“Evening. June 25, 1907.

“All the morning I played very difficult music and was happy. In the afternoon came Cæsar's father and I played. I was unhappy. I did not play well; my hand and wrist hurt me horribly, and I did not feel that glorious hidden well of music deep in me. I was too sad. Cæsar's father depressed me. I felt that something was making him suffer, and I knew what it was; so I suffered, too… I gave them a great bouquet of camellias to take home. I played a whole Bach concerto by sight, and Mr. T. had copied for me something beautiful. I am glad that it came into my life to-day. Then in the Abendämmerung I went out into the streets… It was so beautiful; the full moon was like a strain of music heard through a closed door. Mist over everything. The hills mere shadows to-night. I became terribly unhappy; I almost wept in the street; and yet music enveloped me again, caught me, held me, thank Heaven! I would have died, I should be dead but for that. I sent Mr. T. a beautiful book, something that I truly treasure.”