The Emperor and Empress congratulated Wright, and there was a great explanation of “how it was done,” though most of the officers found a difficulty in understanding the American accent. Presently a signed photograph of the Emperor, which one of the adjutants had been carrying, was produced and given to Wright by His Majesty; and then a lady who had been modestly hovering in the background—Miss Katherine Wright, the aeronaut’s sister—was called up and presented, and she took charge of the photograph and made delightful American remarks about it. By this time it was absolutely dark, but the powerful acetylene lights of the three cars illuminated the scene. The Emperor could not tear himself away from the aeroplane, the first he had yet seen; and while he was still asking questions I talked with Miss Wright, an extremely charming woman, who said that this was probably her brother’s last flight on German soil. They had already stayed a day longer than intended, so that he might fly before the Emperor, before departing for Paris and London en route for America.
For a long time in Germany the airships—the “Zeppelins” as they are popularly called—occupied the popular imagination much more than the flying-machines with which the Germans have recently won such distinction. Once in the earlier years of Zeppelin’s monster air-craft a message came to the court that he was flying from Frankfort to Berlin, which he would reach somewhere about five o’clock that afternoon. There was the usual hurrying to and fro. The Emperor, Empress, Princess and suite hurled themselves into motor-cars and hurried towards Berlin, but after waiting several hours on the Tempelhofer Feld, with nothing to eat and not much to do, they returned without a glimpse of any airship, as the rumours of its coming had been entirely unfounded.
However, later on in the year Zeppelin announced his intention to bring his airship to Berlin.
On the day fixed all the shops were closed at noon, and the whole population turned out and walked up and down the street with their eyes fixed heavenwards towards the lovely blue sky, for the weather was superb.
Every lady or gentleman having any connection with the court was invited by ticket either to the Tempelhofer Feld, at which the airship was to descend, or to the roof of the Schloss itself, as the Zeppelin was to manœuvre round the building. But towards noon, just as all the excursion trains from the country had brought in the surrounding inhabitants to swell the already dense crowd of sky-gazers, a special edition of the newspapers was issued announcing an injury to the airship which prevented further flight. So every one went sadly home again.
The next day, Sunday, news came that the defect had been repaired and that the airship with Count Zeppelin on board would appear about noon. This change of plan was rather inconvenient for several reasons, for there was a newly restored church to be dedicated in the presence of the Emperor and Empress and the chief military authorities. A gentleman in attendance said that never before had he seen such an obviously distracted congregation at any church function. The long-drawn-out service, the long-winded address (German sermons are of the old-fashioned type and usually last at least an hour) were listened to with hardly concealed impatience and lack of interest; and the clergy themselves seemed to keep one ear turned towards that heaven to which they were directing their audience, in apprehension of hearing before they had finished their discourse that mighty droning which would proclaim Zeppelin’s arrival.
From the windows of the Schloss, overlooking the courtyard, it was usual to see the adjutants who had accompanied His Majesty descend from their cars with dignity—that dignity appropriate to a not-too-pronounced embonpoint—salute the guard with grave courtesy and deliberation, and then retire without undue haste from the public view. But on this occasion they tumbled out of the cars and rushed up the steps like schoolboys, colliding as they ran with the footmen and Burschen who came running with their flat undress caps to exchange for the spiked head-gear they had worn in church.
It is a popular myth that the German is phlegmatic. He is nothing of the kind. He is extraordinarily excitable on occasion. He gets out of temper, shouts and wrings his hands in moments of stress, and sheds tears easily. His feelings are on the surface. His military calm is acquired. He abandons it and becomes almost hysterical when something touches his heart and imagination.
The advent of Zeppelin in his airship was the culminating act of a great national triumph. The indomitable old man, who had worked so long and so pluckily at his herculean task, was at last to receive some of the homage due to his tenacity and self-sacrifice. So no wonder the people thronged the streets and crowded the housetops.
The fashionable crowd ascended to the roof of the Schloss by devious ways, through little dark sculleries, up queer steep steps and ladders, past funny little apartments smelling strongly of cheese and garlic, where the families of some of the servants live tucked away in a corner of the big building, out on to the copper-covered roof along narrow plank paths, made primarily for the use of the sentries who must nightly patrol these upper regions. Some of them have inscribed verses on the walls, conveying discontent at the atmospheric conditions prevailing there on winter nights.