25 October 1886
[...] Although the last two months, when Lev Nikolaevich [Tolstoi] was ill, were an agonizing time for me, strangely enough they were also a very happy time for me. I nursed him day and night and what I had to do was so natural, so simple. It is really the only thing I can do well — making a personal sacrifice for the man I love. The harder the work, the happier I was. Now that he is on his feet again and almost well, he has given me to understand that he no longer needs me. So on the one hand I have been discarded like a useless object, and on the other, impossible, undefined sacrifices are, as always, demanded of me, in my life and in my family, and I am expected to renounce everything, all my property, all my beliefs, the education and well being of my children — things which not only I, a fairly determined woman, but thousand of others who believe in these precepts, are incapable of doing [...]
26 October 1886
[...] I think a lot about the older boys - it grieves me that they have grown so distant. Why do fathers not grieve for their children? Why is it only women whose lives are burdened this way?
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