There is a matter of grave importance which I would very much like to
discuss briefly with you.
It concerns an individual in whom a mutual friend of yours and of mine
was intensely interested.
Inasmuch as it is a matter both private and personal, it is impossible
of discussion with your secretary or anyone else who might represent
you in ordinary affairs of business.
Will you be good enough to grant me a brief interview?
Respectfully,
(MISS) NAN BRITTON”
I would go to him as soon as he replied to my letter, and I was sure
he would reply in the affirmative and grant me an interview. Even
though he were the Vice-President, he would be accessible to a citizen
of the United States if that citizen could produce a letter of such
friendliness as that which I would show him I had received back in 1917
from Mr. Harding. I was entirely unafraid to discuss my matter for
Elizabeth Ann with anyone, even the King of England, and I would put it
squarely to General Dawes as to whether he thought I had asked for more
than was Elizabeth Ann’s due when I requested from the Hardings $50,000
for her. I would explain to him that I was willing to continue carrying
my own indebtedness _if I could obtain justice for my child and Warren
Harding’s_. Tim Slade had said Mr. Dawes had been willing to help raise
a fund for Elizabeth Ann, and, though I did not understand Tim’s sudden
curtailment of the discussion of his plans in this respect, I would
straighten it all out in General Dawes’ mind when I saw him.
Tim had said to me that he had not divulged my identity to the various
men with whom he had talked, but Miss Harding’s letter to me, in
which she said her husband had learned the story from Hoke Donithen,
had inclined me to believe that perhaps Tim had forgotten in some
instances to be discreet. In the case of my letter written to General
Dawes, I was sure that the letter itself, with correct signature, would
immediately attach itself in the mind of Mr. Dawes to the story Tim had
told him, no matter how much or how little of it he was acquainted with.
On May 20th, five days after I had mailed the letter to General Dawes,
I received from Tim Slade a check for $100, and a note saying that he
had been away; to let him know how things were; and he would be over
the first week in June.
My indebtedness to Tim Slade was thereby increased to a total of
$327.50. That was the last money I received from him, and I have been
endeavoring vainly to repay him ever since.
When Tim came over the first week in June, he telephoned me at my
office and I promised to meet him at the Waldorf. One of the first
things I said to him was, “Tim, I wrote to General Dawes.” “Yes, I
know,” answered Tim. I was immensely interested. “Oh, how did _you_
know? My letter was short, and I asked him for an interview.” “What
did you do that for?” Tim queried. Tim had talked with Mr. Dawes after
the latter had received my note, he told me. I reiterated that there
was nothing in my letter which would give Mr. Dawes a clue to what my
errand would be unless he connected my name with the story, which
was in truth what I had hoped he would do. “Yes, I know, _I saw the
letter_,” were Tim’s words. Then Tim told me how the Vice-President had
called him over to his office and had handed him a bunch of letters,
saying, “Tim, here is a bunch of letters. Look through them, and if you
see any that interest you, take them out.” And Tim had looked through
and had found my letter and had taken it out and destroyed it. I
recalled how Tim had told me in an early discussion that Mr. Dawes had
said to him that his name “must not be known in this,” in case he, Mr.
Dawes, contributed to the fund which Tim hoped to raise for Elizabeth
Ann.
Tim told me upon this visit that he had seen Mr. Brush and the latter
had promised to go to Marion and to talk with all of the Hardings,
and Tim said he was sure something would come of such an interview.
He asked me to bring Elizabeth Ann down to the Waldorf the following
evening for dinner so that he might see her. This I did, and Tim said
several times during the evening that he could see “the Harding” in
her. As for Elizabeth Ann, she had played hard that day, and was a bit
tired that evening and fidgety at the table, but she kissed Tim when he
left us at the corner that night where we waited for the bus, and she
told him she had enjoyed her dinner with him. Tim said, “I’m glad you
did, dear.”
_167_
Meanwhile, in my home, my mother was awaiting my pleasure before making
definite plans for herself for the summer, and I did not want to admit
to myself as yet that I had failed to obtain substantial enough help
from the Hardings to enable me to carry on and keep Elizabeth Ann. But
I had to admit that it looked as though our little home would have to
be disrupted and I would have to appeal once more to my sister to take
Elizabeth Ann back.
[Illustration: _Drawn by_ ELIZABETH ANN--Mother’s Day, June 9, 1926]
I had read somewhere about the coming services in connection with the
laying of the cornerstone of The Harding Memorial in Marion, Ohio,
and I had written to obtain a descriptive leaflet about it. I noticed
that on the back of the leaflet were the officers and trustees of the
Memorial, among whom appeared at least four names of men who, I knew,
were acquainted, through Tim Slade, with part, if not all, of my story.
These men were George B. Christian, Jr., Vice-President Charles G.
Dawes, D. Richard Crissinger, and Hoke Donithen, all having been listed
as officers for The Harding Memorial in some capacity--all reckoned
friends of Mr. Harding.
I mailed Tim Slade this leaflet about the Memorial and the ceremony
programs, and wrote him that I wished I could attend. If only I could
obtain the necessary funds to make the trip, I would go to Marion, to
be there for the services, and while there I would “round up” in some
way the people who were attending and taking part in those ceremonies.
These, combined with the Hardings themselves, who, I was sure, would be
in attendance, I would ask in Warren Harding’s name to listen to me,
and to take some action in behalf of Warren Harding’s child. And, so
desperate was I, and so sick in mind and body, I even meditated upon
interrupting the ceremony itself, speaking publicly for the child of
her father, Warren Harding, whose memory could be better perpetuated by
providing for her welfare than by building million-dollar memorials in
his honor.
However, I did not have the necessary funds, and inasmuch as I heard
nothing from Tim I knew he was unwilling to finance such a trip for
me--although not to hear from Tim was an old story. Also, I was
physically unfit to contemplate such a journey as that and the nervous
strength it would demand. And so, while indignation and bitterness
surged hot within me, I continued to hope, and, in less rebellious
mood, to pray.
_168_
Meanwhile, having managed to pay something on my rent, I was holding
the apartment, trying to see in some direction financial alleviation
and the possibility of making a home through the summer for Elizabeth
Ann. My sister wrote that if I could not take care of her they would
of course motor out and get her, and the trip would provide them with
a vacation. But to these notes I made evasive replies, clinging to my
hope of hearing from the Hardings. But I did not hear, and the second
week of June rolled around. I was compelled to advise my landlady that
I would be unable to occupy the apartment that summer, and I ran an ad
in the _Times_ for a summer occupant to carry on my lease.
Under date of June 14th, 1926, I received a note from Daisy Harding.
The note had been posted from Hillsboro, Ohio, through which town
she must have been motoring, though it was headed in Miss Harding’s
handwriting, “Troy, Ohio.” It contained a money order for another $40.
The note itself was only a few lines. The $40, she wrote, might help in
defraying my monthly expenses. She supposed I was moving to a suburb,
where she was sure we would all be happier. This letter was signed,
“Hastily, Lewis.”
So it had come to this! She must sign her letters just plain “Lewis,”
and that disguisedly, so that it could be taken for the name of a man
if seen! Oh, how pitiful it all was! Miss Harding, who really wanted
to help me, had apparently succumbed to other members of her family
and was following their probable advices to be careful. The attempt to
disguise her signature was the final proof to me of their fear of the
entire situation. I had many, many letters from Miss Harding, and one
needed only to put the handwriting of the body of the letters side by
side to know that they had been written by the selfsame person. It was
as impossible for her to disguise her writing as it had been impossible
for her brother Warren to do so in the few instances which seemed to
demand his attempt in that direction. How deplorable the situation that
she should feel herself confronted with the _necessity_ for disguise
in order to insure protection. It was such an admission in itself. An
admission which spoke eloquently of responsibility deliberately ignored.
It seemed I had failed all around to sponsor Elizabeth Ann’s cause
successfully: In the first place my marriage had been a disappointment
and a failure; my approach to the Hardings had fallen flat except in
the case of the $800 altogether which Miss Harding had supplied; Tim
Slade had apparently failed in his attempts in behalf of my daughter;
and even the Vice-President of the United States, assuming that he knew
the truth, had failed to see in my situation enough of importance or
merit to warrant his serious consideration or kindly help.
Therefore, it seemed up to me to fight almost single-handedly--and what
mother is there in the world who, loving her child as dearly as I loved
the child Warren Harding and I had given to each other, would dare to
deny that it was my sacred duty now, all things having failed, to fight
for her rights, even to disregarding the sensibilities of those who had
ignored and neglected _her_!
_169_
But, in seeking the right method of solving Elizabeth Ann’s problem for
her, I realized that mere speed was impracticable where right motives
prompted, and I was forced to admit to myself that nothing could be
accomplished in time to enable me to keep Elizabeth Ann with me through
the summer of 1926.
I was determined to write again to Elizabeth and Scott, but had not
actually done so, when they dropped in upon us one Sunday afternoon,
having motored through from Ohio. In view of existing circumstances,
their appearance in New York seemed almost to indicate actual
divination, and I was secretly grateful for whatever decisions had
resulted in their making the trip East. They explained that they had
given up the idea of going to Chicago for the summer and planned
instead to go to the Willits farm in Illinois (Scott’s people’s farm),
making use of the quiet and leisure there for music practice in
preparation for their fall work.
I had not had up until then, and did not have after their arrival, any
discussion with Elizabeth and Scott of my attempts to date to establish
Elizabeth Ann’s claim upon the Hardings, and they made ready to start
back West, with my baby, after a few days’ visit. Again I was left
alone. Again I had been forced to give her up.
I had experienced many heart-breaks in having to part with my daughter,
but up to that time they had been, like the black clouds of a thunder
storm, mentally devastating to me only so long as I permitted myself
to see only the clouds. When I saw beyond their obscuration, the
sun, which was the glory of my child ultimately restored to me, then
my heartaches, like the clouds, disappeared. Mental indecisions and
temporary discouragements gave way to renewed purpose and heartfelt
anticipation. I was a crusader of a great Right,--_the right of every
sane and loving mother to possess her own child_.
But now, as I stood on the sidewalk, dry-eyed, waving goodbye to my
child and answering the kisses which she blew to me through the small
rear window of the motor car, I scarcely dared to think. Was I really
a crusader after all? Was there aught to assuage the grief of a mother
who had struggled against odds to hold her child and had failed? Was
there a ray of hope to light the coming day? Must I return again
to emptiness, to loneliness, to sorrow, to pain? Was it right that
_they_, who had never known the glory of my sweetheart’s smile as a
father, should deny his daughter her birthright as a Harding? Did God
give only to deprive? No! “Every mountain shall be made low and every
valley shall be exalted.” Wherefore, then, Pride? I must be humble.
Resentment? I must forgive! Hatred? I must love. Retaliation? “Do good
to them which despitefully use you.” And even as I struggled to give
these healing thoughts an abiding place in my consciousness, there came
before me the face of him I love, and clearly I saw his lips move, and
heard the incomparably sweet voice--“Courage, dearie!”
_170_
I haven’t a great deal to add to my story. The futility of pressing the
Hardings for recognition of their brother’s child was clearly apparent
to me. I gradually drew the sympathies of several men and women of
standing, who felt that I had a distinct cause to sponsor, and their
advices from then on have been for the most part followed.
Shortly after the departure of my sister and her husband and my child
came a request from my landlady to vacate the apartment we had been
occupying, because I had been unable to meet the full rent the previous
month and could not promise a definite day of payment. I had been frank
to tell her so.
My mother had found employment on Long Island for the summer. I was
forced to take a single room again. This I did, being able to secure
the same one-room-and-bath which I had occupied the previous summer,
within walking distance from my office. However, I felt very badly
about not being able to finish the payment of my rent, and once more,
having this and many other obligations to meet, I wrote Tim Slade under
date of June 26, 1926, as follows:
“This month finds me terribly in need of help. Many disappointing
things have happened since you were here. I seem to be eternally
slated for disappointments.”
I heard nothing, however, from Tim, and determined then that I would
never again approach him for help he was in no wise obligated to give.
On July 2nd came another $40 from Daisy Harding, this time enclosed
in an envelope with no accompanying letter. It was in the form of a
cashier’s check from the Marion County Bank Company. I wrote to Miss
Harding and thanked her sincerely for the check. I applied it upon
“back bills” immediately.
_171_
The work I was doing turned my thoughts toward literary effort, and I
found myself once more attempting to write. The necessary funds were
not forthcoming for a night summer course in literature at Columbia,
and anyway the heat was not conducive to comfortable journeying uptown
every third night. But I rented a typewriter and spent my evenings
creatively at home. This was a great source of relaxation mentally, and
on warm nights, when it seemed too sultry to retire, I would become
oblivious to the heat and to fatigue as I sat before my typewriter,
balancing this line and that, searching the dictionary for suitable
synonyms, or turning to my beloved Keats for poetic atmosphere and
delicacy of word manipulation.
Naturally the themes of my thoughts were my love for Warren Harding and
my love for our child. It was upon such a night that I sat before my
typewriter, reminiscently fondling my child and dwelling in the memory
of her father, and wrote my visions into a poem. I had sat dreaming for
hours before I touched the typewriter keys, but when I began to write
at one o’clock in the morning, and lost myself in juggling lovingly the
words which would best convey my thoughts, I felt, when a distant clock
struck four, that I had really written some worth-while lines.
My belief was confirmed later by _The New York Times_ poetry editor,
who accepted and published the poem within ten days after I had made up
my mind to send it to him. This was, however, not until late August.
It was published in the _Times_ of August 30th, 1926, under a partial
_nom de plume_--“Ninon Britton.” For this poem I received a check from
the _Times_ for $20 which I promptly had photostated, because it was
the first money I had ever received for literary effort. The editor
changed my title, “Her Eyes,” to “The Child’s Eyes.” The lines follow: