The president's daughter

by Nan Britton

It was late March or early April when I went to Chicago, having received permission from my employer in the Steel Corporation to take a vacation in advance of the regular summer-time absence. I stopped in Washington enroute according to arrangement and went to the New Willard. Mr. Harding came up to my room. I remember well, how, in spite of the fact that his forehead was wet and he showed other signs of nervousness, he said in the low voice which always soothed me, “We must go at this thing in a sane way, dearie, and we must not allow ourselves to be nervous over it.”

The growing lapse of time since the conception of our child very likely had weighed upon his mind for that was, I think, the thirteenth week. His evident nervousness strangely belied his words, but it did not matter for I myself was by that time entirely free from fear. I recall also how he said repeatedly, “I do not fear for the future, after the child comes, but only for the now.” It was those frequent allusions to the future and his worded assumption that we were going ahead and have the baby, coupled with his letters telling me it could be “handled,” and his apparent indifference to an operation, that made me all the more determined to have the child. But most of all was I swayed by my visit with him at this time, the visit at the New Willard which convinced me absolutely that Warren Harding craved to be the father fully as much as I craved to be the mother of his child. His wistfulness was so precious to me. “You know, Nan, I have never been a father,” he said.

However, he was deeply concerned for both of us, and in an attempt at a simple solution, he went out and returned with some Dr. Humphrey’s No. 11 tablets, which, he said, Mrs. Harding used to take and found in some instances effective. I affirmed my belief that they would do me no good. I even made fun of the tiny white pills. I remember how he smiled faintly at me from the lavatory where he stood washing his hands when I expressed my belief that the pills would not be effective in my case. “No faith, no works, Nan!” he said.

He sat in the big chair by the window and took me on his lap. He told me how I had filled him with the first real longing he had known to have children. He said he had wanted them, yes, but Mrs. Harding had been a mother when he married her, and she had not wanted any more children, and, he reminded me, “You know Mrs. Harding is older than I.” I think very probably the glory and wonder of having a child or children could not be aroused within him to the fullest by Mrs. Harding because she had already shared the initial glory of that experience with another man. Mr. Harding always spoke disparagingly to me of Mrs. Harding, and in loving as well as in disposition and everything else he certainly failed to picture her as his ideal. Rather did I seem to be his ideal woman. This never failed to fill me with wonderment.

I told him in mock seriousness that since he had always had such a desire for children I’d have to raise a family for him. “All right, dearie, but let’s see how this one comes out!” he answered facetiously.

Again he told me, as he had written me so often since we knew of the coming of our child, how he had “enshrined” me in his heart as “the perfect sweetheart and perfect mother.” “Enshrined” was a word he so often used. Or, “You are my shrine of worship, darling Nan,” he would say or write to me.

This brings to my mind a scene in the New Ebbitt when I, upon a visit to Washington during 1917 or 1918, had waited beyond the appointed hour for him to come to my room. When he came, about half an hour late, he found me en negligée and weeping! He kissed me tenderly and sat down on a chair to take me on his lap. But I, in mingled contrition and ingratiation, perhaps thinking a woman had been the cause of his being held up, dropped at his feet on the floor. He arose immediately and raised me up.

“Don’t you ever get down like that to me, you sweetheart!” he said, and the attempted gaiety in his voice somehow carried a note of self-reproach. “I’ll do all the kneeling in this family that is to be done!”

Then he explained how he just couldn’t get away earlier, and as he talked he fussed with a necklace I was wearing, asking me where I bought it, and pretty soon we were both smiling over my foolishness.

Now at the New Willard, facing our problem together, he was telling me how he had always thought of me as “the perfect sweetheart and perfect mother.” Of course those things were immeasurably sweet to hear. So were the things he visioned often for me of our life together after he had “finished with politics.” It was an old story to hear about “the farm” where he would like to settle down and just enjoy life. There would be dogs and horses, chickens and pigs, books and friends, and of course he would have to have “his bride!” Yes, this was an old story, but today it sounded strangely new to me. As he talked his voice grew tense. His hands trembled visibly. I took one of them in mine and held it tightly. His gaze was directed out the window and he spoke as to himself. I had to blink very hard to keep back my tears. I had never seen him so moved, so shaken....