Produced by Al Haines.
VICTOR VICTORIOUS
BY CECIL STARR JOHNS
LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXV
THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX, ENGLAND
TO IRMA MY WIFE
_*AUTHOR'S NOTE*_
_This book was written in the spring of_ 1913--_fifteen months beforethe outbreak of the present war._
_September_, 1915.
*VICTOR VICTORIOUS*
*CHAPTER I*
It was a magnificent tree, old and stately; it was, moreover, the firstcause of grief that I can remember. Its foliage in summer afforded muchshade, and in the mornings when the sun was shining caused patterns toappear on the floor of my nursery; my sorrow was, that I could notfasten the pattern to the floor with tacks, tacks of the ordinary tinvariety, which I had procured from goodness only knows where. I triedagain and again, weeping bitterly at my want of success. I wept stillmore bitterly when my nurse returned; but that is a detail which hasnothing to do with these memoirs, it is a sacred thing not to be spokenof lightly.
Such is the first of my remembrances, and I was then between three andfour years of age. After that, my memories are confused and notparticularly interesting, much the same, I daresay, as many millions ofchildren can look back on: childish miseries, mishaps and pleasures, butalways of the same place and the same people.
The house we lived in was not large, but the garden was; a splendidgarden full of flowers, trees and shrubs, wild places and rockeries,while at the end flowed a tributary of the Thames, which to my childishvision was a most noble river. I imagine that its importance increasedevery time I was warned against going near the edge; and, as thisinjunction was repeatedly laid upon me, the Amazon or the Mississippimust have been mere streams in comparison. As, however, I obeyed andreligiously refrained from falling in, I can only suppose that in thosedays I was singularly obedient, and also lacking in enterprise.
I remember my nurse; she was a most lovable woman, with a comfortablelap and nice kind arms. She let me have my own way; and I am sure Iloved her very much.
Then, of course, there was my mother, but somehow my childish memoriesof her are vague. I fancy I was a little bit frightened when in hercompany, for no reason that I can recall, excepting the fact that shesmiled so seldom.
And then there was my great friend, Bauen, a very dark and swarthy manwho attended to the horse and pony. I loved him best of all. He was apeculiarly silent person, who never spoke unless directly addressed, andnever wasted words when replying. He worshipped my mother and myself. Iremember one occasion, when I attacked him with a switch because I wasangry with him--I was only five at the time, so I could not have hurthim 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 forgiveme.
I couldn't understand why, when I put my arm round his neck and kissedhim, he only kissed my hand in return. That was the only time we everhad a difference of opinion, and I believe then only because I wishedfor the impossible. It was Bauen who first set me astride the pony'sback and taught me most of what I know of horses and riding; knowledgewhich has been of great value to me.
He also would keep me quiet for hours with wonderful stories, of whichhe 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 hisown country. It is wonderful to me that children can remember the fairytales of their early years, and to this day I can recall my thrills atthe 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 ofescape. I had plenty of time to listen to these stories, for I neverhad 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 thenperfect freedom to do what I wished, as long as I did not stray from thegarden.
At an early age I could read and write, not English but French. Myeducation at that time was a source of great perplexity to me: myinfantile mind could never hope to understand the reason why, just whenI was able to speak in one language, I was switched on to another; butso it was. In this way I learnt to a certain extent French, German,English, and lastly a language which my mother spoke when addressing herwomen, and which she assured me, one day, was the language spoken by thepeople of my own race: Rudarlian. I do not remember that thisinformation added much to my pleasure in learning the language, I do notthink that at that early age nationality troubled me a great deal.
However, I must have been born with a gift for languages, and they allcame easily. In after years I appreciated the value of the teaching,for I found it had given me command over the subtleties ofpronunciation.
Most of my days were spent in the following manner: I was out of bedvery early, summer and winter, every morning starting with a cold bathand simple exercises; then came breakfast, after which half an hour wasallowed for a scamper in the garden, a visit to the stables, and thenwork until eleven o'clock.
From eleven until one, my time was occupied by play and dinner, a mealrather too ceremonious for my liking; then, work again until two-thirty.Of course, as I grew older, these hours were altered, and my play wascurtailed, a thing which did not cause me any unhappiness, as I loved mybooks, chiefly owing to the intelligent methods of instruction, whichleads me to further acquaintances--two men.
One, about forty-five years of age, appearing considerably older onaccount of his grey-tinged hair, came to visit my mother once everyyear.
At first whenever he came my mother appeared unhappy; so much so thatwhen I was six I connected his appearance with my mother's tears, andthreatened him with I know not what. She, however, put her arms roundme 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 oweyou 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, verymuch, but my indebtedness to him is of a different kind from myindebtedness to Mr. Smith.
I was eight when my tutor appeared upon the scene; tall andbroad-shouldered, a fine athlete, an ex-university don, and, as I foundlater, strong in every sense.
He had a method of teaching peculiarly his own, simple, practical, andyet full of the most complete wisdom. His teaching awoke my childishinterest; under his handling, dry facts of history became fraught withvivid life, and that perhaps was the study which fascinated me the most.He showed me the indirect effects of various actions, proving how nearlyalways 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 livesand 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 ofexplaining the why and the wherefore.
In matters geographical it was the same. Not content with teaching methe names of cities, rivers, etc., he would take me mentally to theplaces we spoke of, informing me of their imports, exports, mineralwealth, and chief manufactures, giving me brief historical lectures toexplain the reason for certain boundaries, describing the lives, ruraland urban, of the in
habitants, discoursing on their modes of conveyance,fighting power, anything--everything. He assisted his words withphotographs. Perhaps if I had had boy companions, I should have been aworse 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 firstsimple rules. Owing to the thorough grounding I had from him, I seemall my life to have had a deep sense of arithmetical proportion, notonly in figures but in the events of every-day life.
His lessons were short; I was never given more at one time than I couldassimilate; the moment that he noticed the slightest falling off of myattention he would cease. "Now," he would say, "that's enough for themoment, let us go and exercise our bodies."
Away we would go, in any weather, for a walk or swim, a ride, or row upthe silent little stream. Even then my instruction went on, not that Iwas aware of it at the time, but by subtle little observations which ledme 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 timesaway from home, sometimes for days, sometimes for months. In mychildish way, I observed changes in her, not in her manner to me--thatwas always kind and affectionate, though withal a trifle stately--but inappearance.
She dressed more in colours, and seemed gayer and less wrapped up in herown thoughts. With perfect confidence I mentioned my thoughts one dayto Mr. Neville, but he laughingly declared that it was owing to hispresence, 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 amoment 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. Yousee, your mother has had a great deal of trouble in her life, but eventroubles lose their poignancy after years; so take my advice and waitpatiently. 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 whathe said without hesitation; and thought no more of the matter.
When I was ten years old, a great change took place. My mother marriedagain--an American.
It came quite suddenly, this marriage. I had no idea, no thought ofpossessing a stepfather; presumably, I was too young to understand or bebothered 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 myquestions concerning my progenitor in a vague manner. That he had beena soldier, I gathered from the fact that he had been killed at the headof his own regiment; Mr. Neville had told me that, during a lessondealing with the history of Rudarlia.
Had I been older, I might have wondered at the way in which I was taughtthe 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 killedin 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 manresembling in turn Mr. Neville and Bauen at the head of a magnificentregiment, charging, killing, and behaving like one of those old heroeswith 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 Americansfrom the more Southern States.
At first his coming made little difference to me, I accepted hispresence in much the same spirit as I accepted most things; Mr. Nevilleand 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 hedid to me. He never sought me, never objected to my presence with mymother, never assumed any kind of parental prerogative; but, instead,suited his conversation to my understanding, asked my opinion gravely insmall matters, and related many tales of adventure, in such a way as toleave me ready for more. Above all, he made me realise that he wouldlike my affection.
He it was who gave me my first horse. I had always ridden the pony, soit was a great joy to me to be able to accompany Mr. Neville on ananimal equal in height to his. Then again, it was my stepfather whofirst taught me to box, use the rapier, and shoot with a revolver,himself superintending my efforts with the greatest care; until frombeing a stranger he became a friend, one whom I could love, trust, andadmire, nearly as much as Mr. Neville. Whenever I think of those twomen, my thoughts are almost hushed, they were so good, so kind, soperfectly unselfish to me, with no ulterior motive besides mywell-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 beforeme, for me to decide whether I considered it obligatory on me. Theywould 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 thethree men and my mother would hold a solemn conclave from which I wasexcluded.
He was becoming to me something more than the apparition of formeryears, as he would talk more to me, showing a considerable amount ofinterest in my studies, and would ask permission to send me books, whichwere mostly stories of war.
War was a subject which appealed to me, for my feelings towards soldierswere almost sacred.
My stepfather had given me a great number of small leaden warriors, andI fancy that he must have had them made for me, as they were absolutelycomplete 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 smallbrass cannon a whole battery; it did not matter, the main thing beingthat the opposing armies should be as near as possible to the actualstrength of the armies they represented. It would have amused peopleperhaps to have seen the group we made: two elderly men and one smallboy absolutely engrossed in their game; if it could be so termed.
Personally, I have never underrated the effect it had on me, and I tracethe success I have met with in real warfare to the accuracy and care weexpended on these occasions. Naturally many questions had to be asked,and these were generally answered by my stepfather, who was a greatauthority on all things pertaining to war. How he could make thenecessary leisure to play with me I cannot understand, for his must havebeen 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 decidedto 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 hadseemed to me that I was apart somehow from all other boys, and althoughI 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 amore interesting aspect, for I conjured up alluring adventures, andfinally grew to like the idea so much that I was all excitement for theentrance examination.
The only drawback that I could perceive, was the fact that I should haveto leave Mr. Neville, and my mother and stepfather. It was difficult toconceive life without them, but they one and all pooh-poohed that sideof it, and told me that it was high time that I got away from theirapron strings.
In spite of this Spartan argument, I know they were verysorry when the day came for me to depart.
I passed my entrance examination too well, rather too brilliantly, andwas therefore put into a class with boys a good deal my senior;consequently my first term was not all my fancy had painted it. Atfirst, I foolishly imagined that school was the place for work, soendangering my reputation by being looked upon as a "swot," andsomething of a prig. Realising this and recognising my shortcomings, Iscrupulously refrained from working hard and devoted myself to games.
The senior I fagged for was a nice, kind chap who treated me with greatconsideration for the first few days, but after that he treated me in away that was essentially good for my soul. He did, however, explainmany little difficulties in regard to games and encouraged me to go infor them hot and strong.
With the majority of my schoolfellows I was on good terms; I had theusual number of scuffles which could not be called fights, only onecoming under that category; that was with a fellow whom I dislikedheartily, for no particular reason; he returned the feeling and tried tobully.
We therefore set to in good earnest; he was two years older and a gooddeal bigger; it is undoubtedly true that I should have received athrashing, had it not been for the tuition I had received from mystepfather. I held my own for ten rounds, when we were stopped by aprefect. I had a beautiful black eye and a cut lip, as well as sundrybruises. My opponent, ditto, ditto; he looked worse, however, becausehe was full-blooded.
My reputation went up enormously after that. We never finished thatscrap, but used to conduct ourselves civilly towards each other. It iswonderful how a tussle can clear the air.
I made a friend that day, Rupert Carruthers, the second son of the Earlof Yelverton. He is still my friend.
My stepfather was delighted when he heard of this fight, and joked withMr. 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 wasunintelligible to me.
I do not think my mother was pleased, she said nothing.
These were very happy years; I did as little work as I could, but Iplayed games with every ounce in me, hence I became a good all-roundathlete.
In the holidays I studied with Mr. Neville to make up my lapses of theterm, and I found it quite enjoyable; he always had the power of makingme think more clearly than anyone else ever had.
My stepfather encouraged me in sport of all kinds, boxing, foiling,swimming, rowing, and shooting. He had had a magnificent gymnasium builtin the garden and had also rigged up a shooting range for revolverpractice.
I believe if I had been the veriest fool and lubber, these two men wouldhave made me different.
My great chum, Carruthers, and I were inseparable, and sometimesexchanged visits to each other's homes. I remember the first time hecame to our place; when we went to bed he slipped into my room, whichadjoined his, to have a chat. We could both of us do well in that line.This night, however, he did most of the talking, chiefly eulogising mystepfather and Mr. Neville; he spoke with a keen appreciation of theirqualities, especially of those I most admired in them; which showed, nowI think of it, a perspicacity I had not credited him with.
My mother had received him kindly, but with that unapproachablenesswhich often mystified me; and he was almost shy when speaking of her. Ichaffed him about his nervousness when she asked for an explanation ofthe nickname he always used when speaking to me: "Splosh." Of course hecould not give any reason, as there was none to give; but he managed tomurmur that I was called Splosh, by every one, because I looked like it.
This lucid explanation was sufficient and convulsing for my stepfatherand Mr. Neville, but did not seem to charm that dear mother of mine.
Carruthers' last remarks that night were: "What a lovely mother youhave, Splosh."
"Yes, she is," I said.
"I think I should be scared of her."
"Why?"
"I dunno, but I should. Good night."
If he had waited, I might have confessed that sometimes I felt the samemyself.
Mr. Smith came for his yearly visit that month; he took quiet notice ofCarruthers.
Towards me his manner had changed slightly. He was, I thought at thetime, rather ceremonious; but he gave me some splendid lessons with thefoils, and I forgot about it. He stayed longer than usual, and hisconversations with my mother were more drawn out.
It was about this time that a vague feeling first entered my head aboutmy mother; I fancied there was some mystery attached to her, and I in noway desired that such a thing should be. The strange reticence everyone showed when I endeavoured to ask questions about my family, theperiodical visits of Mr. Smith, the care taken to exclude me from alltheir conversations, all these things made me wonder, and thenCarruthers asked me one day to show him a picture of my father.
Picture of my father, picture of my father? I had never seen one; itstruck me that this was extraordinary, almost as extraordinary as thefact that never before had I wished to see one. There had never beenone that I could remember, no painting, drawing, not even a photograph,but I did not like to tell Carruthers that, so I made some excuse, andslipped away.
The desire to know what my father looked like became very strong,mingled with a feeling almost of shame; he may have loved me, petted me,planned out my future, and yet I had never given him more than a passingthought. In fact, I had grown to look upon my stepfather as my realparent and certainly cared for him that way.
When I slipped away from my chum, I got into a boat and pulled up theriver to my favourite lounging place, and then I spent an hour or two,lying on my back, staring at the sky and vainly striving to explain whatnow I was convinced was a mystery. I recalled the early visits of Mr.Smith, when my mother used to cry; could it be that my father hadcommitted some crime? Surely not, but why was he never mentioned, whywere there no pictures of him in the house?
I was in a mood full of curiosity, but this soon changed to one ofanger, I don't quite know why, unless I thought that I was old enough tobe told anything there was to know.
In this angry state I rowed back and stumped straight up to the house,no doubt with great dignity.
My mother was sitting talking to Mr. Smith and my stepfather.
"Why, Victor, how flushed you look; is there anything the matter?" askedmy mother.
"Can I speak to you a minute, mother?"
"Of course, what is it?"
I blushed furiously, and blamed my own precipitation. Why had I notwaited a better opportunity? I could not ask the question I wanted toask with the others there; but I had to say something, and so blurtedout:
"Oh, it does not matter now, mother."
I believe that Mr. Smith made a sign to my stepfather, because they bothrose, and, after mentioning billiards, disappeared.
I glanced round hurriedly; this was better.
"Mother."
"Yes, Victor."
"I want to see a photograph of my father."
Her face grew very cold and stern. Without a word she got up and walkedslowly into the house; I followed. In her boudoir she handed me aminiature--I did not look to see where she took it from--and so, for thefirst time that I had remembrance of, I saw my father's face. I don'tknow what I thought of the face, but the eyes were kind eyes. I staredlong and fixedly at the miniature; various feelings surged through me,far too subtle to describe.
At last I handed it back.
"Thank you, mother," I said.
"Is that all you wished, are you satisfied now?"
"No, I can't say that I am satisfied, because there are so many things Iwish to know; is there any reason why I should not be told about him?"
"There is, Victor."
"But it is nothing wrong, is it?"
"Wrong? My God! yes! it is wrong, but it does not take from yourfather's name. Listen to me, Victor; you are growing into a man, whenthe time comes, you shall be told many things, until
then waitpatiently, my boy, I promise that you shall know everything."
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