What is this unholy terror you have for the written word?

Despite being a prolific letter writer, Groucho Marx didn't write to his brothers often. There was little need to write letters as the brothers spoke to each other regularly, either in person or on the phone. It was a treat then to come across this post's letter, written by Groucho to his brother Chico, originally published in 1942 in a column for The Hollywood Reporter. (The column —Tales of Hoffman— was run by Groucho's friend Irving Hoffman, with Groucho being a regular contributor to Hoffman's column.) Written in Groucho's usual funny way, the letter was a reaction to Chico's failure to answer the letters Groucho had sent him. Considering the fact that Chico was no letter writer at all, it's quite possible that Groucho never received an answer to this letter either.

Incidentally, Groucho and Chico —the eldest of the Marx Brothers and Groucho's senior by three years— had a strained relationship, one that was "marked by jealousy and resentment" (according to Groucho biographer Hector Arce). Chico had been their mother's favourite, and while he had become a compulsive gambler by the age of nine and was always running into trouble, he usually got away with it. "[Groucho] was always trying to be the good son, while I was busy being the bad one", Chico once said, "yet Minnie always forgave me and loved me and was never that way with Grouch." Groucho was a natural-born worrier while Chico was the eternal optimist. In the end, it was Chico's optimism and his bold approach to life that had made the Marx Brothers move from the vaudeville circuit to Broadway and ultimately to Hollywood. (Groucho later recalled: "Harpo [the brother Groucho felt closest to] and I were always very timid. We didn't think we would ever be successful. But Chico was a gambler and he felt differently ... He gave us courage and confidence.")

Groucho (l) and his brother Chico on the set of  A Day at the Races (1937)

 

Dear Chico:

Our correspondence is becoming increasingly strained and I can only attribute it to the curious and mystifying ways you have of answering your mail. In the past three weeks I have written you three times. In return you have sent me a package of cheese, a small barrel of herring and a smoked tongue. These are eloquent answers—much stronger than words—but you must admit they are difficult to decode unless one has spent his early years as a delicatessen apprentice. What is this unholy terror you have for the written word? Were you once scared by a vowel or a consonant?

Words, in case you don’t know, are beautiful. Keats, Shelley and Conrad enriched and gladdened the whole world with words. Is it possible that your odd method of correspondence is more effective? Have you stumbled on something that will replace all the beautiful poems and love sonnets of the centuries? I only ask you this because I’ve heard it told that you conduct your romances in the same manner. It is well known that for years you left a trail of broken hearts and sawn-off shotguns from the Orpheum Theatre in Bangor to the Pantages Theatre in San Diego. Is delicatessen your secret weapon? Do you send soft cheese where others send orchids? When a love-sick girl sends you a perfume-scented note pleading for your kisses, I understand your answer is three slices of pumpernickel. I don’t say that this last present may not be just what she needs, but you must concede it’s a novel slant on a subject that has bewildered experts since Adam and Eve. Romeo was considered quite a lover in his day but I’m sure Juliet’s love for him would have wavered had it reeked so strongly of the pickle barrel. But then your views on love and life have always been unique and bizarre and I guess on you, it looks good.

Unless you answer this letter and I don’t mean with delicatessen, groceries or alphabet soup, but with plain words (the dictionary, by the way, is full of them) it will be necessary for me to reduce my correspondence to the same level and my answers in the future will consist of shoe-string potatoes, salamis and apple strudel.

Love and garlic from the Hebrew National, Woloshin’s, Levitoff’s, Isaac Gellis’s, Greenblatt’s and Rubin’s.

Yours,

Groucho 

Source: Groucho Marx and Other Short Stories and Tall Tales: Selected Writings of Groucho Marx (1993), by Groucho Marx, edited by Robert S. Bader. Letter originally published in the column Tales of Hoffman, Hollywood Reporter, 29 August 1942.

1937, Los Angeles - Chico and Groucho Marx in court for copyright infringement of a radio script, a case they eventually lost.