In this connection you may be interested in the following account by a composer friend of mine (Boulez) of an evening in Paris 3 or 4 years ago. It was told as proof of the genuineness of Stravinsky's conversion to the serial technique. Stravinsky was in the company of a group of young composers (incl. Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen, etc.) and one old school-chum of the master. They were discussing problems in contemporary music, drinking quite a bit; and Stravinsky, as you know, when he does drink gets very sad & nostalgic. At one point he turned to his old friend and, almost in tears, said (not verbatim, but in effect): “You know, of all of us (meaning himself, Schönberg, Bartók, Hindemith etc.), the only one who went in the right direction was Webern. I've been composing wrong all my life”. A pathetic & touching story. It is hard to say whether Stravinsky actually meant all of that, but his continuing adoption of 12-tone thinking à la Webern (not Schönberg!!) would seem to indicate that he meant it to be quite an extent, and if he did, what does this do to your “two camps”?
I write you with all this because I like to discuss subjects close to my heart with people I respect & admire. I need not emphasize that I appreciate & admire your absolutely unique combination of abilities. So it is not in the sense of hostile criticism that I write you this letter, but rather in a spirit of friendly discussion.
With best wishes,
Sincerely yours,
Gunther Schuller
P.S. Have a piece about jazz in the Jan 12th issue of Sat. Review of Literature. I think it might interest you.
374. Aldous Huxley40 to Leonard Bernstein
3276 Deronda Drive, Los Angeles, CA
4 April 1957
Dear Mr. Bernstein,
As a very busy man with a large correspondence, I can well understand your annoyance at receiving yet another letter from a perfect stranger. But, at the risk of being a bore, I am writing to ask if you would be at all interested in reading a dramatic version of my novel Brave New World, which I have recently made, with a view to a musical setting. (I envisage the piece as a play with music and dancing, rather than a conventional “musical”.) The story calls for a very resourceful composer, who can run the gamut from the primitive dances of the Indian Reservation to the music of the hypothetical future. So I naturally thought of you41 and am hopefully writing this on the off chance that you may have the time and the inclination to consider such a project.
Yours sincerely,
Aldous Huxley
375. Felicia Bernstein to Leonard Bernstein
[Santiago, Chile]
“Thurs. and Fri.” [10–11 July 1957]
Dearest darling Lennuhtt,
It's all most peculiar, wonderful, strange and yet most familiar. There has been a constant stream of friends – about twenty at the airport last night – and all day today – exhausting but so heart-warming and nice. I never realized I was loved that much, or that my coming would be such an event – I'm truly overwhelmed by it all! The children are a smash – Jamie has taken over the Alessandri household already – what a delight it is to see all those children together! I'm so sorry that you can't see it too – the squealing, the giggling, the mixture of languages and in the midst of it all Jamie is the queen, the glamorous beautiful imperious pixie and they are at her feet ready for her slightest whim. Alexander spent the afternoon there and the way he and Jamie flung into each other's arms was one of those rare and beautiful moments – they really adore one another.
The trip was a nightmare! The Miami bit in spades – it was about 100 degrees, no sign of anybody from the Chilean airline, nobody knew where it was and when we finally found it they didn't know when the plane was leaving – we spent five hours in that fucking airport. The only air-conditioned place was the restaurant where we went twice but couldn't linger because the children got so restless. Anyway we finally were called in and found that part of the seating space was taken up with cargo! The flight itself wasn't bad except between Panama and the next stop we ran into a terrific storm and poor Jamie got sick. […] They both were marvelous though, never cried and were perfect lambs. Alexander once in a while would cry out “vamos a la calle” out of sheer desperation! It's just too long – absolutely the end of the world – plus they made more stops than were bargained for so we arrived bedraggled, weary and worn at midnight – imagine!!
I think of you constantly and love you more than ever – Jamie talks about you all the time and said yesterday that she must write because poor Daddy was all alone. She looked out the window in the plane and said she saw a map below. […]
Chita's house is small but adorable with divine food which I've been gobbling up. Yesterday I had a full two course lunch then tea with all the trimmings and then went to Madeleine's for dinner at ten and gorged – it must be something in the air – it's nippy, but clear and sunny.
Following night. Thank you for your darling cable which I got this morning. As you can see there's no chance of writing in the daytime – I took the children to Mamita this morning and they went crazy with the chickens, ducks, rabbits, turkeys, a dog and oranges which they plucked from the trees and ate on the spot. She is the darling of all time – so full of love and goodness, thrilled by the children, supplies them with fresh eggs every day and things that she grows – and she's getting old and sick and it breaks my heart.
About the “girls” I'll tell you in my next – they're marvelous. Madeleine especially has taken a great turn for the better – details later cause I'll never finish.
My darling do write – don't work too hard – tell me how everything is going with the show – if Grace is taking care of you.
As for me I'm bewildered and miss you so that it hurts. I think it's the incredibly depressing distance between us.
I do love you.
Felicia
My love to Helen and the Kats.
376. Leonard Bernstein to Felicia Bernstein
19 July 1957
Darling,
The main news is that I love you and miss you, more than I could ever have known. It's all very well to talk about the salutary effects of periodic separations, and all that; but it's lonely in that big apartment upstairs, and everything looks different without my people there. Booze-hour isn't the same with anyone else, sleeping is particularly strange in one of two beds with the other unoccupied. I've managed not to eat alone once so far: that's no problem. But it's different, that's all. In fact, as I've discovered, it's the main difference there can be in living.
But there's little if any time to think about any of the above. The work grinds on, relentlessly, and sleep is a rare blessing. Jerry continues to be – well, Jerry: moody, demanding, hurting. But vastly talented. We start on the book Monday, trepidation in hand; and the score is still not completed. At the moment the Problem is the usual one of the 2nd act ballet, which is finished, and will probably not work at all and be yanked and we'll have to manufacture a new one. It's going to be murder from here on in. My nights are all spent on work, so no fun at all. The only relief is dinner. Once at Ofra's (all goes swimmingly, and Shirley is still in the dark) – once with Lukas [Foss] (who missed you by a day, sends you great love, and was intuitive enough to ask Burtie “Are you in love? You seem dreamy and different.”) and once with Steve [Sondheim] and once with Debbie and once with George Schütz and once with [Kenneth] Shermerhorn, etc. etc. And once at the Ricordis. Last weekend was all work. No Stony Point. Maybe this weekend.
Last night was Martha [Gellhorn] night. She finally made it: and we talked in our customary natter for hours. How she loves you and knows you! And how she knows and loves our love (yours and mine). She finds my life ridiculous, of course, but finds me in better shape than ever, all of which she attributes to you, and rightly of course. I was telling her what a marvelous girl you are, how beautiful and bright and witty and wise, and she said: “But how did it take you so long to find out what is perfectly obvious?” Well, I always knew it; I didn't have to find it out; I just suddenly became aware of it, found myself able to ex
perience it and share it, and just be plain grateful for it. I'm endlessly lucky in you, and lucky that you've been strong enough to stick out the bad times. You wonderful girl, you, with whom I am recently in love all over again.
I must run: Big Daddy calls. Big hugs & kisses for my two angels – and love to all the family. Write more & lots! You have time, I haven't! Have a glorious time – I kiss you.
L
19 July
Today is Helen's birthday. Do cable her. Grace quit – I have a fine new maid. Greetings to Rosalia & Julia.
377. Leonard Bernstein to Felicia Bernstein
26 July 1957
My darling,
I loved your letter (I guess we've established the usual pattern of crossing letters so that nothing ever gets properly answered) – but it's wonderful just to hear from you – except to hear that you're sick – what a bore. I was afraid that abrupt change in climate might do something like that. And of course it was also only natural that the usual reaction to Chita would set in – too much of a good thing. But you're used to that: don't let it get you down.
I can imagine what a trial it is to be in a place where everything is at a premium – like the old days in Israel – & where medicine is backwuhts and the trunks don't arrive – very Israeli, all that. Don't you dare stop smoking – you're absolutely right!
A propos Israel: I sent a long nagging cable about Jeanne [d'Arc au bûcher] & just had a letter this morning saying that it's absolutely impossible to get a chorus to prepare it. I'm furious but helpless. There just isn't a chorus that operates in the summer, & they claim they'd need 8 months to learn it, etc. etc. Shit.
So that's out, my darling; but don't let it discourage you from coming to Is. anyway.
Still no word from Buenos Aires!
Milton Goldman has been calling about a part for you in a play version of Diabolique. Interested? And Tony Mines called for you today. Gave him your address.
The show – ah, yes. I am depressed with it. All the aspects of the score I like best – the “big”, poetic parts – get criticized as “operatic” – & there's a concerted move to chuck them. What's the use? The 24-hour schedule goes on – I am tired & nervous & apey. You wouldn't like me at all these days. This is the last show I do. The Philharmonic approved the contract yesterday & all is set. I'm going to be a conductor, after all!
No news on the Burtie–Ofra–Shirley front,
Weather: good – coolish, fair. I don't get to see it much; & my air-conditioned studio saves my life.
Darling I love you & miss you –
L
Dined with Marc last night – sends fondest love.
378. Leonard Bernstein to Felicia Bernstein
Sun a.m. [28 July 1957]
Darling,
Guess where I am – on a plane. Guess my destination – Miami. And as always with any flight involving Miami (as you know too well) there's shit to spare. I was to have left last night: arrived breathless at Idlewild to be told that the flight had been cancelled – only nobody had taken the trouble to inform me of same. No other flights available, except one that would have landed me in Miami at 5 a.m. or so. So back to the Osborne, heckle & peckle, & dinner with Burt, Ofrah, & back to Idlewild this monanküdü, & here I am. Now, to be consistent, there should be nobody to meet me at the airport, the convention is over, forced landing at Palm Beach, or something worthy of the tradition.
Oh, I didn't tell you why I'm going. Columbia Records is having its annual convention, imagine, & it will be fun & games at the Americana Hotel (this year's hotel). I dread it. Home tomorrow, in time (I hope, barring airport Miamisms) for a run-thru of Act One! Imagine – already! Where does the time all go to? In a minute it will be August & off to Washington – & people will be looking at West Side Story in public, & hearing my poor little mashed-up score. All the things I love most in it are slowly being dropped – too operatic, too this & that. They're all so scared & commercial success means so much to them. To me too, I suppose – but I still insist it can be achieved with pride. I shall keep fighting.
I miss you all terribly – especially you who have come to mean something miraculous to me. You reside at the very core of my life, my darling. I hope your kepepelt [cold] is better, & that the fun goes on. Ofrah bets you won't stick out the two months. She's probably right. But if you come home, what would you find? I'd be no good to you – & you'd hang around the show & get sick of it, & my whining, etc. etc. And then, if I have to go to B[uenos] A[ires] after all – what's the fun without you there? Anyway, don't make any rash decisions yet.
There's Palm Beach down there, looking hot, damp and sunless. We'll be landing soon – & I'll probably drop you a line on Americana stationery, which I am sure is pure gold-leaf.
Bless you my love.
L
Abrazos to all.
Dere Jamie and Alejito:
I love you so mucho!
Dady
379. Leonard Bernstein to Felicia Bernstein
Sat. night, 3 August 1957
Darling,
Two big events:
1) I've gotten out of Buenos Aires! The agent, one Uhlfelder, was here in town, & came to see me, & it's settled, & wow, what a relief. So you can return in peace, & I can see my two angels before Israel – & we can leave from here, after seeing the opening on the 26th, like a Mensch. Look: we go to the opening, & then we wait up for the papers, & before you know it it's time for the plane, and Scheu, we're off.
2) I signed the Philharmonic contract. Big moment. Bruno [Zirato] arrived at 10:30 a.m., contract in one hand & a big chilled bottle of Brut in the other, & much emotion (he couldn't write his name for the shaking of his hands) & I'm in – like for life. I made a coup: the lawyers had fallen out so far that the contract was up to 20-odd pages, & growing: & the disputes were growing correspondingly. So I scotched it by tearing up the whole thing, & writing a one-page letter that said I was engaged for such a period for so much money, sincerely yours. They loved it. Simple, & trusting. We'll settle the details as they come along.
Other events – nothing but the show. We ran through today for the first time, & the problems are many, varied, overwhelming, but we've got a show there, & just possibly a great one. Jerry is behaving (in his own way) & Arthur is doing well. But the work is endless: I never sleep. Everything gets rewritten every day: & that's my life at the moment. And imagine, we open two weeks from Monday.
Some beautiful shots of you & the kids arrived (taken by the hi-fi man at the vineyard – remember) – & they melted me. I miss you so!
I loved your last letter. Did you get mine from Miami?
I hope the trunks are there, & all is in order. My love, & have fun, dear lovely one.
L
380. Igor Markevitch42 to Leonard Bernstein
L'Aiglerie, Villars-sur-Ollon, Switzerland
3 August 1957
My dearest Lennie,
First of all I want to tell you how delighted I am at the project of Icare.43 I have carefully looked at the dates, and if nothing unexpected happens until then, I will be able to come from Montreal two days before the concert44 in order to follow the last rehearsals, as you had asked me to do.
This revival is going to be a great event for us. To help you prepare it, I am sending you by the same mail a record which was made during one of my executions. Unfortunately there are whole passages where certain instruments are completely lost, but as one says elegantly: “It is better than a spit in the eye.”
Here is a letter that Bartók wrote concerning Icare which I am sending you in French:
Cher M. Markevitch, Permettez à un collègue qui n'a pas l'honneur de vous être connu, de vous remercier de votre merveilleux Icare. J'ai nécessité du temps pour étudier et comprendre toute la beauté de votre partition, et je pense qu'il faudra beaucoup d'années pour qu'on l'apprecie. Je veux vous dire ma conviction, qu'un jour on rendra justice avec sérieux à tout ce que vous apportez. Vous êtes la personnalité la plus frappante de
la musique contemporaine, et je me réjouis, Monsieur, de profiter de votre influence. Avec ma respectueuse admiration, Béla Bartók.
The letter is from the autumn 1933, and had neither date nor address, reason for which I didn't answer it. I add, as I already told you, that I didn't know yet the name of Bartók. I would be very pleased if you would send me a word to let me know when you receive the record.
I wish you every possible luck for your new show, my dear Lennie, and I also remind you to keep the promise you made me, to kiss the whole of Israel for me. In the meantime it is Topazia and me who do it with you sending you our most affectionate thoughts.
Yours,
Igor
381. Leonard Bernstein to Felicia Bernstein
“8 Aug already!” [1957]
Darling,
I had a real scare with the news of Asian flu – & when your letter came about how you were all down with it I got scareder. But your cable made me feel better – please be careful! I can't bear the thought of you all sick.
I missed you terribly yesterday. We wrote a new song for Tony that's a killer, & it just wasn't the same not playing it first for you. It's really going to save his character – a driving 2/4 in the great tradition (but of course fucked up by me with 3/4s and what not) – but it gives Tony balls – so that he doesn't emerge as just a euphoric dreamer.
These days have flown so – I don't sleep much; I work every – literally every – second (since I'm doing four jobs on this show – composing, lyric writing, orchestrating, & rehearsing the cast). It's murder, but I'm excited. It may be something extraordinary. We're having our first run thru for people on Friday. Please may they dig it! And fíjate, I leave for Washington on Tues. the 13th – so soon, so soon. It's all rushed by like a cyclone.
Of course we're way behind on orchestration etc. – but that's the usual hassle.
How are you? You don't say. Are you fatter from eating? (Me: I'm a bit skinnier.) Do you smoke? (I do, lots.) Have you skied? (I haven't). Do you love me?
The Leonard Bernstein Letters Page 52