Mean people are everywhere — as common as potholes after a Cape Town storm or corruption in South Africa: unavoidable, irritating and often lurking where you least expect them. They come in many shades of stingy — the cheapskate, the tightwad, the miser who clutches each coin like it’s a newborn. There’s “Uncle,” who arrives for a one-month visit and, a year later, is still sprawled in the guest room, contributing little more than an empty toothpaste tube to the household economy — though never missing his nightly date with your best brandy. Or the “very honest” financial adviser who insists on taking you to lunch, orders the lobster thermidor and a bottle of French champagne, then sighs dramatically at the bill: “Oh dear, I must have left my wallet at the office.” There’s also the birthday-party freeloader who arrives empty-handed but leaves with half the cake, and the office colleague who takes the group coffee order, pockets the change, and still manages to complain about the tip.
The Queen of Mean was Hetty Green of New York, who was born in 1835, one of the richest women in the world, with an annual income of $7m (R123m). So mean was Hetty that she'd spend half the night looking for a lost 10-cent postage stamp.
She was the only child of wealthy dad, Howland Robinson, who came from a long line of Quakers with moneymaking in their blood. Hetty, an only child, was a bad-tempered little girl. At a young age she was tutored by her father about the Wall Street stock market. When her father died it was reported he left her $6m (R105m) in liquid assets. But, of course, she wanted more.
At the age of 33, and reasonably attractive, Hetty became a bride. Her husband, Edward Green, was made to renounce all rights to her fortune before the wedding. For a time they lived in Edward’s splendid Manhattan apartment. Later she and her husband — who, by the way, was also very rich — fled to London because they were implicated in a forgery investigation: Hetty was accused of forging a relative’s will. For eight years they stayed at the posh Langham Hotel. Needless to say, her husband paid the bill. Their two children were born in London.
Returning to America, Hetty became tired of being a housewife. Her real ambition was to increase her wealth. She quarrelled about every cent that was spent on her in-laws, her husband and servants.
Hetty’s marriage ended after 14 years and with her two children, she moved into a shabby furnished apartment. Most mornings she was seated at her bank’s foyer wearing ragged, old-fashioned black clothes. Ironically, she'd gone from riches to rags. The grim-faced Hetty greeted no-one, and no-one came near her. She stank because of her aversion to taking a bath — presumably a waste of money on water. In her beaten-up old handbag was her lunch — a tin of oatmeal. She was ready for wheeling and dealing to fight the “Wolves of Wall Street”, though she also increased her net worth, mainly as a moneylender, with the foresight of a genius.
After all, a full bank account is a poor consolation prize for an empty life — and oatmeal eaten alone in a ragged dress is a high price to pay for being the richest corpse in the cemetery.
She was fond of her two children, Ned and Sylvia. Ned never had proper medical attention for a deformed leg — too expensive — and ended up with a cork prosthetic leg. Away from his mother in later life, Ned was to live lavishly. Her daughter, Sylvia, was discouraged from suitors. When Sylvia married, Hetty made her son-in-law waive all rights to inherited property and money.
When Hetty got older, in spite of grim determination, she couldn’t avoid ill-health and she developed a bad hernia. A doctor told her she should have an operation but, before even considering it, she demanded to know how much it would cost. The Doctor, knowing her reputation, swallowed hard: “My fee will be $150 and hospital charges will be extra.” There was a moment’s silence, and then Hetty shrieked, “You’re all alike — a bunch of robbers.” When the Doctor asked for his $15 examination fee he thought she was going to have a heart attack.
Hetty died after a stroke when she was 80, leaving behind one of the greatest fortunes in the world. Wall Street estimated her estate at $100m (R1.75bn), though it could have been nearer to $200m (R3.5bn). And yet, in life, her wealth could not buy warmth, generosity or a moment of relaxation.
In the end, Hetty proved what every tightwad forgets — you can hoard every penny until the coins rust in your purse, but you can’t take it with you. Meanness with money doesn’t make life richer; it just makes it smaller, and poorer. After all, a full bank account is a poor consolation prize for an empty life — and oatmeal eaten alone in a ragged dress is a high price to pay for being the richest corpse in the cemetery. Though Hetty could count her millions, she never counted the friends and family who quietly walked away.
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