Which is, I know, available already in Spanish-- it is almost 0700 here i.e. after Prime, before Terce and breakfast. I expect I will read the entire letter once the Latin authentic edition is published but am sure I'll see some of it in English before too much longer. Evidently, the text was officially released today, the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi, October 4th. Dense fog here has limited appreciation of Dawn and her many splendors, and it also deadens the sounds of the morning. Am listening to Viet Trung Nguyen perform Chopin: the Mazurka in A minor op 17 n 4, the Barcarolle op 60, the Nocturne in C minor op 48 n 1, and the Ballade in F minor op 52. The recital was recorded some four hours ago.
At Saint-Eugène in Paris, today the parish goes on pilgrimage to the places associated with the martyrdom of Saint Eugene-- his body was thrown into Lac Marchais on what are now the northern outskirts of Paris. A quick version of the text of the fourth lesson at Matins from the Proprium of Paris for the feast of Saint Eugene on November 15; I'm not sure e.g. why the text finds it necessary to specify that the 'monastery of St Denis' is 'in France', and I'm presuming that the Abbey of Saint Denis is meant. But one takes the sense well enough.
Saint Eugene is numbered, in many histories of the martyrs, amongst the disciples or companions of Saint Denis, first bishop of Paris. This holy bishop sent him to many places to visit the churches confided to their care.
Returned from these visits after the martyrdom of Saint Denis but while the persecution was yet vigorous he was captured in a village called Deuil, three leagues from Paris. There, having given striking evidence of his faith, he was condemned to be beheaded, by the governor Sisinnius Fescenninus. His body was thrown by the pagans into a certain lake, called Lac Marchais.
Hercold, a rich and powerful man, having already undertaken to build a church at the tomb of Saint Denis, searched the lake for the body of Saint Eugene and having found it gave it an honorable burial at the site of his martyrdom, building a grand oratory there.
At some point before the 10th century his body was carried to the Abbey of Saint Denis and many relics were sent to different churches in France and Spain where they are held in great veneration.
Post Tertiam, and time for breakfast. It remains very foggy. The Berlin Philharmonic is performing Max Bruch's Violin Concerto no 1 and Brahms's Serenade no 2 today, beginning in less than an hour.
I believe that the Estonian Radio just reported that Arvo Pärt has the plague. Hmm. Must look on their news page; 71 new cases in the last day but no mention of Pärt. I must have the name 'on the brain' when Klassikaraadio is on, I reckon-- who knows how many combinations of words in Estonian may sound similar to the composer's name, to a non-speaker of Estonian half-listening to the radio news.
Ante Sextam. Wasn't able to access the Berlin Phil's concert until after I fussed with the account and the card billed-- this had to do with the glitch the other day that I had to decay on the telephone for an hour in order to rectify. Well, perhaps fifteen minutes. I missed 90% of the Bruch, however much time I wasted.
I didn't go out this morning and in consequence the supply of peanuts is dangerously low. The jays are fighting amongst themselves. Last night I heard one of them make a peculiar rattling sound-- a first for that. They do have a wider range of calls than is ordinarily heard.
The other day was attempting to fit a radio broadcast of the Wiener Philharmoniker's Sommernachtskonzert at Schloss Schönbrunn from May into my busy music-listening day; I didn't listen then but yesterday discovered that the recording (the WP's marketing department is top-notch) is at Spotify, ahem.
It has made me remember (inter alia, I want to listen to Imre Kálmán's Gräfin Mariza), what I would never otherwise have done, that Maurice Jarre's score for Doctor Zhivago (1965) was, for a time, one of my favorite pieces of music; in the early 70s, probably, possibly even earlier than that. I remember struggling through the film once (who knows when) and (probably in the early 90s) Pasternak's novel once. Listening to the Overture, I imagine that this appealed to my (otherwise rather underdeveloped) teenage militaristic and romantic inclinations.