Triptych

THE CLERK

There hath lately been much Complaint among the poorer Sort concerning the unequal Distribution of Money in this Kingdom, which I take to proceed chiefly from their not understanding the Nature of Money, nor the very considerable Advantages that may arise from entrusting its Manufacture to Persons of a suitable Character, and, what is more, of a suitable Address.

I have therefore resolved, for the Benefit of the Publick, to set down plainly what I have learned concerning this Matter, having myself been acquainted with a young Clerk employed in an Office of great Credit and Authority in the City of London, which Office, for Reasons that will become apparent, I shall not name, its Credit being of the kind that flourishes best in Shade.

The young Man, whose Name I shall forbear to mention—not out of Discretion, but because he hath since purchased one considerably more distinguished—was of an honest Family, though not one possessed of much Fortune, and entered the Office at an early Age, where his principal Duties consisted in copying Accounts, carrying Papers, and observing the Proceedings of his Superiors with that Attention which is generally found in Persons who hope one Day to become their Superiors, and is almost never found in Persons who already are.

It was not long before he discovered a most extraordinary Convenience in the Business.

The Gentlemen above him had the Power of creating Money.

I use the Word creating deliberately, though I know there are Persons who prefer the expression issuing, which is thought more modest; just as a Man may be said to be improving an Estate when he hath in fact doubled its Rent, or a Physician to be consulting when he hath in fact begun to bury his Patient.

The Method, as far as I could understand it, was very simple.

When the Government required a large Sum, the Gentlemen would receive certain Obligations of the Crown and, in return, provide Notes which other Men were willing to accept as Money.

I asked my Clerk whether the Notes were backed by an equal Quantity of Gold.

He laughed.

I confess I was somewhat offended by this, for I had been taught that a Promise was a grave Thing, and that to laugh at a Promise, even one’s own, was a mark of poor Character. But I soon learned that, in his Office, to laugh at a Promise was rather a mark of good Character, since it shewed that one understood the Nature of the Instrument.

“But surely,” said I, “if the Note promises Gold, there must be Gold somewhere against it?”

“Not necessarily,” said he.

“And if there be no Gold?”

“Then there is the Note.”

“And if there be no Note?”

“Then,” said he, with some Satisfaction, “there is the Confidence.”

I desired him to explain this apparent Contradiction.

He told me that I was thinking of Money as a Thing, whereas the Gentlemen in his Office understood it as a Matter of Confidence.

This appeared to me a very useful Discovery.

For if Money be a Thing, there must be a certain Quantity of it, and Men must labour to obtain it, and the Man who hath none must go without, which is inconvenient for the Man and his Creditors alike.

But if Money be Confidence, there need be no particular Limit, provided that one can persuade the World to have sufficient Confidence in the Persons who create it. And since those Persons are themselves persuaded, by the most natural Circumstance in the World, of their own Trustworthiness, the Persuasion is, as it were, self-sealing.

I immediately perceived that this placed an enormous Advantage in the Hands of those Persons.

And I was relieved to learn that the Advantage was considered entirely legitimate.

Indeed, I was assured that it would be extremely dangerous to permit ordinary People to possess it.

For the ordinary Man, being ignorant of Finance, might create too much Money.

Whereas a Gentleman of excellent Reputation may create considerably more without producing the same Concern.

This Distinction struck me as reasonable, and I confess I have since reflected upon it with some Admiration; for it is a rare Thing to find a Principle whose chief Recommendation is the very Circumstance that ought most to condemn it—namely, that it is invariably the Rich who are entrusted with the Liberty that is denied to the Poor, and that the Liberty is said to be safe precisely because they are Rich, while they are said to be Rich precisely because they have exercised it.

A poor Man who makes a Promise is called a Debtor, and may be clapt in Goal for keeping it imperfectly.

A rich Man who makes the same Promise is called an Issuer, and may be knighted for keeping it at all.

The Difference, I am told, lies in the Quality of the Promise.

And the Quality of a Promise depends chiefly upon who is permitted to make it.

And who is permitted to make it depends chiefly upon the Quality of his former Promises.

And the Quality of his former Promises depends chiefly upon whether they were made in a Room with a good Carpet.

I did not fully understand this last Point, but I was assured it was of the first Importance, and that no Man acquainted with Finance would dispute it.

My Clerk understood the Principle very quickly.

He began to observe that whenever new Money was brought into the World, it did not wander about the Streets like a stray Dog, seeking the first poor Family upon which to bestow itself.

That is not how Money behaves.

Money is a well-bred Creature, and knows its own Circle. It proceeds with an Air of Purpose to its appointed Destinations, as a Guest at a great Dinner moves without Hesitation to the Seat reserved for him, though no Servant hath shewn him to it.

It entered through particular Doors.

It went first to particular Gentlemen.

It purchased particular Securities.

It relieved particular Debts.

It raised the value of particular Estates.

And, by a most curious Coincidence, the Men who knew which Doors would open were generally the Men standing nearest to those Doors; who, having opened them for the Money, were pleased to find that the Money, in its Gratitude, had also opened them for the Men.

My Clerk considered this perfectly natural.

Indeed, he thought it proved that the Kingdom was governed by Men of unusual Ability.

I asked him whether it might not, on the contrary, prove merely that the Kingdom was governed by Men of unusual Proximity; for I had observed, in the lesser Affairs of Life, that a Man seated nearest the Fire is not thereby shewn to be the best Maker of Fires, though he is unquestionably the Warmest.

He admitted the Analogy was just, but denied its Application.

“The Fire,” said he, “was already lit. We did not make it. We only sit by it.”

“And do you not,” said I, “add Wood?”

“That,” said he, “is done by the Publick.”

I thought this a very handsome Division of Labour—the Publick supplying the Wood, and the Gentlemen supplying the Warmth—and I could not but admire a System in which the same Act is called, by one Party, a Contribution, and by the other, a Fee.

He soon began to purchase certain Securities himself.

He had no great Fortune with which to begin, but he possessed one Advantage that proved more valuable than Money.

He knew what the Gentlemen intended to do before the rest of the Kingdom knew it.

And since the rest of the Kingdom could not know it, the Information being of a Kind that the Gentlemen kept, with great Care, to themselves, his Advantage was of that satisfactory Sort which cannot be diminished by being shared, because it is not shared.

I asked him whether he did not think this unfair.

He looked at me with considerable Surprise.

“Unfair?” said he. “I work here.”

I could think of no Answer to this.

For it is difficult to argue against a Man whose chief Defence is that he hath been given a Chair near the Printing Press. The Defence is not, perhaps, a moral one, but it hath the great Merit of being unanswerable, since it advances no Principle that could be tested, but only a Fact that could not be altered.

And I confess that, the more I considered the Matter, the more reasonable it appeared.

For if the Kingdom must have new Money, surely somebody must be trusted to make it.

And if somebody must be trusted to make it, surely the Persons who are already making it are the most trustworthy; since, having made it, they have made themselves rich, and a rich Man is by Definition trustworthy, for no one would have entrusted him with the Making if he had not first been trusted, and he would not have first been trusted if he had not first been rich.

And if those Persons become richer by making it, this is merely evidence that the Kingdom hath chosen wisely.

For if it had chosen ill, the Persons would have become poorer, which would have shewn poor Judgment; and since they have become richer, the Kingdom hath shewn good Judgment; and since it hath shewn good Judgment, we may conclude that the Persons are worthy; and since they are worthy, we may entrust them with more—and so the Argument proceeds, in that happy Circle which is the favourite Figure of Finance, since it returns always to the Point at which it began, and begins always at the Point at which it returns.

Thus doth Providence reveal its Judgment through the Price of an Asset.

And thus doth the Price of an Asset reveal the Judgment of the Men who have purchased it beforehand.

Nor should I omit one further Observation, which struck me with considerable Force.

When, upon some unhappy Occasion, the Money that had been so confidently created happened to be lost—as Money, I am told, will sometimes lose itself, though no one is ever responsible for the losing—the Loss did not fall upon the Gentlemen who had made it.

This was accounted perfectly just.

For the Gentlemen, having made the Money, could not be expected to unmake it. That would be unreasonable.

The unmaking fell, by a natural Principle, to those who had not made it, since they alone had the Leisure that the Loss required, having nothing else to lose.

I observed that this seemed to invert the usual Logic of Property, by which a Man keeps what he hath made and answers for what he hath spoilt.

But I was told that the usual Logic of Property was a domestic Logic, suited to Cottages and small Trades, and that the Logic of great Finance was of a different and superior Kind, in which the Maker keeps and the Sufferer answers.

This, when one reflects upon it, is merely to say that great Finance applies to Nations the Wisdom which a careful Householder applies to his Furniture: namely, that the best Chair is kept for the Guest who is already seated in it.

I shall say no more upon the Subject, lest I be accused of encouraging Envy among the poorer Sort—an Emotion which I have always understood to be among the most deplorable, since it is the only one that the Poor can afford.

I shall only observe that the young Clerk did not remain a Clerk for long.

His Knowledge made him useful.

His Usefulness made him prosperous.

His Prosperity made him respectable.

His Respectability made him influential.

And his Influence made him necessary.

By the Time he had reached an Age at which other Men begin to think seriously of Retirement, he had become the sort of Gentleman whose Opinions were requested whenever Money was to be created, distributed, protected, or otherwise persuaded to behave itself.

His Son was educated at a better School than he had been.

His Son’s Son was educated still better.

The Family acquired Land.

It acquired Shares.

It acquired Friends in Parliament.

It acquired Friends among the Clergy.

It acquired, in short, that excellent Reputation for Prudence which is most easily obtained by Men who have already been furnished with the Means of practising it.

And here, I think, we may observe the great Wisdom of the Arrangement.

For an Aristocracy founded upon Birth is liable to many Objections.

A Man may be born a Duke and prove a Fool.

But an Aristocracy founded upon Proximity to Money is of a much more ingenious Construction.

The Man is first placed near the Money.

He then acquires Wealth.

His Wealth is taken as Evidence of his Ability.

His Ability is taken as Reason for placing him nearer the Money.

And, having been placed nearer the Money, he acquires further Wealth, which furnishes additional Proof of his Ability.

Thus the Selection improves itself.

The most fortunate become the most capable; the most capable become the most trusted; the most trusted are brought nearest the Source; and those nearest the Source become, by a happy and almost invisible Operation, the most fortunate.

I am told that this is called Merit.

I confess I find the Word admirably chosen.

For what could more perfectly merit a Fortune than having been fortunate enough to be standing beside the place where Fortunes are made?

And if, in the course of several Generations, the same Families should continue to occupy the best Chairs, purchase the best Securities, receive the best Information, and advise the Kingdom upon the proper quantity of Money that ought to exist, I see no reason whatsoever for alarm.

It would merely shew that Nature hath a long Memory.

And if the poorer Sort should enquire why they themselves have not prospered in the same manner, I would advise them to cultivate Industry, Prudence, and good Character.

Above all, they should endeavour to obtain a Chair.

For though it is certainly possible to become rich by honest Labour, I have never observed that honest Labour is performed particularly close to the Printing Press.

THE WIDOWS OF SCOTLAND

There hath of late been much Complaint touching the Manner in which Money is coined and disposed of throughout the Kingdom; yet must I, with no small Satisfaction, acquaint the Reader that no such Murmurs have proceeded from the Widows of Scotland.

A most happy Circumstance, for Widows are Ladies of singular Experience in Monetary Affairs, having noted what becomes of a Fortune when a Husband is, by the Will of Providence, removed from this Vale of Tears.

The Scottish Widows, in particular, have declared themselves entirely satisfied with the present Arrangement.

I must needs confess, that at first I was not a little astonished at this. For when I explained that certain Gentlemen of great Note did possess the Power of creating Money by the Stroke of a Pen, and that these Notes might purchase Government Bonds, Stocks, Lands, and Houses, I expected some Tokens of Alarm.

But lo! There was none.

One ancient Widow, having adjusted her Spectacles, did thus address me:

“Pray, Sir, is the Money secure?”

“It is,” said I.

“Then what is the Difficulty?” said she.

I explained that the Money entered the Economy through certain Institutions, where it benefited those who already possessed Property.

She considered this. “Then it goeth first to those who have somewhat already.”

“Precisely,” said I.

“And those who have nothing?”

“Receive it later.”

She nodded. “Then it is properly arranged.”

Another Widow, listening by the Fire, observed: “Such Persons would but squander it upon Frivolities.”

I ventured that this was, in Truth, one of Money’s chief Uses.

She looked at me as though I had proposed dividing the Family Plate among the Servants.

“Spend it upon what?” said she.

“Upon Meat and Drink,” said I.

“Then the Grocer would have it,” said she.

“Yes,” said I.

“And then?”

“He would spend it.”

“At which Point,” said she, “we should have the Money passing from Hand to Hand like a Tinker’s Ware.”

“That is generally what Money does,” said I.

She shook her Head. “A most extravagant Scheme!”

I then set forth another Advantage: When new Money entered through Financial Institutions, it might be directed toward Assets of lasting Value—Bonds, Lands, Houses—which was far safer than letting it circulate among the common People.

“Ah!” said the Widow, with a knowing Smile. “The Widow understandeth Land. The Widow understandeth Houses. And above all, that the Price of a Thing is not the Thing itself.”

If a House worth Ten Thousand Pounds becomes worth Twenty, she doth not conclude the House hath doubled in Size, but that the World hath grown more costly.

I asked if she thought it just that a Man who already owned a House should benefit when new Money raised its Price.

“Certainly,” said she.

“And what of the Man who wishes to buy one?”

“He should have bought it earlier,” said she.

“And if he had no Money?”

“He should have saved,” said she.

“And if he saved, but the Price rose faster?”

She fixed me with a Look of sovereign Contempt. “Then he should have saved the faster.”

I then asked if she objected to the Gentlemen who created the Money becoming richer thereby.

“Why should I?” said she.

“Because they are the very Persons who do create it,” said I.

She paused. “If they were Cobblers, and did make Shoes, would you think it strange that the Shoemaker should possess a Pair?”

“No,” said I.

“Then I see no Difficulty,” said she. “But Money is more difficult.”

“Which is why,” she continued, “it should be done by respectable Gentlemen.”

For, as she did explain, whatsoever is dangerous ought to be intrusted only to Persons of sufficient Standing to make it respectable.

A Knife in the Hand of a poor Man is a Weapon. The same Knife in the Hand of a Surgeon is an Instrument. A great Quantity of new Money in the Hands of the Publick is Inflation. The same Quantity in the Hands of a respectable Institution is Monetary Policy.

I asked if the Gentlemen ever made Mistakes themselves.

“Certainly,” said she.

“And what happens then?”

“They are given more Responsibility,” said she.

This appeared to me a remarkable System.

I asked if it might not encourage the Gentlemen to take excessive Risks.

The Widow looked puzzled. “Why should they?”

“Because they know that if the Risks succeed, they shall profit,” said I.

“Yes,” said she.

“And if they fail?”

“They shall be assisted,” said she.

“Then why should they not take them?” said she.

The Widow smiled. “You are assuming they are Fools.”

I assured her I was not.

“Then they will know when to stop,” said she.

I was by this Time so convinced of the Widow’s Wisdom that I put to her one final Question.

“Suppose,” said I, “this System continued for many Years. Suppose each Generation of Gentlemen became richer, their Families acquiring Houses, Lands, Stocks, and Influence. Suppose their Children were educated among others of the same Advantages, and in Time found themselves once more nearest the Source of new Money. Would this not result in a permanent Class whose chief Qualification was Proximity to the Fountain?”

The Widow stared at me. “Are they good Men?”

“I believe so,” said I.

“Are they respectable?”

“Very,” said I.

“Do they pay their Debts?”

“Almost invariably,” said I.

“Then I see no Problem,” said she.

“But would it not be an Aristocracy?” said I.

She seemed offended. “Of course not.”

“What would you call it?” said I.

She considered. “A prudent Allocation of Capital,” said she.

I bowed. There was nothing further to say.

For the Scottish Widow did not merely approve of the System. She depended upon it.

Her Pension was invested. Her Savings were invested. Her Security rested upon the Solvency of Institutions whose Stability required Confidence, and whose Confidence required that those most capable of disturbing the Arrangement should remain those most interested in preserving it.

She desired only that the World remain sufficiently stable for her to continue receiving her Payments.

The Scottish Widows, I am happy to report, find this Arrangement entirely satisfactory.

And I see no Reason why they should not.

After all, the Money is safe.

Which is more than can be said for the People who have none.

THE CONFESSION OF A SCOTTISH WIDOW

I do here freely confess, that I have not been a Loser by the Bargain.

My Husband, God rest his Soul, is dead. My Children are provided for. I possess a House, Land, Securities, and an Income that arrives with such Punctuality that I have almost forgot the Inconvenience of having once been poor.

So completely hath this Memory faded, that I sometimes suspect I was never poor at all, but merely dreaming.

There are Persons who call this Inequality. I call it an Account settled.

For Thirty-One Years I was married to a Man who considered every Thing I did to be my Duty. I rose before him, I went to bed after him, I bore his Children, I buried two of them. I nursed him through Sickness and Drink, through Anger and Silence.

When he wanted Money, he asked where I had put it. When there was none, he asked what I had done with it.

When he wished to appear generous, he gave me an Allowance and called it a Gift. When he wished to appear prudent, he reduced it and called it Economy. Thus the same Sum was at once his Generosity, his Wisdom, and, when I spent it, my Extravagance.

After his Death, I discovered he had been making Money in Ways never explained to me. There were Notes, Obligations, Securities, Debts owed to Persons who owed Money to others who lent it to Persons who possessed Land.

There were even Persons who owed Money to Persons who did not exist—which I found the most respectable Partof the Arrangement, for it proved the System could function without the Incumbrance of Human Beings.

I understood none of it. Therefore it must be important. For nothing convinces me more of a Financial Arrangement’s Soundness than that a Widow cannot understand it.

Complexity is the Garment in which Iniquity walks abroad without Shame.

The Value of our Holdings increased. At first I was embarrassed. Then I was grateful. Then I became accustomed to it.

This is how Wealth operates. It first appears miraculous. Then reasonable. Then deserved. Eventually one wonders why it was ever possessed by anybody else. And shortly after, why anybody else possesses anything at all—which is the final Stage of moral Enlightenment.

I was told the Increase came from new Money entering the System. I asked if this would make everything more expensive. I was told it might. I asked if this would make it harder for young People to buy Houses. I was told it might. I asked if this was unfortunate.

I was told it depended upon whether one owned a House.

I found this sensible. For it is an Advantage of Wealth that the same Event may be unfortunate to the Poor and beneficial to the Rich without becoming contradictory.

If the Price of my House rises, I am richer. If the Price of the young Man’s House rises, he is poorer. Thus the same House may make two People richer and poorer at once, which proves Property is an advanced Form of Mathematics—one at which the Poor are continually failing, not from Want of Intelligence, but from Want of Capital.

There are Persons who ask: “Madam, if everybody cannot afford to buy, who shall own the Houses?”

I answer: “Those who can afford them.”

“But how shall others ever afford them?”

“They must first become Wealthy.”

“And how?”

“By acquiring Property.”

“And how shall they acquire Property?”

“By paying those who already possess it.”

At this they fall silent. I consider this Silence an excellent sign.

Some suggest my Wealth contributes to the very Difficulty these young People complain of. I do not deny it. But neither do I accept Responsibility.

A Woman cannot be blamed merely because the World arranges itself so her Good Fortune appears beside another’s Misfortune.

If my House grows dearer, that is the Market. If a young Couple cannot buy it, that is their Circumstance. If I refuse to sell it cheaply, that is Prudence. If I sell it dearly, that is Investment. If I buy another with the Profit, that is Diversification. If I buy a third, that is Security. If I buy a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth, that is Patriotism—for I am housing the Nation’s Money, which, left to wander among the Poor, would only be spent on Food and other Transient Pleasures.

I have been told to consider the Effect of my Wealth upon Society. I do. I consider Society fortunate to contain Persons such as myself.

For who else would own the Houses? Who else would hold the Securities? Who else would lend the Money? Who else would receive the Interest?

Nobody can perform these Duties unless somebody first accumulates Wealth. And Wealth cannot be accumulated unless it is permitted to accumulate. Therefore Wealth must accumulate. And those who possess it must possess it. Otherwise they would not possess it.

This is what I call Stability.

I have been accused of benefiting from a System that benefits those already well placed. I confess the Charge.

I was well placed. After Thirty-One Years of Marriage, I had earned the Right to be somewhere.

And if I stood nearer the Money when it began to move, I see no Advantage in surrendering that Position merely because others are not.

I did not choose the Distance. I merely benefited from it.

I have no Objection to Equality. I object only to being made Equal with Persons who have not endured what I have endured.

This is not Elitism. It is Accounting.

Every Humiliation I suffered is an Entry on my Ledger. Every insult, every sleepless Night, every meal cooked while ill—I have counted them all.

The Ledger must balance. And now it does.

People say Wealth changes a Person. This is true.

Before I had Money, I was a Widow. Afterward, I became a Respectable Widow.

Before, I had Opinions. Now I have Principles.

Before, I complained of the Price of Things. Now I complain of Inflation.

Before, I wanted Security. Now I defend Property.

Before, I thought the World unfair. Now I find it complicated.

This is the natural Progress of Understanding.

The Poor believe Money should be distributed by Need. The Middle Sort by Work. The Rich by Merit.

And Merit, conveniently, is measured by the Amount of Money already possessed.

Thus the System corrects itself. The Man who hath Money hath proved he deserves Money. The Man who deserves Money receives more Money. Thus the Proof grows stronger with every Payment.

I find this admirable. It is the only System where Success is both the Evidence and the Reward of Success.

It is as if a Physician judged his Patient’s Health by the Quantity of Medicine consumed, prescribing more in proportion—so the sickest Man, being most medicated, is pronounced most healthy, and the dead, having consumed most of all, are accounted most healthful.

As for myself, I did not make the Rules. I merely survived them.

And having survived them, I see no Reason to be punished for it.

After Thirty-One Years of Marriage, I believe I have suffered enough for other People.

I see no Reason why I should not now prosper at their Expense.

For Expense, I have learned, is the natural Purpose of other People. And I have moved from the paying Side to the receiving. Which is, I believe, what is meant by Progress.

THE CONFESSION OF A POOR SERVANT

I must own I’ve been a poor man all my days.

Not that I complain—for nothing’s more wearisome than a poor man that whines about his poverty, as if it were some strange misfortune and not the natural lot of them as is born without a penny.

Nay, I don’t count myself poor in the strictest sense, for I’ve always had the luck to be near them as had money, and I’ve long thought that being next to another man’s wealth is a kind of wealth itself—though it brings in no interestand fills no belly, which is like as not why the rich are so free with it to the poor.

I served many a year in the house of a lady with a mighty fine fortune. She’s now a widow, and a rich one at that.

I had my part in her fortune—not in the vulgar way of getting any of it, but in helping to keep it safe.

I polished the silver, I carried the coals, I got up when the bell rang, I emptied the chamber pots. I watched the children when they were sick, I sat with the master when he was in his cups, I waited outside the door when he was in a temper. I fetched whoever was needed—so long as it wasn’t myself.

There were nights the children cried till morning, and I walked them while their mother slept. I don’t blame her—a lady must have her rest.

Indeed, the poor are well suited to carrying the burdens of the rich, for the rich have many burdens that would else keep them from their rest.

And a lady kept from her rest is a sorry sight for the whole household, whereas a servant kept from his rest is only a servant that’s awake—which is his natural state.

I was paid little. Sometimes nothing. This was no great wonder.

My master once told me to consider my position. So I did. It was below his. So I understood well enough.

He was a gentleman. I was a servant. The difference showed in our wages.

The wages being small proved my labour was of little worth. And since my labour was of little worth, the smallness of my wages was plain justice.

My wife used to say that if my work was necessary, I ought to be paid more. But this is dangerous thinking.

Many things are necessary that aren’t valuable. Air is necessary, yet no one pays for it. Water’s necessary too, and near as free, while wine, which no man needs, costs a pretty penny.

So the price of a thing bears no relation to its necessity, but to the trouble of getting it. And since I was always at hand and couldn’t leave, I caused no trouble, so my price was nothing. Which I count the purest economics.

I’ve always been grateful my employers didn’t mistake necessity for worth.

I was necessary. I was not worth much. There’s a difference.

A bridge is necessary, a diamond isn’t, yet the diamond’s worth more. This shows worth comes not from usefulnessbut from scarcity. I was common as dirt, so I was cheap. Had there been but one of me in England, I might have been valuable. But the Lord saw fit to make many like me, and this plenty ruined our price.

When the master died, there was great sorrow. The lady bore it with fine dignity. She said thirty-one years of marriage had been a long trial. I thought this true enough—I’d seen much of that trial myself.

There’d been sickness, drink, anger, children. Nights when the lady couldn’t sleep, nights when the children couldn’t sleep, nights when the master wouldn’t sleep. I slept little enough myself.

But I was only a servant, so my sleeplessness didn’t count as suffering. Indeed, it didn’t count at all.

This is one advantage of being poor: our sufferings are counted as duties. And duties, once done, are forgot—which is their great virtue. For a thing remembered is a debt, and a thing forgot is a gift. So every duty I’ve done has become a gift to my betters, and I’ve been right generous, though none have thanked me.

The lady once told a visitor she’d sacrificed the best years of her life. I was behind the door at the time. I’d not known those years were hers. I’d thought they belonged to us all. But I was wrong.

A lady’s years are sacrificed. A servant’s years are spent. It’s a useful difference.

After the master died, the house grew quieter. The lady’s fortune grew. There were new notes, new securities, new investments, new payments. I didn’t understand where the money came from. But I’d learned money’s not improved by asking where it comes from. It’s improved by getting it.

And those who get it are improved by it. The lady, before her fortune, was only a wife. After it, she became a gentlewoman of standing. The money didn’t change her character—it showed it.

My eldest son left England. He said there was no future for him here. I told him a man makes his own future. He said there was no land for him. I told him to work harder. He said he’d been working since he was ten. I told him Hard Work was its own Reward. This pleased me—it sounded like wisdom.

It sounded like wisdom because I’d heard it from rich folk, and I’ve noticed wealth makes every word from a rich man’s mouth sound wise, even when the same words from a poor man would sound like folly.

He went away.

My second son took the king’s shilling. He said there was a wage, and the chance to see foreign parts. I told him serving the country was an honour. He died in a foreign land. They tell me he died honourably. I’m proud of him. It’s a comfort to know a poor man may yet gain distinction by dying before he can get property.

My third son stayed. He works, he’s married, they have children. They rent a small house. They can’t afford to buy. I tell him not to complain.

After all, the lady’s house is right dear now. It would be unreasonable to expect her to sell it cheap just because my son can’t afford it. She’s held that house many a year. She’s suffered. She deserves its worth.

My son says he’s suffered too. I tell him that’s beside the point. His suffering hasn’t produced an asset yet. That’s where he’s gone wrong.

Suffering must be tied to property to be worth aught. The lady suffered as a wife, became a widow, and had property. So her suffering got meaning. My son suffered as a labourer and remains a labourer. So his suffering’s still just suffering. And mere suffering, I’m told, is worth nothing.

There’s no accounting error here. It’s simply a matter of position. My suffering was done in the wrong position. Had I suffered as a lady or gentleman, my suffering would have been valuable. The error wasn’t in the suffering but in the position. And the error in position wasn’t mine but the Lord’s, and you can’t sue the Lord.

I sometimes wonder if I should have done more for my sons. Maybe I should have saved more—but there was little to save. Maybe I should have invested—but you need money to invest. Maybe I should have bought land—but you need land to borrow against. Maybe I should have borrowed—but a man with nothing isn’t a good borrower.

This is sensible. A poor man’s poor because he can’t borrow. He can’t borrow because he’s poor. So his poverty protects the lender from the danger of lending to him. I can’t object to such prudence.

For prudence is the art of refusing to help them as need it, on the grounds that they need it, which would make helping them a bad investment. A bad investment helps a man that can’t pay you back. And a man that can’t pay you back is, by definition, the very man that most needs help. So help and prudence are natural enemies, and prudence always wins, for prudence has money and help has none. In any dispute between the two, money is the judge.

The lady once said wealth was the reward of patience. I thought on this long. I’ve been patient all my life. Maybe I was patient in the wrong direction.

For I’ve waited, I’ve obeyed, I’ve saved when I could, I’ve gone without, I’ve worked, I’ve served, I’ve buried a son, I’ve lost another to foreign parts. And still I’ve no house.

So mayhap patience needs property to turn to wealth. Otherwise it’s only waiting. This is a lesson I wish I’d learned earlier.

But I didn’t because I wasn’t born to folk that knew it. And they weren’t born to ofolk that knew it because none in our line ever owned aught. So the chain of cause and effect is unbroken, and I’m exactly where the system meant me to be. Which is a comfort, for it means nothing’s gone wrong, and my poverty’s not a mistake but a feature.

Still, I don’t envy the lady. Envy would be ungentlemanly. She has what she has because she deserves it. She deserves it because she suffered. Her suffering’s proved by her wealth. Her wealth’s proved by the house, the land, the stocks, and the income. So these prove she suffered enough. I, having none of these, must conclude I didn’t suffer enough. This is the only reasonable explanation.

If I had been a better servant, perhaps I’d have become a better master. If I’d become a better master, perhaps I’d have employed men like myself. If I’d employed men like myself, perhaps I’d have grown wealthy. And if I’d grown wealthy, I’d have been justified in employing men like myself.

Thus, had I possessed the qualities to be wealthy, I might have been wealthy. And since I’m not wealthy, it’s reasonable to conclude I didn’t possess those qualities. I find this conclusion right comforting. For it means no one’s done me an injury. I’ve simply been measured right.

The lady is wealthy because she was worthy. I am poor because I was not. Her children inherited. Mine inherited nothing. Her sons received land. Mine received advice. Her house increased in value. My son’s rent increased.

Her morning was called being waited upon. His morning was called waiting. Her evening was called Leisure. His evening was called Overtime. Her death will be called a Loss. Mine will be called a Vacancy.

For a rich person, when they die, leaves a hole in the world. A poor person, when he dies, merely leaves a position open, which is filled before the body is cold.

I do not complain. Indeed, I am grateful. For if the world were otherwise arranged, I’d have no way of knowing if I’d been a good man. As it is, I have a simple test: I am poor. Therefore I must improve. The lady is rich. Therefore she must have improved. I see no reason to disturb so elegant a system.

And if my sons can’t afford a house, they must work harder. If they can’t save, they must spend less. If they can’t borrow, they must become more creditworthy. If they can’t become creditworthy, they must acquire assets. If they can’t acquire assets, they must work harder.

If working harder doesn’t produce assets, they must work harder still. If that doesn’t produce assets, they must work harder than that. If that only brings a rupture and an early grave, then they haven’t worked hard enough, or they’ve worked hard in the wrong way, or in the wrong place, or under the wrong name, or they’ve worked hard but not hard enough to overcome the disadvantage of being born poor—which may be overcome, I’m assured, by working hard, provided one works hard enough.

And no one has yet worked hard enough, which proves the disadvantage is not insurmountable but merely unsurmounted, and the fault is ours, for not climbing a mountain which no one has ever climbed.

This is what I tell them. It’s the same advice I was given. And since the advice has lasted so many generationswithout making us rich, I conclude the fault’s with us. The advice itself is clearly excellent.

For advice doesn’t need to be useful to be good. It only needs to be repeated. And it’s been repeated for centuries by folk that didn’t follow it and yet grew wealthy. This proves the advice is sound, and the reason it doesn’t work is not the advice but them as receive it—just as a medicine that cures the healthy and kills the sick may be called excellent, provided you’re healthy. And if you’re sick, you shouldn’t blame the medicine but yourself for being sick—which is the principle the whole practice of economics is founded on.

So I’m content with my lot. The lady has her house. I have the honour of having once worked in it. She has her securities. I have the memory of polishing the silver. She has her income. I have my sons. One’s dead. One’s gone. One’s renting.

But I still have my pride. And pride is the one possession that can’t be taxed, mortgaged, inherited, or taken from a poor man. It’s also, fortunately, of no use whatsoever—which makes it the one possession I can afford to keep.

And I’ve reflected that this may be the greatest mercy the Lord has shown the poor: that He’s given us a possessionthat costs nothing, feeds nothing, houses nothing, cures nothing, and defends nothing—yet in the dark hours it feels like wealth. So a poor man may lie down at night with nothing in his cupboard, nothing in his pocket, and nothing in his name, and yet believe himself rich. And he may fall asleep, and die, and be buried in a pauper’s grave with the quiet satisfaction of a man that owned something after all—though what he owned was only the conviction that he deserved nothing.