in me. Whereas I feel that my study with you is unfinished. It obviously is. It is only the consciousness of a personal relationship which I am expressing.
I do feel that I must stay here until I am something of a horn player. That will be sooner, perhaps, than I had imagined. Within the year, Mr. Hoss says, I might be able to play in the Pasadena Orchestra.
I was building up a good discipline in New York, which in this climate has fallen somewhat to pieces. I accomplish a great deal, I think; but not as much as I could accomplish if I concentrated more. So far today I have accomplished my practising of the horn, about 2 hours; my scientific research work about 4 hours; and one undeveloped musical idea. I am often guilty of not thinking through to the end. I wish you would impart to me the secret of thinking completely; mother will then return a recipe for “tremendous vitality.”
A year’s longing, and this has taken time, has resulted in a favorable answer from Xenia. She is a marvelous creature. Her world is almost without limitation: for she includes, from her mother (an Eskimo), an animal, pre-historic, primitiveness; and from her father (a Russian priest), the rich and organic mysticism and instinctiveness of Russians; and of herself she has found our own American insistence upon being contemporary and intensely speculative of the future.
You will excuse my taking the liberty of writing such a long letter.
It will not be luck or hope when I see you again; it will be necessity. And I am looking forward to it!
To Mr. and Mrs. Adolph Weiss
[early August 1935] | 1207 Miramar, Los Angeles
My dear Mr. and Mrs. Weiss:
It was very fine, receiving your card from Chatauqua,26 because I know that you are enjoying the country and the escape from the city. With regard, however, to the program announced on the card:—I had, the day before, been at the Hollywood Bowl and sat through a very uninteresting performance of the Tschaikowsky Sixth Symphony in order to hear Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, Heifetz playing superbly. And these continual complaints that we, if I may include myself among musicians, are making, I was forced to make again. After hearing the Tschaikowsky once, which I believe everyone who has entered a symphony hall has, I see no necessity for hearing it again, since, by virtue of sequence upon sequence and repetition upon repetition, one is forced hearing it once to hear it scores of times. And when it is unenthusiastically given, one can only be, in counting up the number of sequences and multiplying that by the number of times he has been forced to hear the whole thing, arriving at a huge number. And the programs here at the Bowl are generally bad: I shall be startled if there is something I want to hear very much. In place of the Tschaikowsky, which was played, the Sibelius Fifth Symphony had been announced. I have not heard it, and should have enjoyed hearing it. But it was not played. I received your card too late to listen to the radio; but I should have turned it off after the Beethoven. Am I doing something wrong? I find, however, that sometimes my whole attitude changes, and anything that has been written as music brings from me love and respect that a human being was able to have that idea and to express it in music. The attitude of joyful acceptance of everything, drawing no lines, never thinking of comparisons, so that everything has its own stature. The least has a beauty, just as has the most. And then I can forget criticism and listen singly, which is the happiest way of listening. To show you what a muddle I am conscious of getting into:—This “happiest of listening” that I have just mentioned cannot, perhaps, compare with the happiness of critical listening. Not the aesthetic criticism, but the listening to relationships, etc. (no matter what they are, for they necessarily exist in everything, no matter how apparently chaotic), and then making a judgement as to how valuable such relationships are.
I have many things to tell you, and must tell them. My father will soon be in Pittsburgh. He will stay at the William Penn Hotel. It seems a very short distance from there to Chautauqua. He would be very glad to see you and Mrs. Weiss. I hope that if you remain at Chautauqua that all of you will get in touch. I think Dad should have some sort of a vacation and visiting you at Chautauqua would be excellent. He is making some arrangements with Westinghouse with regard to his new inventions. I have been doing extensive research work for his new company; and that is what has given me the financial possibility of being married (which latter, by the way, is marvelous27). I will give Dad your address, before he leaves, which he is doing in an airplane this week. I have given you his. I certainly hope he sees you.
My study with Schoenberg is progressing steadily. We have reached four-part counterpoint, second species. He is very good to us, and takes great pains teaching us. His English has become very good. He is even able to be witty with the use of words, which represents a certain level of mastery. He is moving, I believe, into another house. And I understand that he has been engaged by the University here for the entire year. They promise to present many of his works.
What with the work I have been doing in counterpoint, and the research work in science, I have been very busy. Too busy to do justice to the horn and Mr. Hoss. This was the case before I was married, so that I feel being married has not accomplished what was already true. So that, as you will be sorry to hear, I am not studying the horn any longer. I learned a great deal about the instrument, for which I am grateful; and I have become a friend of Mr. Hoss, who is excellent. But doing things, I should like to do them well; and I had not the time. I had to make a choice: and the choice was obvious: to continue with Schoenberg and to support myself financially with the research work, which is not only money-making but fascinating, and often presents the same employment of mind that is presented in the study of music.
Xenia is an angel. We have been married now almost two months. It is always very beautiful. I look forward to her knowing you. For she will love you as I do and you will love her. Schoenberg mentioned the other day the necessity of constantly reviewing the work you have done. So that I think I shall begin teaching Xenia counterpoint, in that way making a review and also bringing us very close together.
I am going to write to you again shortly, ordering, if I may, one of your compositions. I have not decided which. Which would you want me to have? I can afford it, I think, now.
Mme. Scheyer28 often speaks of you; I have loaned to her my copy of the recording of your songs.
August third we have a meeting of young composers, modern, of Los Angeles. I don’t know exactly what will happen. Wm. Grant Still will be there, and some other negro composers. They have asked me to play something, but I refused, for I am a student too much now.
This is what is bothering me most now: Xenia and I may be sent to Pittsburgh to continue this research work. This will be the case if the arrangements with Westinghouse are successful. I will then be separated from Schoenberg. I do not know what to do. Fortunately it would not be for long. If it did occur, however, there would be the possibility of seeing you and Mrs. Weiss.
I think of you very often,—and write so little because and only because I am never knowing where to find time enough to do even my “work.” Never am I able to just go to sleep and think not at all about waking up. I always have to make some artificial arrangement about getting up. But I am exceedingly happy.
To Virgil Thomson29
March 15, 1939 | The Cornish School, Seattle
Dear Mr. Thomson,
Henry Cowell just gave me your address.
I remember in New York hearing some “Songs of Solomon”30 for voice and percussion you had written. This letter is to ask whether you have any scores for percussion alone, and, if not, whether you would be interested in writing something for a percussion concert which we will give May 19th here in Seattle.31
