I was tremendously interested in Mr. Harding’s private office.

First I examined his desk. It was very large and seemed to contain

much drawer space. Mr. Harding told me that in one of the drawers he

intended to keep my letters and anything that pertained to me, and

that for this reason his private secretary, George Christian, had

been instructed as at the Senate Office, to burn everything in that

particular drawer if anything should happen to the President.

On his desk stood a miniature portrait of his mother, and I observed on

my calls upon him at the White House that in her memory fresh flowers

frequently stood upon his desk near her portrait.

There was a grate fireplace directly opposite the President’s desk.

Here, Mr. Harding told me, he burned all the letters I sent him after

he had committed their messages to his heart. In this connection we

discussed the loss of the first letter and, deplorable as it was, Mr.

Harding said it “was done” and all we could do was to guard against

future losses. He begged me to write him _much_, actually mailing the

letters, however, only occasionally and a number at a time. He said he

would “sit right in that chair” (indicating his desk chair) and read my

letters and think of me. And his expressions of hunger for worded love

from me made me homesick in anticipation for the visits I knew could

nevermore be as they had been in the past. I promised him he should

have many love-letters, and I told him that after all, writing to him

and being near our blessed child were the only real joys in my life,

and to be separated from him for such long intervals was fully as great

a hardship for me as for him.

I recall the dress I wore upon that occasion. It was of white silk

crepe with a tiny black figure, a figure so small that from a distance

the dress looked grey. It was trimmed with a narrow border of cerise

and many-colored wooden beads. With it I wore a rather large picture

hat, also cerise, and grey suede slippers and grey stockings. The

excitement had brought unnatural roses to my cheeks and, despite my

physical weakness, I felt exhilarant and strong when I was with my

darling sweetheart.

In the ante-room there was a leather couch, so dilapidated that I

remember I remarked to Mr. Harding that one might think it had been

there ever since the White House was built. We used to sit there a

great deal, especially the times when Tim Slade would wait for me

either outside or on the other side of the President’s office, in a

large room beyond Mr. Christian’s office and far away from the sound of

our voices. And sometimes, especially later on in Mr. Harding’s brief

two and one-half years of service, it was wise that we should be away

from everybody, for I took many tears down to the White House.

_63_

On this first visit we discussed the wisdom of continuing to send

letters in Tim Slade’s care, and Mr. Harding seemed disposed to make

a change. I imagine he didn’t want to impose too much upon Tim and

didn’t wish to further arouse Tim’s curiosity. At that time Tim was out

of the secret service, I believe, though for a month or two after Mr.

Harding’s inauguration Tim said he helped George Christian until the

latter “got onto” things in a secretarial way.

The most direct channel through which my letters could be delivered

into his hands, Mr. Harding said, was to address them in care of his

valet. Major Arthur Brooks, a light colored man, who was, in the

opinion of Mr. Harding, entirely trustworthy and, what was better,

so far as Tim was concerned, Major Brooks was always availably near

to deliver them immediately without putting himself out to do so.

Mr. Harding always referred to him as “Brooks.” So it was arranged:

I was to enclose my letter to the President in another envelope,

sealed, and then enclose the whole in an envelope addressed to Major

Brooks personally, with a short letter to Brooks instructing him to

deliver the enclosure to the President immediately. I remember very

well, because I wrote so many of those letters, that they always read

something like this:

“MY DEAR MAJOR BROOKS:

“Kindly hand the enclosed letter to President Harding immediately upon

its receipt. This is in accordance with the President’s request.

Very truly yours, (Signed) E. BAYE.”

“E. Baye” was the name I used also when I wrote to Tim Slade, and was,

if I remember correctly, suggested by Tim, as a result of his first

trip to Eagle Bay in the summer of 1920, when he for the first time

delivered a communication from Mr. Harding to me.

After my visit to Washington when we had decided upon sending my

letters to the President in Major Arthur Brooks’ care, we never

experienced any further losses, and up until June of 1923, when Mr.

Harding left for Alaska and I sailed for Europe, I sent my letters to

my sweetheart in care of Major Brooks.

I have already stated that there existed a mutual agreement between Mr.

Harding and me to destroy each other’s letters, and as a result I have

in my possession only certain formal letters (from most of which I have

quoted near the beginning of my story) which I asked Mr. Harding if I

might keep. In view of the fact that I was to destroy all love-letters

from him, and these early letters contained no intimate allusions,

being the first ones he ever wrote me, he gave his permission for me to

keep them; otherwise, they, too, would have gone with the rest.

Two letters Mr. Harding sent me--one in 1918 and another in 1919, the

first to New York, in care of the United States Steel Corporation

office, and the second to Asbury Park addressed in error to the Hotel

Marlborough instead of the Hotel Monmouth--were never received. They

contained respectively $30 and $40 in cash. The third letter lost in

the mails was the one I have spoken of as having been sent to the

fictitious name of “A. Y. Jerose” and mailed from Chicago by me to Mr.

Harding in Atlanta, Georgia. So, with one letter sent to the White

House which he did not receive, there had been four letters sent which

had gone astray, two from Mr. Harding to me, and two from me to Mr.

Harding.

_64_

As I have said, things occur to me which happened and may be of

interest to the reader, but which I do not think of in chronological

order, hence occasionally I must go back to them. Such an incident

comes to my mind in connection with that first memorable visit to the

White House. I expressed my delight to Mr. Harding that “we” had beaten

his long-time Ohio rival, James M. Cox, so overwhelmingly for the

presidency. Mr. Harding shrugged his shoulders, evidently recalling the

following incident.

It was back in 1918, upon the occasion of one of my trips West when I

visited my mother in New Philadelphia, Ohio, where she was living and

teaching school, that I, doing up the breakfast dishes one morning,

took a notion to do some extra cleaning, and forthwith began to wash

the kitchen shelves and paper them with clean newspapers. I smoothed

the lower shelf with the front page of the local paper, stopping to

glance a second at the face which looked up at me. It was that of James

M. Cox, then Governor of the State of Ohio. He had recently made a

speech in New Philadelphia or thereabouts and his picture was appearing

for that reason in connection with his speech.

Shortly after that I returned to New York and work. In leaving New

Philadelphia, Ohio, I was obliged to go to a nearby town to catch the

fast 5 P. M. train, and had to take a taxi because a severe electric

storm had put the interurbans out of commission temporarily, and

the ride over and my excitement in catching the train and the warm

weather had inclined me to have some ice cream in the diner as soon

as I boarded the train. I had previously dined with my mother before

leaving. As I passed through the Pullman from my seat about midway in

the car, I noticed sitting in the end section a man whose face looked

strangely familiar. However, I quickly forgot it and passed on to the

diner.

When I returned I found that man sitting in the seat opposite my own,

the porter being engaged in making up his berth for him. I took my bag

and went into the ladies’ dressing-room, thinking I also would retire

early, and assuming that upon my return the gentleman in question would

have departed for his dressing-room.

However, when I came back, he was still there. I sat down opposite,

cupped my chin in my hand, and gazed out of the window into the

gathering darkness in which vagrant lights were flashing.

“Do you mind if I sit here until the porter has finished my berth?” I

looked up. “Certainly not,” I replied.

“It is very warm isn’t it?” he continued pleasantly.

“Yes, sir,” I answered. Then I looked directly at him. “Do you know,”

I said, as it suddenly dawned upon me where I had seen that face, “you

_look_ enough like the Governor of Ohio to be he?”

“I _am_ he,” replied Governor Cox.

Being somewhat familiar with Mr. Harding’s natural dislike for the man

opposite me, even though he had mentioned him to me but casually in the

course of our friendship, I was not hasty to speak with him further.

But he had evidently made up his mind to talk to _me_, and we gradually

drifted into conversation.

He had known Judge Sinclair, Mr. Harding’s friend, at whose home I had

been visiting when in Marion that trip, and of course I told him, with

encouragement from him, of other people I had visited, not forgetting

the Hardings on East Center Street. He asked me all about how I knew

them, and I told him Miss Daisy Harding had been my teacher in high

school. However, I did not, of course, even mention Mr. Harding’s name.

“I understand Mr. Harding is a great one with the ladies.” For no

apparent reason Governor Cox fairly tossed these words at me. I was

infuriated, probably more at the plural “ladies” than at anything else.

I replied as coolly as possible, “I don’t know anything about _that_; I

know he is very lovely to his wife.”

He inquired where I worked in New York and I told him in the United

States Steel Corporation. He asked me if they treated me nicely and I

assured him that they did, indeed. He became very friendly, offering

me a position in his own executive office in Columbus, Ohio, the

State Capital, if I cared to leave the Steel Corporation. I saw here

a possible opportunity to help my young brother Howard, and told the

Governor how I myself wanted my mother to allow him to join the army

or navy, but that mother would not give her permission and that Howard

was under age. Governor Cox said I should send him to Columbus to see

him and he would see that Howard got a commission. I was delighted

with this promise. (After I returned to New York I wrote Governor Cox,

reminding him of his promise and telling him it was a pleasure to meet

him, and I have a letter from him, which was sent for Howard to use as

a form of introduction, but which Howard never used and I retained.)

In the morning, I arose bright and early. I had not been able to

secure a lower berth and Governor Cox had the previous night urged

me to take his section, as it would, he thought, be more comfortable

for me. To which I replied that if he could get along in an upper I

ought to be able to, and I have a vivid recollection of mounting the

ladder that night, the porter on one side and the Governor of Ohio on

the other, assisting me into my upper berth. I was in the diner early

next morning, but had scarcely been seated when Governor Cox appeared

in company with another man who was obviously taking the Governor to

breakfast. They found their table, and then Governor Cox immediately

excused himself and came over and asked to sit a minute at my table. He

inquired after my health and my sleep and expressed the wish that some

time he would see me again.

When our train reached the Pennsylvania Station in New York, the red

caps were all busy and I proceeded to pick up my suitcase and mount the

stairs. But Governor Cox was on the platform and very kindly offered

to carry my bag. He said he was stopping at the Ritz-Carlton and had

come to join his daughter, whose husband, Mr. Mahoney, was sailing the

next day. He asked me to ride uptown with him. He said he would very

much like to have me meet his daughter Helen, and invited me to dine

with them at the Ritz-Carlton that evening. I was very frank to tell

him that I had no clean blouse, and that I really didn’t think I would

even dine with the King of England that night after my long journey to

New York. He left me at his hotel and I went on uptown, but before he

got out of the taxi, he put his hand on my knee and said, “Let me tell

you, young lady, I’d trust you anywhere in the world.”

I could hardly wait to relate this to Mr. Harding--the entire episode

I was sure would interest him. However, the knee business and Governor

Cox’s reference to Mr. Harding’s being a favorite with the ladies

infuriated him far more than it had me, and his letter in answer to

mine was the first of its kind I had ever received.

“I never did have any use for that man,” he wrote, “but now I despise

him.”

I could scarcely blame him, but why he should have scolded me I

could not understand. At least I could not understand it then. I

remember well Mr. Harding also wrote, “Perhaps Mr. Cox can assume all

responsibilities toward you more capably than I have done.” This was

cruel.

I slept little the night I got that letter and could not wait for

the morrow when I could phone my darling. During those days I very

often called Mr. Harding long distance. I usually called him at noon

during my luncheon hour, and I went across the street to the Equitable

Building. There was one particular girl who always got the call

for me, and she grew so accustomed to getting it that as soon as I

appeared above her at the switchboard, she inquired with a smile, “W.

G. Harding--Senate Chamber?” Sometimes she was smiling broadly when I

came out of the booth and I would not be surprised if she heard many

interesting conversations.

But when I nodded to the telephone operator upon this particular

occasion I just could not smile. I think she understood something was

wrong. She put the call through quickly. I reached him, as usual,

in the Senate Chamber. He was cool as could be over the phone and I

apologized and apologized, though in truth I hardly knew what for!

It grieved me to have him take such an unfair attitude. I was most

disconsolate.

But the following day came his letter of forgiveness, yes, of humble

apology, and his confession that it had been only his jealousy that had

prompted him to write as he had and to speak to me over the phone in

that way. He would never do so again, he was a “damned fool,” and so

on, but he loved me so much. “And after all, dearie,” he wrote, “there

is bound to be jealousy where there is love.” And I knew well he loved

me greatly.

Curious that the only man who ever really caused Mr. Harding a moment

of jealousy, on my account at least, should have been his opponent in

the Presidential election of 1920!

_65_

This brings to my mind the little personal catechism I underwent upon

that first visit to the White House. He had often in the early days

questioned me concerning other, younger, men. Of these younger fellows

he seemed not so much jealous as curious. But sometimes he pretended

jealousy. He often said to me, “Nan, darling, I don’t want you to be a

hermit maid.” And so I went occasionally to dinner or to the theatre

with fellows nearer my own age. But I told Mr. Harding about them.

Now, upon this first visit in the White House I thought his interest

in my social movements seemed almost pathetically curious. “Don’t go

off and marry any of the fellows you meet, dearie!” he pleaded with me

there on the dilapidated couch in the ante-room. As he spoke he blushed

faintly. “I love you so much. Nan--and I don’t like to have you be with

anybody else--that’s the real truth!” he finished lamely. I could have

screamed my delight at his concern. If he could only have realized that

the liveliness exhibited there with him was for me only reaction to the

stimulation I felt always when around him. Why, back in Chicago I felt

weak, and ill. I hugged him and whispered soothing negations in his

ear, denying emphatically that I should ever marry at all since I could

not marry him. Free or not free, I told him, I preferred Warren Harding

to all the other men in the world put together.

There would be opportunities for intimate companionship, he promised.

I told him _I_ was in no danger of being a hermit maid in that event.

I was free to be with him just as in the old days. And I hoped he was

going to be equally free. Yet somehow I inwardly lamented the personal

restrictions I felt the presidency would impose. I think it took Warren

Harding a few months to discover these restrictions.

After I returned to Chicago from my initial trip to Washington and

the White House, I prepared to go to New York. Scott, Elizabeth and

Elizabeth Ann were going down on a farm in Illinois, which is the home

of Scott’s people, and I left Chicago for New York about the same

time. That was in August. Scott’s mother and father adored the baby;

she seemed to make everyone love her, and people outside of the family

spoke about her “adorable smile,” which is the smile of her father.

On July 30th, 1921, I took Elizabeth Ann and went away for two days. I

wanted to be alone with her for a little space, away from everybody. We

took a lake boat and went across to St. Joseph, Michigan. Going over it

was a lot of fun for me to speak to strangers openly as “her mother,”

for Elizabeth Ann was too small to know things, and her affection

for me was always the very natural affection of a daughter for her

mother. We stopped at a hotel in St. Joseph, the name of which I have

forgotten, and the next day some time I held Elizabeth Ann in my arms

while one of those “tin-type” photographers snapped our picture, which

eventually found its way to Washington. She was so small that we could

not do much except walk about a bit and take a long ride in a touring

car which I hired by the hour. I remember Elizabeth Ann slept most of

the rather uninteresting ride we took about the country, but we were at

least together--mother and darling baby--and for two whole days!

[Illustration: In 1921]

When we crossed the gang-plank to board the steamer on our return,

a gentleman asked if he might assist me with my bag. I carried the

baby. I turned later to thank him and said, “Thank you very much,

sir.” Elizabeth Ann, with characteristic mimicry, looked up at him and

echoed, her Harding smile very evident, “Ver’ much, ver’ much,” which

delighted the whole crowd.

_66_

I stopped at the White House enroute East in August. I went to see

President Harding as soon as Tim Slade could make an appointment for

me. It seems to me that appointment was in the late afternoon, though

it is difficult to remember these details.

Leaving Elizabeth Ann had again thrown me into a state of mental

depression I could not shake off, and I was far from normally strong

and well in spite of the enormous good Dr. Barbour had done me. As he

said, I had been “pretty far gone nervously.”

I told Mr. Harding I contemplated plans for combining work with a

course at Columbia University that fall and winter. He heartily

approved of this. I told him I had understood that secretarial

positions were scarce in New York, but that if I _could_ get a good

all-day position I would take it and attend Columbia at night, unless

the strain proved too great. He did not encourage me to take an all-day

position, but he did make some suggestions with regard to obtaining

work, and offered to give me a card of introduction, and to write a

letter in my behalf, to the Collector of the Port of New York, Mr.

George Aldridge, whose office was of course in the Customs Building,

Battery Place. He told me Mr. Aldridge had been one of his appointees

and that he did not hesitate to ask such a favor of him. The card Mr.

Harding gave me to present to Mr. Aldridge merely bore his name,

Warren G. Harding, and, in his handwriting, “Introducing Miss Britton.”

Remembering Mr. Harding’s remark about making me White House

stenographer, a remark made to me one night in the earlier days when we

had dined at the Manhattan and I had lovingly prophesied the position

he now held, I said to him, “Sweetheart, couldn’t you let me come down

here and work?” I told him it would help to make me happier, inasmuch

as it didn’t seem possible for me to remain in Chicago and be only a

third parent to Elizabeth Ann. It was during that visit, I remember,

that his woman stenographer came in. I was sitting in a chair near Mr.

Harding’s desk and Mr. Harding was seated in his chair at the desk.

The stenographer came across the room and Mr. Harding looked up and

smiled and said, “Can’t read it?” She pointed to the words she couldn’t

make out (in his handwriting so familiar to me!) and he read them for

her. After she had gone out and closed the door, I said wistfully,

“Oh, I wish _I_ could work for you, darling!” Mr. Harding smiled--the

old smile of indulgence and love I liked to think he smiled best at

_me_--but shook his head. “It would never do, dearie,” he said. Then

he went on to picture in the face of his refusal how he would _love to

have me_, and how, if I _were_ his stenographer he would give me _all_

his dictation just to have me with him, and he feared the nation’s

business would suffer! Thus it was that he would picture for me the

things he would love to do, making their impossibility a thing of

unspeakable disappointment to me, and causing me to exclaim more than

once, “Oh, I _wish_ you weren’t in this position!”

We talked over the situation with regard to Elizabeth Ann and I

explained to Mr. Harding how difficult it had become to really work out

the three-cornered parentage. He said, “Well, just wait, dearie. Some

of these days I’ll take her myself,” but that prospect was at least

four years off, which to me seemed an eternity.

I showed him snapshots of Elizabeth Ann we had taken, and particularly

one which to me is the image of her father. He was delighted with

everything. We had to talk so fast, too, in order to say everything to

each other; and even then I never failed to leave without realizing I

had forgotten dozens of things I meant to say to him. It wasn’t at all

as it had been in the days when he was Senator. And his statement to

me, repeated substantially every time I went to the White House, only

added to my sorrow after I had left him--“I find myself longing to take

baby girls in my arms, dearie--I never used to feel so deeply moved,”

he would say, and the lights in his eyes were divine.

Mr. Harding gave me several hundred dollars and admonished me to be

careful in spending it so that people wouldn’t talk about me. Then I

left him. I do not really know the usual length of my visits with Mr.

Harding in the White House, but I do know that it is not possible for

sweethearts to spend three-fourths of their time in making up for lost

kisses and have much time left to discuss serious affairs. These visits

were never satisfying in length of time.

_67_

I went down to the Custom House to see Mr. Aldridge almost as soon as

I reached New York, armed with Mr. Harding’s card of introduction. The

deputy, Mr. Stewart, took me in to Mr. Aldridge’s office. With Mr.

Aldridge was another man whom he introduced to me, “Colonel William

Hayward, another friend of the President.”

The letter which Mr. Harding had told me he would write to Mr. Aldridge

had not as yet reached the latter’s hands, and so I was obliged to

explain my errand. Mr. Aldridge assured me he would do all in his power

to assist me, and Col. Hayward volunteered to do the same. I thanked

them both and tried to make it clear to Mr. Aldridge, after Col.

Hayward had gone out, that I needed the position from the standpoint

of salary, thinking by so doing I would entirely disarm him of any

suspicion as to why President Harding had taken the pains to intercede

for me.

I have often wished I had asked him frankly in the days that followed

to see the letter which Mr. Harding actually wrote to him. I imagine

the President wrote that I was the “daughter of an old friend,” etc.

But evidently what he did write was sufficiently strong. For two weeks

there were a good many people down there working directly or indirectly

to find a suitable position for the President’s friend! I am afraid

they all thought I wanted something much finer than I actually desired.

Mr. Aldridge early turned the onus of the job upon his assistant, Mr.

Stewart. Col. Hayward interviewed me with (what he said was) a view to

creating a position in his own office for me in case I found nothing

that pleased me.

As a matter of fact, I did not obtain work at all as a result of the

efforts exerted in my behalf by the Custom House officials. I took the

civil service examination at that time, but, having used my shorthand

only spasmodically since I left the Steel Corporation, my speed was

cut in half and I fell down on the stenographic examination, though I

passed creditably in typing.

The position I finally obtained came entirely through my own personal

contacts with employment bureaus, and was with an advertising man who

employed me mornings and certain afternoons during the week. The rest

of the time I spent getting out work for my journalistic course at

Columbia.

I located at 314 West 72nd Street, in a room on the top floor of a

studio apartment building. This structure has since been torn down and

one of the newer type of tall apartment buildings substituted.

Mr. Harding had always encouraged me to write as much as possible,

praising me for my letters which I wrote to him and which he said were

the most graphic letters he had ever read. He used to tell me how he

kept them under lock and key until he had absorbed every line of them,

often taking them to the Senate Chamber, where he so often wrote to

me, sitting apart from the other senators. “I am writing to you within

hearing of epoch-making speeches,” or “I am writing near the scene of

important legislative events,” he often said in his letters to me. And

the knowledge that he had so often expressed what seemed to me was

genuine pride in my writing encouraged me more than anything to strive

for a certain goal that year at Columbia--that goal being a fair mark

of excellence, of course.

_68_

In October of that year, 1921, I went again to Washington. I do not

remember at which hotel I stopped on each occasion, but on my various

visits to Washington I have stopped at the Raleigh, New Ebbitt,

Harrington, New Willard, Capitol Park, and, I think, at the Washington.

It seems to me it was upon this visit that Mr. Ferguson, another secret

service man, met me at the station with his Ford coupe. I do not

remember very distinctly whether it was after or before my conference

with the President that Mr. Ferguson asked if I would like to occupy

some of my time by driving. I thanked him and he took me for a drive

out along the Potomac. He seemed curious about me and endeavored

to “draw me out.” It gave me the keenest pleasure to pretend to

misunderstand his questions and to be naively ignorant of the motive

behind them. I am sure he must have despaired of being enlightened as

to my identity, even though the President had given him my correct name.

I told Mr. Harding at that time that I felt he was very foolish to

allow anyone but Tim Slade to meet me. I voiced my own faith in Tim’s

trustworthiness and put it up to him direct.

“Don’t you _trust_ Tim Slade, sweetheart?” I inquired.

I remember right where Mr. Harding stood, beside his desk, when I asked

him this. He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows as he

answered, “Oh, measurably!” He told me he had tried to get Tim on that

occasion, but he was either busy or out of the city--probably out of

the city, for it always seemed to me Tim was at my beck and call, and

I am sure he must have been more so at the President’s. But I managed

to convince Mr. Harding that every new man he sent to me was just “one

more,” and he agreed we might better stick to Tim. “I like Slade all

right,” he conceded when I pressed him for an opinion. In fact, as time

went on, I was sure an element of affection in Mr. Harding’s attitude

toward the man who was our confidential intermediary. In any event,

that was the one and only time that Mr. Ferguson met me in Washington,

although he did come on one occasion to Chicago with some money when

the President was unable to secure Tim Slade’s services. Tim himself

reminded me of this in one of the many talks we have had during the

past two years.

The President listened eagerly to the latest news I had received from

my sister Elizabeth concerning our child, and upon these visits to

Washington I would invariably take with me pencilled scratches from

Elizabeth Ann, these constituting the “letters” she would occasionally

send to me. Naturally the enthusiasm with which I began these recitals

ended in tears for me, for I could not talk long with her father about

her without crying. And Mr. Harding’s eyes would grow heavy with

sadness as he turned the conversation into other channels and pulled

out a ready handkerchief to dry my eyes. He would try so hard to bring

a smile to my face!

“What did you say to Woodrow Wilson that made him laugh when he rode

with you the day of your inauguration?” I inquired of him upon one such

occasion of weeping.

“Why, dearie, I don’t know! Did I make him laugh?” he asked, himself

deeply amused at my query. I told him he must have done so because it

was in the papers. He smiled whimsically, seeming to get quite a kick

out of my credulity as to the accuracy of newspaper accounts.

Mr. Harding wanted to know whether I liked my work, and intimated that

he either had already spoken to another steel man who was a friend of

his or he intended to speak to him--J. Leonard Replogle. I know Mr.

Harding played golf with Mr. Replogle and two other men some time that

fall on Long Island. But I did not encourage him to use his influence

in getting me into another permanent position, for my movements were

too uncertain those days.

During that visit I asked Mr. Harding if I might be taken through the

rooms in the White House. We discussed the possibility of my running

into Mrs. Harding, and Mr. Harding said it was possible, though not

probable. It didn’t seem to worry him, and I was confident I could

handle such a situation, anyway. The only time I had met Mrs. Harding,

since the time back in 1915, when I went to their home on Mt. Vernon

Avenue in Marion to congratulate Mr. Harding upon his election to

the United States Senate, was one day in Chicago shortly after Mr.

Harding’s nomination for the Presidency. I had a friend with me who

was interested to meet Mrs. Harding and we waited in the Florentine

Room of the Congress Hotel, where we knew Mrs. Harding intended coming

to hold a brief reception. I was entirely at ease with her when she

finally made her appearance. And, if I may be permitted to so assume

without seeming presumptuous, there was in her manner toward me almost

an affection as I took her arm and led her over to where my friend

stood who wished to meet her. And so, there in the White House, I felt

entirely free from any apprehensions regarding Mrs. Harding’s attitude

toward me should we meet there.

“Sure, go along, Nan, and see the place!” said Mr. Harding when I was

ready to leave, or rather when he told me it was time for me to go. As

I look back upon that visit now, it is as though he might have said to

me, “Sure, visitors are allowed to go through the prison! Go along!”

for as a prison he soon regarded the White House.

That was the first time Mr. Harding had seen my squirrel coat and he

remarked that it was very beautiful. “But, Nan, darling, do be careful!

How in the world do you explain these expensive-looking things?” I

assured him I had not been approached for any explanations and I was

sure I could handle the situation if I were. As a matter of fact, later

on, when I went to school at Northwestern University in Evanston,

Illinois, I did feel obliged to make certain explanations, and I

simply named my sister as the donor of all things beyond reasonable

possibility of my own acquirement.

[Illustration: Mr. Harding was much worn within the first year after

his inauguration]

And so this particular visit ended with Mr. Ferguson, of the secret

service, taking me through the White House reception rooms, the private

dining-room, and many others which I was told were usually barred from

public view. We made our exit by the entrance which is on the left of

the portico as one enters the White House.

_69_

I was growingly introspective those days and especially after a trip to

the White House. I would ponder morbidly a future, four years of which

(Mr. Harding’s presidential years) seemed unalterably mapped out beyond

hope of change, wherein I seemed to be shut out from the happiness I so

longed to share with the two people I loved more than all else. I was

selfish to the point of forgetting that the man down in Washington whom

I loved and who loved me, as he kept writing me, “more than the world,”

was also bearing a burden of loneliness such as he never dreamed would

be his lot. So far he had not complained to me, though I felt the

presence of much unrest and unhappiness even as early as the visits I

made to him that fall. His was an attitude of constant hopefulness;

mine of constant regret for the conditions of our entire situation.

Already I could not measure the regret I was experiencing as a

result of the steps I had permitted to be taken in order to protect

Elizabeth Ann “legally,” that she might have a name and home. After

all, would I not have to undo all this when I revealed to her her real

identity, which I certainly expected to do? What, then, would be the

good of having provided her with a protection which was utterly false

fundamentally, notwithstanding the fact that I could not doubt the

kindly intentions of my sister and her husband? Where was the justice

of a law which would deprive a mother, worthy to be a mother, of her

child simply because that child was born a “love-child”? Should not

all children be love-children? But were they? I remember once a girl

friend of mine said to me when I charged her with insincerity in her

marriage, “Well, you _know_, Nan, a woman _has_ to marry if she wants

to have children!” She herself was no more in love with her husband

than with the telephone pole outside her very beautiful home, and was

in truth later on divorced. But she had “protected” her child! Mr.

Harding was not free to offer me such protection, though he loved me,

avowedly before God, far more than he had ever loved any other woman.

I have often wondered whether I would have been tempted to act in

defiance of social conventions in taking my child openly myself, had

her father been a man of lesser rank. I only know that during the

period of which I am speaking, within the early months of Mr. Harding’s

presidency, I was rebelling with all my heart at the situation as it

existed, blame for which seemed to rest upon “the law.” Only my daily

work and conscientious efforts to make good in my journalistic course

at Columbia kept me from being unfair to everyone and upsetting a

legalized regime.

And my rebellion was as fiercely directed against the law as it

affected Mr. Harding as it was against the law as it affected myself.

His attention to and love for little children during his tenure of

office as President was marked sufficiently to prove, even to one who

preferred to doubt, the sincerity in his heart when he voiced to me his

longing just “to hold little girls.” Bless him! By all the laws of God

and man certainly Warren G. Harding was entitled to nurture this spring

of hidden father-love! Other little girls he could fondle openly, but

his own dear child he dared not acknowledge, nor bestow upon her the

love he felt, before a narrow-minded and censorious public.

In my Harding book of clippings I have a most appealing photograph

which was published, I think, in _The New York Times_. It shows Mr.

Harding holding a little girl in one arm and the little girl’s dog

in the other, and a picture more expressive of his feelings I have

never seen; I think this particular child is the daughter of Edward

B. McLean--unfortunately, I have cut away the inscription below the

picture. Another half-tone is inscribed, “A proud daughter of New

England is kissed by the President of the United States, at Crawford

Notch, New Hampshire,” and shows Mr. Harding holding close a shy little

girl, his face buried in what seems to be the fur of the child’s coat.

Another pictures Mr. Harding with Norma and Levett Sweig of New York,

who, according to the words below the picture “were tickled pink” when

they asked the President to pose with them at the White House and he

agreed. All of these children look to be about three years old. Still

another picture shows Mr. Harding leaning far out of his executive

office window to buy Christmas seals from a little girl whose name is

Sally Le Fevre, and, the paper says, she “was greeted by a real Harding

smile.” Even up in Alaska this love for children was evidenced, and

I have a picture which shows Mr. Harding shaking hands with school

children, the two in this picture also being little girls. I have other

pictures of Mr. Harding with groups of children, and one where he is

shown (_The Saturday Evening Post_ of July 2, 1921) with two boys; but

for the most part he chose to show his preferment for girls, and very

naturally so, since his own and only child was a little girl.

Enrico Caruso, so another clipping goes, was struck with the likeness

Mr. Harding bore to George Washington, and, with his deft artistry,

took a picture of Mr. Harding and touched it up so that the resemblance

to Washington is marked. But the heading above the picture which reads,

“Harding becomes Father of Country,” struck a note of deep longing in

my heart, for my yearning was not that he be known as the Father of His

Country, but that I might proudly say to the world, “He is the father

of my child!”

Thus the longing to claim Elizabeth Ann as mine battled with the

tortuous plans already existent, and regret for past steps and worry

over future ones were my constant mental companions. It is very

possible that out of this bitterness was born my prayer for strength

to ultimately set right a grossly wrong condition. Though at that

time little did I know of the pathways of suffering my feet would tread

before I could bring myself to claim the child of Warren G. Harding as

mine before the world! This I now do in this book, _The President’s

Daughter_.

[Illustration: A page from the author’s Harding book of clippings

gathered through the years]

_70_

Scott Willits, my brother-in-law, planned to sail for Europe the

latter part of January or the first of February of 1922 to study with

Professor Otakar Sevcik, whose music colony is in Czechoslovakia,

near Prague, where I think he is head of the Music Department in

the Conservatory. Shortly before his arrival in New York (my sister

Elizabeth and the baby accompanying him East) I made another trip to

the White House.

If I am not mistaken, I was to first meet Tim Slade in a waiting

room which is on the left as you enter the executive offices.

Evidently the imposing-looking doorman in uniform who stands inside

the entrance to the offices had been advised of my coming, for I was

immediately conducted to the waiting-room. I observed with great

interest a portrait of Mr. Harding which stood in one corner of this

room, obviously unfinished. And I was examining the portrait when a

gentleman, unknown to me, entered. He was a foreigner in appearance,

and, I thought to myself, probably the artist in the case. It occurred

to me at the same time that he might have been persuaded to come in and

obtain what information he could with regard to my identity and the

nature of my visit to the President, for he had been standing with the

reporters who, as usual, were lined up just outside the President’s

door.

The foreign gentleman spoke. “I think I have seen you somewhere,” he

said. Utterly stupid, I thought. “I’m sure I have seen you in Los

Angeles. Have I not?” he inquired with an ingratiating smile.

“Oh, very likely,” I answered him, going on with my inspection of the

unfinished portrait of Mr. Harding. I have never been West of Chicago.

My tone must have conveyed sarcasm, because he ceased abruptly and

turned with me to the portrait. I informed him frankly that the

artist had given our President a very weak chin, and I think I made

other uncomplimentary remarks about the painting which I discovered

was actually his own work. I have often wondered since where that

particular portrait hangs. I am sure my suggestions, if the artist

followed them, have improved it immensely!

I had received an announcement from Tim Slade, a printed card which

informed me that he had been made manager of a brokerage firm in

Washington. I went there to see him, before meeting him at the White

House later. I remember distinctly how I cried when Tim told me how

they were “putting it over” on “the Chief,” as he often called Mr.

Harding. He said it was a pity, and Mr. Harding ought to know some

of the crooked work that was going on all around him. Of course my

tendency then was to cry at the least little thing, I was so nervous.

(I remember glancing out of the large window in Tim’s office--I called

him Mr. Slade during those days, but have called him Tim for the past

two years--and commenting upon the beauty of a car which he said was

his.) And I determined to say to Mr. Harding upon my visit just what

Tim had said to me. It didn’t seem possible that those around my

darling sweetheart would dream of taking advantage of him--but, anyway,

I thought I would say something to him about it. I felt confident that

if I just told him that some of his associates were getting the best of

him that he could immediately stop it!

So, after my friend the artist had left me, and Tim Slade had piloted

me through certain difficult rooms into the President’s private

office, I said to Mr. Harding, almost immediately after the door had

been closed, “Sweetheart, Tim Slade says they are doing things behind

your back down here to hurt you....” He smiled to note the concern

registered in my every feature, and said, “Say, you darling, don’t you

worry about _me_!” implying that I had enough to do to attend to my own

thoughts and problems. “I’m all right,” he added, and smiled broadly

to see the look of relief that must have passed across my face. I

said I really couldn’t see what anyone _could_ do to “double-cross” a

_President_, but I did wish he would be watchful. It may have been this

time that he told me that he was surrounded by friends, and knowing

what a true and loyal friend Warren Harding was it seemed reasonable to

believe that he would inspire in others equally loyal friendship toward

himself.

I had with me some character sketches which I had written in my

course at Columbia University, one of them about his very own self,

and which my professor had read aloud to our class. I put the rather

bulky package of manuscript in his hands with a request that he read

the contents when he found time. “Found time!” he agreed was a good

expression. “Gee, Nan, they watch every move I make. Why, I even have

to steal the time I take to write to you.” I said I thought it was

perfectly horrible, and I wished to goodness he were out of it. And a

full year had not yet elapsed since he went into office! The months

seemed fettered with some ball and chain, so slow they moved.

Of course we talked of Elizabeth Ann and I told him that I thought I

had made a terrible mistake in allowing our baby girl to be adopted,

even as much as I adored Elizabeth my sister. And again he told me how

he would love, if he were free to do it, to take Elizabeth Ann and

“make her a real Harding.” And the wistfulness of his smile when he

said this was precious to me.

_71_

Enroute to New York, Scott Willits, my brother-in-law, my sister

Elizabeth and Elizabeth Ann, stopped in Washington. They went almost

immediately to the office of Mrs. Heber Herbert Votaw, youngest sister

of President Harding whose husband, Heber Herbert Votaw, had been

appointed by Mr. Harding as Superintendent of Prisons. Mrs. Votaw was

prominent in welfare work of some kind. Mrs. Votaw, or Carrie Harding

as you may recall, was my sister’s favorite among the Harding sisters

back home in Marion. In her office they were introduced to Colonel

Forbes who, my sister told me, took quite a fancy to Elizabeth Ann.

Mrs. Votaw entertained them at the Senate Dining-Room for luncheon,

where, Elizabeth said, Vice-President Coolidge sat across from them

at the next table. In the afternoon Mrs. Votaw took them through the

White House, and, Elizabeth said, voiced her regret that her brother,

the President, was attending a conference. Otherwise, Mrs. Votaw told

them, they might have gone in to see him. And also otherwise, I have

often thought wistfully, he might have seen his own little daughter

whom he never once saw in the almost four years she had been living

at the time he passed on in San Francisco. A queer topsy-turvy set of

circumstances--the President’s own sister escorting the President’s own

child, unknown to her as such, through his home and grounds!

[Illustration: This photograph of Elizabeth Ann was taken by the author

to Mr. Harding at the White House]

I almost devoured Elizabeth Ann when she landed with Scott and

Elizabeth in New York. She was but two-and-a-half, and the best-natured

child imaginable. I shall never forget how she became sleepy during

our gaddings, and actually walked along the street so asleep that the

sympathetic interest of pedestrians was drawn to her. I would take her

on my lap every chance I got, hugging her to me, and worshipping the

little face which bore to me such a pathetic resemblance to her father.

And, oh, the joy of taking her to bed with me, and of doing the little

things for her which she told me in her baby way she wanted done--her

back rubbed or her “pidda” fixed this or that way. I think there is

nothing comparable to the pleasure it gives a mother to wait upon her

baby, though in the extreme it may possibly be poor training for the

child.

Scott sailed for Bremen on the _America_ (1922) and I gave up my work

at Columbia, having completed the first semester with a B grade, and

returned with Elizabeth and the baby to Chicago to remain the year

Scott was to be abroad. That spring and summer I resumed my treatments

with Dr. Barbour and in the fall, feeling much stronger, sought a

suitable secretarial position. I did some part-time work during that

summer, but for the most part I remained at home helping as I could

with the house work and taking care of my precious darling.

_72_

On the afternoon of June 8, 1922, Elizabeth, my sister, had gone

downtown and Elizabeth Ann and I were alone in the apartment. I had

been taking a bath and had gone into my bedroom for something, and when

I came back to the bathroom I found the baby had locked herself in. She

was always at my heels, but I did not know that she ever even so much

as touched the lock on the door. As the door could be opened only from

the inside, and as the baby could not open it, I became frantic. She

was then only two-and-a-half years old.

I called in to her, telling her what to do to release the lock, but it

was a difficult one to turn, more easily locked than unlocked. There

was a note of fear in the tiny voice when she inquired “How do I do

it?” I called down from the back porch to the lady who lived on the

first floor and she suggested that I call the fire department. I put

the call in immediately. Between the time the baby had locked herself

in and the time the fire department arrived, I played “post office”

with her, sitting outside the door on the floor and pushing innumerable

envelopes, papers, blotters, etc., under the door which she in turn

would push back with a giggle. I had quieted her and that quieted me

somewhat.

Evidently the fire department didn’t often have calls to rescue babies

who had locked themselves in bathrooms, and the fire chief was quite

annoyed. However, they hoisted the ladder, and a fireman climbed

through the open bathroom window, unlocked the door, and allowed a very

calm and undisturbed Elizabeth Ann to walk forth.

This proved to be too unusual a thing for the ubiquitous newspaper

reporters to pass up, and within ten minutes after the rescue the

doorbell rang. _The Chicago Tribune_ wished to take my picture and that

of the baby together! Yes, perhaps right there before the bathroom door

would be the best, the reporter said.

I was so nervous that the possibility of any publicity frightened me

because I knew what Mr. Harding would say. I refused flatly to allow

them to take any pictures at all. “All right, madam, then we’ll make

up our own story!” the reporter threw back at me as I closed the door

upon him. I opened it again and called him back, explained that I

had been ill and that things like that made me very nervous. In the

end he promised not to make a great ado about it in _his_ paper, but

Elizabeth, my sister, came up the stairs almost simultaneously with

another more persistent reporter, from the Hearst headquarters. “They

want my picture and the baby’s” I cried hysterically. Elizabeth turned

calmly to the reporter. “Can’t you come back in the morning?” she

smiled, after she had learned what it was all about. They consented.

Elizabeth promised that they might snap the baby’s picture alone if

they would return in the morning. And so it was.

I have the picture clipping which appeared in the Hearst daily on June

9, 1922; it is headed, “FIRELESS RESCUE.” It shows the side of the

apartment building, with ladder, faked in pen and ink, against the

apartment, and a child’s arms extended from the window above toward

the rescuing fireman. Below is a good-sized picture of Elizabeth Ann

Willits, a very excellent likeness of her, quite Harding-like.

_73_

My baby was ill. As I try to recall now the exact time of her illness

my memory fails me--even to the month. But the memory of the terror of

that experience shall stay with me forever.

I had not been home long from a sojourn in the hospital, where I had a

slight throat operation, when I began to notice that Elizabeth Ann was

not as lively as usual. Then one morning I looked at her closely. Her

eyes drooped unnaturally. The circles under her eyes, too, which are a

Harding facial characteristic, were darker than usual, and she dragged

her dolls and books through the hall with listlessness.

Scott was still abroad and Elizabeth and I were alone with the baby

in the apartment at that time. How can I forget how I hung upon every

word that fell from Dr. Barbour’s lips, every expression that crossed

his face when he came to see Elizabeth Ann! To this day I do not know

what Elizabeth Ann’s trouble was. I doubt if I asked Dr. Barbour at

that time. I was a coward. I felt her life was in my doctor’s hands and

I looked to him. But whatever the trouble, it was serious. She slept

most of the time--a heavy, dead sleep from which she seemed scarcely

able to open her eyes. Each hour, when medicine time came, I prayed

she would swallow the liquid, and when she opened her eyes I demanded

of her sharply that she take it. It was like nothing that I have ever

known--that sickness of my child. I held her in my arms. Her lips were

dry, almost colorless, it seemed. Her eyes always closed. The doctor

had ordered that her chest be covered with a white paste-like stuff and

then swathed in flannels. She submitted to this treatment with closed

eyes and a limpness of body that sent my heart racing with terror. All

day I would lie beside her. Often when I awoke in the middle of the

night she would be talking. I knew the fever made her talk aloud. God!

What days those were! I myself was such an invalid that through the

day Elizabeth, my sister, alternately tended me and the baby. But like

nervous people, I felt improved as evening came on, and this made it

possible for me to care for Elizabeth Ann through the night while my

sister slept.

What joy to watch her recover! What sweet pain in my heart to see

her sit up in a chair! What gratitude I felt to Dr. Barbour for his

excellent ministry! And how often I sobbed myself to sleep, out of

sheer thankfulness to God for sparing her to me! And, as a normal

two-and-a-half does not require many weeks to regain lost baby

plumpness and pink cheeks, soon Elizabeth Ann was opening sparkling

eyes in the morning and closing play-tired ones at night. Elizabeth and

I would stand over her crib. We needed not the spoken word to read the

great relief and gratitude in each other’s eyes.

_74_

When I was a child, even before I had reached the age of ten, my

flights of imagination in picturing my future self always took one of

two directions--toward being an actress or a writer. It was said of

my mother that she possessed considerable dramatic ability when she

was a girl, and I know my father wrote extremely well. Neither mother

nor father realized the glories of these talents developed, except

in amateur, local settings. Doubtless, mother’s Quaker grandmother,

with whom she lived a great deal of the time, would have thrown up her

hands in holy horror at the mere mention of a stage career for her

granddaughter, Mary Lee Williams. So this love of the drama took with

my mother an entirely safe form, and she became known among her friends

and the townspeople as a monologuist of more than usual ability.

I am frank to say that the dramatic appeal of my own life-play, which

had passed the climactic stage with Elizabeth Ann’s entrance into the

world, greatly appeased the instinctive hunger for self-expression

which I likely inherited from my mother, and indeed I was finding the

drama in which I held the center of the stage to be fast developing

into a tragedy. A tragedy because it was failing--yea, had failed--to

provide the satisfying denouement which I had looked forward to with

hopeful heart at the rise of the curtain. This sense of unfinishment

had begun to prey upon my mind even before our baby came, but I had

banished it rather successfully with the full buoyancy of my nature

and had clung to visionary hopes and to Mr. Harding’s oft-repeated

statement to me that in his “sober judgment” he felt that our

relationship was “predestined.” And surely, I thought, predestination

would naturally slate lovers for the perfect fulfillment of their

desire in every direction.

But Life, stark with dire realities, confronted me now, and the

romantic illusions upon which I had fed were meeting with pitiful

destruction on many sides. Enforced separation from my beloved,

submission to an arrangement whereby I forfeited the glory of being

known as my own child’s mother, and continued ill-health, sufficed to

precipitate the unhappy disillusionments I was experiencing. And the

process of introspection and introversion constantly indulged, more

pronouncedly after a visit to Washington, seemed sometimes to leave

me momentarily in a terrifying state of inability to think at all, so

intensely _did_ I think.

It was this state of mentality which inclined me again to consider

the stage, and I began anew to see in it an outlet for “suppressed

emotions.” I had in the fall of 1920 succumbed to an advertisement and

taken some desultory instructions from a man who had his studio in the

Auditorium Building in Chicago, but it had seemed for many reasons

an unworthwhile investment and I had given it up. Now I pondered it

seriously. To live another’s vicissitudinous experiences might, I

thought, take my mind from my own mind and prove an emotional boon.

A very dear friend of mine, who knew the whole of my story, listened

sympathetically to these arguments and agreed it might help enormously

to relieve me both mentally and physically. She took me to see a friend

of hers who had long been a leader in the motion picture world, but,

after hearing from him and his wife that they would prefer to see their

daughter “scrub floors in the Boston Store” (that being considered a

low-priced department store in Chicago) than to enter upon a career in

the movies, I felt less inclined to view it with approval myself, and

this in spite of the fact that the motion picture magnate cordially

volunteered to allow me to act in the next film he produced, and

offered a camera test to see whether or not I screened well.

[Illustration]

Still harboring a hope that this character of activity might benefit

me, and feeling disinclined to return to secretarial work, and,

moreover, firmly convinced that I ought not to remain at my sister

Elizabeth’s entirely unemployed except for my preferred occupation of

being with and caring for our darling baby, I took my problem in early

June, 1922, down to Washington and laid it before Mr. Harding.

I remember how he smiled, the smile of an indulgent parent to a spoiled

child perhaps, when he said, “Why, sure! Go on! I think that would be

fine!” smiling at my tearful attempt to explain what must to him have

seemed like a wild idea. “_Then_ I’ll become a movie fan!” he added

merrily, having only been twice to the movies in Washington, he told

me. He said he was sure I could do as well as any actress he had ever

seen(!), and he also said he could understand how the partial outdoor

activity might do me good.

However, later on he wrote me, almost upon the heels of my departure

from Washington, asking me _not_ to consider going either into the

movies or on the stage, saying he had thought it over and was “afraid”

of it. No doubt he was thinking of possible publicity and ultimate

exposure. At any rate, I gave up the idea altogether and have never

been so tempted since. How I could have thought it possible to undergo

the hardships to which even the moderately successful screen or

stage artist is subjected--the rehearsals, travel, hours, etc.--is

incomprehensible to me now, when I remember that I was then making two

trips a week to the South Side to Dr. Barbour who was administering

iron hypodermics, and who even found it necessary to recommend that I

spend about half of my time in bed.

_75_

It was upon the occasion of this last-named visit to the White House

that I showed Mr. Harding the picture of Elizabeth Ann’s “rescue” which

had appeared in the Hearst paper in Chicago. I remember we were sitting

at his desk, and I can just see his face twitch and the impatient

gestures of his hands as he laid the picture upon his desk.

“Oh, Nan, _why_ did you allow it? Why _did_ you allow it?” he exclaimed

over and over. I failed to see why it should cause him so _much_

distress, and said so frankly. However, I told him in the same breath

that I tried to stop them. I wondered as I looked with him again at

the picture whether the headlines immediately above, which referred to

another column and read, “INTIMATE CHAT AT WHITE HOUSE,” added to his

disconcertion in seeing his daughter’s picture below. When I asked him

he did not reply; he only shook his head, his expression betraying the

perturbation he felt.

However, he had the happy ability to come out of things, and he picked

up the picture and looked at it again. This time he studied it and a

slow smile lit his face. It was Warren Harding, the man, the father,

who spoke next.

“Really, Nan, she’s much like you!” he said softly, as he folded up

the picture and handed it back to me. “Oh, darling, she’s much more

like _you_!” I insisted. “Why, just look at her _eyes_!” I exclaimed,

holding the picture up again for us both to look at. He smiled and

nodded acknowledgment of the resemblance so strikingly caught by the

Hearst cameraman. “Well, if she’s as sweet a baby as her mother is a

woman....” Mr. Harding concluded, leaving his desk and walking over to

the leather couch, where he was evidently not intending to sit alone.

This was on Sunday morning. A tall vase with pink roses stood upon his

desk, in memory of his mother. Mr. Harding himself was dressed for

church, and, as we dropped down together upon the couch he asked me

suddenly, as though it had just occurred to him, if I would care to

attend his church that morning. “Have Tim Slade drop you off there,” he

suggested, when I told him Tim was waiting for me outside with his car.

I was delighted. Mr. Harding seemed to be, too. We could at least be in

the same building for another hour!

We talked, as usual, of many things and he urged me to tell him

everything of interest that had happened to me since he last saw me.

Somehow it really was like bringing the outside world inside the prison

bars to the one shut in; he seemed so happy to hear of my doings. I

remember so well how back in ’17 or ’18 I used to relate to him my

experiences, usually after we had retired and I could lie close in his

arms, and, when I suddenly realized I had been talking steadily for

quite some time I would interrupt myself and apologize, and he would

say so adorably, “Why, Nan, I _love_ to listen to you!” Here in the

White House our time was limited, and I gradually learned that if I

wanted to touch upon all topics I must jot them down upon a card, and

scratch them off the list as I spoke of them to Mr. Harding. Which I

invariably did. I told him at this time of a diary I had begun--it was

to contain accounts of my visits to him in the White House, as well as

the many little cunning things Elizabeth Ann was saying those days in

her sweet baby way. Again Mr. Harding shook his head. “Oh, dearie, you

_mustn’t_ keep such a book around. You must destroy it as soon as you

return to Chicago. Promise, Nan, that you will destroy it immediately!”

I promised readily, though, of course, presented healthy arguments to

disparage such a program. “Why, honey, I paid $11 for that book at

Dutton’s in New York last fall, and I have it almost over half full

now. I didn’t think you’d mind a diary!” But he pleaded with me to keep

nothing around, in my trunk or elsewhere, that would be evidence of

our relationship, and, of course, I said I would not from then on. I

felt hurt about having to destroy the pages of that beautiful lavender

diary. I have retained the cover and the blank pages that were left. I

remember writing him after I returned to Chicago, and telling him that

it had been destroyed and that now there existed nothing that could be

taken as evidence of our dearness to each other--nothing save my first

letters from him, my autographed picture of him, and my Harding book

of newspaper clippings to which he never seemed to object because the

material was public anyway.

We talked about the baby, about his cousins, the Weseners, who lived

scarcely half a block from Elizabeth’s and many things, all hurried

discussions, but still discussions. Then Mr. Harding stood up to take

me in his arms.

“Honestly, darling,” I exclaimed as I held out my hand for him to pull

me to my feet, “You are the best looking thing that I have ever seen!”

His smile was the smile of the little snapshot I have of him, the smile

he knew I so adored, the smile our daughter gives me occasionally which

stirs me so deeply and moves me to tears, it is so sweetly reminiscent

of her father’s smile. “Well, dearie,” he replied, “_that’s_ something

I just can’t help, you know!” And then for a brief space of time--all

too brief--we became oblivious to our surroundings, to his identity as

President of the United States, and to all the world. “Why don’t you

tell me you love me, Nan darling,” he coaxed, and I told him over and

over again, as I had told him a thousand times, “I love you, darling

Warren Harding, I love you.”

In low tones Mr. Harding told me again how he dreamed of having me all

night with him, which prompted my usual query, “How is Mrs. Harding

now?” He lifted his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders and replied

in the usual way, “Oh, all right!” There was, as I have said, always

a certain deprecatory attitude which he seemed to reserve for Mrs.

Harding. I remember in one of my very early letters to him back in

1917, I expressed some concern over the possible greetings he might

have for his legal wife when he met her again after his absences from

home, and in his reply letter he had written, “You need give yourself

no concern over that, sweetheart. My kiss for her is most perfunctory,

I can assure you!” Indeed, I have often thought with the pardonable

vanity of one who is conscious ever of priority in her sweetheart’s

thoughts, that likely Mrs. Harding was, as Mr. Harding had stated to

me concerning another woman whom we both knew, as safe with him “as

though she were in jail, Nan!” And I think his affectional interest in

his wife had ceased long, long before Mr. Harding and I met in New York

in 1917.

These mental dips back into the recent past occurred as he touched upon

possible plans on Mrs. Harding’s part which would make possible for

us a night together somewhere in Washington. It seemed to me he did

not even value her casual companionship. As we sat there that morning

on his couch in his private office, I expressed a wish that instead

of going to church we might go off somewhere to be alone. “Gee, I do,

too, dearie!” was his enthusiastic rejoinder. “Will Mrs. Harding go

to church with you?” I inquired. He nodded. “Yes, and I have another

appointment this morning before church, and am fifteen minutes late for

it now!” I arose. I’m sure that he, too, had forgotten that he was the

President of the United States.

He walked over to his desk and selected a lovely pink rosebud for me.

Then he unlocked his private drawer and took out the bills he wanted

to give me--mainly the money due Elizabeth and Scott for our baby’s

care. I had tried hard not to complain too much of arrangements then

existent in view of the fact that Elizabeth, the baby, and I, were

living happily together then, but these partings always stirred up

the feeling of incompleteness, and made me long intensely for a happy

fulfillment with him whom I loved. I felt the urge to say to him that

we _must_ make a change, rescind existing plans for the future, allow

me the happy restitution of motherhood, frankly acknowledged, and solve

a problem that was becoming growingly more complicated and difficult of

permanent solution.... But I only kissed him back in purest passion,

and to his query, “Are you happy, dearie?” I whispered “Yes!” against a

soft lapel.

When I joined Tim Slade outside in his handsome car my eyes were

still wet and I fondled the pink rosebud reminiscently. Tim asked

me if I cared to drive, and I said yes, but that I intended to go

to Mr. Harding’s church later on. He directed the chauffeur to

take us out along the river, and Tim and I talked. Tim knew so many

things of interest to me then because they had a direct bearing upon

the President and his tremendous problems, and I thoroughly enjoyed

listening to him.

Our drive lasted too long, for I was unable to secure a front-row

balcony-seat, from where Mr. Harding had told me I might see best all

over the church. However, I found one three or four rows back and could

look over the balcony and down upon the fast-whitening head of the

President. It was all strongly reminiscent of the early days in Marion

when I, as a child, was wont to go anywhere and everywhere just to be

close to my hero. For a whole precious hour my eyes were riveted upon

him, and I was unspeakably happy just to look at him. My heart was full

of tears. If only I could have him forever--even at a distance like

this--just to worship him! I loved him so.

The official car stood outside the church and I hastened down so that

I might watch him pass out. He did not see me, because I had to be

careful, as he had instructed, that Mrs. Harding did not see me, but I

watched him nevertheless from a point of safe vantage. Then I walked

slowly back to my hotel, had luncheon, and went to a movie, where I sat

through two shows in order to see twice the news event which pictured

my darling welcoming delegates, from somewhere, on the White House

lawn. Mr. Harding always seemed to know which was the best train to

take out of Washington, no matter whether I might be returning west or

east, and he had that time told me of a very good train for Chicago

which I could get if I wanted to wait until late that afternoon or

early evening. That was why I filled in my time going to a movie, when

I more naturally would have hastened to leave the city which held him

after his disappointing statement that he could not see me again that

visit.

[Illustration: The White House in Summer]

[Illustration: The White House in Winter]

_76_

It was July 5th, 1922, when I next saw President Harding, about a

month after the visit which I have just related. But this time I saw

him along with thousands and thousands of others. The occasion was the

100th anniversary of the founding of the city of Marion, Ohio, his home

town and mine.

I went down to Marion from Chicago on the night of the 3rd, arriving

about 7:00 on the morning of the Fourth. Every family in Marion had

crowded homes, “filled up” with extra guests, for it was reported that

Marion accommodated about 50,000 extra people for that homecoming

event. Inasmuch as I had advised no one of my coming, I was obliged,

even with a host of friends living in Marion, to go to a hotel, and

I secured a room there only through my knowing the wife of that

particular hotel proprietor.

President Harding spoke at the Marion Fairgrounds on the afternoon of

the 5th. I drove up to the grounds with Mrs. John Fairbanks, of whom I

have spoken before. She had been Annabel Mouser, my chum, daughter of

former Congressman Grant E. Mouser, the then Judge of the Common Pleas

Court. She and the others in the car, seeming indifferent as to whether

or not they heard Mr. Harding, threw themselves down upon the green

while I alone went over nearer the grandstand to listen to his speech.

Annabel Fairbanks always treated with pretended disdain my adoration of

Mr. Harding and his sister Daisy.

“Oh, you and your Hardings weary me!” she said, “Go on over; we’ll wait

right here for you.”

It seemed to me always that Mr. Harding was more than human. In my

Harding book I have the following clipping from a March 4, 1921, paper,

the day of his inauguration:

“The sun struck the inaugural stand in such a manner as to make his

head appear in a halo. It was so marked that there was comment on it

from the crowd.”

He was, to me, almost divine. I remember once, in 1920, the first time

he came out to see me at my sister Elizabeth’s (6103 Woodlawn Avenue,

Chicago) in June of that year, that we were “talking things over,” I

on his lap. My elbow accidentally struck his ribs. “Ouch, dearie!” he

exclaimed. I apologized and asked if I had hurt him. “No, you just

poked me in the ribs!” he laughed. “Ribs!” I echoed, “Have _you those

things_?” I shall never forget his low laugh as he hugged me.

It seemed to me I had never heard Warren Harding speak so feelingly as

on that afternoon when he addressed his home town people and the great

throng of visitors who had come from miles over the country to hear

him. I well remember how he ended his speech, with a quotation from a

piece my mother often used to recite. It was the concluding verse of

Will Carleton’s poem, “The First Settler’s Story,” and goes:

“Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds,

But you can’t do that way when you’re flying words.

Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead,

But God Himself can’t kill ’em, once they’re said!”

He must have been inspired by knowledge of all the gossip that had

surrounded his campaign, and I wondered, standing there in the bright

sun, bare-headed, again adoring my hero from afar, how there could live

one who would open his lips unkindly about Warren Gamaliel Harding!

In front of me stood Lois Archbold, as I shall call her, a neighbor

and former teacher of mine. She had been a life-long friend of our

family and my sister Elizabeth and I had each experienced the school

girl “crush” on her which we usually developed upon our teachers. She

and her sister were probably as strong Democrats as lived in Marion,

and I was surprised to see Lois there in view of all the severe things

I had been told by Miss Harding had passed her lips during the recent

campaign--things so unkind that even Daisy Harding, who had up to that

time been a friend of Miss Archbold and her sister, and had accepted

their politics good-naturedly, ceased to speak to both of them on the

street. And even I had been tempted to follow suit when I was in

Marion in November of 1920 and Daisy had repeated to me these things

when I went to visit with her during her luncheon hour at the high

school or at her home.

Miss Harding had told me how her brother Warren had been instrumental

in helping the Archbold sisters to better positions, and she had

related how he had jocosely inquired of them on the morning of the

Presidential election which way they intended to vote! Politics never

stood in Mr. Harding’s way where friendship was concerned. Still, both

the Archbold sisters had been frank to sponsor the cause of James M.

Cox, Democratic candidate for President in 1920, and there is every

reason to believe that they cast their votes for him. And now to see

Lois Archbold right in front of me listening to Mr. Harding speak! I

was amazed.

There was all about me the sound of clearing of throats and blowing of

noses, and my own eyes were wet when Mr. Harding ceased speaking. But

you may be sure it was by far the greatest surprise I had received for

a long time to behold Lois Archbold’s eyes streaming with tears when

she, unconscious of my presence in the immediate crowd, turned to walk

away. It was to me only another triumph for my beloved Warren.

_77_

When we returned to Judge Mouser’s the judge was sitting on the porch,

and his remark to his wife was, “Dell, one of us ought to go over to

Dr. Harding’s and say how-do-you-do to President and Mrs. Harding.”

Dr. Harding was the President’s father. His home was the social

headquarters for the presidential party. After considerable discussion,

Mrs. Mouser decided she herself would go and convey the Judge’s

compliments to the President and his wife.

“But you must come along with me, Nan,” she said turning to me.

I insisted I did not care to go, fearing Mr. Harding might disapprove

for some reason, but Mrs. Mouser naturally could not see why I objected

to going.

“You adore Mr. Harding so, Nan, and always have, so I can’t see why you

object to going over--it’s just a matter of form, anyway.” So it did

seem up to me to accompany her and in the end I consented.

Annabel, or else young Mrs. Grant Mouser (I have forgotten which),

drove us over but would not go in with us.

We found that Mr. Harding had gone off with the Dr. Carl Sawyers, Sr.

and Jr., and Brigadier-General Charles G. Dawes to play golf, but Mrs.

Warren Harding was receiving informally in the living-room of Dr.

Harding’s home. With her we found Mr. and Mrs. “Ed” Uhler, and it seems

to me another person whom I cannot recall now was there also.

If I had any personal misgivings as to the spirit of Mrs. Harding’s

greeting they were entirely without foundation, for, after shaking

hands with Mrs. Mouser, she held out her hand to me with a smile. “Why,

how-do-you-do, Nan? How are you?” she inquired pleasantly. If I had

ever had reason to doubt that Warren Harding’s love for another woman

was suspected by his legal wife, I was with this meeting disarmed

of all further semi-pleasurable apprehension that I was the person

Florence Harding would name! As a matter of frank truth, it was never

that I particularly cared whether or not she did discover it, but Mr.

Harding’s statement to me that “she’d raise hell, Nan!” had been my

cue for guarding well a situation which Mr. Harding had termed his

“greatest joy.” In the past year and a half, Tim Slade has stated

to me that if Florence Harding had known the love Warren Harding

and I bore to each other, the qualities latent in her temperament

would not have released him but might very possibly have sought some

form of retaliation. What a strange love, I thought, that would hold

the happiness of one’s husband in a vise! But my solicitude for Mr.

Harding’s peace of mind insured every cautionary measure on my part.

There in the familiar atmosphere of Dr. Harding’s home, it occurred

to me that perhaps now Mrs. Warren Harding might drop her patronizing

manner and become natural; certainly the Uhlers, genuine people,

inspired such naturalness, for I knew them to be as good friends as

the Hardings had in Marion. In my Harding book I have a clipping which

says of Warren Harding, “President Harding has one of those rare

temperaments which can keep aloof and cool at close range,” and I know

that even from my own experience of greeting him in public places

where it seemed wise for us to maintain a certain dignity, I was ever

conscious of his “close range” and felt the sincere warmth of his

smile and hand pressure sufficient to assure me that he was not above,

but one with, me. Mrs. Harding was looking particularly well on that

occasion and I am sure that her general hauteur of manner was felt by

her to be in keeping with the position in which she had found herself.

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Harding continued what had become a monologue, “I

keep Warren the best dressed man in Washington.”

I could not help remembering how happy Mr. Harding was when he could

just lounge around in his old clothes. Moreover, Mr. Harding had said

to me, “Brooks is my valet; responsible for my clothes,” when we had

discussed him in connection with sending my letters to Mr. Harding

through Brooks.

“That’s right, Florence!” laughed Mr. Uhler, “don’t let anyone get

ahead of you!”

_78_

The afternoon following Mr. Harding’s speech at the Fairgrounds was an

exciting one also. I was visiting that day with Ellen Lucile Mezger

Stoll, whose brother, Roscoe Mezger, was married to Florence Harding’s

daughter-in-law, Mrs. Esther DeWolfe. Ellen Lucile’s little twin

girls were about five years old and Ellen and I took them with us,

it seems to me, when we went down to witness the program scheduled

for that afternoon in honor of President Harding. It was to include a

parade of many organizations, which would file past the Presbyterian

Church at the corner of Church and Prospect Streets, where a temporary

grandstand, gayly beflagged, had been erected for the President and his

party.

Ellen Lucile, the babies, and I found a good place to stand on the

steps of the house next door to the church, and cheered lustily with

the crowd as President Harding, Miss Daisy Harding, and other members

of the President’s party descended from their automobiles and mounted

the steps of the grandstand. President Harding looked stunning, and

Ellen Lucile turned to me and said, “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?”

I told Miss Daisy Harding afterwards that _she_ was beautiful, too, and

it seemed to me a real pity that _she_, who typified everything lovely

in American womanhood, could not grace the social throne of the First

Lady of the Land, instead of Florence Harding. She had once written

to me about her brother, “He _looks_ like a real President, Nan,” and

I simply extended that expression to her when I hold her she herself

_looked_ like a real First Lady.

One segment of the parade consisted of a number of Civil War veterans,

and I observed from my post where I stood on tiptoe that the President

was shaking hands with these dear old fellows. When they passed where

Ellen Lucile and I were standing I suddenly spied my own Grandfather

Williams, whom I had not even known was in town for the celebration. I

broke through the ranks of people and ran out into the street to greet

him. The dear old darling! I thought. He was probably as staunch a

Republican as there is in the United States. The day was exceedingly

warm and the heavy military belt Grandfather was wearing had become

irksome and he had removed it and was now carrying it over his arm. He

kissed me before the crowd and said, “Did you see me shake hands with

the President? He even remembered me! He said, ‘Oh, yes, I know you all

right, you needn’t tell me your name!’” Grandfather beamed his pride.

I thought to myself as I patted affectionately the arm of this proud

member of the G. A. R., “Probably my sweetheart was thinking, ‘This is

Nan’s grandfather. I’d like to be especially nice to him!’” That would

be just like my sweetheart.

I returned to Chicago after that trip just as soon as I knew Warren

Harding was enroute to Washington. I had not seen him in private at

all, nor even attempted to advise him of my presence in Marion, but

somehow I cannot tell anyone how inexpressibly happy it always made me

just to be near him. I did not need to be sharing with him an embrace

or kiss in order to feel ecstatic happiness. Just to be near him

satisfied me.

In my next letter I told him all about my visit to Marion, how I had

listened to his speech at the Fairgrounds, and even in detail of how

I had gone with Mrs. Mouser to Dr. Harding’s to call upon him and

Mrs. Harding and had found him gone, but had talked briefly with Mrs.

Harding. But, as I felt, letters didn’t amount to much those days.

Washington was such a long way off!

_79_

In August of that same year, 1922, I accepted a position as secretary

to Walter Dill Scott, President of Northwestern University, in

Evanston, Illinois. With the exception of severe spells of weakness I

felt much stronger, even equal to the daily trips back and forth on

the elevated to work. There were several girls under consideration for

the position and I, feeling always a certain sense of independence,

because I was not really leaning financially upon any position, grew

impatient with President Scott for not deciding immediately upon one

of us. Finally he narrowed his selection to two of us, and we both

were requested to take the famous psychology Scott Test. This we did

one morning sitting on either side of Dr. Scott’s desk, and, though

my grade was below the other girl’s, we were both considerably above

average, and for some reason President Scott chose me. I enjoyed being

out there. The natural beauty of the campus comforted me. And I think

it pleased Mr. Harding immensely to have me there. I remember he

wrote, “Gee, Nan, I think that’s just fine!” when I had apprised him of

my new job.

But even with this comparatively perfect arrangement--living right with

my baby and working in a congenial atmosphere--I was not happy. The

constant shock of realizing that I must _do_ something immediately if I

would claim Elizabeth Ann as mine fairly dogged my mental footsteps. My

mind was ever at work trying to formulate a plan whereby I might cancel

the adoption altogether and proclaim my rightful motherhood.

I was, however, willing that the present regime should, while I thus

meditated upon a course of action, justify itself, though I knew

that when my brother-in-law returned from abroad the resumption of a

three-cornered parentage would leave me still unsatisfied.

Elizabeth lovingly approved of Elizabeth Ann’s calling me “Mamma Nan,”

which she did for quite a while. I never encouraged or approved of her

calling me “Aunt Nan,” because I am not her aunt and do not wish to be

so called by her. She calls me plain “Nan” now, which is better than

prefixing it with “Aunt.” Often during those days when Elizabeth Ann

called me “Mamma Nan” someone would remark about it and I would have to

brush it aside with an explanation. This never failed to cause a wave

of weakness to pass over me as I faced the blunt truth that practically

I had made myself her aunt by submitting to an adoption by my sister

and her husband.

People remarked her fondness for me, and my most unnatural fondness

for her who was not supposed to be related to me. Elizabeth had taken

in two girls as roomers, finding it difficult even with Mr. Harding’s

generous allowance to keep up the expenses in connection with the

household, send Scott a specified amount monthly for his expenses

abroad where he was studying, and keep her own piano lessons paid for.

Both of these girls were very fond of Elizabeth Ann. I remember I was

jealous of their attention to her, not wanting anyone to have her but

myself, fiercely resenting references to her as my sister’s “daughter,”

even with the love I bore my sister. My daughter was a passion with me

and I simply worshipped her. She and I would retire early, nearly every

night, even as early as six-thirty sometimes, immediately after dinner,

and I would have her in my bed with me until seven o’clock or so when

she had to go to sleep in her crib. Oftentimes I kept her with me all

night, and I lay awake thinking, planning, my face against her silken

hair, her hand in mine, long after she had gone to sleep.

_80_

During the summer, Grace Cunningham, who had been my eighth grade

teacher back in Marion, Ohio, came to Chicago to attend normal school.

My sister Elizabeth, who had always been particularly fond of Miss

Cunningham, entertained her at our home for a couple of days. Miss

Cunningham occupied my bedroom while she was at our apartment. One

whole side of my wall was devoted to photographs of the Harding family.

On the other side hung a picture of me as a child, the picture Vail’s

had taken when I was five and which Mr. Harding had published in his

paper, _The Marion Daily Star_.

“Nan,” remarked Grace Cunningham to me one morning, “I wouldn’t know

whether this picture was of you or of Elizabeth Ann--which is it?”

Which was certainly eloquent proof to me that she had recognized in

me the mother of the baby, even though she had not said so in so many

words.

I wondered how she would react to the actual truth. I had always felt

that Grace Cunningham, though a maiden lady, was thoroughly romantic,

and she had given me during that visit reason to feel she would view

broad-mindedly certain situations not condoned by the general run of

people.

However, I was forced to conclude to myself that perhaps what people

might think of the child of Warren Harding was not the usual opinion

held in regard to the children-of-love-alone. As the days passed, I was

beginning to realize, from sententious remarks of certain people, that

in no wise would there be universal condonation where Elizabeth Ann

and I were concerned if the situation were not protected _legally_. Mr.

Harding’s statement to me when I went to Asbury Park, “Pay your way,

Nan; money is power,” seemed not to appear so all-inclusive to me now

as then.

[Illustration: Likeness]

In other words, in my own case, not being able to divulge the identity

of my child’s father, which might place her above the ordinary run of

love-children, the great love I had for the man himself whose child I

had borne would be self-stamped with the brand of commonplaceness--yea,

of a monstrous sin committed against society! And all the money in

the world could not blot out the significance of such expression. And

millions of safely married women nightly deplored the indulgence which

threw them into an intense state of worriment from month to month!

Love-children! The very words are beautiful and rightly belong only

where the impulse itself has been lovely.

But even though I myself were willing, for the sake of having my child,

to bear the stings such a stigma would inevitably carry, could I, in

fairness to my little girl, suffer her to be placed in a position where

she would receive at best more of critical sympathy than understanding

love? Of her love for me I was as sure as I was of that of her father,

and never for a moment entertained the idea that she might turn against

me, as was suggested to me by certain ones to whom I dared to confide

my longing to proclaim my motherhood. My own case was simple, and when

she grew older she would understand. I had, before I gave Mr. Harding

the full measure of love, loved no man in a degree even approachable

to the love I had for one smile from Mr. Harding. As his sister, Mrs.

Votaw, had laconically said to me upon the occasion of one of my

visits to Marion, though she knew not whereof she spoke: “You never

really loved anybody but Warren, Nan.” Therefore, to be relegated to

the list of possible wrong-doers would be to impute wrong motives to

the one beautiful impulse of my life, and the only impulse I had ever

experienced which carried with it the sacred instinct to which my mind

had given birth under the breath of Warren Harding’s love long before

my body had known its realization in motherhood. Knowing so well my

own heart, it would have been but the crowning glory of my experience

to tell the world that Warren Harding was the father of my child, to

dwell with others in open admiration upon her smile which is the smile

of her father, or upon her lovely eyes which are lighted with the

lights of his eyes.

But, if my sweetheart, the father of my child, had been of lowly

estate, what then? Ah, then indeed, from what I could see of the

hypocrisy of mankind, I would suffer the unjust criticism of slanderous

charges--that I had “sold myself cheaply,” or, indulging an unbridled

passion, had been unable to escape the penalty. This would be the

inevitable result, and might in a measure attach itself to human

opinion even if a frank declaration from her father revealed his

fatherhood. But in either event, the stains of ignominy would attach

themselves _to the child and mother_--and why? Simply because that

mother did not seek to strike his existing legal bonds asunder. As

Warren Harding said to me the last visit I had with him in the White

House, “If you had been _born earlier_, Nan!...” If I had been born

earlier Warren Harding would have undoubtedly chosen me for his _legal_

bride. But I was never even so much as tempted to try to destroy a

legal yoke which had existed thirty years merely for the sake of

bending my head under a similar one, thereby legalizing with man-made

law that love which was already God-given.

In her own way Florence Harding may have loved her husband, and I

am glad today that I do not have upon my conscience the remembrance

of marital interference which would have added not a whit to the

love Warren Harding and I had for each other and might possibly have

succeeded only in precipitating sordid gossip. Yet I say this with the

full knowledge of my own influence over the man I loved and who loved

me, and had I exerted that influence selfishly in my own behalf I might

early in our sweetheart days have solved the problem which remains

unsolved and which has led me to write this book.

How then, I pondered, could I save the good name of my child if I

acknowledged my motherhood? Where lay the possibility of a continued

sharing of sweet intimacies with her father? And where, oh, where,

lay my own peace of mind? Certainly no good result could come from my

constant mental pandemonium!

My sweetheart, in the very nature of his position, had sacrificed what

would have been to him and me the culminating happy years of our love,

by the political victory which would doubtless eventuate in claiming

four or eight years of his life. Could our present personal regime

survive over a period of eight years? It could not, I decided, if I

were to keep my right mind and continue ever-alert vigilance in Mr.

Harding’s behalf. No human being, I argued to myself in despair, could

withstand the devastating mental effects of a problem so seemingly

unsolvable, so shattering from the very method in which a solution had

been effected. A cowardly, covering adoption of the daughter of the

President of the United States!

And so on and on ... and the days passed, and months were behind me,

and still my mind continued to go round and round, evolving no workable

plan, however, and I continued to support to the best of my ability the

regime as it stood.

_81_

But I never for one moment ceased searching for a plan, and I wonder

now as I write just when the plan which I decided definitely to follow

after Mr. Harding’s death, really took form in my mind. It may even as

early as that summer--1922--have been latent within my consciousness,

and my subconscious thinking might very possibly have directed a

course of action which would have received vigorous opposition from my

conscious thought.

I began to perceive the _easy way out_ was to find myself a husband.

It would be comparatively easy then to take Elizabeth Ann, give her

my married name, and, having her thus _legalized_ as mine, confess to

the man that I would never love him except for the fact that he had

made it possible for me to have my child with me. Some may think that

this was a most unworthy contemplation, even as it was admittedly a

subconscious consideration, but it must be remembered that my child was

growingly dearer to me than life itself, and I did not even so much as

dwell upon the sacrifice of mind and body which such an arrangement

would mean to me. Somehow, I thought _that_ was possible of working

out by “_paying my way_,” and I would choose to marry someone whom I

could easily dominate, with whom my secret, if I elected to tell him

my secret, would be safe, and who withal had sufficient worldly goods

to put up a front consistent with being Elizabeth Ann’s father. I was

even willing for the sake of having her myself to eliminate certain

demands I had made when submitting to the adoption by my sister and

her husband, viz., that Scott attain for himself as soon as possible

music prestige which would becomingly fit him to fill the role of

foster father to Warren Harding’s and my child. I would dispense with

this requirement in any man I might choose to marry because I did not

mean, down in my heart, that he should fill much of a role in that way.

Who knows? Maybe I intended to leave him after I had taken his name

for myself and my child! I know I would then have been capable of just

such procedure had I determined to act upon it. Or perhaps those same

fates which had so generously guarded Warren Harding and me during

our earlier days would intervene later on to make possible the great

miracle of our own marriage!

Thereupon, with provisionary intent, I began to consider this one and

that as a husband possibility. My acquaintance among men was limited.

I dabbled unhappily however in friendships, trying to see this one or

that in the role of step-father to our child, and recoiling ever unless

my subject of concentration seemed to display conspicuous ability in

the matter of winning Elizabeth Ann’s affection; this at least, I

thought, would be desirable.

I even went so far as to confess to Mr. Harding, upon my next trip to

the White House, that such a course of action had suggested itself to

me, and the memory of the disappointment and hurt in his expression

should have been sufficient to cause me not only to immediately abandon

further thoughts along this line as unworthy, but to be heartily

ashamed that I had ever voiced such thoughts to him.

But my confession was made only because I sought, in mental

desperation, a way to make my child my very own. I even mentioned

one man who at that time seemed logical for my own peculiar marriage

purposes. Mr. Harding faced me on the couch in his private office.

“Don’t you think he would be a safe person to marry?” I asked him

earnestly.

“Well, Nan, do you think you could _love_ this fellow?” Mr. Harding

inquired of me gently. I did not look directly at him, though I

answered him quickly.

“Of course _not_, but _that_ wouldn’t matter!”

Mr. Harding’s voice was firm and I knew he was looking at me

searchingly.

“Oh, yes, dearie, it would!” It was as though he were reasoning with a

small child, I felt, one who did not know what was good for her to do.

“That would be grossly unfair to the man, Nan darling,” he went on very

gently, as I continued to avoid his eyes, looking down at my hand which

played with my “wedding ring” from Mr. Harding.

“Well,” I said finally with emphasis, raising my eyes now to my

sweetheart, “You _know_ I never _shall_ love anybody but you!”

What relief and joy overspread his face! The exclamation that escaped

his lips seemed almost a sob as he crushed me to him. How I loved him

for wanting me so! But how I also loved my child and wanted her!

_82_

During the interim between this and my next visit, which must have been

in late August or early September, Tim Slade came to Chicago to deliver

a package from Mr. Harding which contained money and a letter to me.

Tim Slade came several times to Chicago, and I always met him at the

Congress Hotel. He was frank to express to me his feeling toward Mrs.

Harding, which amounted to much more than mere dislike, and on one

occasion revealed his resentment toward her which had been aroused by

the occasion of one of his visits to me. He said Mrs. Harding, knowing

he was going to make a trip to Chicago, but not of course knowing why,

had said to him, “Tim, where are you going?” His resentment because of

her curiosity prompted a reply which Tim said simply enraged her, and

she _demanded_ to know why he was going to Chicago. He said he told

her it was to meet some member of his family who was to be in Chicago

on the day he planned to see me. It was Tim Slade himself who recently

reminded me that Mr. Harding had one time sent another man to Chicago

because he, Tim, could not go, and I recalled then that I did meet

someone other than Tim, at our usual meeting-place, the Congress Hotel.

I did not, you see, go to Washington every time Mr. Harding would have

liked to have me come. There were times when he could not have me, and

I went only when he wrote that it would be all right. Mr. Harding’s

letters expressed more and more his fear about our situation, and more

and more cautioned me to be guarded both in speech and action. And my

perturbation and dissatisfaction grew apace with his concern.

It seems to me it was the fall of 1922 when Miss Daisy Harding came

again to Chicago to visit her cousin, Mrs. John Wesener. She had

visited there in 1921, but at that time I was in New York. This

time her father, Dr. Harding, was there (with his wife by his third

marriage) and it so happened that my Grandfather Williams was visiting

at my sister Elizabeth’s at the same time.

Dr. Harding, Daisy’s father, and my grandfather were both Civil War

veterans and therefore old friends. So I took my grandfather to call

upon his friend, Dr. Harding. Grandfather Williams was usually careless

about his appearance, and I knew Dr. Harding had been kept carefully

groomed ever since his son’s election to the presidency, so I tactfully

suggested to Grandfather that he have his shoes shined, and upon that

occasion I myself brushed his coat and prepared him otherwise for his

call upon his old friend, the President’s father. My grandfather’s

pride was his uniform, and this he wore then, though I am sorry to say

it was sadly in need of cleaning and pressing, albeit he reserved this

dress for his G. A. R. encampments and other state occasions.

I remember I had not seen Dr. Harding except briefly since his son had

been made President, and it occurred to me he looked far different from

the man I used to see back in Marion driving around with his “horse and

buggy.” Then his shoes were as dusty as my grandfather’s, and I have

been in his home when it was futile for his daughter Daisy to urge him

not to pin his coat together with a safety-pin. He just would do it.

The two dear old fellows had a lovely confab over the Civil War, while

I, off in Miss Harding’s bedroom, visited with her. I have often

recalled that visit, for to me Daisy Harding was not quite the same

Daisy Harding I had known in high school. But perhaps this was only

natural. The world’s spotlight had fallen upon her, and she talked

about how she had to avoid the reporters who, as she said, literally

camped about wherever she went. I could readily appreciate this, but

I could not understand the change in her otherwise; and when one is

sister to the President one naturally takes for granted that one’s

friends know that one is subjected to reporters and even false news

items.

One reason why Miss Harding had come to Chicago was to purchase some

new clothes and these she showed me upon that visit with her. They

were lovely, but she needed nothing elaborate, in my estimation, to

accentuate the natural loveliness which was hers.

[Illustration:

_The President and his father_, DR. GEORGE T. HARDING

Dr. Harding with his horse and buggy on East Centre Street, Marion,

Ohio, in front of the _Star_ office

]

I could not help deploring the change in her which was not a becoming

change. I remember when I was a child, in Grace Cunningham’s eighth

grade class, I was given a poem by her to recite upon Lincoln’s

birthday. It was known as Lincoln’s favorite poem, and begins, “Oh,

why should the spirit of mortal be proud!” The changed Daisy Harding

brought this poem to my mind. I thought of the visits with her brother

Warren in the White House--the President of the United States--yet

to me he had not been changed a whit by this great honor; rather had

he been made nobler and more humble. And it grieved me to see this

instance of woman-change in Daisy Harding. But I loved her none the

less.

I remember a passing remark which Miss Harding made to me upon the

occasion of that visit. We were talking about my sister Elizabeth and

Miss Harding remarked her surprise that Elizabeth and Scott with their

music careers ahead of them (Scott a violinist and Elizabeth a pianist)

should have taken a baby. It occurred to me then, as it has occurred to

me dozens of times since in the distress of my own dilemma, that a more

admirable thing they could not have done, even though the baby were

taken from an orphan’s home, even though they had taken a child as a

means of preventing their too deep engrossment in themselves and their

“careers.” However, perhaps I am prejudiced in favor of taking care of

the babies in this world.

_83_