... When I was in Marion, I remember distinctly that you told me how
deeply sympathetic and interested Mrs. Votaw was bound to be if you
told her the whole story about Elizabeth Ann as I had related it to
you. In your letter recently to me you ignored completely Mrs. Votaw’s
possible visit to you.... I am naturally assuming therefore that you
have told Mrs. Votaw and the attitude you felt sure she would take has
not been the attitude she actually has assumed. Of course, the mere
fact that you did not even allude to your having had a discussion with
her on the subject has hurt me very deeply.
I hope you don’t mind my talking in a rather business-like manner
about a subject which is a veritable part of me and nearest and
dearest to my heart, but the time has come when I must make some kind
of separation between sentiment and being fair to Elizabeth Ann.
When I went West in June, as I told you, my sole reason was to talk
with you and gain whatever helpful suggestions you might make. Your
saying in your last letter that my attitude toward men and that of
your own were at such wide variance as to make you hesitant about
making suggestions was another thing that hurt me quite a bit. I will
admit that Elizabeth Ann’s father and I indulged in the height of
unconventionality--but to be fair to myself, I must say that it was as
much his idea of right as mine--and I shall never be able to attach
one iota of sordidness to the beautiful, natural, and finely impelled
love we had for each other which resulted in God’s giving us Elizabeth
Ann.
I am very sure, knowing your loving regard for his happiness and your
deep affection for him as a brother, you would not in the same breath
imagine him capable of being actuated by any but the finest, truest
motives, and that I, loving him as I always have, could respond had I
not instincts as lofty as his own. Bless him! But my declarations now
are merely to prove to you that if you loved him one-tenth as much
as I, you would lose sight entirely of the “right” or “wrong” of the
question, in assuming that you are incapable of advising or helping
simply because our views concerning relations with men differ, in your
desire to see things as he saw them--and in your intense longing to
help me to solve the problem which his tragic death has left unsolved.
Not that I believe you do not want to help me. Understand me, I am
sure you do. Both you and Mrs. Votaw. Else you could not have loved
him dearly. I think I would have died for him. But my problem now is
to _live_ and care for and protect a precious gift--our gift to each
other. I wish I might picture to you his face when he talked of the
future--the worshipful sweetness of his smile when he talked with me
about Elizabeth Ann--his pride in her, his adorable pride in me, his
enthusiasm about little girls in general, where, he said to me, the
very last time I saw him, he “never used to feel so deeply moved.”
You see how I have all these things with me, and how endeared every
remembrance makes her to me.
[Illustration]
It has all been going through my mind all summer, and I feel very
strongly that before I take any big steps, I should immediately put my
problem up to you very frankly.
You intimated to me that perhaps this fall--your property there having
involved your own income quite deeply--you might be able to help me
to put E. A. in school--to have her with me. I am up against the
following problem:
I could, presumably, though not positively, procure funds wherewith
to enable me to put E. A. in school this winter--but ever since I
married the Captain in order to _have_ E. A. permanently, have I been
borrowing--from Peter to pay Paul. It has not worked out at all well.
I am now in debt over $500 and only this very afternoon have I gone
on the witness stand in an endeavor to have my marriage annulled and
start anew....
Now, my mother, not having been in particularly good health this
summer, and so far not having a school because of her health, is, you
know, a fine teacher. I have been considering having her come East
with Elizabeth Ann ..., take a two or three-room apartment, have her
tutor Elizabeth Ann part of the day and have E. A., for the sake of
being thrown in with children, go to kindergarten the other part of
the day.
It will involve quite a bit of expense considering that I myself can
live on my salary, but could not begin to keep two others. Mother
would simply be hired in the capacity of a teacher, though of course
the compensation she would ask of me in money would be small in
proportion to that which I might be obliged to pay a regular tutor. I
would, however, have to maintain an apartment, buy the food, clothe
all of us, and meet E. A.’s kindergarten expenses and other expenses
connected with such a program.
If, for instance, you would be willing to help to the extent of taking
care of E. A.’s kindergarten expenses, and Mrs. Votaw would meet her
expenses so far as clothes are concerned--and I would endeavor to be
as economical as possible and still keep her looking as well as the
children she comes in contact with at school--it would relieve me
greatly. It is possible that my mother can find something worth while
to do and would be able to fill in the hours E. A. is in school to
advantage.
As I said, I am assuming that you have told Mrs. Votaw. I know in my
heart that you girls could not be his sisters and feel disinterested
to the point of not being eager to do anything you could--and I have
an idea that Mrs. Votaw could be appealed to to see the thing in its
true light, as a problem that I am up against for him as well as
myself. You know, of course, that I would not think of having E. A. go
through her life and not know who she is,--I am too proud of it, to
begin with, and it is only fair to her to know. And when I feel she
should know, I would adore to be able to tell her how her father’s
people came to my rescue so that she might be reared in the manner he
has so often pictured to me. And when that time comes I would love to
have her be more than merely acquainted with you. I need not say that
she is the most lovable of children--all that have I told you--but I
may say that I feel some day she will make us proud of her, if she has
the opportunity she should have as his daughter.
As I say, I have people in mind whom I would feel absolutely safe in
going to--men in particular of whom E. A.’s father has spoken with
fondness,--but it seems to me that we, as two families interested,
should be able to work out some means, through working together for
her good--and, after all, the burden will not fall upon the shoulders
of one of us, but on all.
I am writing to Mrs. Votaw tonight, asking her if I may run down, very
possibly this week-end, to see her. I imagine it is her delicacy of
feeling toward me that has inclined her to remain silent. But it is
absolutely my problem to solve and I feel I must reach out in every
_right_ direction until I exhaust every effort. Then, and only then,
will I feel justified in turning to outsiders.
Curious how sure I feel that things will come out all right. I merely
feel that instinctive longing to do the thing that is right and to be
fair with everybody, and have everybody deal fairly with me. It is
bound to come out that way....
Lots and lots of loving thoughts to you.
Affectionately,
NAN BRITTON NEILSEN”
_135_
To Mrs. Votaw, under the same date, September 23rd, 1925, I wrote:
“DEAR MRS. VOTAW:
Won’t you write me in the enclosed envelope whether or not it would
be convenient for you to have me run down to see you this week-end? I
could make the Friday night train and arrive Saturday morning, or I
could come down Saturday morning and arrive in the early afternoon,
returning Sunday night.
I’d love to see you.
Most affectionately,
NAN BRITTON NEILSEN”
Under date of September 25, 1925, Mrs. Votaw wrote me a short note in
longhand. I took heart when I noted the salutation, “Dearest Nan,”
but the note itself was not especially heartening. She wrote that she
had had a great deal of company. “Am just all in--been going to the
Sanitarium for a week taking treatments and fighting to keep on my
feet, ...” she wrote. The doctor had informed her that she must go
to bed and be quiet for a time. After that she was going to Clifton
Springs, New York, where her sister Daisy would soon join her. “Am so
tired--hope you are feeling well,” the note ended.
Not a single intimation that she knew my story! Never a word of
sympathy for me, though she must have known from her sister Daisy that
I, too, was nervously exhausted beyond words. Never a promise of help,
though she must have known the purpose of my desire to see her. It was
all so evasive. Yet the tenor of the note, with its implication of
a rather sudden breakdown, seemed to my sensitive mind to impute to
me responsibility therefore, if it resulted from revelations made by
Daisy Harding. Not to be permitted to see her, to talk with her, and
give her the many details I had given her sister Daisy, seemed to me
unfair treatment. It left me with the feeling a child has when accused
of something and sent off to bed with no opportunity of explaining his
innocence.
_136_
While I still puzzled and grieved over the disappointing note received
from Mrs. Votaw, I received a cheering telegram from Daisy Harding. She
wired that she had arrived home, the night before my letter reached
her, from a trip into Illinois and Indiana. “You can count on me for
K and C funds,” she said in her wire. She asked my permission to send
the letter she had received from me on to her sister, Mrs. Votaw. The
telegram was signed, “Mrs. A. A. Stuart.” I assumed that Miss Harding
had not wanted to sign this telegram in her name “Mrs. Lewis” because
of the necessity for having it go through the telegraph office where
she might be known. However, it occurred to me that the wire itself was
so coded that it would have made little difference. I knew that “K” and
“C” referred to Kindergarten and Clothes funds, and I was delighted
that she wished to send my letter on to Mrs. Votaw.
In the meantime, however, under date of October 5th, 1925, I had
written Daisy Harding again, telling her of Mrs. Votaw’s letter to me
and ending my letter with the following sentence:
“You know I must know now whether or not you and Mrs. Votaw are
interested in helping, because it means looking ahead to Elizabeth
Ann’s happiness a long, long way.”
Then, upon receipt of the above telegram from Miss Harding, I wrote her
again, under date of October 8th, 1925. I acknowledged her wire and
told her she could be sure I would do everything to co-operate in any
way she suggested, and that there was no reason why everything should
not go along in a perfectly quiet, normal way. Then I wrote, in the
same letter, as follows:
“My mother writes from Athens that she is making Elizabeth Ann’s last
winter’s dresses over and getting herself in readiness to come East if
I want her to--and I certainly do. I have been looking at three-room
apartments and shall definitely decide upon one, now that I am sure
about being able to have the baby. Oh, it will be such a joy! I am so
happy about it.
I have begun again a course in writing and am so interested in making
a success of it some day. I read the other night that Mary Roberts
Rinehart began when _she_ was twenty-eight--in the evenings when
her children were sleeping--and why not try to emulate Mary Roberts
Rinehart!... By all means give the letter to Mrs. Votaw.... I hope she
is much better.
By the way, I saw T. S. last night for a short time and am having
dinner with him tonight at the Waldorf, where he always stops. He had
another gentleman, a friend of his, with us, and we talked current
events--and I had to leave comparatively early. He is a fine man--and
I can assure you he is a man of honor....”
“T. S.” of course meant Tim Slade. I was meeting him every month and
having dinner with him at the Waldorf, and he was assuring me he was
still working upon Elizabeth Ann’s matter.
Daisy Harding had asked me not to tell Tim, or my sister Elizabeth
and her husband, Scott, about my having talked with her. It was
comparatively easy for me not to speak about it to Elizabeth and Scott,
for I only talked to them in letters, but I unintentionally allowed
something to slip one night in talking with Tim, and divulged to him
the fact that I had seen and talked with Daisy Harding. However, this
was not until some time in November or December, and I had seen Daisy
Harding in June of that same year, 1925.
Tim had previously inquired whether I thought I would be able to have
the baby with me that winter, and I had told him it was going to be
possible, not telling him I had talked with Miss Harding, and allowing
him to speculate as he might about the source of the added income which
would of course be necessary for such a regime.
_137_
It was with hopeful heart that I met Tim each month at the Waldorf,
for I felt so sure that one day he would bring me the news that he
had located the fund left, as I fondly thought, for Elizabeth Ann, or
if not this news, perhaps the next best, viz., that he had been able
to secure substantial funds, either through interesting the Votaws
himself, he and the Votaws wishing to surprise me, or by taking the
matter to the men whom he had spoken of as Mr. Harding’s most loyal
friends, notably among them Charles G. Dawes.
I was physically worn at that time, and, despite Daisy Harding’s
willingness to defray part of my expenses, I felt sure I was going
to find it beyond my power to carry on. I was ready to accept for my
daughter a fund which would in point of fact really be charitable
donations from her father’s best friends.
So I suffered Tim’s plans to go on uninterrupted, and hoped and prayed
that the Hardings themselves would come to a realization of what
they should do for Elizabeth Ann. If a fund of some sort could be
established, and Elizabeth Ann given the income therefrom, such income
could be in part applied upon our monthly expenses and enable me,
through her own income, to have her with me.
I accepted tolerantly Tim Slade’s oft-expressed opinions of the various
members of the Harding family, feeling it would be only a matter of
time when he would see for himself the characteristics I knew so well
predominated _in the hearts_ of the Hardings, no matter what the issue,
so long as that issue was _right_. And I felt sure they would come
to see that the right thing to do for their brother’s child was to
enable her, through their financial help, to share with them some of
that money which their brother had made possible for them to enjoy,
and further make it possible for her mother to have her. Women like
Daisy and Carrie Harding were not the kind of women who would stop in
at a meat market downtown to buy some poor street mongrel a piece of
meat, as I remember well they used to do in Marion, and then fail
to experience that far greater sense of human sympathy and sense of
justice where their own brother’s child was concerned.
So Tim Slade’s repeated statement, “They don’t want to part with their
money, I tell you,” fell upon deaf ears.
“Gee, if I had known this during the presidential campaign of 1920, you
could have had anything you wanted, and I myself could have got you
anywhere from $200,000 to a million!” was in substance Tim’s statement
to me, “and with only a crook of your little finger, too!” he added.
When I said to Tim that such a request from me would have been as
foreign to my thoughts as would have been the idea of threat of
exposure of my sweetheart, he replied that the money was going those
days to far less worthy causes than mine. He even cited the case of
the woman whom I have called Mrs. Arnold, of Marion, Ohio, whose name
had been mentioned with that of Mr. Harding during the campaign. “Look
what they did for Mrs. Arnold! Why, they sent her to the Orient!” Tim
declared. I remembered hearing that she had gone abroad upon the heels
of the gossip which arose during the campaign.
“Yes, and they gave Mrs. Harding plenty of money, too!” Tim continued
his amazing revelations. “And all the time _you_ held the safety of the
Republican Party in your hands!” But, I told Tim, Mr. Harding was the
man I _loved_, and moreover he was at the time making ample provision
for his sweetheart and our child, and Tim’s implication that I should
have taken financial advantage of the campaign situation filled me with
resentment. However, as he said, here I was, fighting to keep on my
feet, and depending upon my sister and her husband most of the time to
keep the child who should have been a first consideration at all times.
And I could not but concede that this was true. I knew, though others
perhaps would not believe it, that my darling sweetheart had his child
constantly in mind, and I could never, never be convinced that he had
not made as adequate provision for her, in case of his passing, as he
had personally provided for her and me during his lifetime.
_138_
Tim Slade had quite a lot to say about Mrs. Harding. He told me how
once, when he was preparing to make a trip to Chicago where he was to
meet me at the Congress Hotel to deliver a package, Mrs. Harding had
said to him, “Tim Slade, _what are you doing for Warren_?” And Tim,
glad of an opportunity to arouse her curiosity, replied blandly that he
was doing nothing at all. “Well, you _are_!” she insisted, “and what’s
more, I’ll see to it that you are put out--I’ll make you lose your job!”
He said it had infuriated her to think he had such a direct entree to
the President and upon a matter about which Mrs. Harding knew nothing.
According to Tim, he answered her, “Listen, my dear lady, you couldn’t
do a thing to me!” And he said she knew it, and that further infuriated
her.
I never quite understood how Tim would dare to defy the First Lady of
the Land, but from the things he has told me, such defiance on his part
was of frequent occurrence, and yet never lost him his government job
in the secret service.
Tim said he _knew_ that my relationship to the President, whatever
it was, was of paramount concern to Mr. Harding, to the “boss,” as
he so often called him when speaking of the President to me. In this
connection he told me how, upon different occasions, when he had
received either a telephonic communication from me or a letter, he had
gone immediately in each instance to the President, and the President,
no matter whether he was occupied with state matters, or a game of
cards in his private apartment, had given Tim the strictest attention
while the latter delivered his message from me.
Tim, having lived for twenty-one years in and about the White House,
knew and was known to everybody from the maid-servants to the Cabinet
members, and knew even the gossip of the White House kitchen. It was in
this way that I learned from Tim that Mrs. Warren Harding had not been
a popular mistress during her brief reign. Tim explained to me that
Mrs. Harding wanted her finger on the pulse of every activity in the
White House, and it was to this end that she had endeavored to direct
even the functionings of the servants’ quarters.
However, our conversations were not entirely taken up with the
discussions pertaining to my own difficulties, and I feel quite well
acquainted with certain phases of Tim Slade’s own life--his beautiful
country home, for which he said he paid $35,000 when he purchased it
early in 1924, I think, and his various cars, dogs, social doings,
intimate contacts with George Christian and Mr. Christian’s family, and
so on.
_139_
Tim early revealed to me what he termed the “inside dope” on _The
Marion Daily Star_ purchase by Mr. Brush and Mr. Moore. He said that
Mr. Brush would be vitally concerned in seeing that no expose of Mr.
Harding’s love-story was made, for it would affect the sales of his
paper. Tim was of the opinion that Mr. Brush ought to be asked to
contribute to any fund he, Tim, might undertake to raise for Warren
Harding’s daughter, because Mr. Brush had benefitted greatly from Mr.
Harding’s sale of the _Star_. Just why or how Mr. Brush had gained, I
do not remember, though Tim explained it all to me at the time.
But I do remember the incident which led me to think that Tim Slade
wanted to approach Mr. Brush as much in his own behalf as in my
daughter’s: He said that when Mr. Frank A. Vanderlip came out publicly
with statements concerning the sale of _The Marion Daily Star_, Mr.
Brush immediately promised to pay him a certain sum of money if he,
Tim, would intercede and successfully handle the situation. Tim said
that Mr. Vanderlip, on the other hand, called him to his home, or
office, and offered him a straight $35,000 a year if Tim would work
for _him_. This offer Tim said he refused. What Tim could do for Frank
A. Vanderlip, beyond negotiating in the matter about the _Star_, I do
not know. In any event, Tim said that he was responsible for having
smoothed the matter out for Mr. Brush, but, up until the time he
repeated the story to me, he had not received payment for his services.
Evidently, from the interviews which followed with Tim Slade at the
Waldorf, he was not allowing any grass to grow under his feet. He told
me he had called Mr. Crissinger on the phone and had intimated to him
the nature of my problem, and that Mr. Crissinger had been eager to
learn the details. “Dick” Crissinger was a Marion man whom Mr. Harding
appointed Governor of the Federal Reserve in Washington, and who now
holds that position. However, when Tim called Mr. Crissinger the second
time, presumably to make a definite appointment with him, inasmuch as
Mr. Crissinger had been frank to say he was very much interested in
hearing the whole story, Tim said he was informed very curtly by Mr.
Crissinger that he knew nothing about the matter nor did he care to
know, and that he refused to have anything to do with it at all. I said
to Tim that it looked as though Mr. Crissinger had approached someone
else in the meantime and had received suggestions as to the attitude he
should take.
About George Christian, President Harding’s private secretary, Tim
seemed to feel only the one thing which he very often expressed, which
was in substance, “Poor old George! If anything else comes to his ears
about the Harding Administration, I don’t know what will happen to him!”
How terrible it all was, to be sure! The more Tim told me of Mr.
Harding’s “friends,” the more my heart bled for him who had leaned upon
them for the same gracious support and loyalty he had so generously
bestowed. If such conditions existed, and Warren Harding, having
trusted and been betrayed, really knew about them, what heart-break
it must have brought! Tim’s revelations were startling, yet the court
trials, the talk, and the scandal that had gone on since Mr. Harding’s
tragic death all helped to make them seem plausible to me.
_140_
During the summer of 1924, when I was married and doing secretarial
work at Columbia University, I had even then been endeavoring, in the
evenings, to produce literary work, and in this connection had sent one
of my pieces to _The Marion Daily Star_ for consideration. It was a
story in dialect, and probably not really available for newspaper use.
But I sent it anyway, and addressed my communication to a childhood
friend, who has for some years been connected with the _Star_, James
Woods. When I was a little girl, “Jimmy” used to live next door to us.
He “carried papers,” and Mr. Harding had watched his industriousness
and rewarded him with the responsible position he now holds. Jim Woods
had taken the manuscript of my story to Roy D. Moore, editor of the
_Star_, and Mr. Moore had in turn read it and written Jim a memorandum
of considerable length, which Jim in turn sent on to me in explanation
of their refusal of my story. In this memorandum, Mr. Moore was
generous in his praise for what he termed my native ability, and urged
that I persevere and make of myself the writer I desired to be.
I related this incident to Tim Slade. I told Tim I had written a poem,
about Mr. Harding, which I wondered if the _Star_ would print. Tim
answered that anything I wanted printed in the _Star_ I should just
give to him and _he_ would see that Mr. Brush had it published! Of
course, such forced publication did not appeal to me and I have not
again approached _The Marion Daily Star_ with any of my material.
I told Tim also about having written to Mr. Fred Scobey during that
same summer, feeling even then that I might essay to interest one of
Mr. Harding’s friends in Elizabeth Ann, in case something happened
to me, or, as was growingly obvious, in case I eventually had to ask
outside aid.
Tim told me that President Harding had offered the position of
Director of the Mint to Mr. Scobey. “Why,” I said, “he _was_ the
Director of the Mint, I believe.” Tim answered that he himself had
refused the post and Mr. Harding had thereupon tendered it to Mr.
Scobey. Tim said, yes, Mr. Scobey had held the position for a while,
but had resigned on account of ill-health. I spoke to Tim of Mr.
Harding’s fondness for Mr. Scobey. Mr. Harding one time told me how
he had handed Mr. Scobey a letter addressed to me in New York with
the request that he drop it in the box on his way home; that was in
the Senate Office. I had said to him, “_Why_ do you do those things,
honey? Mr. Scobey might have _opened_ it!” He said no, he would not
open _any_thing, that he was utterly trustworthy. “Why, Scobey’s my
best friend, Nan!” Mr. Harding had said to me. No betrayal of trust on
Mr. Scobey’s part would ever be entertained in the mind of his friend,
Warren Harding. And so it was with the rest of Mr. Harding’s friends.
He trusted them all implicitly.
Tim Slade said that the position of Director of the Mint paid only
$5,000 a year and that he wouldn’t accept it. I wondered what the
secret service men received as salary, for Tim had told me he had been
employed in that capacity by the Government for twenty-one years. Mr.
Harding must have made it possible, I thought, for Tim to be advanced
to a position paying a larger salary, and I recalled how the newspapers
had stated, in the Teapot Dome Trial, that Tim Slade was receiving
$1,000 a week as manager of a brokerage firm in Washington. In casual
conversation about that trial and Tim’s appearance on the witness
stand, I said, half-jokingly, “Well, they even published your salary!”
And he said he had not received that much.
Tim talked very freely to me about everything and the statement he
often made, “They can’t pin anything on _me_!” seemed to indicate that
although Tim knew a great deal about everything that was going on, and
moreover had gone personally to Mr. Harding to warn the President of
conditions which were constantly at work against him, so far as Tim
himself was concerned he had kept aloof and could not now be identified
with anything of a disagreeable character which had developed as the
result of the Harding Administration.
I asked Tim his opinion of Harry M. Daugherty. He said he thought he
was “crazy,” and that instead of attempting to write a book, currently
rumored as Mr. Daugherty’s purpose, it was Tim’s judgment that he had
better “fade out of the picture” as quickly as possible. I remembered
the Hardings had spoken of Mr. Daugherty with affection and admiration,
but this was only another instance where Tim and Mr. Harding’s people
did not seem to agree. Mr. Harding certainly regarded Harry Daugherty
as a friend.
Among other newsy items which Tim advanced for my interest
and sometimes for my amusement, was the statement that even
Brigadier-General Sawyer, personal physician to Mrs. Harding, and
remembered by me since childhood for his diminutiveness and pointed
goatee, was given to philandering. This and many other stories which
I heard seemed so grotesquely incongruous, when I visualized the
appearance and idiosyncrasies of the various indulging culprits, that I
laughed heartily.
Tim said it was well-known that the Edward B. McLeans, of Washington,
were very lovely to Mrs. Harding. Mr. Harding had several times spoken
of the McLeans to me, and one time in particular had he referred to
Mrs. McLean when we were dining in New York and I was carrying our
baby for the fifth month. “Why, dearie, I have known some women to
keep their figure almost in normalcy up to the time the baby comes.
I remember I attended a reception given by Mrs. McLean just a month
before she had a child, and some of us were amazed to learn afterwards
that she had given birth to a baby.” This was cited to me in connection
with my remaining in the United States Steel Corporation where I was
working until July. I, too, Mr. Harding thought, carried my child with
slight showing.
It was Mr. Harding himself who pointed out to me the McLean residence
when I rode with him in Washington upon my visits there back in
1917-18. But at that time, as Senator, he was not so intimate with the
McLeans. In fact, Mr. Harding then seemed to speak of Mr. McLean,
as well as Senator Newberry and others, with awe, and I can remember
how he used to say such-and-such a person “has a pile of money, Nan,”
probably looking up to them somewhat for having acquired the riches
which he himself might never possess.
_141_
Meanwhile, during these monthly visits of Tim Slade to New York, “to
report to his boss and get his salary check,” I was going ahead with
my plans to have my baby and my mother with me in New York under the
arrangement worked out by me with the financial assistance Daisy
Harding had agreed to provide.
Under date of October 16, 1925, I received a letter from Miss Harding.
“I sent your letter on to sister but it didn’t have the desired
effect,” she wrote, “but I’m glad I sent it just the same....” Mrs.
Votaw had written her sister Daisy that she had been ill and in the
sanitarium, Miss Harding wrote to me, and, following this, she said,
“Somehow, I can’t write it in a letter, the whole situation, resulting
from the disclosure to her and her husband, especially in regard
to him (Mr. Votaw) who just idolized E. A.’s father and therefore
can’t and doesn’t want to believe it....” Those had been almost Tim
Slade’s identical words to me, “Say, they _don’t want to believe it_!”
Miss Harding went on to say that her sister, Mrs. Votaw, could not
understand why, if I cared so much for their brother, I should have
found it necessary to tell so many people the story about Elizabeth
Ann’s identity as our daughter. It occurred to me that in a nation of
millions, the real truth was that our story was known to amazingly
few! I could count on less than ten fingers those who had heard it
from my own lips, and this number included Daisy Harding and Tim Slade
as well as certain members of my own immediate family who had been
indispensable in the handling of our situation to date. As for the
two or three others, friends of mine, they had certainly shown their
friendship for me in guarding well the secret entrusted to them. I
determined to make a point of this picayunish written parley either
to Miss Harding or to the Votaws when I wrote to them. I felt my
resentment was justly indulged. If for six and one-half years I could,
with Mr. Harding, protect almost to inviolability a secret as colossal
as ours, it seemed to me I deserved credit for that much at least.
“As soon as you make arrangements for E. A.’s return to New York, let
me know as to schooling, etc., and I’ll help you as much as I can....
I want to help you,” Daisy Harding wrote in this letter. I knew that
the school circular I had sent her which specified $165 for Elizabeth
Ann’s kindergarten expenses could not as yet have reached her. Miss
Harding spoke of having made some investments and promised me some help
on my debts as soon as she realized some profit on her investments. Her
letter, signed, “Lovingly, A. H. Lewis,” was, on the whole, comforting.
It was good to know that at heart she took a sympathetic view of my
situation. But what a bitter disappointment that the Votaws should take
the opposite attitude!
_142_
Then under date of October 18th, having received Miss Harding’s letter,
sent the 16th, I wrote her again, sending her a carbon copy of a letter
which I had written to the Votaws, having been inspired to do so by the
following incident:
Upon receipt of the letter from Miss Harding which I have quoted
above, I determined that I ought now to go directly to the Votaws in
Washington and discuss the matter with them. After all, Mr. Votaw, whom
Miss Harding had particularly cited as wishing to discredit my story,
had probably got only a smattering of it from Daisy, or through his
wife second-hand, and I felt a first-hand knowledge might bring him
to a clearer understanding of the truth of the matter and a fairer
viewpoint concerning the obligation of the Harding family to Elizabeth
Ann.
My mother had not as yet arrived from Ohio with the baby, and I phoned
the Votaws, requesting them to allow me to come to Washington for an
interview. Mr. Votaw answered my call. I told him I wished to come down
that week-end to see them, and would arrange a time that would suit
their convenience. I spoke very kindly and the telephonic service was
excellent, for I heard his “hello” very distinctly.
Therefore you may imagine my hurt when he replied, in the same tone of
voice I remembered so unpleasantly, that they had company and could not
see me. I assured him that I would take only a little of their time,
even inviting him to come with Mrs. Votaw to the hotel where I would
take a room for the day in order that we might have sufficient privacy.
“But I tell you we’ve got company!” he shouted over the phone, “my
brother whom I have not seen for two years is here and we can’t see
you!”
It seemed inexplicable to me that a matter which affected his
brother-in-law, Mr. Harding, whom he professed to love so dearly, could
be relatively unimportant even though he had not seen his own brother
for _twenty_ years. But I saw no occasion for arguing.
“Oh, very well, Mr. Votaw,” I replied quietly, “if you don’t care to
see me, it is all right.”
“I didn’t say we didn’t want to see you!” he bawled back at me, “but we
can’t now.” And he rang off before I could answer him.
I wondered just what Warren Harding would have said could he have
“listened in” on that conversation, and with the feeling I have had
right along that Mr. Harding _has known_ everything I have tried to
do to right the situation, it is very likely that he _did_ listen in.
I remembered how Mr. Harding used to remark when I inquired who had
answered the phone at times when I called him at his office in the
Senate Building after I had arrived in Washington for a visit, “Oh,
that was Heber Votaw. He hangs around the office a great deal.” And I
knew of Mr. Votaw’s appointment as superintendent of the prison work,
received at his brother-in-law’s hands, and marvelled how he could
treat with such unkindness the woman who he must have realized meant a
very great deal to Warren Harding, who was the father of her child.
The following letter from me to the Votaws is quoted in full, and a
carbon copy of this letter went to Daisy Harding:
October 18th, 1925.