Russian double basses

I sat near the double bass section of the Russian State Philharmonic Orchestra last night - a bracing all-Russian concert in Cambridge. I presume double bass players travel with their own instruments - but the double basses looked like a job lot from a junkyard. Dull worn wood covered with scratches. Yet the players stood on stage in their dark formal suits, bowing and plucking up a storm. They've been through the mill I guess, yet keep on playing.
Keep on aiming for the masterpiece, never giving in, I suppose that's what the game's about. I used to argue the toss with my mother over which writer's life was worth emulating: her R.F.Delderfield, who I believe gave up writing to sit in contented retirement on some Cornish or Devon shore; and my D.H.Lawrence, who raged and wandered till the end.
Sibelius, after years of neglect, won a state pension, and never wrote another note. As I get older, I come to see the comfort in such a stance. I guess I'm one of the rage till death camp though.
As of course was my mother. It would have been her birthday yesterday, the Ides of March. She's the dedicatee of my new novel, Slippery When Wet. I wrote the first draft as a 60th birthday present for her, a 'keep on going, life hasn't even started yet' sort of gift. Many drafts on she died, much too early, so never read the final volume. She worked till the end, and was still fighting through a horrendous time in hospital. "I see it coming," she said in her final days. "You're all about to be really successful. And I won't be around to enjoy it. Isn't that just typical." It was a wish for us, and a lament for herself.
Wishing, striving and lamenting to the end. It's the stuff of Russian masterpieces.