In the evening I went to Rachmaninov's concert. The Isle of the Dead is, except for the over-extended opening section, a wonderful work. I also greatly admire the Second Piano Concerto, but Ziloti dashed it off at such a speed that the listener was alternately alarmed and repelled. After this came Rachmaninov's new work, The Bells. I was stunned by the wealth of deeply interesting and endlessly inventive ideas, not always a characteristic of Rachmaninov's music, the mass of fascinating devices he employs, and many unexpected delights. The third movement, The Tocsin, brought me to the point of ecstasy with the elemental power of its expression. I came firmly to the conclusion that this is the best thing Rachmaninov has ever written, applauded deliriously and quarrelled with our modern-music aficionados who simply dismiss him. When I got home I telephoned Myaskovsky, but alas, he also tore The Bells to shreds: not a single melody, a mass of sham window-dressing, a total dislocation between text and music...