How to be poor

Talloires or that his room at
Claridges is not quite as magnificent as it was at the Georges V in Paris (or
vice versa).
    The outstanding example of this attitude
I heard from a friend. A little girl was taken by her mother for lunch to the
Ritz — where else? My friend had to join them because be had some business with
the lady. (He advised her on financial matters.) They were in a great hurry,
the lady bad an appointment soon after lunch. Before they ordered their meal,
however, the child disappeared into the loo. To save time, her mother ordered
the first course for her.
    When she returned to the table she
discovered smoked salmon on her plate. The sight made her extremely peevish.
“Oh Mother!” she whined, “you know I don’t like the smoked salmon at the
Ritz!”
    Here, in a nutshell, you have all the
misery of the rich.

A Few Tears
for a Banker

     
    As it is essential to my subject, I must retell a story
(in a slightly abbreviated form) which I have told in my autobiography. I do
apologise to the millions of readers of that book. (How to be Seventy, André Deutsch, available — sometimes — in the better bookshops.)
    The editor-in-chief of my Budapest paper, Miklós Lázár, was an inveterate walker and an even more inveterate
frequenter of the Turkish bath. When he caught one of us hanging around in the
office, he asked us to accompany him and very few excuses were accepted. I
hated the walks and even more intensely the Turkish bath. When we smelt the
danger, we fled or withdrew to safe rooms, but at regular intervals we were
each caught.
    One day it was my turn again and he
suggested: “Come with me, we are going to visit Simi Krausz.”
    Now that was a very different kettle
of fish, a truly attractive proposition. Simon Krausz was a legendary figure: a
former banker, once upon a time a multimillionaire, probably the richest man in
Hungary. And, unlike most rich men, he had been recklessly generous. Perhaps,
as a new rich, he was insecure and felt that he had to buy people’s admiration
and affection. Whatever his reasons, he threw his money about with splendid
generosity. He used to reward his friends and lovers in a royal fashion; a
commissionaire who helped him with his coat would receive a tip equivalent of
£10. The gossip columns had always been full of Simi Krausz stories — I had
written quite a few of them myself. Then
suddenly he went
bankrupt and was completely finished. The papers reported that he was living in
penury. I was much interested to see him, although I was afraid of an endless
walk to the outlying, cheaper suburbs, where, I presumed, his dismal bed-sitter
must be situated.
    Hardly had we walked ten minutes,
when my editor stopped in front of a most elegant villa in Andrássy ut, the
smartest part of Budapest. A huge, black Packard protruded from the garage and
a uniformed chauffeur was fiddling with its engine. We were received by a
butler. Lunch — caviar and venison and chocolate soufflé — was served by two
footmen and — obviously — there must be at least one extremely good cook in the
kitchen.
    On the way back I said: “I thought
Simi Krausz was poor?”
    Lázár sighed: “Terribly poor. He’s
desperate.”
    “But he lives in one of the most
elegant villas in Andrássy ut.”
    “Oh yes, because there is so much
debt on it that it is simply not worthwhile for his numerous creditors to put
it up for auction.”
    “He has a huge car.”
    “An old wreck.”
    “And a staff of five. Maybe more.”
    “Poor bastard. He owes so much money
to those people that they cannot afford to leave him.”
    “And the meal he gave us...”
    “What is a meal? Do you expect him to
starve?”
    I realised, with some surprise, that
my editor was genuinely sorry for the man. I was supposed to shed a few tears
for poor Simi Krausz. But he did live in an elegant house in the most
expensive part of the town; did have a huge car and a large personal
staff; and did wash down his caviar with the best Moselle, followed by
red Burgundy with the venison.
    I have retold this story because it
led me to the third mikes law of
economics: When a
rich man is ruined he is still much better off than a poor man who becomes
rich.

A (Very) Short History of Poverty
     

     
    The first
generation of cavemen
were not poor. Admittedly, they enjoyed few luxuries but they regarded
themselves as comfortable by cave standards. It was during the life of the
second generation that a cave family — by the