“It was not merely a success,” said Le Figaro, “but a triumph . . . a decisive victory for aviation, the news of which will revolutionize scientific circles throughout the world.”
“The mystery which seemed inextricable and inexplicable is now cleared away,” declared Le Matin.
Wright flew with an ease and facility such that one cannot doubt those enigmatic experiments that took place in America; no more than one can doubt that this man is capable of remaining an hour in the air. It is the most extraordinary vision of a flying machine that we have seen. . . .
Wilbur Wright, wrote Joseph Brandreth of the London Daily Mail, had made “the most marvelous aeroplane flight ever witnessed on this side of the Atlantic.” The length of the flight was not what mattered, but that he had complete control and, by all signs, could have stayed in the air almost indefinitely.
Leaders of French aviation joined in the chorus of acclaim. “Not one of the former detractors of the Wrights dare question today the previous experiments of the men who were truly the first to fly,” announced the greatly respected publication L’Aérophile. Even the stridently skeptical Ernest Archdeacon, who had run on with so many negative comments while waiting in the grandstand, stepped forth at once to say he had been wrong. “For a long time, for too long a time, the Wright brothers have been accused in Europe of bluff. . . . They are today hallowed in France, and I feel an intense pleasure in counting myself among the first to make amends for the flagrant injustice.”
An exuberant Hart Berg wanted Wilbur to keep flying the next day, but Wilbur would have no part of it. As was explained in the French press, “Today, because it is Sunday, M. Wright, a good American, would not think of breaking the Sabbath.” The crowd that came to Hunaudières would have to be content with looking at the closed hangar.
On Monday, August 10, when the demonstrations resumed, more than two thousand people came to watch, including a number of Americans this time. Nearby inns and cafés were reaping “a harvest of money.” Those who had made the effort to attend were to be even more dazzled by what they saw than those who had been there two days before. It was another perfect summer day, but as the hours passed, with nothing happening, the heat became intense. Still no one left.
Sitting among the crowd was a French army captain in uniform carrying a camera. Previously told he was to take no photographs, he had given his word he would not. But shortly afterward he began using the camera and was spotted by Wilbur, who, “ablaze with anger,” climbed directly into the grandstand and demanded both the camera and the plates. At first the captain hesitated, offering excuses, but as reported in the papers, “Mr. Wright set his mouth firm, folded his arms and waited.” The captain handed over the camera and plates and left the field.
Perhaps it was the heat, or the stress he was under, or a combination of both that caused Wilbur to do what he did. Quite upset afterward, he said he was not in the habit of making trouble, but it had been too much for him when he saw the man deliberately break his word.
Wilbur’s performance that afternoon was surpassing. On one flight, heading too close to some trees, he had to turn sharply. As the correspondent for the Daily Mail reported, “In a flight lasting 32 seconds, he took a complete turn within a radius of thirty yards and alighted with the ease of a bird in the midst of the field.” It was “the most magnificent turning movement that has ever been performed by an aviator.”
That evening, the light fading, Wilbur flew again, this time making two giant figure eights in front of the crowd in the grandstand and landing exactly at his point of departure. An aircraft flying a figure eight had never been seen in Europe before.
Blériot had been so impressed by what he had seen on Saturday that he had returned to watch again. Present also this time was the pioneer French aviator Léon Delagrange, who, after hearing of Wilbur’s performance on Saturday, had halted his own demonstrations in Italy to hurry back. Both men were as amazed as anyone by Wilbur’s figure eight. “Well, we are beaten! We just don’t exist!” Delagrange exclaimed.
As a thrilled Léon Bollée declared, “Now all have seen for themselves.”
With the mounting popular excitement over the news from Le Mans came increasing curiosity about the man making the news. The Wright machine had been shown to be a reality. But what of the American flying it? Of what sort was he?
Correspondents and others on the scene did their best to provide some clues, if not answers. In a memorable portrait written for the Daily Mail, Joseph Brandreth seemed a touch uncertain whether he liked Wilbur. (Nor, it is known from a letter he wrote to Katharine, did Wilbur much like him.) Brandreth was struck most by how greatly Wilbur resembled a bird, an odd bird. The head especially suggested that of a bird, “and the features, dominated by a long prominent nose that heightened the bird-like effect, were long and bony.” From their first meeting, Brandreth wrote, he had judged Wilbur Wright to be a fanatic.
A writer for Le Figaro, Franz Reichel, fascinated with the flecks of gold in Wilbur’s eyes, came to much the same conclusion. “The flecks of gold,” wrote Reichel, “ignite a passionate flame because Wilbur Wright is a zealot.
He and his brother made the conquest of the sky their existence. They needed this ambition and profound, almost religious, faith in order to deliberately accept their exile to the country of the dunes, far away from all. . . . Wilbur is phlegmatic but only in appearance. He is driven by a will of iron which animates him and drives him in his work.
Without wanting to diminish the value of French aviators, Reichel wrote that while Wilbur Wright was flying, they were only beginning to “flutter about.”
Léon Delagrange, who before becoming an aviator had been a sculptor and painter, could not help puzzling over what went on behind Wilbur’s masklike countenance, and, being French, found it hard to comprehend or warm to someone who seemed so devoid of the elemental human emotions and desires. “Even if this man sometimes deigns to smile, one can say with certainty that he has never known the douceur [sweetness] of tears. Has he a heart? Has he loved? Has he suffered? An enigma, a mystery.”
That said, Delagrange openly declared in the article he wrote for L’Illustration, “Wilbur Wright is the best example of strength of character that I have ever seen.
In spite of the sarcastic remarks and the mockery, in spite of the traps set up from everywhere all these years, he has not faltered. He is sure of himself, of his genius, and he kept his secret. He had the desire to participate today to prove to the world he had not lied.