December 9 + 

… I shook her angrily by the shoulders tonight and said, “Why do I love you?⁠—Tell me,” but she only smiled gently and said, “I cannot tell.⁠ ⁠…” I ought not to love her, I know⁠—every omen is against it.⁠ ⁠… Then I am full of self-love: an intellectual Malvolio proud of his brains and air of distinction.⁠ ⁠… + 

Then I am fickle, passionate, polygamous⁠ ⁠… I am haunted by the memory of how I have sloughed off one enthusiasm after another. I used to dissect snails in a pie-dish in the kitchen while Mother baked the cakes⁠—the unravelling of the internal economy of a Helix caused as great an emotional storm as today the Unfinished Symphony does! I look for the first parasol in Kensington Gardens with the same interest as once I sought out the first snowdrop or listened for the first Cuckoo. I am as anxious to identify an instrument in Sir Henry’s Orchestra as once to identify the song of a new bird in the woods. Nothing is further from my intention or desire to continue my old habit of nature study. I never read nature books⁠—my old favourites⁠—Waterton’s Wanderings, Gilbert White, The Zoologist, etc.⁠—have no interest for me⁠—in fact they give me slight mental nausea even to glance at. Wiedersheim (good old Wiedersheim) is now deposed by a text book on Harmony. My main desire just now is to hear the best music. In the country I wore blinkers and saw only zoology. Now in London, I’ve taken the bit in my mouth⁠—and it’s a mouth of iron⁠—wanting a run for all my troubles before Death strikes me down. + 

All this evidence of my temperamental instability alarms and distresses me on reflection and makes the soul weary. I wish I loved more steadily. I am always sidetracking myself. The title of “husband” scares me. + 