I have had a very sweet letter from Miss Harding, in which she assured me she wished to take care of Elizabeth Ann’s kindergarten expenses and I am deeply appreciative and happy for my darling’s sake. And I know one thing, and that is that no matter what Mrs. Votaw may say or do, I know she has a whole heap of her brother in her and some day she may see that for herself. And I know, too, that Mr. Votaw could not love Elizabeth Ann’s father and not come to see that mere man-made convention is not always the only law that gives man the right to love. There is a higher and a diviner law.
Lots of loving thoughts to both of you.
Nan Britton Neilsen
143
I had readily perceived from Miss Harding’s letter, received October 16th, 1925, that the line of thinking pursued by the Votaws as well as by herself led straight to the fear of exposure, and though, for their sake, I was ready to further guard their brother’s and my secret from the world, in my heart I rated my child’s future and my own sense of justice for her far above the continued consideration of protection of the Harding name. It lay with them and their sense of right toward Elizabeth Ann whether or not the story they wished to conceal were further revealed. I had assured them of my co-operation, and, except they fail me, I would continue to suffer the fictional explanations which surrounded the identity of Elizabeth Ann’s father. But it seemed to me that our child, Warren Harding’s and mine, possessed enough of distinction in being the only child of the 29th President of the United States, and I enough of pride in having been loved by Warren Harding and having borne him a child, to warrant an open expression of indifference if they in turn did not as dearly value the protection of their own family name. And the knowledge of their apparent lack of appreciation of my efforts up to that time filled me with hurt and righteous indignation. If, in the process of being obliged to approach personally friends of Mr. Harding, the story leaked out, I would know that I had done everything in my power to keep it intact, and that only the refusal of Warren Harding’s own brothers and sisters to sponsor the cause of his own daughter had precipitated such revelation. I would sacrifice myself, in dedicating every remaining shred of nervous energy to protective efforts in their behalf, if they would make possible to me the possession of my child. But I would not forever tolerate unjust criticism of past conduct either on my part or on the part of their brother any more than I would countenance the figurative drawing away of skirts from the child who had every right in the world to tug at them in her rightful demand, through the voice of her mother, for recognition and equity.
144
In a letter received by me from Daisy Harding (Mrs. Lewis), under date of October 20th, a post office order in the amount of $110 was enclosed. Miss Harding wrote in this letter, in asking me to immediately destroy her letters to me, “perhaps it is best to destroy them at the Club.” In this I recognized a conscience which whispered the right thing, but a human mind which overruled and dangled the fear of exposure before frightened eyes. A wave of pity swept over me. It seemed to me that the values of the real things in life were being placed only upon their shadows, not upon the things themselves. What if the whole world knew? What if a nation knew that it elected a President who was so much a man that he craved to be a father? Where was the infamy of such an exalted desire? Would not every man, woman and child enshrine him in their hearts as a martyr, a man who had sought to know the real things but who was cruelly deprived of his birthright as a lover and a father, in the fullest sense of the word? And who but would love him the more because he had suffered in silence, as he said, harassment and years of weary unhappiness at the hands of her, who, a tragedy in herself, had also been the victim of a wrong placement of life’s values. And where the reflection of shame upon Warren Harding’s family simply because a child had been born to us, a daughter had been given to me, to help fill my life during his veritable incarceration in the White House, and afterwards—after he had met death as a result of having literally used up his life for his country!
I did not promise to destroy Daisy Harding’s letters. These letters, with carbon copies of my own to her and to the Votaws, I was saving for my daughter. Through them she could read the story of my approach to her father’s family, and, whatever the result of that approach, she was entitled to read of it first-hand.
The next letter I wrote to Miss Harding was one dated November 2nd, Mr. Harding’s birthday. His birthday fell one week to the day before mine, and he and I, though he was thirty years older, had always spoken of him as being just one week my senior. I wrote only to tell Miss Harding how “memories crowded each hour of the day,” and made no allusion to Elizabeth Ann’s matter except to tell her that I had heard nothing from the Votaws in answer to my lengthy letter to them.
Her answer was mailed under date of November 5th, 1925, and, aside from comments about the manner in which that particular birthday of her brother’s had been commemorated in Marion, she wrote, “I realize, my dear, how hard your lot, and the tremendous burdens you must be carrying. Pay no attention to the attitude of sister and husband. The situation is a difficult one and will come out all right, I’m sure. In the meanwhile, remember you have my love and sympathy....” Again she promised help, this time for Elizabeth Ann’s clothes. And her expressions of solicitude for my own health, in cautioning me not to overwork in my playwriting course at Barnard, touched me deeply. “Lovingly yours, A. V. H. Lewis,” her letter was signed.