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W. C. Fields
Copperfield in esse, and Mrs. Traddles in posse — presuming, that is to say, that my friend Traddles is not yet united to the object of his affections, for weal and for woe."
And Fields would listen and muse, perhaps divining the day, some thirty years forward, when he himself was to utter the delightful, stilted phrases, while Dickens, in whatever corner of heaven is reserved for genius, must surely have applauded.
Like several of Mr. Dickens' cockneys, Fields enjoyed dropping into a pub after working hours. A gradual transition was taking place in his drinking habits. Heretofore, he had occasionally permitted himself a few rounds when in a carnival mood; now, he was beginning to find that a quiet drink or two settled his nerves. The agonizing strain of deadly, sustained precision was driving tiny cracks in his spectacular constitution. In his early twenties Fields was reaping the first destructive rewards of his lust for fame. Days and nights, year on year, of bringing his will to bear on the fantastic demands of his craft were exacting the toll that is always levied upon ambition. He was winning his fight for perfection, but he was losing something along the way. "After a tough performance I'd have trouble settling down," he said of this phase. "I was on edge, overstimulated. Often I'd be able to read, or walk it off, but sometimes it took a few beers to calm me down." It seemed, at the time, a harmless system. "Happiness means quiet nerves," he was to tell his household years later in Hollywood. But by then he knew that he would never have it.
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