By Oscar Wilde
Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charmingfellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich， not the professionof 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 Erskinenever realised. Poor Hughie！ Intellectually， we must admit， hewas not of much importance. He never said a brilliant or evenan ill-natured thing in his life. But then he was wonderfullygood-looking， with his crisp brown hair， his clear-cut profile，and his grey eyes. He was as popular with men， as he waswith women and he had every accomplishment except thatof making money. His father had bequeathed him his cavalrysword and a History of the Peninsular War in fifteen volumes.
Hughie hung the first over his looking-glass， put the secondon a shelf between Ruff’s Guide and Bailey’s Magazine， andlived on two hundred a year that an old aunt allowed him. Hehad tried everything. He had gone on the Stock Exchange forsix months； but what was a butterfly to do among bulls andbears？ He had been a tea-merchant for a little longer， but hadsoon tired of pekoe and souchong. Then he had tried sellingdry sherry. That did not answer； the sherry was a little too dry.
Ultimately he became nothing， a delightful， ineffectual youngman with a perfect profile and no profession.
To make matters worse， he was in love. The girl he lovedwas Laura Merton， the daughter of a retired Colonel who hadlost his temper and his digestion in India， and had never foundeither of them again. Laura adored him， and he was readyto kiss her shoe-strings. They were the handsomest couplein London， and had not a penny-piece between them. TheColonel was very fond of Hughie， but would not hear of anyengagement.
‘Come to me， my boy， when you have got ten thousandpounds 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 toLaura for consolation.
One morning， as he was on his way to Holland Park， wherethe Mertons lived， he dropped in to see a great friend of his，Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed， few people escapethat nowadays. But he was also an artist， and artists are ratherrare. Personally he was a strange rough fellow， with a freckledface and a red ragged beard. However， when he took up thebrush he was a real master， and his pictures were eagerlysought after. He had been very much attracted by Hughieat first， it must be acknowledged， entirely on account of hispersonal charm. ‘the only people a painter should know，’ heused to say， ‘are people who are bete and beautiful， people whoare an artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual repose totalk to. Men who are dandies and women who are darlingsrule the world， at least they should do so.’ However， after hegot to know Hughie better， he liked him quite as much for hisbright， buoyant spirits and his generous， reckless nature， andhad given him the permanent entree to his studio.
When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishingtouches to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. Thebeggar himself was standing on a raised platform in a cornerof the studio. He was a wizened old man， with a face likewrinkled parchment， and a most piteous expression. Over hisshoulders was flung a coarse brown cloak， all tears and tatters；his thick boots were patched and cobbled， and with one handhe leant on a rough stick， while with the other he held out hisbattered hat for alms.
‘What an amazing model！’ whispered Hughie， as he shookhands with his friend.
‘An amazing model？’ shouted Trevor at the top of his voice； ‘Ishould think so！ Such beggars as he are not to be met with everyday. A trouvaille， mon cher； a living Velasquez！ My stars！ whatan etching Rembrandt would have made of him！’
‘Poor old chap！’ said Hughie， ‘how miserable he looks！ ButI suppose， to you painters， his face is his fortune？’
‘Certainly，’ replied Trevor， ‘you don’t want a beggar to lookhappy， do you？’
‘How much does a model get for sitting？’ asked Hughie， ashe 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，’ criedHughie， laughing； ‘they work quite as hard as you do.’
‘Nonsense， nonsense！ Why， look at the trouble of laying onthe paint alone， and standing all day long at one’s easel！ It’sall very well， Hughie， for you to talk， but I assure you thatthere are moments when Art almost attains to the dignity ofmanual labour. But you mustn’t chatter； I’m very busy. Smokea cigarette， and keep quiet.’
After some time the servant came in， and told Trevor that theframemaker wanted to speak to him.
‘Don’t run away， Hughie，’ he said， as he went out， ‘I will beback in a moment.’
The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor’s absence torest for a moment on a wooden bench that was behind him.
He looked so forlorn and wretched that Hughie could not helppitying him， and felt in his pockets to see what money he had.
