in our natures that made our misunderstanding inevitable?
Katharine has always been something of a mystery to me. Doubtless I am a mystery to her, though I can’t imagine why. The life of a public figure is an open book. Anything I didn’t tell Katharine wasn’t worth telling in the first place. That wasn’t enough for her, however. She accused me of holding things back, of being incapable of intimacy. But I never bargained on intimacy. What I wanted from her was something far more precious: an idealizedfriendship, a meeting of minds—and, yes, of hearts—but without emotional entanglements and the forwardness they engender. Unfortunately, Katharine’s way of idealizing me was to idolize me. Her insatiable demands finally made it clear that she had mistaken my honest friendship for love, and I had no choice but to pull back. Since then, her letters have been sporadic and measurably less personal. I understand, of course, that she is simply paying me back in my own coin.
When I first got to know the Wrights, they desperately needed allies in their battle royal with the Smithsonian Institution. Admiring Orville as I did, I was only too happy to take up the cudgels on their behalf. Orville reminded me of the wounded elephant in the little sculpture that Akeley made before the war: he was exhausted and needed the support that Katharine and I were eager to provide. As a close family friend, I stood in for Wilbur in a manner of speaking. Katharine used to hold forth on how her two brothers had differed, always with what seemed to me balanced and impartial praise. I eventually came to feel, however, that she was a bit fonder of Orville. She said she was even “sillier” about him than about me. So although no one could take Wilbur’s place with her, she took comfort in lavishing on me the interest and affectionate sympathy that he had always inspired in her.
Katharine is one of the warmest and most genuinely sympathetic women it has ever been my privilege to know. But it does her no injustice, in my opinion, to observe that she does not possess what one would call a fundamentally passionate nature. Enthusiastic and excitable, yes, but not passionate. She is far too sensible and levelheaded to abandon herself to her emotions. In fact, for all her “singing” heart, she clearly distrusts passionate love and greatlyprefers the gentler kind—call it sisterly love or what you will. Her devotion to Orville is the purest expression of that love. Indeed, there is a question in my mind whether there is room in her life for any other kind of love—or any other man.
Passion
Harry
The explosion, as Katharine so indelicately calls it, had been building a head of steam for months. Sooner or later it was bound to burst. I don’t wonder she was “dumbsquizzled” by my blowup; it took me by surprise as much as her. She’s right: I was acting more like a callow youth than a hard-boiled newspaperman. Never in my life had I felt so worked up and out of control. In my experience, “overmastering passion” was the stuff of romantic poetry and novels. Once I began to tell Katharine how many years I had loved her, ever since our time at Oberlin, and how eager I was to share my life with her, the words came gushing out like molten lava from a volcano.
It was what she said about the scheming widows in Kansas City and the likelihood of our paths leading in different directions that lit the fuse. Despite her protestations of innocence, I have a notion that she deliberately brought the situation to a head just to see what I was made of. Not that I’m entirely innocent myself.All that bellyaching about how lonely I was after Isabel died was sure to stir up her mothering instincts. I see that now. And I may have been ringing her bell just a bit when I went on and on about chaperoning Miss Farmer to those country-house parties—as if for one moment I would have seriously considered leading Isabel’s sickroom nurse to the altar.
Then
Katharine has always been something of a mystery to me. Doubtless I am a mystery to her, though I can’t imagine why. The life of a public figure is an open book. Anything I didn’t tell Katharine wasn’t worth telling in the first place. That wasn’t enough for her, however. She accused me of holding things back, of being incapable of intimacy. But I never bargained on intimacy. What I wanted from her was something far more precious: an idealizedfriendship, a meeting of minds—and, yes, of hearts—but without emotional entanglements and the forwardness they engender. Unfortunately, Katharine’s way of idealizing me was to idolize me. Her insatiable demands finally made it clear that she had mistaken my honest friendship for love, and I had no choice but to pull back. Since then, her letters have been sporadic and measurably less personal. I understand, of course, that she is simply paying me back in my own coin.
When I first got to know the Wrights, they desperately needed allies in their battle royal with the Smithsonian Institution. Admiring Orville as I did, I was only too happy to take up the cudgels on their behalf. Orville reminded me of the wounded elephant in the little sculpture that Akeley made before the war: he was exhausted and needed the support that Katharine and I were eager to provide. As a close family friend, I stood in for Wilbur in a manner of speaking. Katharine used to hold forth on how her two brothers had differed, always with what seemed to me balanced and impartial praise. I eventually came to feel, however, that she was a bit fonder of Orville. She said she was even “sillier” about him than about me. So although no one could take Wilbur’s place with her, she took comfort in lavishing on me the interest and affectionate sympathy that he had always inspired in her.
Katharine is one of the warmest and most genuinely sympathetic women it has ever been my privilege to know. But it does her no injustice, in my opinion, to observe that she does not possess what one would call a fundamentally passionate nature. Enthusiastic and excitable, yes, but not passionate. She is far too sensible and levelheaded to abandon herself to her emotions. In fact, for all her “singing” heart, she clearly distrusts passionate love and greatlyprefers the gentler kind—call it sisterly love or what you will. Her devotion to Orville is the purest expression of that love. Indeed, there is a question in my mind whether there is room in her life for any other kind of love—or any other man.
Passion
Harry
The explosion, as Katharine so indelicately calls it, had been building a head of steam for months. Sooner or later it was bound to burst. I don’t wonder she was “dumbsquizzled” by my blowup; it took me by surprise as much as her. She’s right: I was acting more like a callow youth than a hard-boiled newspaperman. Never in my life had I felt so worked up and out of control. In my experience, “overmastering passion” was the stuff of romantic poetry and novels. Once I began to tell Katharine how many years I had loved her, ever since our time at Oberlin, and how eager I was to share my life with her, the words came gushing out like molten lava from a volcano.
It was what she said about the scheming widows in Kansas City and the likelihood of our paths leading in different directions that lit the fuse. Despite her protestations of innocence, I have a notion that she deliberately brought the situation to a head just to see what I was made of. Not that I’m entirely innocent myself.All that bellyaching about how lonely I was after Isabel died was sure to stir up her mothering instincts. I see that now. And I may have been ringing her bell just a bit when I went on and on about chaperoning Miss Farmer to those country-house parties—as if for one moment I would have seriously considered leading Isabel’s sickroom nurse to the altar.
Then
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