cations and his admirers much boredom. The new
men, such as Wolf-Ferrari, Montemezzi, Giordano, and numerous others
are eclectics; they belong to any country, and their musical
cosmopolitanism, while affording agreeable specimens, may be dismissed
with the comment that their art lacks pronounced personal profile.
This does not mean that L'Amore dei Tre Re is less delightful. The
same may be said of Ludwig Thuille and also of the Neo-Belgian group.
Sibelius, the Finn, is a composer with a marked temperament. Among the
English Delius shows strongest. He is more personal and more original
than Elgar. Not one of these can tie the shoe-strings of Peter
Cornelius, the composer of short masterpieces, The Barber of
Bagdad--the original, not the bedevilled version of Mottl.

In Germany there is an active group of young men: Ernest Boehe, Walter
Braunfels, Max Schillings, Hans Pfitzner, F. Klose, Karl Ehrenberg,
Dohnany--born Hungarian--H. G. Noren. The list is long. Fresh,
agreeable, and indicative of a high order of talent is a new opera by
Franz Schreker, Das Spielwerk und die Prinzessin (1913). Schreker's
earlier opera, Der ferne Klang, I missed, but I enjoyed the later
composition, charged as it is with fantasy, atmosphere, bold climaxes,
and framing a legendary libretto. The influence of Debussy is marked.

Curiously enough, the Russian Moussorgsky, whose work was neglected
during his lifetime, has proved to be a precursor to latter-day music.
He was not affected in his development by Franz Liszt, whose influence
on Tschaikovsky, Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakof, Glazounof--he less than the
others--was considerable. Like Dostoievsky, Moussorgsky is
_ur_-Russian, not a polished production of Western culture, as are
Turgenieff, Tschaikovsky, Tolstoy, or Rubinstein. He is not a
romantic, this Russian bear; the entire modern school is at one in
their rejection of romantic moods and attitudes. Now, music is
pre-eminently a romantic art. I once called it a species of emotional
mathematics, yet so vast is its kingdom that it may contain the
sentimentalities of Mendelssohn, the Old World romance of Schumann,
the sublimated poetry of Chopin, and the thunderous epical accents of
Beethoven.

Moussorgsky I have styled a "primitive," and I fancy it is as good an
ascription as another. He is certainly as primitive as Paul Gauguin,
who accomplished the difficult feat of shedding his Parisian skin as
an artist and reappearing as a modified Tahi