The Leonard Bernstein Letters (11 page)

Lenny mine,

Not a word did I know, no, not a soupçon, of thy good fortune until but three days gone when I walked into Aaron [Copland] outside my office door (like the
Raven). He lost no time in acquainting me with the vagaries of my sainted room-mate. Liebchen, you cannot imagine what being put au courant of your goings and comings did to this brassed over heart, this spirit worn thin in the wasteland. The doubtful privilege of three thousand miles gives me the right to vicarious thrills, and second hand glowings. I was, and am, so goddamned glad for you. Aaron tells me you went to town on a competitive exam, which makes it even better. Baby, look down dat lonesome road: do you see the shining city, the purple hill? If I am over sentimental and Tom Wolfish, forgive me; it's because I miss you so hellishly much. Yes, that vaunted individualist, that brave soul: Eisner, pines. It would be a boon indeed in his young life to pass a quip once again with you. Ah, Steinbern, would I could climb again on those collines de autre fois, crunch through les neiges d'antan, eheu, eheu, miserere mihi (does miserere take the dative?) But 'twont be so very long: I return to God's country as soon after the 19 December as is humanly possible, to remain for a month and then once again must I take the flinted trail back and earn those golden objects which, it is my fond hope, will give me a measure of independence next year.

Intelligence note: Pratiner celebrates his nuptials shortly. A bitch name of June Herbert. Excuse: If he marries her maybe he can take her for granted and get some work done. R.I.P.

Interruption Goddammit. Some damn fool wants me to collaborate on a picture that will offset
Mr. Smith Goes To Washington
. In the kishkas I'll give him.

My personal little river flows along. I finished the script about the cellist to much critical acclaim, which is probably all the attention the damn thing will ever get. A wonderful job, but too much this, not enough that, etc. I don't care. If the acclaim will get me $300 per
week
that is sufficient, thank you. And I think I'll get it. Jesus, what a laugh. Well, I'm worth 300 as much as some of these mockies are woith 1500. Note silly manifestation of conscience.

Political note: purged myself from the Party. Recent events, coupled with tortured casuistry of
Daily Worker
did for me.

Not much else in the way of news. I languish most of the time. This job is absolutely the snappiest snap ever invented by the mind of man. One of the boys has produced a chess set and now no one even talks about working. Before that it was all day crap games. I see a lot of pictures in private projection booths and shit like that. I seldom go on the stages anymore. I don't feel particularly well. Climate seems to be enervating. I sleep a lot, read some, work a little. Don't get around much anymore. The testament of a man in exile. […]

What of Ken [Ehrman]? Did he join the French Foreign Legion or something?

Again and toujours, write.

De profundis

Al

Dear Lennie,

Just a line to let you know, you darling, that we all miss you – but that we are glad your work for the moment is not being interrupted by the intrusion of anybody's two left feet.
⁶¹
To get to the sordid facts – the machine is still in a state of collapse – necessitating the checkup up of every inch of wiring in the place. This little investigation will take at least another week or so – and we have chalked it up to a stroke of “Revuers luck”. The phrase is much talked of nowadays.

I'll keep writing and who knows, some time this year we may get the old opera recorded yet. We've added some new music and attendant stuff, but nothing too frightening. Oh –
Pursuit of Happiness
on Feb. 18.
⁶²

Are you coming in at all? – business or no? Again, I miss you. The house is an empty shell, reverberating with your memory.

Betty

Lennie dear,

All is not lost – well, not quite all. We have set a date for the recording – February 24 and 25 – but is that convenient for you? It is more likely that this time The Revuers and not the machine will break down – but I, personally, am sticking to my cod-liver oil – and hoping that all will go well. Also – do you think you might be able to come on Friday – the 23rd? – It's been so
long, and also there may be some new music, and vigorous rehearsal would be a great idea.

Listen – if you can bear it – on the 18th to
The Pursuit
(
of Happiness
) – and write to me as soon as you get this – or wire – about your coming to New York. Will the 24, 25 & 26 fit into the Bernstein schedule?

Wish you very much love from Betty – and the other bright young people.

O never-to-be-forgotten one!

The only news I've had from you is the one solitary fact that a letter you sent to me this summer was returned to you, address unknown. I live from moment to moment in expectancy of your return, capture by the Germans, or some such rot. Why don't you let a fellow who remembers a brown bag that sags to the ground, & will never forget Mr. Bowie? (If there are
New Yorkers
in Paris, cf. Thurber cartoon of recent date captioned “Every day is Arbor Day to Mr. –”)

Things are progressing at a great rate here. I can almost play the piano again, was the only student to get an A in conducting from Reiner, have had pieces broadcast, am receiving ghastly label of Pennsylvania composer. You would like our director, Randall Thompson, one of U. of Calif.

So is Margaret.
⁶³

Kenneth, believe me, I perish to see you. I get these fits from time to time – it was studying Brahms’ Third for Reiner tonight that did it. Please, I beg, write endless letters, or better still, come home. I don't know whether to envy you, or be perplexed, or simply be angry: once in a while la moutarde me monte au nez. From what I can gather, you're doing nothing in France. And all these Hearst papers in America.

Next year looks wonderful for me. Great things are brewing, & I can't say anything now. But, as you've already guessed, it's mostly the fault of Dimitri. A most blessworthy man.

Are you married? Do you still like music? Have you read Spengler? (I am now). Is tertiary syphilis curable? (Jot that down, Miss Wilson). Is Gordon still Messing? Is Bob still Wernick?
⁶⁴
Tell all to yr still truest –

Love that transcendeth death,

Lenny

Lennie dear,

There's little left to say by this time. If your patience has not worn too thin (I'm suffering too, you know – it's not us if I'm enjoying all this, you know) – whether next weekend is divinely free for you – and whether you could possibly come in on Friday – even if it is late. There has been such a lapse of time since we last battled through that score – and some new to learn (!!!). The more time we have for it the better. Yes – I know April is far off and we needn't rush into this blindly, but Lennie – the age of miracles is not yet dead – we may yet make those there new records
March 9th and 10th
.

I listened last Sunday – and your music was by far the most distinguished on the program, no matter what you may say. Hearing your name gave me a warm glow.

Write me Len – and if you're free, come anyway. It has been
much
too long, too long.

Love,

B

Lennie!!!!

You didn't like
Grapes of Wrath
!!!! But no matter – it alters not the “us” that stands triumphant and invulnerable above all petty differences. I don't care if you didn't like
Winter Carnival
. Come to dinner Friday anyway, and I shall try to break bread with you without a hard word about the Joads. Come at six-ish? We have an appointment with that unmentionable recording outfit at
eleven
– Saturday morning. That leaves us Friday evening to run over what is now a rusty better-forgotten memory to us all. In fact, it probably leaves us the whole weekend if I know Musicraft. But no, this time they said “positively”.
⁶⁵

All the news is exciting about you, Lenny. Mme Miquelle said you were only
talented
?

Till Friday,

Betty

Dear David,

Forgive me if I emote. Today has been horrible, and I have been missing you strangely. April is the cruelest month. I received a wire from Dimitri that knocked my world completely to hell. I have had queer forebodings about the next year affair in Minneapolis all along – and you, sympathetic to the supernormal, can certainly understand them. Today saw their manifestation. I quote from Western Union:

Now take a breath & put yourself here with me at 408 [South 22nd Street]. I have been staggering & pale green all day, fighting with my lifeblood that wants to stop coursing.

What happens to one's Weltanschauung when the curtains fall together again? When one has been living & working according to a quasi-divine plan,
setting aside certainties and doubts into one category that depends from the arm of a world-force – succumbing to élan vital – letting oneself be driven by a reversed future? And suddenly all the bases, the category itself – the whole reason for doing all this is wiped out – an instant – equivalent to a career. Time recedes. The instant equals the career. All of Time is upon me now; I can hardly bear it.

Don't think I am carrying on, please. The prospect of next year, prefaced by a summer in the Koussevitzky class, was for me the one, single motive of my activity now; every move, every note studied, project rejected, person loved, hope ignored, was a direct preparation for next year. From the scores I chose to study to the sexual life which I have abandoned – all.

It is as hard to write this as it must have been for Dimitri to send the wire.

This is all meaningless to you: but I have to think to someone else in order to arrive at any conclusions. I'm much clearer now – I think I know what I shall write Dimitri.

After all, I could still go as pianist, unless he is really regretting a hasty decision. And again the possibility of
2
seasons hence is not removed. One must have faith & be able to make these efforts at adjustment. One day to another is one adjustment to another. So please say nothing of this to anyone. I had to think aloud to you: somehow the rapport I feel with you is uncanny.

I received yr. letter & music today just before the telegram. You will understand that I have not had a moment of open mind to look at your music. I'll do it now.

Write to me, & flights of angels attend yr Kouss [Koussevitzky] reading. I love you.

Lenny

Dear David,

Matters are worse, & more complex. It all came out, in a letter from D[imitri] M[itropoulos] this morning that it's the union that put the monkey wrench in
the works. All sorts of complicated things involving firing and hiring & local talent as opposed to imported same etc. etc. The maestro will be in NYC around the 15th so I'm going to delay returning to Boston til after that. Ergo, no need to hang around Boston. I'll try to get in touch with you in the Beeg City.

Please don't think those thoughts re Dimitri. He's no false promiser. He has an integrity that is sans pareil. He's simply up against a strong machine. I too have heard the story of the Woltmann $1000 affair (minus the ten-dollar bill aspect), & I'm inclined to believe it.
⁶⁷
He does things like that, & has faith in Woltmann. The man is incredible that way.

It's difficult for me even to think about our relationship (yours & mine, I mean), harder to discuss it. I too must be very careful for many reasons, all of which I will burden you with when I see you in New York.

God bless Rochester.

And you.

Lenny

I hope you will send me programs & reviews. Even if they don't make sense. It will fortify your presence here. Alles gutes to alle Guten, especially Roy.

Bernsteinell,

Returned in triumph from San Francisco to be promptly assigned to a western for Beery
⁶⁸
which is directly responsible for the half dozen heads I've bitten off in the past week. All very sad and making me want all kinds of out, preferably Mexico. Great exodus to Mex. from here and the Eisner feet itch
à faire peur
. If I could get a few bobs ahead I could do a little thinking with guts about such things – but good broke.

Mad about Frisco: a city of character, albeit some hilly. I walked up the California St hill and so have reason to be bitter. Squandered sixty bucks in four days and not a solitary sou regretted. Ate expansively if expensively – and sometimes not so expensively. Stumbled on a place on Front St. where you eat for two bits, and second helpings yet; as yet no ptomaine. Really, if such phrases as “feeling, character, spirit” have any meaning when applied to cities, Frisco is all of that. I called Ken (your letter didn't reach me until return) and Ehrman
mère
took a deep breath and
drove
– quelle talker. Ken, it appears, is supposed to have taken ship at Marseilles last week, but in his last letter home (some months before) he had hinted darkly at joining the ambulance service and hanging
around for the duration. So Mrs. Ehrman didn't know and wouldn't I come out? All in all great time containing proper ingredients of culture, gastronomy, debauchery and lechery – and how is your sex life.

No, not married. Lived for a couple of weeks with a would-be actress in a house (small) in the hills with all of God's California spread like a burned over rug outside the bedroom window. Temperaments clashed and I'm back in an apartment which looks, fittingly enough, like a monastery. Actress, so help me God, had a glass eye and came from Brooklyn. And the most luscious body ever I rubbed against. Something, mon vieux, to see that eye come out. No, I didn't fuck her in the eye socket, although I imagine the procedure would have had a tang.

Otherwise, but little. I may hit
story
again soon. They're making up their flighty little minds now. Been writing quite some. Started my first novel. The “To Own The World” epic I worked on will be released soon under the title
We Who Are Young
.
⁶⁹
Has been sneaked and reactions very whoopsifying. (Glossary: Whoops – to puke, to vomit under strong emotional stress due to violent nausea, colloq.) Remember when your head is being held, only about 20% of the clotted pool about your feet is my fault.

Would like very much to get out and away, but the studio has a viselike grip about my economic balls. The prospect is not encouraging: you look about you and realize that literary New York has descended
en masse
on Hollywood demanding bread and butter. Even that old die-hard, Maltz,
⁷⁰
is in town looking for a job and, incidentally, not getting it. They're letting them out in droves and starvation marches with banners along Hollywood Blvd. Heard of a writer last week who was reduced to living in a house with a view on only one side and no swimming pool. Poor lamb. I get around quite a bit now and think nothing of going to parties where you put ashes in the drinks of Dorothy Parker or Sinclair Lewis etc. etc. Everybody is out here. Sometimes you actually tell yourself you're having an exciting time of it. I intend to get out in the fall. I'll have some dollars five hundred, and we'll see.

Distressing about your next year crumbling about your hapless head. But methinks next year is going to crumble about everybody's hapless head and plans and dreams and whims and hopes and lives will be all one lovely goulash thanks to the Stukas. Some guy I know out here leaves next week for France and the volunteer ambulance service. Wanted me to go along. I laughed for the first time in weeks.

And so at the coming of the great noon tide my phone rings and a producer wants to talk to me about a scene for Beery that even Beery can't play, and I am suddenly sick with the thought of talking about it. Weep for me lost among the lost and write.

Al