After lunch with Koshetz I watched a parade in honour of Foch, who was paying a visit to America. The parade, as if on purpose, took place immediately in front of the hotel. At three o'clock we went to Strauss's concert: on our left a demonstration in honour of the French; on our right, a celebration of a German. It is a wonder no one thought to position a limbless torso in between the two, a heroic victim of the conflict!

Strauss's concert consisted of his songs, for which he himself played the piano. His accompaniments were a delight, a touch on the dry side. The first songs were simple and good, but later on there crept in such a convoluted mish-mash of bad taste that halfway through I left. Vulgarity in a low tavern I can understand. When an orchestra plays in the park I simply don't hear it. But when vulgarity is presented with all the trimmings of first-class technique, all the marks of high-minded seriousness and international celebrity, it becomes disgraceful, there is no other word for it.