# Small Souls/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, 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 and toothsome kwee-kwee; 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, 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!” 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 your 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.
* ↑ A half-caste.
* ↑ The lunch or tiffin of the Dutch East Indies, consisting of rice with a great variety of spiced meats and vegetables.
* ↑ Cakes.
* ↑ Lord!
* ↑ Poor dear!