The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 32
In May or June, while I was still living on East 60th Street in our apartment, Mr. Harding had an engagement to speak at Carnegie Hall. He came over during the day and we were together until time for him to go on the platform. In the evening we dined at the Hotel Manhattan, where, I think, for business reasons, he had engaged a room. He wished to walk to Carnegie Hall from the hotel, which we did. I remember the exact route we took, up Madison Avenue and across 56th Street where we passed several little tea rooms which, Mr. Harding said, he thought ought to be "good and safe" places for me to dine alone in the evenings. He seemed to be afraid I might be annoyed and used to suggest safe places for me to go. He was always looking out for my comfort and peace of mind.
On our way up he inquired of me what this building was and that, and I in turn asked him a question. How could he speak that evening when, as he had told me, he had made no preparation whatever for his speech? "How do you know what to say?" I asked curiously.
"Gee, dearie!" he laughed, "it's not so much what to say as what not to say!"
When we reached Carnegie Hall, Mr. Harding went to the box office and secured a front-row seat for me, sent me on in, and ascended the platform. I remember well that speech. I did not very often get to hear him speak and it was always such a joy—I was so proud of him. But that speech I remember because he did not do himself justice. He rambled on about this man and that who in one instance had been a "farmer's son," and had persevered and become a banker, or "here's Jim So-and-So, whose father was owner of the stone quarry back in my home town and who worked his way through school. . ." The Land of Opportunity, I think, was his topic.
Afterwards, in our apartment, I told him he seemed not to speak as well as usual. "Why, dearie," he confessed, "I was so tired I thought I couldn't even speak at all!" And I knew enough by that time to understand why. He had a lot on his mind.
There was an evening when we dined at the Savoy. We sat by the window and looked out upon the Plaza Square where the fountain is. The window was open and it was cool and lovely. We had dined there before in the days before prohibition and Mr. Harding, I thought, seemed to be known to the hotel management. We had once had one glass each of champagne at that same table.
Mr. Harding spoke to me. "You are not larger now than that woman, Nan," nodding his head toward the lithe feminine figure which tops the fountain in the Square. "And far more lovely," he added, smiling. He was always generous with his appreciations.
Of course prohibition had already gone into effect, but I was told it was possible still to obtain liquor or wines if one knew how to do so, and evidently Mr. Harding thought he did. In any event, he took me home after dinner and then suggested that he go back and get some champagne for us to have that evening before we retired. He had often said to me that he would love to spend an evening with me when I was relaxed and exhilarated from a glass of champagne, because when he allowed me a cocktail or something to drink, we were usually going to the theatre afterwards. I guess I was a bit shy with him, and a glass of champagne made me a bit more talkative and revealing. I doubt that in all the times we were together we had drinks more than six times; he allowed it rarely.
But now he went out for the champagne. In about fifteen minutes he returned, empty-handed, or rather empty-pocketed. I searched in his pockets myself and looked up at him.
"You couldn't get it!" I said, half disappointedly.
"No, dearie, I couldn't get it," he repeated, but his tone belied his statement, and I felt instinctively that he hadn't even tried. Nor had he himself had anything to drink. For some reason, which was no doubt prudential and right, he had decided that I should not have any champagne. Perhaps he had recalled a time at Reisenweber's when I, for apparently no reason, had become ill after drinking part of a highball.
Warren Harding protected me at every turn. And I remember well that he once wrote, "Darling, when I pray for you it is that you may have abundant health. Health and freedom from worry, for worry kills, Nan." And he was right. I think that worry killed Warren Harding.