How to be poor

bedsitter.
    The truly rich live in constant fear
of being kidnapped. Or — even worse — of their children being kidnapped. So
they have to hire bodyguards, strong-arm men and other unpleasant characters to
be their constant companions and remind them of the danger all the time. Poor
men may spend their time with their private friends or intimate enemies, rather
than with retired police sergeants whom most of us respect but few of us love.
Occasionally, the rich men are kidnapped all the same, and then, if they
are lucky, their fortune is spent on the ransom. If unlucky, they are killed,
or have a finger or two chopped off. A very unpleasant — and avoidable — experience.
    The tax exile is perhaps the most
pathetic and ludicrous figure of all. That a man who could afford to live
anywhere should retire to some little island which, though sunny, is very
boring, or even to Switzerland, which, though lovely, is very full of the Swiss
— this is the height of idiocy. Money, after all, should be there to buy
pleasure, not to buy misery. So what if the rich man’s heirs get a few millions
less? It would be sheer luck for them.
    Many of us remember the
multimillionaire who at the age of sixty (and in frail health) was exiled by
his loving family to a Caribbean island. As soon as he got there his health
began to improve, and the poor wretch went on living until the ripe old age of
ninety-two. In other words, he spent more than one third of his life in
loneliness and boredom — practically in solitary confinement — in a place he
loathed with all his heart, just because he was very, very rich. “Tu l’as
voulu, Georges Dandin.” I have no sympathy for such fools.

Country Houses

     
    Even if we
step down from the level
of Picasso-collectors and kidnappees — in other words from the level of the
super-rich to the level of the well-off- we still meet plenty of misery.
    Houses in the country and, even more,
houses abroad are a damned nuisance and the source of great unhappiness. I
readily admit that there is a small band of people whom this way of life suits
perfectly. Some people just love to go to, say, Essex every Friday, cultivate
their gardens, dig and hoe and paint walls and drive nails into wood. Let them
enjoy themselves. The point is that the majority of the country-house owners do
not enjoy themselves.
    Having acquired the house, initially
they feel happy. Having acquired anything they would feel happy — it is
exactly this joy of acquisition that separates one half of humanity from the
other. But after a while they realise that they must go to their country
house, otherwise it becomes a bad investment. Not going there is “waste” — and
waste, they think, is the worst of sins. They will never learn that it is, in
fact, one of the most splendid virtues. If they do go to their house every
weekend, the journey becomes a duty, a chore and a bore; if they don’t they
feel guilty. In either case they become nervous wrecks. But they will not admit
this to themselves. They are proud of their country house and would not dream
of selling their prize possession.
    I can take holidays wherever I
choose: in Brazil or the South of France; in Devon... or else I can stay at
home. One of my rich friends must go to the Dordogne, and another to Tuscany, although the Dordogne and Tuscany are the only places they are fed up with. I know
people who rush to central France at every Bank Holiday and try to convince
themselves that they love it. After every holiday there they need a proper
holiday somewhere else-everyone else can see that, but they can’t. They do not
realise how — deep down, unknown to themselves — they dread those Bank
Holidays. They put a cheerful face on the matter. They grit their teeth and go.
Duty calls; pleasure belongs to the poor.
    I know one pitiable couple with two
houses in Britain and four abroad. Once upon a time they tried to visit them
all at regular intervals, but they had to give this up, it was just impossible.
They maintain that those empty, abandoned, rusting, sad places are “good
investments”. Perhaps. I, personally, have never wanted to invest.
    (Not even small sums. A few days ago
I asked my greengrocer if he had pears. He handed me a pound or two and said:
“They’ll be ripe in five days.” I handed them back and told him: “I buy pears
to eat. I don’t buy them as an investment.”)
    Another woman I know takes a
different attitude. She drives her car and her meek,