and gallop aimlessly. Not one of them tried to throw himself down, to stretch or to roll. The snowy coverlet scintillated in the light of the sun but did not invite recumbent rest.

  Bosco and three or four other terriers, however, were soon on intimate terms with the snow, gamboling and scampering about like children coming home from school to whom snow is an invitation to frolic.

  Bosco exchanged brief courtesies with his kinsmen, did not care that there might be close relatives among them. He did not engage any of them in lengthy conversation. He did whatever good form among fox terriers dictated, as briefly as possible, and thereafter devoted all his time and attention to Florian.

  Florian was apparently unable to get along without Bosco. He stood motionless and waited whenever Bosco strayed farther afield than usual. Sibyl, too, stood and waited. At last Bosco came. Already from afar he called to them: “Here I am. Here!” He leaped up to them, always in front, always so that they could see him. He might have been wanting to bite their noses. But that wasn’t true at all; he remembered well being catapulted through space by Florian’s legs!

  He frisked around Florian, ran on ahead, rolled in the snow, jumped up again and shook vigorously from his body a rain of tiny drops
. Hither and yon he darted, and every once in a while Florian had to come to a jarring stop to avoid stepping on the roly-poly terrier in the snow. At such times Florian turned a sharp angle and made off in another direction followed by Sibyl, so that Bosco had hardly time enough to rise and shake off the wet clinging snow, in order to catch up.

  Bosco had grown considerably; he was about half again the size he had been when he first met Florian. He was riper, and despite all the earmarks of youth his slender figure approximated the proportions of the grown terrier, the sturdy smooth figure which betrayed carefreeness, grace and reckless courage. No longer did a fat little milk-belly distort his waistline; for now he drank very little milk and when he did, lapped it up out of a saucer, baring his sharp almost full-grown teeth.

  Bosco slept with Sibyl and Florian in their box. They had arranged that among them. To accomplish this, a trifling breach of faith had been necessary, a breach which Bosco had lightheartedly committed against Anton. He loved Anton, recognized in him his master, and without hesitation would have sacrificed his life for him. Yet he was closer to Florian; they were closer to each other than man and beast could ever be.

  In the beginning Bosco still had to fall back on his cunning and his intrepid terrior stubbornness.

  The first time he sneaked away from Anton in the commissary Anton searched high and low for him: out by the hurdles, in the house, at his comrade’s. He whistled and shouted; but Bosco, who heard distinctly, refused to budge from his place next to Florian in the straw. Anton was desperate until somebody suggested that he take a look in the stable. Bosco pretended to be fast asleep. Anton lifted him tenderly and carried him to his room.

  The second time, Bosco escaped from Anton’s bed shortly before it was time to retire. Anton promptly missed him and fetched him back.

  So Bosco made a practice of slinking out of bed during the night; and in the morning Anton, finding him curled up at the foot of the bedstead, thought it must have been too hot for the dog and suspected nothing.