In the excited babel of voices one or two phrases could be heard again
and again. “_Cet homme a conquis l’air!_” “_Il n’est pas bluffeur!_”
Yes, truly Wilbur had conquered the air, and he was no bluffer. That
American word “bluffer” had been much used during the time that
reports from the United States about the Wrights had been stirring
controversy in France. Now “_bluffeur_” became, more than ever, a part
of the French language. “To think that one would call the Wrights
‘_bluffeurs_’!” lamented the French press over and over again.
For the next few minutes after Wilbur landed, Berg was kept busy
laughingly warding off agitated Frenchmen who sought to bestow a formal
accolade by kissing Wilbur in the French manner on both cheeks. He
suspected that Wilbur might consider that carrying enthusiasm too far.
One of the skeptical members of the Aéro Club, Edouard Surcouf, a
balloonist, had arrived at the field late, barely in time to see Wilbur
in the air. Now he was about the most enthusiastic of all. He rushed
up to Berg, exclaiming: “_C’est le plus grand erreur du siècle!_”
Disbelieving the claims of the Wrights may not have been the biggest
error of the century, but obviously it _had_ at least been a mistake.
The only person who offered criticism or minimized the brilliance
of his feat was Wilbur Wright. When asked by a reporter for the
Paris edition of the New York _Herald_ if he was satisfied with the
exhibition, he replied, according to that paper: “Not altogether. When
in the air I made no less than ten mistakes owing to the fact that I
have been laying off from flying so long; but I corrected them rapidly,
so I don’t suppose anyone watching really knew I had made any mistake
at all. I was very pleased at the way my first flight in France was
received.”
A crowd of Aéro Club members and other admirers were insistent that
Wilbur should go back to Paris with them to celebrate the achievement
at the best dinner to be obtained in that center of inspired cooking.
But Wilbur just thanked them and said he wished to give his machine a
little going over. Early that evening, so the newspapers reported, “he
was asleep at the side of his creation.”
The French press the next day not only treated the flight as the
biggest news, but was unsparing in its praise, as were various rivals
in the field of aviation who were quoted. All admitted that there was
a world of difference between the best French plane yet produced and
the one Wilbur Wright had just demonstrated. The _Figaro_ said: “It was
not merely a success but a triumph; a conclusive trial and a decisive
victory for aviation, the news of which will revolutionize scientific
circles throughout the world.” _Le Journal_ observed that: “It was the
first trial of the Wright airplane, whose qualities have long been
regarded with doubt, and it was perfect.”
Louis Bleriot, member of the Aéro Club, wealthy manufacturer of
automobile headlights, and himself a flyer, was quoted in _Le Matin_
as saying: “The Wright machine is indeed superior to our airplanes.”
As early as May, 1908, when the Wrights were still at Kitty Hawk, the
Frenchman, Henri Farman, had issued a challenge to them to participate
in a flying contest, for $5,000--later raised to $10,000. But the
challenge, made only in public prints, was never sent directly to
the Wrights. It may have been simply what today would be called a
“publicity stunt.” (Farman’s best straightaway flight of about a mile
and a quarter had been made at Issy, France, on March 21, 1908.)
Nothing more was heard of the Farman challenge now. A French paper
commented that the Farman plane and also that of Léon Delagrange were
approximate copies of the Wright plane but that the Wright machine
“seems more solid, more controllable, and more scientific.”
Two days after that first demonstration, on August 10, Wilbur made
two more short flights, the first one a figure eight, and the other,
three complete circles. He flew on August 11 for 3 minutes 43 seconds;
the next day, 6 minutes 56 seconds; and on August 13, 8 minutes 13.2
seconds. This time he did seven wide “_orbes_,” as the French described
them. In landing that day Wilbur broke the left wing of his plane
and repairs kept him from flying until August 21. He took time out
on August 24 to attend an agricultural fair where reporters observed
that he seemed much interested in pigs and cattle and, as one paper
expressed it, “talked much more freely about them than about aviation.”
After those first few flights, the army officer in charge of the
artillery testing grounds at Auvours let it be known that the military
people at Paris would be proud to have Wilbur Wright’s further
demonstrations carried on there. As the military field was larger
than that at Hunaudières, Wilbur was glad to make the change. The
Hunaudières hangar--which Wilbur persisted in calling the “shed”--was
torn down and rebuilt within twenty-four hours at Auvours. As the two
fields were only about ten miles apart, Wilbur could have flown the
plane to the new location; but with so much at stake he was taking no
chances. The plane was placed longitudinally on two wheels fastened
behind Léon Bollée’s automobile and towed to the Auvours field without
removing the wings. Within a month after setting up operations at
Auvours, Wilbur was flying many times the distance between the two
fields.
All parts of France were now flooded with souvenir post cards bearing
pictures of Wilbur or of his plane in flight. And the French people
gave him all the hero-worship of which they were capable. There was
talk of a public subscription for a testimonial to him. When the French
ambassador to the United States reached New York a short time later he
declared that Wilbur Wright was accepted as the biggest man in France.
It wasn’t alone his achievements in the air that won the people, but
also his modesty, decency, and intelligence. The French papers made
enthusiastic comment on the fact that in conversation he seemed to be
exceptionally well informed not only about scientific work, but also on
art, literature, medicine, and affairs of the world.
Newspapermen liked Wilbur because he always made it plain that they
were welcome. They probably liked him all the more because, as a joke,
he usually put them at manual work, to fetch tools, or help drag the
plane in and out of the hangar.
Those who had access to the hangar were impressed by the orderliness of
the place. Wilbur’s canvas cot was hauled up by ropes toward the roof
during the day, and the space where he slept was divided from another
section of the building by a low partition made of wood from packing
cases. Wilbur explained that one room was his bedroom, the other his
dining-room. Another trait that appealed to the French was Wilbur’s
punctuality at all appointments. No one ever had to wait even a minute
on him.
Nothing Wilbur was overheard to say by French journalists seemed too
trivial to be recorded. One day he said “fine” to an assistant, by
way of commendation, and the next day a Paris paper explained that
Wilbur meant “_C’est beau_.” “Boys, let’s fix these ropes” was promptly
translated as “_Allons, jeunes gens, allez disposer les cordes_.”
Wilbur was flooded with letters of all kinds. Some were from scientists
seeking information, and hundreds came from women who desired to make
his acquaintance. He tried his best to answer all sensible questions
from scientists; the others went into the stove. He was equally
considerate of scientific-minded people--including those who might be
considered rivals in aviation--who came in person. To all who had real
interest he patiently explained any detail of his machine. But he
was capable of quiet sarcasm toward the ill-informed who started to
enlighten him about aerodynamics.
It now became the fashionable thing for Parisians to take a train down
to Le Mans and drive from there to the Champ d’Auvours to see Wilbur
fly. Amusing episodes grew out of that. Since the flights were not
often announced in advance, those who made the sight-seeing trip had
to take their chances. But some of the callers felt almost a personal
affront if Wilbur made no flight on the day they happened to be there.
One American society woman living in Paris was bitterly resentful when
she was told that Monsieur Wright was taking a nap and therefore would
not fly that afternoon. “The idea,” said she, petulantly, “of his being
asleep when I came all the way down here to see him in the air!”
Cabmen at Le Mans found the sudden influx of visitors so profitable
that they tried to make the most of it and encouraged people who had
been disappointed to come again the next day. They would always say:
“He is sure to fly tomorrow. We have it on good authority.”
So grateful to Wilbur were members of the “Le Mans-Auvours Aeroplane
Bus Service” for the profitable trade he had created, that they wanted
to give a banquet in his honor.
News of Wilbur’s flights at Le Mans naturally caused talk in England.
Members of the Aeronautical Society of Great Britain, one after
another, went to Le Mans in doubt about the flights being as wonderful
as reported, but returned convinced that the age of practical
flying-machines had come.
One of the first to go from England to investigate was Griffith
Brewer, who had been making balloon ascensions since 1891. Half
apologetically, lest he be thought over-credulous, he confided to an
old associate of his in ballooning, Charles S. Rolls, founder of the
Rolls-Royce motor car firm, that he was going to France to see Wilbur
Wright fly. Rolls laughed and said he had just returned from seeing him
fly.
On his arrival at Le Mans, Brewer walked to the shed at the edge of the
field. Opposite the shed, in the middle of the field, was Wilbur Wright
tuning up his machine. As a crowd was about Wilbur, Brewer hesitated to
add to it, but sat down by the shed to smoke his pipe. When a mechanic
came from the machine over to the shed for a tool, Brewer handed him a
calling card with the request that he give it to Wilbur Wright. Wilbur
glanced at the card, nodded to Brewer, and went on with his work. There
was no flight, but it was some time before Wilbur returned to the shed;
and as he stayed inside for what seemed a long time, Brewer began to
think there might be an indefinite wait. Then Wilbur came out, putting
on his coat, and said: “Now, Mr. Brewer, we’ll go and have some dinner.”
They went to Madame Pollet’s inn near by for a simple meal and Brewer,
eager though he was to discuss aviation, wondered if the inventor might
not appreciate a rest from the subject of flying. He therefore talked
to him of affairs in America. Wilbur liked that, and they formed a
friendship.
[Illustration: THE OLD AND THE NEW IN TRANSPORTATION. Two views of the
Wright plane in flight at Pau, France, in 1909.]
On September 12, Wilbur was guest of honor at a dinner in Paris given
by the Aéro Club of the Sarthe (the governmental department in which Le
Mans was located). It was understood that he would not be expected
to make a speech, but Baron d’Estournelles, member of the Senate from
Le Mans, who presided, did nevertheless call upon him. Wilbur then,
in justification of his unwillingness to say much, made a remark that
became famous.
[Illustration: DEMONSTRATION AT PAU. Wilbur Wright explaining the
plane’s mechanism to Alfonso XIII of Spain.]
“I know of only one bird, the parrot, that talks,” he was quoted as
saying, “and it can’t fly very high.”
For the first time in France, Wilbur, on September 16, took up a
passenger, a young French balloonist, Ernest Zens.
Two days later, in the early morning of September 18, as he was about
to make a flight, Wilbur got word about the tragic accident at Fort
Myer the day before, when Lieutenant Selfridge was killed and Orville
Wright injured, it was not yet known how seriously.
Within a few hours cables brought word that Orville would recover, and
Wilbur was able to fly again the next day. Two days later, on September
21, he flew about forty miles, in 1 hour 31 minutes 25.4 seconds. News
of that proved to be better medicine for Orville, in Washington, than
anything the attending physician could do.
Many passengers now made short flights with Wilbur. They included, on
October 3, Mr. Dickin, of the Paris edition of the New York _Herald_,
and Franz Reichel, of the Paris _Figaro_. Reichel was so enthusiastic
over his flight of nearly an hour, that on landing he threw his arms
about Wilbur.
Léon Bollée had his first flight on October 5, and the next day Arnold
Fordyce flew with Wilbur for 1 hour 4 minutes and 26 seconds, the
longest flight yet made in an airplane with a passenger.
Now that Wilbur was carrying much weight and on longer flights, the
Paris edition of the New York _Herald_ became impressed with future
possibilities for carrying mail by plane. It predicted that the time
might come when there would be special stamps for “aeroplane delivery.”
A witness to several of these flights in early October was Major B. F.
S. Baden-Powell, President of the Aeronautical Society of Great Britain
(and a brother of the founder of the Boy Scouts). He was so impressed
by what he saw that he sounded a warning to his fellow countrymen.
Major Baden-Powell was quoted as follows in the Paris edition of the
New York _Herald_ on October 6, 1908:
If only some of our people in England could see or imagine
what Mr. Wright is now doing I am certain it would give them a
terrible shock. A conquest of the air by any nation means more
than the average man is willing to admit or even think about.
That Wilbur Wright is in possession of a power which controls
the fate of nations is beyond dispute.
Hart O. Berg, on October 7, went for a flight, his first, lasting three
minutes and twenty-four seconds. Immediately afterward Wilbur took Mrs.
Berg for a flight, of two minutes, three seconds, the first ever made
anywhere in the world by a woman. (One or two women were reported to
have been in planes that made short hops, but Mrs. Berg was certainly
the first woman to participate in a real flight.)
Berg tied a rope about the lower part of his wife’s skirt to keep it
from blowing. A Paris dressmaker who was among the spectators noted
that Mrs. Berg could hardly walk, after landing, with that rope above
her ankles. There, thought the _couturière_, was a suggestion for
something fashionable. A costume with skirt thus drawn between the
ankles and the knees to make natural locomotion difficult should appeal
to any customers who happened to be both stupid and rich. Thus was born
the “hobble skirt” which, for a short time, was considered “smart.”
The next day, October 8, her royal highness, Margherita, the dowager
queen of Italy, who was touring France, came to see a flight.
“You have let me witness the most astonishing spectacle I have ever
seen,” was her comment to Wilbur Wright.
On that same October 8, Griffith Brewer, making his second visit to Le
Mans, won the distinction of being the first Englishman ever to fly.
He was followed almost immediately by three other British Aeronautical
Society members, C. S. Rolls, F. H. Butler, and Major Baden-Powell.
One of the Englishmen remarked: “How decent it is of Wilbur Wright
never to accept a fee for any of these flights, when there are scores
of persons who would gladly pay hundreds of pounds for the privilege.”
Wilbur continued until the end of the year to take up passengers at
Auvours. Among them, on October 10, was M. Painlevé, of the French
Institute. As they were taking off, M. Painlevé gaily waved his hand
at the crowd and in so doing accidentally pulled a rope overhead
that Wilbur used for stopping the engine. After another start, the
flight lasted one hour, nine minutes, forty-five seconds, and covered
forty-six miles, a world record for both duration and distance for an
airplane carrying two persons. Two other women besides Mrs. Berg had
short flights--Mesdames Léon Bollée and Lazare Weiller. A passenger
on October 24 was Dr. Pirelli, leading tire manufacturer in Italy.
Later, in November, F. S. Lahm, one of the first in Europe to believe
the Wrights had flown, had his first ride in a plane. Among the
distinguished people who made passenger flights were two destined
to die by assassins’ bullets: Paul Doumer, member of the French
parliament, afterward President of France; and Louis Barthou, Minister
of Public Works and Aerial Communications, afterward Premier.
Under the terms of the contract between the Wrights and the newly
formed French company, one of the Wright brothers was to train three
pilots. Wilbur began this training at Auvours. The students were Count
Charles de Lambert, Paul Tissandier, and Captain Lucas de Girardville.
Both Tissandier and de Lambert had made flights as passengers on
September 28, but did not begin their training until later. Captain
Lucas de Girardville went up as a passenger for the first time on
October 12. The first to receive a lesson at piloting was Count de
Lambert on October 28.
The Aéro Club of France had offered a prize of 2,500 francs for an
altitude of twenty-five meters. But there was a “catch” to that offer.
A little clique in the Aéro Club, a bit over-chauvinistic, wanted
a native experimenter to win, and that was why the altitude to be
attained was fairly low. It was stipulated that anyone competing for
the prize must start without use of derrick or catapult. The French
experimenters had wheels on their machines and could get as long a
start as necessary before leaving the ground. But the Wright machine,
designed for the rough, sandy ground at Kitty Hawk, and the somewhat
bumpy Huffman field, still had skids instead of wheels. Thus the rules
for the contest seemed to be aimed to prevent Wilbur Wright from
winning the prize. Members of the Aéro Club of the Sarthe thought their
compatriots in the Aéro Club of France were being unsportsmanlike, and
they offered a prize of 1,000 francs for an altitude record of thirty
meters. Wilbur won it on November 13. In doing so he went three times
as high as required, reaching an altitude of ninety meters. Then Wilbur
decided that he might as well win the prize of the Aéro Club of France,
and do so on their own terms. He arranged for a longer starting track
than usual, and, five days after taking the prize for thirty meters,
he started without the use of derrick or catapult and won the prize
for twenty-five meters. To the delight of his friends in the Aéro Club
of the Sarthe, he purposely did not throw in much altitude for good
measure and went only high enough to clear safely the captive balloon
that showed the height required.
On December 16, Wilbur astounded the spectators by shutting off the
motor at an altitude of about 200 feet and volplaning slowly down. And
on December 18, he flew for 1 hour 54 minutes 53.4 seconds. Later that
same day he won another prize offered by the Aéro Club of the Sarthe
for an altitude of a hundred meters. Wilbur went ten meters higher than
required. This was a new world’s record for altitude. Then on December
31, the last day he ever flew at Auvours, he made what was then an
almost incredible record of staying continuously in the air 2 hours
20 minutes 23.2 seconds. For this feat he won the Michelin award of
$4,000, or 20,000 francs.
As the weather at Le Mans was no longer ideal for flying, it was
necessary to seek a warmer climate, and at the suggestion of Paul
Tissandier, Wilbur decided to go to Pau, a beautiful winter resort city
of 35,000, at the edge of the Pyrenees. The city of Pau provided a
field and a hangar.[13]
At about the same time, Orville Wright, now rapidly recuperating
from his injuries at Fort Myer, arrived in Paris with their sister,
Katharine, for a reunion with Wilbur. Then Wilbur went on down to Pau,
and his brother and sister joined him there a week or two later. En
route to Pau, their train met with an accident near the town of Dax,
in which two persons were killed. The Wrights escaped injury, but
Orville was a bit startled for another reason. When the crash came,
his mattress tipped up on one side at the same time that his watch,
pocketbook and other articles slid off a stand or shelf beside the bed.
His valuables thus got themselves hid beneath the mattress and, until
he chanced to find them, it looked as if he had been robbed.
As at Le Mans, Wilbur lived at the hangar, where he had a French cook
the hospitable Mayor de Lassence, of Pau, had selected. His brother
and sister lived at the Hotel Gassion, not far from the famous old
château where Henry IV was born, and within a short stroll from the
Place near the center of the city that affords what Lamartine has
called the finest land view in all the world. The Wrights were not
long in discovering that life here should be ideal. Wilbur’s French
cook proved to be competent enough at preparing regional and other
choice dishes--though Katharine Wright did not think he had quite
the best technique with a broom for keeping the quarters clean. A
London newspaper photographer gave Orville a photograph of his sister
demonstrating to that Frenchman how to handle a broom.
By coming to Pau the Wrights had unintentionally played a joke on James
Gordon Bennett, owner of the New York _Herald_ and Paris _Herald_.
A few years previously, when Bennett was spending the winter there,
he had a tally-ho party and someone in the party had attracted the
attention of the police. The episode was reported in local newspapers.
Bennett was so indignant that he laid down a rule for both his papers
to say as little as possible about Pau. But now, with Wilbur Wright
flying there, the town could hardly be ignored. Pau date lines were
again frequent in the Bennett papers.
Wilbur did not attempt any new records at Pau, but devoted most of his
time to teaching the young pilots for the French Wright company.
Count Charles de Lambert continued his training, and his wife, almost
equally enthusiastic over aviation, made a passenger flight. Another
woman to make a flight at Pau was Katharine Wright herself. It was her
first trip in a plane, though, as she laughingly remarked, she had
_heard_ plenty about aviation.
An American multi-millionaire from Philadelphia, spending some time at
Pau, announced, with the self-confidence money sometimes gives, that
he intended to make a flight with Wilbur. When told that Wilbur was
not taking up any passengers, he replied: “Oh, I daresay that can be
arranged.”
“I’d like to be around when you do the arranging, just to see how it’s
done,” observed Lord Northcliffe, owner of the London _Daily Mail_,
who had recently arrived and become acquainted with the Wrights. The
American went away without having had his ride.
In February, King Alfonso of Spain came to Pau with his entourage, and
the Wrights were formally presented to him at the field. “An honor and
a pleasure to meet you,” said the king.
Alfonso showed more boyish enthusiasm about the plane than almost
anyone. He was eager to fly, but both his queen and his cabinet had
exacted a promise that he would not. However, he climbed aboard
the plane and sat there for a long time fascinated while Wilbur
painstakingly explained every detail.
A little later, on March 17, still another king arrived. Edward VII of
England came by automobile with his suite from near-by Biarritz. The
presentation of the brothers and their sister was made at the field and
Edward showed his customary graciousness. He did not seek any technical
details about the machine, but was much interested in seeing the
flights themselves and in meeting the Wrights.
It was during the stay of King Edward that Miss Katharine Wright made
her second trip in an airplane.
Other famous personages continued to come to Pau, among them Lord
Arthur Balfour, former Prime Minister of England. Sometimes when Wilbur
was preparing for a flight, visitors would pull on the rope that raised
the weights on the launching derrick. Balfour insisted that he must
not be denied this privilege of “taking part in a miracle” and did his
share of yanking at the rope. Another man who shared in handling the
rope that day was a young English duke.
“I’m so glad that young man is helping with the rope,” said Lord
Northcliffe to Orville Wright, with a motion of his head toward the
duke, “for I’m sure it is the only useful thing he has ever done in his
life.”
Northcliffe, after his meeting with the Wrights at Pau, became one of
their most enthusiastic supporters in England.
Long afterward, he publicly made this comment: