May 11, 1913 [The House of Darkness]

I thought of her the other day. The years since I've seen her are so many now that I'm ashamed to admit I still hold her dear—no, I'm not ashamed. She was animated and lovely, a mischief-maker with a dancer's leaping heart—and I know that the phrase sounds achingly maudlin, but whenever I was with her I felt like a child—in my freedom, in my feeling that everything held still simply to allow me to enjoy the moment with her moving before me.

When I told her I loved her and she told me that she didn't share my feelings, I again behaved like a child: I walked away and wept, inconsolable—and determined to remain that way.

The years have passed, and fortunately I've been consoled now and again, but of course I still think of her—and when I do, I find myself again drawing in my breath in well-worn pain—and in the exhalation I've taken to humming a song, some Stephen Foster-ish sentimental composition or another. Is it at times actually "Beautiful Dreamer"? I'm embarrassed to admit it may be. And if that's not damning enough, I also must confess that it soothes me, brings me back with lessened yearning to the present and the life I've led without her.

I saw The House of Darkness, a hopeful photoplay in which a lunatic is calmed by piano-playing at least twice—and always by lovely women. Eventually, calm-eyed and smiling, with handshakes all around, the madman leaves the asylum, presumably to join his loving family and a world of possibilities. When I left the theater this afternoon, I caught myself humming a tune—and I will write that I'm all but certain I was merely responding to the sunlight and the happy raucous rhythm of the street-sounds around me as I made my way home.