“But what is this disease?” asked Irene, with a mistrustful smile. “The disease from which you are suffering is disgust for all activity and contempt for all mankind. This disease usually attacks the children or grand-children of writers, scientists, artists, sometimes also of State officials, the kind that have spent all their lives in pouring over State archives or other papers. Their mental overwork, at the expense of physical strength, leaves indelible traces, and has to be paid for by their children, who always have morbid desires for some fantastic existence invented by their own imaginations, and find real life dull and colourless. As soon as they are over the borders of childhood, they begin, like ancient Israel, to dispute and struggle with God. They refuse to accept the humanity He has created, with all its faults and failings; they invent their own fanciful heroes, and demand of God that He should give these imaginary creatures life. It is principally women in whom this morbid contempt for human nature manifests itself. The girl, indeed, is rare who does not, on getting married, attempt to remodel her husband according to her own ideas. She tries to turn a passionate worldling into a monk, prepares to metamorphose a pensive lover of solitude into a brilliant society dandy, or forces a pleasure-loving social lion into the narrow circle of her domestic interests. And the poor deluded creature never for a moment doubts the success of her efforts. ‘I shall only have to be insistent, and to give him no peace,’ she thinks, ‘and all will be as I wish.’ “Some women, indeed, shatter their happiness in this way, and to the end of their lives never realize their mistake. Of course, this ridiculous feature of their characters proves the profound depths of ignorance in which women are still groping, in spite of their superficial, if sometimes apparently brilliant, intellectual attainments. Were their mental development less shallow, they would understand that God cannot for their pleasure entirely remodel a completed creation. This seems, indeed, a very simple fact, but it is surprising how few women can grasp it. Most of my morbid types try to escape from the prose of life by means of operas, novels, dreams, and in this way they only broaden the gulf that separates them from their more reasonable fellow-creatures. They feel that happiness is their birthright, and they torment themselves because they cannot attain it. Time passes, and brings disillusionment, since the world refuses to conform itself to vain fancies. And then begins the quarrel with God.