Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman! (41 page)

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Alfred Nobel’s Other Mistake
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In Canada they have a big association of physics students. They have meetings; they give papers, and so on. One time the Vancouver chapter wanted to have me come and talk to them. The girl in charge of it arranged with my secretary to fly all the way to Los Angeles without telling me. She just walked into my office. She was really cute, a beautiful blonde. (That helped; it’s not supposed to, but it did.) And I was impressed that the students in Vancouver had financed the whole thing. They treated me so nicely in Vancouver that now I know the secret of how to really be entertained and give talks: Wait for the students to ask you.

One time, a few years after I had won the Nobel Prize, some kids from the Irvine students’ physics club came around and wanted me to talk. I said, “I’d love to do it. What I want to do is talk just to the physics club. But–I don’t want to be immodest–I’ve learned from experience that there’ll be trouble.”

I told them how I used to go over to a local high school every year to talk to the physics club about relativity, or whatever they asked about. Then, after I got the Prize, I went over there again, as usual, with no preparation, and they stuck me in front of an assembly of three hundred kids. It was a mess!

I got that shock about three or four times, being an idiot and not catching on right away. When I was invited to Berkeley to give a talk on something in physics, I prepared something rather technical, expecting to give it to the usual physics department group. But when I got there, this tremendous lecture hall is _full_ of people! And I _know_ there’s not that many people in Berkeley who know the level at which I prepared my talk. My problem is, I like to please the people who come to hear me, and I can’t do it if everybody and his brother wants to hear: I don’t know my audience then.

After the students understood that I can’t just easily go over somewhere and give a talk to the physics club, I said, “Let’s cook up a dull-sounding title and a dull-sounding professor’s name, and then only the kids who are really interested in physics will bother to come, and those are the ones we want, OK? You don’t have to sell anything.”

A few posters appeared on the Irvine campus: Professor Henry Warren from the University of Washington is going to talk about the structure of the proton on May 17th at 3:00 in Room D102.

Then I came and said, “Professor Warren had some personal difficulties and was unable to come and speak to you today, so he telephoned me and asked me if I would talk to you about the subject, since I’ve been doing some work in the field. So here I am.” It worked great.

But then, somehow or other, the faculty adviser of the club found out about the trick, and he got very angry at them. He said, “You know, if it were known that Professor Feynman was coming down here, a lot of people would like to have listened to him.”

The students explained, “That’s just _it!_” But the adviser was mad that he hadn’t been allowed in on the joke.

Hearing that the students were in real trouble, I decided to write a letter to the adviser and explained that it was all my fault, that I wouldn’t have given the talk unless this arrangement had been made; that I had told the students not to tell anyone; I’m very sorry; please excuse me, blah, blah, blah . . .” That’s the kind of stuff I have to go through on account of that damn prize!

Just last year I was invited by the students at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks to talk, and had a wonderful time, except for the interviews on local television. I don’t need interviews; there’s no point to it. I came to talk to the physics students, and that’s it. If everybody in town wants to know that, let the school newspaper tell them. It’s on account of the Nobel Prize that I’ve got to have an interview–I’m a big shot, right?

A friend of mine who’s a rich man–he invented some kmd of simple digital switch–tells me about these people who contribute money to make prizes or give lectures: “You always look at them carefully to find out what crookery they’re trying to absolve their conscience of.”

My friend Matt Sands was once going to write a book to be called _Alfred Nobel’s Other Mistake_.

For many years I would look, when the time was coming around to give out the Prize, at who might get it. But after a while I wasn’t even aware of when it was the right “season.” I therefore had no idea why someone would be calling me at 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning.

“Professor Feynman?”

“Hey! Why are you bothering me at this time in the morning?”

“I thought you’d like to know that you’ve won the Nobel Prize.”

“Yeah, but I’m _sleeping!_ It would have been better if you had called me in the morning.”–and I hung up.

My wife said, “Who was that?”

“They told me I won the Nobel Prize.”

“Oh, Richard, who _was_ it?” I often kid around and she is so smart that she never gets fooled, but this time I caught her.

The phone rings again: “Professor Feynman, have you heard . . .”

(In a disappointed voice) “Yeah.”

Then I began to think, “How can I turn this all off? I don’t want any of this!” So the first thing was to take the telephone off the hook, because calls were coming one right after the other. I tried to go back to sleep, but found it was impossible.

I went down to the study to think: What am I going to do? Maybe I won’t _accept_ the Prize. What would happen then? Maybe that’s impossible.

I put the receiver back on the hook and the phone rang right away. It was a guy from _Time_ magazine. I said to him, “Listen, I’ve got a problem, so I want this off the record. I don’t know how to get out of this thing. Is there some way not to accept the Prize?”

He said, “I’m afraid, sir, that there isn’t any way you can do it without making more of a fuss than if you leave it alone.” It was obvious. We had quite a conversation, about fifteen or twenty minutes, and the _Time_ guy never published anything about it.

I said thank you very much to the _Time_ guy and hung up. The phone rang immediately: it was the newspaper.

“Yes, you can come up to the house. Yes, it’s all right. Yes, Yes, Yes . . .”

One of the phone calls was a guy from the Swedish consulate. He was going to have a reception in Los Angeles.

I figured that since I decided to accept the Prize, I’ve got to go through with all this stuff.

The consul said, “Make a list of the people you would like to invite, and we’ll make a list of the people we are inviting. Then I’ll come to your office and we’ll compare the lists to see if there are any duplicates, and we’ll make up the invitations . . .”

So I made up my list. It had about eight people-my neighbor from across the street, my artist friend Zorthian, and so on.

The consul came over to my office with _his_ list: the Governor of the State of California, the This, the That; Getty, the oilman; some actress–it had three hundred people! And, needless to say, there was _no_ duplication whatsoever!

Then I began to get a little bit nervous. The idea of meeting all these dignitaries frightened me.

The consul saw I was worried. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “Most of them don’t come.”

Well, I had never arranged a party that I invited people to, and knew to expect them _not_ to come! I don’t have to kowtow to anybody and give them the delight of being honored with this invitation that they can refuse; it’s stupid!

By the time I got home I was really upset with the whole thing. I called the consul back and said, “I’ve thought it over, and I realize that I just can’t go through with the reception.”

He was delighted. He said, “You’re perfectly right.” I think he was in the same position–having to set up a party for this jerk was just a pain in the ass, It turned out, in the end, everybody was happy. Nobody wanted to come, including the guest of honor! The host was much better off, too!

I had a certain psychological difficulty all the way through this period. You see, I had been brought up by my father against royalty and pomp (he was in the uniforms business, so he knew the difference between a man with a uniform on, and with the uniform off–it’s the same man). I had actually learned to ridicule this stuff all my life, and it was so strong and deeply cut into me that I couldn’t go up to a king without some strain. It was childish, I know, hut I was brought up that way, so it was a problem.

People told me that there was a rule in Sweden that after you accept the Prize, you have to back away from the king without turning around. You come down some steps, accept the Prize, and then go back up the steps. So I said to myself, “All right, I’m gonna fix them!”–and I practiced _jumping_ up stairs, backwards, to show how ridiculous their custom was. I was in a terrible mood! That was stupid and silly, of course.

I found out this wasn’t a rule any more; you could turn around when you left the king, and walk like a normal human being, in the direction you were intending to go, with your nose in front.

I was pleased to find that not all the people in Sweden take the royal ceremonies as seriously as you! might think. When you get there, you discover that they’re on your side.

The students had, for example, a special ceremony in which they granted each Nobel-Prize-winner the special “Order of the Frog.” When you get this little frog, you have to make a frog noise.

When I was younger I was anti-culture, but my father had some good books around. One was a book with the old Greek play _The Frogs_ in it, and I glanced at it one time and I saw in there that a frog talks. It was written as “_brek, kek, kek_ .” I thought, “No frog ever made a sound like that; that’s a crazy way to describe it!” so I tried it, and after practicing it awhile, I realized that it’s very accurately what a frog says.

So my chance glance into a book by Aristophanes turned out to be useful, later on: I could make a good frog noise at the students’ ceremony for the Nobel-Prize-winners! And jumping backwards fit right in, too. So I _liked_ that part of it; that ceremony went well.

While I had a lot of fun, I _did_ still have this psychological difficulty all the way through. My greatest problem was the Thank-You speech that you give at the King’s Dinner. When they give you the Prize they give you some nicely bound books about the years before, and they have all the Thank-You speeches written out as if they’re some big deal. So you begin to think it’s of some importance what you say in this ThankYou speech, because it’s going to be published. What I didn’t realize was that hardly anyone was going to listen to it carefully, and nobody was going to read it! I had lost my sense of proportion: I couldn’t just say thank you very much, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah; it would have been so easy to do that, but no, I have to make it honest. And the truth was, I didn’t really want this Prize, so how do I say thank you when I don’t want it?

My wife says I was a nervous wreck, worrying about what I was going to say in the speech, but I finally figured out a way to make a perfectly satisfactory-sounding speech that was nevertheless completely honest. I’m sure those who heard the speech had no idea what this guy had gone through in preparing it.

I started out by saying that I had already received my prize in the pleasure I got in discovering what I did, from the fact that others used my work, and so on. I tried to explain that I had already received everything I expected to get, and the rest was nothing compared to it. I had already received my prize.

But then I said I received, all at once, a big pile of letters–I said it much better in the speech–reminding me of all these people that I knew: letters from childhood friends who jumped up when they read the morning newspaper and cried out, “I know him! He’s that kid we used to play with!” and so on; letters like that, which were very supportive and expressed what I interpreted as a kind of love. For _that_ I thanked them.

The speech went fine, but I was always getting into slight difficulties with royalty. During the King’s Dinner I was sitting next to a princess who had gone to college in the United States. I assumed, incorrectly, that she had the same attitudes as I did. I figured she was just a kid like everybody else. I remarked on how the king and all the royalty had to stand for such a long time, shaking hands with all the guests at the reception before the dinner. “In America,” I said, “we could make this more efficient. We would design a _machine_ to shake hands.”

“Yes, but there wouldn’t be very much of a market for it here,” she said, uneasily. “There’s not that much royalty.”

“On the contrary, there’d be a very big market. At first, only the king would have a machine, and we could give it to him free. Then, of course, other people would want a machine, too. The question now becomes, who will be _allowed_ to have a machine? The prime minister is permitted to buy one; then the president of the senate is allowed to buy one, and then the most important senior deputies. So there’s a very big, expanding market, and pretty soon, you wouldn’t have to go through the reception line to shake hands with the machines; you’d send _your_ machine!”

I also sat next to the lady who was in charge of organizing the dinner. A waitress came by to fill my wineglass, and I said, “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

The lady said, “No, no. Let her pour the drink.”

“But I _don’t_ drink.”

She said, “It’s all right. Just look. You see, she has two bottles. We know that number eighty-eight doesn’t drink.” (Number eighty-eight was on the back of my chair.) “They look exactly the same, but one has no alcohol.”

“But how do you know?” I exclaimed.

She smiled. “Now watch the king,” she said. “He doesn’t drink either.”

She told me some of the problems they had had this particular year. One of them was, where should the Russian ambassador sit? The problem always is, at dinners like this, who sits nearer to the king. The Prize-winners normally sit closer to the king than the diplomatic corps does. And the order in which the diplomats sit is determined according to the length of time they have been in Sweden. Now at that time, the United States ambassador had been in Sweden longer than the Russian ambassador, But that year, the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature was Mr. Sholokhov, a Russian, and the Russian ambassador wanted to be Mr. Sholokhov’s translator–and therefore to sit next to him. So the problem was how to let the Russian ambassador sit closer to the king without offending the United States ambassador and the rest of the diplomatic corps.