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双语·坎特维尔的幽灵 模范百万富翁

所属教程:译林版·坎特维尔的幽灵——奥斯卡·王尔德短篇小说选

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2022年05月15日

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THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE

A Note of Admiration

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.

“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 in 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 bête 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 entrée 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 shoulder 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, mon 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 framemaker 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. A 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 arm-chair 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!”

模范百万富翁

——一个惊叹号

一个人除非是富人,否则即便是一个迷人的家伙也白搭。浪漫是富人的特权,而不是穷人的行当。穷人应该务实平凡。收入稳定,胜过富有魅力。这些都是现代生活的伟大真理,休伊·厄斯金却从来没有意识到这些。可怜的休伊!从理智上来说,我们必须承认,他无足轻重。他一辈子从来没有说过生花妙语,也没有对谁恶语相向过。不过,他一头鬈曲的褐色头发、轮廓鲜明的五官和灰色的眼睛格外好看。他跟男人们在一起时像跟女人们在一起时一样受欢迎,除了赚钱,他样样在行。他的父亲留给了他一把马刀和一套十五卷的《半岛战争史》。休伊将马刀挂在穿衣镜上,把《半岛战争史》放在《拉夫指南》和《贝利杂志》之间的架子上,靠一位老姑妈给他的两百英镑年金生活。他什么工作都尝试过了。他曾经在证券交易所买卖过六个月股票。但是,一只蝴蝶在牛市和熊市之间能做什么呢?他当茶叶商的时间稍长些,但很快就厌倦了白毫茶和小种茶。之后,他曾试图出售干雪利酒,那酒却也不合人口味,味道有些太淡了。最终,他一事无成,成了一个讨人喜欢、没有出息的年轻人,模样精致,一无所有。

更糟糕的是,他还在谈情说爱。他爱的女孩劳拉·默顿是一位退休上校的女儿。上校在印度失去了绝好的脾气和胃口,从此再没找回来过。劳拉爱慕他,而他也情愿去吻她的鞋带。他们是伦敦最漂亮的情侣,却身无分文。上校非常喜欢休伊,但拒绝考虑任何订婚之事。

“我的孩子,当你有一万英镑的时候,再来找我,我们再考虑这件事。”他常常这么说。那些日子休伊一副闷闷不乐的样子,不得不去找劳拉寻求安慰。

一天早上,在前往默顿家所在的荷兰公园的途中,他顺便走访了自己的好友艾伦·特雷弗。特雷弗是一位画家。实际上,如今的人们不是画家的寥寥无几。不过,他也是一位艺术家,艺术家则相当罕见。他本人是一个奇怪粗暴的家伙,一脸雀斑,红髯蓬乱。然而,当拿起画笔的时候,他是一位真正的大师,他的画作受到人们的热烈追捧。一开始,他就十分喜欢休伊,我们必须承认这完全是因为他的个人魅力。“画家唯一应该认识的人,”他常说,“是愚蠢而又美丽的人,是看起来赏心悦目,谈起天来蠢笨无聊的人。花花公子和漂亮女人统治世界,至少他们应该这样做。”不过,渐渐地熟悉休伊之后,他也喜欢上了对方愉快活跃的性情和大方率真的本性,并允许他自由进出自己的画室。

休伊进来的时候,发现特雷弗正在给一幅乞丐肖像画画最后几笔。乞丐本人站在画室角落的一个高台上。这是一个干瘪的老头,脸像皱羊皮纸似的,一副可怜巴巴的表情,肩上搭着一件质地粗劣、破烂不堪的棕色外衣,厚靴子补丁摞补丁,一只手拄着一根粗糙的拐杖,另一只手伸出破帽子来请求施舍。

“一位令人震惊的模特!”休伊一边跟朋友握手,一边低声说道。

“令人震惊的模特?”特雷弗扯着嗓子嚷道,“我想的确如此!他这样的乞丐不是每天都会遇到的。一次意外的收获,亲爱的,一幅活生生的媲美委拉斯开兹的画!我的天哪!要是让伦勃朗来画他,他一定会做出一幅蚀刻版画!”

“可怜的老头儿!”休伊说,“看上去他是多么痛苦!不过,我想,对你们画家来说,他的脸所呈现的正是他的生活?”

“当然了,”特雷弗回答说,“你不可能指望一个乞丐面露喜色,对不对?”

“当一个模特让人画能挣多少钱?”休伊在一张舒服的长沙发上坐下来问道。

“一个小时一先令。”

“那你的画挣多少钱,艾伦?”

“噢,这个我挣两千!”

“英镑?”

“几尼。画家、诗人和医生得到的总是几尼。”

“嗯,我认为这些钱模特也应该分得一部分,”休伊笑着大声说道,“他们工作时像你一样努力。”

“胡说,胡说!啊,看看仅仅涂抹颜料有多么麻烦,还要一天到晚站在画架边!休伊,你说得很对,但你应该相信,有些时候艺术工作几乎应该得到和体力工作一样的尊敬。不过,你也不要喋喋不休,我很忙。抽一支烟,保持安静。”

过了一段时间,仆人进来,告诉特雷弗说画框制造商想和他说话。

“休伊,不要跑开,”他一边说,一边走了出去,“我去去就来。”

老乞丐趁特雷弗不在,便去他身后的木凳上休息。他看上去是那样无助又可怜,休伊不由得怜悯他,在口袋里摸了摸,看自己有多少钱。他所能找到的只有一枚金币和一些铜币。“可怜的老家伙,”他暗自想道,“他比我更需要钱,给他这些钱只不过意味着我两星期不坐马车罢了。”他穿过画室,然后把那枚金币轻轻地放在了乞丐的手里。

老人猛地一惊,干瘪的嘴唇掠过一丝淡淡的微笑。“谢谢你,先生,”他说,“谢谢你。”

随后,特雷弗赶到,休伊告辞,对自己做的事儿感到有些脸红。他跟劳拉一起待了一天,为自己的挥霍破费挨了一顿可爱的责骂,最后只好步行回家。

那天夜里十一点左右,他漫步至调色板俱乐部,发现特雷弗独自坐在抽烟室里喝着加了苏打水的白葡萄酒。

“好吧,艾伦,你那幅画画好了吗?”他一边说,一边点起了一支烟。

“画好了,也装上了框,我的伙计!”特雷弗回答,“还有,顺便说一下,你已经征服了那个人。你看到的那个老模特完全被你迷住了。我只好告诉他有关你的一切——你是谁,你住在哪里,你的收入是多少,你有什么前途——”

“我亲爱的艾伦,”休伊嚷道,“我回家的时候,可能会发现他在等着我。不过,当然,你只是在开玩笑。可怜的老家伙!我真希望我能为他做些什么。我认为,这种凄惨境况对于任何人都是可怕的。我家里有几堆旧衣服——你认为他会喜欢吗?唉,他的衣服都破成了烂布条。”

“不过,他穿上去很棒,”特雷弗说,“他如果穿着长礼服,我无论如何也不会画他。你称为破布的东西,我却称其为浪漫。在你看来等于贫困的东西,在我看来却是生动逼真的形象。不过,我会把你的提议告诉他的。”

“艾伦,”休伊严肃地说,“你们画家真是无情。”

“艺术家只有脑袋,没有良心,”特雷弗说,“再说,我们的职责是让我们看到的世界显得逼真,而不是改良我们了解的世界。每个人都有自己的职业。现在告诉我劳拉怎么样了。老模特对她很感兴趣。”

“你不会对他谈起过她吧?”休伊说。

“我当然谈了。他对无情的上校、可爱的劳拉和一万英镑都了如指掌。”

“你把我所有的私事都告诉了老乞丐吗?”休伊气得满脸通红,大声嚷道。

“我亲爱的孩子,”特雷弗微笑着说,“你所称的那个老乞丐是欧洲最富有的人之一。他不用透支自己的账户,明天就可以买下整个伦敦。他在每个国家的首都都有一座房子,用金盘吃饭,他要是喜欢,还能阻止俄国开战呢。”

“你到底是什么意思?”休伊大声问道。

“我说的是,”特雷弗说,“你今天在画室看到的那个老头是豪斯伯格男爵。他是我的一位好朋友,几乎买下了我所有的画作,一个月前他给了我佣金,要我画一幅乞丐的画像。你会这么想吗?这是一个百万富翁的心血来潮!我必须说,他穿着他的破衣烂衫,样子真是棒极了,或许我应该说穿着我的破衣烂衫,那是我在西班牙买的。”

“豪斯伯格男爵!”休伊嚷道,“天哪!我给了他一枚金币!”说完,他一屁股坐到扶手椅里,一副沮丧的样子。

“给了他一枚金币!”特雷弗突然哈哈大笑,大声嚷道,“我亲爱的伙计,你永远不会再看到它了。他拿别人的钱做生意。”

“艾伦,我想你本应该告诉我,”休伊闷闷不乐地说,“不应该让我出这样的洋相。”

“噢,首先,休伊,”特雷弗说,“我从来没有想过,你会这样不假思索地到处施舍。你亲吻一个漂亮的模特我能理解,可你居然给一个丑陋的模特一枚金币——天哪,我不理解!此外,实际上,我今天真的没有准备接待任何人。你进来的时候,我不知道豪斯伯格愿不愿意让我提起他的名字。你知道他当时没有穿礼服。”

“他一定认为我是个笨蛋!”休伊说。

“一点也不。你离开后,他兴致再好不过了,不停地暗自发笑,来回搓着他布满皱纹的老手。我当时不明白为什么他那么有兴趣了解你的一切,可我现在全都明白了。休伊,他会用你的金币投资,每半年付给你一次利息,晚饭后也有一个精彩的故事可讲了。”

“我是个倒霉鬼,”休伊咆哮着说,“我能做得最好的事情就是去上床睡觉。还有,我亲爱的艾伦,你可千万不能告诉别人这件事,否则我就别想在这条街上见人了。”

“胡说!这件事说明了你心地仁慈,你应当引以为豪,休伊。不要跑掉。再来一根香烟,你可以再跟我多聊聊劳拉。”

然而,休伊不愿停留,而是感到闷闷不乐,走回了家,留下艾伦·特雷弗在身后发出一阵阵笑声。

第二天早上,他吃早餐的时候,仆人给他送来一张卡片,上面写着:古斯塔夫·诺丹先生,代表豪斯伯格男爵。“我想他是来要求我道歉的。”休伊自言自语地说。他吩咐仆人把来客领上来。

一位戴着金丝眼镜、头发花白的老先生走进房间,略带法国口音说道:“请问您是厄斯金先生吗?”

休伊点了点头。

“我是从豪斯伯格男爵那里来的,”他继续说道,“男爵——”

“先生,我恳求你给他带去我最诚挚的歉意。”休伊结结巴巴地说。

“男爵,”老先生面带微笑说,“委托我给你带来这封信。”说着,他递过来一个密封的信封。

信封外面写着:“一个老乞丐送给休·厄斯金和劳拉·默顿的结婚礼物。”里面还有一张一万英镑的支票。

他们结婚的时候,艾伦·特雷弗是伴郎,男爵在婚礼早餐上发表了祝词。

“百万富翁模特,”艾伦说,“真够罕见的。可是,天哪,模范百万富翁更罕见!”

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