The Leonard Bernstein Letters
Page 18
Just finished Gide's memoirs, by the way (If I Die) – & had an excellent time thinking of you. I miss you like my right arm.
Write me more than you do –
Love,
L
140. Aaron Copland to Leonard Bernstein
[Los Angeles, CA]
11 April 1943
Dear Honeychile,
There are two letters of yours here that are still “unanswered”. I'm beginning to lose contact with your every thought. I have a sense of your having had a great triumph out of the Bowles opus,102 followed by a kind of let-down which is natural enough, complicated by several new personal adventures, new boy and girl friends, who are nothing but names to me. Hadn't you better expand a bit? So's I know where I am.
V[ictor] wrote a full description of the Askew party that is a classic of its kind. Bill Schuman wrote a description of the Bowles opus that tore it to shreds. Anyway I get the impression I know just what it was like. After your own description of Koussie's Lincoln [Portrait] I heard it on the air yesterday at Ira Gershwin's house, surrounded by Harold Arlen, Harry Warren, Yip Harburg, Earl Robinson, Arthur Kober and other noted worthies. (Get the company I'm in!) Of course I didn't approve of Geer's way of doing it, but more than that, why did Kouss take the middle part so fast?? It made it seem superficial. It lacked charm and bite done that way. What we need is Amurkian conductors. In the meantime, however, I'll take Kouss.
I don't know what to write you about because nothing much has happened out here. I've been to a couple of musicians’ parties for Sanromá103 and P[aul] Whiteman. I've stopped going to the studio in the mornings because there's nothing to do. The picture is growing each day, but I have no over-all idea of what it's like yet. Next week I do a short dance sequence with Lichine. But nothing of background music as yet. I dawdle a lot, and fuss with themes of my own, and the unfinished 1st mov't of the violin piece, and argue with Mr. Goldwyn. And that's about it.
Spent an evening with G. Antheil104 who played me his 2nd, 3rd and 4th Symphonies. They're hard to describe. He's in a Mahler–Shostakovich period, and everything comes out of there in great unwashed gobs of sound that billow you about until it's all over and you're not sure what you heard. Some of it is very effective, and it all has a typical Antheil drive, but somehow when it's all over, one doesn't give a damn. That's the sort of thing that's hard to tell a composer.
I read a lot, mostly to make up for the lack of any warm relationships here. I get a great sense of luxury out of buying all the books I want. I spend whole nights in book stores making up my mind. Victor is sending me a two volume affair105 that had to be ordered via Dr. Safford. Do you remember my telling you about it? I originally spied it in a store in Rio, and now I've tracked it down. I'll save it for you.
This is the end of my tenth week. I have ten more to go, and then a big question mark. It would be a much more exciting life if you were here.
Love and all,
A
P.S. Monday. Just had word that V[ictor] is driving out. [Margaret] Bourke-White is coming to take stills.
141. David Oppenheim to Leonard Bernstein
17 April 1943
Dear Len,
“Publishing-pains” indeed. Seems to me like the worst publishing pains a piece could have is no publishing at all. And you wound up with not one, but two publishers, get the biggest plus the tempting part of the smaller publisher's offer – recording – and you can say P[ublishing] P[ains]. Nonsense, Bernstein, nonsense. At any rate I'll be down in NYC next Friday nite. May I stay with you or will there be complications. Also I will be there until May 2nd. OK? Better be!
Sunday a.m. is awfully soon for the recording in as much as I am just recovering from a two day sojourn at the Hospital where I was treated for flu & an infection on my face. If you can with ease and safety stall it off for a few days so much the better except that I never get any work done in N.Y. anyhow.
Five years with W[arner] B[ros.] is a long time m'boy. Are you sure you want that. Would that tie you up. Could you travel, conduct etc. I suppose the decision has already been made & I am just making things harder. Sorry, but somehow I hate to see you do it.
I see you have learned to spell Rorschach.106 I'm glad about the new seriousness. Soon I'll see you & we can talk about it. I'm very anxious to see you.
Gene Shamalter, the guy who wanted to see me in N.Y. but couldn't & who wrote me at your place was here this week. As I suspected, he is as I suspected. Remember. But complete, never felt otherwise. He is alternately resigned and unhappy about it, wants to renounce sex altogether. A most sensitive chap too.
1. I've slept with Mad.
2. Army day is in May I think.
3. I'm 21 now.
Love,
Dave
142. Leonard Bernstein to Aaron Copland
15 West 52nd Street, New York, NY
[April 1943]
Aaron darling,
Since I never hear from you any more, I suppose I'll have to write, & wring a letter from you. May I burden you with my many little present conflicts?
First, though, I think it's great that V[ictor] is finally going west. He needs it, you need it, I need it; and the best, of course, is that he made a decision at all. Treat him right now – get him going as a man. He's really such a foetus! (Look who's talking!)
Viz: the little Hargail Music Co. (mostly recorder music) wanted to publish the Clarinet Sonata. Out of professional courtesy I showed it first to Warner's, & they knocked me over by loving it, & insisting on publishing it. I was downhearted, since Hargail wanted to make a commercial recording of it. Now Hargail is offering me all sorts of fantastic royalty rates if I'll give it to them, & says that they will make the recording anyway! A labor of love, if I ever heard one. But Warner's points out that they, as a large firm (Witmark will be the publisher) can do so much more for it than can a little thing like Hargail. What you do think? Matters are now suspended by a hair.
Viz (2): Warner's presented me with a five year contract! I'm taking it to a lawyer today to find out what it says. It looks like my life that I'm signing away. But it adds to my little old salary a substantial weekly advance on future mythical royalties, which increases each year. What do you think?
Viz (3): I've got to move, and there's the biggest problem. I want the sort of apartment I can't afford alone. And I have a wonderful guy to live with – which is quite a story. He's […]107 the big, beautiful, brilliant 20-yr-old […] & I want to help him (but how can a poet earn a living?) I really want desperately to help him – although I have doubts about whether he can stick it out. […] The Frau won't hear of it. I have to be alone, & suffer, & break through the pain of loneliness, even if it means living the summer in a hot place, which is unbearable in New York. God, I'm perplexed! What do you think?
Viz (4): – a possibility of giving a recital in Town Hall next month for the Little Red Schoolhouse,108 which is mad but exciting, and I don't know if I should do it. I do get diffused. And Jacoby really wants me bad in his new night club (the Blue Angel), & wants to build me, etc., comme impresario. And I had another nice letter from Rodzinski. Am I diffused?
So I should talk about Victor, yet!
Please write, my love – I miss you like mad.
Ewig, ewig, ohne End!
L
143. Aaron Copland to Leonard Bernstein
Samuel Goldwyn Studios, Los Angeles, CA
29 April 1943
Darlingest L.P.
I know you're probably feeling awfully neglected, or maybe you're all absorbed in your new friend and have forgotten all about me.
Anyway, from my angle – not hearing from me doesn't mean a thing. I got tied up writing a Russian number for Lichine's choreography. It was the last of the pre-recorded stuff – and now I don't have much to do but wait around until they finish shooting the picture, which looks as if it would be around June 15th. Of course, I get ideas and whole sections while waiting. I wonder what it will all add up to. […]
V[ictor] arrived in Posh109 (now renamed Poshalopy) yesterday, so a new chapter in my Hollywood life begins. He seemed pleased with my house, my office, my secretary, etc. And I'm very pleased to have him here.
He brought reports of your signing the Warner's contract. Is it true? I wish I could have read it. I was out on the Warner lot the other night watching Adolph Deutsch scoring a picture with an orchestra of 80. When I think how you could fit in over there I get noivous.
Is the Clarinet Sonata being published?
And are you alone – like the Frau wants?
I never heard the sequel to your last letter which was full of problems.
By the way, that book I once wrote you [about] arrived – and it contains the most wonderful Glossary of specialized slang you have ever seen or ever can hope to see. I can't wait to show it to you. The rest of the book is H. Ellis’ case histories brought up to date – and I recognize a little bit of you in each of the 300 cases!110
How are you? That is, hello. And what's the summer look like? All signs point to me being out here until August 1st. After that I hope Mexico or New Mexico. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could somehow connect up sometime somewhere.
Tell Pfb [Bowles], if you see him, that his M[odern] M[usic] phrase about “harp vomit” has become famous among Hollywood orchestrators. I met a number of them at a party the other night – they're my principal public out here. Seems that Max Steiner's wife is a harpist – which they say explains the featuring.
Margaret Bourke-White is on the lot, photographing us. We just carried out the “scorched earth” policy on the back lot set – and boy did we make a mess of that. Beautiful set. Farley Granger gets more simpatico every day. I've promised him the Saloon records. Do you think that will do it??
Still I love you.
A
144. Leonard Bernstein to Renée Longy Miquelle
Hotel Chelsea, New York, NY
14 May 1943,
Chère Renée,
Ce sont des jours tellement français, ces jours-ci. Je viens de lire Gide en français. Je vais jouer tous les dimanches-soirs chez “Le Bleu Angel”, un nouveau club en quelque sorte Parisien (comme l'ancien Bœuf sur le Toit, ou le Ruban Bleu); le clique des Concerts Sérénades (ton amie la Marquise, etc.); mon monde semble aujourd'hui tout à fait français. Et alors, que faire? Rien que d'écrire un mot à la première Française de toutes Françaises. Tu me crois enivré? C'est point l'ivresse – c'est l'amitié.
La cause immédiate de cette lettre, c'est Mme Claude Alphand, chanteuse extraordinaire au Blue Angel.111 Chaque fois qu'elle chante “Les Moules marinières” ou “La Belle Journée” ou “Tu m'as voulu, tu m'as eu”,112 je me souviens violentement de “Mon Mari est bien malade”.113
Qu'est-ce que tu fait ces jours? Pas encore l'assembly-line, j'espère! En tous cas, je serai à Boston la semaine prochaine, et j'insiste de te revoir. Notre ancien ami, L'Institut de l'Art Moderne (zut) m'a invité à jouer la-haut le jeudi soir. Eh bien, quelques dollars, et un voyage payé à Boston! Mais quelle existence! Le mardi, j'ai un lecture-recital très important à Town Hall; le mercredi, j'ai un lecture à L'Art Alliance à Philly!!!! Et le jeudi à Boston! Je reserve toutes les nouvelles pour ton oreille, pas ton oeil. …
Lenny.
Et voilà celui qui a gagné le Prix Paderewski! Gardner Read! Effrayant.114
145. Leonard Bernstein to Serge Koussevitzky
Hotel Chelsea, New York, NY
29 May 1943
Dear Doctor,
Every once in a while I am appalled at the idea that I never see you – and I feel that I must write you, or talk to you, if for no other reason than my constant warmth of affection for you. No matter how much time elapses without seeing you, you are always with me, guiding my work, providing the standards by which I measure my progress in our art. And today I feel simply that I must communicate with you, out of love and friendship – that is all.
Reading your letter to the [New York] Times115 made me think of the wonderful Tanglewood days when we discussed your wonderful plan together. I became inspired all over again; and I was very happy to find that the general reaction to your idea is so favorable and understanding. But who can resist an idea at once so bold and so simple?
Of course I am desolated that there is no Tanglewood this year for the first time in many a year. The summer holds no attraction for me. I am searching for a little farmhouse on Staten Island, where I can be alone and work during the summer months. What are you planning to do? I have heard reports that you may go West! That would be a grand idea, if the traveling were not too difficult. There is nothing on earth quite like the Far West of our country.
As for me, I am still in an undecided state. I hear rumors, all the time, about my coming connection with the Philharmonic – sometimes they reach crazily exaggerated proportions – but I have still had no definite word from Rodzinski. But I am used to this kind of delay – it is rather typical of my life. The one moment I still anticipate eagerly next year is my conducting my symphony with the Boston orchestra. That will be a real moment!
Meanwhile, I go on doing my horrible chores for Warner Brothers in order to live. It is dull beyond belief, and takes much too much time; but I feel that somehow better things must be coming for me.
I have given up my apartment, and live temporarily at the Chelsea Hotel, until I find my summer house. Please let me hear from you and Olga, for it may be a long time until I see you again.
Warmest greetings to Olga, and to you, the same love and sincerity,
Leonard
146. Aaron Copland to Leonard Bernstein
“about 30 miles outside Hollywood”
3 June 1943
L P (you dawg),
Don't worry, I haven't lost my job. It's just that we are on location – about 30 miles outside Hollywood, in heavenly rolling hills, dotted with cattle. Pure William Bonney116 country. I come out each day with about 250 people. They are about to film 2 of my songs, only the sun won't stay out as it's supposed to in Cal[ifornia] – so 250 people sit around at old Goldwyn's expense – and I get a chance to write the letter I've been thinking for weeks on end.
We're on the 4th month of the picture's shooting and still no end in sight. My contract, which was to have ended on June 19th, will have to be continued indefinitely or there'll be no score. As things stand now, I can't imagine being free of the place until Aug 1–15. Because so far there is no score, except for a few songs and a dance number. Isn't it amazing? Most composers get 2–3 weeks to write their music. And look at me, sitting pretty in my 18th week!
The really good thing would be if I could tell you I'd been working on the side all that time. But I ain't! Hollywood affects me as it does everybody else – not creative country … (except when you're paid).
Of course, you're a villain and a wretch for letting weeks and weeks go by with nary a word. And your letter – tho I ate it up – was scrappy. I put it all down to the evil genii of the Chelsea Hotel. Watch out for those guys. You can listen, but don't touch.
D[avid] D[iamond] sent a triumphant paragraph of how he had outdone you one Sat. night. It gave me visions of a promiscuity “sans bornes”, and I tremble for you. I expect to return and find nothing but a pulpy dismembered jellyfish. Awful!
I went up to Oakland (Cal!) last weekend and delivered me of a lecture at Mills College and spent some charming hours with the Milhauds and saw much of Sandy Jones. I even played the Piano Sonata. I can't tell you what a nice person Darius is. He played me the opening page of Bolivar, and presented me with a manuscript of his Lily Pons songs. I wish something could be done about getting his bigger works put on more regularly. Another job for young conductors!
Read a biography of Hart Crane by Horton. Very touching book. Did you ever read it? Also I've been reading Latin-American poetry, my first Lorca plays, more Henry Miller, the Fausset Whitman biography, and good old Hindy's117 Unterweisung in translation.
V[ictor] was busy with M. Bourke-
White when she was here and is now “recovering”. Looks quite “Hollywood”.
Tell Pf [Bowles] I have his letter and will answer soon.
Antonio writes wild letters from Mexico. Why can't we all meet at Chávez's Festival of Modern Music Oct 22–29? Simple idea, what?
Lead the good life.
Always your viejo,
A
147. Aaron Copland to Leonard Bernstein
Samuel Goldwyn Studios, Los Angeles, CA
3 July 1943
Lenny-Pen,
You write the most wonderful letters – just the kind I love to get: the “I miss you I adore you” kind, the while sailors and marines flit through the background in a general atmosphere of moral decay.
Well, the fact is I miss you too, and there aren't any sailors in the background either. In fact, there isn't anybody – because V[ictor] has gone to Mexico, and I've been alone for a week. So the scene is set for a wonderful reunion – the only hitch being that you'd have to come here. How about it? How about just hopping [on] a plane and coming here for two weeks or two months or whatever. I know it's a wild idea – but it's fun to contemplate. I have a tiny house with a concert grand that fills it up completely. There's a little porch where one sunbathes, and a big eucalyptus tree that covers all. With a whirlwind like you around the neighbors will suffer, but that's their lookout. I even have a small kitchen where you could demonstrate the culinary art. And it's never hot – just pleasantly warm. Oh yes, and it wouldn't cost you anything once you got here (just a minor detail!) and of course you'd write reams of music, – and good music, it being my house. What do you say.
The idea is probably full of complications for you. Your draft board, your job, your frau, your things, your etc., etc. I dread thinking about the fit of confused brainstorms this letter will bring on. But I just can't resist the temptation of suggesting the whole thing and living in hopes for a couple of days. Maybe you'd better wire me collect as soon as you know anything. The two week plan couldn't be so complicated, could it? Anyhow, even if nothing comes of it, I've had the pleasure of asking you, and it makes me feel less of a wretch in abandoning you all these many months.