The Selected Letters of John Cage. John Cage
a company my father has started, I am able to attend this class. We are analyzing the 4th Symphony of Brahms, the Art of the Fugue, some of the Well-Tempered Clavichord, and the III String Quartet of Schoenberg. Although I am not really prepared for this class, I manage to keep my ears open and absorb what I can. There are about 40 people in the class, mostly teachers of music.
A great deal of Schoenberg’s music has recently been played: the Verklaerte Nacht, the III String Quartet (several times) and songs from the Book of the Hanging Gardens, also op. II. A large reception was given him by the Mailamm Society,21 a Jewish organization, last night. And it was a very sincere ovation. He gave a racial talk. He is beginning to be very much loved. His conducting, however, was mercilessly criticized. People found his tempos dull and uninteresting.
I would be able to send you some money now, since I have a job. I don’t know how long I will have it. But whatever I have is yours.
Henry has asked me to arrange a concert for him here of Japanese Shakuhachi playing by a friend of his, K. Tamada;22 I am doing this.
I feel isolated and cut-off, not having heard from you. I want very much to be with you again.
Please give my best regards to Mrs. Weiss. How is everyone? And believe me always,
Your devoted pupil
To Adolph Weiss
[May 1935] | Location not indicated
My dear Mr. Weiss:
Perhaps you are wondering why I have not answered your letter. I have certainly wanted to. But, following the suggestion you gave in your letter immediately before, I did my best to get “closer” to Schoenberg. He had, in between your two letters, asked me to come and see him. After making an appointment with him, I decided, since you considered it best, to ask him point blank if I might in my way continue my studies with him. He asked me many questions,—about my work with you and before studying with you. My answers showed him how very little I know,—particularly with regard to the literature of string quartets, symphonies, etc. He finally decided, however, to accept me in a class in counterpoint which had already started, suggesting that, with the aid of a George Tremblay,23 who is studying composition with him, I might “make up” what I had missed. He felt that what I already know of harmony, through you, would be sufficient for the time being. His last words on this first occasion were: Now you must think of nothing but music: and must work from six to eight hours a day.
The result is that I work all the time. I am proud to say that I am already doing work which surpasses that of the two other pupils. This is merely because I examine the possibilities as completely as I can. It is amazing what can be done with a single cantus firmus. When I write harmony exercises again, they will, I hope, be much better than before. We have had, so far, four lessons with Schoenberg: 3-part counterpoint, first species, second species (a) with one moving voice and (b) with two moving voices, and third species (syncopation—which, by the way, is fourth species in most textbooks) with one voice only in syncopes. And with Tremblay I have completed the five species of 2-part writing, and am now working on mixed species.
Xenia is staying until the end of this month (May) in Alaska; it is her father’s wish. He is quite elderly and does not expect to see her again.24
Mother tells me that the secret of her vitality is in not drinking and not smoking. The funny thing is that she does drink. I am the one who has decided not to drink. I decided that I am “drunk” all of the time, and that to add to it is not intelligent. Of course, since making this decision I drank a glass of beer, because I was thirsty, a second glass of beer, because I was eating some corned beef and cabbage and knew that beer would be just the thing. Another time I drank some blackberry wine because it tastes so good.
But Mother’s vitality is certainly amazing. For example: after spending a strenuous week in Del Monte, California (where a club convention recently took place), she returned home and worked the next night until five in the morning, slept three hours until eight, went to the office and stayed until six, and after all of that was looking as fresh and “raring to go” as a pampered racehorse. Perhaps she wouldn’t appreciate the analogy.
I was very much interested in your remarks about the violin sonata which you had just completed. I should like very much to see it. I would also like to have a copy of your piano sonata. How much would that cost? Couldn’t a copy be printed from that black and white one you have? If so, I would get someone here to work on it, with your permission. Also, could the songs be obtained in a similar manner? Please let me know about these things. We have, for instance, Calista Rogers who sings, very well, modern songs. She sings several songs from Schoenberg’s Book of the Hanging Gardens. We have an excellent string quartet, the Abas String Quartett; and they would certainly be willing to work on either the songs or a quartet. I know them all. They are the ones who performed Schoenberg’s 3rd S[tring]Q[uartet]. Schoenberg’s Suite in Old Style was played by the orchestra under Klemperer last week. It is very beautiful and does not sound “old” at all,—which, of course, it isn’t.
We are having now such beautiful weather that my inclination is to do nothing at all. If I were not so busy, I should just go outdoors and live like an animal. I shall be moving as soon as Xenia comes and we shall live where there is sunlight. At present I use electricity during the day just as though I were in New York.
Which reminds me that Schoenberg’s plans, at present, are, as far as I know, indefinite. Perhaps New York next fall.
Then I should have the great pleasure of seeing you soon again. Perhaps Xenia + I would come to Chatauqua. I hope she plays bridge. We could all play bridge together.
My father’s work is coming excellently. Both he and Mother often speak of you.
I shall write soon again because this is an incomplete letter and doesn’t have any “rumination” in it.
P.S. Very best regards to Mrs. Weiss. I get very lonely not seeing you both.
To Pauline Schindler
May 24, 1935 | Los Angeles
Pauline, dearest,
I love you always; it was in many ways puzzling to me that although you were in Los Angeles, we didn’t see each other. I have not before now had the time, literally, to write; so that you may infer that you were right, if you stayed away because of some feeling that I was “too occupied.” Buhlig said you said something of the sort. I had dinner with him the evening following your dinner; and it seemed strangely unnatural that we shouldn’t have been together.
Possibly I have not told you that Schoenberg teaches me counterpoint now. And I am very happy because my work seems to please him. Today he turned to the two other pupils and said: You see, I don’t even have to look at it (my exercises), I know they’re right. He is a teacher of great kindness and understanding and it is a rich comfort that he gives.
His recent Suite in Old Style was played Saturday and is a marvel. There is nothing old about it. Although it begins with an Overture (Prelude and Fugue) the whole “idea” is basically a new concept of Fugue. There are, i.e., no two relationships of subject and answer identical. His feeling for the variation of idea did not allow of the opposite nor of another “old” idea—that of vagueness. So that the episodes (which are usually built of the latter) are here the development of the prelude. It is fascinating because the prelude is largo and is forever interrupting the fugue allegro.
The work is convincing in every way and proves in a manner understandable to the most sluggish of ears the profundity of the prelude.
And now,—Xenia. All I know is that she will be here early in June; that there was a formal announcement (her sister’s idea) in order that “showers” might follow; and that I am, according to mother, as unprepared as though I were living on the streets (Xenia knows this and says she will accept even starvation with me “gracefully”).
I had a letter from Mr. Poland in which I was offered a position without pay which, unfortunately, I could not