The Leonard Bernstein Letters (96 page)
Read The Leonard Bernstein Letters Online
Authors: Leonard Bernstein
56
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
.
57
One of the very few allusions in Bernstein's correspondence to his separation from Felicia in 1976–7. The story of this traumatic episode is eloquently told by Humphrey Burton (1994, pp. 426–41). Felicia and Leonard were reconciled by the summer of 1977, but she was already suffering from the lung cancer that would kill her a year later.
58
Irwin Kostal (1911–94), American orchestrator and arranger. One of the original orchestrators of
West Side Story
with Sid Ramin. His Hollywood credits included
West Side Story
(again with Sid Ramin) and
The Sound of Music
(conductor and music supervisor), winning Oscars for both. He also conducted the 1982 digital re-recording of the soundtrack to Disney's
Fantasia
.
59
The album
Music from Mass – Overture to Candide
by Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops Orchestra was issued by Deutsche Grammophon. It included nine movements from
Mass
arranged for orchestra by Irwin Kostal.
60
The first complete performance of
Songfest
took place in Washington, D.C., on 11 October 1977.
61
The live performance of
Fidelio
from the Vienna State Opera on 29 January 1978 was released on DVD (Deutsche Grammophon 073 4159) in 2006. It's a magnificent performance that has been widely praised, not least by John Steane in
Gramophone
who said that it constituted “one of the great artistic experiences of a lifetime.”
62
Felicia Bernstein died on 16 June 1978, having been ill with cancer for several years.
63
André Previn (b. 1930), German-born American conductor, pianist, and composer. Previn was the piano soloist in Beethoven's Triple Concerto (with Yehudi Menuhin and Mstislav Rostropovich) in the gala concert conducted by Bernstein on 25 August 1978. This was a celebration of his 60th birthday with the National Symphony Orchestra, at its summer home, Wolf Trap in Virginia.
64
Copland conducted the Lamentation from Bernstein's
Jeremiah
Symphony (with Christa Ludwig as the soloist) at the gala concert for Bernstein's 60th birthday at Wolf Trap, on 25 August 1978.
65
Often given as Shemini Atzeret, the “Eighth Day of Assembly,” a Jewish holiday sometimes combined with Simchat Torah.
8
Final Years
1979–90
There was no lack of glory in the last decade of Bernstein's life – nor any shortage of love – but Felicia's furious prediction doesn't feel too wide of the mark either. In terms of composition, the last ten years are difficult to assess: there are some fine pieces, of which
Halil
for flute and orchestra is certainly among the best. Typically for Bernstein the inveterate self-borrower, the fast section of
Halil
(starting at p. 15 of the published full score) was derived from an occasional piece: the music he wrote in October 1979 for the 50th Anniversary of CBS in 1978 (the main notes of the theme, C–B flat–E flat, spell out C–B–Es [S] in German). But with the opera
A Quiet Place
, there's an inevitable sense of declining powers – made manifest by its integration of
Trouble in Tahiti
, which emerges as much the strongest part of the work. Bernstein longed to write the Great American Opera, and had done for decades, but while he made some glorious contributions to American musical theater –
On the Town
and
West Side Story
are unquestionably two of the greatest scores ever written for Broadway – Bernstein felt he should push himself further, and in a more “serious” direction. But this was not something he could do by himself. Perhaps if Jerome Robbins had wanted to write an opera, it might have happened, since Robbins was one of the very few people from whom Bernstein took criticism and who had superb theatrical instincts. John McClure, Bernstein's long-time record producer, surely put his finger on the problem of the late years: “Felicia was vital to his stability as was Jerry Robbins, the only two people who could make Lenny sweat.”
1
It's very hard to escape the feeling that he was right.
The letters from the 1980s are less substantial – above all because Bernstein no longer had Felicia to confide in when he was away, but also because of an increasing reliance on phone calls and faxes. Even so, there were still faithful letter-writers, Stephen Sondheim and Jerome Robbins among them, and there are interesting – often touching – letters to and from other musicians, especially conductors. Bernstein's profound admiration for Karl Böhm is apparent from the letter that he sent in 1981 to his ailing colleague on his deathbed. There are
delightful letters from Carlos Kleiber (requesting an autograph for his son, but in a way that is full of humor and charm), from Yehudi Menuhin praising Bernstein's controversial performance with the BBC Symphony Orchestra of Elgar's
Enigma Variations
, and from Marin Alsop early in her conducting career. She wrote to send heartfelt thanks to Bernstein for his inspiration, and for the opportunity to work with him in Japan. It's well known how warmly Alsop admires her mentor, but Jonathan Cott's 1989 interview reveals just how highly Bernstein also thought of her: “There's a young woman named Marin Alsop. She was a student of mine at Tanglewood – she did Hindemith's
Mathis der Maler
and Roy Harris' Third Symphony under me, and she's fabulous, she is simply wonderful” (Cott 2013, p. 125).
Bernstein's 70th birthday brought tributes from friends, celebrities, and even politicians. Ronald Reagan wrote to congratulate him, as did Frank Sinatra (an old friend – they'd worked together in nightclubs in the early 1940s), Miles Davis, and Claudio Arrau, who recalled fondly the first meeting of Bernstein and Felicia at his party in 1946. But there's a feeling of nostalgia about many of these greetings – celebrating great times that have, to a large extent, been and gone. In terms of Bernstein's compositions, it certainly seemed to be the case:
A Quiet Place
(1983, revised in 1984 and 1986) was his last large-scale work.
And yet in the concert hall he continued to give triumphant performances with orchestras in New York, Vienna, Amsterdam, Munich, London, and elsewhere: these were not just huge public successes, but inspiring accounts of Schubert and Schumann, or of Copland, Harris, and Ives. There were extraordinary and daring concerts of Tchaikovsky in New York and Sibelius in Vienna, and Mahler performances that it seems too easy to describe as “revelatory” – but Bernstein's understanding of Mahler grew ever deeper, and his interpretations evolved as a consequence: the thrilling drive and drama of his earlier Mahler gave way to a kind of visionary splendor. It's as if Bernstein's frustration about his inability to compose with any consistency over these last few years found a more positive counterpart in his conducting of music by others. After Felicia, he didn't – indeed, he couldn't – find any lasting personal relationships. There were some passionate affairs, there was infinite love poured out on his children, but there was a certain loneliness: as a musician, Bernstein's interpretative insights grew deeper and richer, and yet at the same time his extreme celebrity carried with it the inevitable problems of having less time to spend with people he loved and cared about, or even to be alone. He fell out with David Diamond in a viscious exchange of letters, after half a century of friendship – and the publication of Joan Peyser's tell-all biography hurt him (even though he claimed never to have read it). What disturbed him was probably not so much what it said, but the people who said it: friends and colleagues who Bernstein felt had been disloyal by sharing secrets that should have remained private. But there were still faithful friends, and Bernstein took great pleasure in their company, as they did in his – for instance, he took Sid
and Gloria Ramin to Israel in 1986. His devoted secretary Helen Coates died in 1989, and by the start of 1990 concerns about his own health started to preoccupy him. A malignant tumor was diagnosed and in great secrecy he was given a course of radiation therapy. Still, he managed a trip to Prague to conduct Beethoven's Ninth Symphony (and to spend time talking with President Václav Havel). After a few days delayed convalescence, he set off for the first Pacific Music Festival in Sapporo, Japan (where Marin Alsop worked as his assistant), but it quickly became apparent that his condition was worsening. He struggled through the concerts there and in Tokyo. Humphrey Burton quotes an anguished diary entry made by Craig Urquhart
2
about Bernstein's dependency on massive doses of painkillers: “The real question is why he bothers at all. Here is a very sick man who knows he is doing his
danse macabre
” (Burton 1994, p. 519). Bernstein had to withdraw at very short notice from his last engagement in Japan – a big outdoor concert – earning some criticism in the Japanese press, who were unaware of the seriousness of his condition. He returned to New York and was soon on the road again, for concerts at Tanglewood. The major event was the 50th anniversary concert of Tanglewood and – on a more personal note – the 50th anniversary of Bernstein first conducting there. The Bernstein family was out in force for the occasion, including his mother, Jennie. Heavily medicated and fighting for breath, he conducted the “Four Sea Interludes” from Britten's
Peter Grimes
, and the concert ended with Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. Listening to the published recording of this concert, it's immediately apparent that Bernstein was uncomfortable, but in the Scherzo third movement he succumbed to a coughing fit that prevented him conducting for several minutes. The Boston Symphony Orchestra kept playing, and Bernstein was able to resume conducting for the last movement, but only with the greatest difficulty. It was his last concert – and he knew it. Back in New York he told Craig Urquhart: “You know it's incredible how I did my first concert at Tanglewood and I did my last concert at Tanglewood. There's a real sense of closure” (Burton 1994, p. 524). On 5 September his mother Jennie, then in her nineties, wrote: “You are surrounded by a beautiful family, your children and grandchildren. That in itself should be good medicine for you.” But by then it was far too late. His apartment in the Dakota began to resemble a hospital ward, and on 9 October a statement was issued announcing his retirement from conducting. Five days later, at 6:15 p.m. on 14 October in his apartment at the Dakota, Leonard Bernstein died.
592. Oliver Smith to Leonard Bernstein
70 Willow Street, Brooklyn, NY
23 July 1979
Dearest Lenny,
Yesterday I had the enormous pleasure of hearing you conduct at Tanglewood.
3
You were simply wonderful. I felt so proud of you. I made a darting trip up to “welcome” you back along with the enthusiastic thousands to whom you bring inspiration and joy and so much of your innermost being. Unfortunately I had to rush back and didn't have the opportunity to go back stage, see those eyes open very wide with delight and give you a great hug. I do so now.
You were simply magnificent. The Haydn Mass in B flat was so joyous I was ready to embrace the church, something I am sure would horrify you. I heard the chorus rehearsing as I came on the grounds, only one half hour before the performance! I thought: just like Lenny.
I was a little apprehensive about the Shostakovich on such a steaming afternoon. You made it absolutely riveting, with all its prolix fascination and strangeness as well as introspective qualities. I was as thrilled as the audience and found a joyous release in joining in the ovation.
It is wonderful we are finally again doing
West Side Story
.
4
It is my favorite theatrical effort. This week I take off to England for a few weeks to rest up for the battles to follow, to which I am looking forward.
Meanwhile I send you my love and a tender embrace of thanks.
Oliver
P.S. I am very sorry to miss the Mahler 9th.
5
It is something very special to you and your interpretation is the greatest. I shall never forget that great performance in Vienna several years ago at the Musikverein.
Love,
O
593. Leonard Bernstein on Aaron Copland
Tribute delivered at the Kennedy Center Honors, Washington, D.C.
6
2 December 1979
Last month Aaron Copland celebrated his 79th birthday, out of which evolved a plethora of toasts, lunches, speeches, tributes and honors, of which tonight's honor is certainly the grandest. But if all this happens when he is 79, what volcanoes will erupt when he hits 80 a year from now? I can't begin to imagine; but whatever monster celebrations, fireworks and celebrations may take place, they will never suffice to honor in proper degree this great gentleman of American music. Never have we had a composer of his superb lyric and symphonic quality who has been personally so admired, respected and – let's say it –
loved
by so many people as Aaron. I speak not only of the music but also of the man. Ask anyone who knows him: “What is Aaron like?” And they will surely respond by describing the Copland grin, the Copland giggle, the Copland wit and warmth, and width of his embrace.
He has always had time for everyone – especially the young (that is the mark of a great man: time for
people
); and his unmistakeable sharp “judge-nose”, as he once described it, has always been sniffing out new talent, in whatever hamlet or continent it might be hiding, to encourage with praise, to nurture with criticism, and to help on its way to public exposure.
And yet he is also the most moderate, balanced, objective, sane and non-melodramatic man I have ever known. When he exaggerates, it's to make us laugh; when he understates, it's to point up an irony. Everything else is plain truth – “plain” is one of his favorite words – and “truth” is the very essence of the man.
All of these qualities – the generosity, the wit, the quirkiness, the compassion and tenderness and plainness – all of these inhabit his music with a mirror-like truth. But there are other qualities in the music which reflect aspects of the man he never allows us to see. The music can have an extraordinary grandeur, an exquisite delicacy, a prophetic severity, a ferocious rage, a sharp bite, a prickly snap, a mystical suspension, a wounding stab, an agonizing howl – none of which corresponds with the Aaron we loving friends know – but comes from some deep, mysterious place he never reveals to us except in his music.
I have known Aaron intimately for 42 years, and I have only once seen him in a state of anger. Once. And I recall a luncheon date in which he was uncharacteristically quiet, mentioning only that he had a headache. I learned much later that day that his father had died on the previous night. And once – again only
once – have I seen him weep when, at a Bette Davis movie that caused me to oo and ah and marvel and groan “NO, NO, NO” at the unbearable climax (I am always very vocal at the end of Bette Davis movies), he turned to me, his cheeks awash with tears, and sobbed, “Can't you shut up?”
Now usually men of such restraint and moderation, who also harbor such tumultuous inner passions and rages, are sick men, psychotics who are prone to unpredictable and irrational explosions. Not so Aaron. The unpredictability is all in the music, which is why that music is so constantly fresh and surprising, as is the music of Beethoven. The man himself is sanity itself – and that is why the first moment I met him – on his 37th birthday – I trust[ed] him instantly and relied completely on his judgment as gospel and have done so ever since. It is my honor to present him to you, my first friend in New York, my master, my idol, my sage, my shrink, the closest thing to a composition teacher I ever had, my guide, my counselor, my elder brother, my beloved friend – Aaron Copland.
Leonard Bernstein
30 November 1979