模特兒百萬富翁 江銘輝 五夢網
本文模特兒百萬富翁(The Model Millionaire)原作者是王爾德(Oscar Wilde)
一個人長得好看，嫵媚動人是沒有用的，除非他很有錢，浪漫是富人的專利，不是失業者的職業，窮人應該腳踏實地且要認命，淡薄寡慾，最好有長期收入，勝過外表迷人好看的人。
這是典型現代生活的真諦，但休伊·厄斯金卻從來沒有意識到，可憐的休伊！事實上，我們必須承認他只是一個平凡的人，他一生從來沒有說過一句高明的話，甚至從來也沒說過讓人討厭的話。但他長得一表人才，棕色的卷髮，輪廓分明的臉，灰色的眼睛，男人和女人都喜歡他，他有各種才能，就是不會賺錢。
他的父親遺留給他一把馬刀和一本有15卷的《半島戰爭史》。休伊把馬刀掛在鏡子上，把那本書放在書架上的《拉夫指南》與《貝利雜誌》中間，他靠著姑媽每年200磅的錢過活。他嘗試幹任何事，諸如：
他在股票交易市場玩了半年的股票；但他過去是一隻蝴蝶，因此不懂股市的牛市 (即股票的多頭市場)和熊市 (即股票的空頭市場)，因此沒有撈到什麼好處？他也做了更長時間的茶商，賣香紅茶和小種茶（小種茶：紅茶的一種），但很快就厭倦了。之後他又嘗試銷售乾的(不甜叫乾)雪利酒，但乾雪利酒不甜，客人不喜歡，因此也都沒有結果。最終他一無所成，雖然如此，但他仍然整天高高興興的，什麼都不會做，長得雖然帥，但沒有工作。
但更糟糕的是，他戀愛了。他喜歡的女孩叫蘿拉·默頓，一個上校退役的女兒，這個上校在印度的時候，養成脾氣暴躁和消化不良，如今他依然如此。蘿拉很敬愛他，而他也甘於吻蘿拉的鞋帶。他們是倫敦的一對俊男靚女，但身無分文。上校也很喜歡休伊，但卻沒有聽到他們要訂婚的消息。
「到我這兒來，我的孩子，等你有了一萬英鎊時，我們再看吧！」上校過去常這麼說。在那些日子裡，休伊看起來很憂鬱，不得不去蘿拉那裡找安慰。
一天早上，在他去默頓家住的荷蘭公園的路上，順便拜訪了他的一個好朋友“艾倫·特雷弗”，特雷弗是個畫家。事實上，今日很少人動手畫一、二筆，然而他確是個藝術家，藝術家則更是少了。他本人是個奇怪粗野的人，滿臉雀斑，紅鬍子亂蓬蓬的。但是，他拿起畫筆時，是個正真的大師，大家都想得到他的畫，他的畫很搶手。起初，他對休伊很有好感，必須承認這完全是因為他的個人魅力。「一個畫家應該結識的人」，他過去常說，「就是那些長得美麗而狂野的人，那些讓人覺得在藝術上賞心悅目、在聊天時覺得提升精神層次的人。潮男靚女掌管世界，至少他們應該如此。」但是，當他更瞭解休伊後，他喜歡休伊樂天的性格和大方、魯莽的本性，並永久隨時歡迎休伊來到自己的畫室。
休伊進去畫室時，他看到特雷弗在給真人大小的精彩乞丐的畫像做最後的潤色。乞丐本人站在畫室角落的檯子上。他是個消瘦的老人，臉像皺巴巴的牛皮紙，表情很哀憐。他的肩上搭著一個粗糙棕色斗篷，破舊衣服，全身破破爛爛的；腳上的厚靴子也是補了又補，他的一隻手拄了一根粗糙的木棍，另一隻手裡向外伸，拿著他乞討物的破帽子。
「多麼出色的模特啊好一個少見的模特啊！」休伊跟他朋友握手時低聲說道。
「可憐的老傢伙！」休伊說，「他看起來多悲慘啊！但我想，對你們畫家來說他的臉就是他的財富？」
“當然了，”特雷弗說，「你可不想讓一個乞丐看起來很開心，是吧？」
「當一個模特兒坐這樣的姿勢，能得多少錢？」當他自己舒服地坐到長沙發後，休伊問。
「一小時一個先令。」艾倫說。
「艾倫，那你的畫值多少錢？」
「哦，對這幅畫，我想能賣2000！」艾倫答。
「英鎊？」特雷弗說。
「幾尼（=21個先令，英國的舊金幣,值一鎊一先令)，畫家，詩人，和內科醫生都是用幾尼計算。」艾倫說。
「哦，我覺得模特應該按百分比支付，」休伊笑著說道：「他們和你們一樣努力工作。」
「胡說八道，胡說八道！哎呀，單獨看看布置畫面的麻煩，我還要整天站在畫架旁！你這麼說很好，休伊，我向你說說，藝術也有出體力勞動尊嚴的時候。但是你不要喋喋不休了；我正忙著呢。抽根煙吧，別吵了。」
一會兒，僕人進來告訴特雷弗裝框的師父想要跟他談談。
「別走，休伊，」他出去的時候說道，「我很快就回來了。」
老乞丐趁特雷弗不在，便坐到休伊後邊，木材做的長凳上休息了一會，他看起來很悲慘，很可憐，所以休伊忍不住同情他，看看自己口袋裡有多少錢。他僅找到了一沙弗林（沙弗林，相當於一英鎊）和幾個銅幣。「可憐的老傢伙，」他自己想，「他比我更需要這點錢，」但這意味著自己兩周不能坐小馬車了”。他走了過去，把沙弗林塞到了乞丐的手中。
老頭有點驚訝，他乾枯的嘴唇上揚起了一絲淡淡的微笑。「謝謝你，先生，」他說，「謝謝你。」
這時特雷弗來了，休伊向他告別了，為剛才做的事感到有點不好意思。那天他正整天和蘿拉在一起，蘿拉嬌嗔責罵他的大方，最後他只能走回家了。
那天晚上大約11點，他溜達進了藝術家俱樂部時，看到特雷弗自己坐在吸煙室，喝著白葡萄酒和賽爾脫茲礦泉水。
「哦，艾倫，你已經完成那副畫了嗎？」他邊點煙說。
「老弟，我畫完了，也裝好了！」特雷弗回答道；「順便說一下，有人被你征服了。你見的那個老模特很賞識你。我不得不告訴他有關你的一切，你是誰，住在哪哩，收入多少，你的期望等等……」
「我親愛的艾倫，」休伊叫道，「我回家的時候或許會發現他在等我。但當然你只是在開玩笑。可憐的老傢伙！我希望自己可以為他做點什麼。我覺得一個人這麼悲慘實在是讓人不好受。我家裡有很多舊衣服，你覺得他會願意任何一件嗎？哎呀，他的破衣服都快要成碎片了。」
「但在眾人中他是最出色？」特雷弗會所。「無論如何，我絕對不會畫穿著大禮服的他。」你說他破破爛爛，我說他浪漫無比。你眼中的貧窮在我看來是美麗如花。但是，我會告訴他你的好意。」
「艾倫，」休伊嚴肅地說，「你們畫家太沒良心了。」
「我們畫家的心都長在腦袋上，」特雷弗回答道；「此外，就我知道，我們的工作就是畫出我們眼中的世界，而不是美化這個世界，各個各司其職。現在告訴我蘿拉怎麼樣，老模特對她很感興趣。」
「難道你跟老模特談論了蘿拉吧？」休伊問。
「我當然談論了。他知道所有有關無情的少校，可愛的蘿拉，和10000英鎊的事。」
「你告訴老乞丐我所有私人的事了？」休伊叫道，他氣得臉色通紅。
「我親愛的老弟，」特雷弗笑著說，「那個你所說的老乞丐是歐洲最富的人之一，他在明天不用透支自己的銀行帳戶就可以買下整個倫敦。他在每個首都有一所房子，在金盤子裡就餐，而且如果他願意，都可以阻止俄國不去打仗。」
「你究竟在說什麼？」休伊驚叫道。
「我說的是，」特雷弗會說。「」你今天在畫室裡看到的那個老人是豪斯勃格男爵。他是我的一個好朋友，買我所有的畫和這一類的東西，一個月前，他委託我把他畫成一個乞丐。我有什麼辦法？想法怪異的百萬富翁！而且我必須要說他穿著他那身破衣服看起來棒極了，或許我應該說是我的破衣服；那是我在西班牙弄來的舊衣服。
「豪斯勃格男爵！」休伊大叫。「天啊！我給了他一個金幣的沙弗林！」他一屁股坐到扶手椅，一臉沮喪。
「給他一個金幣的沙弗林！」特雷弗喊道，他放聲大笑起來。「我親愛的老弟，你再也不會看到那一個金幣了。他的生意就是用別人的錢賺錢。」”
「我想你應該告訴我的，艾倫，」休伊悶悶這麼不樂地說，「不應該讓我出醜的。」
「哦，休伊，首先，」特雷弗說，「我從來沒想過你會那樣魯莽地去施捨。我可以理解你親吻一個漂亮的模特，但對於你給一個醜乞丐一個金幣的沙弗林的事，天啊，絕對不能理解！此外，事實上，我今天本來就沒打算見什麼客人；你來的時候，我不知道豪斯勃格是否介意我提到他的名字。你知道他那時沒穿正式衣服。」
「他一定覺得我是一個傻瓜蠢！」休伊說。
「一點都沒有，你離開後他心情很好；不停的對自己笑，搓他佈滿皺紋的雙手。我不明白他為什麼對有關你的一切那麼感興趣；但我現在明白了。休伊，他要給你投資你的金幣，休伊，每六個月給你紅利，飯後茶餘有投資的事可說了。」
「我真倒楣的人，」休伊吼道，「我只好回家上床去睡覺了；我親愛的艾倫，你絕對不要告訴別人了，我不敢接再露臉了。」
「胡說八道！休伊，這大大地讚揚了你的慈善精神。別躲避，再抽一根煙，你可以多說說你喜歡的蘿拉。」
但是，休伊不想留下來，悶悶不樂地走回了家，特雷弗陣陣傳來的笑聲。
第二天早上，他吃早餐的時候，僕人給他一張卡片，上面寫著，“古斯塔夫·諾丁先生豪斯勃格男爵的代表。「我想他是來道歉的，」休伊對自己說道，他告訴僕人把客人帶來。
一個戴著金邊眼鏡，灰頭髮的老紳士進來了，並用帶有輕微的法國口音說道，「我可以和厄斯金先生講話嗎？」
休伊向他鞠了一躬。
'The Baron--'
「我是豪斯勃格男爵派來的，」他繼續說道：「男爵，他……」
「先生，請你向他轉達我最誠摯的歉意，」休伊結結巴巴地說道。
「男爵，」老紳士笑著說，「委託我帶給你這封信，」他遞出了一個密封的信。
信的外面寫著，「給休伊·厄斯金和蘿拉·默頓的結婚禮物，來自一個老乞丐，」裡面是一張一萬英鎊的支票。
當他們結婚時，艾倫·特雷弗是伴郎，而在結婚早餐，男爵致了一段辭。
「模特兒扮百萬富翁，」艾倫評價道，「已足夠少見了；但，天哪，百萬富翁扮模特兒更是少見啊！」
模特兒百萬富翁(The Model Millionaire)的原著
The Model Millionaire
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'sMagazine, 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.
'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?'
'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.'
Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a little at what he had done. He spent the day with Laura, got a charming scolding for his extravagance, and had to walk home.
That night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven o'clock, and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room drinking hock and seltzer.
`Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?' he said, as he lit his cigarette.
`Finished and framed, my boy!' answered Trevor; `and, by-the-bye, you have made a conquest. That old model you saw is quite devoted to you. I had to tell him all about you - who you are, where you live, what your income is, what prospects you have--'
`My dear Alan,' cried Hughie, `I shall probably find him waiting for me when I go home. But of course you are only joking. Poor old wretch! I wish I could do something for him. I think it is dreadful that any one should be so miserable. I have got heaps of old clothes at home - do you think he would care for any of them? Why, his rags were falling to bits.'
`But he looks splendid in them,' said Trevor. `I wouldn't paint him in a frock-coat for anything. What you call rags I call romance. What seems poverty to you is picturesqueness to me. However, I'll tell him of your offer.'
`Alan,' said Hughie seriously, `you painters are a heartless lot.'
`An artist's heart is his head,' replied Trevor; `and besides, our business is to realise the world as we see it, not to reform it as we know it. À chacun son métier. And now tell me how Laura is. The old model was quite interested in her.'
`You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?' said Hughie.
`Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel, the lovely Laura, and the #10,000.'
`You told that old beggar all my private affairs?' cried Hughie, looking very red and angry.
`My dear boy,' said Trevor, smiling, `that old beggar, as you call him, is one of the richest men in Europe. He could buy all London to-morrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in every capital, dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to war when he chooses.'
`What on earth do you mean?' exclaimed Hughie.
`What I say,' said Trevor. `The old man you saw to-day in the studio was Baron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all my pictures and that sort of thing, and gave me a commission a month ago to paint him as a beggar. Que voulez-vous? La fantaisie d'un millionnaire! And I must say he made a magnificent figure in his rags, or perhaps I should say in my rags; they are an old suit I got in Spain.'
`Baron Hausberg!' cried Hughie. `Good heavens! I gave him a sovereign!' and he sank into an armchair the picture of dismay.
`Gave him a sovereign!' shouted Trevor, and he burst into a roar of laughter. `My dear boy, you'll never see it again. Son affaire c'est l'argent des autres.'
`I think you might have told me, Alan,' said Hughie sulkily, `and not have let me make such a fool of myself.'
`Well, to begin with, Hughie,' said Trevor, `it never entered my mind that you went about distributing alms in that reckless way. I can understand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving a sovereign to an ugly one - by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that I really was not at home to-day to any one; and when you came in I didn't know whether Hausberg would like his name mentioned. You know he wasn't in full dress.'
`What a duffer he must think me!' said Hughie.
`Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; kept chuckling to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled hands together. I couldn't make out why he was so interested to know all about you; but I see it all now. He'll invest your sovereign for you, Hughie, pay you the interest every six months, and have a capital story to tell after dinner.'
`I am an unlucky devil,' growled Hughie. `The best thing I can do is to go to bed; and, my dear Alan, you mustn't tell any one. I shouldn't dare show my face in the Row.'
`Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropic spirit, Hughie. And don't run away. Have another cigarette, and you can talk about Laura as much as you like.'
However, Hughie wouldn't stop, but walked home, feeling very unhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor in fits of laughter.
The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him up a card on which was written, `Monsieur Gustave Naudin, de la part de M. le Baron Hausberg.'
`I suppose he has come for an apology,' said Hughie to himself; and he told the servant to show the visitor up.
An old gentleman with gold spectacles and grey hair came into the room, and said, in a slight French accent, `Have I the honour of addressing Monsieur Erskine?'
Hughie bowed.
`I have come from Baron Hausberg,' he continued. `The Baron--'
`I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies,' stammered Hughie.
`The Baron,' said the old gentleman, with a smile, `has commissioned me to bring you this letter;' and he extended a sealed envelope.
On the outside was written, `A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and Laura Merton, from an old beggar,' and inside was a cheque for #10,000.
When they were married Alan Trevor was the best-man, and the Baron made a speech at the wedding- breakfast.
`Millionaire models,' remarked Alan, `are rare enough; but, by Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!