(2) To get married.
(3) To prepare and publish a volume of this Journal.
(4) To write two essays for Cornhill which shall surely induce the Editor to publish and not write me merely long complimentary and encouraging letters as heretofore.
Wired to A——, "The brave little pennon has been hauled down."
December 7.
Have so many projects in view and so little time in which to get them done! Moreover I am always haunted by the fear that I may never finish them thro' physical or temperamental disabilities—a breakdown in health or in purpose. I am one of those who are apt to die unexpectedly and no one would be surprised. An inquest would probably be unnecessary. I badly want to live say another twelve months. Hey! nonny-no! a man's a fool that wants to die.
December 9.
... I shook her angrily by the shoulders to-night 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 to-day 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.