Victor Victorious

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."