But I desire in the world a certain driving force,
whereas to me Meyrick only represents an immensely strong regulating
force. When I am away from him I think subordination and regulation are
very fine things, but when I am with him I feel that my liberty is
somehow strangely curtailed. I cannot be fanciful or extravagant in
Meyrick's company; his polite laugh would be a disheartening rebuke; he
would think my extravagance an agreeable conversational ornament, but
he would put me down as a man unfit to be placed upon a syndicate. I do
not feel that I am being consciously judged and condemned; I simply
feel that I am being unconsciously estimated; which fills me with
inexplicable rage.
I wrote this on Sunday evening, having spent an hour or two in his
company, I can still see him as I stopped to say farewell to him on the
long, straight road leading to Cambridge. "Going to turn back here?
Well, I must be getting on--very good of you to give me
luncheon--good-bye!" with a little brisk smile--he never shakes hands,
I must add, on these occasions. I stood for an instant to watch him
walk off at a good pace down the road. His boots rose and fell
rhythmically, and he put his stick down at regular intervals. He never
turned his head, but no doubt plunged into some definite train of
thought. Indeed, I have little doubt that he had arranged beforehand
exactly what he would think out when I left him alone.
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