They do say that no man is a prophet in his own land—for sure that applies to Orv. When I read in the paper about Emil Ludwig, the German historian, naming him as one of the four greatest living Americans—in the company of Thomas Edison, Jane Addams, and John D. Rockefeller, no less—I couldn’t keep from smiling, for all my pride. It wasn’t Ludwig’s recognition of Orv’s accomplishment that tickled me so much as the words he chose to describe him: “The sublime quality in Wright is, after all, not lightning flash of genius; it is the immensity of perseverance, the sure faith in reaching the sought-for goal, and the courage to rise again and again.” Bubbo’s “immensity of perseverance”—ah yes, no one knows more about that than I do!
Orville
I might have foreseen that dispatching the flyer to England would solve none of my problems. Not only did it fail to put a damper on my dispute with the Smithsonian, it dragged the controversy right back out into the open. The papers retailed that stale old story for weeks, as if it were breaking news. First the secretary of the Smithsonian would put out an official statement, then the reporters would come around badgering me for a comment, which brought forth another statement from the Smithsonian, to which I felt obliged to respond. On and on it went, like an infernal merry-go-round that left us right back where we were when it all began.
I bear Dr. Abbot no ill will. He seems a thoroughly decent and fair-minded man, and naturally he bears no responsibility for the actions of his late, unlamented predecessor. Indeed, no sooner had Dr. Walcott died than Dr. Abbot let it be known that the Smithsonian was desirous of mending fences and bringing the flyer back to the United States as soon as possible. The resolution the Board of Regents adopted at his behest all but conceded that Will and I had been in the right from the very beginning. I had an amicable conversation with Dr. Abbot at the Carleton Hotel in Washington. He told me that the whole country was with me in the dispute, offered to change the label on the Langley machine, and agreed to sign any statement so long as it did not vilify the Smithsonian Institution.
While I am, of course, gratified that Dr. Abbot and his colleagues are prepared to let bygones be bygones, as far as I’m concerned it’s a case of too little, too late. Unfortunately, the Regents’ resolution did not touch upon a single point that has been at issue during the controversy and did not clear up any of the discussion as it has been waged through the years. The statement showed that there had been no change in the attitudes and methods consistently adopted by the Smithsonian ever since the Hammondsport trials in 1914. It was merely another clever use of words. It certainly did not correct the false propaganda that has been put forth in an attempt to take credit for what Will and I did and give it to Langley.
In my view, the misstatements that have been repeatedly promulgated in the Smithsonian’s various publications are a much more serious matter than the wording of the label on the Langley machine. As I told Dr. Abbot, if one wishes to continue to believe that Langley’s aerodrome was “capable” of flight in 1903, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he has the privilege of doing so. But no one has a right to lead others to this belief through false and misleading statements, and through the suppression of important evidence. When last we spoke, I expressed regret that the Smithsonian had not seen fit to make a full and unbiased statement of the controversy, and we left it at that.
We are thus no further along than we were four or five years ago, when Kate was busy rallying the troops and Dr. Walcott’s minions were digging into the trenches in preparation for a long siege. I don’t know but that the only way of settling the issue is through a congressional or some other impartial investigation. But somebody else will have to lead the charge now that Swes has taken herself out of action. I have neither the strength nor the will to soldier on alone.
Harry
I gather Orville said about the same thing to Anne McCormick that he did to me. There was nothing definite, but his feeling that Katharine wanted to keep house for her brothers and did not want them to marry deterred him from “going out with the girls” and so prevented his forming any attachment that might have led to marriage. The fact is, I suppose, that his concentration on his work prevented any social activities on his part, and Katharine was making them so comfortable that he was not driven out to find somebody to make him a home. I suspect the idea that there was an implied obligation on her part not to leave him because he did not set up a home of his own has become an obsession with him. But I am convinced not merely by Katharine’s recollection but also by the recollection of other members of her family that he is wrong.
On the other hand, Orville had every reason to reject Dr. Abbot’s overtures out of hand, well intentioned though they undoubtedly were. I said so in an editorial I wrote at the time. The Smithsonian’s attitude is all too typical. It has long been fashionable in scientific circles to sneer at the Wright brothers as “two clever mechanics,” the “bicycle repair men” who used the work of real scientists to construct a plane. The great difficulty seems to lie in the prejudice and class feeling of the professional scientific bunch. I fear they regard the Wrights as outsiders who had no business to invent the airplane and so didn’t invent it. Where that feeling exists, evidence to the contrary is almost futile.
The facts are that the scientists working in aviation at the end of the last century were all in a blind alley. The Wrights had to sweep aside most of their work and start anew to solve the problems of flight. Not until Dr. Abbot is prepared to make a frank confession of the misleading reports put out by his predecessor will Orville consent to bringing the Kitty Hawk plane back from England. It seems little enough to ask, but clearly the Smithsonian considers the stakes unacceptably high.
I can’t help feeling that there is a lesson in all this for Orville, if only he could see it. What miracle will it take for him to own up to his own mistakes and allow Katharine back into his life?
Katharine
Why should it be that I am so incurably interested in other people’s weddings? I ’spect it’s because my own wedding was such a let-down—not the ceremony itself, of course, that was perfectly lovely, but all the dear little things that should have led up to it. I spent months dreaming about being married and making plans—the way all women do, I imagine, regardless of their age or particular circumstances. There were guest lists to be drawn up, announcements and invitations to be engraved, gowns to be ordered, music and flowers and food to be arranged—and in the end everything fell by the wayside in our mad rush to get the ceremony over and done with. Harry didn’t mind so much—or if he did, he didn’t show it—but it was different for me, especially since I’d been waiting thirty years for the right man to pop the question!
I’d have given a good deal to be at my nephew Bus’s wedding in Dayton last June. I was interested enough to go, for sure, but it wasn’t possible, not with things as they are between Little Brother and me. So I stayed home and tried to picture Bus and Sue and the rest of the family, and how pretty the little church must have looked decorated with all those pink climbing roses. We heard from various sources about how Orv helped the newlyweds escape from the reception at her parents’ house. A natural-born conspirator he is! Life is all a game to Little Brother. Some way he reminds me of Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up. No wonder he stayed a bachelor—he wasn’t cut out to be a husband, and that’s a fact. Even Griff says it was probably a good thing that Orv was stopped from marrying thirty years ago—Harry and I roared over that!
The plain truth is that Orv was free to marry any time he pleased. No one was standing in his way—certainly not sister Kate! He would have had his pick of the young ladies too. My friend Agnes was “Orv’s girl” when we were young—at least we were all convinced he was sweet on her, even if she didn’t necessarily return the favor. No doubt plenty of others were in the running, including a few I may never have known about. Why, there even was a rumor that he was once engaged to Mrs. Barney! Not much likelihood of that, I should say. According to Carrie, when tha
t French “vidder” came to Hawthorn Hill last summer, prospecting for a husband, he and Miss Beck sent her packing as quick as a wink!
One way and another, I seem to be living in Dayton a good deal of the time these days. Here’s a fine howdy-do! Before I was married, I could hardly wait to move to Kansas City and set up house with Harry. I actually used to worry over whether we could live through the happiness of being together! I imagined we would laugh a good deal and have long, serious talks and try to get the universe settled as it should be. And then we’d wind up not caring about anything but just each other, and we’d talk and talk endlessly about the dear little things that we both love to talk about. We’d mix in a lot of things that young people don’t have and don’t know about and can’t appreciate as we can. The last of life is the best, I believe.
It all seemed like another dream waiting to come true, and now that it has come true, what do I do but fritter away my time worrying about Orv and wishing I could be with him—and be something to him—back at Hawthorn Hill. That never can be, of course, but home is such an ideal place when you are far from it—as I know from experience.
Orville
“The drapes of secrecy do not fit the captains and benefactors of mankind.” So says the latest issue of Popular Science Monthly. “The Real Fathers of Flight” indeed! I ask you, who is Mr. John R. McMahon to decide what the public needs to know about our family’s affairs? My private life is nobody’s business but my own. To think that Kate and I actually welcomed that man under our roof, gave him the run of the house for two weeks, shared family intimacies and personal documents with him—and now, years later, over my protests, he abuses the privilege we extended to him by publishing trivial tittle-tattle. I scarcely know which is more despicable: the Smithsonian’s lies and deceptions or these flagrant invasions of my privacy.
I sometimes wonder if Anne McCormick has any more scruples than the rest of that lot. The nerve of her, barging in here and lecturing me on my duty toward my own sister. I’ll have to watch my tongue around her or she’ll be spreading rumors too. Next thing you know the reporters will be fabricating stories about why Will and I never married. I can see the headlines now: “Extra! Extra! Inventors of Aeroplane Had Secret Love Lives! Our Special Correspondent Reveals the Human Heart That Beats Behind Mr. Orville Wright’s Unruffled Exterior!” I wouldn’t put it past the newspapers to concoct a fairy tale about a childhood sweetheart, or even about “goings on” between me and Miss Beck.
I hate to punch a hole in their balloon, but the real Orville Wright cuts a less romantic figure. The occasional family wedding is as close to the altar as I am likely to get. But just ask Bus and Sue what their Uncle Orv is made of. Organizing their getaway was one of my finest hours, if I say so myself. To begin with, I parked my Franklin alongside a vacant lot behind the bride’s home. Then I left the wedding reception early and drove away with a posse of young scalawags from the party hot on my tail. I cut across a field to shake them off, the newlyweds following hard on my heels. When we reached Hawthorn Hill, Bus and Sue scampered through the hall to the back entrance and down the hill to catch a streetcar on Harmon Avenue. I waited until they had made their escape, then lit all the lights in the house and invited everyone in. That beats racing along Far Hills Avenue at forty miles an hour any day!
On the other hand, my latest brush with matrimony was no laughing matter. Last summer Carlotta Bollée and her daughter did me the “honor” of paying me a visit. I could hardly turn them away, seeing as how the late Mr. Bollée was so helpful to Will in France before the war. But I did take the precaution of asking my sister-in-law to stay in the house as a chaperone. Soon enough, Madame Bollée started making insinuations, which I managed to ignore. But when she let out that she looked forward to seeing Niagara Falls—presumably in the company of you know who—before returning to Europe, I realized I had better act quickly. I told her that train reservations to Niagara were hard to come by, but I would see what I could do. Then I had Miss Beck telephone the ticket office and book the Bollées berths on a train departing that very afternoon. After shooing them out of the house, I took off like a shot for Lambert Island—alone.
Katharine
It’s good to know that Orv’s friends are keeping up with him. I am always so glad to hear that Griff is coming to Dayton or to the bay—and yet sad too, because I know that my share in the enjoyment of his visits is past. Orv is at his best on the island, and Griff has been coming up so long that he feels completely at ease. If only they could find a way to spend more time there together. Still, Bob Hadeler must be a good companion for Little Brother. He was always such a nice boy and has had a very good upbringing. I imagine he sleeps in my old room in the big cabin. I wonder if old Mr. France, George’s father, is still living. And are the Williamses and McKenzies on their island, and does Orv still get milk down across from Tomahawk, at the Indian’s? And is there still such a mess of children there? They were interesting and well behaved.
When I opened Griff’s package last fall and saw his photograph, I nearly wept for joy. I always did want him to have a portrait taken, and I am as pleased as I could be to have one here in Kansas City to remind me of him. It is good of Griff not to drop me now that I am not in Dayton. I care so much to keep up every connection with our old friends—especially the ones who were associated with Will as well as Orv. And Griff is the most special of all. I can never think of him without thinking of the boys.
Some way I seem to need friends more than ever these days—even Stef, dear, disappointing, exasperating Stef. How queer it is, to be sure: I once had a feeling deep down in my heart that I would never see Stef again, that despite our special friendship we were too different to understand each other and were bound to go our separate ways sooner or later. There were long stretches when I didn’t hear from him at all, and the few letters I got were not very informative. But he too has stayed in touch after his fashion and writes or cables us every time he happens to be passing through Kansas City. I expect he does the same with Orv. What a trump Stef is, for all his flaws!
It was only a few weeks ago that Stef paid us one of his flying visits. He phoned from the station and came out to the house for a few hours. Poor man—I’m afraid we rather overwhelmed him with stories of our newfound wealth and happiness. It really has been the most extraordinary experience. Mr. Seested, the Star’s top executive, died in October, and as a consequence Harry was named editor as well as first vice president of the company. He even had another increase in salary—his second in a little over a year. We still owe a quite respectable amount of money to the bank for the staff’s purchase of the paper, but the stock is such a wonderful investment. The share value seems to grow and grow like a beanstalk. So we are getting rich quite unexpectedly—but, as Harry says, it keeps us poor while we are getting rich!
We always used to say that when we “got the Star bought” we would go on a trip to Europe, but I never dreamed that day would arrive as soon as this. Harry has fixed things so he can be away from the office for six whole weeks. It will be simply heavenly. We’ll troop around everywhere hand in hand and have the gayest time. How unspeakably romantic it feels to be going on our second honeymoon—and the first one only two years behind us!
Orville
Talk about shades from the past—who should turn up the other day but Frank Lahm. He had just come over from Paris and was on his way to Texas to visit his son and daughter-in-law. It’s always a pleasure to see Mr. Lahm. He was a good friend to us back when Will and I were dickering with the French over the flyer. He asked me to write the foreword to a book on aviation that he hopes to publish with one of the New York houses. I owe it to him, I reckon, though I don’t relish the thought of writing such a piece without Kate to back me up. She always was fond of old Mr. Lahm. And young Lieutenant Lahm clearly carried a torch for her when I was in the hospital after my accident. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit to learn that he made Swes a proposal of marriage. It must have been a tem
ptation to them both—but she was still on my side in those days.
Hawthorn Hill isn’t the crossroads it used to be when Kate was the lady of the house. Still, I get a respectable tally of visitors for an old retired man. A bunch of them turned up last month for the twenty-fifth anniversary of the first flight, including a number of delegates to the big Civil Aeronautics Conference in Washington who stopped off in Dayton to pay their respects. There were the usual banquets and ceremonies and hot-air speeches about Will and me belonging “to the immortals of all history”—as if we were both dead and gone to our rewards. The president said nice things about us at the opening of the conference, and afterward Congress finally got around to awarding Will and me the Distinguished Flying Cross. The Post Office Department even brought out a new two-cent stamp commemorating our flight at Kitty Hawk. That beats all!
On the seventeenth of December last, a group of us took the steamer from Washington to Norfolk, and from there we traveled overland to North Carolina for the laying of the cornerstone of the Wright brothers monument. Below Kill Devil Hills, near the spot where we got the flyer up into the air, there is a plaque stating that Will and I made “the first successful flight of an airplane.” Short, sweet, and factual. I hadn’t been back to Kitty Hawk since the year before Will died and was interested to observe how little the place has changed. There are the same scrub trees, the same wood-frame cabins, the same seamless expanse of sand, water, and sky stretching as far as the eye can see. The dunes have shifted about a good deal, but I reckon we were standing close to where Will and I pitched our camp that first summer. About the only things lacking to complete the picture were the wild pigs and marsh mosquitoes!
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