“But that may be done,” I exclaimed, remembering the maternal squeezing of some infant snub-noses.
“But an Apollo could not be made out of Richard the Third. No,” he went on thoughtfully, as is his wont, “we are in appearance as nature intended us to be, and temperamentally also. We may use artifice to change our appearance or we may study mannerisms—some do—but they are all more or less subterfuge. As a child my failing was unwittingly to antagonize people, and the same attribute was the bane of my grandfather.”
“Tell me of him,” I suggested, and I think my curiosity pleased him.
“He was educated in law; and, when the California gold excitement developed, walked across the continent to San Francisco. There he wished to practise his profession, but the Yankees would not let him do so, unless he became naturalized. This he refused to do—a right Canadian he!—so he worked in the mines and then walked home again and died in penury. The probabilities are that he would have accumulated great wealth had he become a citizen of California, the opportunity there was so great.”
“He was at least a patriot,” I suggested. “Bravo for Canada!”
“Assuredly he was so. His son, my Uncle, told my mother that his lack of success in life was due neither to lack of ability, nor of industry, but to his unfortunate manner, which alienated the sympathy of those he met.”
“Dear! Dear! I have heard of such people,” I said.
“Yes,” replied my companion, “such failings are sometimes, even, the attributes of genius, but in the case of my grandfather and Uncle I have never heard that either developed brilliancy in any direction.”
“And yourself?” I asked. “Perhaps you ———”
He laughed. “If I have any genius, it has yet to be proved, and I’m old enough to have doubts of it. I’ve inherited the wrong traits that’s certain. Perhaps it is that those of us who believe in heredity find its evidence in our faults.”