Florian by Felix Salten Read Free Book Online

well, was too close to them.
    Oftentimes, when Sibyl was harnessed and put before a light barouche to drive around the estate of Lipizza for a half hour or so, Florian ran alongside her, so close, so well attuned to her stride, he might have been harnessed with her. Bosco would dash ahead, whirl around dizzily, bark merrily at first, and soon fall silent—as if to prove that he could be as self-contained as his friends. As much as he might like to, at times, he never outstripped them by too far. He always maneuvered to stay near Florian, except once or twice to circle the carriage, and after a few introductory caprioles always settled into his dog’s trot.
    The reins were held by this or that stud-master, or by one of the higher officials of the stud-farm. The driver invariably held a whip in his hand but never lashed a horse. Such a thing did not happen at Lipizza. The horses did not need it. They were not allowed to be whipped, and were not whipped. This system had produced such extraordinary results that in the course of many generations it had become an unwritten but religiously observed law to be gentle with these gentle animals. And thus had been bred in the Lipizzan strain an inherited insight into the human will, an atavistic readiness to obey willingly and promptly. Thus the long whip flicked only lightly and softly, barely to be felt, over hindquarters, tickled back of the ears—and these signals were sufficient to change the tempo. A scarcely perceptible tug at the reins, or a sound from the lips of the driver, arrested the horse in its course. Never was an animal torn at the mouth. Soft and delicate from birth, so they remained, even after they were lodged in the Imperial Stables in Vienna.
    Anton knew all that. Nevertheless it always gave him a mild shock to see Sibyl in her harness, driving off accompanied by Florian and Bosco. He would stare after them full of anguish, and be freed of the strange feeling only after he had unharnessed Sibyl, brushed her and Florian down, and fastened their blankets over them.
    Time lazied by in a placid unbroken rhythm. Only by the passing of summer into winter, of long days into long nights, did the clock of eternity tell man that the earth once again completed her circular flight.
    Florian finished the third year of his existence. Now he enjoyed his splendid full growth. And of the entire herd of horses at Lipizza he was the most beautiful. None of the others was as dazzling white as he. Not a false tinge anywhere mottled his perfect coat. He shone like silver, like milk, like freshly fallen snow, like moonlight. No comparison quite fitted. Florian shimmered as only Florian could. Already it was fabled in Lipizza that only once, and that already ten decades ago, had any of Florian’s ancestors been as pure white.
    Florian’s body had the flawless symmetry of physique of all Lipizzans. He carried his neck in a proud regal curve, and his marvelous head, with its well-formed ears, its wonderful dark liquid eyes, enthralled everyone. The white of his head was shaded around the nostrils and lips a delicate rose-tinted gray which still preserved the undertone of white. Those nostrils and voluptuous lips—they really were voluptuous and suggested unstilled sensuality—were tempting under the touch.
    Anton would stand in front of Florian and press those nostrils and lips with his palm, would fondle and stroke and rub; and Florian would accept it patiently for a while. As for Bosco, he would squat on his haunches and look on reverently. At length Florian would thrust his head up high, snort and glance at Anton half-apologetically: “Don’t be angry—but that’s enough.” Then Anton would slap the white back and say: “Don’t be angry . . . Florian, you are quite right . . . that’s really enough.”
    Florian would execute a few side steps, beat his flanks with his silvery white tail which he bore on a short