This story is translated from the Dutch of Louis Couperus, the foremostnovelist in a country which has lately had the good sense to join theBerne Convention. Friends who have seen my version in manuscript suggestto me that certain details of the action and dialogue strike an exoticnote to English ears and may therefore need some interpretation. But Icould not bring myself to burden a work of fiction with an array offoot-notes nor to believe that it is really necessary to explain toreaders of Couperus' fellow-countryman, "Maarten Maartens," that Dutchmen and women of the upper classes still call their parents "Papa" and"Mamma," as the English did in the sixties, and still drink tea afterdinner, as the English did in the forties; that, in Holland, persons ofquality are not addressed by their titles in conversation; that it isnot quite correct, or that it is at least a departure from thearistocratic tradition, for a lady of family not to wash up her ownbreakfast-china at the table; that the Dutch speak of Java as India andsometimes marry native wives, who, nihilo obstante, are "received" bythe "family" at home.
I have done my best, by a complicated and perhaps only partly successfulsystem of italics, hyphens and dots, to render the variouseccentricities of speech of Cateau van Lowe, Adolphine van Saetzema andAunt Ruyvenaer. The few Malay words employed by the last-named, by Ottovan Naghel's wife and by her native nurse are explained in notes as andwhen they occur.
Small Souls is the first of a series of four novels describing thefortunes of the Van Lowe family and known in Holland by the generictitle of The Books of the Small Souls. The remainder will betranslated and published if and as the antecedent volumes find favourwith English and American readers. They are called: The Later Life, TheTwilight of the Souls and Dr. Adriaan.
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS.
CHELSEA, 4 December, 1913.
It was pouring with rain; and Dorine van Lowe was tired out when, by wayof a last visit, she dropped in on Karel and Cateau just before dinner.But Dorine was pleased with herself. She had gone out immediately afterlunch 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 brightblack 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, forgettingto 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 sheheld a parcel pressed close to her, under her cape; in the other handshe carried her muff and her old black satin reticule; with the samehand, making a superhuman effort, she felt for her pocket-handkerchiefand managed to blow her nose without dropping anything but four or fivetram-tickets, which flew around her on every side.
Old Sientje followed her with her glance, severely. Then she went to thekitchen, fetched a cloth, silently wiped up a trail of rain and dropsalong the hall and staircase and carefully picked the tram-tickets offthe stair