looking no less graceful but very different in close fitting black pants and sweater.
Next moment a welcoming shaft of light shone out across the trampled grass in front of us. It spilled out from the door of a caravan where, silhouetted against the light and holding back the rough curtain which had covered the doorway, stood Annalisa, peering out into the night.
‘Tim, Mrs March, is that you? I’m sorry I couldn’t come to show you the way, but I was busy changing.’
She ran down the steps. Gone was the smart young hussar in blue velvet, and here once more was the slender girl with the blonde pony tail. But she hadn’t gone back to the blue dirndl. She was wearing – like the other artistes we had seen – pants and sweater. Hers were dark blue. She had cleaned the circus make-up off her face, and this now looked fresh and scrubbed clean, without even any lipstick. She looked business-like and ready for work, but as feminine as ever.
‘I’ll take you to see the horses straight away. Theywill not be moving till they are taken to the morning train, but they’ll be being bedded down now. Did you enjoy the show?’
‘Very much indeed,’ I said, ‘and you most of all . . . That’s quite honest, Annalisa, you were marvellous. It was a wonderful act, one of the best things I’ve ever seen . . . And thank you very much for the
croupade
, you both did it beautifully, we were terribly impressed.’
‘It was terrific!’ Timothy chimed in with enthusiasm, and we both praised her warmly, and as we walked along between the lighted windows of the rows of vans, I could see how she glowed with unaffected pleasure.
‘It is too much – you are too good . . .’ She sounded almost confused by our praise. ‘He did do it well tonight, did he not? It was a good evening . . . I am glad for you . . . One cannot always be sure. I think, if there had been more time to train him, he could have been a very good horse. But in a circus, you see, there is no time; we cannot afford to keep a horse for all the time it takes to train them in the advanced leaps, they have to work, and this spoils them, they are never polished. In the Spanish Riding School they can train for years before they let them perform. Even then, some of the stallions never get to do the leaps. This is kept for the best ones.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it still looked pretty good to me . . . and the palominos were magnificent.’
‘Oh yes, they are lovely. Well, here they are. I brought some pieces of carrot if you would like to give them . . .?’
The horses were housed in a long tent, which, on theinside, looked every bit as solid and permanent as a stable. A few lights burned, showing up rows of horses’ rumps half hidden by their rugs, tails swishing lazily. There was the sweet ammoniac smell of hay and horses, and the comfortable sound of munching. Farther down the stable a couple of men were working, one forking straw, the other, duster in hand, shining up the metal studding on a piece of tack hanging from a pole. From a corner in the shadows came the whicker of greeting, and I saw the beautiful white head flung up as the stallion looked round at Annalisa.
Shorn of his jewelled trappings and standing at ease, Maestoso Leda was still beautiful, even though not so impressive as he had been on parade. Seeing one of the famous Lipizzans now for the first time at close quarters, I was surprised to realise how small he was; fourteen hands, I supposed, give or take an inch, stockily built with well-set-on shoulders and sturdy legs and feet, big barrelled, big chested, with the thick stallion neck and the power in the haunches that was needed for the spectacular leaps to which these animals could be trained. Something about the shape of his head recalled those old paintings of horses that one had always dismissed as inaccurate – those creatures with massive quarters, round and shining as apples, but with swan-curved necks and small heads with tiny ears; now
Next moment a welcoming shaft of light shone out across the trampled grass in front of us. It spilled out from the door of a caravan where, silhouetted against the light and holding back the rough curtain which had covered the doorway, stood Annalisa, peering out into the night.
‘Tim, Mrs March, is that you? I’m sorry I couldn’t come to show you the way, but I was busy changing.’
She ran down the steps. Gone was the smart young hussar in blue velvet, and here once more was the slender girl with the blonde pony tail. But she hadn’t gone back to the blue dirndl. She was wearing – like the other artistes we had seen – pants and sweater. Hers were dark blue. She had cleaned the circus make-up off her face, and this now looked fresh and scrubbed clean, without even any lipstick. She looked business-like and ready for work, but as feminine as ever.
‘I’ll take you to see the horses straight away. Theywill not be moving till they are taken to the morning train, but they’ll be being bedded down now. Did you enjoy the show?’
‘Very much indeed,’ I said, ‘and you most of all . . . That’s quite honest, Annalisa, you were marvellous. It was a wonderful act, one of the best things I’ve ever seen . . . And thank you very much for the
croupade
, you both did it beautifully, we were terribly impressed.’
‘It was terrific!’ Timothy chimed in with enthusiasm, and we both praised her warmly, and as we walked along between the lighted windows of the rows of vans, I could see how she glowed with unaffected pleasure.
‘It is too much – you are too good . . .’ She sounded almost confused by our praise. ‘He did do it well tonight, did he not? It was a good evening . . . I am glad for you . . . One cannot always be sure. I think, if there had been more time to train him, he could have been a very good horse. But in a circus, you see, there is no time; we cannot afford to keep a horse for all the time it takes to train them in the advanced leaps, they have to work, and this spoils them, they are never polished. In the Spanish Riding School they can train for years before they let them perform. Even then, some of the stallions never get to do the leaps. This is kept for the best ones.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it still looked pretty good to me . . . and the palominos were magnificent.’
‘Oh yes, they are lovely. Well, here they are. I brought some pieces of carrot if you would like to give them . . .?’
The horses were housed in a long tent, which, on theinside, looked every bit as solid and permanent as a stable. A few lights burned, showing up rows of horses’ rumps half hidden by their rugs, tails swishing lazily. There was the sweet ammoniac smell of hay and horses, and the comfortable sound of munching. Farther down the stable a couple of men were working, one forking straw, the other, duster in hand, shining up the metal studding on a piece of tack hanging from a pole. From a corner in the shadows came the whicker of greeting, and I saw the beautiful white head flung up as the stallion looked round at Annalisa.
Shorn of his jewelled trappings and standing at ease, Maestoso Leda was still beautiful, even though not so impressive as he had been on parade. Seeing one of the famous Lipizzans now for the first time at close quarters, I was surprised to realise how small he was; fourteen hands, I supposed, give or take an inch, stockily built with well-set-on shoulders and sturdy legs and feet, big barrelled, big chested, with the thick stallion neck and the power in the haunches that was needed for the spectacular leaps to which these animals could be trained. Something about the shape of his head recalled those old paintings of horses that one had always dismissed as inaccurate – those creatures with massive quarters, round and shining as apples, but with swan-curved necks and small heads with tiny ears; now
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