Evening star., 1939-11-26

this great man who in his lifetime
and is only within the last years rec
hrst water. The Pictures" have be,
yet the composer himself is not rs I,
as are the great ones Of other na->
tionalities who preceded him.
Moussorgsky's life story Is q tragic
one, with q downhill trend that
ended in poverty, illness and
lonely death, when life should have
opened still greater opportunities to
him. There is something particu-
larly pathetic in this story, for the
composer was like q fragile bark
tossed on rough sea with no oars
to steady himself and no sense Of
direction to guide him. His strength
OF character where ordinary ad-
versity was concerned was not
the mighty, determined one of
Beethoven nor the desperately fight-
Ing one Of Wagner. The weakness
that ruined his life undermined the
security that more fortified nature
could summon to the battle.
Friendship played a great part in
his life, however, and one that had
contributed considerable to his hap
piness was that Of the architect and
painter, Victor Hartmann. When
news Of his death reached Nous
sorgsky, he wrote to Stassov, the
critic, q letter full of deep feeling
wherein he berated himself for his
casual acceptance Of the illness that
led to Hartmann's end. In it he un-
consciously sums up his own case
and gives a picture of that great
pessimism that grew more and more
pronounced as his life continued.
Philosophical View.
He says: "All we little, little men
are fools. This is how the wise
usually console us blockheads in
such cases: He is no more, but what
he has done lives and will live
True-but how many men have the
luck to be remembered? That is
just another way of serving up our
f-complacency with q dash of
onion to bring out the tears. Away
with such wisdom. When he has
not lived in vain, but has created
one must be rascal to revel in the
comforting thought that he can
create no more. What does it all
mean? In any case, the dull old
earth Is no coquette, but takes every
King OF Nature straight into her
1oathsome embrace, whoever he is
like an old worn-out hag, for whom
anyone is good enough, since she
has no choice. There again-what
fool am. Why be angry when
you cannot change anything?"
His tribute to his friend was the
Pictures at an Exhibition" written
when Stassov arranged a showing
OF water colors and drawings BY
Hartmann.
This sensitiveness of his nature
was the keystone of his genius. BY
reason Of 1t he absorbed every de-
tail of life, surrounded 1t with q
colorful memory and reproduced 1t
with q vividness and charm that
won him lasting fame. He was,
like so many Of the great Russian
composers, able to combine . ma
terial occupation with the cultiva-
ton Of his talent. And SO great
was this talent that 1t rose above
the ordinary dull routine of study
and impressed itself on his circle
Of friends by its force and original
ity. He never submitted to the
drudgery Of q prescribed line of
study, but by q rare ability caught
the essentials and applied them to
his needs.
Believed In Peasant.
He was . revolutionary insofar
that he loved, respected and be-
heved in the Russian peasant class,
although his fathers family was
Of the nobility for generations. His
peasant mother, his devoted COM
panion, gave him this heritage of
understanding. The first years of
his life were spent on the family
estate In luxury, where his educa-
ton followed the accepted one of
that time. Study of languages, a
smattering Of music and, finally,
the select cadet" school, from
which he emerged an officer. He
was somewhat foppish in those
younger years, priding himself on
being well groomed and on his
engaging manners.
But his heart held the stamp, and
never lost it, Of those early years
when he lived on the lonely estate.
The dark forests, the serene lakes
that mirrored their shadow, the
thrilling song of church bells sound
Ing . never-to-be-forgotten call
through the quiet land, the stories
OF his nurse. so VerSed in the fas.