13 February 1873
Lyovochka [Tolstoj] has gone to Moscow and all day long I have been sitting alone here wretchedly staring into space, a prey to sickening anxieties which leave me no peace. I always take up my diary when I am in this sort of mental turmoil, for I can pour out all my emotions and then feel calmer. But my present mood is sinful, stupid, spiteful and insincere. Where would I be without the support of this good honest man, whom I love with all my heart, and whose thoughts are always so fine and pure? Yet in moments of anxiety I sometimes search my heart and ash myself what I really want. And to my Horror, the answer is that I want gaiety, smart clothes and chatter. I want people to admire me and say how pretty I am, and I want Lyova to see and hear them too; I long for him to occasionally emerge from his rapt inner existence which demands so much of him; I wish he could briefly lead a normal life with me, like a normal person. But then my heart cries out against the Devil's temptations of Eve, and I think even worse of myself than before.... I want to turn my character inside out and demolish everything that is mean and false in me. I am having my hair curled today, and have been happily imagining how nice it will look, even though nobody will see me and it is quite unnecessary. I adore ribbons, I would like a new leather belt — and now I have written this I feel like crying.... The children are waiting upstairs for their music lesson and here I am in the study writing all this stupid nonsense...
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