VICTOR VICTORIOUS

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This book was written in the spring of 1913--fifteen months before the outbreak of the present war.

September, 1915.

VICTOR VICTORIOUS

CHAPTER I

It was a magnificent tree, old and stately; it was, moreover, the first cause of grief that I can remember. Its foliage in summer afforded much shade, and in the mornings when the sun was shining caused patterns to appear on the floor of my nursery; my sorrow was, that I could not fasten the pattern to the floor with tacks, tacks of the ordinary tin variety, which I had procured from goodness only knows where. I tried again and again, weeping bitterly at my want of success. I wept still more bitterly when my nurse returned; but that is a detail which has nothing to do with these memoirs, it is a sacred thing not to be spoken of lightly.

Such is the first of my remembrances, and I was then between three and four years of age. After that, my memories are confused and not particularly interesting, much the same, I daresay, as many millions of children can look back on: childish miseries, mishaps and pleasures, but always of the same place and the same people.

The house we lived in was not large, but the garden was; a splendid garden full of flowers, trees and shrubs, wild places and rockeries, while at the end flowed a tributary of the Thames, which to my childish vision was a most noble river. I imagine that its importance increased every time I was warned against going near the edge; and, as this injunction was repeatedly laid upon me, the Amazon or the Mississippi must have been mere streams in comparison. As, however, I obeyed and religiously refrained from falling in, I can only suppose that in those days I was singularly obedient, and also lacking in enterprise.

I remember my nurse; she was a most lovable woman, with a comfortable lap and nice kind arms. She let me have my own way; and I am sure I loved her very much.

Then, of course, there was my mother, but somehow my childish memories of her are vague. I fancy I was a little bit frightened when in her company, for no reason that I can recall, excepting the fact that she smiled so seldom.

And then there was my great friend, Bauen, a very dark and swarthy man who attended to the horse and pony. I loved him best of all. He was a peculiarly silent person, who never spoke unless directly addressed, and never wasted words when replying. He worshipped my mother and myself. I remember one occasion, when I attacked him with a switch because I was angry with him--I was only five at the time, so I could not have hurt him much--he just stood and looked at me, with his eyes full of tears, until I felt like a little beast and cried too, imploring him to forgive me.

I couldn't understand why, when I put my arm round his neck and kissed him, he only kissed my hand in return. That was the only time we ever had a difference of opinion, and I believe then only because I wished for the impossible. It was Bauen who first set me astride the pony's back and taught me most of what I know of horses and riding; knowledge which has been of great value to me.

He also would keep me quiet for hours with wonderful stories, of which he seemed to have a never ending supply, tales of giants and fairy folk, which I know now were the legendary doings of the ancient heroes of his own country. It is wonderful to me that children can remember the fairy tales of their early years, and to this day I can recall my thrills at the story of the prince who turned himself into an ivy plant so that, when it had grown up a tall tower, a princess could use it as a means of escape. I had plenty of time to listen to these stories, for I never had any playmates of my own age. Not knowing the joys of companionship, I experienced no pain at the lack of comrades; nor were my days unhappy, for they were carefully arranged by my mother; so much work, and then perfect freedom to do what I wished, as long as I did not stray from the garden.

At an early age I could read and write, not English but French. My education at that time was a source of great perplexity to me: my infantile mind could never hope to understand the reason why, just when I was able to speak in one language, I was switched on to another; but so it was. In this way I learnt to a certain extent French, German, English, and lastly a language which my mother spoke when addressing her women, and which she assured me, one day, was the language spoken by the people of my own race: Rudarlian. I do not remember that this information added much to my pleasure in learning the language, I do not think that at that early age nationality troubled me a great deal.

However, I must have been born with a gift for languages, and they all came easily. In after years I appreciated the value of the teaching, for I found it had given me command over the subtleties of pronunciation.

Most of my days were spent in the following manner: I was out of bed very early, summer and winter, every morning starting with a cold bath and simple exercises; then came breakfast, after which half an hour was allowed for a scamper in the garden, a visit to the stables, and then work until eleven o'clock.

From eleven until one, my time was occupied by play and dinner, a meal rather too ceremonious for my liking; then, work again until two-thirty. Of course, as I grew older, these hours were altered, and my play was curtailed, a thing which did not cause me any unhappiness, as I loved my books, chiefly owing to the intelligent methods of instruction, which leads me to further acquaintances--two men.

One, about forty-five years of age, appearing considerably older on account of his grey-tinged hair, came to visit my mother once every year.

At first whenever he came my mother appeared unhappy; so much so that when I was six I connected his appearance with my mother's tears, and threatened him with I know not what. She, however, put her arms round me and assured me that Mr. Smith was the best friend she had.