Small Souls

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Title: Small Souls

Author: Louis Couperus

Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos

Release Date: October 2, 2010 [EBook #34021]

Language: English

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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

Table

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