I remember too I wore that morning a very lovely georgette crepe blouse with my tailored suit. It was far too delicate a thing to wear to the office, but I had put it on especially for my darling. And it wasn’t lost on him! “That’s a very beautiful blouse you have on, dearie,” he said, “but do you wear things like that to your office?” He was relieved when I owned up that I didn’t.
In some of the first pictures I had taken for Mr. Harding I wore that same blouse. I had not had my picture taken but once—except for snapshots—since I was a child. That little-girl photograph was published in The Marion Daily Star. This was done, I remember hearing my mother say, without her previous knowledge, having been arranged between the photographer across the street from the Star Building and the editor of the Star, Warren Harding. I was then five years old.
Portrait of the author when she was five years old; published in The Marion Daily Star during the early days of Mr. Harding’s editorship
The pictures I had taken to display the blouse Mr. Harding was so fond of (it was white with blue flowers embroidered on the front) were four in number and I sent one of each to my sweetheart. I wrapped them well and addressed them inside and out, sending them in time to reach him for a particular week-end during which he had expressed the wish to be with me but could not. Well into the following week I had not heard from him about the photographs, and finally wrote and asked if he had gotten them safely. In his reply which came immediately he said they had not been received. I was frantic, because I had autographed them especially for him and no one else. In a very few days he came to New York. He said he had looked everywhere in the office, in his stenographic secretaries’ office and in George Christian’s office, but he could not locate them. Had I addressed them correctly? I assured him I had, and he said he would ask “George” if he himself were not able to find them when he returned. He could not find them and was therefore obliged to inquire of his private secretary. George Christian brought them to him immediately, having put the package away so safely that it was hidden from Mr. Harding. “I never knew portraits could be so comforting,” he wrote to me. I knew they could be, for I went to bed early every night with my sweetheart’s picture propped up beside me on the pillow.
34
Mr. Harding’s generosity took many forms. One time during 1917 or 1918 when we were alone—though I don’t remember where—I was sitting on his lap admiring his hands. They were large, well-shaped hands, the hands of capability, yet artistic too, and I never tired watching him use them. They were expressive of many feelings. They fascinated me completely. I was admiring them, and incidentally the ring on the third finger of his left hand. The ring was set with one quite sizable diamond—a beautiful ring in its entirety. Some organization had presented it to him “in appreciation,” he said. I think he thought I admired the stone and had visions of having it in a ring for myself!
“So far as I’m concerned, I’d as lief give you this ring, Nan, if it were not for Florence!” He smiled when I looked up at him, and hugged me tight. Frankly, I would have loved the ring, of course, but I knew he could not give it to me. I wonder who has it now, for I would cherish it so if it were in my possession. Many nights I have spent with that hand in mine and twisted and played with that ring. It sparkled at me across the table and I could see a thousand colors in it when I, lying beside him, held his hand up to the light which came through the transom above our bedroom door.
This was, as I said, before 1919. After I had my own ring I found the same pleasure in studying its lights. I remember the morning after he had put my ring upon my engagement finger we walked in Central Park. A windy morning and a brilliant sun. I strolled along with my left hand in front of me, looking at my precious ring. He had given it to me!
I remember that morning Mr. Harding’s hat blew off and he had to chase it about half a block. Somehow I used to love to witness those “embarrassing moments”—his confusion was so boyish. I remember too how I exclaimed over the glory of everything that morning, in the sheer joyousness of being with him. We passed the zebras and I remarked upon their beauty! “Nan, you don’t think those things are beautiful, do you?” Mr. Harding asked incredulously, smiling. But, as I continued to express my admiration of each animal, he suggested that we look at them no longer, and led me into, the sheltered paths where eventually he found a bench where we could sit down and he could make love to me.