W. C. Fields : his follies and fortunes (1949)

and snapped his fingers at the butler. "Fill up the wineglasses, Filbert," he said. "Keep it coming." A man near the far end of the table responded with an amusing incident he had witnessed in a Pullman, and Fields rose to his feet. Walking around the room (thereafter for the rest of his life he was to be more or less in transit at dinner parties) he launched a series of uproariously funny exaggerations about his travels, dropping his broad a in the process. Everybody loosened up, and the conversation departed from the enervating politesse of the first few courses. The night was humid, and Fields asked permission to loosen his collar. His suggestion prompted another man to remove his shirt, then a young matron observed that her feet hurt, and she took off her shoes. The evening wore on, relaxed, rich in anecdote, an occasion of memorable grace and warmth. Midnight found Fields, minus his tie, collar and shirt, sitting with his feet propped up on the table, an empty champagne bottle balanced on his head, deep in an analysis of show people. "It was really quite a worth-while business," says Le Baron, "of a kind that was rare with Bill before or afterward. He was not really a gregarious man. He didn't seek people out; they sought him." For weeks after his party, Fields raved about what a fine time he'd had, and how much he enjoyed his guests. But their subsequent invitations found him as elusive as ever; he made excuses, as was his instinct always. 191