How to be poor

could not be
poor and mean at one and the same time. (The Scots, in my personal
experience, are particularly generous people.)

    It is the rich men’s avarice which
has excited writers from Molière and Ben Jonson to Arnold Bennett, and it is
the meanness of the rich which interests us here. After all, it is more natural
to worry about your next meal than about your next million.
    I was a young law-student in Budapest when I came across my first staggering example of niggardliness. I was employed
by a lawyer, a friend of our family, who was a larger-than-life figure with a
robust laugh and who was in full sympathy with my ambition to become a
journalist rather than a lawyer, so gave me all the free time I needed.
Occasionally, however, he needed me and as he gave me a decent salary — quite
undeserved — I did not consider this unreasonable. One Saturday afternoon what
the British call “completion” of the purchase of a large block of flats was
taking place, and I was ordered to come in at three o’clock and be helpful at
the ceremony. My contribution was to be a modest one, emptying ashtrays and
using the blotting paper on the parties’ signatures. First I had to wait three
hours in the outer office, courting vehemently and not entirely unsuccessfully
the lawyer’s maid. Then, at six o’clock, my great moment came and I was called
in. Entering the room I saw Mr H — our client, the vendor — sitting behind a
huge pile of money. The selling price was half a million pengös, about £25,000,
quite a fortune in those days, particularly in Hungary. Cheques were not in
common use, payment was always in cash. I had never seen such a mountain of
money before. Mr H, although a tall (and scraggy and cadaverous) figure, was
almost completely hidden by these walls of money built around him. The
contracts were duly signed and most efficiently blotted, whereupon the buyer’s
lawyer asked for the documents relating to the house (tenants’ contracts,
insurance papers, etc). Mr H picked up a thick pile of documents fastened with
a rubber band, took off the band and handed the documents to the lawyer. He
went through them quickly — he had examined them before, of course — found
everything in order and, as the documents were falling apart, asked Mr H
casually: “May I have that rubber band, please?”
    Mr H was visibly taken aback and
worried. After some hesitation, he said: “The rubber band? You can have it for
50 fillers” (half of one pengö, about sixpence).
    For the sake of historical accuracy I
must add that my boss said, kindly but firmly, “Oh, Mr H…”, took the rubber
band from his client’s hand and passed it to the other lawyer. Whether 50
fillers were subsequently deducted from his bill, I do not know.
    That was long ago. More than half a
century ago, in fact. But the scene is clearly in my mind. I failed to
understand then, and fail to understand now, why a man who has just pocketed
£25,000 should feel the need to make fourpence profit on a used rubber band.
But today I do know, at least, that love of money is a complex and consuming
passion, like love of a woman (or man), like jealousy, hatred and envy. It
cannot be understood through logic, as the Second Law of Thermodynamics can be
(which most people do not understand either). Money can mean more than money.
For some people money means love. And equally important: money — they think — can
buy love. And for a large number of people money means even more. It is a
measure of their success, their worth, their achievement: it is proof of not
having lived in vain. Money — for these wretched, rich people — means themselves. They don’t only have money; they are money. Paying out money is
like losing a finger; like an eye being scratched out. When a rich man has to
spend a large sum he feels like Prometheus chained to a rock with an eagle
pecking at his liver — although few rich people are Titans and still fewer have
brought fire to this earth.
    Paul Getty was the richest man in the
world. He was pleased to be the richest man in the world — a vulgar
satisfaction. If one is the richest man in the world one should at least have
the decency to be ashamed of it. He invited a large number of people to his
place in the country but installed a coin-operated telephone box lest his
guests should call London at his expense. Even if all of them had called Sydney, Australia, and had spoken for half an hour, he would not have noticed it
financially.