The Letters of Franklin K. Lane, Personal and Political
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!
I look at the paper and see "Harding" at the top of every column.
Then I think of W. W. looking at the paper and seeing the same
headlines. Oh, what unhappiness! Not all the devices of Tumulty
for keeping alive illusions of grandeur could offset those
headlines. Ungrateful world! Un-understanding world!
I hope you like your new boss. He will be a good western
Secretary, and is quite likely to get into a row with our eastern
conservation friends. I am glad he is from the Senate, they care
for their own.
I don't like Harrison jumping on Harvey after confirmation. Looks
little, weakens his influence as "our" man, and is not
sportsmanlike. We must take our medicine and let Harding have his
own way, and it won't be such a bad way, but surely very
different.
... I should like to get back to Washington and loaf for a time
around Sheridan Circle. I know a woman there who intrigued me (as
you writers say) long, long ago with various fascinations of
spirit and mind and eye and voice. But I fear she would not know
me any more.
Now do not be discouraged because you have a bit of sickness. You
are youth, you can beat old whiskered Time. Life has many a laugh