by Oscar Wilde
“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 beggar! 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.14 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 damsel, and the 10,000l.”15
“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 plates, 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 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! 16 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.”17
“I think you might have told me, Alan,” said Hughie sulkily, “and not 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.”18
“Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropic spirit, Hughie,19 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 gray hair came into the room, and said, in a slight French accent, “Have I the honour of addressing Monsieur Hugh Erskine?”
Hughie bowed.
“I have come from Baron Hausberg,” he continued. “The Baron—”
“I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincere apologies,” said20 Hughie.
“The Baron,” said the old gentleman, with a smile, “has commissioned me to bring you this letter;” and he handed Hughie 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 10,000l.21
When they were married Alan Trevor was the best-man, and the Baron made a speech at the wedding-breakfast.22
“Millionaire models,” remarked Alan, “are rare enough; but, by Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!”23
* First published in the series “Town and Country Tales” in The World: A Journal for Men and Women, 22 June 1887; republished with the subtitle “A Note of Admiration” in Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories (1891). “The Model Millionaire” is based on a widely circulated anecdote about the French millionaire banker Baron James Mayer de Rothschild (1792–1868), one of the richest men in Europe, who once modeled dressed as a beggar for the painter Eugene Delacroix (1798–1863). As The Quiz reported in 1882, Rothschild, while posing as the beggar, “was discovered by a young friend and pupil of the painter’s, who alone had the privilege of being admitted to the studio at all times. Surprised by the excellence of the model, [the painter’s friend] congratulated his master on having at last found exactly what he wanted. Not for a moment doubting that the model had just been begging at the porch of some church or at the corner of a bridge, and much struck by his features, the young man, espying a moment when the artist’s eyes were averted, slipped a twenty-franc piece into the model’s hand. Rothschild kept the money, thanking the giver by a look, and the young man went his way. He was, as the banker soon found out from Delacroix, without fortune, … Some time later the youth received a letter, mentioning that charity bears interest, and that the accumulated interest of francs, which he, prompted by a generous impulse, had given to a man with the appearance of a beggar, was lying at his disposal in Rothschild’s office, to the amount of 10,000 francs” (Quiz: A Fortnightly Society Journal of Literature, Fashion, and Art 2, no. 26 [4 Jan. 1882], 9).
1 What Wilde here calls the “great truths of modern life” drive many of his works. The relationship between romance, action, wealth, and “privilege” is an abiding theme of his social comedies. Wilde addresses the relationship explicitly in his story “The Happy Prince” (1888) as well as in his essay “The Soul of Man under Socialism” (1891).
2 Symbols of outdated nationalistic military pride. Cavalry swords had long been rendered useless militarily, as the bloody defeat of British cavalry forces by Russian gunners during the Crimean War (1853–1856) had made clear. More than seventy years had passed since the victory of British forces, under the Duke of Wellington, during the Peninsular War (1807–1814), over those of Napoleon, who had previously invaded and sought to rule the Iberian Peninsula. Two highly nationalist multivolume histories of the Peninsular War existed in Wilde’s day, although thankfully neither ran to fifteen volumes: Robert Southey, A History of the Peninsular War (3 vols., London: John Murray, 1823–1832; republished by Murray in 6 vols., 1828–1837); and Gen. William F. P. Napier, A History of the War in the Peninsular (6 vols., London: John Murray, 1828–1840).
3 Ruff’s Guide to the Turf and Bailey’s Magazine of Sports and Pastimes
4 “; the sherry was a little too dry” was added here in 1891.
5 This sentence anticipates and reverses Wilde’s aphorism “There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men … who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession” (“Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young,” The Chameleon, December 1894). Erskine bears a striking resemblance to other brainless, impulsive, heterosexual young men who
populate the stories later gathered into Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories, notably Lord Arthur Savile and Lord Murcheson. Taken as a whole, these stories constitute a subtle critique of normative genteel Victorian masculinity.
6 The Colonel isn’t as heartless as he seems at first. In an era when women had few opportunities for a gainful career and wives were heavily dependent on their husbands’ income, he does not want his daughter to marry into poverty. Like Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest, he expects his future son-in-law to “have an occupation of some kind” since “there are far too many idle men in London as it is” (The Annotated Importance of Being Earnest, ed. Nicholas Frankel [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015], 97).
7 “As long as a painter is a painter merely,” Wilde had written previously, “he should not be allowed to talk of anything but mediums and megilp, and on those subjects should be compelled to hold his tongue; it is only when he becomes an artist that the secret laws of artistic creation are revealed to him. For there are not many arts, but one art merely—poem, picture and Parthenon, sonnet and statue—all are in their essence the same, and he who knows one knows all” (“Mr. Whistler’s Ten O’Clock,” Pall Mall Gazette 21 [Feb. 1885], 2).
8 This important sentence, suggesting that one-sided homoeroticism constituted the foundation for Trevor’s and Erskine’s friendship, was changed by Wilde in 1891, when he altered “good looks” to the less-incriminating “personal charm.”
9 Bête is French for ‘stupid.’ Early in his London career Wilde was famous for issuing invitations for “Tea and Beauties,” and he told his friend Harold Boulton that “I very often have beautiful people to tea” (CL 85). In 1891 Wilde revised Trevor’s quip by adding a comma and inserting “at least they should do so” after “Dandies and darlings rule the world.”
10 A find, dear boy.
11 In his witty press article “London Models,” Wilde writes of artists’ models: “They are engaged by the day and by the half day. The tariff is usually a shilling an hour, to which great artists usually add an omnibus fare.… As a class they are very well behaved, particularly those who sit for the figure, a fact which is curious or natural according to the view one takes of human nature” (English Illustrated Magazine 6, no. 64 [Jan. 1889]).
12 Altered to “two thousand” in 1891.
13 See p. 52 n.21 above.
14 Each to his element.
15 “damsel, and the 10,000l” altered to “lovely Laura, and the £10,000” in 1891.
16 What would you have? The fantasy of a millionaire.
17 His business is the money of others.
18 For “the Row,” see p. 96 n.9 above.
19 Trevor takes pains to reassure Hughie that he is not a “duffer,” but Wilde intends us to think otherwise. Wilde was extremely critical of thoughtless philanthropy, viewing it as mindlessly sentimental and unproductive. As he writes in “The Soul of Man under Socialism,” “the majority of people spoil their lives by an unhealthy and exaggerated altruism.… They find themselves surrounded by hideous poverty, by hideous ugliness, by hideous starvation.… Accordingly, with admirable, though misdirected intentions, they very seriously and very sentimentally set themselves to the task of remedying the evils that they see. But their remedies do not cure the disease: they merely prolong it. Indeed, their remedies are part of the disease.”
20 Altered to “stammered” in 1891.
21 “10,000l” altered to “£10,000” in 1891.
22 This happy ending to the marriage plot is fraught with irony since the main actors at Hughie’s wedding are both confirmed bachelors, one of whom had been attracted by Hughie “entirely on account of his good looks” (see p. 105 above), the other of whom seeks to escape from the identity he presents in public.
23 Trevor’s line is heavy with irony since the Baron’s largesse is directed not at ameliorating genuine poverty (Hughie possesses an allowance of £200 per year) but rather at keeping romance alive among the rich. Moreover, his act of generosity costs him nothing in real terms, whereas for all his misguidedness Hughie’s donation of his last sovereign “means no hansoms for a fortnight.” The phrase “model millionaire,” in the sense Wilde means it, is an oxymoron or contradiction in terms. “Charity,” Wilde writes in “The Soul of Man under Socialism,” “creates a multitude of sins.… It is immoral to use private property in order to alleviate the horrible evils that result from the institution of private property. It is both immoral and unfair.”
THE HAPPY PRINCE*
· · · HIGH ABOVE THE CITY, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes, “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.1
“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”
“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.
“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen one.”
“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.2
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
Walter Crane, frontispiece to The Happy Prince and Other Tales (London: David Nutt, 1888).
“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows, “she has no money, and far too many relations;” and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.”
“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
“You have been trifling with me,” he cried, “I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “Where shall I put up?” he said. “I hope the town has made preparations.”
Then he saw the statue on the tall column. “I will put up there,” he cried, “it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he cried, “there is not a single cl
oud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”
Then another drop fell.
“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off ?” he said. “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw—Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
“Who are you?” he said.
“I am the Happy Prince.”
“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow, “you have quite drenched me.”
“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness.3 So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.”
“What, is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
