ST. OLPHERTS. And oh--oh these sympathetic women!
LUCAS. No! Oh, the unsympathetic women! There you have the cause of
half the world's misery. The unsympathetic women--you should have
loved one of them.
ST. OLPHERTS. I dare say I've done that in my time.
LUCAS. Love one of these women--I know!--worship here, yield yourself
to the intoxicating day-dreams that make the grimy world sweeter than
any heaven ever imagined. How you heart leaps with gratitude for your
good fortune! How compassionately you regard your unblest fellow men!
What may you not accomplish with such a mate beside you; how high will
be your aims, how paltry every obstacle that bars your way to them; how
sweet is to be the labour, how divine the rest! Then--you marry her.
Marry her, and in six months, if you've pluck enough to do it, lag
behind your shooting party and blow your brains out, by accident, at
the edge of a turnip-field. You have found out by that time all that
there is to look for--the daily diminishing interest in your doings,
the poorly assumed attention as you attempt to talk over some plan for
the future; then the yawn, and by degrees, the covert sneer, the little
sarcasm, and finally, the frank, open stare of boredom. Ah, Duke, when
you all carry out your repressive legislation against women of evil
lives, don't fail to include in your schedule the Unsympathetic Wives.
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