THE MODERN 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’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 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, 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. 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!’
READING
COMPREHENSION
The Model
Millionaire has all these characteristics except:
- a)
Generous
-
b) Charming
-
c) Handsome
-
d) Wealthy
What does
the painter, Alan, think of the beggar-man’s poverty in The Model Millionaire?
-
a) It’s
picturesque
-
b) It’s
pitiful
-
c) It’s
comical
-
d) It’s
depressing
How is
Hughie’s generosity rewarded in The Model
Millionaire?
a a) With
a new wardrobe.
- b) With
the money he needs to get married
-
c) With
an award from the local newspaper
-
d) With
the anger of the beggar-man.
Make a
comic strip illustrating the story. Be as loyal as possible to the original story.If you don't remember any web page to create it, visit http://bchavesdifferentbutthesame.blogspot.com.es/p/uruguay.html where you can find some free pages to create beautiful and creative comic strips. Have fun!
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