“I thank you.”
This is no place to dwell upon the minutiæ of that great day. The picture must be sketched in with bold strokes and stippled background. But it is impossible to pass this one short speech of Lindbergh’s and not cajole the reader to gather something of its significance. In a sentence it tells the story of the flight; it gives what the speaker considered his immediate and outstanding achievement; and it phrases that achievement in words so touching and so eloquent that France and America, half-estranged through wretched debt, rang with them for days.
The final touch of the miracle was that this speech was extemporaneous.
Just as when Lincoln finished his Gettysburg address his listeners sat stunned at the very brevity of it, so was there a curious silence immediately following Lindbergh’s utterance. Then came long applause. Hats were not thrown in the air. But men and women clapped until their palms were numb. Again many wept. A radio announcer whose stock-in-trade was routine emotional appeal, broke down and sobbed.
More and more people were beginning to realize that something was happening far greater than just the celebration of a mechanical triumph over the ocean separating Europe from America.
The ceremony ended as simply and quickly as it had begun. The President’s own car whisked Lindbergh away to the temporary White House in Dupont Circle. A curious and eager crowd lingered there behind police lines throughout the afternoon. From time to time their demanding cheers could be silenced only by Lindbergh’s smiling presence at the door or balcony.
President and Mrs. Coolidge entertained members of the Cabinet and their wives that night. Lindbergh sat on Mrs. Coolidge’s right. He wore conventional evening dress and was distinguished by the ease and simplicity with which he met both sallies and inquiries of the imposing guests.
It is one of the cruelties of social lionization that we search for the peculiarities of our specimen. In Lindbergh’s case his peculiarity lay in the fact that neither by word, nor look, nor deed was he in any way grotesque. His eyes were clear, his smile quick; like a practised diplomat he eluded entangling discussion; and he had a ready reply for every intelligent inquiry put to him within his range of knowledge or experience.
It is at risk of dampening the ardor of our narrative that we repeatedly point to this trait of simplicity that lies in Lindbergh. We do so because it was from close within the nucleus of this trait that there sprung the incredible emotional reaction towards his personality.
After the President’s dinner Lindbergh attended a meeting of the National Press Club in the Washington Auditorium. This was his first public appearance “under roof” in America. Six thousand people risked imminent heat stroke by crowding into every seat and cranny of the building.