We went home in triumph to the Major, and Derrick read the whole
account aloud. With all his detestation of war, he was nevertheless
greatly stirred by the description of the gallant defence of the
attacked position--and for a time we were all at one, and could talk
of nothing but Lawrence's heroism, and Victoria Crosses, and the
prospects of peace. However, all too soon, the Major's fiendish
temper returned, and he began to use the event of the day as a
weapon against Derrick, continually taunting him with the contrast
between his stay-at-home life of scribbling and Lawrence's life of
heroic adventure. I could never make out whether he wanted to goad
his son into leaving him, in order that he might drink himself to
death in peace, or whether he merely indulged in his natural love of
tormenting, valuing Derrick's devotion as conducive to his own
comfort, and knowing that hard words would not drive him from what
he deemed to be his duty. I rather incline to the latter view, but
the old Major was always an enigma to me; nor can I to this day make
out his raison-d'etre, except on the theory that the training of a
novelist required a course of slow torture, and that the old man was
sent into the world to be a sort of thorn in the flesh of Derrick.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88