模特儿百万富翁 江铭辉 五梦网
本文模特儿百万富翁(The Model Millionaire)原作者是王尔德(Oscar Wilde)
一个人长得好看，妩媚动人是没有用的，除非他很有钱，浪漫是富人的专利，不是失业者的职业，穷人应该脚踏实地且要认命，淡薄寡欲，最好有长期收入，胜过外表迷人好看的人。
这是典型现代生活的真谛，但休伊·厄斯金却从来没有意识到，可怜的休伊！事实上，我们必须承认他只是一个平凡的人，他一生从来没有说过一句高明的话，甚至从来也没说过让人讨厌的话。但他长得一表人才，棕色的卷发，轮廓分明的脸，灰色的眼睛，男人和女人都喜欢他，他有各种才能，就是不会赚钱。
他的父亲遗留给他一把马刀和一本有15卷的《半岛战争史》。休伊把马刀挂在镜子上，把那本书放在书架上的《拉夫指南》与《贝利杂志》中间，他靠着姑妈每年200磅的钱过活。他尝试干任何事，诸如：
他在股票交易市场玩了半年的股票；但他过去是一只蝴蝶，因此不懂股市的牛市(即股票的多头市场)和熊市(即股票的空头市场)，因此没有捞到什么好处？他也做了更长时间的茶商，卖香红茶和小种茶（小种茶：红茶的一种），但很快就厌倦了。之后他又尝试销售干的(不甜叫干)雪利酒，但干雪利酒不甜，客人不喜欢，因此也都没有结果。最终他一无所成，虽然如此，但他仍然整天高高兴兴的，什么都不会做，长得虽然帅，但没有工作。
但更糟糕的是，他恋爱了。他喜欢的女孩叫劳拉·默顿，一个上校退役的女儿，这个上校在印度的时候，养成脾气暴躁和消化不良，如今他依然如此。劳拉很敬爱他，而他也甘于吻劳拉的鞋带。他们是伦敦的一对俊男靓女，但身无分文。上校也很喜欢休伊，但却没有听到他们要订婚的消息。
「到我这儿来，我的孩子，等你有了一万英镑时，我们再看吧！」上校过去常这么说。在那些日子里，休伊看起来很忧郁，不得不去劳拉那里找安慰。
一天早上，在他去默顿家住的荷兰公园的路上，顺便拜访了他的一个好朋友“艾伦·特雷弗”，特雷弗是个画家。事实上，今日很少人动手画一、二笔，然而他确是个艺术家，艺术家则更是少了。他本人是个奇怪粗野的人，满脸雀斑，红胡子乱蓬蓬的。但是，他拿起画笔时，是个正真的大师，大家都想得到他的画，他的画很抢手。起初，他对休伊很有好感，必须承认这完全是因为他的个人魅力。「一个画家应该结识的人」，他过去常说，「就是那些长得美丽而狂野的人，那些让人觉得在艺术上赏心悦目、在聊天时觉得提升精神层次的人。潮男靓女掌管世界，至少他们应该如此。」但是，当他更了解休伊后，他喜欢休伊乐天的性格和大方、鲁莽的本性，并永久随时欢迎休伊来到自己的画室。
休伊进去画室时，他看到特雷弗在给真人大小的精彩乞丐的画像做最后的润色。乞丐本人站在画室角落的台子上。他是个消瘦的老人，脸像皱巴巴的牛皮纸，表情很哀怜。他的肩上搭着一个粗糙棕色斗篷，破旧衣服，全身破破烂烂的；脚上的厚靴子也是补了又补，他的一只手拄了一根粗糙的木棍，另一只手里向外伸，拿着他乞讨物的破帽子。
「多么出色的模特啊好一个少见的模特啊！」休伊跟他朋友握手时低声说道。
「可怜的老家伙！」休伊说，「他看起来多悲惨啊！但我想，对你们画家来说他的脸就是他的财富？」
“当然了，”特雷弗说，「你可不想让一个乞丐看起来很开心，是吧？」
「当一个模特儿坐这样的姿势，能得多少钱？」当他自己舒服地坐到长沙发后，休伊问。
「一小时一个先令。」艾伦说。
「艾伦，那你的画值多少钱？」
「哦，对这幅画，我想能卖2000！」艾伦答。
「英镑？」特雷弗说。
「几尼（=21个先令，英国的旧金币,值一镑一先令)，画家，诗人，和内科医生都是用几尼计算。」艾伦说。
「哦，我觉得模特应该按百分比支付，」休伊笑着说道：「他们和你们一样努力工作。」
「胡说八道，胡说八道！哎呀，单独看看布置画面的麻烦，我还要整天站在画架旁！你这么说很好，休伊，我向你说说，艺术也有出体力劳动尊严的时候。但是你不要喋喋不休了；我正忙着呢。抽根烟吧，别吵了。」
一会儿，仆人进来告诉特雷弗装框的师父想要跟他谈谈。
「别走，休伊，」他出去的时候说道，「我很快就回来了。」
老乞丐趁特雷弗不在，便坐到休伊后边，木材做的长凳上休息了一会，他看起来很悲惨，很可怜，所以休伊忍不住同情他，看看自己口袋里有多少钱。他仅找到了一沙弗林（沙弗林，相当于一英镑）和几个铜币。「可怜的老家伙，」他自己想，「他比我更需要这点钱，」但这意味着自己两周不能坐小马车了”。他走了过去，把沙弗林塞到了乞丐的手中。
老头有点惊讶，他干枯的嘴唇上扬起了一丝淡淡的微笑。「谢谢你，先生，」他说，「谢谢你。」
这时特雷弗来了，休伊向他告别了，为刚才做的事感到有点不好意思。那天他正整天和劳拉在一起，劳拉娇嗔责骂他的大方，最后他只能走回家了。
那天晚上大约11点，他溜达进了艺术家俱乐部时，看到特雷弗自己坐在吸烟室，喝着白葡萄酒和赛尔脱兹矿泉水。
「哦，艾伦，你已经完成那副画了吗？」他边点烟说。
「老弟，我画完了，也装好了！」特雷弗回答道；「顺便说一下，有人被你征服了。你见的那个老模特很赏识你。我不得不告诉他有关你的一切，你是谁，住在哪哩，收入多少，你的期望等等……」
「我亲爱的艾伦，」休伊叫道，「我回家的时候或许会发现他在等我。但当然你只是在开玩笑。可怜的老家伙！我希望自己可以为他做点什么。我觉得一个人这么悲惨实在是让人不好受。我家里有很多旧衣服，你觉得他会愿意任何一件吗？哎呀，他的破衣服都快要成碎片了。」
「但在众人中他是最出色？」特雷弗会所。「无论如何，我绝对不会画穿着大礼服的他。」你说他破破烂烂，我说他浪漫无比。你眼中的贫穷在我看来是美丽如花。但是，我会告诉他你的好意。」
「艾伦，」休伊严肃地说，「你们画家太没良心了。」
「我们画家的心都长在脑袋上，」特雷弗回答道；「此外，就我知道，我们的工作就是画出我们眼中的世界，而不是美化这个世界，各个各司其职。现在告诉我劳拉怎么样，老模特对她很感兴趣。」
「难道你跟老模特谈论了劳拉吧？」休伊问。
「我当然谈论了。他知道所有有关无情的少校，可爱的劳拉，和10000英镑的事。」
「你告诉老乞丐我所有私人的事了？」休伊叫道，他气得脸色通红。
「我亲爱的老弟，」特雷弗笑着说，「那个你所说的老乞丐是欧洲最富的人之一，他在明天不用透支自己的银行账户就可以买下整个伦敦。他在每个首都有一所房子，在金盘子里就餐，而且如果他愿意，都可以阻止俄国不去打仗。」
「你究竟在说什么？」休伊惊叫道。
「我说的是，」特雷弗会说。「」你今天在画室里看到的那个老人是豪斯勃格男爵。他是我的一个好朋友，买我所有的画和这一类的东西，一个月前，他委托我把他画成一个乞丐。我有什么办法？想法怪异的百万富翁！而且我必须要说他穿着他那身破衣服看起来棒极了，或许我应该说是我的破衣服；那是我在西班牙弄来的旧衣服。
「豪斯勃格男爵！」休伊大叫。「天啊！我给了他一个金币的沙弗林！」他一屁股坐到扶手椅，一脸沮丧。
「给他一个金币的沙弗林！」特雷弗喊道，他放声大笑起来。「我亲爱的老弟，你再也不会看到那一个金币了。他的生意就是用别人的钱赚钱。」”
「我想你应该告诉我的，艾伦，」休伊闷闷这么不乐地说，「不应该让我出丑的。」
「哦，休伊，首先，」特雷弗说，「我从来没想过你会那样鲁莽地去施舍。我可以理解你亲吻一个漂亮的模特，但对于你给一个丑乞丐一个金币的沙弗林的事，天啊，绝对不能理解！此外，事实上，我今天本来就没打算见什么客人；你来的时候，我不知道豪斯勃格是否介意我提到他的名字。你知道他那时没穿正式衣服。」
「他一定觉得我是一个傻瓜蠢！」休伊说。
「一点都没有，你离开后他心情很好；不停的对自己笑，搓他布满皱纹的双手。我不明白他为什么对有关你的一切那么感兴趣；但我现在明白了。休伊，他要给你投资你的金币，休伊，每六个月给你红利，饭后茶余有投资的事可说了。」
「我真倒霉的人，」休伊吼道，「我只好回家上床去睡觉了；我亲爱的艾伦，你绝对不要告诉别人了，我不敢接再露脸了。」
「胡说八道！休伊，这大大地赞扬了你的慈善精神。别躲避，再抽一根烟，你可以多说说你喜欢的劳拉。」
但是，休伊不想留下来，闷闷不乐地走回了家，特雷弗阵阵传来的笑声。
第二天早上，他吃早餐的时候，仆人给他一张卡片，上面写着，“古斯塔夫·诺丁先生豪斯勃格男爵的代表。「我想他是来道歉的，」休伊对自己说道，他告诉仆人把客人带来。
一个戴着金边眼镜，灰头发的老绅士进来了，并用带有轻微的法国口音说道，「我可以和厄斯金先生讲话吗？」
休伊向他鞠了一躬。
'The Baron--'
「我是豪斯勃格男爵派来的，」他继续说道：「男爵，他……」
「先生，请你向他转达我最诚挚的歉意，」休伊结结巴巴地说道。
「男爵，」老绅士笑着说，「委托我带给你这封信，」他递出了一个密封的信。
信的外面写着，「给休伊·厄斯金和劳拉·默顿的结婚礼物，来自一个老乞丐，」里面是一张一万英镑的支票。
当他们结婚时，艾伦·特雷弗是伴郎，而在结婚早餐，男爵致了一段辞。
「模特儿扮百万富翁，」艾伦评价道，「已足够少见了；但，天哪，百万富翁扮模特儿更是少见啊！」
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!