One week in Washington and one in Baltimore saw on its jolly way to the storehouse the wicked Bull Pup Café and the Hop Fields, etc.
And so back to New York.
In the Sixth Avenue “L” with our little suitcases, we sat, a picture of woe and misery. In the Sixth Avenue “L,” for not even a dollar was to be wasted on a taxi. But when the door to our own two rooms was closed, and, alone together, we faced our wrecked hopes, it wasn’t so awful. Familiar objects seemed to try and comfort us. After all, it was a little home, and better than a park bench; and the Century Dictionary—of which some day we would be complete owners, maybe—and the Underwood, all our own—spoke to us reassuringly.
I do not recall that any job materialized that winter, but something must have happened to sustain us. Perhaps the belated receipt of those few hundred dollars of mine that were on deposit at the German Savings Bank at the time of the Disaster in San Francisco.
To offset what might have been a non-productive winter, Mr. Griffith wrote “War,” a pretentious affair of the American Revolution, which Henry Miller would have produced had it been less expensive. “War” had meant a lot of work. For weeks previous to the writing, we had repaired daily to the Astor Library where we copied soldiers’ diaries and letters and read histories of the period until sufficiently imbued with the spirit of 1776. “War” is still in the manuscript stage with the exception of the Valley Forge bits which came to life in Mr. Griffith’s film “America”; for Mr. Griffith turned to the spectacle very early in his career, though he little dreamed then of the medium in which he was to record the great drama of the American Revolution.
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We met Perriton Maxwell again. Extended and accepted dinner invitations. Our dinner was a near-tragedy. Before the banquet had advanced to the salad stage, I had to take my little gold bracelet to a neighboring “Uncle.” The antique furniture necessitated placards which my husband posted conspicuously. For instance, on the sofa—“Do not sit here; the springs are weak.” On a decrepit gate-legged table—“Don’t lean; the legs are loose.”
At the Maxwells’ dinner our host gathered several young literati who he thought might become interested in Mr. Griffith and his literary efforts. Vivian M. Moses, then editor of Good Housekeeping and now Publicity Manager for The Fox Films, was one, as was Jules E. Goodman, the playwright. But a “litry” career for Mr. Griffith seemed foredoomed. A poem now and then, and an occasional story sold, was too fragile sustenance for permanency. Some sort of steady job would have to be found, and the “litry” come in as a side-line.
David Griffith was ready for any line of activity that would bring in money, so that he could write plays. He always had some idea in his inventive mind, such as non-puncturable tires, or harnessing the ocean waves. In the mornings, on waking, he would lie in bed and work out plots for dramas, scene bits, or even mechanical ideas. After an hour of apparent semi-consciousness, his head motionless on the pillow, he would greet the day with “I hate to see her die in the third act”; or, “I wonder if that meat dish could be canned!” meaning, could a dish he had invented and cooked—a triumph of culinary art—be made a commercial proposition as a tinned food, like Armour’s or Van Camp’s beans and corned beef.
Pretty good field of activity, canned eats, and might have made David W. Griffith more money than canned drama!