THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE by Oscar Wilde

Books at bedtime by calming anxiety, the model millionaire, a note of admiration by Oscar Wilde. 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 Huey Erskine never realised. Poor Huey. 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 15 volumes.

Huey hung the first over his looking glass, but the second on a shelf with Rolf's guide and Bayley's magazine and lived on 200 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 team merchant for a little longer, but had soon tired of peco and sushi.

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 Hazel Burton, the daughter of a retired colonel who had lost his temper and his digestion in India and had never found either of them again. Hazel adored him and he was ready to kiss her shoe strings. They were the hantsmist couple in London and had not a penny piece between them.

The colonel was very fond of Huey, but would not hear of any engagement. Come to me my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your own and we all see about it, used to say. And Huey looked very clummin those days and had to go to Laura for consolation. One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park where the mertens lived, he dropped in to see a friend of his, Alan Trevor.

Trevor was a painter, indeed few people escaped at Maraday's, but he was also an artist, an artist's a 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.

It had been very much attracted by Huey 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 better and beautiful. People who an artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual repose to talk to.

Even who are dandies and women who are darlings rule the world, at least they should do so. However, after he got to know Huey better, he liked him quite as much for his bright, buoyant spirits and his generous reckless nation and had given him the permanent entree to his studio. When Huey 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 the corner of the studio.

He was a wise and old man with a face like wrinkled parchment and a most pitiest 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 lent on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for arms. What an amazing model whispered Huey 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. Travelle, Mosher, a living Valusky, my stars, what an excitement what etching Rembrandt would have made of him. Poor old chap said Huey, how miserable he looks, but I suppose do you painters. His base is his fortune.

He certainly replied Trevor you don't want a beggar to look happy do you? How much does a model get for sitting asked Huey as he found himself a kind of little seat on a divine, a shelling and hour? And how much do you get for your picture, Alan? Oh for this I get 2000 pounds, guineas painters, poets and fiddissons always get guineas.

Well, I think the model should have a percentage cried Huey 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 Huey for you to talk, but I assure you that there are moments when art almost attains to the dignity of manual labour, but we mustn't chatter, I'm very busy, smoke is 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 Huey," 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 for lawn and wretched that Huey could not help pitting 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 handsome 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."

And Huey took his sleeve, blushing a little, and what he had done. He spent the day with Hazel, got a charming scolding for his extravagance and had to walk home. That night he strolled into the Palais Club about eleven o'clock and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room drinking hot 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 by, you have made a conquest." The 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 Huey. I shall probably find him waiting for me when I go home, but of course you are only joking, the poor old wreck. I wish I could do something for him.

I think it is dreadful that anyone 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. He looks splendid in them, said Trevor. I wouldn't paint him in a frot coat for anything. What you call rags, I call romance.

What seems poverty to you is picturesque-ness to me. However, I shall tell him of your offer." "Alan," said Huey seriously. You painters are a heartless lot.

An artist's heart is in his head for applied Trevor, and besides, our business is to realise the world as we see it, not to reform it as we know it. And now tell me, how hazel is? The old model was quite interesting in her. "You don't mean to say you talk to him about her," said Huey.

"Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless kernel, the lovely hazel in the £10,000." You told that old beggar, all about my private affairs, cried Huey, 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, Huey?

What I say, said Trevor. The old man you saw today in the studio was Baron Houseberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all my pictures and that sort of thing, and gives me a commission a month to paint him as a beggar." "Que vu le vu?"

And I must say he made a magnificent figure in his rags, or perhaps I should say in my rags. They were an old suit I got in Spain. Baron Houseberg cried Huey, "Good heavens. I gave him a sovereign, and he sank into the 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." "I think he might have told me, Alan," said Huey, sulkyly, and not have let me make such a fool of myself. "Well, to begin with Huey," said Trevor, "it never entered my mind, that you went about distributing arms in that reckless way.

I can understand you're kissing a pretty model, but you're giving a sovereign to an ugly one by Jove no. Besides, the fact is that I really was not at home today to anyone, and when you came in, I didn't know where the Houseberg would like his name mentioned. You know, it wasn't in full dress." "What a duffer he must think of me," said Huey.

"No, not at all. He was in high spirits after you left. He 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, Huey. Pay you the interest every six months and have a capital story to tell off the dinner. "I'm an unlucky devil, Graut, Huey. The best thing I could do is go to bed, and my dear Alan, you mustn't tell anyone.

I shouldn't dare show my face in the room." Nonsense, Alan. It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropic spirit, Huey, and don't run away. Have another cigarette, and you can talk about Hazel as much as you like.

However, Huey 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, "Monsoir Gustave Nadine, de la part de Mele Baron Houseburg." I suppose he has come for an apology, said Huey 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 Montsouire a scheme?" Huey bowed. "I have come from Baron Houseburg, he continued. The Baron, I beg sir, but you will offer him my sincerest apologies, stammered Huey."

"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 Huey's skyne and Hazelmurton, from an old beggar, and inside was a check 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, "A rare enough, but by Jove, model millionaires, a rareer still."