Florian by Felix Salten Read Free Book Online Page B

gloomily: “That’s true, Herr Rittmeister  . . . There’s nothing to be done about it . . . I hate to think of the day when Florian’s got to leave here.”

Chapter Six
    G RIM REALITY SENT ITS ADVANCE messengers masquerading in festive garb.
    Anton alone did not share the high spirits of his comrades and of the officials of the stud-farm; the director, the stable-master, the veterinary and all the rest of them.
    When Anton took Florian over to the smithy, that day, for his first set of shoes, Florian seemed quite happy. This event and its consequences excited him, intensified his self-assurance and his love of life. To Anton he was just like a child going to be confirmed by the bishop. With a group of other three-year-olds Florian stood in the smithy. Bosco lay on the ground at his feet, his dangling tongue feverish with curiosity, and studied first Florian, then Anton, and in turn all the horses and the men around him, his gaze coming to rest on the roaring open fire of the forge.
    Anton held Florian lightly by his mane and was the only sad one there. He had to force a smile when the other stableboys called out compliments and praise to Florian. He was accustomed to that. All the other horses wore traces to which their halters were attached. Some champed nervously at their bits, flecks of foam dripping down; for they had only just been broken to the bridle.
    â€œNaturally,” one of the men said, “Florian is still free . . . still has nothing on his head or in his mouth.” There was no trace of admiration in his voice.
    Curtly and arrogantly Anton replied: “He doesn’t need anything.”
    â€œThat’s what I said,” the other one confirmed. “He’s still free.”
    One of the smiths came up. “And what the devil is this?” he asked uncouthly. “How are we to hold the nag?”
    â€œThis isn’t a nag,” Anton retorted. “Don’t be afraid . . . he’ll hold still, all right.”
    â€œAfraid?” the smith growled. “Who’s afraid?”
    Anton took one of Florian’s legs by the fetlock. “There . . . look at that,” he said, bragging. And indeed Florian permitted Anton to do with his leg as he pleased; he was as docile as a little dog learning to give his paw. “Try the size,” Anton ordered the smith. “You don’t need big ones anyway . . . he has such a small hoof,” he felt obliged to add. And he cautioned: “Light and thin irons. They are his first ones.”
    The smith growled: “I see that, stupid.”
    But Anton decided not to hear the insult. He wanted to be on friendly terms with the man who gave Florian his first shoes. Obediently Florian lifted one leg after the other. He felt Anton’s fingers spanning his ankles. Each blow of the hammer coming down on his small yellow hoof, sent his head higher, arched his neck more proudly.
    â€œWatch out, he’ll buck in a minute,” one of the lads laughed.
    â€œAnd bolt,” another one yelled.
    â€œLike hell he will!” Anton barked without straightening up or releasing Florian’s leg. “He’s an angel,” he whispered into the smith’s ear, “there’s never been one like him.”
    The smith laughed. “I know him.” And he hammered on.
    At first Bosco had barked at the sight of the smith hitting his comrade with a hammer, and had been scolded by Anton. Now he looked on attentively, his ears pointed, his head cocking now to this, now to the other, side. He followed the two men around from one leg to the next, and stood close up, as if he had to supervise the goings-on.
    At last the task was done. Florian had his shoes.
    â€œJesus, he is glad,” Anton said to the smith, who patted Florian’s hindquarters, leaving traces of his sooty fingers on the white rump.
    â€œHe has every reason to he,” the