I arrived in Chicago the following day.

Up to this time I had never told Mr. Harding that I had ever confided

at all in Elizabeth, my sister. I knew it would worry him needlessly.

The first afternoon Elizabeth and I were alone together we had a talk.

Elizabeth must have felt that the letters I had received from Mr.

Harding during my visit to her in June of 1917, and our trip together

in Indiana when I met Mr. Harding in Indianapolis, would eventuate in a

_liaison_, for she warned me before I had volunteered any information

that I ought to be “very, very careful.” She herself had in the

meantime married and was living in an apartment she and her husband had

taken.

Perhaps my face betrayed me. I felt so free with Elizabeth and did

not attempt to hide my emotions. In any event, when she said that I

ought to be “very, very careful” I began to cry. I told her with an

attempt at a smile that it seemed to be too late to be careful. She was

distressed beyond measure, but I hastily assured her, as Mr. Harding

had assured me, that it was “all right” and I could “handle” it while

in Chicago. Though I had been amply funded for this emergency I had

actually thought not at all about an operation. It frightened me so to

contemplate such a thing. The thought of having a child held no terror

for me; it was the natural thing, and I did not fear it.

Nevertheless I pretended to engage myself in the serious consideration

of such an operation. My sister Elizabeth seemed far more anxious than

I. She helped me to find a doctor who took care of such cases, and went

with me to see him. I remember how he told me, after an examination,

that I was of such a nervous temperament that he would be fearful of

performing an operation upon me. “If it were your sister there,” he

said, indicating that if I were as imperturbable as my sister’s plump

figure made her appear to be, “it would not be taking such a risk.”

But I knew that Elizabeth’s forced smile belied her real feelings.

Moreover, the doctor reminded me that I had allowed thirteen weeks to

elapse.... “If you are, as you say, so situated that you _can_ have the

baby, I say by all means go ahead and have it,” was his parting advice.

He said also that the process of having the child would not be nearly

so painful as a premature operation would be and not detrimental to my

health.

Elizabeth, however, was far from being at ease, and she then sought

the advice of a dear friend of ours, telling her that it was _she_ who

needed advice. This friend helped her to prepare some “bitter apple”

medicine for me which had to be compounded with painstaking effort, but

after it was all ready and bottled I just could not bring myself to

take it. The real reason was of course that I could not bring myself to

destroy the precious treasure within me.

My letters from Mr. Harding further inclined me to believe that he

himself was really indifferent to an operation. He wrote his distress

at my having told Elizabeth, and said he really felt there was no need

for that, that he had provided ample funds and it seemed I might have

sought counsel without telling her, and so on. He wrote that if he had

to choose between medicine and an operation he personally would prefer

“the knife.” Just reading that word “knife” seemed almost to stab me

every way, and served to strengthen my determination not to consider

such a course. I remembered the wistfulness with which Mr. Harding had

talked of a child. In short, I made up my mind to “go ahead and have

the baby,” as the doctor had advised. I wrote that decision to Mr.

Harding after I had taken occasion first to shame him for criticising

me because I had confided in my sister. I wrote him that one would

think from his letter that I had “shouted it from the housetops,” and

that Elizabeth was an entirely safe person with whom to entrust our

secret; and that, after all, one cannot solve such problems all alone.

He answered immediately that it was all right with him, he was sorry

he had complained, he trusted me implicitly, and was “strong for me,”

and that it was “the greatest experience a woman ever has,” and that he

was looking forward to seeing me again. I welcomed the experience of

childbirth with all my heart.

_30_

I returned to New York. The first of May I left the Johnson’s home on

136th Street and moved into a one-room-and-alcove-bedroom apartment

in the Hotel La Salle Annex in East 60th Street. I sublet it from a

woman whose husband was in Constantinople and whom she was planning to

join there. There was a nice private entrance and my apartment was one

flight up, on the second floor, rear.

It was on a Friday evening, my second evening in the apartment, when

Mr. Harding came over from Washington. As a matter of fact, I had

not yet moved into my own apartment, which was not available when I

arrived, but was being housed temporarily in a very much superior

apartment in the Hotel La Salle itself. This hotel was at that time

the home of Mr. and Mrs. Dick (the former wife of John Jacob Astor),

as well as Cyril Maude, the English actor. In the annex, on the top

floor lived Pearl White, famed in pictures. Of course I told these

interesting items to Mr. Harding when he came over. He had first been

sent up to my temporary apartment in the hotel, where I had a cozy

living-room. But I had been advised that I could move into my own place

that evening and Mr. Harding said immediately that he much preferred

that we “go where we belonged.” So he helped me move my baggage.

I recall my disappointment in hearing his first remark about my little

place--_our_ little place--for it was one of marked deprecation. The

apartment was so much roomier and so much pleasanter than anything

I had ever had that I thought it a veritable palace, and was much

hurt at his observations. “Really, Nan, it isn’t _worth_ $100 a

month!” he said. “Why, dearie, it isn’t good enough--I wanted you to

have something really fine.” I said very little. I knew that he had

originally told me about what he thought I ought to have to pay, and

I had kept within that figure. I decided I must be a poor picker, yet

I had been justified in my decision by having seen other apartments

for which a higher rent was asked and which did not compare in my

estimation with that one.

However, I remember with satisfaction how he retracted his criticism

the second visit he made, after I had had an opportunity to dispense

with some of the unnecessary furniture and fix things up a bit. He was

quite enthusiastic. “Why, dearie, this is not such a bad place after

all!” he smiled, taking in “the effect” with a sweeping glance into

bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette. I took his coat and he handed me a

big box of dark red cherries, for which he knew I had a weakness. He

used to send me five-pound boxes of Martha Washington candies, they

being my favorite sweets at that time, but after he knew I was going to

have a child he would bring me fruit.

For two months we were very happy with that apartment, the only place

we could call our very own during the six and one-half years we were

lovers.

I had intimated to Mr. Harding that I would feel more comfortable now

if I had a ring, and I expressed, upon his interrogation, my preference

for a sapphire surrounded with diamonds. So on one of his trips to our

60th Street apartment he brought me the ring. I remember how he kept

quiet about it, not telling me at first that he had brought it, and I

confess I was a wee bit disappointed. I wanted a ring so badly. But at

a very propitious moment he fished it out of a pocket, threw away the

tissue paper in which it was wrapped, and slipped it upon my finger. We

performed a sweet little ceremony with that ring, and he declared that

I could not belong to him more utterly had we been joined together by

fifty ministers. The ring was indeed a great comfort to me, helping to

sustain me in the conventional atmosphere I tried to throw about our

baby’s coming, and, during those days after her birth when I had tried

to lie in bed idle when there was much to be done, it was a source of

courage and support to me, steadying me in my uncertain plans about the

future. It was a material evidence of a relationship which no wedding

ceremony could have made more solemn or more sacred than that very own

ceremony between ourselves, with God as our witness.

_31_

Of course I continued working at the United States Steel Corporation,

for my physical conformation was such that I could “get away” with

quite a good deal. In fact, I worked there until the first of July when

I gave up the apartment and my position and went to Asbury Park, New

Jersey. I have often wondered if I did create any secret comment in the

offices of the Steel Corporation. I remember a _Wall Street Journal_

editor, who used often to come in to see Mr. Close, said one day to me,

“Miss Britton, you look so matronly these days; have you grown up?”

Five months for an unmarried girl who is expecting a child to attempt

to remain in a position such as that required a good deal of courage.

But I did it only with Mr. Harding’s approval, and whatever he thought

wise usually went with me.

During those years I had a few friends here in New York who were Ohio

people, and some of them were even Marionites like myself. Mr. Albert

R. Johnstone, as I shall call him, represented at that time a certain

Marion corporation here in New York, of which Mr. Harding had been one

of the larger stockholders. I had been friendly with Mr. Johnstone’s

wife ever since my coming to New York, and I had spoken several times

to Mr. Harding about them. Mr. Johnstone knew of my fondness for his

wife and very often the three of us went together to dinner or to the

theatre. There was a time, however, when Mrs. Johnstone went to Marion

to visit, and Mr. Johnstone telephoned me and asked me to dine with

him. This I did, thinking nothing about it until he asked me when he

left me that night not to tell Mrs. Johnstone. Then I saw that he was

afraid for her to know, and I knew that in that event it had been wrong

for me to go with him, for I didn’t care at all if she knew that I was

gracious enough to spend an evening with her lonely husband because

she was my friend. All this I told Mr. Harding and I remember he said,

“Well, Bert Johnstone is the last person on earth I feel I need to be

jealous of!”

Mrs. Johnstone had been in our apartment on 60th Street one evening

when she and I had dined together, and I suppose she had mentioned to

her husband where I was living--probably wondering, as did most of my

friends I imagine, how I could afford to live in an apartment alone.

One evening Mr. Harding was with me. I was just preparing to jump into

the tub, and he was already in bed, when a knock on my door arrested my

further movements. My door was “chained” as well as locked, so that I

could open it slightly with no fear of anyone’s pushing it open.

This I did cautiously, and there stood Mr. Johnstone. I confess it gave

me quite a shock, but I spoke to him very casually and fearlessly,

told him I was just preparing for bed as I was very tired, apologized,

and asked him to come again sometime. But, knowing that that was the

first time he had dared to do such a thing as call upon me without Mrs.

Johnstone, and being quite a bit put out with his presumption, I called

quite loudly after him, “Oh, Mr. Johnstone, the next time you call

bring Mrs. Johnstone along, won’t you?”

Then I went to the phone and called Mrs. Johnstone. After chatting with

her a few moments, I told her about Mr. Johnstone’s coming to see me,

and pretended I was very sorry I could not receive him. Her amazement

was unfeigned.

“_Bert Johnstone?_” she asked incredulously. “The very same,” I told

her. He never called again.

When I came back into the bedroom after closing the door upon Mr.

Johnstone, Mr. Harding was hiding in my wardrobe closet, and it did

amuse me so to see him. I asked if he thought if anyone _did_ break

in, that his being in a closet, with his clothes strewn about on the

chairs, would help matters! He laughed, of course.

_32_

In May or June, while I was still living on East 60th Street in our

apartment, Mr. Harding had an engagement to speak at Carnegie Hall. He

came over during the day and we were together until time for him to go

on the platform. In the evening we dined at the Hotel Manhattan, where,

I think, for business reasons, he had engaged a room. He wished to walk

to Carnegie Hall from the hotel, which we did. I remember the exact

route we took, up Madison Avenue and across 56th Street where we passed

several little tea rooms which, Mr. Harding said, he thought ought to

be “good and safe” places for me to dine alone in the evenings. He

seemed to be afraid I might be annoyed and used to suggest safe places

for me to go. He was always looking out for my comfort and peace of

mind.

On our way up he inquired of me what this building was and that, and

I in turn asked him a question. How could he speak that evening when,

as he had told me, he had made no preparation whatever for his speech?

“How do you know what to say?” I asked curiously.

“Gee, dearie!” he laughed, “it’s not so much what _to_ say as what

_not_ to say!”

When we reached Carnegie Hall, Mr. Harding went to the box office

and secured a front-row seat for me, sent me on in, and ascended the

platform. I remember well that speech. I did not very often get to hear

him speak and it was always such a joy--I was so proud of him. But that

speech I remember because he did not do himself justice. He rambled

on about this man and that who in one instance had been a “farmer’s

son,” and had persevered and become a banker, or “here’s Jim So-and-So,

whose father was owner of the stone quarry back in my home town and who

worked his way through school....” The Land of Opportunity, I think,

was his topic.

Afterwards, in our apartment, I told him he seemed not to speak as

well as usual. “Why, dearie,” he confessed, “I was so tired I thought

I couldn’t even speak at _all_!” And I knew enough by that time to

understand why. He had a lot on his mind.

There was an evening when we dined at the Savoy. We sat by the window

and looked out upon the Plaza Square where the fountain is. The window

was open and it was cool and lovely. We had dined there before in the

days before prohibition and Mr. Harding, I thought, seemed to be known

to the hotel management. We had once had one glass each of champagne at

that same table.

Mr. Harding spoke to me. “You are not larger now than that woman,

Nan,” nodding his head toward the lithe feminine figure which tops the

fountain in the Square. “And far more lovely,” he added, smiling. He

was always generous with his appreciations.

Of course prohibition had already gone into effect, but I was told it

was possible still to obtain liquor or wines if one knew how to do so,

and evidently Mr. Harding thought he did. In any event, he took me home

after dinner and then suggested that he go back and get some champagne

for us to have that evening before we retired. He had often said to me

that he would love to spend an evening with me when I was relaxed and

exhilarated from a glass of champagne, because when he allowed me a

cocktail or something to drink, we were usually going to the theatre

afterwards. I guess I was a bit shy with him, and a glass of champagne

made me a bit more talkative and revealing. I doubt that in all the

times we were together we had drinks more than six times; he allowed it

rarely.

But now he went out for the champagne. In about fifteen minutes he

returned, empty-handed, or rather empty-pocketed. I searched in his

pockets myself and looked up at him.

“You couldn’t get it!” I said, half disappointedly.

“No, dearie, I couldn’t get it,” he repeated, but his tone belied his

statement, and I felt instinctively that he hadn’t even tried. Nor

had he himself had anything to drink. For some reason, which was no

doubt prudential and right, he had decided that I should not have any

champagne. Perhaps he had recalled a time at Reisenweber’s when I, for

apparently no reason, had become ill after drinking part of a highball.

Warren Harding protected me at every turn. And I remember well that

he once wrote, “Darling, when I pray for you it is that you may have

abundant health. Health and freedom from worry, for _worry kills_,

Nan.” And he was right. I think that worry killed Warren Harding.

_33_

One morning in that same apartment on East 60th Street, I dressed

leisurely and Mr. Harding sat watching me. Milk, of a lovely richness,

was already coming from both of my breasts, and my toilets those days

required more than ordinary care, if I would not find when I reached

the office at the Steel Corporation that it had seeped out and spotted

my dress conspicuously. Mr. Harding seemed to love the maternal

evidences about me those days, and often remarked that I possessed the

loveliest woman-form of anyone he had ever seen. Or he would entertain

me while I dressed by telling me that he had gone to the theatre the

previous week and had watched some actress--I remember in one instance

it had been Dorothy Dickson--dance, and, because I resembled her a bit,

he had watched her to the exclusion of all others on the stage during

the performance, and tried to imagine he was looking at me. He was such

a darling.

That particular morning, he sat telling me some such tale and waiting

for me to dress for breakfast, which we usually had around the corner

at the Hotel Netherland, when he noticed a picture of my sister

Elizabeth on the wall--one I had recently put up and which he had never

seen. He took it down to look at it. The frame was a cheap one and I

had broken the cord from which it was suspended and had replaced the

cord with an ordinary office clip. It required no little ingenuity

therefore to attach the clip to a nail on the wall. Mr. Harding worked

at it for several minutes, adjusting his tortoise-shell Oxford glasses,

but he could not re-hang the picture. I was so tickled, and finally

giggled outright. “Let me do it, honey!” I exclaimed, holding out my

hand for the picture. “No, I’ll do it all right,” he insisted, shaking

his head. I said nothing. I think he worked at it for perhaps five

minutes, then gave it up. He was always persistently firm when he

set out to accomplish something. I have often read into this little

incident that characteristic determination to carry upon his own

shoulders his share of the burdens of a nation, and how he died in the

struggle which is for any President a superhuman task.

I am reminded of another time when he came over to address an

audience--this time at the Astor Hotel. It was back in 1917 or 1918.

He was particular that he should deliver his address well on this

occasion, and so left me at midnight at my home on 136th Street and

went back downtown in the taxi to the Astor for the remainder of

the night. The following morning I got up bright and early and we

breakfasted together at the Astor, in the dining-room on 45th Street.

He had his newspapers in his hands when I met him in the lobby. When

we entered the dining-room the head waiter led us to a table on the

far side, but I, noticing the light for that particular table was

not as good for reading as the light on the table next to it, said,

“Let’s take this table.” Evidently Mr. Harding thought my suggestion

was just caprice. Anyway, he said quietly but very firmly, “We’ll sit

right _here_, Nan,” taking the table the waiter had first indicated.

But if he had any idea of rebuking me, it was soon dissipated by my

explanation. I won in this instance, though he usually did. But when I

was really right in any matter he would acknowledge it only too gladly.

I remember too I wore that morning a very lovely georgette crepe blouse

with my tailored suit. It was far too delicate a thing to wear to the

office, but I had put it on especially for my darling. And it wasn’t

lost on him! “That’s a very beautiful blouse you have on, dearie,”

he said, “but do you wear things like that to your office?” He was

relieved when I owned up that I didn’t.

In some of the first pictures I had taken for Mr. Harding I wore

that same blouse. I had not had my picture taken but once--except

for snapshots--since I was a child. That little-girl photograph was

published in _The Marion Daily Star_. This was done, I remember hearing

my mother say, without her previous knowledge, having been arranged

between the photographer across the street from the _Star_ Building and

the editor of the _Star_, Warren Harding. I was then five years old.

The pictures I had taken to display the blouse Mr. Harding was so fond

of (it was white with blue flowers embroidered on the front) were four

in number and I sent one of each to my sweetheart. I wrapped them

well and addressed them inside and out, sending them in time to reach

him for a particular week-end during which he had expressed the wish

to be with me but could not. Well into the following week I had not

heard from him about the photographs, and finally wrote and asked if

he had gotten them safely. In his reply which came immediately he said

they had not been received. I was frantic, because I had autographed

them especially for him and no one else. In a very few days he came

to New York. He said he had looked everywhere in the office, in his

stenographic secretaries’ office and in George Christian’s office, but

he could not locate them. Had I addressed them correctly? I assured him

I had, and he said he would ask “George” if he himself were not able to

find them when he returned. He could not find them and was therefore

obliged to inquire of his private secretary. George Christian brought

them to him immediately, having put the package away so safely that

it was hidden from Mr. Harding. “I never knew portraits could be so

comforting,” he wrote to me. _I_ knew they could be, for I went to bed

early every night with my sweetheart’s picture propped up beside me on

the pillow.

[Illustration: Portrait of the author when she was five years old;

published in _The Marion Daily Star_ during the early days of Mr.

Harding’s editorship]

_34_

Mr. Harding’s generosity took many forms. One time during 1917 or 1918

when we were alone--though I don’t remember where--I was sitting on

his lap admiring his hands. They were large, well-shaped hands, the

hands of capability, yet artistic too, and I never tired watching

him use them. They were expressive of many feelings. They fascinated

me completely. I was admiring them, and incidentally the ring on the

third finger of his left hand. The ring was set with one quite sizable

diamond--a beautiful ring in its entirety. Some organization had

presented it to him “in appreciation,” he said. I think he thought I

admired the stone and had visions of having it in a ring for myself!

“So far as I’m concerned, I’d as lief give you this ring, Nan, if

it were not for Florence!” He smiled when I looked up at him, and

hugged me tight. Frankly, I would have loved the ring, of course, but

I knew he could not give it to me. I wonder who has it now, for I

would cherish it so if it were in my possession. Many nights I have

spent with that hand in mine and twisted and played with that ring. It

sparkled at me across the table and I could see a thousand colors in

it when I, lying beside him, held his hand up to the light which came

through the transom above our bedroom door.

This was, as I said, before 1919. After I had my own ring I found the

same pleasure in studying its lights. I remember the morning after he

had put my ring upon my engagement finger we walked in Central Park. A

windy morning and a brilliant sun. I strolled along with my left hand

in front of me, looking at my precious ring. _He_ had given it to me!

I remember that morning Mr. Harding’s hat blew off and he had to

chase it about half a block. Somehow I used to love to witness those

“embarrassing moments”--his confusion was so boyish. I remember too how

I exclaimed over the glory of everything that morning, in the sheer

joyousness of being with him. We passed the zebras and I remarked upon

_their_ beauty! “Nan, you don’t think _those_ things are beautiful, do

you?” Mr. Harding asked incredulously, smiling. But, as I continued to

express my admiration of each animal, he suggested that we look at them

no longer, and led me into, the sheltered paths where eventually he

found a bench where we could sit down and he could make love to me.

An instance of his kindly nature and generosity occurs to me. We were

going down Fifth Avenue. He was taking me to a store of my choosing,

Lord & Taylor’s, to buy me a bag. I was always happily oblivious of

everybody and everything about me when I was walking on the street with

Mr. Harding, and so I did not notice that we had passed a blind man

carrying the proverbial tin cup and selling pencils. But Mr. Harding

had seen him and he disengaged himself from my arm, went back and

dropped a coin into the blind man’s cup, and was back with me, scarcely

giving me time to realize what had happened.

“Never pass a blind man, Nan,” he admonished me gently. I knew his

sympathy had been made the keener by his intimate knowledge of

blindness in the case of his own sister Mary who had passed on a good

many years before and who had been almost blind. To this day I cannot

pass a blind person, and if they do pass me before I have got my money

out, I go back, as he did, prompted by his voice and the impulse it

always arouses.

Mr. Harding himself selected the bag for me at Lord & Taylor’s. Nothing

gave me greater pleasure than to have something he had selected for

me himself. The bag was a dark blue pin-seal and cost $11.75. “Here,

Nan,” he said brightly, picking up the bag from dozens of others on the

counter, “I think this is fine--what do you think?” I loved it. I would

have loved it had it been but one-hundredth as pretty as it was, but

it happened to be a very stunning bag. Everything he chose, I thought,

would be just right.

I afterwards had this bag in Marion, Ohio, at Miss Daisy Harding’s,

during the time when she was still living with her father on East

Center Street, before she was married. Mrs. Heber Herbert Votaw, her

sister and Warren’s, was there. They were examining and admiring the

bag.

“Where did you get this bag, Nan?” one of them inquired.

“Oh, a sweetheart of mine gave it to me,” I answered lightly, just as

I was about to pass up the front stairs to the room I occupied while

visiting there.

“Now, Nan,” called Carrie Votaw after me, “you _know_ you never loved

anybody in your life but Warren!” How little she knew the deep meaning

of her words! I have since recalled this incident to Daisy Harding in a

letter written to her last year.

Another instance of Mr. Harding’s kindheartedness comes to mind:

I always used to take him to the Pennsylvania Station when he left for

Washington. I knew pretty well what trains came into New York from

Washington and those that went out. Often he would come over just to

spend the evening, taking me to dinner and the theatre and returning

on what he called “the midnight” to Washington. When I first met him

in 1917 at the Manhattan Hotel, one of the things he said to me, after

learning that I had a great fondness for the theatre, was, “Nan, let

_me_ take you to the theatre! I’ll come over from Washington just for

that, and I’d delight to do it too!”

So one night he had been over and was returning. It was quite late,

of course, when we reached the station from the theatre--about

eleven-thirty probably--and before he left me to get his train he took

me over to the candy stand in the corner of the vaulted concourse and

asked me to pick out a box of candy.

Two or three unkempt little children stood gazing wistfully up at the

colorful array of sweets above them--children whose bed-hour should

have been six or seven o’clock. Mr. Harding looked down at them and put

his hand on one little fellow’s head.

“Why don’t you buy it?” he teased. I adored him when he talked to

children. Their eyes grew big as they looked way up at him and smiled

sheepishly. He handed them each a coin--a quarter apiece I think it

was--and looked at me and winked.

Around Christmas time in 1918 I received a letter from Miss Daisy

Harding, with whom I have always corresponded more or less regularly.

After I had read it I enclosed it in one of mine to her brother Warren.

He had given me $50 that Christmas, with which I had purchased the

long-coveted mesh-bag of which I have spoken. In his reply to my letter

he enclosed a letter which _he_ had recently received from his sister

Daisy in which she thanked him for his Christmas gift to her of $10.

Miss Harding remembered having received this amount of money from him

as a Christmas gift when I recalled it to her mind in June of 1925.

I remember hearing my mother tell how Mrs. Sinclair had told her that

Warren Harding, upon being at their residence one Sunday morning when

she was about to leave for church, had given her $25 to put in the

collection basket. Although he did not attend the church Mrs. Sinclair

attended, nor even attended his own church regularly, Mr. Harding

was quick to recognize the good in any organization, religious or

otherwise, and wanted to contribute to its progress. Warren Harding was

one of the three kindest men I have ever known.

_35_

I have gotten away from my main story, but these things occur to me and

I wish to set them down. Little things that happened, or that dropped,

unconsciously perhaps, from Mr. Harding’s lips, often gave me clues

as to how he felt about important matters concerning which we had no

actual discussion.

In this connection, I remember well a dinner at the Manhattan Hotel

early in 1918. Woodrow Wilson, then President, was making spectacular

efforts which occupied front-page space. However, the newspaper

headlines that night carried the latest news from the battle-front, and

Mr. Harding’s eyes were heavy when he looked up at me. He was quiet for

several seconds and his eyes went wet.

“The world’s in a bad way, Nan,” he said, shaking his head.

I myself had had no intimate contact with the war except through my

friends, having had no relatives--at least no near relatives--who

had gone over, and its grim horrors were not felt by me as deeply as

those who had sent their dear ones to the front. In fact, the two

years the United States was in the war were the two years I shall

ever look back upon as the happiest of my life, as one cherishes the

memory of precious hours with one’s sweetheart. And if I ever during

that time voiced a desire to be of more active help in war-work, I was

reminded by both Mr. Harding and my employer in the United States Steel

Corporation that an employee of that Corporation, in view of the vast

part steel played in the war, was doing his or her bit effectively.

Perhaps something of this was going through my mind as I watched

Mr. Harding over the dinner-table. So far as I knew, he had no near

relative “over there” either, but I was sure he was very close to the

war situation as a United States Senator. His tone changed into one of

severe criticism with his next remark.

“Wilson’s a plain damned fool!” he muttered, as to himself, still

perusing the front-page headlines.

I meekly acquiesced in Mr. Harding’s view that the world was “in a bad

way” and that Wilson was “a plain damned fool.” “But, sweetheart,”

I reminded him, “wait until the next election, when _you_ will be

President!” He smiled indulgently and leaned over the table, head bent

to one side in the appealing pose he sometimes affected when he made

love to me.

“If I’m President, Nan, I’ll make you White House stenographer!” were

his exact words. “A President can do just about as he pleases, you

know!” he added, smiling.

I recalled vividly that statement three years later when I visited him

at the White House and heard from his very lips, lips that were set in

grim determination to bear up at any cost, that “the White House was a

veritable prison,” and that he could not even retire to the privacy of

his toilet without being guarded--“shadowed” as he termed it.

“I’m in jail, Nan!” he would say in a broken voice, shaking his head

sadly, “and I can’t get out; I’ve got to stay,” and he would lift his

hands in a gesture of futility. No, Warren Harding did _not_ like being

President of the United States, as I am sure no man with real American

blood and a love of life and fair play and freedom would or could like

it. What a pity the highest honor a great republic can bestow upon a

loyal citizen should be one which saps that citizen’s vitality, and

makes impossible the achievement of certain ideals through breaking him

down physically! And, in my humble opinion, the “system” of American

politics is wholly responsible for these hellish conditions. No, Warren

Harding did not like being President. Six months after he went into the

White House he was a broken man. The seven million majority of votes

cast for him by the American people was his death sentence. And I, too,

cast my vote for him!

Even in gayer mood, I seemed to see in Mr. Harding a certain pathos.

People have observed it in Elizabeth Ann, our daughter, not knowing of

course whose child she is. “There is something pathetic about watching

her at play,” a girl friend of mine said to me last winter. And so it

was with her father. There was something pathetic about watching him at

play. But he had a keen sense of humor.

I think it secretly amused him to realize, as he did and I did, that

the scandal that came up in the presidential campaign of 1920 in which

Mrs. Arnold’s name and his were linked very frequently, was for us

the source of greatest protection, for while the Democrats who were

“slinging mud” played with Mrs. Arnold’s name they were not looking for

mine or any other.

One time, when we were dining, Mrs. Arnold’s name came up naturally.

Of course Angela, her daughter, had been my childhood playmate, and

when I went to Marion I usually saw her either at a party or dance or

on the street, and likely this had been the case and I was relating

to him how lovely she looked. She was a stunning girl. I had never

mentioned Mrs. Arnold’s name to him in connection with the old-time

gossip I used to hear, but something I asked him brought forth this

spontaneous ejaculation, “Mrs. Arnold is a damned fool--a brilliant

conversationalist but a damned fool--if she had _half_ the sense of her

daughter....”

I do not know a thing about the truth of things that were said

concerning Mr. Harding’s one-time relations with Mrs. Arnold. I never

pressed him to tell me anything, nor did I care what he had done before

we became sweethearts. I only know that during our six and a half

years I remained true to him in those essentials that are demanded

and expected by one’s sweetheart, and I most certainly know that Mr.

Harding was most loyal and true to me. There were times when I made

frantic endeavors to break away from him, feeling that I was becoming

so growingly dependent upon his love and support in every way as to

make it inconceivable for me to do without him, but he was constantly

in the background of my thoughts--why, I have thought about him every

hour of the nine years now since we first met at the Manhattan Hotel in

1917, and not a day has passed since I first saw him in Marion when I

was a child that I have not thought lovingly of Warren Gamaliel Harding.

_36_

During his visits to our 60th Street apartment, Mr. Harding had

advised me to deliberate well before deciding upon a suitable place

to summer, and await my confinement. He suggested numerous avenues of

procedure with regard to helping determine the best place to go, and

I remember it was with some timidity that he even made the suggestion

that I might look into the Catholic institutions here in the East

where I might find comfort and quietude and safety, and perhaps some

occupation for diversion. However, this appealed to me not at all,

because an institution immediately presented to me a picture of

enforced seclusion. I vetoed the idea and he then suggested I take a

taxi and go along the Jersey Shore and also over into Long Island,

sizing up the possibilities and going there leisurely afterwards. I

spent several days going about week-ends in search of a place where

I felt I might live happily for the several months intervening. Long

Island did not appeal to me and I finally decided upon Asbury Park, New

Jersey. There seemed to be plenty of entertainment there, good air,

pleasant surroundings, and yet it was far enough from New York to make

embarrassing contacts improbable. As a matter of fact, I saw only one

man during the whole summer whom I knew, and that was during my first

week in Asbury Park while I was still in such figure as to excite no

comment.

I registered at the Hotel Monmouth, one block from the ocean, under the

name of Mrs. Edmund Norton Christian. Mr. Harding had suggested that

I simply keep on using the name E. N. Christian, prefixing it with a

“Mrs.” instead of “Miss” and substituting for the initials “E. N.” a

man’s full name. I used to go a bit with a young fellow back in Marion

whose name was Edmund, and had always liked the name. So Edmund it was

for the first name. “N” was rather difficult, but one of the managers

of a theatre in Chicago where my sister Elizabeth was in charge of the

orchestra had the name of Norton. “Edmund Norton Christian!” It sounded

rather well and we agreed to it.

My “story” which I took to Asbury Park and which Mr. Harding and I had

rehearsed carefully was as follows:

During the war I had married a Lieutenant Christian, serving in the U.

S. Army, who had been sent to Europe almost at the close of the war.

My mother had not approved the marriage, so that explained my presence

in Asbury Park alone when I more logically would have been under my

mother’s wing at such a time, with the baby coming.

Mr. Harding’s suggested address in Paris of “17 Rue Can Martin” was

adopted by me as my “husband’s” permanent address, to which address

I sent Lieutenant Christian several letters, allowing the envelopes

to lie about conspicuously upon my bedroom dresser for the possible

observing eyes of my landlady. I was to surround myself in Asbury Park

with the atmosphere of the bride of a war veteran who could not be

with his wife during the trying experience of a first childbirth.

I secured a Post Office box immediately in Asbury Park in the name

of Mrs. E. N. Christian. My mother of course knew nothing about my

physical condition, nor indeed anything about my relationship with

Warren Harding, so I was under the necessity of having her write me

as Nan Britton. However, I wrote her I was planning to do social

secretarial work for a Mrs. Christian for the summer and that I could

be addressed in her care, Box so-and-so. My sister Elizabeth was

apprised of my fictitious name for the summer, and so in that way I

had letters coming from both Elizabeth and Mr. Harding in the name I

had assumed. Mr. Harding’s letters were tender and solicitous--sweeter

love-letters I am sure no one has ever written--and there were many of

them, in lieu of our ability to see each other.

My sunny room at the Hotel Monmouth was comfortable, except for an

egregious rose-red rug upon the floor, but I felt somewhat conspicuous,

living alone with apparently no friends, and I determined to leave and

go to a regular rooming-house.

I stayed at the Monmouth, however, two weeks, during which time

the following incident added to my temporary dissatisfaction and

comparative unhappiness:

I had left New York for Asbury Park on the 7th of July. One evening on

the Boardwalk I read among the society items of the local newspaper

which I chanced to glance through that the Frelinghuysens and Senator

Harding had been bathing at the Casino on the Boardwalk. My sweetheart

in Asbury Park! And he did not look me up! My first sensation was one

of fright. Fright occasioned by the suggestion that he was possibly

“dropping me.” This was followed by a feeling of nausea, a faintness

due to the shock which the reading of the announcement gave me. Then,

I experienced hurt and a cynicism that would have vented itself in

unkind words, I am sure, had I been able to say them to him I loved.

After all, I had not got into my condition by myself, and why should

he have any feeling of shame about being seen with me! I was seething

with indignation. I hurried back to the hotel and wrote him. I referred

sarcastically to the incident, expressing my regret at not having

taken my books and done my reading down at the Casino on the morning

when I might have witnessed an interesting bathing party. I tried to

be as unkind as my hurt pride encouraged me to be, and still infuse an

element of shame into my reproach.

In New York, shortly afterward, I met him for luncheon. He had not

alluded to the bathing party incident in his reply letter, only

specified where we should meet, and I felt sorry for what I had

written. After all, he was shut up all day long and at night he was not

always with congenial companions. Why not allow him a little respite

with those he enjoyed? So I had determined to let it pass unmentioned

at our luncheon. However, before we had finished, he remarked quietly

and with appealing intonation, “Sweetheart, on what date did you leave

New York?” I replied that it had been the 7th. “Well, Nan, I was in

Asbury Park on the 5th, two days before you got there.” Not even a

retaliatory tone, simply a statement of fact! He was nearly always

right, and made me feel ashamed of myself more than once. I just

worshipped him when he proved himself and his love for me in ways like

this.

_37_

I went from the Monmouth Hotel to a rooming-house. My new quarters

proved to be very unsatisfactory--damp, dark and dusty. Moreover, the

roomers were mostly elderly people who looked at me severely as I

passed in and out. But while there someone told me of a boardinghouse

where three meals a day could be obtained for the nominal sum of $9 a

week. I began eating there and it was then that I met Mrs. Marietta

Tonneson.

I do not recall how I met Mrs. Tonneson. But I secured a front room

in her rooming-house on the third floor for $14 per week, and moved

into it immediately, having been at the other place about a week. This

combination brought my room and board to $15 a week, which I decided

was as well as I could do in Asbury Park. I had been paying $40 a week

at the Hotel Monmouth and both Mr. Harding and I agreed that it was

steep. Mr. Harding was always very generous with me and I had ample

funds for my comfort during the summer, but I seemed to need a good bit

of money even then, and it was a satisfaction to have my board and room

reduced to the minimum.

Mrs. Marietta Tonneson (Mrs. Martin Tonneson she had been until her

husband’s death made her a widow about a year or so previous) lived

with her brother Billy in a large house just around the corner from

my boardinghouse. They had lived, she told me, in Marlborough Road,

Brooklyn, and after her husband’s death, probably wishing to conserve

all of his monetary bequests, she and her brother had decided they

would defray their summer expenses by keeping a rooming-house that

season. That accounted for the rather unusually nice furniture in

her house. I think my being alone excited her curiosity, but I was

so perfectly well, and my physical soundness coupled with a growing

sense of ease as I lived myself day by day into the plausibility of

my “story” and my situation, made it a pleasure for me to witness

evidences of this curiosity and deliberately refuse to satisfy them.

I wrote Mr. Harding, telling him all about Mrs. Tonneson, my feelings

concerning her, and how she did attempt to take sort of a motherly

interest in me, and his reply brought forth the advice that she might

prove a valuable person to “hang onto,” and that I should simply “pay

my way” and stay out-of-doors away from her and everybody else who

might be interested in knowing more about me.

During the latter part of the summer Mrs. Tonnesen had also as roomers

a Jewess and her husband. The woman was a nurse and her husband a

musician. She had charge of a Brooklyn hospital and it seemed to me an

excellent idea to accept her proffered invitation to visit her in the

hospital after she returned there with a view to deciding whether such

a place would be desirable for my approaching confinement.

I shall never forget that visit. I had luncheon with the nurse, whose

name has slipped my memory. The food seemed to me to be half swimming

in grease. I walked all over the place, and even submitted to an

examination by the head doctor, who was, I thought, rough and uncouth

and who informed me gruffly, when I complained that he really hurt me,

that I would be “hurt harder than that when my baby came.” A woman who

had given birth to a child that morning lay apparently unconscious from

the agony of her experience, and I went in and touched her to see if

she really lived. The nurse took me into the baby ward where a dozen

or more babies lay in baskets, each tagged on their tiny wrists with

numbers to identify them. Many were crying loudly.

The building itself stood alone and lonely with no companion buildings

within several blocks, and I thought when I had done looking the place

over that I could not possibly consider having Warren Harding’s child

born there. Goodness! I thought, to have our baby _tagged_! Perhaps it

was customary and the only safe way, but I preferred to keep her in

my room where she would not need identification. I say “her,” but as

a matter of fact, when I thought _then_ about our child I thought of

a boy, for as I have said Mr. Harding and I always talked about “the

young lieutenant.”

While I was in Brooklyn I looked at possible apartments and decided

after a weary afternoon, in which I trailed around in the heat, that I

would stay in Asbury Park, and possibly right with Mrs. Tonnesen. She

was sympathetic and willing to do anything to help me.

As the summer progressed and early fall set in, Mrs. Tonnesen told me

of her plans to take for the winter a small cottage on Bond Street, a

veritable “doll’s house,” as she described it. Not committing myself to

the promise of staying on with her through the fall, I went with her to

see the house. It was No. 1210 Bond Street. I passed it this summer.

It is very near the North Asbury Park Railroad Station, near a wood I

was fond of, and I agreed with her that its cozy sun porch would be a

delight through the winter, and the rooms, though small, were certainly

cheerful. And infinitely preferable to a hospital!

Mrs. Tonnesen, having learned not to inquire into my affairs too far,

suggested that it would be foolish for me to go to Chicago just to have

the baby, as I was contemplating, when I might better remain with her

and her brother Billy and have my sister Elizabeth come on to Asbury

Park. She even suggested that I allow her to snap my picture and that I

send it to Elizabeth to show her how healthy I was looking--which fatal

thing of course I did not do.

[Illustration: The birthplace of Elizabeth Ann, Asbury Park, New

Jersey]

However, her interest was becoming more appreciated by me since my trip

to the Brooklyn hospital, and finally I wrote my sister in Chicago not

to bother about hospital accommodations there for I had decided to

remain in Asbury Park, away from everybody, and go through it all by

myself. I was so free from fear concerning any serious complications

that I even welcomed the coming pain of childbirth; I have never been

so superbly healthy as I was that summer.

Mr. Harding had listed some books which had been favorites of his at

different times in his life and these books I obtained from the public

library in Asbury which was just down the street. I have a notebook

which contains many of the names of these books, copied from the list

Mr. Harding gave me, and others which I read that summer. Among them

were _Tess of the d’Urbervilles_ and _Far From the Madding Crowd_,

Gertrude Atherton’s _The Conqueror_ (Mr. Harding said he had met

Mrs. Atherton, and had told her how he admired her novelized life of

Alexander Hamilton, his favorite character in American history); O.

Henry’s books, and many others. I can see Mr. Harding now as he wrote

down the list for me--the way he would look up and ask me if I had read

this or that, and his hearty, “Oh, you must read _that_, Nan!”

My time was delightfully idled all summer, reading, crocheting baby’s

jackets and writing love-letters to my beloved. The latter consumed

a great deal of my time. His letters to me were the most beautiful

things imaginable, always full of cheer, and ever implying that he

wanted to do everything in his power to make me comfortable. He spoke

often of the “reverential love” he felt for me as the mother of our

coming child. I used to wish in moments when I naturally yielded to the

longings I felt for him, that we were together on the longed-for “farm”

and that he could minister to me personally in the manner portrayed in

his incomparable letters.

It was Mrs. Tonnesen who suggested my seeing the “society doctor of the

Jersey shore,” as Dr. James F. Ackerman is called. He was of a very

sympathetic and kindly nature, albeit brusk. I liked him immensely

from the start. He advised me that I should make a reservation for my

confinement period in the hospital in Spring Lake, not far distant, but

I said I would wait, for I might yet decide to go on to Chicago. It was

only my fear of hospitals that made me say that, and when I found he

would attend me at Mrs. Tonnesen’s home, I indicated to him definitely

that I wished him to take my case. I was happy in the contemplation of

having the baby in my own sunny room.

_38_

On September 22nd, just one month before the baby was born, I made a

trip to Washington, stopping while there at the Capitol Park Hotel

near the Railroad Station. I telephoned Mr. Harding immediately upon

my arrival, at the Senate Offices, and he told me afterward that the

man who answered the phone was Heber Herbert Votaw, his brother-in-law,

“Carrie’s husband.” When he heard me on the other end of the wire he

seemed so pleased and said that he would come right over. Which he did.

I shall never forget how he rejoiced to see me, even in the shape I was

in! I remember we sat by the window, I on his lap, and talked about

everything. It was while we were sitting with our cheeks together

looking down upon the passing automobiles that he sighted Senator

Newberry’s car. With some pride he told me the occupant was the richest

man in the Senate, and said what he would like to do for me “if he had

Senator Newberry’s money.” I forthwith assured him he could have done

no more that summer to make me happy if he had had the combined riches

of all his senatorial colleagues.

He provided me with ample funds to tide me over my confinement period

and to buy our baby’s layette, found out about trains for me as he

always did, and took me to the station. There he bought me magazines--I

even remember distinctly that they were _Smart Set_ and _Harper’s

Bazaar_--and candy and fruit, then sat in the station and talked to

me until my train was called. At that time Mrs. Votaw, his missionary

sister, “Carrie,” was on the Washington police force in the capacity of

welfare director--as Mr. Harding explained to me with a sly smile, “one

who cares for fallen girls”--and we had quite a bit of fun wondering

just what his sister would say could she see me at that time with him!

I told him _I_ certainly had _fallen_--for _him_! He took me to the

train, kissed me adorably, asked me to tell him I was happy, and stood

on the platform talking to me through the window until the train pulled

out.

I went to Philadelphia, where I stopped at the Bellevue-Stratford

Hotel over night and did my shopping at Wanamaker’s the following day.

My baby’s clothes cost me the outrageous price of $75, which I knew

afterwards was far too much to spend for clothes which were so soon

outgrown. But it was heaps of fun to pick them out.

Then I returned to Asbury Park.

_39_

About a week before my confinement my mother wrote me, demanding to

know the reason for my continued stay into October at Asbury. I had

previously written her that I intended to go to Chicago, but that was

when I thought I might go there to have the baby. She said her alarm

about _why_ I was remaining so long had been to her such a nightmare

that, had she the necessary funds, I would have long since seen her in

Asbury Park. Poor mother! What worry I must have caused her!

Inwardly terrified at the possibility of her coming on, but realizing

that I would not dare indicate such terror to her, I wrote immediately,

expressing my regret at not being able to supply the funds she would

need for fare, and saying that “Mrs. Christian” had elected to remain

longer in Asbury and I could not of course desert her when she had

been so lovely to me all summer. That seemed to satisfy my mother.

Then I wrote my sister Elizabeth that I did not think it at all

necessary for her to come on, entailing an unnecessary expense, and

gave her as nearly as possible the date of my confinement. This I did

also with Mr. Harding, so they both knew exactly where I would be and

when I expected to be confined.

Mr. Harding wrote immediately and asked me to please write him a

love-letter before I would be in such position (in bed) that I couldn’t

write him for some time. I remember well the tone of that letter from

him. I knew he was homesick to see me, and it reacted to make me more

impatient for the day to come which would give me our baby so that I

could begin to plan to see _him_ again. I went over to Dr. Ackerman and

asked him when he thought I would have the baby. My hands were somewhat

swollen, I complained, and I was getting uncomfortable generally. He

assured me I was in excellent shape and that I would soon have my baby.

Somewhat mollified, but still irritable, I walked down to the post

office. I found another letter from my sweetheart and devoured it as I

walked back home. I think that was Saturday, perhaps Friday.

On Sunday afternoon, a gorgeously brilliant autumn day, I went over

to the woods to my three-cornered seat, which was a board nailed to

three trees. I sat there for a couple of hours and wrote to my darling.

I remember I wanted to cry my eyes out that afternoon, I was _so_

homesick to see him, and very likely this longing was written vividly

into the letter which I mailed at the post office late that afternoon.

Incidentally, I used to take his letters to various towns all along the

shore just to avoid sending too many from one post office. As though

they would have noticed to whom the letters were addressed! But it

was just another of those precautions which were responsible for the

absolute safeguarding of our secret from the world.

On Monday I walked most of the day, anxiously. Tuesday evening I

found a letter from Mr. Harding, telling me he had never in his life

received from me a love-letter equal to the one I had written Sunday

out of the depths of my longing for him. He cautioned me to “take

it easy,” and stressed, as he had all summer in his letters, the

necessity for complete recuperation after the baby’s birth. “It will

mean your health, Nan, so be deliberate in getting up afterward. I

cannot emphasize this point enough.” Elizabeth wrote me the same thing,

telling me I wouldn’t be at all the same afterward, my strength would

be gone, and I must rest all I could. I smiled to myself; they didn’t

realize how strong I felt, nor how well I was! Probably many women who

were weak would have to wait through long periods of recuperation, but

I was sure I would be strong enough to travel soon after my baby came.

I spent a great deal of time conjecturing about the baby’s looks. Mrs.

Tonnesen and her brother Billy took a great interest in the coming

event, though I stayed away from the house and away from everybody as

much as possible, talking with them only when necessity commanded. On

Monday or Tuesday Helen Evans, the nurse Dr. Ackerman had recommended,

came to call upon me. She told me all the different things I would need

to have for a home confinement, and I was surprised, for I had thought

all I needed was clothes for the baby! I liked Miss Evans. She was

Scotch, and had something of a burr, though she said she had been quite

a while in this country. I decided we would get on splendidly.

_40_

Wednesday, October 22nd, 1919, dawned clear and bright. My room, though

tiny, had three windows on the front and one on the side and my bed was

by the latter window. It looked out upon the loved park where I had

done much of my reading, and the trees were beautiful in their autumn

colors.

I was awakened very early, about five o’clock, by pleasant sensations

which reminded me of caresses, except that they were inside. I lay

there marveling. My baby would come today, I was sure of it. _My_ baby,

and my darling Warren Harding’s child!

It was quite seven-thirty before I felt I should call Mrs. Tonnesen and

have her send for Miss Evans. Having no telephone in the house, Billy

was obliged to go to the nearby drug store and phone the doctor, who

in turn sent the nurse over immediately. I dressed and went downstairs

and ate a hearty breakfast. Mrs. Tonnesen suggested I’d better eat all

I could, but I thought she was fooling when she said it would be all

I would get for awhile. I wanted so badly to go once more to the post

office, but the nurse refused to let me.

I continued at intervals to have the little sensations which gradually

increased into intermittent pains growingly severe as the morning

advanced. The doctor came to examine me. Toward noon he came again, and

I heard him say to Mrs. Tonnesen on his way out that I was “physically

superb,” or “superbly fit,” or something like that, which encouraged

me. But I didn’t need much encouragement. I really was not the least

bit frightened.

I had taken the two front rooms, both facing the street. One I occupied

and the other was for the nurse. Mrs. Tonnesen supplied a clothes

basket for a temporary bed for the baby. I roamed around in and out of

the four rooms on that floor, watching the proceedings of the nurse

with interest.

At two o’clock sharp, on one of the most beautiful afternoons

imaginable, a little girl baby was born to me. The doctor said that I

was an excellent patient, and I know myself, despite the agony of that

experience, that God made possible to me a perfect birth. After the

ordeal, still, as I felt, in the “pink of health,” I ran up against

the first law of medical care in that connection that bothered me: I

requested a chicken dinner with all of the appetizing accessories that

go with it! Imagine my disappointment when I was given nothing then but

a glass of cold water, and later some weak tea!

I am reminded of a point right here that has often occurred to me. I am

not very superstitious, but I do think queer things happen sometimes,

in that the same number or the same day figures strongly in one’s

life. _Two_ seems to me to have a weird way of springing up in Mr.

Harding’s life. He was born on November 2nd. He died on August 2nd.

He was elected our 29th President on November 2nd, having accepted

the nomination on July 22nd. I saw him on September 22nd, one month

before the date of my confinement which was October 22nd. Our baby

came at exactly 2 o’clock in the afternoon. These are not the only

2’s that occurred in our chronology. I used to note how often the

number 2 appeared, though I did not jot the times down, nor remember

them, except for those I have given above which were the outstanding

recurrences.

_41_

Even as early as the day of her birth, the “young lieutenant,” as Mr.

Harding and I had always referred to the girl we thought might likely

be a boy, there was a distinct resemblance to the Hardings, and more

particularly to her distinguished father. As she grows older this

resemblance is strikingly like his sister Daisy, but she retains her

father’s smile, his eyes, and many of his mannerisms. As she lay in my

arms, a few hours old, drawing her mouth into comical contortions, and

wrinkling her face in what seemed a thousand wrinkles, I saw Warren

Harding--oh, I saw him so strongly that it seemed I was holding a

miniature sweetheart in my arms! She was born with black hair which

afterwards disappeared to give place to the soft blond fuzz which was

more like her mother’s.

I could not nurse her of course, because I did not know how our

difficult situation would work out, but oh, how I longed to! Miss

Evans put her on a good brand of infant’s milk, and would feed her

and then bring her in to me. It seemed to me almost sacrilegious to

submit to the treatment I was obliged to undergo in order to have my

breasts dried up, and somehow I thought the pain I experienced in this

procedure was the merited punishment for not nursing my baby. How

strong was my urge to nurse her! Even before she came, when I would

lie on the bed and watch the various shapes my body assumed as she

moved around inside, I used to think of the natural nourishment process

and picture it. I wanted to experience every one of the sensations

belonging to a mother. One time, after I had been up a week or so, I

took her on my lap and gave her an empty breast that two or three weeks

previous had been swollen with milk, and I shall never forget her tiny

hands nor the feel of her mouth at my bosom, nor the indescribable

thrill that swept over me in those moments of pretended nursing. I

just seemed to want to keep her a part of me, and this denial gave the

keenest suffering I had ever known.

During those days I had a colored laundress, Mrs. Jones, whose

daughter, about eleven or twelve, used to come for my laundry. She also

went to the post office for my mail. As soon as I could prop myself up

fairly comfortably, I wrote notes to Elizabeth and to Mr. Harding and

“Lieut. Edmund Norton Christian.” The one to “Lieutenant Christian,”

addressed fictitiously to Paris, I handed to the nurse to mail, for

obvious reasons; the other two the little colored girl mailed. My

first letter from Mr. Harding after the baby arrived had been mailed

from Philadelphia, and was sent to me at the house, 1210 Bond Street,

Asbury Park, instead of the post office. It was written in pencil, as

most of his letters were, and in it he said he had received my note.

Evidently he thought he should take precautionary measures in writing

this first letter lest it fall into another’s hands, so he wrote that

he had “conveyed the news to the Lieutenant who was proud to hear

it.” That was all right and might have served to throw anybody off

the track who read the letter had he not followed it immediately with

the sentence, “If she looks like her mother, _I will be satisfied_,”

directly alluding to _himself_ as the party who was really interested

in the news! Bless his heart! He tried to protect me and himself and

everybody, but sometimes he surely did stupid things. Forgetting all

about “the Lieutenant” he proceeded in his letter to urge again my

leisurely recuperation, and the manner of his concluding would hardly

have been construed by an outsider as the heart-promptings of his

friend “the Lieutenant” who would obviously have written his own love

messages and not sent them second-hand!

_42_

No sooner was I upon my feet than I was nervous and anxious to get to

Chicago to my sister Elizabeth. The superb strength which had been mine

before the baby came had completely left me. My appetite was forced, my

cheeks were pale, and constant letters from my mother as to when I was

coming West worried me terribly.

Several mornings after the baby was born Dr. Ackerman came to see

me. He sat on a straight chair at the foot of the bed and took out

a notebook. I was amazed at myself for becoming frightened, but

somehow my nerves were shattered and things troubled me which amounted

to nothing at all. He informed me that he needed certain data for

registering the child’s birth. I didn’t know exactly what that might

mean to Mr. Harding, and so I inquired if it was necessary to register

a child’s birth always. “Unless you want to pay a fine of $100,” he

replied in his business-like voice. He said he merely wished to know my

maiden name, my husband’s, and our ages, my husband’s business, etc. I

thought quickly about whether I ought to tell him at least the partial

truth--that I was _not married_! I didn’t know whether or not it was a

criminal offense to say you were married when you were not. I longed to

shout the whole truth to the world, that my baby was Warren Harding’s

baby, that we were not married in the eyes of the world, but truly

married in the sight of God, and that I was proud, proud, proud to be

her mother!

Within, I was growing hysterical in those brief moments, but controlled

my voice as I told him that my age was twenty-three, my husband’s

thirty-two, his business was an officership as Lieutenant in the U.

S. Army, and that my name before I was married was “Nanna Eloise

Britton.” I said this I thought very clearly, but when he repeated it

he said “Emma Eloise Britton?” I nodded. The first name did not matter

anyway, I thought, but I wanted my surname to go into the records in

the only right way--Britton. I could not give her the name Harding

without betraying my darling, but I could give Britton. “Eloise” was a

middle name I had adopted when a child in substitution for my real name

of “Popham,” which was always so objectionable to me. I have postcards

from my father which he addressed to me “Nanna Popham Eloise Evelyn

Britton,” the full name I cherished as an ideal combination when a

child!

When I had been out of bed about a week, one morning a man called.

I heard Mrs. Tonnesen say, “Yes, Mrs. Christian lives here.” I was

abnormally apprehensive those days, an inexplicable nervousness seizing

me when the least little thing went wrong, and I called downstairs

quickly, “What do you want of Mrs. Christian?” I sat down on the top

step of the stairs. He called up to me, “What’s your baby’s name?”

Immediately I thought maybe something was wrong. They wanted to take

her away from me! The most absurd possibilities danced like demons

in my mind. “Who wants to know?” I asked, almost quivering. “Gotta

have it for record,” he replied, in what seemed to me a surly voice.

I breathed a great sigh. “Oh, I see! Well, I haven’t named her yet!”

I said. “What! Two weeks or more old, and you haven’t named her?” he

shouted. I became frightened again. Maybe _this_ was an offense under

the law! “Oh, that’s all right,” I said timidly, “you may register

her as ‘Elizabeth Ann!’” Only that morning I had had a letter from my

sister Elizabeth in which she said she would love to have me call the

baby Elizabeth, and my own name, Nan, didn’t seem to go as well with

Elizabeth as Ann. So Elizabeth Ann it was. Elizabeth Ann Christian it

was, and was so written into the records of the Department of Vital

Statistics in Trenton, the capital of New Jersey. Afterward, when I

said it to myself, I used to think, “Elizabeth Ann Harding! Elizabeth

Ann _Harding_!” And as she lay in my arms in bed I would whisper to

her, “Say, you darling (a verbal salutation I so often heard from her

father), do you know _who your dad is_? Oh, wait until he sees _you_!

Wait till you see _him_, sweetheart!” She would lie there complacently

blinking her eyes and working her mouth. It seemed to me as if Harding

were written in every twist of her lips.

_43_

I went to New York about six weeks after the baby came, which was

about the first week in December. My clothes were very shabby, and so

I bought a new hat at Arnold, Constable’s, and some other things I

needed. The cape which I had worn all the fall, during the two chilly

months before Elizabeth Ann came, now seemed big enough for two, and

I was so thin that I was sure I must look ill. The hotels were filled

with automobile show visitors, and after trying several places I

finally was given a room at the Hamilton Hotel on 73rd Street, though

with the stipulation that I would give it up the following day to

another guest who had reserved it several days in advance. I registered

as Nan Britton, and I remembered it was with almost a sense of relief

that I did so. I had moved in an atmosphere of make-believe for so long

that somehow it was refreshingly good to be myself.

I was so pitifully weak that I should not have gone over to New York in

the first place, but once there, there were several things I wished to

do. One was to go up to my friends, the Johnsons, for my mail, for when

I had moved down on East 60th Street I had not apprised many people of

the change, and I knew there must be mail for me at the Johnson home. I

knew that even Marie Johnson (Mrs. Johnson) did not know the number of

my apartment on East 60th Street, so could not have forwarded my mail

there.

Another thing was to call Mr. Harding on long distance, a thing I would

not have attempted while in Asbury Park.

The following day I went up to Marie Johnson’s. She was surprised to

see me, of course, and I am sure the manner in which I conducted myself

must have given her reason to think something was wrong with me. I had

to lie down almost as soon as I got in the house. She handed me a big

bunch of mail, among which was a telegram. I almost fainted at the

sight of it. Probably somebody had found out that I had had a child by

Warren Harding! I said, “You open this, Marie.” Then I caught myself.

Suppose it was some kind of a summons, or even suppose it was from

Mrs. Harding! I opened it myself. It was from a girl in Cleveland who

wondered why I had not answered her letters!

At the apartment of a friend up the street I secured a room. I think I

stayed one night there at that time. After I had deposited my bag, I

went to the corner drug store at 136th Street and phoned Mr. Harding

at the Senate Chambers in Washington. He had scarcely said “Hello!”

when I began to cry. I told him I was so _weak_ and asked him when he

thought I would be strong again. He said, “Why, Nan darling, you should

go back and rest at Asbury Park another month. Don’t do a thing but

rest. Everything’s all right.” But that was just the thing I couldn’t

do. I told him I seemed to have lost all my courage. Wasn’t it possible

for him to come over? He said he was in fact coming over to New York,

but he thought it unwise for us to be seen together if I were in the

weakened condition I said I was. I told him that I was sure I would be

stronger if he would only take me in his arms. Bless him! I realized it

would be dangerous for us to be together when I felt so weak that it

seemed I might faint every minute. He begged me to return to Asbury and

rest, and urged me not to stop to see my mother in Ohio when I did go

on to Chicago.

“Be of good cheer, Nan!” came over the wire in a voice that was so

sweet that it wrung my heart and brought the tears so fast that I could

only cry, “Goodbye, sweetheart!” and stumble out of the booth.

_44_

I went back to Asbury Park faint and dizzy, but found our baby

Elizabeth Ann in fine condition. This pleased me and seemed to give me

some strength.

I dismissed Miss Evans at the end of three weeks, and the nurse I next

employed, upon Dr. Ackerman’s recommendation, was a Mrs. Howe. She was

what he termed a “practical nurse,” and not so expensive as Miss Evans,

who was strictly a private nurse. Mrs. Howe had raised a family of five

children and was more like a mother than a nurse. She sometimes held me

close in her arms, and I felt so much safer now that I had her.

She did not get along well with Mrs. Tonnesen, and we decided that we

would change quarters before I left for Chicago. I had discussed my

plans with Mr. Harding, both over the phone and by letter, which were

that I should go on ahead to Chicago and find a suitable place for

Elizabeth Ann, having Mrs. Howe follow later with the baby as soon as I

had found someone to take care of her in Chicago.

So one day Mrs. Howe and the baby and I bundled ourselves into a taxi

and went around to a semi-sanitarium, nearer the downtown district of

Asbury Park, and quite a distance from the Tonnesen abode. Here the

lady usually took only those who were recuperating from illnesses, she

said, and I thought it seemed like a fairly good place to leave Mrs.

Howe with the baby until I could send for her to come on to Chicago

with Elizabeth Ann. I trusted her implicitly.

Late that evening an automobile ambulance drove up with a woman on a

stretcher. They brought her in and she and her nurse had a room on

the same floor, across from my nurse and baby. About an hour or so

after she arrived we began to hear the most horrible moans and groans

accompanied with shrieks of, “Oh, I’m nervous! I’m nervous!” This kept

up until I was myself completely exhausted listening to her and in

such a high state of nervousness that I thought I, too, would scream.

It didn’t seem to bother Mrs. Howe and I asked her to read aloud to me

to take my mind from the moaning across the hall. But the walls were

very thin and it was as though the poor woman were right in the room

with us. I had to tell the landlady that if that kept up we would have

to go to a hotel. They gave the woman some morphine which quieted her

temporarily, and I went into my own room and soon fell asleep. About

three o’clock next morning it started again. I crept into Mrs. Howe’s

room and into bed with her, and lay there shivering and mentally crazed

with nervousness until the morphine which they administered again took

effect and the poor woman slept. The next morning they took her back to

her home in Philadelphia. I was so tired of doctors and nurses and of

shifting from place to place!

Someone had told me that it took about six months to recuperate

completely from having a baby, and I began to count the weeks and try

to find some improvement in myself as time passed. But when I took the

train back to New York, from where I was going to leave for Chicago, I

had to confess that in the seven or eight weeks that had passed since

the baby’s birth I had grown weaker instead of stronger. In New York,

in the same room I had when I had been there before, I stayed in bed

most of the time. The lady who rented the rooms had been an actress

and was very broad-minded, and once or twice her sympathy and tender

solicitude tempted me to tell her why I was so ill. But I didn’t. I

called Mr. Harding again on the phone and he urged me to get to Chicago

and to rest after I got there. “Never mind about the baby now,” he

said, “she will be all right. It is _you_ who need to be taken care

of now.” But the baby was on my mind constantly. I phoned Mrs. Howe

sometimes twice a day. I had given her my sister’s address in Chicago

and I told her to write me immediately if anything went wrong.

I remember I bought a ticket for a Saturday train--it was almost

impossible at that time to procure reservations, soldiers returning

home for Christmas, the general rush of holiday travelers--and I was

fortunate to get a reservation at all for that particular day.

A chum of mine, Dorothy Cooper, who lived where I had been staying,

went down in the taxi with me to the train. I felt so faint that she

suggested we stop at a drug store and get a bottle of smelling salts

for me to have on the train. As a result, when we reached the Grand

Central Station, we were just in time to see the iron gate close and

watch the train pull out. I had wired Elizabeth I would be there for

Sunday, and of course I was just sick over missing the train. I went to

the Consolidated Ticket Office and learned that I could not get another

reservation until the following Tuesday. Those days of waiting tortured

me. When finally I found myself in the train, bound for Chicago, where

I longed to creep into my sister Elizabeth’s arms and cry, I sighed

audibly with relief.

I had taken an “extra fare” train, scheduled to reach Chicago earlier

than the others, and that night I wakened after a first sleep to feel

the train fairly skimming the tracks. “Gone wild!” I thought and sat up

quickly in my berth. I pulled the curtains and peeked out. Everything

seemed to be normal and the passengers were sleeping. How could they

sleep, I thought, when every moment brought us nearer to destruction!

It would be awful to die in a railroad crash, I thought to myself. And

terrible fears assailed me when I thought that maybe Elizabeth wouldn’t

be able to locate our precious baby, and perhaps my sweetheart would be

afraid to claim her openly after my death--horrible, horrible! I felt I

ought to get up and go forward to the engineer--but what could I tell

him! Evidently he knew the train was going wild and couldn’t do a thing

to stop it. Nor could I help him, surely. I became drowsy and concluded

that a protecting Providence would intervene. At any rate, this was a

case beyond human power! I lay back on my pillow praying, and gradually

the rhythm of the flying wheels grew fainter and fainter and I slept.

* * * * *

I must have been a pitiful, broken-looking creature when Elizabeth met

me the following day at the Englewood Station in Chicago. The train was

late, after all, and had not made the usual fast time. I was amazed to

learn this after the nightmare I had had. I told Elizabeth and she just

laughed at me. I thought it would be impossible to explain to anybody

what agony of mind I had been through. Elizabeth looked so healthy and

strong and it seemed so good to be with her. She took me straight home

and put me in bed, and I lay there until the waves of weakness which

enveloped me had passed somewhat and I felt more serene.

In a few days Elizabeth located a nurse, recommended by the same doctor

who had discouraged my having an abortion--a woman by the name of Mrs.

Belle Woodlock, who would take Elizabeth Ann into her home and care for

her for $20 a week. She lived within easy distance from my sister’s

apartment, which was at that time at 6103 Woodlawn Avenue.

During the lapse of time--which was about three weeks, I think--between

my arrival and my sending for Mrs. Howe to bring on the baby to

Chicago, I carried on correspondence with her regularly. I received

my letters, addressed to “Mrs. E. N. Christian,” in care of my sister

Elizabeth (Mrs. S. A. Willits), usually getting the mail before my

brother-in-law, or “kid sister” Janet, who was living with Elizabeth

then, had a chance to see to whom they were addressed.

Once, I remember, my brother-in-law, Scott Willits, was quite put out

because the postman requested him to sign for a special delivery letter

from Mrs. Howe to me and he stoutly refused to do so, saying there

was no such person as “Mrs. Christian” living there! In the end, the

postman took the letter back and afterward I myself signed for it.

I remember also another incident. It was before Mrs. Howe brought

Elizabeth Ann on from Asbury Park to Chicago that my mother came

to Chicago to visit. It is possible the occasion of her visit was

explained by the Christmas vacation from work in Ohio University where

she taught, though possibly she was curious to see whether or not

her daughter Nan was really safe and sound, perhaps not believing my

written reports to this effect.

Mother and I had just come downstairs and were leaving the apartment

to go shopping over on 63rd Street when I spied the postman across

the street. Without thinking I called, “Any mail for us?” “A letter

here for Mrs. Christian,” he answered. I knew it was foolish for me

to disclaim knowing such a person before my mother, inasmuch as she

had been told that I was living in Asbury with a “Mrs. Christian,” so

I said, “Give it to me--it is for a friend of mine.” And I took it

and put it away in my bag. Mother asked sharply, “Nan, what is Mrs.

Christian having her mail sent to you for?” And I, searching my mind

for a quick explanation, found this to say, “Why, she is coming here

enroute to California and I shall see her soon. I told her I would take

care of any mail she might want sent here.” This, you see, came to my

mind because Mrs. Howe, the nurse, had written that she was planning to

go on to California--so I simply substituted names.

I think about that time, however, my mother’s suspicions were

definitely aroused, for she remarked to me on one occasion, “You think

you are deceiving your mother about a lot of things, but you’re not.”

Often she has said to me, “God has certainly protected you, my girl,”

and of course I know that He has. More fortunate was this protection

for my sweetheart, however, than for me, for his position, as United

States Senator, _demanded_ protection.

_45_

The day arrived when Mrs. Howe and my darling baby girl would reach

Chicago. It was difficult for my sister Elizabeth to go to the station

with me, for she had a regular position as leader of an orchestra in

a local theatre and she had to observe on-the-dot hours. But she went

with me. We arrived fifteen minutes or so before the train came in,

and I was so weak from the trip downtown and the excitement of seeing

my baby again that I lay in Elizabeth’s arms in the waiting-room until

Mrs. Howe came. She was a rather heavy-set woman, with grey hair and

spectacles--mother-looking--and I can just see her as she came into the

waiting-room, carrying my precious baby in her arms.

We had arranged for Mrs. Howe to go over to the Plaza Hotel on the

North Side, so we bundled her into a taxi and I promised to get in

touch with her the following day. Then Elizabeth, the baby and I took a

taxi for Mrs. Woodlock’s on the South Side. I can’t remember that I had

made a previous visit to Mrs. Woodlock’s, having let Elizabeth make all

the arrangements and trusting implicitly to her judgment in the matter.

In the taxi, Elizabeth held the baby and exclaimed over her prettiness.

She had grown even in those brief weeks of my separation from her, and

I thought there never could be a baby to equal her in sweetness. As

soon as the taxi began to move she fell asleep. Elizabeth and I studied

her little face and Elizabeth, too, marked the Harding resemblance.

Mrs. Belle Woodlock’s apartment was half a block from 61st Street, I

think on Prairie Avenue, and Elizabeth lived at the corner of 61st

Street and Woodlawn Avenue. So it was but a short street car ride for

me. Mrs. Woodlock’s apartment was quite comfortable, like her good

self. She was a fat, husky Irish girl, and quite pretty. She had a

daughter about six, Ruth, and an old Aunt Emma who lived with her. I

don’t know whether Belle Woodlock’s husband was dead or whether she

had been divorced; I never asked her. But the atmosphere was not at

all bad, I thought, and there was enough youth about the house to make

it pleasant. I remember how grateful I was to see a little girl of six

there.

Of course the excitement had been great and I know Mrs. Woodlock

wondered why I broke down and sobbed as I knelt over my tiny treasure.

We did not stay long, but went away, I back home to bed and Elizabeth

to her theatre, leaving the baby in charge of her new nurse.

Mrs. Woodlock was a person not to be downed, I soon learned. In her

position as nurse, she had acquired a hardness of a sort, but withal I

found her extremely sentimental and sympathetic. She took an immediate

fancy to Elizabeth Ann, as did her little daughter Ruth and her old

Aunt Emma. Aunt Emma was a partial cripple, and she proved to be a

great comfort to me because I knew she kept watch over our baby at

times when Mrs. Woodlock’s attention was demanded elsewhere.

Mrs. Woodlock moved twice during the year and two months that the baby

was with her. She soon moved over on 48th Street. That place, too, was

accessible from Elizabeth’s, even though it was a longer trip for me

to take. But my strength certainly seemed to be gone permanently. I

ate normal meals, but I was just unable to do the things I formerly

did. Mr. Harding urged me in every letter to rest, rest, rest, but it

was growingly impossible. My mind was sick, and nothing would cure it

except an arrangement whereby I could have my baby with me.

Mr. Harding was very generous, sending me as a rule $100 or $150 at a

time, and of course I kept Mrs. Woodlock paid right up to the minute.

I have in my possession a little red book in which I have jotted down

at different times how I spent the cash Mr. Harding sent me in his

letters. He used to send very old bills so they would not be noticeable

to one handling the letter, and has sent me as much as $300 and $400 in

one letter with nothing but a two-cent stamp to carry it. For instance,

about this time I made the following notation:

“Last $150:

$52.00 carriage for Elizabeth Ann

60.00 three weeks’ board Elizabeth Ann

16.00 shoes for Nan

5.50 bonnet for E. Ann

5.50 robe for E. Ann

2.60 another robe and bow

5.00 dress cleaned and fixed

-------

$146.60 total”

which shows about how I spent my money those days. I bought Elizabeth

Ann a dear little diamond ring for her first birthday, October 22,

1920, which has since been lost; I paid $50 for it at Peacock’s in

Chicago, though I paid for that with money I earned myself doing

secretarial work that fall. But as a rule, during those days, the money

I had was not spent foolishly; and most of it was for my darling baby.

_46_

Before Elizabeth Ann’s birth, during the early days when Mr. Harding

and I referred to our coming baby as “the young lieutenant,” we had

discussed many times the possibility of giving the baby over to his

sister in California, Mrs. Charity Remsberg. Mr. Harding said that, of

all of his relatives, he was sure she would understand the situation

best, and also she had children of her own. I entered into this and

other discussions very seriously, and I marvel now to think how I could

have done so. For, months before Elizabeth Ann actually came, I had

fully determined within my heart that I could never, never give her

up--I could never allow our darling baby to be reared and loved by

anyone but myself or her father.

However, I talked over these possibilities with Mr. Harding both

in person and in letters. He was disposed also to consider the

Scobeys--Mr. Fred Scobey and his wife of San Antonio, Texas. Mr.

Harding had told me once upon a visit to New York how Mr. Scobey had

mailed a letter from Mr. Harding, addressed to me. He said he thought

afterward it hadn’t been exactly wise to entrust it to him, for, he

said, Mr. Scobey had been a bit convivial that afternoon. I remember

how I said, “Oh, sweetheart, why will you do foolish things like

that?--why, he might have looked at it!” I was amazed at such daring

on Mr. Harding’s part. It was then that Mr. Harding told me what I

recalled afterward, in later years, so vividly, “Why, Nan, Scobey’s the

best friend I’ve got!” Of course I took his statement very literally.

The Scobeys had quite a bit of money, Mr. Harding said, and I think he

said they had no children of their own. He was sure they would love our

baby and he said he would “have no hesitancy” in telling Mr. Scobey

that he was the father of the child.

We also discussed an institutional home where the baby might be

placed until of such age that I, through some unforeseen favorable

circumstance, might be able to take our child myself. It was then that

Mr. Harding first discussed with utter frankness the probability of

Mrs. Harding’s death far in advance of his own, in which event he said

with undisguised enthusiasm, “I’d take the baby myself and make her a

_real_ Harding!” Later he repeated that statement very emphatically

to me in the White House, telling me how he wished to make Elizabeth

Ann a “real Harding.” Of course that plan met with a hug and a kiss

from me and much worded enthusiasm. But Destiny thwarted the plans

Warren Harding had for his child, although during those days we were

completely oblivious of its presence.

_47_

The summer of 1920 was arriving, and with it the Republican Convention

in June which was to nominate my sweetheart for the Presidency. Only

four years before I had hung on street car straps going to and from my

work at Carson, Pirie, Scott and Company, reading about my beloved Mr.

Harding and his much featured oratorical achievement in connection with

making the nominating speech for his friend Charles E. Hughes, the then

Republican candidate for President.

Now I was back in Chicago, making almost daily visits to Warren

Harding’s child and mine, and watching every political aspect with

keenest interest. Only four short years and I had come to these

heights! The mother of Warren Harding’s only child! The glory of it!

Mr. Harding came on to Chicago early in June and came out immediately

upon his arrival to my sister’s, 6103 Woodlawn Avenue. I remember I

missed him at the station and was so disappointed because I thought he

had not come, but I had gone to the wrong station to meet him and so we

reached the apartment almost simultaneously, having come from opposite

directions.

[Illustration: Out for an airing in Chicago]

I had, in letters to Mr. Harding, described Elizabeth’s apartment,

calling it a “perfectly adorable place.” When I came on from Asbury

Park I was in such a weakened condition that any place where my adored

sister lived seemed heaven to me. And I really did think for a young

married couple their apartment was dear. Elizabeth’s husband is rather

small compared with Mr. Harding, and the tiny four rooms did not seem

out of proportion to his stature. But I shall never forget how I gasped

when I beheld Mr. Harding in the living-room of that apartment. His

head nearly touched the ceiling!

“I thought you said Elizabeth had a lovely roomy apartment, dearie!” he

teased me.

“Well, I thought it was--but, my, you fill it up so!” He sat down in

a big chair and took me on his lap. Elizabeth knew he was going to be

there and had arranged so that the rest of the family would be away

during his visit with me.

That visit was a very important one from many angles. While Mr. Harding

scouted my prophecy that he would soon be the President of the United

States, it must have been that he did think some about it, for even as

early as that first visit he warned me about what might happen in case

he were nominated. I would be “shadowed” very probably, he said, and

certainly would be if he were elected President.

Those were stirring days for me as well as for my hero. I would fly

from the Republican Convention at the Coliseum out to our baby, often

giving her airings in the nearby park. The excitement those days seemed

to sustain me with a strength not really mine. Elizabeth Ann made a

perfect picture in her new carriage. I tried to persuade Mr. Harding

to meet me some morning in the park so he could see her, but, though

he pondered it all lovingly and said he was as “crazy to do it” as I

was to have him, he never did. I suppose it would have been unwise,

though I was sure I could pilot that project as safely as I seemed to

have done the others up to this time, with my sister Elizabeth’s good

co-operation.

[Illustration: _Top_: Early in the Administration period

_Bottom_: The opening of the season, American League Park, Washington]

Elizabeth Ann and I had lovely times together. I talked to her even

from babyhood as though she were a companion instead of a baby, and she

would lie there looking up at me so seriously that sometimes I felt

she must understand me. I would whisper to her, “Darling, do you know

who your daddy is? Well, maybe you do (her answering look was full of

wisdom!), but you don’t know who he is _going_ to be!” Then I would

stoop down and whisper in her ear, “_Your daddy is going to be the

President of the United States!_” And surely her look of comprehension

was more than a baby’s look--it seemed to me to be the understanding

gaze of her father’s own eyes.

Mr. Harding came several times to 6103 Woodlawn Avenue during that

month. I remember one time I rode downtown on the elevated with him.

Standing on the platform at University Avenue, I said, “Honey, why do

they have primaries?” I could see no need for them. In fact, I told him

I thought politics was a terribly complicated business--to go through

all the red tape, when he would be President anyway. I talked on and

on, suggesting a simplification of the whole governmental machinery. He

seemed highly amused. “A fine politician you’d make, Nan!” he said. I

remember also how he leaned far over to read his neighbor’s paper after

we were seated in the train, and when I strained my eyes to see what

could interest him, he turned and explained that he “was just trying

to steal the baseball score.” He followed the ball games with great

interest, and was a dyed-in-the-wool fan if ever there was one.

A few days later, in the lobby of the Auditorium Hotel, I met him and

he gave me a ticket to the Convention. It seemed to please him to do

it, and very likely he could not help recalling my many predictions.

He may even have gloried a bit in the knowledge that he was fulfilling

every ambition I ever had for him.

I listened with rapt attention and rising regard to Frank B. Willis,

who made the nominating speech for Warren G. Harding. I had heard Mr.

Willis only once before and that was at Kent, Ohio, where I attended

Normal School the summer immediately following my graduation from high

school. At that time--1914--I had looked upon him as an illy-groomed,

small-stage politician, but my appraisal of him swiftly swung in his

favor with that speech.

I witnessed excitedly the balloting at the Convention which slowly but

surely rose in favor of Ohio’s son. I could not share with anyone, by

the most extravagant verbal picture, the emotions I experienced as

it was announced amid roaring acclaim that the Republican nomination

for the Presidency of the United States had been given to Warren G.

Harding. How could that surging multitude--cheering and whistling

and stampeding the aisles with their Harding banners held aloft--be

interested anyway in the tumult of unutterable emotion that rose within

me? My eyes swam, and I recalled my Freshman school year at Marion,

when, in the margins of all my books, I, then but thirteen years

old, had written the prophecy of my heart-longing, “Warren Gamaliel

Harding--he’s a darling--Warren Gamaliel Harding--President of the

United States!”

_48_

The next conference between the new Republican candidate for President

and his sweetheart, which took place at 6103 Woodlawn Avenue, was

necessarily an important one. This time he was “dropped off” by the

man whose car he said he could command during his stay in Chicago.

He had been, he said, held up by Moffett, who had taken innumerable

photographs of him and who, Mr. Harding told me in his adorably modest

way, had seemed to take quite a fancy to him. He had wanted to get to

me earlier but he just couldn’t. Mr. Harding said that the pictures Mr.

Moffett had taken ought to please me because he had been thinking about

me every minute during the sittings for them.

He warned me again that if I were shadowed I should give no heed to

the trailer and just go about my business as usual. He told me how

proud he was of the way things had been handled to date, and he did

not seem at that time to have very great fear concerning our secret.

He was, however, hurried, and I complained because he had to leave me

earlier than I had planned. When I told him I had many things to tell

him he smiled and said, with his characteristic slang which seemed to

be reserved for me alone, “Well, shoot!” He used often to say that when

I bubbled over with confidences. He was with me a couple of hours, and,

though disappointingly brief, that visit was one of the sweetest I ever

knew.

He attempted to seriously discuss with me plans for financially caring

for my situation and for Elizabeth Ann’s, but, though I finally changed

the topic, saying, as always, that I didn’t want to discuss those

things, he did persuade me to begin some insurance, and he said that

no matter how small the amount I took out, he could add to it. He had

other plans, he said, for establishing a fund in a more substantial

amount, but I curtailed that discussion. The time was so brief and I

adored his kisses. However, I did actually start a policy with the

Prudential Life Insurance Company, one of $500, requiring no medical

examination. I had only a little over $100 paid upon it when I went to

Europe in June of 1923, and when I returned I dropped it altogether.

Mr. Harding saw that I looked greatly worn and he fell in very readily

with my plan to go to the Adirondacks for six or eight weeks, in the

hope that the elevation and air might bring back the lost roses to

my cheeks. My sister had assured me that she would herself visit the

baby periodically and every day phone Mrs. Woodlock and keep in close

touch with her. Mrs. Woodlock’s efficient care of the baby was my chief

inducement to leave for the mountains. I explained all of these things

to Mr. Harding, and he agreed that it was imperative that I get on my

feet as soon as possible. I assured him that I would not try to write

to Mrs. Woodlock or have her write to me while in the mountains, for,

of course, except for my visits to the Woodlock home where I was known

as “Mrs. Christian,” I had resumed my maiden name and could not divulge

this name to her. I remember how discreet Mrs. Woodlock was, for she

did not even ask why nor where when I went away. She merely promised to

take good care of my darling baby.

Mr. Harding made suggestions as to a suitable place to go, and talked

to me a little about Paul Smith’s. But I told him I had already

consulted with the Foster Bureau and had decided upon the Eagle Bay

Hotel at Eagle Bay, on the Fulton Chain of Lakes. One reaches there

by going to Utica and changing for the northern train. It is on the

western side of the Adirondacks. I could obtain board and room there,

I told him, for something like $25 a week. He seemed to think this a

fine plan all around. He instructed me not to write to him while there

except as he advised me, because his own movements were uncertain. And,

as usual, when he kissed me he asked me to tell him I was happy. I

walked over to the “L” with him and watched the tall, handsome figure

of my sweetheart until he disappeared inside the station. Then he came

out to the railing of the elevated platform and waved to me below. That

was the last unguarded tryst we ever had, for after that he was always

surrounded by secret service men, and we were not together again until

after he had been elected President. Even as President-elect he had

ceased to be his own boss.

_49_

During my stay in the Adirondacks I wrote many letters to Mr. Harding,

saving them, of course, until such time as I should see him to deliver

them in person. He wrote me, but more guardedly than ever before.

During my stay there I also received a couple of letters from his

sister Daisy, one of which I have and which asks me all about Eagle

Bay, requesting the information on account of her desire to leave

Marion, where, she said, she was under fire photographically and

socially, and was growing weary of it all. Although I sent Miss Harding

pictures of the hotel and instructions as to how one reaches there, she

did not decide to join me. Which, from the standpoint of the following

incident, was a good thing.

[Illustration: When “the stage” went to Marion during the famous

Harding “front porch” campaign in 1920]

About the third or fourth week of my stay in the mountains, Mr. Harding

sent the first communication which ever came from him to me by personal

messenger.

I had been out walking in the late afternoon, and when I came into the

somewhat deserted lobby of the Eagle Bay Hotel the manager at the desk

called to me that a gentleman in the lounging room wished to see me. Of

course, having been warned by Mr. Harding of shadowers and reporters,

I became frightened, and it was with some misgivings that I approached

the man who now came toward me with the query, “Is this Miss Britton?”

I said it was, and in turn asked him who he was and why he wished to

see me.

He immediately delivered into my hands a rather bulky envelope which

was obviously more than a mere letter, and asked that I follow the

instructions which he told me I would find inside. I retired to my

room to do so. Mr. Harding had not dropped me a note apprising me of

this proceeding. In the package he had enclosed $800 in bills and a

short, hurried note, which he asked me to please return with one from

me, telling him the money had been received and indicating the amount.

This I did, not sending him, however, any of the love-letters I had

written and been saving up to this time, but merely doing exactly as he

requested. Then I joined the gentleman below.

The messenger was a man of slight build, with ruddy complexion and

pleasing manner. Inasmuch as it was impossible for him to leave Eagle

Bay before that evening (there being no train out), we took a walk down

the road, and afterward returned to sit awhile down by the lake, on

one of the porches of the casino. I had gone about very little with

the young crowd up there, preferring for many reasons to be by myself

the greater part of the time and to retire early, and I knew that this

messenger had come direct from the one man I would rather be with than

all the others put together. Therefore I felt friendly toward him.

He had not told me his name, and his obvious reticence had piqued my

curiosity. When I inquired of him who he was, he indicated that he

did not care to disclose his correct name. On his finger, however, he

wore a signet ring, rather an unusually good-looking one I thought,

and I made out the initial “S.” “Mr. S.” I called him then, and he

smiled and substituted the name “Scott.” So “Mr. Scott” it was during

the remainder of his visit. He seemed to think I had selected the most

God-forsaken, undesirable place in the world, and I did not blame him,

for the mosquitoes were more than usually aggressive that evening. I

had a lot of fun with him, and discovered to my delight that he had

quite a sense of humor in the many suggestions he had for making Eagle

Bay a passably habitable place for human beings who had small regard

for where they lived!

The following Sunday in the paper I happened to see a picture of a man

who, in this narrative, I shall call Tim Slade, chief secret service

man and bodyguard to the President-elect, and in this newspaper

likeness I identified the messenger who had come to me at Eagle Bay. In

the same paper there was an excellent enlarged snapshot of Miss “Daisy”

Harding and Mrs. Votaw, her sister, together in the garden of their

father’s home at Marion, and I cut it out and have it now, framed.

My sister Elizabeth, writing from Chicago, kept me pretty well posted

about the baby, but there were times when I felt I just must get back

immediately to her. I managed to gain several pounds while in the

mountains, and in early August, if I remember correctly, I returned to

Chicago. I found the baby pink and white, like a peach blossom, and

was delighted with Mrs. Woodlock’s fine care of her. She was getting

prettier and prettier every day. And, oh, that Harding smile which

captivated everyone who saw her!

_50_

July 22nd, 1920, Warren G. Harding formally accepted the nomination for

the Presidency of the United States, delivering his acceptance speech

at Marion, Ohio, to the thousands gathered in Garfield Park to hear

him. I never had the privilege of hearing Mr. Harding in his supreme

moments, though I bought all the available newspapers and thrilled

second-handedly at his speeches. In the public utterances of my beloved

hero were instanced variously the characteristics which I knew so

well dominated his life movements, and I need not cite passages to

illustrate the sincerity by which he seemed to be actuated in his every

purpose. However, in the papers which I have retained, now becoming

yellow and worn, as well as in my huge Harding scrapbook which contains

clippings from many newspapers dating from the time of his senatorship

to his death, I find marked passages which have moved me deeply and

in which I have seen the character of the real Warren Harding. “These

are the things I so love in him,” I think as I read them over. His

humbleness, kindness, good will, generosity, sympathy, honor, trust in

mankind, honesty, fidelity to friends--these qualities mark the Warren

Harding the people love and revere. The concluding paragraph of his

speech, accepting the Presidential nomination, is as follows:

“I would not be my natural self if I did not utter my consciousness

of my limited ability to meet your full expectations, or to realize

the aspirations within my own breast, but I will gladly give all that

is in me, all of heart, soul, and mind, and abiding love of country,

to service in our common cause. I can only pray to the Omnipotent God

that I may be as worthy in service as I know myself to be faithful

in thought and purpose. One cannot give more. Mindful of the vast

responsibilities, I must be frankly humble, but I have that confidence

in the consideration and support of all true Americans which makes me

wholly unafraid. With an unalterable faith and in a hopeful spirit,

with a hymn of service in my heart, I pledge fidelity to our country

and to God, and accept the nomination of the Republican party for the

presidency of the United States.”

All the editorial panegyrics which followed the unexpected and tragic

death of Warren G. Harding might well have been based upon any one of

the above ideals of service to his country and to his God. Adding three

words to the shortest sentence in the paragraph quoted above, he could

truthfully have said, “One cannot give more _than one’s life_.”

These inherent qualities of nobility in Warren Harding were readily

discernible even to those who knew him slightly, but the friends

who knew him intimately as a man as well as a President carry in

their hearts the memory of sincerity and loyalty in the numberless

manifestations of his service to others. And what more meetly parallels

the above quoted paragraph, and others of similar manfulness, than

the text upon which the President’s lips rested when he took the oath

of office? This text, kissed by the President as a seal of his oath,

is the eighth verse of the sixth chapter of Micah and reads: “He hath

showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of

thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy

God?”

_51_

Back in Chicago, after my several weeks’ sojourn in the mountains, I

set about immediately to seek admittance into the Republican National

Committee offices in a secretarial capacity, so that I might help in

a small way to elect my hero. The headquarters were in the Auditorium

Hotel. There I went and, upon hearing that Congressman Martin B. Madden

was there, I went to see him. I explained that Mr. Harding had been

kind enough to put me in the United States Steel Corporation in New

York in 1917; that I came from Marion and had known him as a child;

also that I was a girlhood chum of Judge Grant E. Mouser’s daughter

Annabel, Mr. Mouser having been at one-time a Congressman and close

friend of Mr. Madden. Mr. Madden forthwith took me in to Captain Victor

Heinz’s office and introduced me as a friend of Mr. Harding. Captain

Heinz was from Cincinnati; I afterwards met some of his relatives

at the Mouser’s in Marion where they visited. Captain Heinz in turn

took me to Mr. Frank A. Nimocks, whose regular job was postmaster in

Ottumwa, Iowa. He “took me on” in a secretarial capacity immediately

at a salary, if I remember correctly, of $35 a week. He had charge of

the distribution of Republican campaign lithographs--a highly pleasing

branch of the work to me. Next door to our office was that of the

afterwards Postmaster-General, Hubert Work.

[Illustration: The author, while employed by the National Republican

Committee in campaign work in Chicago, in the fall of 1920]

I was very happy to be a Harding booster; in fact, of all the work I

have ever done, that was the most enjoyable. _Everything_ was Harding!

I wrote to Mr Harding’s sister Daisy, telling her where I was, and in

her letter she said she knew how happy I must be to be working for my

“hero.” She well knew he was that to me.

It seemed to be rather generally known in the offices along the

corridor that I came from Marion, Ohio, and it is very likely that

those who were not acquainted with this fact learned it from me, for

I was the proudest person alive and wanted everybody to know where I

hailed from.

Many notables were in and out of campaign headquarters, some of whom

I met. Mr. Charles E. Witt, one-time secretary to Governor Harding of

Iowa, had charge of another phase of the Harding picture distribution

work and had his desk in our office. When Governor Harding came in one

day Mr. Witt introduced me as a “friend of the next President.” In some

such similar manner I was introduced to Senator New, whom I had often

heard Warren Harding speak of and whom I was anxious to meet so that I

might tell Mr. Harding I had met him.

Political fanatics roamed in and out of the headquarters as well as

substantial party supporters, and I have devoted a whole page in my

Harding scrapbook to clippings concerning one, Everett Harding, who

falsely claimed to be a cousin of Warren G. Harding and embarrassed the

President-to-be through spurious publicity.

Mrs. Woodlock was living on 48th Street during that time, and

invariably when I left the offices of the Republican National

Committee it was to go directly to her home to see our baby,

Elizabeth Ann. I would usually reach there so fatigued I could scarcely

stand, but what recuperative powers her baby exuberance had for me!

And Mrs. Woodlock’s hearty laugh would ring through the length of the

apartment as she related to me something amusing that had happened

during the day. Or she, with her daughter Ruth, would show me how my

baby had learned to laugh, and we would all bend over her, each trying

to bring to her face the Harding smile that quickened my heart and

made the others cry, “Isn’t she a darling!” Aunt Emma, gentle soul,

would hobble into the room and say, as she said over and over again

to me those days. “I don’t often take to babies, Mrs. Christian,

but Elizabeth Ann certainly has won my heart!” She was her father’s

daughter, all right.

[Illustration: _THE OFFICIAL REPUBLICAN CAMPAIGN SONG_