The President’s wallet, presented by his sister, Carrie Votaw, to the author in 1925
“Here, Nan. You always loved Warren so much and I want you to have this. Brother Warren carried it with him right up to the time he died, and that makes it very precious.” What could I say to her! How could she know how it tortured me to see again the old familiar wallet and to experience the rush of memories which this new sight of it conjured up for me! How often had I adored the offhand manner in which her brother had inquired of me across the dinner-table, “How are the finances today, Nan?” or, “Have you paid Mrs. Johnson your rent a month in advance?” And whether or not my finances were in good shape, he would draw out contemplatively a twenty or fifty, depending upon my immediate needs, often a cigarette between his lips, his eyes narrowed to keep out the smoke, as he drew the bill from the wallet. Then he would hand it to me and say, “Better put that in your bag, dearie, right away,” if I sat oblivious, adoring the nonchalant manner in which the cigarette hung from his lips—I never saw anyone smoke with such perfect grace as he. The leather fairly smelled of him! How queer that she should have elected to give me this as a memento! Yet here it was, the empty bill-book, and I opened it to read in gold lettering his name, “Warren G. Harding.” Why, it was in this very worn wallet that he used to keep a certain snapshot of me to which he had taken a particular fancy! Now, at the hand of his sister, it had come back to the mother of his child....
My heart was full of gratitude for these visits, both with Miss Harding in Marion and with Mrs. Votaw in Takoma Park, suburban to Washington. It seemed I had surely trod upon holy ground, for had I not been among those who knew and loved him dearly? Yes, it was good, good to have been in both homes, good to renew friendship on a more intimate basis, good to realize how genuine was their affection for their brother, whose child they would surely welcome lovingly, and who in turn would know the full depth of their love in the material expression they would give as proof.
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I returned to The Town Hall Club in New York on July first (1925) to take up my duties again, and took a room within walking distance of the Club.
July passed and no word came from Daisy Harding. So on August 3rd I wrote her briefly, greeting her again after the lapse of a month or more and making inquiry as to whether she had seen her sister, Mrs. Votaw. When Daisy Harding speaks of Elizabeth Ann, she often calls her “Bijiba,” the baby’s self-imposed nickname, and in her letter she used merely the initial “B” to indicate “Bijiba.”
She wrote: “I feel that we have such different ideas about men and our relations to them that it is useless for me to suggest or advise.” (Why, I had sought her counsel, her help!) “I want so much to see you happy and attain the desires nearest to your heart that I hesitate to say anything which might interfere with your plans....” (Plans? I had no plans, as she surely must have known, except as they might develop through financial help from the Harding family.) “... My heart goes out to you in any of your suffering, relative to B— (Bijiba), and you must know and feel that....”
This letter astounded me. Even the concluding words of endearment, “Lots of love, Nan dear,” failed to carry the usual note of sincerity. I read and reread the passages pertaining to Elizabeth Ann, trying to read into them something which was obviously not there, trying to discern an attitude of active interest instead of merely a passive inactive acceptance of a tragic situation. Could it be that she had failed to understand that my revelations to her had been for the express purpose of bringing the Harding family to a realization that there existed an obligation on their part to Elizabeth Ann, and not merely to solicit sympathy and discuss the intimate details of my relationship with her brother?
If such were the case, I would have to make plainer the import of my appeal to her, and frankly state my desire to see this wrong toward my child, and their brother’s, righted. She had asked me, with kindly spirit and apparent understanding, to “leave it with her,” and she had promised to confer with her sister, Mrs. Votaw, at the earliest opportunity. Was it possible that this talk between them had resulted in the apparent indifference her letter indicated? Impossible. They were Hardings!
But I had their brother’s daughter’s future at stake, and her welfare was dearer to me than life. I deliberated well, and then wrote her at length, and below are excerpts from my letter which dealt almost entirely with Elizabeth Ann’s problem: