TO
IRMA
MY WIFE
_*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.
Mr. Smith--Mr. Smith. In those days I never thought that I should owe
you so much.
He it was who introduced Mr. Neville to my mother.
Mr. Neville became my tutor. He is another to whom I owe much, very
much, but my indebtedness to him is of a different kind from my
indebtedness to Mr. Smith.
I was eight when my tutor appeared upon the scene; tall and
broad-shouldered, a fine athlete, an ex-university don, and, as I found
later, strong in every sense.
He had a method of teaching peculiarly his own, simple, practical, and
yet full of the most complete wisdom. His teaching awoke my childish
interest; under his handling, dry facts of history became fraught with
vivid life, and that perhaps was the study which fascinated me the most.
He showed me the indirect effects of various actions, proving how nearly
always they are more potent and far-reaching than the direct. Dates,
the plague of most childish brains, he never troubled about.
With wonderful word pictures, he conjured up before my eyes the lives
and deeds of long-dead heroes and monarchs, pointing out their failings,
explaining their actions. His knowledge was vast, I realise that now;
he would encourage me to observe everything, and he was never wearied of
explaining the why and the wherefore.
In matters geographical it was the same. Not content with teaching me
the names of cities, rivers, etc., he would take me mentally to the
places we spoke of, informing me of their imports, exports, mineral
wealth, and chief manufactures, giving me brief historical lectures to
explain the reason for certain boundaries, describing the lives, rural
and urban, of the inhabitants, discoursing on their modes of conveyance,
fighting power, anything--everything. He assisted his words with
photographs. Perhaps if I had had boy companions, I should have been a
worse pupil; I don't know. As it was, I sat, metaphorically speaking,
in rapt adoration, drinking in his words, remembering much, thank God.
Even arithmetic was made interesting after I had mastered the first
simple rules. Owing to the thorough grounding I had from him, I seem
all my life to have had a deep sense of arithmetical proportion, not
only in figures but in the events of every-day life.
His lessons were short; I was never given more at one time than I could
assimilate; the moment that he noticed the slightest falling off of my
attention he would cease. "Now," he would say, "that's enough for the
moment, let us go and exercise our bodies."
Away we would go, in any weather, for a walk or swim, a ride, or row up
the silent little stream. Even then my instruction went on, not that I
was aware of it at the time, but by subtle little observations which led
me to ask questions and take an interest in all forms of life.
When he came, I saw much less of my mother; she was a great many times
away from home, sometimes for days, sometimes for months. In my
childish way, I observed changes in her, not in her manner to me--that
was always kind and affectionate, though withal a trifle stately--but in
appearance.
She dressed more in colours, and seemed gayer and less wrapped up in her
own thoughts. With perfect confidence I mentioned my thoughts one day
to Mr. Neville, but he laughingly declared that it was owing to his
presence, as now she had not the worry of looking after me.
"I did not think that I was a great worry," I said innocently.
"No, my boy, I don't imagine you could have been," and his hand rested a
moment upon my head. "So we must look elsewhere, mustn't we?"
"Yes, but I should like to know, because I might help."
"Not at present, I think; some day, perhaps, when you are older. You
see, your mother has had a great deal of trouble in her life, but even
troubles lose their poignancy after years; so take my advice and wait
patiently. When the time comes you will be told without a doubt."
By this time I had such absolute faith in my tutor that I accepted what
he said without hesitation; and thought no more of the matter.
When I was ten years old, a great change took place. My mother married
again--an American.
It came quite suddenly, this marriage. I had no idea, no thought of
possessing a stepfather; presumably, I was too young to understand or be
bothered with information.
My own father was more of a myth than a reality; I had no memory of him,
he was rarely mentioned by my mother, and my nurse would only answer my
questions concerning my progenitor in a vague manner. That he had been
a soldier, I gathered from the fact that he had been killed at the head
of his own regiment; Mr. Neville had told me that, during a lesson
dealing with the history of Rudarlia.
Had I been older, I might have wondered at the way in which I was taught
the intimate history of such a small kingdom, far more minutely, indeed,
than that of great powers like England or France.
During this lesson I read that King Merlin I of Rudarlia had been killed
in a revolution, his cousin ascending the throne.
"I wonder if my father was there?" I asked.
"Yes, he was there."
"Was he a soldier?"
"Yes."
"Did he get killed?"
"Yes, he was killed at the head of his regiment."
"Oh!"
I remember that, in my dreaming for months after that, I pictured a man
resembling in turn Mr. Neville and Bauen at the head of a magnificent
regiment, charging, killing, and behaving like one of those old heroes
with whom I was familiar.
But to return to my stepfather. He was a man of about fifty, very tall,
and handsome, possessing the musical, low-pitched voice of the Americans
from the more Southern States.
At first his coming made little difference to me, I accepted his
presence in much the same spirit as I accepted most things; Mr. Neville
and my mother were there, so it must be all right.
I can see now that it showed consummate tact on his part to behave as he
did to me. He never sought me, never objected to my presence with my
mother, never assumed any kind of parental prerogative; but, instead,
suited his conversation to my understanding, asked my opinion gravely in
small matters, and related many tales of adventure, in such a way as to
leave me ready for more. Above all, he made me realise that he would
like my affection.
He it was who gave me my first horse. I had always ridden the pony, so
it was a great joy to me to be able to accompany Mr. Neville on an
animal equal in height to his. Then again, it was my stepfather who
first taught me to box, use the rapier, and shoot with a revolver,
himself superintending my efforts with the greatest care; until from
being a stranger he became a friend, one whom I could love, trust, and
admire, nearly as much as Mr. Neville. Whenever I think of those two
men, my thoughts are almost hushed, they were so good, so kind, so
perfectly unselfish to me, with no ulterior motive besides my
well-being, both for the time and the future.
They gave me of their best, mentally, physically, and morally.
Perhaps the chief thing I learnt from them was a sense of duty.
Whenever there was something to be done, each put the question before
me, for me to decide whether I considered it obligatory on me. They
would advise thought first before deciding, and then would say no more.
They were very good friends, these two.
Mr. Smith continued his yearly visits, but now each time he came the
three men and my mother would hold a solemn conclave from which I was
excluded.
He was becoming to me something more than the apparition of former
years, as he would talk more to me, showing a considerable amount of
interest in my studies, and would ask permission to send me books, which
were mostly stories of war.
War was a subject which appealed to me, for my feelings towards soldiers
were almost sacred.
My stepfather had given me a great number of small leaden warriors, and
I fancy that he must have had them made for me, as they were absolutely
complete in detail. They consisted not only of the actual fighting men,
but artillery, commissariat, red-cross waggons, and engineers.
With these, when the weather permitted, we would adjourn to the garden,
and on a patch of rough ground fight out the great battles of history.
Perhaps ten little pieces of lead counted as at regiment, or one small
brass cannon a whole battery; it did not matter, the main thing being
that the opposing armies should be as near as possible to the actual
strength of the armies they represented. It would have amused people
perhaps to have seen the group we made: two elderly men and one small
boy absolutely engrossed in their game; if it could be so termed.
Personally, I have never underrated the effect it had on me, and I trace
the success I have met with in real warfare to the accuracy and care we
expended on these occasions. Naturally many questions had to be asked,
and these were generally answered by my stepfather, who was a great
authority on all things pertaining to war. How he could make the
necessary leisure to play with me I cannot understand, for his must have
been a very strenuous life, although I did not realise it at the time.
Two more years went by, and then I was informed that it had been decided
to send me to school, an idea which at first did not greatly charm me.
It had never entered my head that I should ever be a schoolboy, it had
seemed to me that I was apart somehow from all other boys, and although
I had read books of school life, they had never appeared real to me,
most probably because I had never known anyone of my own age.
When the thought obtained a firm footing in my mind, it began to wear a
more interesting aspect, for I conjured up alluring adventures, and
finally grew to like the idea so much that I was all excitement for the
entrance examination.
The only drawback that I could perceive, was the fact that I should have
to leave Mr. Neville, and my mother and stepfather. It was difficult to
conceive life without them, but they one and all pooh-poohed that side
of it, and told me that it was high time that I got away from their
apron strings. In spite of this Spartan argument, I know they were very
sorry when the day came for me to depart.
I passed my entrance examination too well, rather too brilliantly, and
was therefore put into a class with boys a good deal my senior;
consequently my first term was not all my fancy had painted it. At
first, I foolishly imagined that school was the place for work, so
endangering my reputation by being looked upon as a "swot," and
something of a prig. Realising this and recognising my shortcomings, I
scrupulously refrained from working hard and devoted myself to games.
The senior I fagged for was a nice, kind chap who treated me with great
consideration for the first few days, but after that he treated me in a
way that was essentially good for my soul. He did, however, explain
many little difficulties in regard to games and encouraged me to go in
for them hot and strong.
With the majority of my schoolfellows I was on good terms; I had the
usual number of scuffles which could not be called fights, only one
coming under that category; that was with a fellow whom I disliked
heartily, for no particular reason; he returned the feeling and tried to
bully.
We therefore set to in good earnest; he was two years older and a good
deal bigger; it is undoubtedly true that I should have received a
thrashing, had it not been for the tuition I had received from my
stepfather. I held my own for ten rounds, when we were stopped by a
prefect. I had a beautiful black eye and a cut lip, as well as sundry
bruises. My opponent, ditto, ditto; he looked worse, however, because
he was full-blooded.
My reputation went up enormously after that. We never finished that
scrap, but used to conduct ourselves civilly towards each other. It is
wonderful how a tussle can clear the air.
I made a friend that day, Rupert Carruthers, the second son of the Earl
of Yelverton. He is still my friend.
My stepfather was delighted when he heard of this fight, and joked with
Mr. Neville about it.
"We shall have him in the ring one of these days, eh, Neville?"
"Ah! he might be happier so." A remark which at the time was
unintelligible to me.