We arrived at seven in the morning. Impressions of Moscow. The tram, and reactions to my suit. The Metropole Hotel and the Bolshoy Theatre. General feeling of depression, arising from a number of things besides the music situation: people sent into exile, the anarchists. Koshetz, and immediately a completely different atmosphere. She had a concert today including the Akhmatova Songs, in which I accompanied her. She suggested I move to her apartment. Her husband. His piano. I had not expected him to be so young or so insignificant. I have fallen right into the nexus. The concert, and Koshetz's joy. Although essentially I had written the songs for her, I could not just suddenly, off the cuff, get right to the heart of them. We hardly rehearsed at all. The performance was not completely together (the first song), but as it was Koshetz, of course it was good. Amazed by my sudden entrée into the feverish epicentre of artistic life.