Lilienthal cautioned me especially against letting the apparatus dive forward and downward, when the wind strikes the upper surface of the wings — the commonest disaster the novice meets with. The tendency is checked by throwing the legs forward, as in landing, which brings the machine up into the wind and checks its forward motion. As you stand in the frame your elbows are at your sides, the forearms are horizontal, and your hands grasp one of the horizontal cross braces. The weight of the machine rests in the angle of the elbow joints. In the air, when you are supported by the wings, your weight is carried on the vertical upper arms and by pads which come under the shoulders, the legs and lower part of the body swinging free below.
I stood still facing the wind for a few moments, to accustom myself to the feeling of the machine, and then Lilienthal gave the word to advance. I ran slowly against the wind, the weight of the machine lightening with each step, and presently felt the lifting force. The next instant my feet were off the ground; I was sliding down the aerial incline a few feet above the ground. The apparatus tipped from side to side a good deal, but I managed to land safely, much to my satisfaction, and immediately determined to order a machine for myself and learn to fly. The feeling is most delightful and wholly indescribable. The body being supported from above, with no weight or strain on the legs, the feeling is as if gravitation had been annihilated, although the truth of the matter is that one hangs from the machine in a rather awkward and wearying position.
Nor did the Woods let scientific work keep them from participating in the gay life of the American colony in Berlin, along with another young American couple whom they’d met and liked after a chance encounter between the two husbands in the physical laboratory at the university. One day Wood noticed a student engaged in a problem similar to his own. After the formal nods and Guten Tage of an amiable but defensive neutrality, Wood asked in German for a match. “Gewiss”, said the other, and then, “But you’re an American, aren’t you?” The fellow-student was Augustus Trowbridge of New York, who afterwards rode to fame as professor of physics at Princeton. They brought their wives together, and all four became friends with Charles DeKay, then American consul general. There were rounds of receptions, teas, dinners, grand opera, the Winter Garden with its clowns, including Lavater Lee, who clowned in formal evening dress and without make-up.
Young Wood, aided and abetted by Trowbridge, occasionally did a bit of clowning too — usually at the expense of the stolid German police and petty officials. One of Trowbridge’s favorite stories concerning Wood had to do with a fracas on the el. The elevated railroad which girdled Berlin had first-, second-, and third-class carriages. Only princes, millionaires, and fools rode first class. Trowbridge and Wood had green commutation tickets for the second class. One day when the station police were conspicuously on the job and vigilant, Robert bought a yellow third-class ticket, darted through the gate, and, waving it ostentatiously, plunged with Trowbridge into the compartment of a second-class carriage. A policeman was immediately on his heels, entered the compartment, and as the train pulled out began an angry harangue. Wood pretended not to understand German well and by the time they were rolling into the Zoologischer Garten station, the policeman was purple with rage. He seized Wood by the arm and said, “You must get out here”.
Wood said reproachfully, in his worst German, “No, I don’t get out here. I get out at Friedrich-Strasse”.
“Dummkopf!” exploded the guard. “Gleich heraus!”
“Nein! Friedrich-Strasse heraus.” By that time the train was under way again, and when they got off at Friedrich-Strasse, Wood was arrested. He then produced from his pocket the green commutation ticket and pityingly suggested that the policeman must be either color blind or crazy.
Despite all the high jinks, nonsense, and extracurricular activity, Wood had worked hard and well during the two years in Berlin. His independent researches on determining temperature in vacuum tubes brought his first little early blaze of glory and paved the way for future recognition. His paper had been published internationally.
It was now the spring of 1896. Wood planned to return to America, but was in no hurry about it because he was confident he’d be able to get a post to his liking. Among the friends he had made in Berlin was that strange chap known to the magazine and newspaper editors as Josiah Flynt, to his tramp and hobo cronies as “Cigarette”, and to his deploring family as Frank Willard. This talented and celebrated souse — whose fame rested almost as much on his drinking as writing — was none other than the nephew and namesake of Frances Willard, president of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union! Well, here was a summer coming on, with no rush to get back to the States, and this brilliant and friendly if ill-assorted pair of wild geese got it into their heads that they’d like to go for a joy ride — on the new Trans-Siberian Railway, then in process of construction.
Chapter Five.
Wild-Goose Flight to Siberia — and Return from Studies Abroad to a Job in Wisconsin
Young Frank Willard, better known by the pen name of Josiah Flynt, under which he had done hobo articles for the Century and Harper's, had a newspaper commission in the early summer of 1896 to write articles on the Pan-Russian Exposition and Fair at Nizhni Novgorod, and on the Trans- Siberian Railway, then in process of construction. He thought it would be nice if Rob accompanied him. Rob thought so too, but the expense, in terms of transportation alone, if it had to come out of his own pocket would be (as the Scotch say) damnable.
Josiah Francis Temperance Union Willard Flynt had six more drinks, one for each of his names and pseudonyms, and concocted a Machiavellian scheme. For himself, he had already managed to wangle a personal letter from Prince Hilkorff of the Russian Ministry of Railways, giving him limitless first- class transportation and directing all railway officials to favor him in every possible way. His proposal was that Rob become the self-appointed correspondent of an imaginary American newspaper and obtain a similar free joy ride over the longest new railroad on earth. Wood’s New England conscience couldn’t quite be stretched to the point of inventing an imaginary newspaper — but he recalled that he’d once written a couple of pieces for the San Francisco Examiner. So he closed his eyes while Willard had some handsome cards printed, and salved his conscience by deciding that he actually would do some articles for the Examiner and supply copies to the Russian authorities in honest return for the transportation[4]. All necessary passes, documents, and visas were obtained.
And then it turned out that Rob was also to help in a spot of amateur smuggling! It seemed that Willard had previously visited Count Tolstoy, and had promised, at the great man’s piteous request, to smuggle in for him a dozen or so of his works which had been published in Berlin but were banned in Russia. Tolstoy had never seen them in type. It was a serious offense, even for a foreigner, to smuggle them in.
4
He subsequently wrote a long and flattering screed paying tribute to the wonders of the Russian Fair, etc., only to receive from the Examiner a printed rejection slip, with the notation that they hadn’t returned the manuscript because he’d failed to enclose return postage. This cleared his conscience and ended his career—as an international newspaper correspondent.