6.The Model Millionaire

2021年1月25日发(作者：讹)
The Model Millionaire
--Oscar Wilde

A note of admirationk

Unless
one
is
wealthy
there
is
no
use
in
being
a
charming
fellow.
Romance
is
the
privilege
of
the
rich,
not
the
profession
of
the
unemployed.
The
poor
should
be
practical and prosaic. It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.
These are the great truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realised. Poor
Hughie! Intellectually, we must admit, he was not of much importance. He never said
a
brilliant
or
even
an
ill- natured
thing
in
his
life.
But
then
he
was
wonderfully
good- looking, with his crisp brown hair, his clear-cut profile, and his grey eyes. He
was as popular with men as he was with women, and he had every accomplishment
except that of making money. His father had bequeathed him his cavalry sword, and a
History
of
the
Peninsular
War
in
fifteen
volumes.
Hughie
hung
the
first
over
his
looking-glass, put the second on a shelf between Ruff's Guide and Bailey's Magazine,
and lived on two hundred a year that an old aunt allowed him. He had tried everything.
He had gone on the Stock Exchange for six months; but what was a butterfly to do
among bulls and bears? He had been a tea-merchant for a little longer, but had soon
tired of pekoe and souchong. Then he had tried selling dry sherry. That did not answer;
the sherry was a little too dry. Ultimately he became nothing, a delightful, ineffectual
young man with a perfect profile and no profession.
To
make
matters
worse,
he
was
in
love.
The
girl
he
loved
was
Laura
Merton,
the
daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temper and his digestion in India, and
had never found either of them again. Laura adored him, and he was ready to kiss her
shoe-strings. They were the handsomest couple in London, and had not a penny- piece
between
them.
The
Colonel
was
very
fond
of
Hughie,
but
would
not
hear
of
any
engagement.
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'Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your own, and we
will see about it,' he used to say; and Hughie looked very glum on those days, and had
to go to Laura for consolation.
One
morning,
as
he
was
on
his
way
to
Holland
Park,
where
the
Mertons
lived,
he
dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few
people
escape
that
nowadays.
But
he
was
also
an
artist,
and
artists
are
rather
rare.
Personally he was a strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and a red ragged beard.
However,
when
he
took
up
the
brush
he
was
a
real
master,
and
his
pictures
were
eagerly sought after. He had been very much attracted by Hughie at first, it must be
acknowledged, entirely on account of his personal charm. 'The only people a painter
should know,' he used to say, 'are people who are bete and beautiful, people who are
an
artistic
pleasure
to
look
at
and
an
intellectual
repose
to
talk
to.
Men
who
are
dandies
and
women
who
are
darlings
rule
the
world,
at
least
they
should
do
so.'
However,
after
he
got
to
know
Hughie
better,
he
liked
him
quite
as
much
for
his
bright
buoyant
spirits
and
his
generous
reckless
nature,
and
had
given
him
the
permanent entree to his studio.
When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful
life-size
picture
of
a
beggar-man.
The
beggar
himself
was
standing
on
a
raised
platform
in
a
corner
of
the
studio.
He
was
a
wizened
old
man,
with
a
face
like
wrinkled parchment, and a most piteous expression. Over his shoulders was flung a
coarse brown cloak, all
tears and tatters;
his
thick boots were patched
and cobbled,
and
with
one
hand
he
leant
on
a
rough
stick,
while
with
the
other
he
held
out
his
battered hat for alms.
'What an amazing model!' whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend.
'An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; 'I should think so! Such
beggars
as
he
are
not
to
be
met
with
every
day.
A
trouvaille,
mort
cher;
a
living
Velasquez! My stars! what an etching Rembrandt would have made of him!'
'Poor old chap! said Hughie, 'how miserable he looks! But I suppose, to you painters,
his face is his fortune?'
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'Certainly,' replied Trevor, 'you don't want a beggar to look happy, do you?'
'How
much
does
a
model
get
for
sitting?'
asked
Hughie,
as
he
found
himself
a
comfortable seat on a divan.
'A shilling an hour.'
'And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?'
'Oh, for this I get two thousand!'
'Pounds?'
'Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas.'
'Well, I think the model should have a percentage,' cried Hughie, laughing; 'they work
quite as hard as you do.'
'Nonsense,
nonsense!
Why,
look
at
the
trouble
of
laying
on
the
paint
alone,
and
standing all day long at one's easel! It's all very well, Hughie, for you to talk, but I
assure you that there are moments when Art almost attains to the dignity of manual
labour. But you mustn't chatter; I'm very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.'
After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the frame-maker wanted to
speak to him.
'Don't run away, Hughie,' he said, as he went out, 'I will be back in a moment.'
The
old
beggar-man
took
advantage
of
Trevor's
absence
to
rest
for
a
moment
on
a
wooden bench that was behind him. He looked so forlorn and wretched that Hughie
could not help pitying him, and felt in his pockets to see what money he had. All he
could find was a sovereign and some coppers. 'Poor old fellow,' he thought to himself,
'he wants it more than I do, but it means no hansoms for a fortnight;' and he walked
across the studio and slipped the sovereign into the beggar's hand.
The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his withered lips. 'Thank you, sir,'
he said, 'thank you.'
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