“Ah? But could you not fancy that Hautboy might formerly have had genius, but luckily getting rid of it, at last fatted up?”
“For a genius to get rid of his genius is as impossible as for a man in the galloping consumption to get rid of that.”
“Ah? You speak very decidedly.”
“Yes, Standard,” cried I, increasing in spleen, “your cheery Hautboy, after all, is no pattern, no lesson for you and me. With average abilities; opinions clear, because circumscribed; passions docile, because they are feeble; a temper hilarious, because he was born to it—how can your Hautboy be made a reasonable example to a heady fellow like you, or an ambitious dreamer like me? Nothing tempts him beyond common limit; in himself he has nothing to restrain. By constitution he is exempted from all moral harm. Could ambition but prick him; had he but once heard applause, or endured contempt, a very different man would your Hautboy be. Acquiescent and calm from the cradle to the grave, he obviously slides through the crowd.”
“Ah?”
“Why do you say ah to me so strangely whenever I speak?”
“Did you ever hear of Master Betty?”
“The great English prodigy, who long ago ousted the Siddons and the Kembles from Drury Lane, and made the whole town run mad with acclamation?”
“The same,” said Standard, once more inaudibly drumming on the slab.
I looked at him perplexed. He seemed to be holding the master-key of our theme in mysterious reserve; seemed to be throwing out his Master Betty too, to puzzle me only the more.