CHAPTER VII.

A MIDDLE-CLASS VIENNESE HOME

Christmas Eve in the home of Hofrat Franz Spineder. The little yellow brick house, which the Hofrat had inherited from his grandfather, lay far out in Grinzing, beyond the end of the tramway line. Viewed from the outside the one-story house with a high gate of green-painted wood and the green shades looked almost primitive; but when one opened the gate and saw the courtyard with its old-fashioned pump, one stopped short, amazed and delighted. The courtyard gradually developed into a gently sloping garden that seemed almost endless. In the summer wall-flowers, tulips, roses, and carnations shone in southern splendor,--behind the ornamental garden hundreds of trees were bowed to the ground under their burden of apples, pears, apricots, plums, and cherries. But the orchard was not the end of the garden, which rose steeply through a vineyard to a little Old Viennese summer-house with multicolored windows, perched on the crest of the hill.

Enchanting as the unsuspected garden, were the furnishings of the living-room. Ancient, comfortable, stiff and graceful furniture of the Baroque, Congress, and Biedermeier periods, valuable etchings and paintings on the walls, two genuine Waldmüllers, a Schwind in the drawing-room, beautiful glassware of many colors, Old Viennese porcelain, sparkling silver in glass cases and on the side-board,--one only had to close one’s eyes to see men and women in the costume of Maria Theresa’s time and in the Biedermeier coat.

Franz Spineder was a government official, as his father and grandfather had been before him; however, he was not dependent on his salary from the Ministry of Education, but possessed considerable private means. Even the house with its enormous garden and its valuable furnishings represented millions at the current rate. Besides, his wife came of the Halbhuber family, whose remote ancestors had amassed great wealth as tanners and manufacturers of leather goods. And as the Spineders now had only one child, Lotte, who was just eighteen, they could live comfortably in spite of the high prices and the confusion of the times.

Silently Lotte and Frau Spineder decorated the Christmas tree, attached chocolate cookies, candies, glass balls, and candles to the fragrant boughs. Frau Spineder, a plump, still pretty woman, cast a side-long glance toward her slender, blonde, strikingly beautiful and charming daughter.

“Lotte! Now you’ve tears in your eyes again! Think of Papa--tonight, at least, he wants to see cheerful faces! And don’t make poor Leo’s heart any heavier!”

Lotte dropped a little chocolate chimney-sweep so that his head broke off; covering her face with her hands, she leaned on her mother’s shoulder and began to sob bitterly.

“My heart’s breaking, Mother! You’ll see, I won’t survive Leo’s having to leave the country! Please, Mother--let me go with him!”

Tenderly Frau Spineder, whose eyes also were moist, stroked the soft, shimmering golden hair of her daughter.

“You can’t do it, Lotte! Remember--Papa is sixty, and since that dreadful war took our son he has only you. You can’t expect him to let you go out into an uncertain future, however fond he is of Leo. Just think: Leo is going to Paris; with the depreciation of the krone we couldn’t possibly support you with francs, and you might come to want without Papa’s being able to help you. But if he’s alone Leo will make his way, and you’re both still so young that you can wait for better times. Now hush--Father’s coming! And the bell’s ringing--that must be Leo.”

Herr Spineder, who now came into the room to light the candles, was typical of the old Austrian Hofrat at his best. Fond of music and a skilled instrumentalist, highly cultured, well groomed without and within, always seeking beauty, loving life and affirming it, just, conscientious, and tolerant--yet a little narrow-minded, cautious and hesitant. He still wore his beard in the antiquated fashion of Francis Joseph, for he considered it beneath his dignity to make any concession on his person to the new conditions. Though he was a Democrat through and through, and a loyal servant to the Republic, Angeli’s beautiful portrait of the Emperor still hung over his desk. As he entered the room now the old gentleman with his snow-white hair and his gentle grayish-blue eyes represented the genuine Old Austrian whom we soon will know only from books.

“Leo is outside, scraping off the snow from his shoes,” said Herr Spineder as he slowly lighted the candles. “Go out to him--I’ll prepare the presents, and ring when I’m ready.”

Frau Spineder paid a brief visit to the kitchen to look after her carp, cake, and apple-fritters; but Lotte, throwing her arms about Leo’s neck, was weeping silently on his breast.

Leo Strakosch--slender, dark-haired, and smooth-shaven, with sparkling brown eyes that flashed forth wit and humor--was ten years older than Lotte. During the last year of the war he had entered the army for his year’s service, and at the front had met Rudolf Spineder, the Hofrat’s son; soon the young men, who were of the same age, were fast friends. In the last battle of the Piave Rudolf had been wounded in the head and had breathed out his young life in the arms of his friend--but only after begging him to convey a last message to his parents and little sister. This is how Leo had come into the house of the Spineders; and the poor son of a petty commission-agent felt entirely at home in the cultured bourgeois atmosphere. When Lotte grew from childhood into beautiful blooming girlhood, he determined: “This one, or none!” And Lotte returned the love of the bright, clever, talented young man with all her heart.

Herr Spineder had no objections as he watched the development of this love. Leo Strakosch was an etcher, quite extraordinarily successful in spite of his youth; people were beginning to fight over his pictures, and a Leo Strakosch Album, which had appeared about a year before, was even being noticed abroad. Both the Hofrat and his wife rightly admitted to themselves that they could put their child in no better hands than Leo’s, whom they gradually came to love as their own son. The fact that Leo was a Jew did not in the least perturb Herr Spineder. His house was a rendezvous for many musicians, authors and painters, the majority of whom were Jews; and the late attorney Viktor Rosen had even been Spineder’s closest friend.

A year before, when political circles were just beginning to whisper about the plan of the Christian-Socialist leader to put through an anti-Jewish law, Herr Spineder was unwilling and unable to believe that such a thing could be done. And when events forced him to believe it his indignation knew no bounds. Greater still was his sorrow over the blow that Leo’s imminent expulsion would be for his daughter. But he rejected unconditionally the thought of permitting his Lotte to join Leo in his exile; for here his love for his only child and the egoism of age united to make him absolutely inflexible.

Christmas presents were plentiful; Lotte’s parents had been generous, yet she scarcely glanced at the fur scarf, silk stockings, books, and music, but constantly pressed to her trembling lips the little picture of Leo, encased in a gold locket, which he had given her. Now they were all seated about the holiday table, but the mood was mournful rather than festive, and Herr Spineder’s efforts to carry on a light conversation met with failure. When the home-made golden wine was poured out, Herr Spineder raised his glass and said, with deep feeling:

“Your health, Leo! May good fortune be with you abroad, and may fate bring us all together again before long! I know that you are angry with me, children,--but I can’t do anything except suffer with you. You see, Mother and I have the best part of our lives behind us--I’m on the threshold of old age; so it’s only natural for us to resist with every fibre of our being the departure of the last sunbeam that shines for us. But even if we were capable of such almost superhuman selflessness my sense of duty would not permit it. Were we living in normal times I would let you go, and would say that after all we could spend a couple of months with you in Paris every year. But today, when the krone is almost worthless, that is impossible. Only speculators can indulge in such luxury today; and you know that although we live well and comfortably we nonetheless must count with every thousand-kronen bill. If Lotte were to go abroad with you now she would lose her home forever. And not only she, but your children, too, would be homeless exiles, wouldn’t know the soil in which their grandparents are buried. And--who knows?--perhaps the day would come when you, Lotte, would be seized with such homesickness that it would crowd out your love for your husband, and your entire being would become embittered with reproach of him whom you followed into exile. You are young, both of you. You, Lotte, are almost a child--you, Leo, a youth; and your whole life lies before you. Let a few years pass. Then, perhaps, you will have grown apart--or there will be new developments that will unite you again.”

While Lotte and her mother wept inconsolably, Leo, too, raised his glass:

“Father--I suppose I may still call you by that name--I must respect your reasons for refusing to let Lotte go with me; I’d probably do the same if I were in your place. But there is one thing I must say to you, and to Lotte, whom I will always love: From now on my life will be one great struggle! My people is said to possess tenacity--well, I will unite all the faculties of my race in myself. With my brain and my heart, with all my power and all my will I shall work to win Lotte, by fair means or foul! They may drive me out like a mangy dog, but they cannot kill my will-power! And I drink to your health and to our reunion, which will come sooner than any of us dares hope today.”

The next day Leo Strakosch left the country on a train occupied mostly by intellectual workers and artists. The Hofrat, Frau Spineder, and Lotte saw him off. Except for them Leo left no dear ones behind him, for his parents had died long before.