How to be poor

obedient husband to the
country every week and works there like a maniac. She gets up at five thirty
and works incessantly — cooking, cleaning, gardening, making and repairing
things — till eleven thirty at night. When I asked her what was the point of
it, she replied: “I am quite prepared to slave for my comfort.” I could see the
slavery; I failed to see the comfort.
    Some of my readers may say: “Sour
grapes” — meaning that I, in reality, envy those rich people with country
houses. In certain other cases I might possibly doubt my own motives. It is one
thing to imagine a situation and quite another to find yourself in it. It is
one thing to say: If I inherited a fortune, I’d give it away to charities” and
quite another to inherit a fortune and then to write out those cheques. It is
amazing how one’s views change as soon as one is able to make the sacrifice in
practice one was so ready to make in principle. But in this particular case I
have the right to speak out.
    A very nice and very rich friend of
mine owned a large number of cottages in his village. Poor old villagers paid
rents of 40p or 50p a week, and a few even less. My friend absolutely refused
to raise their rent. “Shall I demand a pound? Or two? What for? It would make
very little difference to me and would ruin and embitter them.” So people went
on paying their few pennies. In any case, he became an industrialist and was
not interested in the cottages as a source of revenue. One day he mentioned to
me that I could have one of his cottages for a twenty-one years’ lease. How
much did he want for the lease? One pound. He added: not a pound per annum. One
pound for twenty-one years. “Just to make it clear that you are a
lease-holder.”
    He explained that there was a very
old couple in one of his prettier cottages and I could have the place when they
died. I declined with thanks. He wanted to know the reason why, so, somewhat
reluctantly, I explained that I would hate myself sitting there waiting for
some old people to die. I would casually ask how they were and feel
disappointed to hear that they were in robust health. A terrible thought.
    “I fully understand,” said my friend,
and did not mention the project again for six years.
    Then, six years later, he asked me if
I remembered his offer. Of course, I remembered. Very well, he told me, the old
man had died and his wife had gone to live with their daughter. The cottage was
at my disposal. Inflation was rampant by then but the lease was still one pound
for twenty-one years.
    One again I refused with thanks. My
friend failed to understand me. He thought I was raving mad. Perhaps I am. But
perhaps I am wise. I have seen too often that you do not own a country house; a
country house owns you.

The
Princess

     
    Even when
they live in the country, as opposed to being Sunday
farmers, rich people are not free. Poor, fat stockbrokers must play golf
and say they love it. New-rich accountants have to shoot although the
sight of blood makes them sick. Quite a few of them just must ride,
although they are terrified of horses and riding makes their behinds sore. You
are not accepted in country society if you are not crazy about horses.
Preferably, you ought to breed horses, too, and show a wild interest in racing.
You cannot agree with that ancient Shah of Persia who declared: “I know that
one horse can run faster than another and I care precious little which.”
Yachting is another curse, perhaps the worst punishment of all. Sailing makes
many rich people sick, and can be freezing cold. And damp. And windy. And
rough. And boring. But noblesse oblige. Sailing is a pleasure, and you
have to bloody well enjoy it.
    And the rural company they must keep.
Many of those smug and empty people would make me cry. They make them cry, too, but — like the lady who was ready to slave for her comfort — they are
ready to suffer for their pleasure.
    I knew a man — a rich manufacturer — who
achieved the dream of dreams. A member of the royal family became a regular
visitor to his house in the country. Most of his friends were green with envy.
He was known as the chap whom Princess X would visit for weekends.
    I did a little favour for him and he
wanted to reciprocate, so he invited me for a weekend. He said: “I want to do
you a special favour. I shall invite you when the Princess will be down.”
    “Do me a special favour,” I replied,
“and invite me when the Princess is not down.”
    He