The Leonard Bernstein Letters (85 page)

Hello sir,

Excuse the formality of the address, but if you remember everyone was bopping about calling you “Lenny”, and since I felt rather strange doing that we decided on sir.

I would have written sooner but … Well, no excuses. I didn't really have much to say except thank you, and I'd said that. But now I want to tell you what's happened.

If you didn't see, the biggest rock station in California wrote out a public apology for their recent timidity, and thanked you for showing the way. More stations on the West Coast went on “Society's Child”, and now it's number one in California. I'm waiting for it to hit the top 20, so NY stations will be forced to play it. Except the station manager of WMCA or WABC said he'd
never
play it because he wanted to keep his children's ears free from the “objectionable” lyrics.

Anyway, this is just to say that you're lovely and thanks again for everything.

Janis Ian (me)

P.S. Is it okay if when a reporter asks what I think of you I just say that you're gorgeous and charming?

Poor, dear, blessed Luky-Puky!

A grief ago! I pray that period has lengthened to a vague unpleasantness ago. When I read the accounts in the paper I was sure something like what you
described had happened: I wanted to rush home and set things right. But I can't rush anywhere: the
dolce far niente
has taken over. I do nothing. No note written, no score studied, no idea thought out. I'm a fish, living with other fish underwater in my glorious diving gear. I have a rubber motorboat and a divine Maserati (my first & last pure playboy object); my summer romance & constant companion is Alexander; I read the mail & some newspapers; I fret from afar over race riots, Vietnam, tax hikes, bad N.Y. weather, increasing horror in the world from Cairo to Memphis, Tenn. I fret over Myrow's
Salome
libretto (lousy, pompous, meaningless, imitative in the worst way, and corruptive of youth). I fret over your neoclassicism & Philharmonic tragedy
¹⁵⁴
(Oh, well; it gave Brigitta a chance for a big triumph, no?)

I don't sleep (it is now 4.30 a.m.). My back has been in agony for a month. Felicia can't take the sun. But the water and sky & air are divine, as is the weather and this house-&-garden; and you have a birthday in a week. Bless you. Time … I am tortured by the passing of time, to the point where I can hardly enjoy the passing of these beautiful days. Each day is a horror because it leads me one day closer to the end of summer; & the guilt of not working is intolerable. But my brain & creative innerds are dormant, or dead. Why? I shriek inside. For what, for whom? Shall I leave music & enter politics? My tune of the summer, obsessive, is the Beatles'

At least it's gay and simple and no trouble.

John Gruen
¹⁵⁵
sits with me for hours, a tape-recorder between us, and I talk, talk, talk. I have been photographed to a crisp. Israel was astonishing and semi-sad and like a religious experience. The concerts there were my last conscious acts.

I have a gnawing feeling that David O[ppenheim] is still miffed at me. Ask him. I miss him a lot; if he can, would he write?

Rio → Warsaw → Buffalo! Only Luky could concoct that itinerary. But at least have fun, feel like Marco Polo, adventurize!

I long to see you in September. I rejoice in your “fan letter” and in the good news of the
Phorion
tape. I pray for you to write beautiful music. I love you.

L

Hugs to Corny & Chris-Andrew and L-Baby and the Opps. And the Rivers and rest. How did
Phorion
phare in Chicago? Phabulously, I hope.

Write again before you leave.

Dear SS,

The appearance on my desk,
faute de mieux
, of a pack of Winstons brings you instantly and clearly into the room. Besides I can't sleep o' nights, nor have I been able to for over a month. And these guilty sleepless hours, drugged yet jumpy, are my only epistolary moments. Reading H. P. Lovecraft this evening has also brought you to mind, as has Nina's incessant playing of the
WSS
album. In, out, let's get cracking. Neutral territory. One-handed catch. Then the Princes appeared for dinner, reporting you depressed at Merrick's failure to announce your work among his plans, or, indeed, to come up with a theatre. And beside these, I just happen to think of you often, apropos a thousand trivia, all warmly nostalgic.

A strange summer. Glorious weather, sea, boats, diving gear, skis, sun and air – all the goodies. But a fearsome back (how's your back, Lenny? And now I'm to be 49) prevents aquatic fun, and nameless anxieties (is that the word?) forbid work. Not a note, scores unstudied, books unread. Thoughts and ideas are absent, except for such stuff as
Improvised, eh? Garbled and poor!
Felicia sleeps badly too: only the children prosper. I teach Alexander Hebrew – my one real activity. I shudder at the heaps of unanswered mail. I itch.

There's my report. What's yours?

You should have come to this Eden-on-the-Sea; we could have moaned together.

If you see or talk to Jerry, please tell him I'm simply too guilty to write him, owing to the absence of a single idea. Total non-energy.

I hope your musical is ship-shape.
¹⁵⁶
I read that
Lion in Winter
is to be cinematized. I hope you are loving somebody, regularly and in bed. I hope the soul-brothers haven't reached Turtle Bay yet. I hope the world can survive its awful weight a bit longer. I hope –

I send you wee-hour love and personalized sentiments. Be dour if you must, but be happy.

Lenny

Dear Leonard,

Because you have one of the last grasps left of the human comedy, I am counting on you to see me into, and then out the other side, of this absurd fix I am in. For all the Mahler I never knew before, for Ives, for much Haydn, for an overwhelming
Missa Solemnis
, for the world's first
Falstaff
, for the
Chichester Psalms
, for
Candide
, for – well, Christ, for ninety percent of the music that matters to me nowadays, I am in debt to you. Clinking oceans of gold pieces would not repay all. So really, it cannot matter, can it?, that there is an ice cream stand at Expo 67 on which there is writ in chocolate sauce
L. B. OWES J. R. $100
. Debt for debt, mine is hardly worth mentioning.

Except that, weeks from now when you are savoring a distraction or two instead of settling down to write the next to last song for that Brecht show, into the mind of you will come the picture of me. I will be seen sitting, sitting and sitting at some many Philharmonic rehearsals, day after day after day. Why, you will then ask yourself, did he come round so often? Why, why, why? Then a terrible thought will come over you, a thought so disruptive that it may dislodge forever that shred of melody you were counting on to get you started again, the thought that I was sitting there not watching and listening to you work with the orchestra at all, but instead just waiting there like some mouse creep of a bail bondsman from Baxter Street worrying about his cheesy C-note.

But, my ever so dear friend, that is not why I was there, nor why I will be there tomorrow maybe. I like it there, but you know all that. I just want to protect you from that blinding light in which I might glow, though dully, like a mouse. I don't want you to lose that shred of tune, and surely you don't want me to sit there at rehearsals with these grotesque introspections.

Unless I know

That you know

About my dough

At Expo,

I can't show

At rehearsals any mo'

Bo'.

Love,

Joe Roddy

… and I don't even know what present you bought for your sister.

Dearest Joe,

Why, you will ask yourself, $112.49? Precise figures follow: $100, plus interest (at, I believe, the going rate of usury, 4%), making $104, plus interest compounded for compound guilt and shame, making $108.16, plus further compound interest for neglect and discourtesy.

My only redeeming feature for my life-long inability to remember debts owed is my concomitant inability to remember debts owed to me by others. In short, money is the thing that interests me least of all this world's wonders.

But:

Love,

Lenny

Dear A,

It's two days before your birthday, but I'm already thinking hard and tenderly about you; and this note is your birthday present carrying with it such abiding love as I rarely if ever get to express to you in our occasional meetings. I don't know if you're aware of what you mean, have meant for 30 years, to me and my music and so many of my attitudes to life and to people. I suppose if there's one person on earth who is at the centre of my life, it's you; and day after day I
recognize in my living your presence, your laugh, your peculiar mixture of intensity and calm … I hope you live forever.

A long strong hug.

Lenny

Hello Sir,

(“Sir” on account of “Lenny” sounds too presumptuous, and “Mr. Bernstein” too unpresumptuous)

I guess you know what happened by now, everyone calling up and apologizing for not playing “Society's Child”, and then playing it and it turned into a top twenty record … and the album too … and the new record looks like it will …

Because of that, because you drilled me on Spanish, because you're a nice person, I'd like to invite you to my concert.

It's to be at Philharmonic Hall on December 8 (a Friday night). I'd really like to have you there, and though I can't quite explain why, I'm sure you understand.
¹⁵⁷

If you can come, would you please call Jean Powell who's my manager, and let her know how many tickets you'll want. Or ask David [Oppenheim] to call if he's around, as we're inviting him too and it'll be killing two birds with one stone.

I really hope you can come.

Yours for sunshine etc.

Janis

P.S. Passed my Spanish Regents with an 86.

Dear Joe,

Your piece in
Look
was a fine Xmas present, in that it is always a gift to read something sanely considered and well told.
¹⁵⁸
I have, naturally, a few objections (oh, two or three hundred) – nothing sensational, like what's so special about
sport-jackets (Dimitri [Mitropoulos] wore them constantly, as do you) and who ever lived like Scott Fitz[gerald] – anyone – who, me? – at 32 W. 10th? 40 W. 55th? The Chelsea? What else? Oh,
On the Town
is
not
in any sense a version of
Fancy Free
: there is not one note in common – only three sailors.

But all these I forgive easily; what may take a bit more time is your quoting a quote which is a misquote to begin with, and by Ned Rorem, at that! I never expected that you'd reach that far and that low, just for a kicker. But peace, I'll get over it. And I'll manage to survive not being loved by you, which should patently disprove Ned's quote.

This note was started as a thank-you, and so it should end, with the addition of a Happy New Year.

Lenny

Dear Mr. Bernstein,

I wanted to write as soon as I arrived here in Munich, but the time has been so taken up with rehearsals for my opera that this is the first moment I've had.

The performances of my symphony were, it seemed to me, absolutely perfect.
¹⁶⁰
They had all the passion and excitement that I hoped I was writing into the work, plus a brilliance & power which I couldn't have imagined. It was a most thrilling time for me, and I am extremely grateful, both for the chance to write the work and for the marvellous performances. I was only sorry not to hear them all. Paul tells me the Saturday one was especially good.

I hated to leave N.Y. but there seem to be all sorts of things in the air & I rather feel I shall be back
quite
soon. So I hope to see you again before very long.

With many thanks,

Yours,

Richard

Darling Steve,

Life is good, the gods are kind,
Rosenkavalier
is sensational, I've never worked so hard, etc. etc. My third act rehearsal was almost ruined by my staying up all
night with your enthralling Dodecahedron.
¹⁶¹
Things like that. But why I'm
really
writing is, as they say here,
das volgendes
:

The Funke literary effort.
¹⁶²
It was sent me by dozens of people and I never really read it to the end, what with all the hectic goings-on here, until yesterday, when I found myself shocked by the last line.
¹⁶³
Shocked for you, that is – and I want you to know (as if I needed to tell you!) that, natch, I could never be the source of such a stupid and indelicate remark. But I have talked to Stu[art] O[strow] and told him so, that I will gladly write Funke if you'd like me to, that it's all too silly, life is too short, that I hope you've not been offended, that I love you.

And there you are. Tomorrow morning I get up and play a Mozart concerto for thousands of people and I haven't practiced a note. Tonight's
Rosenkavalier
boasted the presence of Strauss' son who made known that never before … but why go on. Fact is, I miss you and can't wait to get back and dig in.
¹⁶⁴

Love,

Lenny