“Why, Nan,” he said, “it looks a great deal more. And it is in very
excellent taste--so are the shoes and hat.”
“The hat and shoes are _good_ ones,” I informed him, “and I thought the
dress such a bargain.”
“Gee, yes, Nan--why, Florence pays----”
But I was never interested to know how much Mrs. Harding paid for
anything, even though I knew she must pay a great deal more for
everything than I did. I was happier, I’m sure, than she ever was, and
though I did not care to speak of her except to inquire casually of Mr.
Harding how she was, it was from no dislike of her; for I merely felt
sorry for her. For one to lose the affection of this man beside me was,
to me, a loss so colossal that surely she could never find anything to
take its place. I was so happy in his love.
Mr. Harding himself was never extravagant. I remember distinctly that
on one occasion when I told him I had sent my “kid brother Doc” some
money and confided to him that “It costs Doc $8 for a pair of shoes!”
he turned to me and said, “Nan, do you know how much I pay for shoes?”
I said, “No, how much?” and he answered, “I pay $5 and I have had this
particular pair of shoes for two years. That is all any fellow should
pay for shoes.” And that was during war-time when things were high.
I have witnessed many instances illustrative of Warren Harding’s thrift
so far as he himself was concerned. He preached economy when he was
President and he honestly practised economy and applied his preachments
to his own daily life. Only where those dearer to him than his own life
were concerned did he allow extravagance, and even then he used to
chide me in a loving way for not putting away some money. It was for
this reason that I began to buy steel stock, having put but $60 into
it however when an urgent need of my mother caused me to draw out the
money and send it to her.
I might give another incident of Mr. Harding’s ideas of fair prices.
We were dining at Churchill’s. Our dinner was simple enough--chicken,
I remember. It seems to me we did have one cocktail apiece before
dinner. The bill was something over $15. Mr. Harding tipped the waiter
$1.50. I watched his face as he counted out the money for the waiter.
After the waiter had gone, he looked across at me and shrugged his
shoulders. “You know, Nan, I am not penurious, but a bill like that is
really ridiculous.” Then quickly the look of impatience was gone and
the incident closed.
_23_
I used to love these dinners with Mr. Harding. They were so sweetly
intimate, and it was a joy just to sit and look at him. The way he used
his hands, the adorable way he used to put choice bits of meat from
his own plate onto mine, the way he would say with a sort of tense
seriousness, “That’s a very becoming hat, Nan,” or, “God, Nan, you’re
pretty!” used to go to my head like wine and make food seem for the
moment the least needful thing in the world.
But there was nothing whatever the matter with my appetite. Perhaps I
was still adding stature at twenty, which has been known to give zest
to one’s appetite. Whatever the reason, it would not be exaggerating
greatly to admit that I was, at least in my own opinion, quite a young
gormandizer. I remember writing to Mr. Harding, “You’re not in love
with a girl--she’s a hungry little animal!”
Mr. Harding himself was, I thought, quite an epicure, despite the fact
that he could enjoy plain, substantial food. Eggs were my breakfast
stand-by, but invariably Mr. Harding’s query when we breakfasted
together would be, “Will you have codfish cakes with me this morning,
dearie?” In fact, I do not remember that he seemed to care for eggs
at all. He seemed fond of honey-dew melon, I remember. He would look
across the table (which seemed to me always to be at least half a mile
wide!) and inquire smilingly, “How about a little orange marmalade
this morning, Nan?” I never could make up my mind whether he ordered
this for me because he knew I had a sweet tooth, or whether he really
liked it himself; I’m inclined to the latter opinion.
But it was at dinner that Mr. Harding could play the host to great
advantage so far as I was concerned. I have been introduced to many
delicious dishes through Mr. Harding. Often these things, ordered by
him after a side consultation with the waiter to which I hugely enjoyed
listening, were served by Mr. Harding instead of by the waiter. How he
seemed to love to hear me exclaim over a dish that was new to me!
The dessert course usually inclined me to an enthusiastic inspection
of the menu. Mr. Harding knew this and his query, “What kind of sweets
tonight, Nan?” was accompanied by a smile and the adjustment of his
Oxford glasses. Then he himself would suggest, and his smile deepen as
I would childishly exclaim, “Oh, yes, I just adore biscuit tortoni!” I
early observed that he himself was inclined to skip this course of the
dinner, and grew glad, because then he could plan our evening aloud
while I acquainted myself fully with the contents of the little cup in
front of me.
I remember that Mr. Harding never seemed to care for the ice-water
served in hotels. I can just hear him, either at dinner, or after we
had retired to the privacy of our room, instructing the attendant,
“Bring me a bottle of White Rock, George.”
Mr. Harding’s table manner charmed me. I say “manner” because the
plural would be taken for granted once one had seen him. With what
grace he ate and talked! With his eyes upon me, it was impossible
for _me_ to concentrate upon two things at one time, impossible to
give the necessary heed for enjoyment to the most delicately served
viands-under-glass when it was expected that I should look up and make
ardent reply to an affectional question. Therefore, when I was wont
to sit absorbed, I would suddenly be reminded in gentle tones that my
food must be getting cold! But I have known this absorption to work
mutually, when we were lost to ourselves and our surroundings in the
depths of each other’s eyes.
So potent was this spell which we had for each other that for whole
evenings we were its willing prisoners, living as in a dream, neither
of us coming out from the intoxication of each other’s presence until
long after separation. Often then we wrote to each other about it. If
we were in a taxi, we would become so oblivious to the entire world we
would both be amazed when we reached our destination.
I was so proud of Mr. Harding, too, for he never entered a room that
all eyes were not turned in his direction. I used to think of Florence
Harding, his wife, in this connection, for I knew well his fascination
and could readily understand how she, or any other woman, might “run
after him” as Marionites say she pursued Warren Harding before they
were married, when she was Florence Kling DeWolfe, and years older than
Warren Harding. I understood, for hadn’t I followed him around when I
was but a child back in our home town?
_24_
One time Mr. Harding visited Senator Weeks at his place in the White
Mountains along with some of the “other fellows,” as he called them,
and came down to New York on his way to Washington after a season of
“chopping wood.” I met him at the Grand Central Station and we dined
at the Belmont Hotel, downstairs in the grill. He had had a speaking
engagement which he had filled enroute to New York, and had spoken in
a tent, he said. It had been dark when he made his way in through the
rear entrance of the tent and he had fallen over one of the cables
supporting the tent and scratched his hand terribly. He used to tell
me things like this with a sort of embarrassment, as though he were
ashamed of admitting them, and the very manner of telling increased my
sympathy a thousandfold.
I think it was during this particular visit at Senator Weeks’ that he
had become ill. He had a particularly sensitive stomach, and he had
eaten too much lobster. He said they had had lobster for luncheon, and
were all gathered together when the chef came in and asked Senator
Weeks what it should be for dinner. Mr. Harding spoke up and said
laughingly, “Lobster!” and he had been taken seriously and they had
dined on lobster that night. And he had overeaten. He said he was so
ill and his fears about whether or not he would recover were so great
that he almost confessed his relationship with me to someone up there,
in order that they might carry out his plans for a suitable settlement
upon me. I never liked the idea of even talking about “settlements”; it
made things seem so final.
Once I met Mr. Harding in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where he delivered an
address at the local armory. I arrived there to find he had already
gone on the platform. So I wrote a note and despatched it to him by
messenger. He left immediately and came out to meet me in the lobby
of the armory, where we stood and talked until it was time for him to
go back to the platform. I remember how he instructed me to return
immediately to New York after he had finished speaking, because they
were taking him to the local Elks’ Club and he could not see me anyway.
He used to remind me of my father in his solicitude for my getting
home safely. But I waited, and after he had had time to reach the Club
I phoned him and asked if I couldn’t go on over to Washington with
him that night. I said I could come back the following day. “Why,
dearie, they’re stopping a special train for me--a through train--and
I couldn’t explain having you with me. Now you take the first train
back to New York and I’ll be over soon, I promise you!” Which I did of
course. And he kept his promise.
_25_
There were memorable visits to Washington. The first time I went over
I went to the New Ebbitt Hotel, following Mr. Harding’s instructions,
where I registered as Miss Elizabeth N. Christian. Mr. Harding came
to see me and came up to my room. He took me for a long ride that
afternoon in a beautiful hired touring car about the city and out along
the Potomac. I well remember that car; it was grey and very beautifully
upholstered and glided so smoothly along the streets while Mr. Harding
pointed out places of interest to me. His boyish enthusiasm in playing
host was delightful, and I am sure I was a most appreciative guest.
That evening we went to his office in the Senate Building, which was
then Room 314; later on he moved to Room 341, I think it was. I was in
both offices I know.
On our way to the Senate Office Building, we cut through the Capitol
grounds.
“Some day you will be President,” I said to him.
“Say, you darling,” he replied, “I’ve got the best job in the United
States right now!” I think Mr. Harding did like being Senator.
I remember once when I was in Washington, going over Saturday and
returning Sunday night, he took me on Saturday night to the theatre to
see the play, “Good Morning, Judge!” That is, he took me to the _door_
of the theatre! I remember how disappointed I was when he turned to
leave me after telling me to take a taxi after the performance and “get
back to the hotel and into bed.” I had not asked him, but had taken it
for granted he was going to the show with me. I must have forgotten I
was in Washington and not in New York, where he could go around with me
without so much fear of being recognized.
[Illustration: The Capitol on a rainy evening]
In New York we _did_ go to the theatre together. Sometimes he would
come over, take me to the theatre and return to Washington at midnight.
Mrs. Harding was ill a good deal of the time and he found it difficult
to be away as much as he would have liked. Perhaps the reader may
recall Woodrow Wilson’s saying to a New York theatre audience one
evening, “You think you are seeing a President of the United States,
but you are just seeing a tired man having a good time.” This was when
he attended a performance of “Jack O’Lantern,” starring Fred Stone,
at the Globe Theatre. One week later, Mr. Harding and I dined at the
Biltmore and he bought tickets there for “Jack O’Lantern.” As we walked
over to the theatre from the hotel, Mr. Harding said, “Guess how much
these tickets cost, Nan?” and told me he had paid $5.50 apiece for
them. Another instance of what he termed war-time graft. But these
prices still stay!
Behind us in the theatre sat a man who seemed to recognize Mr. Harding,
for I heard him speak Mr. Harding’s name and turned after awhile to
look at him. Mr. Harding turned too later on, but said he did not know
the man. I suggested that some day everybody would be turning to look
at _him_--when he was President! In this connection I repeated to Mr.
Harding what Woodrow Wilson had been quoted as having said the previous
Friday night. “Well, I’ve got one over _him_!” Mr. Harding whispered to
me, as the curtain rose, “I’m _not_ tired and I am having a grand time!”
One night we went to see Al Jolson in “Sinbad, the Sailor,” at
the Winter Garden. I was not particularly taken with the show and
evidenced my impatience to leave during the finale. I pulled my wrap
about my shoulders, picked up my gloves and paid no attention to the
performance. “Where are you going, Nan?” Mr. Harding asked in gentle
rebuke. If ever there was anyone thoughtful of others it was Warren
Harding, and it is likely that, being a speaker himself, he wished to
extend all possible courtesy and attentiveness to others who held the
stage.
[Illustration: HOW HARDING LOOKED IN THE BAND
MARION, O.--This is how Candidate Warren G. Harding looked when, as a
youth, he played a horn in his home-town band. Note the plumed hat,
foxy buttons and epaulets of the uniform.