The Leonard Bernstein Letters (7 page)

Your note, dear Verne, was most charming and thoughtful. In fact it was really a lamb's ear.
¹⁵

I'm so sorry that I couldn't come over sooner or let you know why, whether, or when; but, you see, your note appeared on a scene of great confusion, it being (and still is) exam period, and in the midst of that still greater emotional upheaval of which you have no doubt heard.
¹⁶
I must tell you all the details some time. It's the most fascinating, occult, hair-raising fairy story you could conceive of. You know, something one reads or dreams about – not experiences.

My very dear Beatrice, I'm so anxious to see you & will do my very best to be down as soon as I can after the examinations.

What are you doing to fill your time? I'm very anxious to hear about your 50-cent pupil. Give him (or her, or it) my very best personal regards and recite to her the following after each lesson:

Also, if you have time:

It's a curious thing, Beatrice – I'm being quite frank – or maybe I'm a curious being, I know not which. But I can pass months at a time, blindly busy with the immediacies which engage me, always unconscious of time and space, barred in by momentary emotions and reactions. Then I may chance upon something quite without this fettered up little circle, and be quite startled. That happened to me today, when I saw you. It occurred quite suddenly to me that I hadn't seen you for a very long time, and that I really was interested in seeing you. And it's doubly curious when I think that I
have
been communicating with you, hearing your name mentioned, even occasionally struck by a thought of you; and always taking the thing so amazingly without cerebral deflection. And for no reason – tho your picture has been here on my desk, and tho your hair had collapsed – I remember that here you were, and I hadn't seen you.

All this must sound fairly obviously like the product of dementia, and Lord knows I don't know why I'm writing it. I merely felt a moment ago that I should like to talk to you. I have nothing to say – I'm too tired – yet this. I am suddenly aware of you.

That's all: there's nothing to say.

Good night, Beatrice.

Dear Syd,

I'm glad to see that you've decided to study with me. I think you'll get a lot out of it. You see, even if I don't have the professional training that the “Miss Jewels” have, I can give you a comprehensive outlook on harmony – which is the most important of the three – with an eye ever cast in the direction of jazz. What I can give you will always be directly applicable to jazz, and there will be nothing superfluous, and, I hope, nothing neglected.

It seems to me that Fridays at about 3:30 would be ideal; if you can't make it so early perhaps 4:00 would do, but not later. In fact, the earlier the better; if 3:00 it's even better. See if you can't make it next Friday at 3:00. If you can't, drop me a card and we'll make other arrangements. If I don't hear from you, I'll take it that you're coming.

Best of everything,

Len

Incidentally, voici les particuliers of how to get here:

Go to Summer Street Station and walk thru to a Cambridge train. Get off the latter at the last stop – Harvard Square, which is like this:

Walk down Dunster Street
as far as you can
; it will take you right in the back door of Eliot House, leading you to a courtyard into which all the entries face. Go to G (gee) entry, walk up to Room 41 (all doors are marked) and knock vigorously. Voilà!

Then I'll either see you next Friday or hear from you sooner.

Good luck,

Len

Dear Miss Coates,

I hope that you are now fully recovered from your operation. I was so sorry to hear of it, but I'm sure that you are glad to be over & above it by now.

I'm having a splendid time here at camp,
¹⁷
though I get very little time for myself. But I guess that a good vacation is as important as work; and I am trying to rearrange my schedule to allow for practice.

I hope that you're enjoying a very pleasant summer. I should love to hear from you.

As always,

Leonard Bernstein

Beatrice – Dear Beatrice!

Had I known that you were not invited to the party I should have taken definite measures. I understood that you had been asked – I cannot imagine any possible reason for such an oversight. I've argued and argued with my sister, and she cannot possibly find any reason for forgetting you. She just did, as any child of her age is apt to do, and as she did forget some other people. So please forgive her. But I cannot understand why you didn't come up after I had asked you.

At any rate, let's pass over it – there's not much to be done now.

I expected to see you in Sharon, but today you suddenly disappeared. Sunday I was busy with my horde of guests from N.Y – Monday & Tuesday were horrible holidays, & when I finally sought you Tuesday evening, lo! you had awayed to the movies. I did want very much to see you – there would have been much to say.

I'm really very happy over your new (or is it already old?) job, & I wish you all success in it.

As for me, I shall spend until the opening of Harvard College gently fed sleep by a rosebeam.

I do hope to see you soon.

My best to all at home.

Take care of yourself.

Lamb's Ear

Rosebeam:

N.B.1: I make up, you notice, for your omitting to send me the customary poem by addressing the gist of the above trivial, tho very sincere, masterpiece to the both of us.

N.B.2: Lose not another minute before reading Gabriele D'Annunzio's
The Flame of Life
. Quick! It's incredible.

Happiest of Birthdays!

Announcement for a concert at the Sanders Theatre, Cambridge, in which Bernstein played the Ravel Piano Concerto with the State Symphony Orchestra, amended by Bernstein:

My dear, dear boy,

Believe me, your letter touched me very deeply. I never forget you. I was only really very busy, all this past year and now just the same. But now I feel you more near and that gives me more courage to write you.

Then, dear friend, is that so, is that true, that you believe so much in me? Have I really failed to you, have I really left you a void after our last meeting? This thought makes me crazy, and so happy that I dare not believe it. Nobody else has ever written me such a thing! In any way even, that you thought to write it makes me happy.

Dear boy, if you only could know how alone I am, all my life is a complete devotion to my art. Beyond this I am living like an ascetic.

There are many people probably who love me and are my friend, but it fails me, this unique one to whom I can believe with all my heart and soul. I am so full of the necessity to give my love, I am so full of love, that I am always spending it to every human being. Your letter was really a great gift for me and I thank you, thank you so much for this your unexpected gift.

Now let me tell you what I am thinking about your last interest on modern American dance music. I can't say I know it well, but in any way I advise you to be careful and don't forget that even the American dance music is always a dance form and that this kind of music form is not the most interesting and useful form to exercise oneself on it. I feel sorry if the most part of your composing is devoted to such a poor form of music. Of course I agree that we may release
from time to time doing easy and light things, to amuse ourselves, but not too much. We must train ourselves to [do] difficult things, to surpass ourselves, not to leave even a moment of your life without to be anxious to do it. In any way, to avoid to sleep too much on a very soft bed! I hope you will understand me. I had the impression that you are a very deep feeling boy and I hope that this your last sympathy with dance music is momentary. Perhaps you needed to relax, but excuse me in your age you don't need to relax before [you] have done your duty towards your art. If it is only for a pleasure, good, but not too much. We must keep ourselves as pure as possible.

Now tell me dear boy, do you wish to spend some holidays (about a week for instance if you can be free) and come to me here. I am inviting you in any way and I shall take care of
all your expenses
. Will you?

I shall be very happy if there was a possibility to see you again.

With all my sincerest sympathy.

Yours,

D. Mitropoulos
²⁰

God damn it, Aaron,

Why practice Chopin Mazurkas? Why practice even the Copland
Variations
? The week has made me so sick, Aaron, that I can't breathe any more. The whole superfluousness of art shows up at a time like this, and the whole futility of spending your life in it. I take it seriously – seriously enough to want to be with it constantly till the day I die. But why? With millions of people going mad – madder every day because of a most mad man strutting across borders – with
every element that we thought had refined human living and made what we called civilization being actively forgotten, deliberately thrown back like railroad tracks when you look hard enough at them – what chance is there? Art is more than ever now proved entertainment – people, we thought, were ready, after two thousand years of refining Christianity, to look for entertainment as such; to look for things that come out of the category of vital necessity! And so we were willing to spend our lives creating that entertainment. Aaron, it's not feasible; it's a damned dirty disappointment.

Then came the climax of the week. Cara Verson – whoever she is; to me she looks like an enlarged porcupine – had advertised for weeks that she was going to give in the Jordan Hall here, a whole program of modern music. I was all excited; it was unprecedented, and very courageous of her in this dead city, etc., etc. And I put so much hope in that damned concert. It came: and I find it difficult to talk about it. It was a tremendous program – Malipiero, Kodály, Hindemith – and – joy of joys! – the Copland
Variations
.
²²
That, I guess, was the premiere in Boston. Well, to get to the point, I don't know whether you knew it was going to be played here, but if you did, how did you allow it?

In short, she gave really no performance at all. I can stand a bad performance, but not
no
performance. She began the thing wrong, played about two measures, skipped some variations, got lost again, skipped about 5 pages, played a few measures out of tempo – entirely without any discernment, without any idea of rhythm – and kept this up (playing little measures from choice variations) until she reached the coda. Then she played about half of it and called it a day. I was purple – I wish I could let you know how incredibly bad it was. It was the work of an imbecile. I left then and broke dishes in the Georgian cafeteria.

Do you see what that farce meant, Aaron? The few people that were there thought she was wonderful – such a
touch!
(!!!) They tried to look intellectually intelligent about the music when the whole performance was one of bafflement! The one little chance that this little town gets to hear some modern piano stuff – (nobody dares to do it at a recital) – we find instead the complete distortion of the whole art, a perversion of these people's attitude when we need every resource to show them the right thing, correctly done. And where did this foul woman get press notices for her folder? Aaron, find that woman and have her put away. She's fatal.

Excuse this outburst, Aaron, but the whole concatenation of rotten, destructive things has made me very angry and disappointed. At Harvard the situation is aggravated by these horrible musical dolls who infest the place. I find it almost impossible to stand. Thank God for you. Our last hope is in the work you are doing.

Leonard Bernstein