Friday, July 18:
R. slept well; in the morning, when he leaves me, he goes into his room and plays a rondo theme, which he then elaborates in the course of the morning. A fine day; the children to the Eremitage. I am beset by overwhelming melancholy, which gushes forth in torrents of tears. Can it be that all contact with the outside world is now too much of a strain on me? Or that the lessons today wore me out, and the revision of the domestic account books? That the news about Claire took me back to my youth, to a sort of home which has completely vanished from my memory? Or the coarseness of my external surroundings, of which I am at times only too clearly aware? I do not know, but anyway I was robbed of all strength, and my hand reached out for The Imitation of Christ. I read several chapters, and life in a nunnery, which spoke temptingly to my youthful spirit, as to all others', once again seemed to me something desirable!
I struggled free of my confusions and in the evening was able to laugh with the family over my “swollen eyes”!