Robert Morse in an archive gem.
Photographed by Bert Stern, Vogue, December 1961

“How to Succeed at Christmas Without Really Crying,” by William F. Brown and photographed by Bert Stern, was originally published in the December 1961 issue of Vogue.
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How to Succeed at Christmas Without Really Crying
STARRING: Robert Morse
THE CAST:
Robert Morse, star of “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying,” as a rich private eye
Suzy Parker, as his secretary
Donna Sanders, as a shopper’s guide
Mary Louise Wilson, as a social worker
Virginia Martin, of “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying,” as a cigarette girl
By William F. Brown
Photography by Bert Stern

Act I
’Twas the night before Christmas
In New York, of course,
And someone was stirring—
Men called him . . . Morse.

I sure was, man. A pitcher of Martinis. Me, Robert A. Morse, king of Murray Hill, private eye-wise; Big Daddy of Danger.
When it came to crime, nobody who was anybody called the cops. They called me. But I wasn’t only big on violence. I was big on culture, too. That’s why when it came to music—all those stings and stabs and bits and pieces of background stuff we have to work to—nobody who was anybody called the record libraries. They called me. I had it made both ways. Mayhem and music.
But success hadn’t gone to my head. My offices were modest, unassuming, functional. The top three floors of Lever House. I usually ate in. Just a hamburger and coffee, maybe a pack of Lorna Doones. From “21.” And nobody, but nobody, man, ever put anything over on Morse. That’s why I couldn’t let it get in the papers that somehow, somewhere, someone had lifted . . . the Christmas gift list my girl had made up for me. I could see the Daily News headlines now: “Famous Shamus . . . Ignoramus?”

Now when it comes to Christmas, I’ll confess I’m not exactly a sentimental slob. Like most New Yorkers, my thoughts about what happens here this time of year are typical:
You better watch out
You better have skill
If cabbies don’t hit you
A liquor truck will
And Santa Claus is all over town.
You go to a store
You look for a clerk
No one knows where
Those friendly folk lurk
And Santa Claus is all over town.
Well, you get the point. But there are a couple of people I don’t want to forget. Like Uncle Dud, my only living relative. Or Sam, the headwaiter at Mommie’s Pub. And then there’s Lousy Louie, a basically swell kid, trying to stick to the straight and narrow during his first year of parole.

I’d find out who took the list later on, but right now it was almost Christmas, and I had to start all over again from scratch. There was one consolation, though. I had some scratch. I rang for my girl Friday. Tuesday Friday was her name. She was a tall, statuesque blonde, and I always had the feeling that without those black horn-rimmed glasses she would have been gorgeous. But with the glasses . . . well, she just reminded me of Bobby Clark.
“Hey, man,” I said as she came through the door. She knew how to move in close harmony with herself. As a musician, I could appreciate that. “Hey, man, you know someone’s lifted my Christmas list, man, and it bugs me.” Private eyes are supposed to talk like that in private.
“A person shouldn’t be bugged at Christmastime,” she said sympathetically, sliding across my desk and fingering a sprig of holly in the outbox.
“Yeah, man, but that’s how the mistle toes, and I mean, man, you’re the only one I can turn to because you made it up in the first place, and like that, man.”
In honour of the Christmas season she was wearing her nonskid “Christmas in the Casbah” lipstick, with seven veils to match. “I forget what was on it,” she said.
“Yeah, well, man, you know.” I liked to put things succinctly.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you should go to a large department store and consultA shopper’s guide for appropriate suggestions.
“Oh, that’s cool, man,” I said. “I mean, that idea is Swingsville, you know, and you just did me a big, fat favor, man. What can I do to repay you, man?”
“Just call me Tuesday,” she said as I rang for the elevator.

Act II
Auto horns, auto horns
Morse is on his way
Oh what fun it is to try
To park my Chevrolet.

It was Saks, and it was jammed, but I finally found a place for the car on the first floor, next to the Boutique. I had to slip the officer on duty a fin, but it was worth it. Otherwise they might have towed it away and ground it up into a taxi.

The shopper’s guide, somewhere on the sixth floor, was a tall, statuesque redhead. They didn’t go by names there, but by numbers. Hers was 36-21-36. She was like the Upstairs at the Downstairs is to the Downstairs at the Upstairs. In honor of the Yule season, she was wearing a green sequined sheath that barely covered the blade.
“Yes?” she said. The kind of direct approach I like.
“It’s my Uncle Dud,” I said. “He’s one of those difficult people to get something for because he’s got nothing.”
“Where does he live?” she asked.
“He lives in poverty,” I answered. “Poverty, Mississippi. They named the whole town for him.”
“Perhaps a genuine bearskin rug,” she suggested. “The jaws can be used as a nutcracker.”
“That’s not for Uncle Dud,” I answered. “Now if you had the same thing in weasel…”
“A small safe, then,” she offered. “Marvelous for the home or office. With a fireproof lining that zips in.”
“That’s not for Uncle Dud,” I answered. “Some of his best friends are safecrackers.”
“I don’t know what else I can suggest myself,” she said, “but if you…”
“That’s it!” My steel-trap mind was at work again.
“What?” she asked.
“When you suggested yourself,” I explained. I had her wrapped, marked with a “Please Hand Cancel” stamp, and sent to Mississippi.
That was for Uncle Dud.

Act III
Sirens ring
As I listen
Someone’s hubcaps are missing
When they turn up again
They’ll be marked “$7.10”—
Somewhere on the road to Freedomland.

It was that section of town, but what do you get for a young guy who only went bad because of his parents? In a neighborhood where everyone else’s Mom and Dad wondered where they’d get the bread for the next tax bite, Louie’s folks were loaded. They sent him to private schools, gave him piano lessons, and saw that culture played a big part in his early life. In other words, they just about ruined him for the gang.

He wanted to make good, but he had to prove himself the hard way. One day he spotted this guy snooping around and mistook him for a cop. Louie nailed him with a brick. When I got out of the hospital, I nailed Louie for a stretch, but he was out now, and I felt I owed it to him to help him make a new start.

The temperature was dropping fast when I found Louie’s social worker. She was a tall, statuesque brunette with a number of degrees. About 100 of them—all Fahrenheit, I thought as I warmed up. In honor of the Yule season, she’d decorated the trunk sparsely with a short formal thing, but left the limbs bare. A framed motto on the wall was to the point: it said “Slink.”
“This is about Lousy Louie,” I said.
“We don’t use vulgar nicknames here,” she answered. “You must mean Louis Louis.”
“A rose by any other name…” I smiled. I always like to quote Shakespeare in the presence of intellectuals.
“Anyway, I don’t know what to buy him for Christmas.”
“Louis doesn’t need material things,” she said, sliding across the desk and flicking a piece of blue serge off my new lint suit. “He needs understanding. Compassion. Love.”
Material things I could give the kid, but love… “Look,””I said, ‘I got two tickets to the new Rudy Vallee show tonight. Why don’t you and Louie… Louis… pick them up at the box office and be my guests?'”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, nibbling on my ear as a token of gratitude.

“That reminds me,” I said, “there’s a little place on Third Avenue I want you two kids to have dinner at. I’ll pick up the tab.”

“You’re a very generous man,” she said.

“And when you get to Third Avenue,” I said, “be sure to take a cab.”

“A cab?” she asked. “Why?”

“No El,” I answered, and I was off like an elf.

Act IV

I’m dreaming of a white eggnog
The season’s full of such delight
See the tourists looking;
Smell chestnuts cooking—
Their smoke all tinged with anthracite.

Sam poured me a stiff one and it felt good all the way up. Sam’s drinks go to my head.

“Sam,” I said, “Sam old man old pal old buddy old friend, I mean, Sam, what do you want for Christmas?”

“Old money,” he said. “Or new money. I’m not a traditionalist.”

“Money, Sam?” I was shocked. “Money can’t buy happiness.”

“I’ll settle for a Dual-Ghia,” he said. “Ever since my wife ran off with that quarter-miler, I’ve been pouring all my love and affection into other things.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “My analyst calls it the separation-sublimation-syndrome.”

“Your analyst? Does he help?”

“No,” Sam said as he walked off, “but you gotta admit he has a way with words.”

The cigarette girl came up. She was a tall, statuesque strawberry-blonde: queen-sized, cool as a hint of mint, and you knew what was up front counted. In honor of the Yule season she wore a red-and-white Santa Claus hat and a tank suit. Christmas-wise, she was right in the swim.

“Tell me,” I said, “what’s a nice girl like you…”

She shrugged, but the way she shrugged it was more like a shimmy. I got the message, with a place reserved for an R.S.V.I.P., but since it was Christmas, I mentally took a snow check.

“Baby,” I said, “you know what it’s like to spend Christmas Eve all alone?”

“I know,” she said. “So after work tonight…”

“Yes?”

“Have an eggnog with Sam. On me.”

“With Sam?” she asked. “But he’s a maître d’, and I am but a poor, lowly cigarette girl.”

“Forget it,” I said. “I think you two can make a match.”

And I walked into the instant deep-freeze outside.

• • •

Frosty, you know, ma’
Cause the weather’s two below
Since my fingers froze
Can’t massage my toes
And my lips are indigo.

It was cold, and it was dark, and it was late, and all I had left was four bits, which I flipped to the shoeshine boy on the corner. In honor of the Yule season, he’d shaved his head.

Back in my glass palace, I tried a nightcap on for size, activated the hi-fi, and leafed through the latest copy of Playmate. But even the Christmas Bunny Girl couldn’t make me forget I’d left myself without any tinsel at tree-trimming time.

Then I realized I wasn’t alone.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“Tuesday!” I said. “Tuesday Friday! What are you doing here Saturday night?”

“I have a confession to make,” she said.

“A confession?” I asked, quietly flipping on the tape recorder. Without her knowing it, I’d had her bugged ever since she first came to work for me.

“I took your list,” she said.

“You?” I was dumbfounded. “Why?”

“I didn’t want you to miss the pleasure of giving something you’ve picked out yourself for people you hold near and dear.”

“Yeah,” I said, “well thanks a whole bunch. As it turns out I wind up tired, broke, cold, minus two tickets to the show tonight, and all alone. Where does it get me?”He didn’t say anything then. She just smiled, took off her glasses, and she wasn’t Bobby Clark anymore. She kissed me and left with that quiet little walk of hers that rattles seismographs all the way out in California. On the radio, a group called the North Polecats harmonized:

“Robert, the red-nosed shopper
Finished off his Christmas list
Louie, and Sam, and Unkie—
Was there anyone he missed?”

Of course! Tuesday Friday. It was too late to go out again; the stores were closed and were already putting up “January White Sale” streamers in the windows. Then it came to me: the perfect gift for a girl who made me realize that it is more fun to give than to receive…

The first day of Christmas, forget that bird-in-a-tree
The mailman’s delivering me!
Photographed by Bert Stern, Vogue, December 1961

Who’s Who in the Cast of “How to Succeed at Christmas Without Really Crying”

The funny face: Robert Morse, star of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. On page 102, he plays the eye in the charade by William F. Brown—who also wrote four sketches for the revue at the new New York nightspot, What’s Upstairs at the Downstairs.

The late Christian Dior said that “the most beautiful woman in the world” is Suzy Parker (above). She has not only unbeatable bone structure but also the extra quality that makes great models and moves merchandise. An actress as well as a model, she will star in The Interns, which is now shooting.

What’s Upstairs at the Downstairs is always a patchwork of mild satire, blatant spoofs, witty music, and local jokes. The enchanting, sweet-faced ingénue of this season’s revue, 7 Come 11, is Donna Sanders (left). She sings the love songs, prettily.

A witty, non-languishing young woman, Mary Louise Wilson (above) has performed Off-Broadway and on television, and is now in 7 Come 11. Her smash: a beguine bent on devastating Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer (disposed of in the lyric as Miller’s High Life).

With poise as unshakable as Lloyd’s of London, Virginia Martin (above) plays a Copa cigarette girl turned secretary in How to Succeed, and flatly stops the show at her first entrance: tight satin, big hat, two-inch eyelashes, and Love from a Heart of Gold.

Fashion notes: Suzy Parker’s black evening dress of matte jersey, by Ceil Chapman. At Bergdorf Goodman… The sequin dazzler on Donna Sanders; coat of sapphire tulle: by Scaasi. At Bonwit Teller; Nan Duskin… Mary Louise Wilson’s black satin and lace dress and stole, by Scaasi. At Henri Bendel; Frost Bros… Right: Suzy Parker’s newly Empire dress of white crepe by Teal Traina. Saks Fifth Avenue; Woodward & Lothrop… Santa hat by Sally Victor.

Frequently Asked Questions
FAQs How to Have a Merry Christmas Without the Meltdowns A 1961 Vogue Guide

Q What is this 1961 Vogue article about
A Its a classic holiday guide offering witty practical advice on managing stress family dynamics and social obligations to enjoy a calmer more joyful Christmas season

Q Is the advice still relevant today
A Surprisingly yes While the specific social customs have evolved the core advice on setting boundaries simplifying tasks and focusing on genuine connection over perfection is timeless

Q Whats the main message or secret to avoiding meltdowns
A The key is to lower your expectations of a perfect holiday and prioritize your own peace and enjoyment It encourages saying no gracefully and focusing on simple pleasures

Q What kind of meltdowns does it address
A It covers social fatigue from too many parties family tension the stress of giftgiving and hosting financial strain and the general exhaustion of trying to do too much

Q Does it give specific tips for hosting
A Yes It advocates for simplicity in menus and decor suggesting you prepare dishes ahead of time and not try to impress with overly complicated recipes The goal is to be a relaxed host not a harried one

Q What does it say about giftgiving
A It advises against extravagant stressful gift hunts It promotes thoughtful sometimes even homemade gifts given without pressure The spirit of the gesture is more important than the price tag

Q How does it suggest dealing with difficult family or guests
A With humor and strategy It recommends having light conversation topics ready limiting the duration of potentially tense visits and creating subtle distractions to diffuse focus

Q Are there tips for managing time and energy
A Absolutely It emphasizes the importance of scheduling downtime for yourself not overcommitting to every event and delegating tasks instead of trying to control everything

Q Whats a beginner takeaway I can use right away
A Choose one thing to simplify Pick one tradition that causes you the most stress and scale it back dramatically this year See how it feels