somewhat dolorous duffer who spent last night in pain, but this
morning is rather comfortable. ...
Am reading William James' Varieties of Religious Experience, and
it is really the most helpful religious or philosophical work I
have ever read. Nothing else anywhere near as good for the groping
mind that wants to be led cautiously, reasonably, suggestively to
the "Water of Life," but shown that there is water there. (Pretty
poor figure, but perhaps understandable.) I must re-read his
answer to the questionnaire in his Letters, and compare it with
his conclusions in this book. You remember my thought that
probably Emerson, William James, and Henry George had been the
greatest writing minds we had produced. Probably you can improve
on this.
Have been interested myself in thinking of a list of books that
have made great movements in the world, Darwin's Descent of Man,
for illustration. Books that have provoked the minds of men into
action of one kind or another:--The Bible, Koran, in religions, of
course! What started modern medicine? I mean in the way of a book?
What are, or have been, the great movements in history, anyway?
Wars, of course, don't count, when merely predatory.
Man's relation to God.
Man's relation to the World.
Man's relation to Man.
Man's relation to the Good.
Man's relation to the True.
Man's relation to the Beautiful.
These ought to cover Art, Science, Philosophy, Religion, Progress.
Civilization of every kind. And this progress has come in waves,
hasn't it? Did any book start, or give evidence of the starting of
these waves? That's the question. Outside religion and philosophy
books were the results not the causes of movements. How true is
that? As always and always,
F. K. L.
To D. M. Reynolds
Pasadena, [February, 1921]
I'm writing this late at night and will mail it in the morning,
for I'm going to Santa Barbara for a couple of days. Do with it
what you will. Judge for me what it is wise to say. And be as
condensed as possible.
What I've written is to be dropped in at the right places, it is
not conservative. Will see you next week, I hope, perhaps
Saturday.
F. K. LANE
Cooperation is the word of this century and we don't know what it
means yet. We work together most imperfectly in things political,
and we are just beginning to feel our way into the worlds of
social and industrial life. I'm not afraid of socialism. I really
don't know anyone who is. We're all afraid of blundering attempts
at getting a thing called by that name, which is a mechanical
method of bringing the Kingdom of Heaven on earth, without
changing the human spirit.
The call for socialism or communism is generally a call for more
of justice and of honesty and of fair dealing between men, rather
than a demand for any particular and organized method of carrying
on industrial life. If business is squarely conducted we won't try
experiments in mechanicalizing and sterilizing business. But a few
more years of profiteering, and Conservatives would have become
Reds.
Now we should be studying and planning for a safer industrial
life, one in which there will be fewer waves, a safer and more
even sea. That we can have, if we are willing to be less greedy
now, less venturesome and predatory.
The only people who have done much in the way of substantial
thinking as to cooperative action, collective action, are those
who think in terms of immediate and large fortunes for themselves,
through plans of capitalizing combined brains and money. Their
example is a good one to follow in lesser things, where the object
is not great wealth but a more even measure of good living.
Insurance is the right word for it, business life insurance
through honest cooperation. You mark my word, that is the next big
move in business affairs. Nationalization of things is not their
socialization. Not at all. It may mean their deserialization,
their withdrawal from the use of society altogether, or their more
imperfect use. Calling things by nice names, popular alluring
names, does not solve problems. Nevertheless such names evidence
our social dreams. We all feel that there must be more of justice
in the economic world. But we don't want it at the expense of
society, that is at our own expense, for that means Bolshevism and
Bolshevism is paralysis. ...
Oil is one of the fine forms of Power that we know, for many
purposes the handiest. Industrially it is as indispensable and
staple as the soil itself. To lose faith in the future of oil--
why, that's as unthinkable as to lose faith in your hands. Oil,
coal, electricity, what are these but multiplied and more
adaptable, super-serviceable hands? They may temporarily be
unemployed but the world can't go round without them.
A slack time is always one of fear, never of confidence. And no
policies should be adopted in such an atmosphere. For the man who
can afford to take the long view these are great days. He can take
up what others cannot carry. Better still he can prepare for the
demand of to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow--find more oil, if
you please, plan for its fuller use, as we are talking of oil, but
the principle applies to everything. Take the railroads. Their car
shortage is mounting and their out-of-order equipment is way up.
This has always been so in hard times. But this is the very time
when they should have plenty of money, to get road bed and
equipment in perfect shape for to-morrow's rush. No, the nation
would do no better if it had the roads. Congress doesn't think
ahead two years. It is a reflector, not a generator. The fault is
ours.
Right now the call in national affairs of every kind is for the
long view; we have use for the men who can see this nation in its
relation to other nations, next year and next generation, and for
men in business who can think in terms of 1922, and 1925, and
1945. That's what really big business can do--hold its breath
under water and watch the waves.
To Mrs. Cordenio Severance
[Pasadena, March, 1921]
DEAR MAIDIE,--It is six in the morning. The sun is a long streak
of salmon pink in a gray skirt of fog. Chanticleer is very loud
and conquering. The little birds are twittering all about, in
wisteria, in oranges; and over on the hillside, by the cherokee
roses, there was a mocking bird that hailed the dawn, or its
promise, an hour ago.
And for all this beauty, this gay cheer, this soul-lifting day-
breaking I have you to thank. It is the one most exquisite spot in
which I have ever laid my head. And pity is that I have been so
down-cast that I could not feel fully what was here, nor show what
I did feel.
Forgive me for my many ungraciousnesses and credit yourself, I
beg, with having done all and everything that human hands and
heart could do to make me "come back."
You have spent a lifetime doing good, giving out of your heart,
and the only reward you can get is the evidence of understanding
in paltry words like these.
F. K. L.
To Alexander Vogelsang Assistant Secretary of the Interior
Los Angeles, March 4, [1921]
DEAR ALECK,--The end has come. We were identified with an historic
period, one of the great days of the world. And none can say that
our part, of relatively slight importance maybe, was not well
played. We did not strut and call the world to witness how well we
did. We did not voice indignation at injustice, and make heroes of
ourselves at the price of unity. And some things we did, and more
we tried to do, and all were good. So I look back over the eight
years with some personal satisfaction, for not a thing was done or
attempted ... that was unworthy, ignoble, unpatriotic or little.
I am glad to get news of the force, and sorry that I cannot have
them all round about me for the rest of my days. Had I been well I
would have been with you this morning, to bid you all good cheer.
It was my hope when I saw you in December that this might be.
I like your plans for the future and, by the starry belt of Orion,
I'd like to join you. ... I am stronger and look very well, but my
damn pains are about as frequent and crunching as ever. ... No one
can say that I have not fought a good fight and stood a lot of
punishment. Good luck, dear Aleck.
F. K. L.
To James S. Harlan
Pasadena, March 5, [1921]
MY DEAR JIM,--That was a fine long letter in your old-time style,
and I am doing the unprecedented thing of answering it promptly.
To this I am prompted by the near-by presence of a very handsome
young woman formerly named Wyncoop, now Mays, who knows Mrs.
Harlan well, having been much at the Crater Club. ... Who would
have thought such a thing possible--that here as I lie on a couch
in a doctor's office with a rubber tube in my mouth, I should
attract the curiosity of a baby who came to see the "funny tube,"
and that she should be followed by a nice-looking, blue-eyed,
bright-cheeked girl who says, "I believe I saw you once at Lake
Champlain. You know Mrs. Harlan."
Well now, as George Harvey might say--"One day After!" I want to
help in any way I can to make this administration a success. ...
If Hoover can work with Harding, or the latter with him, all will
be well. But I fear the politicians--especially ... [those]
ambitious for a great political machine. The country will be
generous for a time to Harding. ... But it will turn against him
with anger unbounded if he turns the country over to the men who
want office and the men who want privilege and favor. The
politicians and the profiteers may be his undoing. I hope not!
... I cannot close without a special word to that most gracious,
tender, and charming Lady who is your "sweet-heart." As I wander
and see many, I find no limitation, no reservation, or
modification to put to that declaration of admiration and
devotion, which I made to Her now some fifteen years ago, nearly.
Tell her that this old, sick troubled man thinks nice things about
her often. My affectionate regards to you, dear Jim.
LANE
To Adolph C. Miller
Morgan Hill, March 9, [1921]
When my eyes opened this morning they looked out upon a hillside
of vivid green, like the tops of Monterey cypress, flecked with
bits of darker green embroiderings, and behind this was green,
too, but very dark, and it had great splashes of a green so dark
that they looked black--and my heart was glad. It was a common
scene, nothing rarely beautiful about it. Fog enclosed the earth.
There was no sky. But I had known it as a boy, this same kind of a
picture, and it went to this poor tired heart of mine and was like
balsam to a wound. By Jove, it is balsam! These hills are for the
healing of men. I have been here three days and have taken more
exercise than in three months--walking and climbing; beside the
creek lined with great sycamores--alluvial soil, crumbles in your
hand, and with our friend the gopher in it; and climbed up through
a bit of manzanita--big fellows, twenty feet high some of them--
and such a rich brown, near-burgundy red! I barked a bit of the
bole to get that green beneath, spring green, great contrast!
And above the grove of manzanita was a flat top to the hill, from
which I could see three ways, and all ending in cloud-wrapped
mountains, that had shape and were blue of some kind, as far as
you could see. Ah man, this is a glorious land--even the people!
Along the road I talked to Lundgren, who used to be a ship-
carpenter, but he had a prune orchard here "since the fire." I
must "see his horses," great snuzzling monsters that he had raised
himself (sold one of them once, and sneaked off and bought it
back) and his calves, twins out of a three-year-old--and she had
had one before. Oh shades of Teddy Roosevelt, there's your ideal!
(Do you remember Kipling's line in the Mary Gloster, "And she
carried her freight each trip"?)
And next to Lungren was the Frenchman--far up on the hill
cultivating his grapes, for which he got $110 per ton last year--
and this year he puts out five acres more. The Frenchman has
indigestion and lives alone ... that hillside of vines gives him
something to love.
When we come to the turn in the road, where you cross the creek to
climb the hill, there the "Portugee" lives. He always has lived
there. He was found just there when the Padres came. And his name
was Silva. John Silva, of Stevenson's Treasure Island--born in the
Azores, of course--there are no other Portuguese in America.
And John has--how many children? Give you three guesses. All by
one wife, too, and she is in evidence, and a native daughter. I
saw her with my own eyes, black hair, dark skin, slight figure,
voluble, smiling, large-knuckled hands and a flashy eye, oh! a
long way from being uninteresting to John yet, or a merely "good
woman." Well, how many children did they have, right there by the
road?--eleven. Eight boys and three girls--and four dead, too.
Fine boys and girls, one I saw plowing or cultivating straight up
and down the vineyard, a sixty degree hill, I should say. I was
struggling with a cane to get one foot before another on the
sloping road and he was outdoing a horse, that he drove with his
neck and shoulders, while with his hands he guided the little plow
straight up toward the sky. I am not envious of such youth. I
never had it. I was always lazy. But it is a real joy for me to be
near such youth--just to know that such things can be done--by
angels from the Azores. You remember Anne's story, "In future it
is prohibited to refer to our beloved Allies as 'the God-damned
Portuguese'"? Well, I feel the same way.
Yes, this land of yours is good. (All land is good, I believe.)
And the stillness, and the birds, and the flowers! The simplicity
of these two dear hearts--George and his wife--the little they
need! A paper once a day for five minutes, a song to break day
with, and a round of songs and piano pieces to end the day, every
act one of consideration, and each word spoken with a tender look,
a gay lilt to the voice, even in asking to pass the salt. "Better
a dinner of herbs where love is," etc. Well, they have it, herbs
and all,--beet tops and mustard leaves. ... Good luck to you.
F. K. L.
P. S. You don't deserve this--you stingy, skimpy mollusk!
To Lathrop Brown
Morgan Hill, [March] 16, [1921]
MY DEAR LATHROP,--I wish I could be with you just to laugh away
that cynical mood. I know that I do not see the world undressed,
naked, in the raw, as you youngsters do. Illusions and delusions,
let them be! I shall cherish them. For whatever it is inside of me
that I call soul seems to grow on these things that seem so
contrary to the results of experience. "If a lie works, it's the
truth," says Dooley. So say I, in my pragmatism. I have "become"
in the eyes of men and I want to "become" in the eyes of my better
self, that ego must be gratified at least by an effort. And to
"become" requires that there shall be some faith. We don't
accomplish by disbelieving. That is your Mother's religion. It is
my philosophy. She has capacity for faith which I have not,
because she climbs, while I stand still.
Of course the inauguration business was commonplace. That is Ohio
statesmanship, somehow. But good may come of it, and you and I
want to help it, so far as it wants national food, to bear fruit.
Damn all your politics and partisanship! Humbug--twaddle--fiddle-
dee-dee, made for lazy louts who want jobs and bosses who want
power. Well, we are out now for a long time, and we might as well
forget bitterness, or rather submerge it in the bigger call of the
nation. All of which you characterize as sentimentalism--so says
Burleson, too.
I am beginning to despair of doctors and to say to myself, "Better
get back to work, and go it as long as you can, then quit and live
on rolled oats and buttermilk until the light goes out." ... Well,
goodnight, dear chap.
F. K. L.
To John G. Gekring
[March] 21, [1921]
And how are you, Padre? Do you find that there are those who can
probe into the secrets within you and tell more than you as
patient can tell yourself? Has a physician who follows the
biblical advice, "Heal thyself," a Fool for a Doctor? What has
been taught you in the ill-smelling center of darkness, dreariness
and torture, where there is more need for beauty than in any other
place, and less of it, more need for gaiety, and less of it, more
need for wholesome suggestion and less of it? ... All hospitals
should have bright paper on the walls, or bright pictures. To hell
with the microbe theory! There are worse things than microbes. All
nurses should be good-looking. They should paint and pad, if
necessary, to give an imitation of good looks. Now, honestly, do
you not agree? And they should not have doors open, nor ask
perfunctory silly questions, such as "Well, how are we today?"
On examination nurses should be rated largely for things that
don't count--looks, cheerfulness, silliness, sympathy, softness of
hand, willingness to listen to the victim-patient! ...
I am going to Rochester, ... my brother is going with me. Bless
him! He'd be glad to take you back, and he can give you wood to
chop, and a black-headed grosbeak to sing for you. Ever hear one?
Better than Caruso.
May the Lord make his light to shine upon you and give you peace.
F. K. L.
To John H. Wigmore
Los Angeles, March 25, 1921
MY DEAR JOHN,--Hail to you brave leader of the Moral Forces! Isn't
that an offensive title? You see I have been asked to join you in
"Potentia." Isn't that word out of the Middle Ages?
I would like to join against crooks, thieves, and liars. But the
American people don't like anyone to assume that he represents the
Moral Forces. And "Potentia" sounds too mystic for any land this
side of Egypt. Am I not right? Answer in one of your sane moments.
You cannot go against ridicule in America. Bishops here are not
the same as Lords in England. They cannot save from ridicule
pretentious good things. Now Ross and you are wise things. How do
you stand for "Moral Forces" and "Potentia"? No, no, dear John!--
less hifalutism!
I write for information. Tell me--do you think good will come of
it? My immediate judgment is against it, strongly. In purpose--
good, in method, name,--impossible. It is as if one were to say,
"Come let us gather together the Good and the Wise, and say who
shall be called honest men." Cicero, I believe, formed government
by the "boni." No one likes the good who advertise. I don't. Am I
all wrong? ...
LANE
To Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt
[Pasadena], March 25, [1921]
Your letters, my dear Mrs. Franklin, are refreshing breezes. They
are quite what breezes should be--warm, kindly, stimulating; not
hard, stiff, compelling things, off a granite Northern shore. Anne
rejoices in them, without words.
I have been lately with my one brother on his ranch--a large name
implying vast herds quietly grazing over infinite valleys and
mountains. But all farms here are ranches, as you doubtless know,
as all weather is fine. My brother's ranchita is eighty acres of
beauty; a stream below, running up to manzanita crowns on good-
sized hills, and oaks and sycamores and bays, and many other trees
between. He has a house, all of which he planned in fullest detail
himself, with as lovely a site as anywhere, and a pretty and
artistic wife; a good saddle horse, a noble dog, a loyal and most
excellent cook, many books--and what more could he have in heaven?
Outside his dining-room window he has built a dining-table for the
birds, and so as we dined within, they dined without. Each morning
I saw the sun rise, and I whistled as I dressed. One morning I
climbed the hills and found the cow and drove it in for the man to
milk. But my only morning duty was to pick a golden poppy or a
cherokee rose or a handful of wild forget-me-nots for my button-
hole. All day I sat in the sun, or drove a bit or walked a little
--talking, talking, talking; of law, and Plato, and Epictetus, and
Harry Lauder, (whom we imitated, at a distance; for my brother
sings Scotch songs); and we talked too of our old girls and the
early days of good hunting in this semi-civilized land, and of
Woodrow Wilson and H. G. Wells and Emerson and Henry George, and
of Billy Emerson, the negro minstrel, and William Keith our great
artist. And we planned houses, adobe houses, that should be built
up above, over the manzanita bushes, and the swimming-pool that
should just naturally lie between the two live-oaks hidden behind
the natural screen of mountain laurel, but open clear up to the
sun. Each night we closed with a round of songs, and maybe a hymn.
And bed was early. Now wasn't that a good place to be?
Not so very different in atmosphere from Hyde Park! But what would
Broadway say of such a life! Oh, the serenity of it all, the
dignity, the independence, the superiority over so much that we
think important. There one could get a sense of proportion, and
see things more nearly in their natural color and size. Truly, I
could have been religious if I lived in the country--and not been
too hard driven for a living! (For one can't be anything good or
great when pressed and bullied by necessity of any kind.)
So I grew in strength on the little ranch and unwillingly came
back for treatment here, which was not half so good for soul or
body as to sit in the sun and see the birds daintily pick their
crumbs and know that the dog at my knee understood what I did not
tell him.
Give to the Ducal lady at Hyde Park my spring greetings, and to
the "young lord lover" who bears your name my respectful regards.
I expect to go to Rochester, or elsewhere, in May, and in the
meantime think me not silly because I like you and have written of
what I like.
F. K L.
To John W. Hallowell
Los Angeles, March 31, 1921
DEAR JACK,--I went to your Church on Sunday. Now there! Real
Friends. I wondered, "Why the two doors?" as I went up the steps,
but I said, "I'll take the nearest." Someone was talking, so I
plumped down in the backmost seat. Then I looked about and found
that I was faced by three rows of sisters, in poke bonnets on a
raised platform, at the end of the room. Around me were women,
women, women, and children. Not a man!
My wits at last came to me. I discovered there were two rooms
really, divided by pillars. And there were the men, the blessed,
homely men. So up I lifted hat and coat and piled over on the
man's side and breathed again.
The speaker looked like the late Senator Hoar and was intoning or
chanting his speech or address or sermon. I had never heard it
done and the cadence was charming. It adds to the emotionalism of
what is said. When he sat down, there was a long pause, and then a
sister, on the opposite side now, quoted, modestly, a psalm. Two
more, a man and woman, spoke. Then a prayer and at twelve, with
one accord, we all rose and went out.
It is the essence of Democracy and I fear the forward there, and
not the most worthy of being heard, come to the front. Please tell
your mother how good I was! And write me, you scoundrel!
F. K. L.
Postcard to John G. Gehring
April 20, [1921]
On the eastbound train, traveling toward a little man who carries
a little knife in his hand and beckons me toward the north. I do
not go gladly, because I am feeling so much better. Have had whole
days and nights without pain, by the exercise of all kinds of
care. Still that is living "on condition." Is there never again to
be freedom? You see I am a natural Protestant. Good luck to you,
dear man.
LANE
To Hall McAllister
R.R. Train, Minnesota, April 22
DEAR HALL,--I am now on the St. Paul road going to Lake City,
where, it is said my son is to be married to a charming, little
Irish girl, one generation away from Ireland.
Right now, I am sitting opposite Mrs. Franklin K. Lane who is, in
turn, sitting beside my brother who has come East with me as
secretary, nurse, doctor, mentor, spiritual advisor, valet, and
companion. On my right is the Mississippi river, of which you may
have heard. On Sunday I hope to go to Rochester again and then be
cut in two, tho' I am not sure they will do it.
I left California last Tuesday. It was quite pleased with itself
and full of pity for all the rest of the world. It surely has much
to say for itself, and says it with frequency and normalcy. The
only disappointment in dying will be the unfortunate contrast--eh,
you Californian? But then you and I are not like those
transplanted Iowans who fill Southern California, most of whom
have never seen Mt. Tamalpais nor the Golden Gate and yet think
they know California!