I met Ernest Hemingway at Sun Valley last week, and was taken totally by surprise. I had not been prepared by talk, photos, or interviews for a) that charm, and b) that beauty. God, what goes on there under his eyes? What's that lovely adolescent tenderness? And the voice and the memory, & the apparently genuine interest in every living soul: fantastic. We spoke tenderly of you: he said you were brave.38 His present wife seems to be a professional Ja-sayer, though simpatico enough. The question is not How could you have married him, but How could you have done anything else?
Dearest love to you, every day, always, dearest potato-pipe. I played tennis today & almost wept with nostalgia for our version of tenny.
Write me –
L
427. Martha Gellhorn to Leonard Bernstein
20 Chester Square, London, England
postmark 14 January 1959
Dearest Lenushka,
I loved your Xmas card, both of you looking so beautiful and so tired and the children so beautiful and benign, like happy little dolls. I am saving my first-in-my-life vote for Alexander who will surely be President unless he decides it's all a silly joke and he'd rather live.
So much to say but I won't say it, probably. This is my last letter, anyhow, for some time, because now I am going to start on a novel and that means silence, fasting and prayer. A novel about Poland. Most daring. I was there 16 days; and learned more and felt more than I have, probably, since Spain. Terrifying and wonderful nourishing experience. I was also frightened the whole time, and I am not used to being; frightened for everyone because they are too brave. And all my desperate faith in the human spirit was revived and rewarded, because there they are. Proof.
Shall I say some ominous aunt-like words about peace? I think I will. It is a subject that I have really thought and worked on, you know. So: no one besides yourself will ever help you to get it; everyone, even with the best will in the world, will nibble and shred it. You have to fight for it, yourself, and it is perhaps that most essential fight there is. If you haven't got (and keep clinging to, through every reverse) a hard kernel of your own private peace, maybe no bigger than a pea, you cannot be, do or give any real thing. Practically, I find it works like this: one learns what conditions one needs, for oneself, to bring back or foster one's interior nugget of certainty and calm and happiness. For me, it's absolute solitude and silence, in the country; long walks, no timetable of any kind, no telephone, no mail, no newspapers. Long mooning walks, reading, sleeping a great deal. No booze, simply because booze makes me nervous. And then, after a longer or shorter cure of this (depending on how much my peace has been eaten away) I can start to work: and that sets it firmly. I have no idea what you need, but you must, by now, have learned for yourself. No other person gives it, you know, though anyone can take it away. Sex has nothing to do with it either.
The Xmas hols, just terminated, ruined me as usual. I cannot bear any season given over to organized official good cheer, and too many people, plans, parties. So, as soon as I'd put little Sandy on his plane for Switzerland, I rushed off to my usual country hotel for three days alone. Whereupon an old friend (known for 30 years, now aged 74) was in the hospital in London, and I had to take over everything by telephone. That fixed the peace allright. I'm hanging on however, and have now got the telephone here turned off all day, will not accept any invitations nor give any, and I mean by God to come back to myself and to where I really live. You see, I get physically sick when the peace all goes. I think you don't do that, though I am not sure. But I think you hardly know who you are, or why you are doing what you are doing.
Interested about Ernest [Hemingway]. Tenderness is a new quality in him; but people do luckily change all their lives and the luckiest ones get better as they grow older. His main appalling lack was tenderness for anyone. I longed for it in him, for myself and for others. I'd almost have settled for others. I do not remember his voice as being anything much, but I always was thrilled by his memory. He was interested in everyone but there was a bad side. It was like flirting. (Like you, in fact, he has the excessive need to be loved by everyone, and specially by all the strange passing people whom he ensnares with that interest, as do you with your charm, though in fact he didn't give a fart for them.) So he would take people into camp; they became his adoring slaves (he likes adoring slaves) and suddenly, without warning, he would turn on them. That was always terrible to see; it made me feel cold and sick and I wanted to warn each new conquest of what lay in wait for him. But one couldn't; they wouldn't believe; they were on the heights of joy – for he can be a great life-enhancer and great fun, and his attention is very flattering.
By the time I did marry him (driving home from Sun Valley) I did not want to, but it had gone too far in every way. I wept, secretly, silently, on the night before my wedding and my wedding night; I felt absolutely trapped. When I fell in love with him was in Spain, where for once he did have tenderness for others (not me, he was regularly bloody to me, lustful or possessive, and only nice when he was teaching me, as if I were a young man, the arts of self defense in war. And also he liked being the only man in Spain who took his woman around with him, and I was blonde, very helpful in brunette countries, raises one's value.) I loved him then for his generosity to others and for his selfless concern for the Cause. That was all gone by the time I married him. I think I was afraid of him though I certainly never admitted it to myself or showed it to him. You will also be surprised to hear that I have never been more bored in my life than during the long long months when we lived alone in Cuba. I thought I would die of boredom. But it was very good for me. I wrote more with him than ever before or since in my life, and read more. There were no distractions; I lived beside him and entirely and completely alone, as never before or since.
I am very glad he now speaks pleasantly of me. I never speak of him one way or the other with anyone. The whole thing is a distant dream, not very true and curiously embarrassing. It has almost nothing to do with me. What I write you here is, as you can understand, secret and between us only and forever.
He ought to be happy and he ought to be gentle; because life has showered gifts and blessings on him; and I hope he is.
Considering this was to be a quick letter, only saying that I love you and wish you well for 1959 and all years to follow, it has rather swelled, has it not.
My darling Lenny.
Marthy
P.S. Bertrand Russell uses the word “impiety” in relation to luniks and further attempts and he is right.
428. Darius Milhaud to Leonard Bernstein
Mills College, Oakland, CA
9 January 1959
My dear Lenny,
Everybody tells me that you made a magnificent performance of my old Création du monde. It is too bad I didn't hear it.39 Generally I always listen on the radio to your programs which I love. They are full of miracles. For instance Schumann (Robert!) 4th Symphony sound[ed] like a transparent, light, tender orchestra.
Bravo, dear.
Best wishes for the New Year from both of us to your family.
Milhaud
429. Leonard Bernstein to Mary Rodgers40
22 January 1959
My dear little Miss Rodgers,
I am happy to inform you that you have won the contest for the best word to replace “classical”. Your magnificent choice of EXACT will ring down through the centuries, and no doubt enter Webster's 567th edition, if only as a footnote.
Congratulations; and please accept the enclosed gift as a token of our esteem and gratitude for your fine thinking.
Faithfully yours,
Leonard Bernstein
430. Darius Milhaud to Leonard Bernstein
Mills College, Oakland, CA
29 January 1959
Lenny dear,
I was deeply touched by all the nice things you said about Création du monde, and you explained everything so clearly. You are just marvellous. The performance was remarkable too and you were so exciting in the Gershw
in.
Lucky Philharmonic!
I hope it will not be years before we see you.
Most affectionately,
Milhaud
I should, I think, tell you that it is preferable not to use all the strings in Création. It's “sharper” with soli.
431. Joe Roddy41 to Leonard Bernstein
Life, Time & Life Building, Rockefeller Center, New York, NY
24 February [1959]
Dear Leonard,
1. The Leonore [Overture No. 3] played Thursday night was the work of the best-sounding (that's a loathsome simplification) orchestra I have heard in years.
2. The television program Sunday was – again – the best one you have done. The pattern is set and you cannot allow a poor one. That's fine with me. But I defy you to improve on “How Dry I Am”.42
3. Items 1 and 2 above are not set-ups for a complaint, but I have one. My children are pissed off, which is a concern of yours. They claim that at the last Saturday morning children's concert the TV strong-men blinded them by aiming great flood lights into the audience. Presumably the purpose of this was to make them – my spawn – look bright on television screens around the country. They don't give a good damn about being seen around the country because they came there to see you and the concert and they could not see either at times. They claim they cannot hear when they cannot see, but that's the exaggerated howling of the angry young men. I think they have a case.
And as for me, I think the picture of the Child Listening Fervently is a wearying cliché by now anyway. I strongly suspect you of being Christ (but hell, you know all that) and you of all people know perfectly well that “suffer little children to come unto me” is not to be understood this way. Even Kenneth Tynan knows that.
I have urged your appointment as Secretary of State and you will be hearing from the Feds about this suggestion any day now.
Highest regards,
Joe Roddy
432. Jule Styne to Leonard Bernstein
237 West 51st Street, New York, NY
20 March 1959
Dear Lenny,
As you know, I am devastated and shocked … as, no doubt, you were by Mr. Brooks Atkinson's and Mr. Walter Kerr's review of the show.43
I can understand them not liking the songs or a song; or not liking the book or direction; or not liking the performance or a performance … However, for Atkinson, a man of his high intellect, to write in his column his last line “a mongrel musical drama” about this show in this day and age, is shocking. This is unfair criticism.
Since you expressed yourself with great joy and thought the show was a beautiful musical and almost felt sure that it was a hit, I would appreciate your writing a letter to the New York Times Mail Bag immediately. I feel a letter coming from you, since they know how honest you are, would be of tremendous assistance to the show. I know you have the courage and honesty to consider writing this letter.44
Thanks again for your and Felicia's niceness and God Bless.
Love,
Jule
433. Leonard Bernstein to David Diamond
23 May 1959
David, David, David,
(That's in answer to three letters of yours.)
The season is over: we've been to London and back in a week to see my two shows there (imagine that!), & it's as expected: West Side is booming, Candide is limping, & I guess always will. Since our return I've been doing mail mail mail with Helen – a whole season's worth, Lord – and spending days on the editing of my book that S[imon] & S[chuster] are bringing out in the fall (nothing new: just a collection of TV scripts & miscellaneous writings. But what time it takes to edit!)45
And so, finally, a minute to write you. And say how touched we both are by your wish to present us with the Trittico Dodecafonico! You are sweet. It's awfully hard to tell anything much from the photos: obviously color does a lot of the meaning; but what one can see is fascinating. I showed them to Danny S. [Saidenberg] & gave him a spiel, which I hope helps when he visits you this summer.
I've also talked twice to Oliver Daniel46 based on a cooky notion I had that you might do well to just chuck ASCAP at this point & cross the stream. He looked into the story of you & BMI & couldn't learn enough to satisfy him. If you think it's a good idea, write Oliver (he has asked to have you do this: & it is promised to be kept confidential); & tell him the whole sordid tale. I sense an interest there. I wasn't up enough on the facts to give him the whole story. (I am also still trying to get in touch with Nissim.)
I saw David O[ppenheim] yesterday & reminded him about releasing the 4th Symph: he has promised it for the early fall.
And Tommy [Schippers] is apparently doing Klee in Russia! Isn't it wonderful? But, as you say, when on earth will he rehearse it? Strange, fancy type fellow, that. I suspect also, frightened to death.
Dear David, this time we must meet in Italy! We don't alas, come to Firenze, but we do go to Venice on 26th Sept, & thence to Milan (concerts on the 28th & 29th). Meanwhile, June & July on the delicious old Vineyard, where I hope to recoup some energy & sanity, & maybe even write something, please God!
Bless you & love from us both
L
(& Best to Ciro!)
434. Leonard Bernstein to David Diamond
Vineyard Haven, MA
[Summer 1959]
Dear D,
The Vineyard is glorious, a blessing every day. I've decided that gratitude – rather, gratefulness – is the essence of joy, the basic emotion, what we feel when we hear music we love, or look at our loved ones, or simply breathe on this golden island; and growing old means only losing that emotion. The retention of gratefulness is the guarantee of continued youth, don't you think?
When I go into N.Y. to open the Stadium, I shall have a talk with Stanley Adams.47 I've written him already & we have an appointment. I decided to go to the top, after failing with the underlings. We'll see. Meanwhile, write Oliver [Daniel].
As to the Ford grants, they were part of a special project for performers, who were asked to select composers they wanted concertos from. That's out. But I have a feeling Spivacke48 could be in. Why not write him? I'll put in a blast too.
Very odd to think of you & Tommy S. [Schippers] together, I don't know why.
I know nothing of Marlon [Brando] or his whereabouts. Irene Lee49 will be visiting you shortly – ask her.
I'll write after Stanley Adams.
[Dosvidaniya]
Lenny
(I'm studying Russian out of a little book, & I think of you every time I pronounce a hard L. What a delicious language!)
435. Boris Pasternak50 to Leonard Bernstein
[Peredelkino, near Moscow, Soviet Union]
1–3 September 1959
Dear Mr. Bernstein,
I am exceedingly touched and most thankfully surprised by your kind friendly wire. If other interjacent notes from me will not anticipate this my uttermost decision I hope to have the happiness to attend your concert on the eleventh. To that end, no daring or intending to trouble you to write anything, I shall by my own care look after four passes (for me and my family) to the performance. Only please indicate my name to the attendant before the door of your artistic room on the evening, that I may be admitted to you after the concert.
Besides that I shall try to get the luck the honour and the right to invite you to dinner at Peredelkino Wednesday the ninth at three o'clock.
I shall confirm it afterwards once more.
Obediently yours,
B. Pasternak
Sept 2nd 1959
No it will not go – I think it better to renounce to that great pleasure and not to meet apart from the concert evening (the 11) when I shall experience myself the delight and ecstasy all the town speaks of, & hereupon I am congratulating you fervently in advance.
Excuse my unexplainable discourtesy. My involuntary ungraciousness is my misfortune, not my fault. But I shall hear and see you.
With the same devotion,
&n
bsp; Idem.
3 September 1959
Last note.
Please be welcome on the day and hour you dispose the best, except the intervals between 1–21/2 and after 8 in the evening, when I can be about on walks. The best hour remains that of the dinner (3 o'clock). Come as it were unawaitedly. Ask the guidance of the concert organisation to provide for the return car. Agree with them upon my being admitted in the evening of the concert in the entr'acte.
I wish you the renewal of your habitual triumphs I know of from hearsay.
Respectfully yours,
B. Pasternak
436. Boris Pasternak to Leonard Bernstein
Peredelkino, near Moscow, Soviet Union
9 September 1959
For Mr. Leonard Bernstein,
Paste this dedication in your copy of my novel. It was so fine and kind of you to have wired to me from Leningrad, to have got the desire to find and to meet me. After-tomorrow I shall attend to the marvel and triumph of art which are your performances. In grateful presentiment of it.
B. Pasternak
437. Boris Pasternak to Leonard and Felicia Bernstein
Moscow, Soviet Union
12 September 1959
Dear friends,
In the morning of the next day Saturday – Fatigue, yearning, exhaustedness, like after a sleepless night or a big command event, a great night fire in the town, a conflagration, having devoured [a] lot of houses, or a mighty storm with a powerful inundation.51 So must be art. We must will its produced impression, long, and pine for it. Art must leave us love-stricken and sorrow overcome, like a deep-felt parting or separation. Art is language of greatness, greatness is disclosure, its sight, its tragic and suffering being exposed to view.
Don't stand you both so often before my mental eyes, I will be along, don't hinder me to be diligent and working.
B. Pasternak
Hearty greetings to all yours; to Mr. St[even] Rosenfeld; to the whole orchestra, to the fiery, dear, expansive Mr. Zimmermann; to Goldstone and Varga.
Dear My Felicia, who was the lady you sent after me out of the lobby in the concert-room in the entr'acte? She wore a dark, straight, long dress, not girdled in the waist, that seems a sort of brocade. Her husband was dressed in a light brown suit.
The Leonard Bernstein Letters Page 59