I wouldn't change selves with this
particular man, or that particular man. It wouldn't be enough to throw
off the burden of my memories, with their clogging effect upon my life
and conduct, and take up the burden of some other man's--though I
should be the gainer even by that, in a thousand cases I could name."
"Oh, I don't exactly mean changing with somebody else," said Larcher.
"We all prefer to remain ourselves, with our own tastes, I suppose. But
we often wish our lot was like somebody else's."
Davenport shook his head. "I don't prefer to remain myself, any more
than to be some man whom I know or have heard of. I am tired of myself;
weary and sick of Murray Davenport. To be a new man, of my own
imagining--that would be something;--to begin afresh, with an
unencumbered personality of my own choosing; to awake some morning and
find that I was not Murray Davenport nor any man now living that I know
of, but a different self, formed according to ideals of my own. There
_would_ be a liberation!"
"Well," said Larcher, "if a man can't change to another self, he can at
least change his place and his way of life."
"But the old self is always there, casting its shadow on the new
place. And even change of scene and habits is next to impossible
without money."
"I must admit that New York, and my present way of life, are good enough
for me just now," said Larcher.
Davenport's only reply was a short laugh.
"Suppose you had the money, and could live as you liked, where would
_you_ go?" demanded Larcher, slightly nettled.
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