Funny Letters From Famous People

by Charles Osgood

  Chopin

  FRÉDÉRIC CHOPIN was hardly the picture of hardiness and good health. But at least he had a sense of humor about it. Here’s an excerpt from a letter to his friend Julien Fontana:

  December 3, 1838

  My Julien:

  I have been as sick as a dog for the last fortnight. I had caught cold in spite of the eighteen degrees centigrade, the roses, the orange-trees, the palms, and the fig trees. Three doctors—the most celebrated on the island—examined me. The first said I was going to die, the second that I was actually dying, the third that I was dead already.… I had great difficulty in escaping from their bleedings, vesicatories, and packsheets, but thanks be to providence, I am myself again. But my illness was unfavorable to the Preludes, which will reach you God knows when.…

  George M. Cohan

  ACTOR/PRODUCER George M. Cohan was a fabled public speaker. But the day came when he was asked to write a piece for publication in an entertainment magazine. Here’s Cohan’s reply:

  Dear George Buck:

  Just received your letter in which you call upon me to write seven or eight hundred words for the anniversary number [of your publication]. Now let me tell you something, kid. Seven or eight hundred are a whole lot of words—I could tell a number of guys what I think of them in less words than that, and also I could do the lyrics of a dozen numbers for a musical play in less words than that. And to be truthful, I don’t honestly think I know seven or eight hundred words. There aren’t that many words in my entire vocabulary. As a matter of fact, in my whole circle of acquaintances I can’t think of any one right now, aside from a few English actors … who can spill that many words.

  As a dancer, I could never do over three steps. As a composer, I could never find use for over four or five notes in my musical numbers. As a violinist, I could never learn to play above the first position. I’m a one-key piano player, and as a playwright, most of my plays have been presented in two acts for the simple reason that I could seldom think of an idea for a third act. I remember hearing Marcus Loew say one night that he left school as soon as he had learned how to count to ten—he claimed that any learning beyond that was altogether unnecessary. And mind you, that was before he ever became a big moving picture magnate.

  I remember an old-time advance agent named Sam Dessauer telling me years ago (he was working for Gus Hill at the time), that Hill hollered so loud about telegrams being sent to him “collect” by his various advance men, that he called them all together one day and insisted that there wasn’t anything in the world that couldn’t be fully explained in ten words. Of course, they had to sit up nights figuring out how to phrase their messages, but all admitted afterwards that Mr. Hill was absolutely right.

  Speaking of words, there are two words necessary to every man’s vocabulary—”Yes” and “No.” The former is used a great deal out in Hollywood, I understand. When some fellow says, “If you happen to see Mr. So and So, I wish you’d put in a good word for me,” does he mean that you should look through Webster’s dictionary for a good word or does he mean to actually say something nice about him? If he wants a plug, why doesn’t he say so? And when some guy says, “You can take my word for it,” why doesn’t the guy he says it to ask him what word in the English language is his word? He’s made the claim, and he should be challenged.…

  George M. Cohan

  Groucho Marx

  GROUCHO MARX was easily one of the funniest letter writers in history. His wit is as irrepressible and whimsical—and often as denigrating—in his letters as it is in his movies. He was also a wonderful writer and storyteller in general, with a voice as vivid as his characters.

  In 1946, when Groucho was an expectant father, he wrote his good friend Irving Hoffman the following letter:

  Dear Irving:

  Between strokes of good fortune, I have been toying with the idea of making you my impending child’s godfather. However, before doing this officially, I would like to see a notarized statement of your overall assets. I don’t intend to repeat the unhappy experience that befell my parents late in the 19th century.

  At that time there was an Uncle Julius in our family. He was five feet one in his socks, holes and all. He had a brown spade beard, thick glasses, and a head topped off with a bald spot about the size of a buckwheat cake. My mother somehow got the notion that Uncle Julius was wealthy and she told my father, who never did quite understand my mother, that it would be a brilliant piece of strategic flattery were they to make Uncle Julius my godfather.

  Well, as happens to all men, I was finally born and before I could say “Jack Robinson,” I was named Julius. At the moment this historic event was taking place, Uncle Julius was in the back room of a cigar store on Third Avenue, dealing them off the bottom. When word reached him that he had been made my godfather, he dropped everything, including two aces he had up his sleeve for an emergency, and quickly rushed over to our flat.

  In a speech so moist with emotion that he was blinded by his own eyeglasses, he said that he was overwhelmed by this sentimental gesture on our part and hinted that my future—a rosy one—was irrevocably linked with his. At the conclusion of his speech, still unable to see through his misty lenses, he kissed my father, handed my mother a cigar, and ran back to the pinochle game.

  Two weeks later he moved in, paper suitcase and all. As time went by, my mother became suspicious and one day, in discussing him with my father, she not only discovered that Uncle Julius seemed to be without funds, but what was even worse, he owed my father $34.

  Since he was only five feet one, my father volunteered to throw him out but my mother advised caution. She said that she had read of many cases where rich men, after living miserly lives, died leaving tremendous fortunes to their heirs.

  Uncle Julius remained with us until I got married. By this time, he had the best room in the house and owed my father $84. Shortly after my wedding, my mother finally admitted that Uncle Julius had been a hideous mistake and ordered my father to give him the bum’s rush. But Uncle Julius had grown an inch over the years while my father had shrunk proportionately, so he finally convinced my mother that violence was not the solution to the problem.

  Soon after this Uncle Julius solved everything by kicking off, leaving me his sole heir. His estate, when probated, consisted of a nine ball that he had stolen from the poolroom, a box of liver pills, and a celluloid dickey.

  I suppose I should be more sentimental about the whole thing, but it was a severe shock to all of us, and, if I can help it, it’s not going to happen again.

  Well Irving, that’s the story. If you are interested, let me hear from you as soon as possible and, remember, a financial statement as of today will expedite things considerably.

  Regards,

  Groucho

  Look magazine staff entertainment writer Leo Rosten wrote a profile of Tallulah Bankhead for the magazine. Groucho took amusing exception with the piece, and he wrote the following letter:

  Edwin K. Zittell

  Editor

  Look Magazine

  February 1, 1951

  Dear Mr. Zittell:

  Mr. Leo Rosten writes dazzlingly and engagingly, but unfortunately inaccurately about Miss Bankhead. I know because some weeks ago he wrote about me, and described me as a harum-scarum clown willing and eager to commit any kind of mayhem to get a laugh. Actually I am an elderly student thirsting for learning and solitude, leading an exemplary and sedentary life in a bookish and cloistered atmosphere.

  I know Miss Bankhead very well and this fullblown act that she assumes for the press is completely phony. To them she presents herself as a carefree gamin, a social rebel kicking up her heels, frantically dashing from one hot party to another, flouting all the conventions of civilized society just for the hell of it.

  This is not the real Tallulah. The one I know is a small-town girl trapped in a profession she loathes, yearning for a touch of the soil; dreaming of a little farm in the backwoods, the gurgle of well water, perhap
s a cow or two, a few chickens cackling in the sun, the smell of new-mown hay, and a mate, sunburned and raw-boned, by her side.

  In the not too distant future if you happen to drive down Highway Seven between Little Rock and Van Buren and you are hungry for fried possum and corn pone, stop awhile at Bankhead’s Beanery. Yes, the motherly little introvert bending over the old wood burner will be the erstwhile madcap Tallulah. And at the cash register you will see the shadow of what was once Groucho Marx. Tell Leo Rosten, your bewildered Boswell, to come down and visit us. He’ll get no fried possum and corn pone, but we’ll fry the February 13th issue of Look and make him eat it word by word.

  Sincerely,

  Groucho Marx

  Groucho’s face appeared on the front cover of the December 31, 1951, issue of Time magazine. He quickly sent the following hilarious letter to Time’s publisher, James A. Linen:

  January 4, 1952

  Dear Mr. Linen:

  The picture of me on the cover of Time has changed my entire life. Where formerly my hours were spent playing golf and chasing girls, I now while away the days loitering around Beverly Hills’s largest newsstand, selling copies of December 31’s issue of Time at premium prices.

  Admittedly the picture on the cover didn’t do me justice (I doubt if any camera could capture my inner beauty), but nevertheless my following is so fanatical that they buy anything that even remotely resembles me. Yesterday, despite the fact that it was raining, I made $13. This is all tax free, for I steal the copies of Time while the owner of the newsstand is out eating lunch.

  Please use my picture again soon and next time I promise to give you half of everything I get away with.

  Cordially,

  Groucho Marx

  P.S. In addition to Henry James, I also read the St. Louis Sporting News.

  Groucho’s wit was often combined with considerable shrewdness brought about by his vast experience in the entertainment industry.

  Here’s a priceless letter Groucho wrote to Phil Silvers when Silvers’s career finally soared with his appearance in the Broadway smash musical comedy Top Banana:

  November 15, 1951

  Dear Phil:

  I won’t bore you with the details of how happy I am over your success. You’ve had it coming. You have been scrambling around near the top for many a year and now at long last you’ve broken through. The critics called you a major comic. Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

  But I must warn you. In a musical, as you know, there are temptations. Thirty or forty beautiful babes in back of you kicking up high—so high that they frequently display sections of their anatomy that in other circles are carefully reserved for the man they ultimately marry. Phil, steer clear of these man-traps. Marry, if you must, but don’t marry a chorus girl. As the years roll by you will discover their high kicks grow proportionately lower, and their busts sag just as much as the busts of girls who have never seen the inside of a dressing room.

  You may ask then what is the difference? As a veteran of three Broadway musicals, I can quickly tell you chorus girls are notoriously pampered and insolvent. No matter where you take them, they order champagne and chicken à la king. This can be very embarrassing if you are in the Automat.

  However, if you marry, I suggest you look in other fields. In a city as big as New York I am sure there are pants manufacturers, wholesale delicatessen dealers, and various other merchants who have daughters who conceivably have virtues even more indispensable to a nearsighted major comic than a talent for high kicking.

  So steer clear of these coryphées. This doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to snub them.

  Remember they too are people, even though they spend most of their waking hours grinding and bumping. I suggest that when you arrive at the theater give them a hearty but dignified greeting. You might even toss in a low, courtly bow. Under no circumstances shake their hands, for the slightest physical contact can lead to disaster.

  If there are not too many in the group, you might inquire solicitously about their health. If you are in a particularly gracious mood, you might even give them a brief résumé of your physical condition. The social amenities out of the way, walk quickly to your dressing room, and unless there is a fire backstage, don’t emerge until the call boy has notified you that it is time to make your entrance. Your behavior on the road we can discuss at some future date. You realize, of course, that once you get to Altoona, Sioux City, and other way stations, you may have to modify your attitude, but judging from the reviews this is a problem that need not concern you for some time.

  So look smart, be smart, and remember … in Union there is alimony.

  Love,

  Groucho

  This letter from Groucho to Norman Krasna further demonstrates the pungency of Groucho’s wit:

  June 6, 1957

  Dear Mr. Krasna:

  I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party the other night, but in my declining years I’ve become a social butterfly. Take the other evening, for example. I donned evening clothes (which took considerable preparation as the suit doesn’t fit too well) and went to a very lavish, flower-bedecked party at Romanoff’s. It was predicted that this would be one of the social events of the season. Even George Raft would be there. Well, to make a short party long—there were beautiful women all over the place, champagne was flowing, and I wound up with George Raft.

  Regards,

  Groucho

  We’ll leave Groucho—for the moment—with one of his most famous bons mots: In 1965 he wrote to the president of a Hollywood club:

  Please accept my resignation. I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.

  Fred Allen

  FRED ALLEN was one of the funniest men of his time, and he deserves to be better remembered today than he is. By the time he died in 1956, he had been a star in vaudeville, musical comedy, movies, radio, and television. James Thurber himself once remarked, “You can count on the thumb of one hand the American who is at once a comedian, a humorist, a wit, and a satirist, and his name is Fred Allen.”

  Indeed, humor simply flowed from the man, almost as if he couldn’t help it. Here are some excerpts from letters to various friends that showcase his spontaneous wit:

  Those mosquitoes in New Jersey are so big, one of them stung a Greyhound bus the other night and it swelled up so badly they couldn’t get it into the Lincoln Tunnel.

  His hair looks like the elbow of an old raccoon coat.

  I am the only man who has cut his throat with his tongue.

  Things are so tough up here that people who have been living on the cuff are moving farther up the sleeve for the summer.

  You can’t go through life writing with your tongue in your cheek. Half the world will think you chew tobacco and the other half will think you have bitten off the end of somebody’s goiter.

  On his radio program, Allen said he once checked into a hotel in Philadelphia and the rooms were so small even the mice were humpbacked. The Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce, the Convention of Tourists Committee, and the All Philadelphia Citizens Committee all promptly sent up a howl of protest. Even The Public Ledger attacked him in an editorial entitled “Philadelphia Fights Back.” Allen replied with a letter to the editor that made all his attackers look pretty silly:

  dr. editor,

  the remarks made on my program concerned a small theatrical hotel in phila. twenty-five years ago. no mention was made on my program and no aspersions cast on the many excellent hotels in phila. today. i know that the benjamin franklin hotel is so named because you can fly a kite in any room. i know that the rooms at the walton are so large the world’s fair is stopping there when it goes on the road next fall. i know that the rooms at the bellevurstratford are so spacious that the army-navy game can be played in a closet. and i know that billy rose rehearsed his aquacade in a sink in one of mr. lamaze’s mastodonic bathrooms at the warwick. yrs., fred allen

  Here’s a letter Allen wrote to a book deale
r and close friend, Frank Rosengren, from Maine in 1932, where he and his wife, Portland, annually rented a vacation house.

  Dear Frank:

  The normal season here in Maine for vacationists starts on July first and ends after Labor Day. Having nothing better to do this month, we decided to come up ahead of the average tourist and see why nobody comes here until July.

  And now we know. We have been here at Old Orchard six days and it has been colder than an Eskimo street walker’s big toe on a dull night. Goose pimples come to a head here and give off a sort of liquid frost when pressed unduly. The people eat candles and use the wicks for dental floss and business is so bad in fish markets you can hear a fin drop.

  We are constantly bombarded by nudists who stop at the door begging for an old vest or a sock or any article of clothing to tide them over the chilly period. This morning I heard a knock and found a nudist who is an English gentleman shivering at the front of the house. He was wearing a monocle in his navel.

  Being confined to the house, as we have been, has led to interior decoration. A new curtain has been hung on the front door so that my birthmarks and other blemishes will not be common gossip. I, who know nothing of machines, have installed a radio set with a lightning arrester and ground wire. The arrester has sort of an ego complex and seems to be looking up, daring lightning to start something. I hope that the God in charge of the Bolt Delivery Service can take a joke. Otherwise a nance clap of thunder will reduce this place to a decoy for stray dogs. I am sorry now that I wasted so much time on the radio set. All one hears is stale jokes and much ado about certain songs being sung through the special permission of the coffee-right owners. I may demolish the bothersome contraption in a moment given over to a personal decibel movement. I’ll let you know later.