Winter--the last winter Warren Harding was ever to know on this

earth--was fast coming on. My letters from him spoke his disappointment

that he had not seemed able as yet to have me with him intimately in

Washington. Around Christmas time he wrote and sent me $250 with which

to buy my own Christmas present, besides having provided me liberally

with other Christmas money. With $225 of that $250 I bought myself a

little diamond and sapphire link bracelet, having indulged again in the

erroneous belief that a new trinket might help to make me forget--at

least while its newness lasted. This idea had become somewhat of a

mania with me. Whenever I found myself eaten to distraction with too

much thinking I would go out to purchase a gaily colored gown or a hat

or a pretty pin, eventually giving it away perhaps, but easing myself

at least during the moment of buying. I used to drag my darling baby

around with me on these mad hunts for happiness, which, alas, never

sparkles for the desolate even in caskets of diamonds and rubies.

I surfeited Elizabeth Ann with toys; there was nothing she wanted that

I did not immediately buy for her, often to my sister’s disgust. But

somehow I felt that my sorrow must also be Elizabeth Ann’s and that I

must assuage her grief, in advance, by heaping frivolous toys upon her

then, for I was sure she would be ultimately saddened by the knowledge

that I could not have her for my own. It is easy to see that my mind

was not functioning normally. I was becoming unable to view things

evenly, and the slightest mental upheaval brought on magnified mental

distortion, and a pronouncement of inevitable disaster; I rushed madly

about to find a method of forestalling the doom which seemed to impend.

But it was all so vain. Happiness for myself and my baby could not be

bought in stores. I could not escape the thing that was to come.

_84_

In my position at Northwestern University, as President Walter Dill

Scott’s secretary, which position I filled for six months, I was being

thrown into a social element I might have enjoyed had it not been for

my preoccupation in my own trying matter. Acting on impulse, I decided

to give up my work with President Scott and go into the University as

a student. I set about to gain Mr. Harding’s consent and approval.

I wrote him I wanted to see him on a matter, and he set the date of

my coming. It was in January, 1923, and the second semester of school

would begin in February.

[Illustration: Elizabeth Ann at four, while her mother was attending

Northwestern University, Evanston, Illinois]

Mr. Harding’s latest letter had inclined me to think that perhaps we

might be able to have more than a formal visit, and so I invested in

a lovely orchid neglige and ostrich-befeathered mules. These I hoped

I might have occasion to need upon my visit to Mr. Harding, and you

may be sure this intimation from him had set my heart beating wildly.

Perhaps I needed this intimate nearness to re-affix a certain sanity I

seemed to have lost; perhaps he needed me to help banish the harassing

fears besetting him on all sides.

Mrs. Warren G. Harding, wife of the President of the United States,

was a very sick woman. According to the bulletins she was still in a

critical condition at the time I saw Mr. Harding, despite the fact that

she had, I think, passed the crisis of her illness. Brigadier-General

Sawyer, personal physician to Mrs. Harding, headed the list of

doctors in attendance upon her. But Mrs. Harding had, as far back as

I could remember, been ill or ailing most of the time, and one time

in particular, when Mr. Harding was Senator, he had come over to New

York to see me during her illness and told me very calmly that they had

been “sure she would die.” So the credence given by most people at that

time to the unusual severity of her illness was somewhat discredited by

those of us who knew the chronic character of her sickness. And when

Mr. Harding wrote thus hopefully to me in very early January, I felt

sure that the papers had grossly exaggerated the First Lady’s illness,

and that likely by the time I reached Washington she would be on her

way to Florida, or some other place, for a period of recuperation.

_85_

I recall for many reasons that visit to the White House in January of

1923. Sometimes it recurs to me with such vividness that I long with

all my heart to be able to forget it. Mr. Harding’s letter conflicted

greatly with the situation as I actually found it, and I had not been

long with him when I saw that what I had taken literally as high hope

on his part to be able to have me as of our old sweetheart days was

really a dreamy lapse on his part into contemplation in writing of what

he would _love_ to do, rather than what he _could_ do.

My reaction to his unwitting deception was such as to sink me

immediately into a state of weeping, a bitter railing against fate, and

complaint such as I had never allowed myself to voice on any previous

visit to the White House no matter how low my spirits had been.

My preparations for this visit had been quite elaborate and extended

not only to the purchase of a new neglige, but also to a lovely hat

and dress and slippers. The dress was a stunning grey thing, and with

it I wore a hat which I had purchased at Joseph’s and for which I had

paid $55. My slippers were high-heeled patent leather trimmed with grey

suede. Mr. Harding helped to remove my squirrel coat and, as always,

remarked in an adorably off-hand manner which was really intimate,

“That’s a very good-looking outfit, Nan!” Then he looked at me and

said almost fiercely with that look which I always knew foretold a

tremendous hug and many kisses, “You pretty thing!” But I did not feel

in a dressy mood now that I knew the real situation with him.

We sat first in his private office, on the leather couch. I had brought

with me, to show to Mr. Harding, a cunning doll which I had bought

myself for Christmas, in company with the many dolls I had bought for

Elizabeth Ann. It was really a doll’s head mounted upon a stick, and

for the doll’s bodice there was a round music box, covered with a

frock which came down nearly to the end of the stick. When one twirled

the stick the frock stood out very stiffly and the doll appeared to be

dancing and humming a tune. The tune was a little German folk-song, and

it was this rather mournful melody which had attracted me; it somehow

chimed in with my spirit of persistent melancholy.

“What ’ave y’ got there, dearie?” asked Mr. Harding, looking down at

the doll. The day, I remember, was not particularly bright, and he

strained his eyes to look. I stopped crying and smiled wanly as I

slowly twirled the dancing doll. The sweet sadness of the music seemed

to fill the silent room. Mr. Harding smiled and took the doll out of my

hands. “Sh! darling,--they can hear out there in the hall.”

I suggested that we go into the ante-room. There Mr. Harding sat in

the corner of the couch and faced the window. I could observe his face

here, and I exclaimed, “Why, honey, what a terrible cold you have!”

His eyes and nose were red from it, his face was deeply lined as I had

never before seen it, and his drooping body expressed a dejection which

was shocking to see. “Believe me,” I told him, “if I had my way I’d see

that you got into bed until you are rid of that cold.” “Can’t do it,

dearie,” he said briefly, “got to keep going--why, right _now_ I am the

cynosure of the whole world--‘the President of the United States, with

a sick wife’!”

“How is Mrs. Harding, anyway?” I inquired. But, though the First Lady

of the Land lay not a block away, the subject of discussion, as Mr.

Harding said, of the whole world, in my world her fate did not even

seem to touch me. You see, my own problems eclipsed those of anybody

and everybody.

“About the same,” Mr. Harding replied to my query.

“Oh, dear!” I exclaimed, “I do hope she gets better and is able to go

to Florida!” Mr. Harding smiled and bent over to kiss me. “I do, too,

dearie!” he replied with an attempt at cheeriness. But the attempt

was a failure. In truth, the whole atmosphere of that visit was one

of finality. I felt a presentiment of much evil. I could not shake

off the uncanny feeling I was experiencing. And I know something of

that feeling communicated itself to Mr. Harding, if indeed he had not

already experienced it with me from the beginning of our visit.

“Nan,” Mr. Harding took my hand, “our matter worries me more than

the combined worries of the whole administration. It is on my mind

continually. Why, dearie,” he continued with something akin to shame,

“sometimes in the night I think I shall lose my mind worrying over it.”

Strange as it may seem, I could not then see why it should worry him so

much. Had we not passed through the most critical stages of possible

exposure? And had I not engineered the thing to the point of safety

thus far? I asked him, with rather a spirit of resentment. _I_ worried,

_too_. I told him, but it was not from fear of exposure, but from the

daily ghostly fear of living the rest of my life in such unhappiness as

that adoption had brought to me. It harassed me almost to the point of

insanity. _I wanted my baby_, I told him, bursting into tears.

Seeing me so distressed, Mr. Harding again tried to get hold of himself.

“Why, listen, darling, you are foolish to worry on that score. I have

told you that after I am out of office I myself will take her--you’d

give her to _me_, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” His attempt at a smile was

pathetic. I crept over closer to him, heedless of the stalking guard

outside the window.

“Oh, if you only could!” I breathed. But, I hastened to remind him, how

could he when Mrs. Harding....

“You must remember, dearie, that Mrs. Harding is older than I, and very

probably will pass on before I go, and if she goes first, remember, I

myself will adopt Elizabeth Ann and make her a _real_ Harding!” But, I

argued, Elizabeth and Scott had already adopted her. Would they? ...

could he?... I was anxious to have him banish _all_ my doubts.

“You leave that to me, Nan! I’ll manage all that when the time comes.

And in the meantime, you are to have ample funds, for them and for

yourself. _I expect to provide amply, in any event, for you and our

little girl as long as you both live._”

“Honey, why do you have Dr. Sawyer?” I asked him, as he used his

handkerchief. “My father used to make fun of him, really!” I informed

him frankly. Mr. Harding’s mouth twitched and registered a faint smile.

Seeing I had not offended him, I continued. “I don’t see why you have

to consult the same doctor Mrs. Harding consults, anyway. If he were

much of a doctor, he would put _you_ to bed!”

“_You’d_ take good care of me, wouldn’t you, Nan?” he asked fondly.

He bent over to kiss me. “I’m selfish to kiss you with this cold,” he

said, drawing back. “I don’t want to give it to you!” and the semblance

of a smile lighted his dear, tired face.

I kissed him very long in reply. “Say, sweetheart, I never got

_any_thing from you that wasn’t good!” I told him, kissing him again.

He stood up and took me in his arms in the corner away from the window.

He used to draw his mouth into a certain shape when he made ready to

kiss me, which somehow gave him and me the fullest rapture of the

kiss. I have never read or heard of anyone else doing it. After we had

returned to the couch he turned again to voicing his troubles.

“Nan,” he confided to me, “I’m in debt right now $50,000, and I just

can’t seem to get out!” It occurred to me even then that this was a

small amount for a President to owe, but I simply said how sorry I was,

and that I would economize, and help a little bit that way. Somehow

this promise seemed to amuse him, and his tone indicated that what he

gave me was the least of his worries. “I don’t care _how_ much I give

you, dearie,” he said, with a caressing smile, “so long as you can

account plausibly for it. I want you to have everything to make you

comfortable. I only tell you these things that you may know what I’m up

against down here.” He rose and paced the little room. Somehow I had a

feeling that he was not telling me the whole of his troubles. “Really,

dearie,” he said, slowly coming back to the couch, “my burdens are more

than I can bear!” The tired face was lifted to the window and the tired

eyes gazed wearily at the wintry vista outside.

The misery of that picture! The haggard face, the bent figure, the

white head! Surely this was not the man who had come, at the call of

a nation, to serve, and to “give all of heart, and mind, and abiding

love of country to service in our common cause.” My heart ached for

him. Plainly, the disillusionments suffered in the Presidency of these

United States were cruel. I said that I wished he might get out of it,

resign, anything that would get him away from his worries, anything

that would relieve this darling man who was being tortured with the

slow stabs of disappointment and disillusionment. And they called this

the greatest position in the land--this nerve-wrecking, energy-sapping

job,--the Presidency of the United States!

President Harding shook his head sadly. “No, I’m in jail, Nan, and

can’t _get_ out!”

He opened wider the door leading into his own office and we went in

there again. The darkness of the day made our figures less visible over

near the grate fireplace than they were in the ante-room, which was

small and therefore quite light. Mr. Harding said his stenographer was

at liberty to come in and ask about anything, but we’d “take a chance,”

anyway.

“Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart,” I cried in his arms, “tell me, what

constitutes happiness for me? What constitutes _our_ happiness,

darling?”

He kissed me tenderly.

“Work, dearie, _work_!” he whispered.

“But I _do_ work! I want _you_! And I want our baby as _mine_! And I

don’t believe I can ever have you again in the same way. I can’t stand

it, darling! It is breaking my heart. My baby lost to me, and the world

has my sweetheart!”

Then something within me suddenly rebelled at the irony of a fate which

would give us so much and then make us both suffer with separation and

denial. And I saw more clearly than ever before the real depths of my

heart, and the real urge of my subconscious mind.

“There have lived some men who have given up _every_thing for their

sweethearts!” I challenged, standing away from him with head held high.

A cruel thing to say! And a cowardly demand! He _had_ given everything

he could, everything, in fact, I had asked him to give within reason

and within his power, and it was not now immediately within his power

to give me our baby and to take me for his wife. And he had promised

what he would do in the future. I was only making it very difficult

for him, for him whose burdens were already, as he said, “more than he

could bear.” I began to regret that speech as soon as it was uttered.

Even as the words escaped my lips, there flashed into memory the

picture of my sweetheart, when he spoke at the Fairgrounds in Marion

the previous summer, and warned a nation against this very sort of

thing in words made immortal to me by him:

“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.”

I am sure I did not imagine it; there was rebuke in his tones when he

answered.

“Nan, I’m tied. I can do no more. And I cannot desert my party!” Then,

in a softer tone, he added, “We can’t retract--if you had been _born

earlier_, Nan!” he sighed. I loved him for that and put my arms around

his neck again. “Nan, darling, you must help me; our secret must not

come out. Why, I would rather die than disappoint my party!” were his

words. Then, seeing he had hurt me a bit by emphasizing his loyalty to

a political party instead of to his sweetheart there in his arms, he

smiled sadly and pleaded brokenly, “Oh, dearie, try!”

We went back to the couch.

I told Mr. Harding about my wish to quit working for President Walter

Dill Scott and to go to school at Northwestern University instead. He

said, “Fine!” immediately. “You _like_ to study don’t you, Nan?” he

asserted rather than asked, and nodded his head approvingly. He said

he’d keep me in school all of the time if I thought I could explain it

satisfactorily. “What will your mother say, for instance?” he queried.

I told him I didn’t even try to explain things to mother. She was busy

teaching, and I thought it would be entirely safe. “All right, you’re

the boss!” he said playfully.

Mr. Harding was in knickers, and I told him for about the dozenth

time how stunning he looked. He smiled and said he thought maybe

getting out into the open air after luncheon would help him to get rid

of his cold. I told him it would very likely do him much more good

than Dr. Sawyer’s prescriptions. “Oh, well,” he replied, shrugging

his shoulders, “he doesn’t doctor _me_ much, you know; Mrs. Harding

has lots of faith in him. Gee, Nan,” and he shook his head in the

I-give-it-up-it’s-too-much-for-me-to-solve way, “they bother me to

death as it is, looking at my tongue and feeling my pulse; why, a

fellow can’t be alone a minute! Now, what I _really_ need is _your_

treatment!” and he finished with a big hug and kiss.

Mr. Harding said it was time for him to go to luncheon and time for me

to go, anyway, and I, pouting as usual when I had to leave him, rose

with reluctance. For some reason which I do not remember, I was to meet

my secret service escort on the conservatory side of the White House

instead of outside Mr. Harding’s office. So Mr. Harding said I could

walk over with him, down the passage known as the “secret passage,”

I believe, and under the pergola. We lingered long inside the closed

door, however, before we left the executive office. Little would I

have actually believed, in spite of the chills of premonition I had

experienced during that visit, that never again would we stand thus

together upon this earth. Perhaps that was why we clung so to each

other in our farewell embrace. And Mr. Harding’s eyes, as well as my

own, were wet. I shall never forget how he looked down at me, in the

dim light of that room, and asked, as he so often did, that I say to

him that I was happy now. “Are you happy now, dearie?” he asked softly,

and with quivering lips and brimming eyes I bravely lied, “I am happy,

sweetheart!”

We went out. Several feet behind us as we passed through the pergola

came Brooks, returning evidently from an errand to the offices. I asked

Mr. Harding who he was and he told me. In my brief glance backward I

saw that his valet was a very good-looking light colored man. This was

the one and only time I ever saw the trustworthy servant in whose care

I addressed so many letters to my sweetheart.

Laddie Boy came bounding out to meet his master as we reached the

entrance to the White House proper, and Mr. Harding stooped to pat him.

It seemed this was the kitchen entrance. Just inside the door a guard

was stationed. The kitchen maids peered through the partly opened door

upon us with curious glances. Mr. Harding indicated that his private

elevator was on the left and turned to shake hands with me. I thanked

him for the “conference” in quite audible tones and he bowed slightly

over my hand. Then he left me and I proceeded to the conservatory.

That was the last time I ever saw Warren Gamaliel Harding, my

sweetheart.

_86_

I returned to Chicago on an early train. The following day or so after

that President Walter Dill Scott was confined to his home with a severe

cold, and sent for me to take some work. It was up in his den that I

told him of the change I intended to make--to go to school instead of

being his secretary. He expressed himself as glad that I wished to

attend the University, but said he would be sorry to lose my services,

and suggested that I try to combine studies with secretarial work. But

this I knew I could not do, for I was still under Dr. Barbour’s care,

making two trips to him weekly for iron inoculations. This President

Scott knew nothing about and I explained it to him and said I knew I

could not undertake to do both things.

My brother-in-law, Scott Willits, returned home from abroad about

this time and I changed my residence to one of the girls’ dormitories

in Evanston. This was on Sherman Avenue, Evanston, and Mr. Harding

wrote me at that address during the next six months instead of at my

sister’s. He kept me well funded, also, during that spring, and I found

my studies more absorbing than I had found the secretarial work with

the President of the University.

But I was far from happy. I had Elizabeth Ann out at the dormitory

with me many times, and frequently stayed in the city all night at my

sister’s. Elizabeth Ann was the most lovable child imaginable. The

girls at school adored her and I never saw a child who could adapt

herself more quickly to playmates than Elizabeth Ann, even though those

playmates were, like the girls in the dormitory, eighteen and nineteen

years old. Of course, I was much older than the others there, being

twenty-six years old.

It was, I think, about the middle of March, when I, one day, called up

my sister’s apartment from Evanston to learn from my brother-in-law

that she had taken the baby and gone to Ohio. I had exhibited my

growing dissatisfaction with the arrangement as it stood, and to

Elizabeth, my sister, I had not hesitated to express, in all the

fierceness of my desire, my opinion that matters would have to undergo

a change. I might even have intimated that I myself knew of one way

which would give me my child, and in moments when the bars were let

down entirely I probably told her very bluntly how it hurt me to hear

Elizabeth Ann call Scott “daddy.” I never had as strong feeling about

Elizabeth Ann’s calling my sister “mamma,” although I objected to her

calling her “mother.”

Things as they stood were not harmonious. It all affected _me_ like

a poison, and I am sure was the direct cause of my so slow return

to normal health. And when I visited the baby at my sister’s and

heard Elizabeth Ann speak of what “daddy” or “mamma” did, even her

manifestations of love for me only made me the more unspeakably

miserable. I used to want to pick her up and fly away with her. And,

oh, how I longed to shout to the world, “She’s mine! She’s _mine_!”

The knowledge of this state of affairs and of the equal dissatisfaction

on the part of Elizabeth and Scott, experienced as a result of my

unrelenting attitude, told me, even as my brother-in-law was informing

me of my sister’s departure for Ohio, that she had _really_ also gone

on to _Washington_. My high-strung nervous system made my perceptive

abilities all the keener, and I had scarcely hung up the receiver when

I saw very plainly the whole picture. Either Mr. Harding, his greater

fears aroused by my first frank confession to him in January of utter

dissatisfaction with the present adoption arrangement, had sent for

Elizabeth, or she, tossed about mentally by the hurricane of my own

expressed sentiments and then by the more direct tornado of refusals

by Scott to longer suffer interference from me where the baby was

concerned, had written to him and asked for an appointment. To this day

I do not know how it came to be arranged that Elizabeth went down. In

any event, I knew intuitively, without being told, where she had gone.

When Elizabeth returned from Washington, she told me she had talked

with Mr. Harding, and I learned that she had left the baby at my

mother’s in Athens, Ohio, while she went on to the White House.

But what passed between Mr. Harding and my sister Elizabeth is to

this day almost a closed book to me. I was shaken with fury to think

that she would go to see him and not advise me of it beforehand. And

I was wroth with him I loved so dearly for inviting or permitting an

interview without my knowledge.

I will admit the possibility at that time of actual mental impairment

on my part where Elizabeth Ann was concerned, and perhaps it would

not be too much to say, that only by offsetting the effect that my

too-concentrated thinking wrought in me physically, by vigorous mental

application to my studies, was I able to appear the normal, fairly

healthy individual I had to be in order to keep going. But I so

powerfully discounted the wisdom and right of a mother’s having to give

up her love-child simply because stupid convention held a Damocletian

sword over her head, that I had developed a decided complex on the

subject, to apply the modern phrase.

And, instead of pressing Elizabeth to tell me what had been said by

Mr. Harding to her and what she had said to Mr. Harding, I sat down

and poured out to my sweetheart in a letter, which I fain would have

recalled as soon as it was mailed, my angry resentment at what I termed

being “double-crossed.” I wrote unkindly, I wrote hysterically, I wrote

intolerantly, I wrote pleadingly.

And, as always, my answer from him was characteristic. He wrote kindly,

he wrote calmly, he wrote tolerantly, and he, too, wrote pleadingly.

And, as always, my subsequent letter to him was one of apology for a

hasty temper indulged. I remember back in 1917, when I had shown anger

for a moment over something, Mr. Harding wrote to me afterward, “I

love you, Nan, darling, as much when you are angry as any other time.”

Indeed, I have never had anything _but_ love displayed by him toward me.

And even in late years when my sister has intimated to me that “Mr.

Harding was not as loyal to _you_, Nan, as you were to _him_, believe

me!” I have recognized that whatever Mr. Harding said to my sister

Elizabeth in that interview, he said not because he didn’t love or

trust _me_, but because, as he told me so often, he “couldn’t be

expected” to trust anybody beyond or outside of me, because he knew

that in all the world nobody loved him as devotedly or as passionately

as Nan Britton. And when he talked to Elizabeth, even though she was my

own sister, he was talking to a comparative outsider.

_87_

And so there continued to be dissension in the Willits household

whenever the mother of their adopted daughter appeared on the scene,

and I continued to cast about in my mind for a plan which would make

it possible for me to take my daughter. As the spring advanced, and

I realized another summer was drawing near, I grew more panicky than

ever. In June my school would be out and I knew Elizabeth and Scott

intended to go down on the Illinois farm that summer as early possibly

as July. That meant Elizabeth Ann would be away from me for one month,

two months, and perhaps longer. Oftener than ever, as a result of

contemplating another whole season away from her, would steal over me

the old, sinister suggestion of taking a husband. “Get married and you

can have her, get married and you can have her, get married and you can

have her.” The wordy little demons danced in my brain like mad until

sometimes I wanted to scream, “Stop! _Stop!_” But in the dead of night,

when I could reason more sanely, the idea itself would recur and it

seemed to grow less and less obnoxious in proportion to the recompense

it alluringly offered.

I grabbed at the following unexpected straw which was suddenly floated

before my sinking mind. In late April or early May I received a letter

from Helen Anderson, who was my teacher in New York when I took my

secretarial course.

“You have a way of getting things you want, Nan, why don’t you go to

Europe with me? I’m sailing on June 21st with the Armstrong Tour, and

enclose circular,” Miss Anderson wrote.

My unhappiness inclined me to try anything that would, even

temporarily, take my mind off the situation as it existed, and, knowing

that soon my sister, her husband and my baby would be gone, and having

made no plans whatever for myself for the summer, the trip to Europe

seemed a real Godsend. I had never been abroad, and the novelty itself

would surely occupy my thoughts and relieve me mentally, as well as

doubtless improve me physically. According to the circular the entire

trip, including six weeks of university study in Dijon, France, would

cost but $525. I had been studying French at Northwestern University

that semester and looked with favor upon continuing my study abroad and

at the same time, as was contemplated in the tour, seeing various parts

of France.

But the deciding element was that it gave promise of getting me away

from myself, and from the too exhaustive thinking about my baby girl.

It was certain I could not continue to survive the present mental

maelstrom. The get-a-husband program was not as easy at it had seemed,

and though I was accepting casual attentions from two or three young

men, one an instructor at Northwestern, I could see in none of them

enough of the desirable qualities needful in the enactment of the

program I had been considering.

[Illustration]

I wrote Mr. Harding immediately upon receiving the letter from Miss

Anderson, and told him exactly why I thought the trip would benefit me.

He himself was to be away in Alaska, I reminded him, which would mean

that I could not see him at all, and the baby would be on the Willits

farm most of the summer. I told him it would help to make me a little

bit more happy if he could let me go to Europe.

Mr. Harding had met Helen Anderson, you will remember, when he first

came over to New York, and he knew her to be a gentlewoman. Therefore,

in his reply he endorsed heartily my plans and enclosed $200 or $300 as

a deposit to be placed with the Armstrong Tour people. He advised me to

go ahead immediately and get my passport.

I remember very well that, even as enormously busy as he must have

been, he went quite into detail, telling me how I would have to have

my picture taken for the passport, and so on, and every succeeding

letter I had from him until I sailed contained advices. Advices and

expressions of how he “would love to be going” with me! “I would love

to see your face when you see London, Nan!” he wrote, and though our

plans did not contemplate London, I knew that Miss Anderson who had

been abroad about a dozen times, knew London well, for she often

visited a friend there, and I thought we would probably break away

from the regular tour and go for a brief time to London. Mr. and Mrs.

Harding had been abroad but once, I think, during their entire married

life, but evidently London had impressed Mr. Harding beyond Paris. He

wrote, “I wish _I_ might take you, dearie; I wish we might make the

trip together; I wish we might make it our second honeymoon trip!”

Instead, he said, he would be journeying in the opposite direction, to

Alaska. But not in spirit, for he would be thinking of me every hour,

he wrote. And I! Ah, he was never out of my thoughts, try as I did to

forget things.

_88_

One night I had Elizabeth Ann with me out at the dormitory. It was

about two weeks or so before I was to leave Chicago. We went to bed

and I talked things over with Elizabeth Ann. I would talk with her

as though she were an older person, and I swear I do believe she

understood many of the serious things I used to talk about. I don’t

know that I had mentioned to her up to this time that I was going away.

She was lying very close in my arms when I said, “Sweetheart, Nan is

going away for a little while--on a big boat!” There was silence for

a second, then she uttered a scream; it was not the scream of a child

except as an older voice might speak through a child. How often have I

thought of it! It was a cry of alarm, of premonition.

“No, no!” she cried. I had explained it to her so quietly and in what

I thought was a cheerful voice that her cry seemed almost to presage

tragedy. And all through the days of preparation following, that cry

sounded and resounded in memory.

She was so adorable that year--just three and a half years old. She had

all of her mother’s impulsiveness with periods of her father’s reserve,

and she was the most affectionate child I have ever seen. A true

love-baby like Nancy Hanks, Lincoln’s mother.

In this connection I am reminded of an incident which occurred

during Miss Daisy Harding’s first visit to her cousin Mrs. Wesener,

in Chicago, in the fall of 1921, I think. I was in New York, but my

sister Elizabeth related it to me. Miss Harding had come to call upon

Elizabeth. During her visit, Elizabeth Ann, who had been presented to

Miss Harding, walked up to her and, with charming frankness and with

the Harding smile, said, “Miss Harding, I jus’ _love_ you!” Elizabeth

said that her husband remarked after Miss Harding had left, “Well,

blood certainly tells!” Elizabeth Ann may possibly have felt that here

was her kin, at least in spirit, for she immediately decided that she

loved Daisy Harding.

So again I parted from my baby, and a few days before the 21st of June,

1923, I was in New York. I stopped at the Bretton Hall Hotel. This was

right around the corner from Helen Anderson’s apartment, on West 86th

Street.

_89_

I had met, when I was going to Columbia University in 1921, and living

in the studio apartment building on 72nd Street, a Norwegian sea

captain whom I shall refer to in this book as Captain Angus Neilsen.

According to the girl on my floor who had introduced him to me, Captain

Neilsen had until recently been a very wealthy man. She said he had

lost heavily through Charles W. Morse, in ship matters, but even so

he was reputed to be substantially wealthy if he could convert his

properties into cash. The girl who introduced me to the captain told

me, in a grandiloquent manner, that she had known Captain Neilsen when

he lived in his apartment on Central Park West and had a couple of cars

at his disposal. She claimed to have helped him enormously mentally to

recover from the terrific shock it had been to him to lose his money

through Charles W. Morse. He was at that time very lovely to me and I

judged him to be a fine man.

We remained friendly, and Captain Neilsen even came to Chicago during

the spring of 1923 to see us, staying at my sister’s. I spared a little

time from my lessons at Northwestern to come to Chicago from Evanston

to see him. When Scott had sailed for Europe the captain had been

greatly in evidence, taking us all, including Elizabeth Ann, who had

taken quite a fancy to him, to the theatre and so on, and helping me to

box some of my belongings when I returned later on with Elizabeth and

the baby to Chicago. He had quite a way with children.

Now, before I sailed for Europe, he helped me with last-minute errands,

and, in fact, took Helen Anderson and me down to the boat on the

morning of June 21st, 1923. It was much like having a big brother

around, and I could not help being sympathetic toward a man who showed,

as Captain Neilsen had always shown, such a deep regard for me.

Helen Anderson and I sailed on the _Roussillon_, of the French Line,

the same day, if I remember correctly, that the Harding party set out

upon its ill-fated Alaskan trip.

I had received several letters from Mr. Harding at the Bretton Hall

Hotel, in which he continued his advices and his wishes that he were

going with me. I tried to be happy. Now, at least, he could relax and

recuperate. I had retained a very vivid picture of him as he looked

in January, and I knew that the strain of Mrs. Harding’s illness had

greatly worn him.

In a letter from him, received Tuesday (I sailed on Thursday), he

wrote, “Don’t spend any money in New York, dearie; there will be many

things you will see in Paris which you will want to buy.” But already

I had, as a matter of fact, bought clothes, and I was indeed taking

very little of the extra $400 or so he had provided, in addition to the

regular tour expense of $525. When Captain Neilsen asked me frankly if

I was taking plenty of extra money, knowing all about how money goes on

the Continent, and I replied “not much,” he offered to lend me some,

and I accepted an extra $50, telling him I would repay him upon my

return. When Scott, my brother-in-law, returned from Europe the captain

had met him at the dock, as I had written and requested him to do, and

Scott, being broke, had accepted a loan of $100 from the captain then

and was grateful for the offer. This brotherly consideration on Captain

Neilsen’s part did not go unappreciated by me, either.

Mr. Harding had told me in his letter of Tuesday, which came to

Bretton Hall, that he would send me a steamer letter, and no sooner

was I on board than I sought the mail department in search of my

message. I found Mr. Harding’s letter and about twenty other pieces

of mail--letters, telegrams and specials. I hugged my sweetheart’s

letter and put it inside my dress next to my heart. Then I joined Helen

Anderson on deck, and bade her nephew and Captain Neilsen goodbye.

_90_

I think the sensations experienced when one leaves the shores of

America for the first time are indescribable. I stood alone at the

railing and looked back at the skyline of New York, gradually becoming

hazy with lengthening distance. Soon the Statue of Liberty was shrouded

in mist. Miss Anderson had gone downstairs for her luncheon. To leave

New York was, for her, an old story. I still had in my arms some

American Beauties I had received from the Northwestern University

instructor, as well as gorgeous flowers from Captain Neilsen. In my

hand I held my packet of letters, and next to my heart was my farewell

note from my beloved. I took my flowers into our cabin, and went back

to the rail to read my letters. Even as I drew out Mr. Harding’s

letter and gazed fondly at the familiar handwriting, I felt a shock.

I could not account for it, but it was the same uncanny feeling I had

experienced upon my last visit to him, which had been the January

before--six long months ago. Mr. Harding’s own preparations for his

Alaska trip had made it inexpedient for me to stop in Washington, and

we had in our letters spoken of the grand reunion we would have in the

fall when we both returned from our respective journeyings.

“Nan, darling,” Mr. Harding wrote, “how I wish I might be going with

you! To think of spending the days in glorious idleness with you,

lolling in comfy deck chairs, holding you all through the nights in my

arms, seeing strange lands with _you_, Nan!” Then, more fatherly, he

wrote, “Try to save out enough money so that you will not be entirely

broke when you land back in New York, because it may be difficult for

me to see you immediately upon your return.” His farewell letter had

contained no money. It was just full of love. “Darling Nan, I’d love to

go to the end of the world with you,” he wrote, and the old oft-written

message, “I love you more than all the world,” was repeated in that

letter. The postscript was sweet, and fairly long, and for me alone.

I could not, however, help feeling an inexplicable tone of finality,

of foreboding, unconsciously expressed by him. Was it all over? How

_could_ I know?--then!

In September of 1923, about a month after Mr. Harding’s death, when I

went to Marion, Miss Daisy Harding told me that Carrie Harding Votaw

had passed through her brother’s office in the White House shortly

before the Harding party started for Alaska, and Mr. Harding had called

out to her, “Carrie, I’m making my will!” “Your _will_, Warren! Why,

what for?” asked Mrs. Votaw in amazement. “Oh, I don’t expect to come

back from Alaska,” Mr. Harding replied in a semi-offhand manner. I have

often considered the last letter which he sent me when I sailed, in

connection with that statement my sweetheart made to his sister about

his will.

I kept Mr. Harding’s farewell letter several days, loath to part

with the latest and only love-letter I then possessed from him. But,

finally, one evening, just before dark, when the deck was almost

deserted and the passengers in their cabins dressing for dinner, I

took my letter to the railing. I read it over slowly, then kissed it

and tore it into bits. I tossed the bits out upon the billowing waves

and watched the little white floating pieces as our boat sped along.

I foolishly thought to myself, “They may be here when I come back and

I shall pass them again.” It reminded me of the summer of 1919, when

I was in Asbury Park awaiting my baby’s coming and used to take Mr.

Harding’s precious love-letters over to Spring Lake, a resort town near

Asbury, to a favorite grove where I spent many an afternoon. There,

after reading and re-reading the latest letter from Mr. Harding, I

destroyed it, scattering the tiny bits all through the grove. To know

that his letters were strewn all through that wood made it a very

sacred place to me. I would sit down and write him from there, and

sometimes I would stoop to pick up a wee scrap of the letter destroyed

perhaps the previous day, and find written there parts of the word

“darling” or “bliss” or “ultimate,” and often they would recall his

entire sentence of endearment to me. Now, as I dropped this last

letter into the sea, I thought that hereafter the sea, like the grove,

would always seem sacred to me, would seem almost to belong to me--even

as _he did_ belong to me!

_91_

On board the _Roussillon_, and subsequently when I reached Paris and

Dijon, I tried ardently to plunge into gaiety. I summoned all the

light-heartedness I could muster. After all, I had come to lose myself,

to try to find a temporary new existence, even to briefly forgetting,

if possible, the problem of how to obtain my daughter for myself.

I had gay clothes and plenty of them, and I put wine in my water as

everyone else did, and tried to act the part I suppose I actually did

look--a modern flapper. Certainly with the short skirts everybody

wore then, and with bobbed hair, I could not have looked as old as I

was--twenty-six.

But all the superficial gaiety in which I indulged could not make me

forget the problem paramount in my mind, and I found myself actually

reverting to the study of this man and that man, and wondering whether

I would consider him fitted for the role of foster father, in name

only. However, the men on board were for the most part very young,

and there was but one who looked fairly good to me in this respect. I

found out he had a responsible position in a bank, and from his own

remarks he evidently had known wealth all his life. He might do, I

thought drearily. Then I would shake myself out of this mood and join

the young people in their games or talk. But when we landed at Havre,

the one man I had quietly been making a study of proceeded to follow

his own divergent itinerary, and I forget all about _him_ as a husband

possibility.

There were about twenty-five in the Armstrong Party, in which Helen

Anderson seemed to be the star traveler. Being with her, I always had

the best accommodations. In Dijon, therefore, after ten days in Paris

and its environs, we were given separate rooms at M. and Mme. Lachat’s

very picturesque little home. We were to be in Dijon for several weeks,

attending the University of Dijon, and going on sight-seeing trips into

the adjacent mountain country. The Lachat home had a perfectly charming

little garden, shut in all around by a high wall common to many French

neighborhoods. Our rooms overlooked the garden, that of Miss Anderson

being on the second floor and mine on the first.

Everything thus far had been of absorbing interest to me, and I found

Dijon none the less so, with its quaint, narrow streets, quainter homes

and smugly contented people. The inhabitants were more than willing to

talk French with us struggling foreigners, and I managed to learn more

of their language during the few weeks I was there than in the previous

six months at Northwestern University in Evanston.

And I was gradually learning other things I had not known well when I

landed--for instance, the value of the franc, both to them and to me.

At Havre the porter had been bold to ask me for “an American dollar

bill, _s’il vous plaît_,” and I had handed him one, for I really felt

he meant to give me back some change. But he did not, and I determined

that if that was what they charged us Americans for carrying a bag down

one flight of stairs, I would do the tipping in my own way after that!

I found that the servant class over there was more than Americanized in

this respect, and I gradually “caught on.”

Miss Anderson and I, as well as several of the other members of the

Armstrong Party, were assigned for our meals to the boarding house of

Mme. Daillant, a rosy-cheeked woman whose husband dealt in wines and

who herself kept up the expenses of the home, I perceived, chiefly by

taking boarders. Around our table sat an interesting group: an Italian

_avocat_, several Norwegians, four Americans, including Miss Anderson

and myself, and M. and Mme. Daillant, their attractive young daughter

of about eighteen, and one other, a French lady. The Italian and I

struck up a friendship, and often we took long walks, carrying our own

dictionaries and consulting them quite frequently along the road to

make ourselves understood to each other in the French language.

_92_

The latter part of July, having grown quite a bit bored with Dijon and

not taking seriously the course offered the students at the University,

I, as well as others in the Armstrong Party, decided upon going into

Switzerland. Miss Anderson remained in Dijon, saying she did not wish

to incur the additional expense inasmuch as she had been many times to

Switzerland.

Geneva was our destination, and there was rare beauty in the mountain

scenery enroute there from Dijon and later in the city itself. I

stopped at the Hotel de la Paix, and my room, from the small balcony of

which I could view the lake and afar off the snowy-capped Mt. Blanc,

was both French in artistry and American in practical comforts.

I had noted in the morning paper, which was a Paris edition of a New

York paper, the progress the Harding party was making through Alaska. I

felt here in Switzerland, almost by myself, as though I were in another

world. I felt as though I were walking through a picture-book. Even

the friendships I was making seemed of the picture-book sort. I was

more real to myself when I dreamed, for when I dreamed I was invariably

taken back to more familiar surroundings, oftentimes spending whole

nights either with my sweetheart or with our daughter.

I had promised my sister Elizabeth I would try to get fat, and she had

made her appeal on the ground of keeping my appearance, telling me I

was not at all presentable when so thin. So I had endeavored to eat as

much as possible and the traveling around had not made it difficult.

And the food here at the Hotel de la Paix was fine, _par excellence_.

Mr. Harding used to tell me that to him it was a real pleasure just

to sit and watch me eat when I was hungry, for I seemed to so enjoy

my food. He used to order things he thought perhaps would tempt me or

things I told him I had never eaten; I remember he taught me to eat

artichokes, things I had never heard of until then. I was quite a hick.

Mr. Harding himself could with ease carry considerable weight. He was

very tall--fully a head taller than I. Nevertheless, I used to tease

him, when, upon observing that he was not eating as heartily as usual,

he would confess that he was on a self-imposed diet, “to keep his

stomach down.” “Why, you’re not too fat to suit me, darling,” I would

say. “What d’yuh mean, ‘keep down your stomach’?” Then, with head on

one side and the adorable smile I loved, he would lean over the table

and whisper, “So I can hold you closer, you darling!”

_93_

I remember it was on a Saturday, the 28th of July, that I went, by

myself, up Lake Geneva to Territet. The others had planned a mountain

trip to Chamonix, but I preferred the water trip. As our tidy little

white steamer glided slowly away from Geneva it scattered before it

flocks of snowy pigeons that find a welcome home, there along the lake

front, and from my chair against the railing I watched dreamily their

fluttering escape far away on the turquoise surface of the water. There

was the delightful coolness of mountain air and the clear blue of the

skies to make it a day among days for sight-seeing.

In my English Literature class at Northwestern I had, that spring, been

studying Lord Byron’s _The Prisoner of Chillon_, and I was looking

forward eagerly to seeing the Chateau of Chillon, which is at Territet,

the last stop our tiny steamer would make.

Some of the seats on the observation deck were arranged so that they

faced each other, as in a train, and my heart suddenly jumped as I

stared at the front page of a foreign graphic sheet which the man

opposite me held at a visible angle. Mr. Harding was pictured on his

trip with some Indians, and the pose was so natural, with his straw

hat, and cane in his hand, that I felt the hot tears come in my eyes

and a great heaviness in my throat. The man lowered the paper just in

time to find me straining toward it, and thereupon offered it to me.

But I shook my head and thanked him. I determined, however, to buy a

copy immediately upon my return to Geneva.

At the Chateau of Chillon I strolled through the maze of big stone

rooms, and finally found myself down in the dungeons where stand “the

seven pillars of Gothic mould.” I met very few other tourists in my

roaming, and the sense of mediaeval days crept over me realistically

there in the stillness.... I imagined I was the daughter of an

indulgent but uncompromising father, living there in a great lonely

castle, shut off from the whole world. The room of the Duchess

So-and-So was my own room now, and it was my window which gave out onto

the glassy waters of Lake Leman. Here, tonight, my Prince Warren would

come to get me! I would jump from this window into his arms, into his

boat which would carry us both away, away forever, where my beloved

prince and I could live happily ever after! Then, finding myself in

the tower, I planned my escape in case my angry old father should

imprison me. But this escape was difficult to devise and so I dropped

out of the make-believe world and my roving mind took me back to the

newspaper picture I had seen a few hours before on the lake steamer. He

had looked a little tired, and I hoped they would not drag him all over

Alaska to speak and to shake hands with people. I wondered if he were

not perhaps thinking about me at that very moment, and the great love I

felt for him surged through my being. How good it would be to get back

to him! Already it seemed to me I had been away from him and from my

precious baby girl an eternity. And it was still three weeks until we

should sail on our return to America!

_94_

I shall never forget that night in my room at the Hotel de la Paix. It

was yet early when I reached Geneva from my day’s trip, and after I had

eaten my dinner and bought the paper containing Mr. Harding’s picture,

I retired to my room for early sleep. But my thoughts were too full of

Mr. Harding and I could not sleep. His face seemed very near to me, and

I switched on my light again and studied the picture in the graphic

sheet. The more I studied it the more tired he looked to me, until

I thought in terror, “Heavens! I wish they would let him alone!” I

slipped into my negligee and walked out upon the tiny balcony and drank

in the loveliness of a moonlight night on Lake Geneva.

Across the lake, beyond Mt. Blanc Bridge which connects the two

sections of the city, sounded the gay laughter of late diners. “Winers”

I thought, absent-mindedly. There is considerable difference in time

between Alaska and Switzerland, and I wondered where Mr. Harding was

then and what he was doing. It was nine o’clock by the little watch he

had given me in 1917. Perhaps he was thinking of me, too, and that was

what brought him so vividly before me.

I stood there thus meditating, when over the waters, clear in the

mountain air, floated to me a familiar song, an old-time favorite

from a musical comedy, “The Prince of Luxemburg.” The words, which I

remembered quite distinctly, at first seemed a reassuring answer to

my fears, and I mentally fitted them to the air as it was played and

replayed by the little cafe orchestra:

“Say not love is a dream, say not that hope is vain!

Say not that cruel fate will redeem

Perfect joy with pain.

Look, oh, look not beyond--joy so near!

True hearts may ne’er despond, for love knows naught of fear.

Love breaks every bond, and love, true love, is here!”

But instead of happy “Say not” negations the lines seemed to sing

themselves into positive affirmations of ill, and I struggled vainly

to banish the prophetic sadness that pervaded the atmosphere of my

thoughts just as it had during my last talk with Mr. Harding in the

White House in January. Persistently this line haunted me, “Cruel fate

will redeem perfect joy with pain,” until it seemed like a sinister

night-song as I lay in my bed longing for merciful sleep. I had come

over here to forget, certainly not lugubriously to anticipate a future

which, in spite of every unfavorable circumstance, held promise of

much happiness. “Perfect joy with pain, perfect joy with pain--perfect

joy--perfect pain--perfect joy--pain”; the words droned themselves

into my drowsy consciousness until at last I must have fallen asleep.

When I awoke it was very early morning. I remembered with a sense of

shrinking terror my own thoughts of the night before, and the haunting

imaginings from which I fain would flee before they gripped me hard

again. Something told me I should have prayed for Mr. Harding instead

of spending my time in worry, and it seemed strange I had not thought

of it the night before. So I turned my face toward the pillow now and

tried to ask God to protect him from all harm and take good care of my

baby and him for me until I returned to both of them. Then I slept a

while longer.

_95_

I wakened to find a brilliant day awaiting me, and I was to spend

it with my Italian friend who was to arrive in Geneva that morning.

We hired a taxi and drove up through the mountains, listening with

amusement to the very informative guide as he pointed out this estate

or that peak with all the flourish of a proud possessor. He spoke

alternately in English to me and in French to both of us. We viewed

the Rhone and Arve Rivers from a topmost peak and marvelled how they

retained their own colors of brown and turquoise blue even as they

flowed far out into Lake Geneva.

It occurred to me that this fellow, this guide, seemed almost too

typical of other loquacious guides I had observed, and after our return

to Geneva, I said to him as we got out of the taxi, “You speak very

much like an American.” He answered with embarrassment, “Well, I am

kind of an American. You see, I was born in _St. Louis_.” Unfortunately

I could not repeat this to my escort in French accurately enough for

his full appreciation.

During my stay in Geneva, remembering that Mr. Harding had assigned

Angela Arnold’s husband to a post in Switzerland, and that they were

supposed to be living in Geneva then, I endeavored to locate Angela. I

could not remember her husband’s name, however, and the American consul

with whom I talked over the telephone said there were so many attaches

there that it would be almost impossible to locate them unless I could

definitely identify them by the husband’s surname. So I did not get to

see her. The following day we all returned to Dijon.

_96_

I heard very rarely from my sister Elizabeth about Elizabeth Ann. This

worried me quite a bit, but then, I thought, impatient with myself,

worry was my very mind’s shadow, and likely she was fine and having a

good time on the farm. My mother was a faithful correspondent, however,

and I was continuing to correspond with other friends, even keeping up

a desultory sort of correspondence with the Northwestern University

instructor, so I hung around the little apartment of the Dijon

University _concierge_ almost hourly to get my mail. As a matter of

fact, Elizabeth had a good reason for not being able to write oftener,

for I learned afterward what I had not known before I sailed, and what,

if I had known, would have kept me from sailing at all. That was that

my sister had undergone in my absence a severe operation in Chicago,

and had entrusted the baby to her husband’s father and mother on the

farm while she was in the hospital.

I had promised Mr. Harding that I would write to him. Indeed, he did

not have to ask me, for I knew I would want to anyway. Letters were

a medium of expression of my love for him which I could not lightly

abandon. But I could not, obviously, _mail_ any of them. I kept them in

my trunk, adding a little each night to what I knew, from experience,

he would term a veritable feast when I gave them to him in the fall.

Little wonder, staying so close to him in this way, and being unable to

banish fears about him, that I was torn mentally in what had been my

serious resolve to forget!

The Italian was very attentive and, I discovered, was highly

intelligent. How would it be, I thought, if I married _him_ instead

of an American, and made him the convenience-father of my child?

He spoke often of coming to America, where he might very likely

settle permanently. He was manifestly fond of children. And he was a

gentleman. It was a thought, anyway.

_97_

In Dijon, Madame Daillant’s little garden behind the house provided a

gathering place for her boarder-guests as they dropped in for meals,

but the evening of August 1st, 1923, it was conspicuously deserted.

I found it so when I, going on ahead of Helen Anderson, entered; so

I threw myself down into one of the empty chairs and picked up a

newspaper. It was very warm and I fanned myself with the paper before

opening it. A curious country this, I thought, looking around at the

graveled walks, the rickety benches, and the walls surmounted by

overturned glass jars on sticks. In parts of the country where I had

been it was very beautiful, and it had proven rather diverting. But

oh, where could one find a country to equal our own United States! How

really shabbily the middle classes here lived! The daughter of Mme.

Daillant, a pretty girl, with abundant dark hair and creamy skin, and

cheeks pinked by nature to an enviable glow, a pianist, too, of marked

ability--what prospects had she in this place? An American girl of

her class might rise to fame with like beauty and equal talent. But,

it seemed to me, I could see this pretty creature growing old and fat

like her mother, with nothing save a drab fate awaiting her. One of

the young men in our Armstrong party who also dined at Mme. Daillant’s

_pension_ had pleaded with me to stay close by when Mlle. Daillant

was in the vicinity for, he said, she attached herself to him with

leechlike persistency, and he knew how these French people tried to

rope one in. Poor girl! No doubt my American friend provided for her

the most romance she had ever known.

I opened the paper. My heart stopped; then pounded. My head swam and I

went limp. “HARDING HAS PNEUMONIA, BUT WORST FEARS ALLAYED.” I read the

headlines over and over--_over and over again_. As the words gradually

sunk meaningfully into my consciousness an indescribable terror seized

me. I crushed the paper in my hands and let myself out the little gate

into the wider, freer space beyond the garden. My lips were dry; I

put my hand to my forehead to steady myself. I wondered why I did not

faint. I never fainted, no matter how badly I felt. I have never to

this day fainted. So I did not faint then. I only paced up and down,

experiencing a mental anguish I had hitherto never known. A thousand

suggestions of action came to me. They tumbled about in my poor brain

in utter confusion, but from among them I was able to choose the first

to be acted upon: I would rush back to Paris immediately, and thence

to America by the first boat.... No, that would not do.... I must “act

natural” before these people and get out of the city without arousing

any suspicions. “Now is the time to summon all your courage, Nan,” Mr.

Harding had said to me over the telephone when I pleaded with him to

see me in New York shortly after the baby’s birth. I seemed to hear him

say it now. I tried to shake myself into common sense; to tell myself

everything was all right; he was ill but he would recover!

I seemed to go over, during those brief moments, my years with Mr.

Harding--our whole love-life together, even up to the time I had seen

him last, suffering from a terrible cold and looking, oh, so tired

and miserable. I remembered hearing Mrs. Harding one time tell how

“Warren” was pathetically afraid of pneumonia, above all other ills.

I remembered so dearly the things that had seemed to throw such an

atmosphere of finality over our last visit in the White House--his

little parting advises, our lingering kisses, his general despair.

And vividly did I recall my forebodings just five evenings before in

Geneva. And the memory of each dark thought added terror to my heart.

Miss Anderson found me a few minutes later, having followed the lead

of the open gate. I read the headlines to her through dry lips and

held the partially crushed paper up for her to see. “All paper talk,”

she said shortly. She bade me come in, as dinner was being served. I

could not tell her why I was so vitally concerned over the illness of

the President of the United States, and she, of course, thought it was

but natural sympathy for a man who had been a family friend. “You’re

silly to take paper talk so seriously,” she reproved. I followed her

into the house and found my place at the table. “‘Just paper talk,’ as

Helen says,” I told myself in desperate hope. “Now go on and eat your

dinner or you’ll be ill yourself from worry and lack of food.” So I

forced food down and passed dishes to and fro and listened to voiced

speculations from those around the table, particularly those in our

American party, about the probable severity of President Harding’s

illness.

Mlle. Daillant was endeavoring as usual to dazzle the American at

her right with charms and conversation, and part of me listened

apathetically to this babble of French while the other part continued

the contemplation of the newspaper report and an advisable course of

action ... the Italian shot solicitous glances my way throughout the

meal, but I could only raise dull eyes to him ... maybe I ought to

marry him, I thought ... he was a nice fellow ... maybe if I married

him, or somebody, it might relieve Mr. Harding’s mind of much worry

even though we both would suffer in other ways as a consequence of such

marriage ... the Norwegian professor’s wife looked as though she had

been weeping, though her eyes were always red, I thought ... a cold,

maybe, for she kept wiping her nose ... what did these people know of

tears, anyway! Mlle. Daillant’s laugh rang out and she repeated in

rapid French to the rest of the boarders something her American had

said which had amused her.... I wondered how it would seem to have no

care beyond an ardent wish to capture an attractive blond American

boy.... Good heavens! I hadn’t even enough money left for a passage!...

I would borrow ... yes, I must go ... these meals were interminable....

I looked at Helen Anderson and she understood. I excused myself, and I

even had enough presence of mind to nod to my hostess and murmur the

customary “_Bonsoir, Madame; à demain!_” as I passed out.

It seemed good to be able to walk fast, and as I directed my steps

toward Mme. Lachat’s, I tried to reason sanely with myself. Why, Mr.

Harding had a superb constitution! It was only the physical drag of

responsibility and worry which had overcome him. Maybe he did not even

have pneumonia! When he was inaugurated Brigadier-General Sawyer,

Mrs. Harding’s personal physician, had issued a statement something

like this: “President Harding represents the finest there is today

in America--morally and physically and mentally.” Although I did not

credit Dr. Sawyer with being a particularly good physician, I knew that

Mr. Harding’s general health had been excellent before he went into the

presidency, except for a few minor ailments now and then. I remembered

how strong he was, how he used to pick me up and carry me about the

room in his arms. I remembered how I grew to think he was made of iron

and was surprised if he expressed a wish to sleep occasionally! I

expected him to stay awake and talk with me all night.

I remembered one night how he had come into New York from a speaking

engagement up in New England somewhere and had closed his eyes almost

as soon as he touched the pillow, and how I, piqued to tears, had

lain away from him, silently, wordlessly, hurt, until he whispered,

“Nan, darling, come close to me! Why, Nan, you’re not crying?” And how

sweetly he had gathered me into his arms, and how ashamed I had been

when he confessed, with his usual embarrassment over indisposition

of any character, “I have a ripping headache, dearie; please forgive

me!” And I had rubbed his head with my finger-tips until he went off to

sleep, and then I had stayed very close to him and just looked at his

dear face and worshipped him. Oh, God, how sweet he was! How I wished

now I might fly to him over this hopeless space between us, and take

him away from _every_body, and nurse him to strength and smiles again!

That night I dreamed fitfully. I arose in the morning, unrested, and

hastened immediately to the Dijon railroad station, where I knew I

could obtain the latest papers from Paris.

_98_

The papers dated August 1st, which I bought on the morning of the 2nd,

caused me to take hope. The headlines were reassuring. “PRESIDENT MUCH

BETTER; GIVES PREPARED SPEECH; HIS SECRETARY HANDS TO PRESS HIS ADDRESS

HE PREPARED FOR DELIVERY IN SAN FRANCISCO.” That was more like _news_,

I thought joyously. I hurried back to Helen Anderson with the paper. My

Italian friend met me on the way. I translated into French as best I

could the good news. Helen Anderson had explained to the people at the

boarding house the evening before that I had come from the President’s

home town and had known him from childhood. My Italian friend smiled

broadly. _Now_ would I go to the theatre with him that evening? he

asked. Yes, I said, I would go.

I felt as though I ought to be gay. Mr. Harding would want me to. Maybe

my prayers were of avail, after all, and I breathed another prayer,

this time one of thankfulness. I went to school that day. I laughed

with the others at the funny mistakes we all made. I could have shouted

all the day long, so relieved did I feel, and so thankful.

That evening my friend called for me and we dined together, and drank

more wine than usual, and afterwards laughed with sheer joy at strange

French comedy which I did not at all understand. We sat in a box. My

friend was most agreeable; his face reminded one of some of the heroic

bronze faces on plaques. He called me “Ninon,” which he informed me

was French for Nan. I giggled to myself when I reflected how funny it

would really be to marry a man who knew but two or three words in my

language. Yet when I thought about it I decided this very fact might

prove an important factor in making him desirable for my peculiar

marriage purposes. But he was, after all, a very likable man, and some

girl might marry him for love of him alone. On our walk home after the

theatre, he proposed marriage to me again, for the severalth time,

and, as he bent to kiss my hand, I said to myself audibly in English,

“It would be a crime when he seems so genuinely fond of me.” He looked

up at me pleadingly. “_S’il vous plaît, Ninon, parlez en français!_”

I smiled softly and shook my head. “_Je vous a dit, simplement, ‘vous

êtes un bon ami.’_”

_99_

That night, Thursday, the 2nd of August, 1923, I dreamed a strange and

terrible dream. I had retired about twelve; I had not been long in

bed, and _surely_ had not even closed my eyes, though when I seemed to

come to my senses I realized I _must_ have been dreaming. My room, in

the corner where my bed stood, was dark, and when I realized what a

horrible nightmare I had experienced, I sprang out of bed like a shot

and over to the wall to turn on the electric light. I looked at my

watch. Why, I had been in bed for three whole hours! Seven o’clock in

America--Elizabeth Ann’s bed-hour. My heart was beating violently and I

shook all over. I passed an icy hand across my hot forehead. Yes, I was

awake, all right, now. God! What a ghastly dream! I opened my shutters

and breathed deeply of the sweet-scented garden air. A million stars

blinked down at me.... Peace, peace, there was peace everywhere but in

my heart. I turned off my light and crept back into bed. Strange how

really cold it got here at night; I should not have stood those few

moments at the window. I was trembling like a leaf; my teeth chattered

and my heart was still pounding up into my throat. My mother had taught

us children at home many things to repeat before we fell asleep and

mechanically I whispered these things now to myself--the Lord’s Prayer,

the 91st Psalm, the 23rd Psalm. I repeated them all, over and over, but

I knew not what I was repeating. My conscious mind was reviewing my

dream in minute detail for the morbid satisfaction of the mental devils

which seemed to possess me. I was conscious again of _a something_

above me, to the left. It seemed to be floating through the air. It

was shrouded about with white clouds which seemed not to hide it from

view but rather to protect it in its slow mount upward. _What_ was I

seeing! God! A coffin! A coffin draped with, and trailing about it,

American flags, and heaped with red, red roses! A coffin, ascending on

my left, rising so slowly that it seemed suspended in mid-air, yet ever

moving upward and away from me. How blood-red were the roses! And the

crimson stripes of the trailing flags stained the clouds! The whole,

mounting majestically, lifted by an invisible force, upward, onward,

protectingly shrouded by white, white clouds!

So he had come to me! He had come in this way that I might be the

first to know he was leaving this earth! He himself, tired unto death,

lay hidden beneath the folds of the crimson-striped flag he had so

loved, revealing to me only the symbol of his going, the beautiful

cradle of his last restful sleep! Perhaps he had been too tired, too

tired to bend over me, too tired even to murmur before he went away,

“I love you, dearie!” But I knew. I understood. He meant to waft me

sweet kisses in his sleep. Yet later he would come back, come back to

hold me close, and I would feel his presence, even as we were wont to

waken to sweet consciousness in each other’s arms, realizing with keen

morning wakefulness the bliss of reciprocal touch ... yes, now he must

sleep.... How beautiful the roses! They hung in tangled masses over

the edge of the coffin, mingling their blood-red with the crimson and

white stripes ... how gentle the Hand that steadied the coffin ... a

Hand that sensed his weariness and guarded well his slumber ... going

upward, heavenward, away from me--away from _me_! Oh, God! No, not

away.... I stared, wide-eyed, fearfully fascinated, _knowing_, yet not

daring to move, feeling instinctively the futility of lifting human

hands in an effort to stay the coffin in its slow flight heavenward....

Even as one transfixed I lay, moving only pitifully frightened eyes to

watch the coffin fade slowly out of sight, protectingly enveloped in

the white, white clouds...!

With a shock I came back to conscious thinking and sprang from my bed

to switch on the light. God! what a horrible nightmare it had been, I

thought as I lay in bed now reviewing it and mechanically repeating the

Lord’s Prayer ... the Psalms ... over and over.... “He maketh me to lie

down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters”.... Oh,

God, how glad I was that it had been only a dream! I thought as I fell

asleep.

_100_

When, on the following morning, August 3rd, I arose, pale-faced, to

rush down to the Dijon station for my paper, I wept for joy to read the

headlines. He was much, much better! There, I thought, that _proved_

that dreams “go by opposites” as I had often heard people say, for I

had _dreamed_ that he was dead, yet he _lived_! How good was God to

keep him safe for me! In spite of dreams and heavy heart I had found

him alive and getting better each minute. Tears of gladness streamed

down my face.

This was Friday. I remembered there was to be a dance that night for

the foreign students. I would attend that! I would buy a new dress

of brightest color and I would be gay indeed! I would evidence my

gratitude by banishing from this moment all apprehensive thoughts. I

would possess myself of a new spirit, a spirit of happiness born of

gratitude for my beloved’s recovery. He was _all right now_. He was so

strong, how foolish for me to imagine ... how we would talk about all

this after I was back in America and made my first visit to the White

House! And I would tell him of all my fears and he would smile and hug

me and say adorably, “You _do_ love me, don’t you, dearie?” Oh, _how_ I

loved him!

I smiled at passers-by as I skipped along to buy “something new.” The

lady in the dress shop was eager to please me. “_Je desire une robe,

madame, avec beaucoup le coleur jolie!_” I informed her gaily in my

best French. I selected one with cerise predominating. I had a large

evening hat which would do finely, and I would wear my black satin

slippers and sheerest black stockings.

Next I must have my hair washed and cut. I was wearing it straight that

summer. I went into what appeared to be a well-conducted beauty parlor.

“_Je desire ma cheval coupé et laveé!_” I informed the attendant, a

man, at the desk. He looked puzzled. I repeated my statement, taking

off my hat and running my hands through my hair. I had noticed that the

several ladies who were being either curled or combed had turned to

look at me in undisguised amusement, but then people were always amused

at my French. So I repeated the statement the second time more loudly,

generously enabling the amused ladies and attendants to have another

smile at my expense. _They_ didn’t know how happy I was. What did I

care if I provoked their laughter. Everybody should laugh. Everybody

should be gay. The President of the United States was fast recovering.

He was sick, but he was getting well! My sweetheart! My darling!

“_Certainment_,” I said, smiling, “_cheval--laveé--coupé!_” He burst

into unrestrained laughter. The attendants burst into unrestrained

laughter. The ladies who were getting curled or combed burst into

unrestrained laughter. And I laughed, too, though I knew not what had

so greatly amused them.

“_Cheval--cheveaux_----,” explained the attendant between spasms.

“Oh, I know!” I said in English, then I laughed with them. Mistakes

we traveling Americans had made in plenty, but never, I am sure, had

anyone topped this one, and never, I am sure, will that attendant

forget that he one day received the strange request from an American

woman to “_have her horse washed and cut_!”

Smelling much too strongly of cologne, which my attendant had insisted

was the proper thing to sprinkle on one’s hair after a shampoo, I flew

home to show Helen Anderson my new dress. She came into my bedroom.

“Mr. Harding is _much_ better,” I told her with a smile. “Didn’t I tell

you,” she answered, “that was probably all paper talk?” I nodded, glad

to acquiesce. We talked about the dance that night and both planned to

go. “I have a few more things to do downtown,” I said, “and will run

and do them now--or, rather, immediately after luncheon,” I decided,

seeing by my watch that it was almost time to go to Mme. Daillant’s.

_101_

By one-thirty that afternoon I had finished my purchasings, having

found at the last minute some gaily colored handkerchiefs which I

felt I would buy right then for gifts when I returned to America. My

money was low. I had wired Captain Neilsen once for $200, which he had

sent almost immediately to me by cable, having cabled him in Paris of

my anticipated need. This fund was fast diminishing. I would have to

cable him for more. I was glad I felt free to do so, because it was

impossible for me to cable Mr. Harding or for him to cable money to

me. On my way home I stopped at the _patisserie_ for some ice cream.

These afternoons in southern France were very warm. Some of the girls

who were in our Armstrong Tour were there and I sat down with them. We

talked about the party that night and our school work.

“Oh, by the way,” one of the girls remarked casually, “did you know

that President Harding was dead?” Like a knell, afar off, I heard a

clock strike two.

I never saw that girl afterwards, so I do not know what she and the

others thought of my conduct. I felt momentarily that I should faint.

“Where did you read that?” I demanded. (To myself I was saying, “God!

These varying reports will kill me! _Why_ do they print such things!”)

“On the bulletin board in the Square,” she answered.

I gave the waitress some change, picked up my parcels with trembling

hands and rushed out into the street. I made immediately for the

bulletin board. It was several blocks away. I was suddenly so tired

I thought I could not possibly walk so far. The sun was very warm.

My heart pounded and my cheeks felt strangely hot. And I kept trying

to wet my dry lips with an equally dry tongue. Aloud I was saying to

myself as I ran along, “Oh, that could not be, that could not be; of

course it is a mistake; oh, God, that just _could_ not be!”

Two university boys tried to stop me as I ran, calling after me

something about the dance as I shook my head and ran on. I did not stop

until I reached the bulletin board. I was tense and faint when I got

there and was clutching my little packages in hands that shook. The

glare of the sun was in my face as I stared up at the bulletin board

and tried to decipher in French much too difficult for me the news

about President Harding. A good many people stood about, also reading.

I turned to ask one of them, but remembered that they could only tell

me in French what the bulletin board said, and I could as well make it

out myself. I steeled myself and laboriously translated the bulletin.

The word _mort_ I knew, of course, meant death. Oh, God! Yes, that was

it. I translated words meaning eighteen hours. Yes, that was it. He had

been gone now for eighteen hours! Eighteen hours dead! “_How_ does it

read, really?” I asked in a strained voice of a man beside me. But he

only shook his head. “_Je ne comprends pas_,” he said.

Oh, it is difficult for me to bring this picture back to my mind! I

can remember it as plainly as though it were yesterday, and all the

horrible sensations of the shocks I experienced come over me anew. The

world seemed without bottom. Things suddenly lost their meaning. The

world, people, life itself, were like a horrible nightmare. I felt,

like the coffin, as though I were balanced in mid-air. I could not

ground either myself or my thoughts.

_102_

I turned away from the bulletin board and walked blindly up the street.

The fact that I was conscious of the direction in which I was going

seemed to me an assurance that I had not yet lost my mind. But it would

go. Yes, I was sure of that. I could not, after I had _realized_ that

my beloved had gone away from me, live on. But indeed even to this day

it has seemed to me that I have not fully _realized the reality_ of Mr.

Harding’s passing. He had been to me not mortal but immortal; he just

could not die.

Strangely enough, I did not cry. I could not cry. My head thumped

mercilessly and it seemed to me I was conscious of passers-by looking

at me, but I could not see wherein I was misbehaving. I was sane. I

was maddeningly sane. I knew that in my hands I still carried the

little colored handkerchiefs, and that I was on the main street. And

I wondered why I had not thrown the handkerchiefs away. All the way

up through the long street that is the main thoroughfare of Dijon I

walked. What was there to do? Where was I to go? What did it matter?

How strange that this should happen to me and I could not feel it

within my heart to cry!

I remember a street car coming alongside of me in that narrow street.

It seemed to bring me back partially. It was a long walk home, and I

was very, very tired. Yes, I was so tired I might faint. And people

might then find out, if I fainted and lost my mind and talked, that

I was President Harding’s sweetheart. I could not afford to faint. I

would take the car back home and I would be safe, once I was with Helen

Anderson.

God, what torture to sit in that car! There were five or six blocks

to ride, and they seemed interminable. The man called my stop--it was

_Place Octobre 30th_--queer name for a street. October 30th! It was the

22nd of October that Elizabeth Ann was born--the 22nd of October just

four years ago that fall. Elizabeth Ann! Our daughter. _His_ daughter,

and he had never seen her! And he was gone! Oh, no, no! It must be a

mistake! I was asleep again and it was a horrible dream. If he were

dead I would be crying. I pinched myself very hard and felt the hurt

keenly. I could not remember ever having felt such queer pressure

around my heart or such heaviness in my head. I reached our garden gate

and mechanically let myself in with the great key I carried.

I entered my room. On the bed lay the cerise dress. Was it possible

that I could actually have enthused over a mere dress? Was it I who had

entered this room less than three hours before in high spirits? Good

God, how meaningless everything seemed! How blank! I tried to ponder

the meaning of _death_ as it now affected me. But my mind was in a

daze. I could not pin my thoughts to contemplative consideration of

anything save the sickening emptiness and gnawing pangs I was conscious

of within. The effects of the bulletin-board statement were very real;

but the full significance of the statement itself I could not grasp.

The possibility that I should eventually awaken to the full import of

my sweetheart’s passing seemed remote, for _to me_ he continued to

live. Only the world-void and the dullness of an inactive mentality

seemed real then.

Helen must have heard me turn the key in the garden door, for she now

called downstairs to me. I answered her. I even went to the foot of the

stairs and called up to her in a voice that seemed strangely detached

from me, “He is dead, Helen!”

She came downstairs to my room. I was sure that something would snap

within my brain and I would be wholly without power of reason. So

I must tell her. In incoherent fashion, and in a strange, hollow

voice, I related to Helen Anderson how Mr. Harding was my sweetheart.

As I listlessly revealed to her fragments of my strange story,

Miss Anderson’s face grew flushed from shock. I wondered vaguely at

her changing expressions. I was puzzled that she should utter an

exclamation when I told her that the Elizabeth Ann I talked so much

about was President Harding’s child--and mine!

I remember distinctly, even in my state of mental lassitude, that I was

secretly amazed at her first question. “Well, how did you ever _do_

it, Nan?” “How did I ever _do_ it?” I repeated. “Why, yes, how could

you ‘get away with’ having a child?” It was inconceivable to me, who

had loved Mr. Harding for so long, how anyone could primarily feature

the obstacles in mentally digesting my story, for love such as ours

could encounter no insuperable obstacles to the full expression of its

divine nature. But Helen Anderson had never married, and she was a

conventional woman.

I stumbled through explanations, and as I reminisced aloud about

Elizabeth Ann I found myself quivering anew from head to foot and the

hot tears in my eyes. I was now really crying! It eased me. It was not

so difficult after that to go on. The tenseness of my body gave place

to violent paroxysms of shaking, but the relaxation I felt from talking

with someone was great relief to me. Helen directed me to get to bed

immediately. I _was_ very tired, I thought, as I crept into bed. Helen

stayed with me through the evening, reading to me, comforting me, until

I told her I felt perhaps I could sleep. But I was too shaken to be

alone, and that night, when I decided I could not stand it one moment

longer, I crept upstairs and into Helen’s bed, where I lay shivering in

the dark, crouched close to my friend, like a hunted creature.

_103_

My interest in France, in Europe, in the whole world was over now. All

I wanted was to get back to America and to Elizabeth Ann. I wondered

if Mr. Harding’s funeral would be held before I reached home. I did

hope everything was safe so far as our love-story was concerned, for

my sweetheart’s sake. Miss Anderson calmed my fears on this score when

I spoke to her about it. She said of _course_ nothing would “get out”

about a President who had just passed on. But I was afraid, anyway, and

I was anxious to get back to take care for him that nothing was said.

Of course if anything _were_ said about him, I would lie for him. I

could always say Elizabeth Ann belonged to someone else. And he was

protected--unless he had left some of my letters or some of my pictures

in his desk. But probably his private secretary, George Christian,

would obey him and burn those things in his private drawer without

looking at them. I feared for Elizabeth Ann. If they _did_ find it out,

what might they not do with her! Kidnap _her_ and worry _me_ to my very

death? Oh, yes, I must get back immediately.

I did not have sufficient funds to go on any boat outside of the one

our Armstrong party was scheduled to return on. And only the day before

I had spent about $40 on the cerise dress and other foolish things. I

told my Italian friend that my sister “was very ill” and he came to my

rescue with a loan of 1,500 francs ($90). Helen Anderson had offered

to cable her sister for extra funds, but I did not wish to await the

return of her sister’s cable. The $90 would suffice to secure for me

a change of cabin in another boat on the French Line, in addition to

the amount I was allowed on my regular return passage. The boat, the

_France_, would sail the 11th of August. Yes, they would have buried

him by the time I reached America, I was sure. My thoughts never

ceased. They ran on and on, and sometimes I felt that likely it was the

ability to think that had kept me from _losing_ the ability to think.

Miss Anderson, saddened over Mr. Harding’s death, and having had enough

of Dijon anyway, left with me, as did a young man who had been with us

a good deal on the tour. He accompanied me, in fact, to Havre, at Helen

Anderson’s expense, and put me on my boat. I had secured a double cabin

all to myself because the clerk saw that I looked ill. And never was

I so glad to leave any place in my life. I saw the shores of France

recede and turned my face toward America.

_104_

The feeling of unreality which I had been experiencing in connection

with Mr. Harding’s death continued, and it seemed to me those days

on the ocean enroute home that I possessed two distinct entities:

the one, myself, who suffered constantly, underneath her comparative

calm, and another who seemed always to be looking on. This second self

watched me, I might say watched over me, observing that I did necessary

things in a normal manner--that I dressed, breakfasted, talked, read,

dined, and even slept. This second self seemed also to approve of my

companionships on board, especially with a Swiss Frenchman who sat at

my table and who seemed to appreciate that I had been through some

kind of ordeal. He thought it strange that I didn’t care to dance, but

walked with me and sat with me on the deck and gave me interesting

books to read.

The passengers, at my table and elsewhere, very naturally talked about

Mr. Harding’s death. I had grown used to hearing him discussed anywhere

I might go, and this fact may have helped to make it possible for me to

listen to their talk until I could quietly excuse myself or otherwise

slip away unobserved.

My funds were almost exhausted. I had cabled Captain Neilsen to have

money awaiting me in New York, having received a radio from him that he

was soon to leave for an indefinite period. And he had wired me back,

“Call for funds at American Express Office.” I had scarcely enough

money left to tip the stewards.

Each day there was a pool won by the passenger who guessed the final

numeral in the mileage made by the steamer at the end of a certain

hour. My Swiss friend, seeming fond of sports of that kind, always bet

on some number. I did not know that one who bets must also deposit $6

of the $60 which went to make up the pool and, when he said to me one

day, “Put your name down against a number,” I chose 5. Unknown to me

he had put $6 into the pool for me. The following day I was informed

I had guessed the lucky number. It was long afterward, even here in

New York, that I discovered he had made the necessary deposit for me.

He seemed at the time I won to be much more pleased than I, saying he

“loved to see girls win things.” Inasmuch as I had about $5 left you

may be sure the $60 lucky cash came in handy!

Mr. Harding’s generosity had made of me a far more extravagant girl

than might have been the case had he not made me feel that I needn’t

be so saving. I remember one time when I went to the White House, he

said to me, “Nan, darling, do you know how much I have sent you since

such-and-such a date?” He added, “Not that I am complaining, dearie; I

want you to have everything you want within reason, so long as there is

no comment.”

Another time, when he was hugging me so tightly, sitting there on the

dilapidated leather couch in the ante-room, I said, “Oh, sweetheart,

you are tearing my blouse!” He did not loose his hold of me; simply

answered in a voice I knew was smiling, as he sought my lips, “Well, if

I tear it, I’ll buy you another one!”

This reminds me of an incident in our first sweetheart days of 1917. It

was early fall. We were taxi driving, and were crossing the viaduct at

125th Street and Riverside Drive. I knew I would need a winter coat; in

fact, at the Carter’s the winter before I had had no winter coat; I had

worn the heavy suit the friends in Chicago had bought me and a rather

heavy raincoat over it, and very often Miss Carter’s fur piece and

muff. I now needed a winter coat badly.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “if I can save $20 toward a new winter coat, will

you give me $10?” How can I forget how he looked at me! Or his answer,

“Say, you darling, if you save _$10_ I’ll give you _$20_!” And, as a

matter of fact, he sent me $50, out of which I bought a coat for $38.

_105_

It was Saturday, August the 18th, 1923, when we sailed into the New

York harbor. I had little trouble with my baggage, the only thing of

any consequence which I had bought being a big doll for Elizabeth Ann

for which I had paid $11 in Geneva. I had early christened the doll

“Ninon,” and Elizabeth Ann treasured it.

I went to the McAlpin Hotel. Along the street I observed with aching

heart the many signs of a nation’s mourning, and when I went to the

window of my room in the hotel the last touch was added; outside hung a

huge American flag, at half-mast. The cumulative reaction was too much,

and with a sense of mingled anguish in bereavement and relief for my

return I flung myself down upon the bed and wept.

I had lived only to get back to Elizabeth Ann, and I could scarcely

wait to hold my baby in my arms. My first impulse was to leave

immediately for the West. However, I did not know the lay of the

land out there, and did not want to take any false steps which would

indicate the state of my feelings and lead to exposure of Mr. Harding

in any way. It was an absurd thought for me to entertain, to think

that after we had been able thus far to keep our love a secret it

should come out at this time of all times. But I was so nervous that

I suspected everybody of knowing that there was a story, and was as

circumspect in my behavior as if I personally had the responsibility of

the nation in my keeping.

I immediately wrote to my sister Elizabeth in Chicago to be very

careful, and I bought up all the newspapers previous to and following

the President’s illness. My purpose in buying them was two-fold.

First, I wanted to satisfy myself that there had crept out no breath

of scandal during his late days in Canada before he started for San

Francisco; and, secondly, I wanted these clippings for my Harding book

which I was keeping for Elizabeth Ann.

Having pored over the papers in my room at the McAlpin, and finding no

evidence that Mr. Harding had been subjected to worry on account of

our secret love, and still awaiting a letter from Elizabeth, I turned

my attention to the finance question. I went to the American Express

Office and found $200 which Captain Neilsen had deposited for me,

awaiting my demand. Captain Neilsen was mighty nice, I thought, to do

this for me, and just as soon as I had received the money I was sure

Mr. Harding had left for me, I would repay him. I wondered how Mr.

Harding had arranged it. Bless him! It hurt me unspeakably to ponder

this question. I was absolutely certain, however, that we had been

taken care of, our precious baby and myself, and I put the how of it

out of my mind.

I felt I should buy a dress for myself which would be in conformity

with my mood. My winter coat, the squirrel coat Mr. Harding had made

it possible for me to have, was in storage, and so I decided to buy

one of lighter weight, a black one, for early fall wear. I spent one

afternoon, therefore, choosing a black dress, black coat, black hat and

black gloves.

_106_

Finally word came from my sister Elizabeth. She wrote that my

brother-in-law, Scott Willits, had planned to study with Professor

Otakar Sevcik, who was to teach in New York that winter, and it was too

late for them to alter their plans. They were, therefore, coming East

as arranged, and would stop at my mother’s, in Athens, Ohio, where I

could meet them. Scott had been studying with Professor Sevcik for some

time, having been with him in Europe a year, a season in Ithaca, and a

season in Chicago.

So I went immediately to Athens, Ohio, to await their coming. Mother

surely sensed the grief I had experienced, and set me to work cleaning

house for her and getting meals and otherwise trying to occupy my mind.

She was teaching in the Training School of the Ohio University, was

busy every minute of the day, and it was a relief for her to come home

to prepared meals, she said.

In early September I went to Marion. I had become unbearably nervous

waiting for Elizabeth to bring my baby, and anyway I felt if I could

see and talk to Daisy Harding it would make me feel a shade better. I

telephoned Miss Harding immediately upon my arrival. She still lived

with her father on East Center Street. It was from this house that the

funeral of President Harding had been conducted. Daisy Harding was

surprised to hear my voice and invited me to come out immediately. The

last time I had seen her was when she had visited her cousin, Mrs.

John Wesener, in Chicago, in the fall of 1922, and I had taken my

grandfather there to call upon Dr. Harding.

Everything seemed very quiet as I stepped from the trolley in front of

Dr. Harding’s and walked across the street to the house. New railings

had replaced the old ones which had to be removed from the porch in

order to take the President’s casket in and out of the door, and when I

observed them the full significance of this struck me like a blow.

Miss Harding came to the door in answer to my ring. She had on an

all white serge suit and I thought she was truly the most beautiful

woman I had ever seen. The pallor of her lovely face was heightened by

the deep lights of her eyes and her black hair was combed back from

her forehead. How much she looked like _him_! The same understanding

seriousness in her eyes, the same facial contour, and much the same sad

smile.

We sat in the living-room, the same room in which I had, in July of

1922, seen and talked with Mrs. Warren Harding. Daisy Harding told me

many details about the passing of her brother. As she talked I thought

I should scream with each word. A portrait in colors of President

Harding, a “smiling picture,” hung in that room above the bookcase

and beneath it stood a bouquet of flowers. Just as Mr. Harding used

to have flowers on his White House desk beside the miniature of his

mother, I thought.

The house seemed very quiet. The East Center Street trolley cars

rumbled past at regular intervals, the same street cars I suppose

that used to pass our house when the “Brittons” lived farther out on

the same street. Everything was the same; but everything to me was

tragically different.

“That’s the way it is all day long, Nan,” said Miss Harding, calling

my attention to a car which drove slowly by while the occupants were

gazing curiously at the house wherein we sat. “Thousands and thousands

passed his coffin, and everybody remarked the expression upon his

face--he looked so peaceful and happy.” God, how awful to listen as

she told it! I sobbed with Miss Harding as she went on. “He loved life

so, you know, Nan,” she said. Oh, how well I knew! I told her about

the strange dream I had had in Dijon, and how I afterwards had counted

up the difference in time between France and the United States and had

found that the hour of my dream had been the hour of Mr. Harding’s

passing. She thought this startlingly coincidental.

I longed to go over and put my arms around her, to tell her that her

brother _had_ known _some_ joy during the last years of his life, and

that I would have given my own life to have had him know more of such

joy. But I sat still and silent in my chair.

Even the grief I felt could not overshadow a certain strange comfort I

experienced in being there, ’mid the old familiar surroundings, where

his body had last lain in perfect rest. And the spirit that had always

been Warren Harding seemed to linger near us as we talked.

Miss Harding’s fiance, Mr. Ralph Lewis, came for her. They were going

to dine at an inn in a nearby country town--Waldo, she said. (I knew

the very place, for I had dined there with the Mousers and Gorhams not

long before--the last visit I made to Marion.) They invited me to go

with them; they were driving, of course. But I told them I preferred to

remain there at the house and would try to rest a bit while they were

gone.

It seemed like the culmination of a fairy tale that Ralph Lewis should

be engaged to Daisy Harding. He had loved her all his life, I knew.

When I was a child he had owned a grocery-store, and we children often

went there for “sour pickles.” I can see him now, in his big white

apron, stooping over the pickle barrel and hauling up several pickles

with the dipper, dripping with the good-smelling vinegar. He used to

let us “pick ’em out,” I remember. After a good many years he gave up

the grocery business and went in for real estate, and I knew well his

reputed success.

Miss Harding told me to go out into the kitchen and help myself to

anything I found for luncheon; it was then about eleven-thirty in the

morning. Then they left, and I was entirely alone in the house. Miss

Harding had told me that her father and his wife had gone away for a

rest and visit following the funeral. So I was there alone in the house

where my beloved had lain in utter peace, in his father’s home, while

mourning thousands brought their tributes of affectionate regard.

I was nervously exhausted, and went upstairs, thinking I would lie

down for a while. Miss Harding had told me sometime before that

when her brother had been elected President his wife had sent some

of her furniture back to Marion from their Wyoming Avenue home in

Washington, and the room where I went to rest was fitted with Mr. and

Mrs. Harding’s bedroom suite. Their framed portraits hung above their

respective beds. I lay down and looked long at the likeness of my

beloved. My second self was watching me, and seemed to say, “Go right

ahead, Nan, and have a good cry. It will make you feel stronger.” I

think I did feel a bit stronger.

I bathed my eyes, put on a dressing-gown Miss Harding had laid out for

me, and went down to the kitchen. I prepared a cup of something hot

for myself and forced myself to eat some of the fresh things from the

ice-box. Then I washed up my dishes and went back into the living-room.

I roamed in and out, visioning the coffin in the front room with my

darling lying so peacefully there. I stooped and caressed the carpet

above which the coffin had rested, and closed my eyes as I stood above

an imaginary casket and looked down at my darling asleep. He had known

this house! He had once lived here, as I remembered hearing his sister

say, and therefore every inch of the old home was dear to him.

I longed to hold some of his clothes. He used to have an agreeable

man-smell all his own, and there was a time when I thought I knew all

his suits. I remembered he sometimes had come over to New York looking

not as well pressed as usual, seeming to joy in the comfort of old

clothes. On one occasion I told him I wished he were a milkman or a

postman or _some_body who was not at all important. He had smiled then

and looked down at his clothes, and I had hastened to assure him that

he was quite all right, that he looked good to _me_, and that I didn’t

care _what_ he had on. And another time, in Washington, we were walking

together down Pennsylvania Avenue, and he looked absolutely stunning.

And in the admiring glances of passers-by was also recognition. “I

never used to notice the conspicuity of men in public office as I have

since coming to Washington,” he said to me. And then another time he

was chewing gum and asked me if I wanted some, and I took it because I

was afraid I would hurt his feelings if I did not. And we walked along

together, my arm through his, and were so happy! “We’re just a couple

of small-towners together, aren’t we, Nan?” he said contentedly as he

looked down at me with fond eyes. And I nodded happily and said to him,

“May I kiss you, darling, all night long?” And to this and other loving

queries I made he answered gaily, “You can do any damned thing you want

to do to me, dearie. _I’m yours!_”

I left Miss Harding and her home with a sense of having actually

communed with my beloved. I did not allow myself to go up to the

cemetery. In fact, though I have been in Marion since, I have never

once been near where the coffin rests. For they could never bury the

_spirit_ of Warren Gamaliel Harding.

_107_

I returned to Athens, Ohio. Here Elizabeth, Scott and Elizabeth Ann

joined me some days later and soon we were all enroute back East to New

York, my younger sister Janet going with us.

I cannot tell anyone how sweet it was to be near my precious baby

girl once more. If I had idolized her before, I worshipped her now,

for my love was tinged with the spiritual. Elizabeth Ann and I slept

together at my mother’s for the few days we remained there before

leaving for the East, and I fairly devoured her with my hungry eyes.

I could see her father in her every glance. Even in the semi-darkness

of our bedroom, where the light from the hall made it possible for me

to contemplate her features, I saw constantly the face of him whom I

would never again see upon this earth. I felt toward her as Mr. Harding

used to write that he felt toward me. “I worship you, dearest, and I

reverence you,” he would say to me, and I remember how that reverence

was written all over his face when I, just a month before Elizabeth Ann

was born, went to see him in Washington. And now I felt more than ever

before that same worshipful reverence for my child, and I poured the

love I felt for both my child and her father upon her. For now I had

only the memory of him to adore.

_108_