eally begin
to live, do we always ache so at the heart?

[Sidenote: _Zoe Montrose to Francis Hume_]

My child,--Your questions are delicious. What you felt on reading my
letter? Yes, Sir Innocence, it hath a name: Jealousy. 'Tis a very
legitimate passion, so I think, but it hath earned in the world a bad
repute. You white-armored child! this meeting a soul so dense to its
own emotions is like cooling drink in a desert. You complain because I
am your senior and a trifle world-worn, and you do not know that you
are complaining. You wish we had been born at the same minute. Pretty!
poetic! but in plain prose, "I would you were not my elder!" And so
would I; for if I were set back those five years, it would give me just
five years more to hack away at my plays. I will not say how your
moonings and mouthings would affect me; possibly then I might be caught
by such pretty sweets. The last question of all: Does the world feel
immortal pain at its heart? Frankly, yes. Nobody can be really happy
except imbeciles and children; and not they, if they chance to be
underfed. But be of good cheer. Only women ache all their lives long,
every day of every year. They are an unintelligent lot, not to have
learned self-protection. They wear their souls outside; and not being
in the least original, they have not yet invented a thoroughly
satisfactory coat of mail. For you, belonging to the lords of the
earth, there will, after a time, be immunity. You will break your
heart. (O, how infinitely wearisome to reflect that you have determined
to break it about me!) Then you will waken to a vapid interest in work,
discover your own nice talent for manipulating words, put all your past
woes into verse, and by the time your reputation is made, you won't
despise a good cigar and a club dinner. Nature has provided you as she
has the lobster. Never fear; your claws will grow, though they may be
often nipped. It is plain that you are to suffer, but I don't very much
pity you. Unless you take to drink or any other unhygienic habit, you
are sure to get something out of life. If you riddle your nerves, I
won't answer for you. But, at the present moment, one thing must be
done. Your letters must simply cease to be drenched with the night-dew
of flimsy sentiment. Wring it out, and send them dry. Otherwise you get
no answers. Do you hear, you gentle barbarian?

And I don't like your style overmuch. It isn't improving as I hoped.
You don't want to drag out