by W. C. Fields
"I wish you could all see my face as I blushingly pen these lines"
(Early 1940's. Photograph by Will Connell)
Frustration—that is the great trouble with America today. And if the nation would only grit its teeth and say, "I'm going to follow the Fields Plan next New Year's!" everything would iron itself out beautifully.
For the Fields Plan is so infinitely simple! It is based on one all-important, fundamental principle: instead of prohibiting a person from doing what he'd like to do, force him to do what he'd like to do. And it's all done with New Year's resolutions.
The Fields Plan is so pleasant that even I, myself, follow it. Here are the resolutions I drew up for my own personal use during 1940, but which I'll rent or sell outright to any of my readers who wish to adopt them. I think you'll find them frust rate. (I have inserted "frust rate" to add a bit of levity to a serious subject.)
FIELDS PLAN, FORMULA 31-B
Sundays: I resolve to go the reading room of the public library, hold the quiet! sign over my head and sing "Asleep in the Deep."
Mondays: I resolve to enter every door I see marked private —no admittance, and shout "boo!" (Did I scare you?)
Tuesdays: I resolve to test all newly-laid concrete sidewalks by pressing my foot into them. (Crown Prince Gustave of somewhere or other wears the same size shoe as I do, which has nothing to do with it but I thought it worth mentioning.)
Wednesdays: I resolve to spend my lunch hour leaning against signs reading positively no loitering. (I may omit this. The weather will have oodles to do with it.)
Thursdays: I resolve to throw a brick through any plate-glass window that I feel is an unjust temptation. (I once did this where a gentleman was demonstrating a muscle-building exercise. Was he in perfect condition!)
Fridays: I resolve to apply the finger test to all objects marked WET PAINT.
Saturdays: I resolve to do the most intriguing thing of all: to pull the emergency cord on the 2:15 local! This is one way to make friends and influence commuters.
And so, my dear, gentle friends, I wish to say that to any who decide to follow this program, I can guarantee a truly Happy New Year. For, under the Fields Plan, you can swear off—swear on—or just swear.
And you needn't wait till January first to start your New Year. Any day will do. My own will began on November fifth, and I invite you all to come down to Washington on November sixth and break resolutions with me.
". . . and I invite you all to come down to Washington on November sixth and break resolutions with me."
The Old Fashioned Way (© 1934, Paramount Pictures)
Chapter 5
My Rules of Etiquette
Poppy (theater version, 1924)
Fields often used manners and etiquette to indicate his disapproval of those social amenities and impositions he found most offensive. He habitually wore an obnoxious clip on moustache to formal occasions (with tux or tails), if for no other reason than to let people know he was bending, but not beat! W. C. also found an ingeniously subtle method to signify his disapproval of the frequent visits made by his short termed mother-in-law. When she came for dinner, he would protest her presence most disconcertingly by sitting through the evening repast with a bottle of beer precariously perched atop his head, never making the vaguest reference to what his stupefied in-law must have assumed was a regular occurrence.
"As everyone knows, I have been a scholar of proper procedure. . "
"Why, friends, there wasn't a lady over sixty in the whole village that I didn't raise my hat to — regularly."
So's Your Old Man (Famous Players-Lasky Corp., 1926)
WHAT would you do if you were President, and, on the first day of May, the Russian Ambassador presented you with a beautiful cake which emitted a curious ticking noise? Would you plunge it into a pail of water—thus insulting Soviet cuisine in general? Or would you calmly take a knife and cut it, offering the first slice to the Ambassador with the remark, "I fondly trust I am giving you the works!"?
Ticklish little problems like this arise every day at the White House, and that is why it is imperative to have a man like me on the spot to pass them off gracefully. Because, as everyone knows, I have been a scholar of proper procedure ever since I was in short pants.
"Cavalier Will" they used to call me in my old home town. Why, friends, there wasn't a lady over sixty in the whole village that I didn't raise my hat to—regularly. And through all the years since, gentlemanliness has been my watchword.
Being of a modest nature, I have never publicly set myself up as a social arbiter. But, at last, it can do no harm to reveal one trenchant fact, heretofore a guarded secret: three years ago, when the Duke and Duchess of Windsor suddenly reversed their decision to visit America, everyone wondered what had really occasioned that change of mind. It was simply that I had promised to act as their social guide on the trip, and then had to beg off, due to a slight misunderstanding with the law.
Perhaps my first real appreciation of the great truth of etiquette was born with an experience in Chillicothe, Ohio, in the fall of 1908. I was playing the old Onyx Theater. The headliner was a trained seal. His name was, I believe, Claude or Claudette. I won't swear to that—I have a poor memory for names; but I seldom remember a face.
This seal stayed with his trainer in an adjoining room to mine in the old Iroquois House. And it happened that one evening I returned to my room feeling uncommonly warm. So I entered the bath-between, intent on a refreshing tub. My friends, whom should I discover in the bathtub but Claude or Claudette (pardon my redundancy) sandwiched in between two twenty-pound cakes of ice.
"Unfortunate wretch," I mused, "having to be sealed in those hot furs on a day like this."
"I was playing the old Onyx Theater"
(Late 1890's)
Despite my inner feelings, I spoke sharply--—perhaps too sharply. I made it clear that I considered the whole incident an imposition, and then stalked back to my bedroom in high dudgeon.
Presently I heard the ring of a buzzer from the bath-between. I quickly ingurgitated a glass of cold ginger ale in which I had placed some ice cubes and a mild stimulant. A few moments after that, a considerable sloshing of water was audible. I went to investigate. And—on my word, friends—Claude or Claudette (there I go again) had buzzed the desk for a brush and was scrubbing the ring from the bathtub for me! Great succulent, genuine tears streamed down my rosy cheeks, passing my nose on both the left and right, dripping from my chin onto a clean linen collar.
I never forgot that lesson. It taught me in a flash what true etiquette is: Consideration. Consideration for the other fellow.
I remember, years after the Claude or Claudette episode, I was playing the old Star and Garter Theater—it may have been just the Star—in Upper Waukegan. It was bitter cold, snowdrifts fifteen feet high, saloon doors frozen tight. I took deathly ill between the afternoon and evening performances. There had been a modest celebration of the trap drummer's birthday, and I had evidently eaten a pretzel, or something, that did not agree with me. I lay wretched on my hotel bed. I could scarcely keep a mole on my stomach. I knew that the inclement weather would keep attendance to a minimum. But, nevertheless, I dragged myself to the theater, literally staggering from lamppost to lamp-post. When I got there, I found that there was only one customer out front.
"It taught me in a flash what true etiquette is: Consideration. Consideration for the other fellow."
The Bank Dick (© 1940, Universal Pictures)
"Friend," I said, "even though you alone are out there to watch me, I assure you that I shall give my all, my full all. But may I first make your personal acquaintance?"
"Certainly," he said. "My name is Bush."
"I am honored. One of the Bush boys, I take it. And, as you doubtless know, my name is W. C. Fields."
He rose and stepped up on the stage. "Thanks," he said; "I just wanted to make sure you were him." And he served me with a subpoena.
"I am sorry," I told h
im, "that I have caused you to venture forth in this inclement weather. Had I known your office address, I should have called for it in person."
I wouldn't have been so bitter even at that, were it not that he didn't stay to see my act.
He had no consideration, my friends. No etiquette. Thorn Bush—that was his name—had not learned the lesson that Claude or Claudette had to teach mankind.
From experiences such as these, I have garnered finesse in every conceivable behavior situation. And this knowledge I pass on to my innumerable correspondents who write me daily, asking my counsel on the knottier problems of etiquette.
The limitations of space prevent me from covering more than a very few perplexing etiquette questions here. So I have selected a number of representative problems that confront every one of us in normal daily life:
The Glove-Recovering Emergency: Every night of the year, approximately 700,000 American husbands suffer loss of time and physical indignity in peering under theater seats for their wives' gloves. I have devised a novel scheme that completely forestalls this social embarrassment. I have printed, 500 at a time, penny post cards reading: "Dear Manager: Tomorrow night my wife will attend your theater to lose a pair of gray suede gloves. You will greatly oblige by retrieving and sending same to address below." Mail these cards in good season, and I guarantee you a sixty-per-cent return.
The Elbows-on-Table Controversy: I agree with most other progressive social arbiters that placing the elbows on the dinner table is quite acceptable today. Putting the feet up is entirely another matter, however, and cannot be countenanced unless spats are worn.
The Large-Hat-in-Theater Menace: It is perfectly correct to lean forward and hiss in the offending lady's ear: "Madam, will you kindly remove that washbasket!" Give her thirty seconds, and if she does not respond, bring your cane down smartly on the top of her head. If you haven't a cane, an umbrella will do nicely.
The Mr. Mrrhrm Interlude: Many an otherwise scintillating party has been ruined by the host's having to introduce someone whose name he should, but does not, know. In this case, "dear old Frank or Johnny Mrrhrm" will generally get by if you cover up quickly by yelling across the room, "Hey, don't flick ashes in that goldfish bowl!"
"Putting the feet up is entirely another matter, however, and cannot be countenanced unless spats are worn"
(© 1939, Universal Pictures)
"Give her thirty seconds, and if she does not respond, bring your cane down smartly on top of her head"
The Old Fashioned Way (© 1934, Paramount Pictures)
The Trolley-Car-Seating Problem: Various parts of the country feel differently about a gentleman's obligation to give up his seat to a lady in a trolley car. My solution is simple and merely calls for a practiced eye. I quickly estimate the weight of the bundles the lady is carrying. If over seventy pounds, I stand up—if I can stand up. Otherwise I fall forward.
The Listening-at-Keyhole Question: The practice of keyhole-listening is usually confined to hotels and boarding houses. It is absolutely indefensible to stoop so low. If the transom is not ajar, remember there are plenty of other rooms in the building.
The Recalcitrant-Slip Situation: What to do when a lady's slip shows in back is something that has never been satisfactorily decided. I, myself, prefer not to embarrass the victim by calling it to her attention. Rather, I always carry a special pair of shears for the emergency, with which I stealthily trim the slip even with the hem of the skirt. Voila —no blush need burn my chickadee's fair face.
The Check-Grabbing Spectacle: Personally I have never been greatly troubled by this problem, being, as I am, the deliberate, slow-to-action type. However, for those who are continually embarrassed by the conventional squabble for the restaurant check, I'd advise this: When it comes to the point where, inevitably, the other person says, "Now, let's not fight about this," just answer, "Very well, old man." Remember, the complete gentleman never brawls.
The Voice-from-the-Back-Seat Hazard: This still constitutes the greatest single traffic menace in the United States. Manufacturers have marked up thirty years of rapid progress in the perfection of automobiles and accessories. How about spending a little time on the mass production of that exceedingly rare accessory —the little woman who can sit in the rear seat of a motor car without shouting, "Slow down, Harvey!'? I have only one method of procedure to recommend against the Voice from the Back Seat. When it shouts "Slow down," slow down. In fact, slow down to a complete stop, leap out of the car and thumb a ride back into town.
"I have only one method of procedure to recommend against the Voice from the Back Seat."
Never Give a Sucker an Even Break (© 1941, Universal Pictures)
Chapter 6
How I Have Built Myself into a Physical Marvel
(© 1935, Paramount Pictures)
The great juggler managed to exercise regularly and kept himself in decent physical condition, although he refused to follow any but his own irregular training methods. He played an aggressive game of tennis and at golf shot respectably in the low 80's, but his workouts were little more than an excuse to build up his drinking arm. One of his favorite exercises was a mechanical rowing machine which he had installed in his home. Fields would place a martini on the bow of the vessel and row vigorously, seemingly in pursuit of the illusive prize. After about ten minutes he would halt his rowing, gulp the martini, and gleefully shout: "This is great exercise! It should increase my liquor capacity two or three hundred percent!"
"Now, my muscles have been the wonder of two generations and three continents."
(Late 1890's)
ALTHOUGH the demands on the Presidential physique have gradually been reduced to button-pushing (in order to open bridges, tunnels, or dams), still it is imperative to have a man in the White House who is as sound in body as he is in mind. Sounder, if possible—and it is possible.
Now, my muscles have been the wonder of two generations and three continents. Just to give you an example, I once had a twinge of rheumatism in my left arm and went to the doctor for a once-over. He inspected my arm, but could find nothing wrong. "Except," he said, "there is a strange little black speck on the muscle." I had to smirk! It was merely a tattoo—when I swelled my bicep it read, "Love from Mabel F. Cunningham."
However, like the late Teddy Roosevelt, I was not always the remarkable specimen I am today. In my youth I was distinctly frail. I well remember that many a time I could not even rush the can for Daddy in a proper manner. The two-quart container of beer was often more than a match for my slender young arm, and I would be forced to drink half the contents to make the burden lighter.
However, a curious thing happened to me while I was still but a swain; it changed my life. Here is the story in a nutshell:
It was just thirty-five years ago that I was talking to Tex Rickard and Death Valley Scotty in the Old Victoria Hotel Bar. I left the cafe and walked down Broadway. I must have been thinking, for the next thing I knew I was struck by a runaway street organ in Alleghany, Pa., and left in an unstrung condition. The entrepreneur of this musical cavalcade, an Italian gentleman, was most profuse in his apologies and sympathies. His poor frightened monkey bit me on the stomach in his excitement. As soon as I was out of the hospital, my thoughts turned to physical culture as a means of regaining my shattered health.
At the start of my health campaign I made one sad mistake, which should serve as a warning to my very dear readers not to rely on mechanical devices for exercise. I took $87.50 from my piggy bank and bought one of those rowing machines I'd heard so much about. Alas, the first time I put it in the Monongahela River and hopped on, the plagued thing sank like a plummet— am I using the right word? And I was bitten on the stomach in practically the same spot by a horn-billed turtle. When I arose to the surface and regurgitated a motley assortment of our diminutive finny friends and clay, my friends on the beach shouted, "Here's to you! Good luck! Bottoms up, you dumb—so and so," and things better left unsaid. They had evidently been drin
king.
"I took $87.50 from my piggy bank."
The Bank Dick (© 1940, Universal Pictures)
It was the Glad Gladiator who set me aright as to exercise and I shall never stop thanking the lucky coincidence that brought his resonant voice to me. One very cold morning in March, I was wandering about the house trying to ferret out a noggin of medicinal spirits when my eye settled on the radio (radio was merely a chunk of crystal and a couple of earphones in those days). Fearing that my ears were about to chip with the cold, I donned the phones—and heard the Glad Gladiator broadcasting setting-up exercises. From that moment on, I was a slave to his vibrant "one-two-three —bend!" and every morning would find me at my deep-breathing, Grecian bends and crouching arabesques.