.... © 2000 Jeffrey Dane

It was because of Leonard Bernstein that I chose to devote my life to music. I first met him during my student days, and he was effectively a role-model for me during my formative years. My life would have taken a very different turn and I would not be the same person I am today if I hadn't known him and learned what I did: the value even of modest accomplishments (modest compared to his), and that it is possible to make a contribution, even if only an incremental one, to the sum of human knowledge and experience, and to one's chosen realm without being "the world's foremost authority" in it. This concept would surprise and has even disturbed some in academe, but it guides the independent historian in his or her work.

I acknowledge a marked tendency to form an almost emotional attachment to the composers (living or not) whose music I study, and I developed a genuine passion for the history, literature, composers and practitioners of the art. The responsibility for this fervor, which is still with me, falls to Leonard Bernstein.

Leonard Bernstein
1918-1990

I attended countless rehearsals and performances of his, first at Carnegie Hall, then at Lincoln Center, and he invariably had a kind word of greeting for me. I was always struck by the simple human consideration he showed me on every occasion on which I spoke with him. I found myself being treated with an unsolicited but sincere, personal kindness by a musician of immeasurable stature, one of the most important of our century. This kind of natural courtesy was relatively small and might seem insignificant - but it was also genuine, and very much appreciated. This is only one of those things about Leonard Bernstein I will not forget. I was a then-young student of music, completely unknown and obscure, and he had nothing to gain by treating me with such kindness. It was just indicative of the kind of man he was. Those who go about with their noses too high in the air have been known to trip over those who are below them - but Mr. Bernstein was, simply put, a mensch, the German word for a true human being. It was very much to his credit that he was the warmest and most accessible among the many "Ivy League" people with whom I've come in contact. This is not a judgement of them, but an observation about him.

My first in-person view of him was at a New York Philharmonic open rehearsal, when the orchestra still had its home at Carnegie Hall. I vividly recall not what I "expected" but what I didn't expect: to suddenly spot Leonard Bernstein leaving the wings, without official fanfare or announcement but amid an audible flurry of excitement in the audience, walking very casually toward the podium, dressed not in formal attire but in what appeared to be a grey T-shirt with long sleeves. All this seemed, then, somehow strange, but so do most first experiences.

Carnegie Hall, New York. The 1891 opening concerts were conducted by Tchaikowsky himself.

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Being rehearsed were Khachaturian's Piano Concerto (with 16-year-old Lorin Hollander as soloist) and Carlos Chavez' Sinfonia India. Only later on did I learn that this rehearsal shared many of the essential characteristics of Mr. Bernstein's Young People's Concerts: it was music-making at its highest level - if not a thorough "education" (which takes years), then surely an in-depth, first-hand exposure to it, which can have enduring consequences. What I felt at that rehearsal made me resolve to have more of this, and that day's experiences had effects upon me that have lasted to this very day.

One morning soon afterward, I went not to school but to Carnegie Hall instead. In retrospect, it was a classic example of doing the wrong thing but for the right reasons: I was intent upon experiencing another rehearsal, and the possible consequences of my truancy from school mattered not. That I simply felt I "belonged" there might be what enabled me to just walk into the hall, unquestioned by Carnegie personnel, through the stage entrance with some of the other musicians. It was on this day that I had my first personal contact with Leonard Bernstein.

A symphony by David Diamond was being rehearsed. This was a working rehearsal so only a handful of people were there as listeners. After a few minutes, I turned around and saw, sitting a few rows behind me, David Diamond, another gentleman I didn't recognize (it was Marc Blitzstein), and Aaron Copland. During the break, Mr. Bernstein leaped from the stage and walked up the center aisle to greet the three illustrious visitors. I soon approached them, merely to listen to (and hopefully learn from) their conversation. At that time I was frankly somewhat overwhelmed by being in their presence, and I impulsively said, "You know, I can't help feeling so insignificant standing among you gentlemen." Mr. Bernstein smiled at me and put his hand on my shoulder; Mr. Diamond looked puzzled; Mr. Blitzstein informed me, "We're not monsters," and Aaron Copland looked at me and said, "Come join us!" I realized even at that tender and still impressionable age that his invitation was figurative, not literal - but it was nevertheless very pleasant for me to be so treated by these significant figures in American music.

The 20th-century counterparts of
Franz Liszt and Johannes Brahms:
Bernstein with Aaron Copland.

One day in the fall of 1963 1 spoke with Mr. Bernstein in his dressing room before a rehearsal. "I've been composing all summer," he told me. When I asked him if it was a large-scale work, he replied, "It's a symphony." I was intrigued by what he said, and I was eager to learn more about it when the time came.

That time came not long afterward, when I visited the offices of one of the most important music copyists in the USA, Arnold Arnstein. When Bernstein's name was mentioned, Mr. Arnstein silently showed me to a table on which lay a very large piece of cardboard. He removed it to reveal what it had concealed and protected - an enormous manuscript then in preparation by him and his staff: Symphony Nr. 3, "Kaddish," by Leonard Bernstein. Among other things, I was struck by the sheer physical height of the score itself, pages of which required more than 50 staves simultaneously, because of the instrumentation. This, then, is what Mr. Bernstein had been referring to when he told me he'd been "composing" all summer. I recall thinking at that moment that in addition to his other merits the Maestro was also a master of understatement, in that even the bulk of his manuscript, alone, might qualify it as a "symphony" to end all symphonies. I found it rather gratifying to realize I had just been privy to looking at the composer's autograph score - before its actual publication, certainly, and even before its premiere not long afterwards. Because of the tragedy that had occurred in November of that year, the composer dedicated the piece, "To the beloved memory of John F. Kennedy."

Portion of the autograph manuscript of Bernstein's Mass.

The subsequent rehearsals and performances I attended in which Mr. Bernstein was involved were many and memorable. Among them: Andre Previn as piano soloist in the Shostakovich Concerto for Piano, Trumpet & Strings; Rudolf Serkin as soloist in the Beethoven Emperor Concerto; Marc Blitzstein's The Cradle Will Rock (given at then-Philharmonic Hall soon after the composer's death), with Mr. Bernstein playing not only the piano but also a part in the cast!; the world premiere performance of Poulenc's Clarinet Sonata (at a memorial concert a year after the composer's death), with Mr. Bernstein accompanying soloist Benny Goodman, one of the most personally enjoyable concerts I've ever attended at Carnegie Hall; the final rehearsal and performance in April 1987 of Mahler's Resurrection Symphony (the last time I ever saw Mr. Bernstein), which was without exception the most significant symphonic performance, of any work, that I've ever experienced. (Only my having heard Bach performed in his own Thomaskirche in Leipzig could approach it). And so it went, for so long a time….

I prize very highly a personalized photo of Mr. Bernstein and me (taken in June, 1979 by my wife, Marie), as well as the baton he had used at one of his rehearsals I had attended at Avery Fisher Hall many years before. When I visited him in his dressing room after that particular rehearsal, he was sitting on a couch, talking with some gentlemen and fidgeting with the baton. I felt the "nothing ventured, nothing gained" principle applied here, and in my youthful (and, in retrospect, brazen) innocence I asked him if I might have that baton as a keepsake - whereupon he handed it to me, with a smile that brightened up not only that rather dark little room but also my entire day, if not my entire season altogether.

A personal "tribute" I once received involved Bernstein, albeit indirectly. When I lived in Europe - a year as pivotal for me as was the day I first met Mr. Bernstein - I made the acquaintance of a young lady and her fiance, who for the next thirty years remained among my closest friends. Being aware I knew Leonard Bernstein and had by that point spoken with him literally countless times, the young lady, a pianist, organist and singer, asked me if I could tell her essentially what he was like not just as a musician but specifically as a human being. The best way I could so describe him - in the "nut-shell" manner she had in mind - was to tell her, "He's a genius with 'nice guy' qualities." She thought for a moment, and said to me, "I think you're a nice guy with genius qualities." It's for others to say whether or not I was deserving of it, but it was the nicest compliment I had ever received.

Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic at Avery Fisher Hall.

Here speaks a Romantic. - In those days I sometimes felt Leonard Bernstein was so far above me that the only things we had in common were human form and a passion for music. I freely acknowledge that I was in awe of him then. To say so is often trivialized in our day because it's "unfashionable" to admit even to feeling this way at all, about anyone or anything. I, for one, openly do so without reservation. It's astonishing how genuine enthusiasm can be met with such scorn in these times, just as quality is often bypassed for mediocrity. The sceptics' view that "Only the work matters" is commonly accepted but it's also untrue. (Why, then, does Beethoven's signature on a prosaic receipt bring a small fortune at auction?). Great works are produced by human beings - would it not be logical to conclude that extraordinary work would be the creation of an extraordinary person? To the cynics, I pose these questions: Was Leonard Bernstein not an awesome musician? Did he not have awesome capabilities? Was he not an awesome human being? Did he not accomplish the most awesome musical tasks? And did he not conduct the most awesome performances? - Isn't it therefore entirely reasonable to suggest that such a view of Bernstein is not only valid, but warranted? I stood in awe of him simply because he was, in a word, awesome.

I see Leonard Bernstein's position in the history of music as being in several ways comparable to that of Franz Liszt. Both men are figures of gargantuan musical importance, and by reason of their versatility they excelled in virtually any musical undertaking, with usually superlative results. Bernstein and Liszt share numerous professional traits (as composer, conductor, pianist, educator), and it is as inevitable as tomorrow morning that Bernstein, through his work, will ultimately reach the same destination in musical history as did Liszt through his.

Like Brahms before him, Bernstein was among the most photographed musicians of his day and was arguably the most photogenic among his contemporaries. Some of his photos illuminate rather than decorate, and show not the shadow but the substance of the subject - they seem to pierce the armor and offer a glimpse into the sanctum of Leonard Bernstein's complex character and multiplicity of personality. His best photos reflect his legendary personal charisma, that elusive quality impossible to truly define, difficult to explain, hopeless to imitate, but very easy to recognize. "When he enters a room, the temperature changes" - this description of him proves that even two-dimensional, inanimate images can have a lifelike and almost palpable presence. His best photos, even those taken late in his life, capture the very essence of Leonard Bernstein as the eternal youth: the fresh, buoyant and even boyish expressions, the genuine brightness of the smile, and the vitality, vibrancy and sparkle in his eyes render these images of him as portraits in which he is still very much alive.

Whether personal addiction or social diversion, smoking was a feature of Bernstein's personal life. The emblematic and ever-present cigarette became as much a part of his familiar image as the cigar and pipe were distinctive personal hallmarks in the hands of Brahms and Arthur Honegger respectively - and the glass of Scotch in the hand of Stravinsky. By pre-arrangement, after Bernstein's concerts someone awaited him backstage with an already-lit cigarette ready for him. The fact remains that, for whatever his reasons may have been, he found enjoyment in it ( - as others do in alcohol and in driving at high rates of speed….). Photographs taken throughout his life indicate how characteristic of him were the cigarettes in which he evidently took pleasure. In our day, particularly in the USA, smoking is denigrated in the name of health, and smokers are often considered outcasts. We live in an era where nonsense too often masquerades as reason, and where personal desire by those in positions of authority for control and power over others is disguised as concern for the health, safety and welfare of the public.

During the period in which I knew him he smoked the American filter cigarette Kent. I was then in my late 'teens and early twenties, impressionable and also impressed with the maestro's genius and ability to succeed in virtually anything he did (musical or otherwise), usually with the exceptional results of which only he was capable. In the spirit of emulation I followed his example for several years, ultimately adopting a brand of my own choice. He would have echoed the sentiment of Robert Schumann: "You reward your teacher badly when you remain always his pupil." It's more than coincidental that several of Bernstein's own smoker's accessories were sold at Sotheby's auction of his estate in 1997, including the cigarette case he used during the 1960s.

Some say Bernstein might have lived longer had he not been a smoker. It may be so - conjecture is fascinating but fruitless - but his priorities leaned toward the very intensity, almost unparalleled in our century, with which he lived his own life. He chose for himself, not for others, and he's remembered not for human imperfections, which all of us share, but for the unique contributions he made, in which few of us share.

Bernstein with the characteristic cigarette..

The landmark building erected on Manhattan's Central Park West between 72nd & 73rd Streets in the 1880s was soon afterward dubbed the Dakota because of its then-isolated location. Featured in several films (including Rosemary's Baby), it's been home to Boris Karloff (a fitting tennant, given the structure's Gothic atmosphere), Truman Capote, and John Lennon, who was murdered outside the entrance. Lauren Bacall, widow of Humphrey Bogart, resides there even now.

On the next block, between 71st & 72nd Streets, during the early years of this century, stood the Hotel Majestic. Almost prophetically, it was there that an upper-floor suite was occupied by Gustav Mahler during his first season in New York. The suite in which he lived with Alma and their daugther overlooked Central Park. (Mahler's view of a fireman's funeral prompted the ominous bass drum strokes in the last movement of the uncompleted tenth symphony). It seems providential that a geographical proximity exists between Mahler and the man who was destined to become his most exponential interpreter, Leonard Bernstein. He was born seven years after Mahler died, but he spent the last 16 years of his own life living in the Dakota - in an apartment overlooking Central Park.

In mid-March, 1993, I received an invitation to an April 19th recital, "Bernstein - Broadway and Beyond," at the Society for Ethical Culture on Manhattan's West 64th Street. The pianist would be Christopher Drobny, the vocal soloist Louise Edeiken, a young singer who, at the composer's own request, had premiéred Bernstein's song cycle, Arias and Barcarolles. The performance was sponsored by the BETA fund (Bernstein Education Through the Arts), an entity led by the composer's son, Alexander. What made this particular invitation special, even unique, is that it entitled me to attend a reception at Bernstein's own apartment at the Dakota - thirty months after his passing, but ultimately none the worse for it.

Bernstein with students.

Leonard Bernstein died at 6:15pm on Sunday, October 14, 1990, so I expected the changes of time to have had their effect on the apartment by the passage of more than two years. The surviving dwellings, some now museums, which Beethoven occupied in and around Vienna would in all likelihood be totally unrecognizable to him today after so many decades: in most cases nothing from his tennancy survives in these rooms except the space itself. In the case of Felix Mendelssohn it's just the reverse: most of the original furnishings from his own living room, including his Johann Baum grand piano, were until recently located for years in Leipzig's Old City Hall, in a space Mendelssohn never occupied but which was created to house the furnishings. Brahms, too, has also been so "memorialized": the Karlsgasse 4, Vienna building where he lived for the last 26 years of his life was ceremoniously demolished on April 3, 1907, exactly ten years after he died there. Practical transformations normally have their effect on a dwelling's interior after the owner's death - but Bernstein's Dakota apartment remained essentially as it was during his time there, and was left virtually untouched until it was relinquished by the estate early in 1997. Like Franz Liszt's house (now a museum) in Weimar, Germany, the Bernstein apartment remained filled with the residual but still potent effects of his presence.

It should surprise no-one that even the passage of several months can bring surprising changes in people, circumstances, and the physical nature of our surroundings. Personal experience proves that what harmony there is in our lives can become dissonant even in an instant - but it seemed the Bernstein apartment had remained just as it was when he lived there. This couldn't be proved. It could only be felt - the more so, as his apartment appeared to be exactly as I recalled seeing it in photos and videotapes made while he actually lived there. Everything now seemed still in place; it was my first visit yet everything was familiar, giving a new significance to the concept of deja vú. What returned to me now was the feeling I had in Liszt's house on Marienstrasse in Weimar: it was a personal, human spirit so pervasive that I half expected the host to enter at any moment and greet his visitors (my personal concept of a new, singular, and real miracle).

Access to the Bernstein apartment was from the main entrance to the building, at Nr.2 West 72nd Street. I found myself walking through a labyrinth of long corridors - disproportionately narrow, but which had walls that seemed 20 feet high. Dark panelling gave the surroundings a somewhat solemn, somber ambience. Prompted by this, I now heard (from within, not from without) the "March to the Scaffold" from Berlioz' Symphonie Fantastique ( - as rendered, of course, on the New York Philharmonic recording by Leonard Bernstein).

Turning some corners, I arrived at an ornate, black wrought-iron staircase leading to the 2nd floor, where I stood in a large vestibule at the far end of which were large, dark wood double-doors with brass numerals: Apartment 23. I knocked at the door - and was admitted to the Bernstein residence.

Prematurity offers advantages. I was one of the first to arrive and this gave me a chance to look around. Though only the sitting-room/salon, living room, and dining room were "accessible" as the reception areas for this evening's guests, the rooms were large, bright, and very ample, well appointed and filled with antiques of all kinds, including match-strikers containing the specific kind of matches they were meant to hold, photos of Bernstein and his family and friends, bookshelves practically up to the nearly 15-foot-high ceilings, the shelves overflowing with volumes on all subjects; LP, CD and video tape recordings abounded, along with their respective apparati; I glanced through a book about Bernstein printed in Polish; the various items I could see that were actually intended for personal use by the Maestro and his family are simply too numerous to mention. Dominating the sitting-room was a 2-manual Dowd (Boston) harpsichord, atop which were more photos. The ultimate fate of this instrument, as well as so many other Bernstein possessions, was decided at the Sotheby's, New York auction of much of his estate in early December, 1997, at which I was a bidder.

Leonard Bernstein's Austrian Bösendorfer grand piano, which has 92 keys (vs. the 88 on a standard keyboard).

I walked into the living room, which, like Mahler's eight decades before, faced Central Park. My view from the window brought to mind a passage in a letter Prokofiev had written in the 1920s to a friend in Russia: "As I walked through the enormous park in the middle of Manhattan, I thought with a cold fury of the wonderful American orchestras that cared nothing for me or my music." Evidently Leonard Bernstein had as much deserved luck as Prokofiev had had undeserved misfortune.

Near a window were yet more photos, the centerpiece of which was a silver-framed picture of John F. Kennedy, personally inscribed to Bernstein. Most of these photos rested atop an enormous Bösendorfer grand piano (Bernstein called it his "B-52"), which dominated the living room. I thought of the parallels between this piano and Mahler's own: both jet-black, and both massive, in keeping with the magnitude of both composers' work. Now at Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum, in the Sammlung Alter Musikinstrumente (Collection of Historical Musical Instruments), Mahler's piano was made by Julius Blüthner of Leipzig ca.1902 and was donated to the Museum in 1948 by Mahler's daughter, Anna (1904-1988), a sculptress specializing in the human figure in massive form. Like Bernstein's Dowd harpsichord, his Bösendorfer piano was also sold at the Sotheby's auction and was purchased (by a doctor) for nearly $400,000. Since people were now arriving at the apartment, to minimize disturbance I played only a quick, pianissimo c-minor chord in the upper register; if not by technical definition, then surely by common usage this validates my claim to have played Leonard Bernstein's piano.

Though the Bernstein children live elsewhere, they retained the 8-room apartment and stayed there on occasion. I was told it also served as a headquarters for the various enterprises in which the Bernstein children are involved. (Alas, this has changed, more about which, presently).

Soon there were several dozen people present. I shook hands and spoke with Jamie Bernstein Thomas, Lenny's daughter and his eldest child; and I saw (but didn't have a chance to speak with) his sister, Shirley, who has since passed away. I was later told that Bernstein's youngest child, Nina, was also there briefly (and that she had even arranged the catering for the event!), but alas I didn't get to meet her.

I had met Alexander Bernstein in mid-January after a seminar at the Museum of Television and Radio in Manhattan, and tonight I had the pleasure of speaking with him again during the course of the evening. At one point I asked him if it would be possible for me to see his father's studio, even if only briefly, and I added that if he'd allow it, it would frankly mean a great deal to me. "I know it would, but I just can't," he replied, with a clearly sincere regret in his voice. Well, there was certainly no harm done; I told him I understood entirely, which was true; that simply to have the opportunity to be here on this evening was, for me, a privilege in itself (also true); and there was no question that what I was seeing and experiencing here on this evening was well worth the visit. I soon learned that the maestro's own private studio was isolated on one of the upper floors - very appropriate positioning, since even though he was 5'8" tall (by coincidence, my own height), he towered above most of us musically. I also learned that the studio was being prepared for the organization of the Leonard Bernstein archives. So near, and yet so far….

To have visited this apartment remains a personal experience which can be described only as unique, just as my having heard Bach's music performed in his own Thomaskirche in Leipzig remains perhaps the most moving musical experience of my life. The feeling of euphoria in both cases was as intense as my sentiment of sorrow when, in June 1997, I had the gut-wrenching experience of passing the Dakota and seeing workmen gutting the apartment: it had been sold by the Bernstein family. It was of course their decision to do so, and our decisions are justified as long as they are honest and satisfy us. Nevertheless, the personal sadness I felt defies description.

Bernstein with his eldest daughter, Jamie Bernstein Thomas.

A suit of Bach's clothes is exhibited at the Bach Museum in Leipzig. Two locks of Beethoven's hair are kept in glass showcases in Viennese museums. Three of Brahms' inkwells are displayed in as many locations in Austria - and now there is a fourth "B" perpetuated as a result of the Sotheby's benefit auction late in 1997 of articles that belonged to Leonard Bernstein.

This auction prompted a paradoxical sadness and excitement simultaneously. Behind the otherwise ordinary objects of no intrinsic value there are the revealing stories about those who used them. It's because of their personal association that these objects are so revered. The items may be inanimate, but they're very much alive with the history of their own usage.

Even the smaller objects that graced the family's Dakota apartment had significance for someone, including myself. Having been not just owned but actually used by the Maestro himself, they had a tangible connection to him. Most significant for me was Lot #209, described in the Sotheby auction catalog as, "Multicolor striped silk short robe with braided cord sash. Worn by the Maestro to greet well-wishers after concerts." Though not pictured in the catalog, from its description I knew immediately and exactly what the item was: the very robe Lenny is wearing in the photo of the two of us taken by my wife.

A new vocabulary would have to be invented to describe how keenly disappointed I was in not acquiring it, and I freely acknowledge I envy the one who did - even before I learned who she was. Imprudent folks may focus on what they lack, while others are grateful to recognize and appreciate what they have. The robe ultimately went to a very fitting recipient: a young student of conducting in Germany named Anke Weinert, with whom I've since been in contact on a consistent basis. I hope to some day meet her.

One incident in particular stands out more than others in my memory of that evening at Bernstein's Dakota apartment. - On the piano's music rack were three scores: by Chopin (the Mazurkas), Ravel (the piano transcription of Le Tombeau de Couperin), and a volume of Bernstein's own music, the Bernstein Songbook, marked on the front cover in red pencil, "Corrected." I glanced through this printed edition and noticed red-pencil markings and corrections to this score - markings in what appeared to be Bernstein's own note-hand for the notation alterations, and in his own letter-hand for the marginal prose remarks. To the left of the music rack was a holder with various ordinary, "garden variety" pencils - including a red one… I must admit to the thought of merely placing this simple red pencil in my pocket, but I fought and overcame the temptation: I decided just to hold the pencil in my hand momentarily, not to "take" it forever, and I returned it to its holder. Yes, it would have been a cherished and very personal keepsake for me and would have been missed by no-one, but it remained in its receptacle. We're responsible only for our actions, not for our thoughts - and certainly not for our dreams. So far, and yet so near….

to the left, Leonard Bernstein at his home in Fairfield, CT., and (right) his final resting place in Green Wood Cemetery. His grave is aptly situated at the highest natural point above sea level in Brooklyn, NY.

I don't pretend to have been "a close personal friend" of Leonard Bernstein (though I do wish I had been). My initial view of him was that of a then-young student, a schooled musician and trained observer, who admired him tremendously and who was fortunate enough to know him even as an acquaintance. We were not intimate friends in the traditional sense, yet we were not total strangers, either. This peripheral view has a perspective others may not: we can't see the picture if we're inside the frame. There are of course many people who knew him even in this casual way, but it's very pleasing - it's even a source of pride - for me to know that I am one of them. He seemed to accomplish more in a year than most of us do in our individual lifetimes. He may have been, essentially, moments in my personal weather - but they were moments that had a profound effect on the climate of my life.

Though he's no longer here, Leonard Bernstein is still with us.

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The Author's Biography

Jeffrey Dane is a music historian, researcher and essayist whose work appears in print and in online publications in several countries and in various languages. His most recent book, Beethoven's Piano, was published by New York's Museum of the American Piano, and he has been a contributor to other volumes, including "Leonard Bernstein - A Life" by Meryle Secrest. He has also written other articles about Bernstein.