Produced by Christine Bell and Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org SMALL SOULS BY LOUIS COUPERUS Author of "The Footsteps of Fate," etc. TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1914 TRANSLATOR'S NOTE This story is translated from the Dutch of Louis Couperus, the foremost novelist in a country which has lately had the good sense to join the Berne Convention. Friends who have seen my version in manuscript suggest to me that certain details of the action and dialogue strike an exotic note to English ears and may therefore need some interpretation. But I could not bring myself to burden a work of fiction with an array of foot-notes nor to believe that it is really necessary to explain to readers of Couperus' fellow-countryman, "Maarten Maartens," that Dutch men and women of the upper classes still call their parents "Papa" and "Mamma," as the English did in the sixties, and still drink tea after dinner, as the English did in the forties; that, in Holland, persons of quality are not addressed by their titles in conversation; that it is not quite correct, or that it is at least a departure from the aristocratic tradition, for a lady of family _not_ to wash up her own breakfast-china at the table; that the Dutch speak of Java as India and sometimes marry native wives, who, _nihilo obstante_, are "received" by the "family" at home. I have done my best, by a complicated and perhaps only partly successful system of italics, hyphens and dots, to render the various eccentricities of speech of Cateau van Lowe, Adolphine van Saetzema and Aunt Ruyvenaer. The few Malay words employed by the last-named, by Otto van Naghel's wife and by her native nurse are explained in notes as and when they occur. _Small Souls_ is the first of a series of four novels describing the fortunes of the Van Lowe family and known in Holland by the generic title of _The Books of the Small Souls_. The remainder will be translated and published if and as the antecedent volumes find favour with English and American readers. They are called: _The Later Life, The Twilight of the Souls and Dr. Adriaan_. ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. CHELSEA, 4 _December_, 1913. SMALL SOULS CHAPTER I It was pouring with rain; and Dorine van Lowe was tired out when, by way of a last visit, she dropped in on Karel and Cateau just before dinner. But Dorine was pleased with herself. She had gone out immediately after lunch and had trotted and trammed all over the Hague; she had done much, if not everything; and her tired face looked very glad and her bright black eyes sparkled. "Have meneer and mevrouw gone in to dinner yet, Sientje?" she asked, nervous and breathless, in a sudden fright lest she should be too late. "No, miss, but it's just on six," said Sientje, severely. Dorine van Lowe whisked through the hall and rushed upstairs, forgetting to put her wet umbrella in the stand. She clutched it in one hand, together with her skirt, which she forgot to let fall; in her arm she held a parcel pressed close to her, under her cape; in the other hand she carried her muff and her old black satin reticule; with the same hand, making a superhuman effort, she felt for her pocket-handkerchief and managed to blow her nose without dropping anything but four or five tram-tickets, which flew around her on every side. Old Sientje followed her with her glance, severely. Then she went to the kitchen, fetched a cloth, silently wiped up a trail of rain and drops along the hall and staircase and carefully picked the tram-tickets off the stair-carpet. Dorine walked into her brother's study. Karel van Lowe was sitting placidly by a good fire, reading; his smooth-shaven face shone pink and young. He wore his thick, glossy hair neatly combed and brushed into a fine tuft; he dyed his moustache black; and, like Dorine, he had the black eyes of the Van Lowes. His broad figure looked comfortable and well-fed in his spruce clothes; his waistcoat lay in thick creases over his stomach; and his watch-chain rose and fell with his regular breathing. He seemed calm and healthy, full of calculating prudence and quiet selfishness. He gently put aside the magazine which he was reading, as though he felt that he was in for it, that he would have to listen to his sister for a quarter of an hour at least; but he made up his mind to interrupt her pretty often. So he rubbed his large, fat, pink hands and looked at Dorine impassively; and his glance seemed to convey: "Go on, I'm listening, I can't help myself...." Dorine stood near his writing-table, which was in the middle of the prim room, while he remained sitting by the fire. "I've been to all of them!" Dorine began triumphantly. "To Bertha?" "To Bertha." "To Gerrit?" "To Gerrit." "To Adolphine?" "And to Ernst and Paul: I've been to all of them!" said Dorine, triumphantly. "And they've all promised to come." "Dorine, would you mind putting your umbrella outside? It's so wet." Dorine put her umbrella in the passage outside the door and she now also let fall her skirt, the hem of which showed an edge of wet mud at which her brother kept staring as though hypnotized. "And what did Bertha say?" he asked, pretending to be interested, but giving all his attention to the wet hem. "Well, Bertha was very nice! I must say, Bertha was very nice!" said Dorine; and the tears, always so ready with her, came into her dark eyes. "She was very busy with the girls, drawing up the lists of invitations for Emilie's wedding; and to-morrow they have one of their official dinners. But she said at once that, if Mamma wished it, we must all of us obey her wish and go to Mamma's to-night to meet Constance. And Van Naghel, who came in for a moment, said so too. Bertha never agreed with Mamma, about encouraging Constance to come back to Holland; but, now that things had gone as far as they had, she said she would look upon Constance as a sister again, quite as a sister." "And what did Van Naghel say?" asked Karel van Lowe. Karel was not really interested in what his brother-in-law, Van Naghel van Voorde, the colonial secretary, had said, but he had a methodical mind and, now that he knew Bertha's opinion, he also wanted to know her husband's opinion and the opinion of all the other brothers and sisters. Meanwhile, he continued to look at the wet hem of Dorine's skirt and longed to ask her not to touch his paper-knife and paper-weight, which she kept playing with half-nervously; but he said nothing, calculating within himself that, presently, when Dorine was gone, he would have a moment, before dinner, to put everything straight. "Well, I gathered from what Van Naghel said that he hoped Constance would show the greatest tact and not be too pushing at first, but that, as their brother-in-law, he would welcome Van der Welcke and Constance very cordially." Karel nodded placidly, to show that he understood what lay at the back of Van Naghel's words and that he quite agreed. "And what did Van Saetzema and Adolphine say?" "Well, of course, I had more trouble with Adolphine than with any of the others!" cried Dorine, triumphantly waving the paper-knife, while Karel anxiously followed the movements of her hand. "First, she didn't want to come and said that Mamma had no morals and all that sort of thing. I answered that I respected her views; that, of course, every one was free to think as he pleased; but that she must not forget that Mamma was an old woman, a very old woman, and that we ought to try and make her happy in her old age. Then I said that Constance was Mamma's child as much as any of us; and that it was only natural for Mamma to want us all to take Constance back as a sister, as it had all happened so very long ago and she had been married to Van der Welcke for fifteen years and their boy is thirteen...." "Dorine, please, would you mind leaving the paper-weight alone? Else all those letters are sure to get mixed.... And what did Adolphine say to that?" "Well, at first, Adolphine wouldn't hear of going, said she was afraid of Constance' bad influence on the girls, said she couldn't possibly take them. In fact, she talked like a fool. But, when I told her that Van Naghel and Bertha were coming and that not a word had been said about their girls--that they were coming too--then Adolphine said that she would come after all and bring her girls. And Gerrit and Ernst"--Dorine opened Karel's stamp-box, but shut it again at once, terrified when she saw the stamps neatly arranged in the compartments, according to their values--"I saw Gerrit and Ernst too; and Adeline spoke very nicely; and Paul...." A gong sounded. "That's dinner," said Karel. "I suppose you won't stay, Dorine? I don't think there's much: Cateau and I always dine so simply...." "Oh, I eat very little; I should like to stay, if I may; then we can all go on to Mamma's afterwards...." Karel van Lowe gave one more look at the muddy hem; he remembered that the dining-room had been cleaned that day; and he could restrain himself no longer: "Dorine," he said, in despair, "in that case, won't you let Marie brush you down first?" Then, at last, Dorine realized that she was not fit to be seen, after trotting and tramming the whole afternoon in the rain. She looked in the glass: when she had taken off her wet cape, she would be less presentable than ever. And so she dolefully changed her mind: "You're right, Karel, I don't look nice; and my boots are wet: I think I had better go home and change for the evening. So good-bye for the present, Karel." "Good-bye, Dorine." The gong sounded again. Dorine clutched her reticule, hunted all round the room for her umbrella, until she remembered that it was outside, and hurried away, while Karel repaired the disorder on his writing-table and put the paper-weight and paper-knife straight. In the hall, Dorine met her round-faced sister-in-law staring at her with startled eyes like an owl's. Cateau asked, in a slow, whining voice that emphasized every third or fourth word: "Oh, Do-rine ... are you re-ally ... staying to din-ner?" "No, thanks, Cateau; it's very kind of you, but I must change my things. They're all coming this evening, to Mamma's." "Oh, are they all ... com-ing?" "Yes.... And I am so glad.... Well, don't let me keep you. Karel will tell you all about it. So good-bye, till later...." She hurried away; Sientje let her out, severely. Karel and Cateau sat down to dinner. They had no children; they were now living in the Hague, after many years spent in a pretty village in Utrecht, where Karel had been burgomaster. They had a large and handsome house in the Oranjestraat; they kept three servants; they kept a carriage. They loved good fare and took their meals by themselves, just the two of them; they never entertained: there were no small dinners, for relations, nor dinner-parties, for friends. They lived according to the rules of opulent respectability. Everything in their large house, with its heavy, comfortable furniture, was solid and respectable, in no wise luxurious. They both looked healthy and opulent and Dutch and respectable. Cateau was a heavy woman of forty, with a pair of startled round eyes in a round face, and she always wore a neat, smooth, well-fitting dress, brown, black or blue. They lived by the clock: in the morning, Karel took a walk, always the same walk, through the Woods; after lunch, Cateau did her shopping; once a week, they paid a round of visits together; and that was the only time when they went out together. They were always at home in the evening, except on Sundays, when they went to Mamma van Lowe's. Notwithstanding their comfortable life, their three servants and their carriage, they were thrifty. They considered it a sin and a shame to spend money on a theatre, an exhibition, or a book. Every spring and autumn, they bought what they needed for their house and wardrobe, so as to have everything good and nice; but that was all. Their one vice was their table. They lived exceedingly well, but kept the fact from the family and always said that they lived so very simply that they could never ask an unexpected visitor to stay. And, as they never invited anybody, the secret of their dainty table did not leak out. They had a first-rate cook and Cateau kept a tight rein upon her, telling her that meneer was so particular. But they both feasted, daily. And, at their meals, they would exchange a glance of intelligence, as though relishing some voluptuous moment of mutual gratification, because everything was so good. Softly smacking their lips, they drank a good glass of good red wine. And then, at dessert, Karel's face beamed fiery red and Cateau blinked her eyes, as though tickled to her marrow. Then they went into the sitting-room and sat down at the round table, with their hands folded in their laps, to digest in silence. Karel, for appearance' sake, would undo the parcel from the circulating library. Now and again, they looked at each other, reflecting complacently that Anna had cooked that dinner beautifully. But, as they considered that this enjoyment was sinful and, above all, un-Dutch, they never spoke of their enjoyment and enjoyed in silence. This evening, they reckoned out that they had quite an hour left in which to digest their dinner by the big stove; and, as they did not like Mamma's tea, they had a cup of tea at home. At eight o'clock, Sientje came to say that the brougham was at the door. So as not to let the brougham wait longer than necessary in the rain and spoil, they got up at once, put on cloak and great-coat and started. They did not so much mind if the horse got wet, for the horse was jobbed; but the brougham was their own. CHAPTER II Dorine van Lowe lived by herself in a boarding-house, though old Mrs. van Lowe had a large house in the Alexanderstraat. Their friends all thought this odd; and Dorine was a little perplexed at having constantly to explain that she would have liked nothing better than to live with Mamma and keep house for Mamma and look after Mamma and spoil Mamma. But, as a girl of twenty-two, she had left home to become a nurse; and, when she found that she had mistaken her vocation, Mamma had refused to let her come back. But surely, Mamma, who was so fond of gathering all her children round her, the friends would say. Yes, that was so, said Dorine: Mamma doted on her brood; and yet she preferred to be alone in her big house, she preferred to do her housekeeping herself and did not care to have any one staying with her or fussing about her.... No, it was better that Dorine should stop in her boarding-house. Mamma was still so active, saw to everything, knew about everything. Dorine would have been of no use to her at home.... Besides, Mamma herself wouldn't hear of it, and used to say, laughingly, but quite in earnest: "Those who go away can stay away...." And the Van Lowes' friends thought it odd, for the old lady was known for just that motherly quality of hers, for loving to keep all her children round her, in a close family-circle, at the Hague or in the immediate neighbourhood. And she did not look at all a difficult old lady, with her gentle, refined old face of a waxy pallor and her smooth grey hair; not at all a managing old dame who could not possibly live in the same house with her unmarried daughter. And so Dorine was always a little perplexed at having to explain, especially as she herself thought it odd of Mamma. But Mamma was what she was; and it couldn't be helped.... * * * * * Dorine felt less tired after she had had some dinner and changed her clothes; and she put on her goloshes and went on to Mamma's at once. The rawness of the March evening bore down on the deserted Javastraat with a shudder of dripping fog. It had rained all day; and now the heavy grey sky was blotted from sight in a mist that clung in masses of woolly dampness to the roofs and tree-tops; the wind whistled from the north-west and skimmed over the rippling puddles; the trees dripped as heavily as though it were still raining; and the pale-yellow light in the clouded street-lamps shimmered down upon the street. Hardly any one was out of doors so early after dinner; a man, carrying a parcel, left a shop and shuffled close to the houses, with wide, hurrying legs. Dorine tripped across the puddles in her goloshes, hugging herself in her old-fashioned, long fur cloak. And she talked to herself and muttered out loud. She grumbled at the rain, grumbled at all the trouble which Mamma had given her that day, sending her to all the brothers and sisters, for Constance' sake.... And you'd see, Constance wouldn't even be grateful to her, Constance would think it only natural.... Every one always thought it only natural, that Dorine should run about for the family; and no one was ever really grateful.... Every one was selfish, Mamma included.... Well, she would try it herself one day, being selfish ... and sit all day long by her fire, as Karel always did ... and live only for herself, for her own pleasure ... and leave them all to their fate.... Just imagine, supposing, to-morrow, she were to say to Bertha and Adolphine, whose girls were soon to be married, that she had no time to go on everybody's errands.... It was always Dorine: Dorine could do it all; Dorine didn't mind the rain; Dorine had to be in the Veenestraat anyhow.... Running about, running about, running about, without stopping, all out of sheer, silly good-nature; and who thanked her for it? Nobody! Not Mamma, nor Bertha, nor Adolphine.... It was all taken as a matter of course! Well, she would like to see their faces to-morrow, if she said, "I've no time, you know;" or "I'm staying at home to-day;" or, "I'm feeling rather tired." Dorine feeling tired! What next! Still grumbling, she rang the bell at Mamma's, in the Alexanderstraat; she took off her things in the hall. And now she emerged from her long cloak, a lean and wiry little woman of thirty-five, with a thin and sallow face, her breast shrunk within a painfully tight, dark-silk blouse; her dull, mud-coloured hair drawn tightly from her forehead into a knot at the back; very thin, with no hips, with not a single rounded line and with those dark eyes of the Van Lowes, which in her were bright and intelligent, but with an odd sort of silent reproach and secret discontent at the back of them, as though brooding under her glance. Withal she had retained something very young and girlish, something innocent and gay and lively. While pulling off her gloves, she spoke pleasantly to the servant, made a playful remark about the wet weather. She felt her hair, to see if it was smooth and drawn back properly, and tripped up the stairs with a swinging gait, her shoulders bobbing up and down, her legs wide apart. There was now something quite young and unconstrained in that gay liveliness of hers. She found Mamma upstairs, in the double drawing-room, where Klaartje was lighting the gas: "They're all coming, Mamma!" Dorine blurted out. Then, starting when she saw the servant, she whispered: "I've been to all of them; first to Karel, then to Bertha, then to Adolphine; no, first to Gerrit...." She became muddled, laughed, made Mamma sit down beside her and told her what all the brothers and sisters had said. The old woman's face beamed with satisfaction. She kissed Dorine: "You're a dear girl, Dorinetje," she said, with the motherly voice which she used when speaking to any of her children--even to Bertha, who was fifty--and which she had never learnt to give up. "You're a dear girl to have taken so much trouble. And it's very nice of all the others to come to-night, for I know it means a great effort to some of them to forgive and forget and to take back Constance as a sister. And I appreciate it all the more...." Mrs. van Lowe said this in a tone of approval, but a little autocratically, as though she granted her children a right to their own opinion but yet thought it only natural that they should obey their mother's wish. And she and Dorine watched the servants putting out the card-tables: one in the big drawing-room, one in the second drawing-room and one in the boudoir. It was the sacred Sunday, the evening of the "family-group," as the grandchildren naughtily called it among themselves. Every Sunday, Mamma collected as many Van Lowes, Ruyvenaers, Van Naghels and Saetzemas as she could, minding the name less than whether they were relations, even though they were only relations of relations. It was all brother and sister, uncle and aunt, cousin and cousin. Years ago, the Van Lowes--Papa, the retired governor-general, and Mamma--had instituted that Sunday gathering of the members of the family who happened to be at the Hague; and they had all, as far as possible, kept themselves free on Sunday evenings to come to the "family-group." This very regularity bore witness to the close bonds connecting the several families, Uncle Ruyvenaer could not remember missing a single Sunday evening, except when he ran over to Java, on a six months' return-ticket, to see how the sugar-factory was going on. The Ruyvenaers were first, as usual, arriving very early and at once filling the rooms. Uncle, with a shiver, abused the Dutch climate: he was tall and stout, wearisome with his noisy attempts at humour, full of a superficial good-nature and an affectation of kind-heartedness. He was always blundering out things that fell like a sledge-hammer. He at once filled the whole room with his blustering joviality, his ponderous efforts to make himself agreeable. His sister, Mrs. van Lowe, so gentle, so distinguished, was always afraid that he would break something. Auntie was a rich _nonna_,[1] who had brought the sugar-factory as her dowry: she too was heavy and fat, like a Hindu idol, and covered with big diamonds; still, there was something kind and friendly about her: looking at her, you had a vision of a spicy rice-table[2] and toothsome _kwee-kwee_;[3] a promise of material comfort, of a lavish supply of good things to eat and drink. And, with it all, she was not unsympathetic, with her soft, dark eyes. They brought with them their three daughters and two sons: the two elder girls of Dorine's age, gay and boisterous, regular natives; a son of twenty-eight, who was also in the sugar-business, when in Java; a third daughter, a couple of years younger; and the youngest son, a little brown fellow, fifteen years old, very short and thin, who seemed to have come much later, by accident. All the Van Lowes--though Mamma was born in India and Papa had made his way there until he reached the highest office of all--were ultra-Dutch and always laughed a little at the Ruyvenaers, while cheerfully resigning themselves to the Indian strain, which shocked them a bit, made them a trifle uncomfortable in the presence of their purely Dutch friends and connections. Still, the old lady, whose family-affection was very strong, declared that they were in their right place there, even though Uncle Ruyvenaer was only her half-brother and Auntie very Indian; for Mamma van Lowe carried her family-pride to the point of maintaining that all that formed part of the family was good. To be related to the Van Lowes seemed, in a sense, to ennoble, to exalt, to improve the very stock. And so she always looked severe when her children--Gerrit, Adolphine and Paul--laughed at Aunt Ruyvenaer and the Indian nieces, who were good children, always cheerful, always amiable, bright and pleasant. Uncle was very noisy, strode up and down the rooms, with straddling legs, to warm himself: "So we shall see Constance here to-night? Well, it's a long time since we did. Let me see: how long is it? How long is it, Marie? Twenty years? Yes, it must be twenty years! At least, I haven't seen her since she married De Staffelaer! Lord, what a sweet child she was! What a sweet, pretty child! Twenty years ago: why, it's an age! She must have grown old! Yes, of course she must: she _must_ have grown old! How old is she? It's easy to reckon: she must be forty-two, eh? And Van der Welcke is a nice fellow, what? Very decent of him, I'm bound to say, very decent...." Mamma van Lowe turned very white; Dorine gave an angry look; Toetie Ruyvenaer pulled Papa's sleeve: "_Allah_,[4] that Papa!" she whispered, good-naturedly, to her sister Dotje. "No tact...." "Ye-es," Aunt Ruyvenaer began in a fat, slow voice, "was it so long ago? _Kassian_!"[5] she added, sympathetically. "Poor Constance! I'm so glad I'm going to see her!" "Papa!" said Poppie Ruyvenaer, the youngest. "What is it?" "How can you?" "What?" "You're upsetting Aunt Marie: don't you see?" "But, good Lord...!" "Oh, do stop about Constance." "What have I said?..." "If you don't stop, you'll make Aunt Marie cry. Don't you understand?..." "Oh, mustn't I talk about Constance? There's always something in our family one mustn't talk about.... It's beyond me!" And Uncle began to stride up and down the rooms again, rubbing his hands, which were still cold. Two very old aunts entered. They were the Miss Ruyvenaers, very old ladies, turned eighty and looking more than that, unmarried sisters of Uncle and of Mrs. van Lowe. Their names were Dorine and Christine; but the younger generations called them Auntie Rine and Auntie Tine: "So nice of you," said Mrs. van Lowe. "So nice...." "What?" asked Auntie Rine. "So nice of you, Dorine!" screamed Mrs. van Lowe in her ear. "Marie says," screamed Auntie Tine, "it's so nice of you ... to come to-night.... Dorine is so deaf, Marie.... Really, she's getting unbearable...." Auntie Tine was the young one, the tetchy one, the bitter one; Auntie Rine was the older one, the good-natured, deaf one. Outwardly, the two old ladies resembled each other and looked like old prints in their antiquated dresses; they wore black lace caps on the grey hair that framed their faces, which were wrinkled like a walnut. The old ladies went and sat far apart; and it was strange to see them sitting at either end of the drawing-room, quietly, watching attentively, not saying much.... Now the others came, gradually. The first to arrive were the Van Saetzemas: Adolphine, her husband, Floortje, Caroline, Marietje and three noisy boys, all younger than their sisters; next came Gerrit and his wife Adeline: their children were still in the nursery; next, Karel and Cateau, still digesting their good dinner and their good wine; Ernst entered, gloomy, timid, queer and shy, as usual; Paul followed: he was the youngest son, thirty-five, good-looking, fair-haired and excessively well-dressed; last came the Van Naghels, Bertha and her husband, the colonial secretary, with their children: the three elder girls, Louise, Emilie, with Van Raven, her future husband, and Marianne; young Karel; and another Marietje: the two undergraduates were away, this time, at Leiden. There was a general humming and buzzing: the uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces exchanged greetings; many of them had not seen one another all the week; but they made it a rule to meet at Mamma's Sundays. And this evening there was great excitement among them all, though they restrained it for Mamma's sake: a mutual whispering and asking of opinions, because Constance was returning to the Hague, to her family, after twenty years' absence. Adolphine overwhelmed her eldest sister, Bertha van Naghel van Voorde, with a torrent of whispered words: "It's Mamma's wish," said Bertha, laconically, blinking her eyes. "But what do you think? What does Van Naghel think? You surely can't think it pleasant...." "Constance is our sister...." "Our sister, our sister! If my sister misconducts herself...." "Adolphine, Constance has been married to Van der Welcke for fourteen years; and there comes a time when one overlooks...." "But what are you going to do? Will you have her at your house?" "Yes, of course." Adolphine had it at the tip of her jealous tongue to say, "And I suppose you'll ask her to your big dinners," but she restrained herself. The younger nephews and nieces were also busily talking: "Isn't she here yet?" "No, she's coming later." "Is she old?" "She's between Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adolphine...." "How nervous Grandmamma is!" "Oh, she doesn't strike me so!..." "Why is she so late?" "To make a triumphal entry...." "Oh, triumphal!" said Floortje, Adolphine's daughter. "That would be the finishing touch!" "There she is!" "Yes, I hear some one on the stairs." "Granny's gone outside to meet her." "And Aunt Dorine, too." "I'm awfully curious to...." "Yes, but we mustn't stare like that," said Marianne van Naghel to the boys. "Why shouldn't I, if I want to?" asked Piet Saetzema. "Because it's ill-bred," said Marianne, angrily. "Oh, indeed? It's you that's ill-bred." "And you're a boor!" cried Marianne, losing her temper. "Marianne!" said her sister Emilie, soothingly. "It's those horrid boys of Aunt Adolphine's!" muttered Marianne, in her indignation. "Then don't take any notice of them." "Here comes Aunt Constance...." Mrs. van Lowe had gone to meet her daughter in the passage; she embraced her there. The door was open; the brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces looked out and at once began to talk busily to one another, in artificial tones. Then Mamma came in, leading Constance by the hand. On her face was a smile of quiet content, but she was trembling with nervousness. She remained standing for a moment, looking through the crowded room. Constance van der Welcke, holding her mother's hand, also stopped. She was still a pretty woman, very pale, with hair beginning to go grey around her young and charming face, in which the dark eyes loomed big with anxiety; she still had the figure of a young woman; and she wore a black-satin gown.... There was a wait of a few seconds at the door, a pause just perceptible, yet poignant, as though a stubborn situation were being forced into the easier groove of polite manners and kind words, because of this sister's home-coming. But then Bertha came up and smiled, and found the kind word and the polite manner. She kissed her younger sister, said something charming. Mrs. van Lowe beamed. The other sisters and brothers followed, the nephews, the nieces. At last, one by one, they had all welcomed her. Constance had kissed them, or shaken hands; and she was deathly pale; and her black eyes trembled, misty with tears. Her voice broke, her hands shook, she felt a sinking at her knees. A passion of weeping was rising to her eyes; and she found it almost impossible to control herself. She kept hold of her mother's hand, like a child, sat down by her, tried to smile and to behave normally. Her words almost choked her; her breath throttled her. Her black eyes started from their sockets, quivering, in her deathly-pale face, and she shivered as though in a fever. She tried to do her best, to talk as though she had only been away a year. But it was no use. She had not set foot in those rooms since the day, twenty years ago, when she married De Staffelaer, the Dutch envoy at Rome.... Since then, so much had happened in Rome, oh, so much! Her life had happened, her life of mistake upon mistake. How could she talk the usual commonplaces now? She saw herself here, twenty years ago, coming back from church, in her white bridal dress; she saw her father, now dead; she saw De Staffelaer; she saw herself, after she had changed into her travelling-dress, saying good-bye, going away with De Staffelaer.... Since then ... since then, she had never been back! Since then, her father had died! Since then, she had only twice seen her dear mother, for a moment, at Brussels. Oh, since then!... Since then, all her brothers and sisters had become strangers to her; and she herself had been a stranger, never in Holland, always abroad, always an alien.... Now ... now she was back! Was it possible? Was it a dream?... Her brother-in-law, Van Naghel, the cabinet-minister, came up to her: "We are very glad to see you at the Hague, Constance." "Thank you, Van Naghel." "And shall we soon be making Van der Welcke's acquaintance?" There was something in his words as though he were forcing the situation, for Mamma van Lowe's sake. "He has some business to settle in Brussels. He will be here in a week." It was very difficult to keep up the conversation; and he was silent. "So one of your girl's is engaged?" she asked, tactfully diverting the talk from herself. "Yes, Emilie, the second. Emilie!" He beckoned to his daughter. Emilie came up, bringing Van Raven with her: "May I introduce Mr. van Raven, Aunt Constance?" "Van Raven." And she gave him her hand. "My best wishes for your happiness, Emilie." "Thank you, Aunt." "And there's another wedding in prospect," said Mamma. "Floortje and Dijkerhof...." And she beckoned to Floortje, who introduced Dijkerhof. Meanwhile, the members of the family tried to behave as usual. They talked together, as though in ordinary conversation. Uncle Ruyvenaer arranged the parties at the card-tables: "Karel, Toetie, Louise, Gerrit.... Bertha, Cateau, Van Saetzema, Ernst...." His voice marshalled the troops. The younger generation were put to play round games at a long table in the conservatory. Constance gave a soft laugh: "What a lot of us there are, Mamma, at your Sundays!" What a lot of _us_: the word had a special charm for her. Meanwhile, Uncle Ruyvenaer was teasing his two old sisters: "Come Rientje and Tientje.... Don't you want to play bridge?" "What?" "Herman wants to know if you're going to play bridge?" screamed Auntie Tine in Auntie Rine's ear. "Bridge?" "Yes, if you want to play bridge? She _is_ so deaf, Herman!..." "They won't remember me," said Constance, speaking of the old aunts. "They must have forgotten me in these twenty years. How old they have grown, Mamma!... How old we have all grown! Bertha is grey. I am going grey myself. ... And all those little nieces, all those young nephews whom I have never seen.... Do they always come, on Sundays?" "Yes, child, every Sunday. There's a great kindness and affection among them all. I always think that so delightful." "We are a large family. I am glad to be here, but they are still like strangers to me. How many of us are there here, Mamma?" "Oh, quite thirty! Let me see...." Mamma van Lowe counted on her fingers. "Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer, with Toetie and Dot and Poppie and Piet and young Herman: that makes seven; then, Van Naghel and Bertha, with the four girls and Karel: that's seven more; fourteen...." Constance listened to her mother's addition, and smiled.... Twenty years, twenty years ago! She felt as though she could have burst out sobbing; but she controlled herself, smiled, stroked Mamma's hand: "Mamma, dear Mamma.... I am so glad to be back among you all!" "Dear child!" "They have all received me so nicely. So simply." "Why, of course, Connie. You're their sister." Constance was silent.... Dorine, with two of the young nieces, poured out the tea, brought it round: "Have a cup, Constance? Milk? Sugar?" How familiar and pleasant it sounded, just as though she were really one of them, as though she always had been one of them: "Have a cup, Constance?" ... As if it wasn't the first cup of tea she had had there for years and years!... Dear Dorine! Constance remembered her as a girl of seventeen, shy, not yet out, but even then caring, always caring, for others. She was not pretty, she was even plain, ungraceful, clumsy, badly-dressed.... "Yes, Dorine, I should like a cup.... Come here, Dorine. Sit down and talk to me: the girls can see to the tea." She drew Dorine to the sofa beside her and nestled between her mother and her sister: "Tell me, Dorine, do you still look after everybody so well? Do you still pour the tea?" Her voice had a broken sound, full of a melancholy that permeated her simple, bantering words. Dorine made some vague reply. "When I went away," said Constance, "you were not seventeen. You were always cutting bread-and-butter for Bertha's children. Otto and Louise were seven and five then; Emilie was a baby. Now she's engaged...." She smiled, but her eyes were full of tears, her breast heaved. "My dear child," said the old lady. "It's a long time ago, Connie," said Dorine. It was twenty years since any one had called her Connie. "So you're thirty-six now, Dorine?" "Yes, Connie, thirty-six," said Dorine, uncomfortable, as usual, when anybody spoke of her; and she felt her smooth, flat hair, to see if it was drawn well back. "You've changed very little, Dorine." "Do you think so, Connie?" "I am very glad of it.... Will you like me a little, Dorine?" "Why, of course, Connie." "My dear child," said the old lady, much moved. They were all three silent for a while. Constance felt so much, was so full of the past years, that she could not have uttered another word. "Why didn't you bring Addie?" asked Mamma. "I thought he might be too young." "The two Marietjes always come; and so do Adolphine's boys. We never sit up late, because of the children." "Then I'll bring him next time, Mamma." Dorine stole a glance at her sister and reflected that Constance was still pretty, for a woman of forty-two. What a young and pretty figure, thought Dorine; but then it was a smart dress; and Constance was sure to wear very expensive stays. Regular features: she was like Mamma; a clear-cut profile; dark eyes, now dimmed with melancholy; very pretty, white hands, with rings; and her hair especially interested Dorine: it was turning into a uniform steel-grey and it curled. "Connie, does your hair curl of itself?" "Of course not, Dorine; I wave it." "What a labour!" Constance gave a careless laugh. "Constance always had nice hair," said Mamma, proudly. "Oh, no, Mamma dear! I have horrid, straight hair." They were silent again; and all three of them felt that they were not speaking of what lay at their hearts. "Constance, what lovely rings you have!" "Ah, Dorine, I remember you used to admire me in the old days; when I went to a ball, you used to stand and gaze at me. But there is nothing left to admire, Dorine: I'm an old stick, now...." "My dear!" said Mamma, indignantly. "You needn't mind, Mamma: you're always young, a young grandmamma...." And she pressed Mamma's hand, with a touching fervour. [1] A half-caste. [2] The lunch or tiffin of the Dutch East Indies, consisting of rice with a great variety of spiced meats and vegetables. [3] Cakes. [4] Lord! [5] Poor dear! CHAPTER III "Dorine," asked Constance, "where is Papa's portrait?" "In the boudoir." "Oh, so Mamma has moved it! I want to see it." She went with Dorine through the drawing-room, past the card-tables.... She noticed that the conversation at once stopped at the table where Adolphine and Uncle Ruyvenaer were playing and that her sister raised her voice and said: "Did I deal?... Diamonds!" "They were talking about me," thought Constance. She went into the boudoir with Dorine: there was a card-table, with cards and markers, but there was no one in the room. Decanters and glasses, sandwiches and cakes had been put out in readiness for later. "Papa," said Constance, softly. She looked up at the big portrait. It was not a work of art; it was painted in the regulation, wooden style of thirty or forty years before; and it struck Constance as an ugly daub, dark and flat, in spite of all the gold on the governor-general's uniform, all the stars of the orders. The portrait represented a tall and commanding man, with a hard face and dark, stony eyes. "I ... I used to think that portrait much finer," said Constance. "Was Papa so hard?..." Her eyes were riveted on her father's face.... She had certainly been his favourite daughter. Her marriage to De Staffelaer, his friend, a man much older than herself, had pleased him, because it flattered his ambition.... But then, then he fell ill; he died soon after, soon after the thing that happened: that and her marriage to Van der Welcke.... Oh God, was it she who had killed him? She drew Dorine to her: "Tell me, Dorine.... Was Papa ill for long?" "Yes, Connie, very long." They were silent. They thought of their father, of his ambition, of his longing for the greatness which he achieved; of his wish to see his children also great, high-placed and powerful.... "I say, Dorine, how strange it is ... that not one of Papa's sons ..." "What do you mean, Connie?" "Nothing.... I don't know...." Papa had always helped Van Naghel.... Her thoughts ran on: "Dorine, is Karel still a burgomaster?" "Oh, no, Connie! Karel and Cateau have been living at the Hague for years." "And Gerrit is ... a captain?" "Yes, in the hussars." "I am quite out of everything.... And Ernst ... does nothing?..." "Ernst has always been rather strange, you know; he really fights shy of people. He collects things, all sorts of things: china, books, old maps...." "And Paul?" "No, Paul does nothing." "But how strange!" "What?" "That they have none of them done anything to distinguish themselves: none of Papa's sons...." "But, Connie, they're all quite nice!" cried Dorine, indignantly. "Well, yes, Ernst is rather queer; and of course it's not right that Paul should do nothing...." "I oughtn't to have said it, Dorine.... But Papa would have liked to see his children distinguished...." Dorine felt annoyed, and at the same time, confused: distinguished, distinguished.... And her thoughts muttered within her mind, while Constance stood looking at the portrait: distinguished, distinguished.... Constance did well to talk of being distinguished!... True, she had made a great marriage: De Staffelaer, the minister at Rome, an old diplomatist, a friend of Papa's.... True, she had been distinguished, no doubt; and it had turned out nicely, her distinguished marriage. Distinguished indeed!... Could Constance really be vain still ... perhaps because she was now Baroness van der Welcke? A fine thing, that scandal with Van der Welcke!... Distinguished, distinguished ... well, no, they were none of them distinguished. But then everybody couldn't be Viceroy of the East Indies.... Constance had always had that sort of vanity; but Constance talking or thinking unkindly of her brothers, whom she hadn't seen for years, that Dorine could _not_ stand, no, _that_ she couldn't: they were the brothers, they were the family, they were the Van Lowes; and she couldn't stand it.... She had always stood up for Constance, for Constance was a sister, was herself a Van Lowe; but Constance must not start giving herself airs and looking down upon them with her "distinguished," her "distinguished." ... Very well, the brothers were not distinguished, but there was nothing else to be said against them, never had been; and against Constance there was!... And Dorine's voice suddenly sounded very cold, as she asked: "Shall we go back to the drawing-room?" Constance, however, absorbed in thought, did not notice the cold voice and took Dorine's arm. But, when she again passed Adolphine's table, she heard her call quickly, in a startled tone: "No trumps!" "Ss! Ss! Ss!" Uncle Ruyvenaer, who was losing, hissed between his teeth. "What a card-holder!... Constance, won't you cut in after this rubber?" Constance was sure that they were still talking about her: "No, thanks, Uncle; I really don't feel like playing to-night...." Her voice sounded faint, in spite of herself.... She stopped for a moment, but, when nobody else spoke, she moved on aimlessly, leaning on Dorine's arm.... She felt contented and yet strange, in those rooms, in which she saw herself as she was on that last day, the day of her marriage with De Staffelaer; she could see herself at the wedding-breakfast and afterwards, when the time came to say good-bye.... Since then, her own people had become strangers to her. Like a little child, she went in search of her mother, who was talking to Aunt Ruyvenaer, sat down in a chair by her and took her hand.... "Well, Constance, it is nice, to have you back again!" said Auntie, energetically, laying a firm, Indian stress on her words. "So nice for Mamma too, _kassian!_ Where are you staying now?" "At the Hôtel des Indes, for the present, Auntie.... As soon as Van der Welcke arrives from Brussels, we shall look out for a house." "I am so curious to meet your husband." Constance gave a vague laugh.... "Do you often go to India, Auntie?" "Yes, child, almost every year: Uncle likes going ... because of the business, Daranginongan, the sugar. And then home again, on our return-tickets. Oh, it's so easy, with the French mail.... No trouble at all.... And Alima, my maid ... she knows everything ... knows Paris, the custom-office, does everything, helps Uncle with the tickets.... You should see her: dressed just like a lady, stays and all, splendid; you'd laugh till you cried!... How long did you live in Brussels?" "We were eight years in Brussels." "Small, Brussels, I think, compared with Paris. What made you go to Brussels? Tell me." "Well, Auntie," laughed Constance, "we had to live somewhere! We used to travel a great deal besides. We were often on the Riviera. But suddenly I got terribly homesick for Holland, for Mamma, for all of you. Then I talked about it to Van der Welcke, about moving to the Hague; and he too was longing to get back to his country. And there was Adriaan, my boy: he's thirteen now; and we wanted him to have a Dutch education...." "Does your son talk Dutch?" "Of course he does, Auntie." "What is he going to be?" Constance hesitated: "He'll probably enter the diplomatic service," she said, in a low voice, thinking involuntarily of her years in Rome, of De Staffelaer, of all that had separated her from her people. "Really?" asked Mamma, greatly interested. "Yes, Van der Welcke would like it...." She was still holding her mother's hand; and Mrs. van Lowe sat very erect, looking pleased to have Constance back. "Marie," said Auntie. "Do you know what I think so funny of you? You're mad on your children, mad on them. But, when you see your daughter after all these years, you let her sleep at the Hôtel des Indes! Why is that? Tell me." "I saw Constance once or twice in Brussels," Mrs. van Lowe protested. Constance laughed: "But, Auntie, Mamma's like that, she has her own ways! And Adriaan, Addie, would be too much for her ... though he's a very quiet boy." Mamma said nothing, smiled peacefully. Yes, she was like that, she had her own ways. "I was saying to Uncle to-day," Auntie continued, "if it didn't look too funny, I'd ask Constance myself to stay with us. 'There's that Marie,' I said. 'She's got a big house and leaves her child at the Hôtel des Indes!' It's beyond me, Marie.... Constance, you must come and eat rice with me and bring your husband and your boy. Do you like _nassi_?"[6] "Yes, Auntie. We shall be delighted." Constance and Auntie stood up; Constance walked towards the conservatory. The young nephews and nieces were sitting at their round game, but had stopped playing. And Constance shrank from going farther and talking to them, for they hurriedly took up their cards again and went on playing. And she turned away and thought: "They were talking about me...." The servants came in with the
{'title': 'Small Souls by Louis Couperus', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}