"Oh no, you wouldn't really, dear," argued a friend; "you THINK you
would."
"Yes, I would," persisted the first lady; "I am tired of myself.
I'd even be you, for a change."
In my youth, the question chiefly important to me was--What sort of
man shall I decide to be? At nineteen one asks oneself this
question; at thirty-nine we say, "I wish Fate hadn't made me this
sort of man."
In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to young men,
and I gathered that, whether I should become a Sir Lancelot, a Herr
Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my own individual choice.
Whether I should go through life gaily or gravely was a question the
pros and cons of which I carefully considered. For patterns I
turned to books. Byron was then still popular, and many of us made
up our minds to be gloomy, saturnine young men, weary with the
world, and prone to soliloquy. I determined to join them.
For a month I rarely smiled, or, when I did, it was with a weary,
bitter smile, concealing a broken heart--at least that was the
intention. Shallow-minded observers misunderstood.
"I know exactly how it feels," they would say, looking at me
sympathetically, "I often have it myself.
Pages:
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28