The Leonard Bernstein Letters (96 page)

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

593. Leonard Bernstein on Aaron Copland

Tribute delivered at the Kennedy Center Honors, Washington, D.C.
⁶

2 December 1979