Before Amelia (6 page)

In September an enthusiastic American public gathered at Nassau Boulevard at Mineola, Long Island, and cheered the French visitor in her first visit to America. She planned to compete against Harriet Quimby, the first American woman to receive a pilot's license, in a cross–country flight but lost by default because her machine was not ready. On Sunday, September 24 a record crowd surged through the gates at Nassau Boulevard to watch the assembled aviators compete, probably because of the dispute about Sunday flying. Cash prizes were forbidden on order of Sheriff Charles Mott in response to pressure from the Episcopal bishop of Long Island, but the aviators were spirited in their performances, and the press hinted that they expected to receive their awards in an indirect way.

The most important event of the day for the women in the audience was the contest for the Rodman Wanamaker Trophy, offered for the highest altitude flown by a woman. Matilde Moisant, the second American licensed pilot, dressed in a gray sweater and a leather helmet, was the uncontested winner of the trophy, flying a Blériot–type monoplane built by the Moisant Company. Rising in wide circles, she reached a height of twelve hundred feet and remained there for half an hour before coming down. Harriet Quimby and Hélène Dutrieu were grounded, waiting for their machines to be readied.

Hélène used the afternoon to familiarize herself with the field and the countryside nearby. The press noted that she was dressed in a light–brown divided skirt, especially adapted for flying while seated on the lower wing of a biplane facing into the wind. The petite pilot was pleased with the flying field, the best she had seen, commenting for the
New York Herald
that it was “like a billiard table, so smooth, so fine.”

The following day, the French visitor again failed to fly. Her Farman was rolled out, but reports in the press indicated she was unhappy because the two thousand–dollar guarantee she had received from the meet organizers precluded winning prizes. Hélène thought that was expense money for travel. The management announced all women's events were postponed until the next day, because of the weather. Finally, dressed in a “chic brown khaki costume”—another newsman thought her suit was a “drab brown” that couldn't compare with Harriet Quimby's plumcolored satin—the Farman ready, Hélène broke the U.S. duration record for women, thrilling the crowds with a thirty–seven–minute, twenty-two–second flight in a steady wind. According to the
New York American,
it was the most popular event of the day. Spectators had a good look at the pilot, seated on what looked like two skids jutting out from the machine, as she circled regularly, working her machine.

After a three–day delay, Dutrieu was finally ready to fly her Farman at the Nassau meet on Long Island, September 1911.
CRADLE OF AVIATION MUSEUM, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

She was interviewed by the press, who were fascinated by her jewelry. Ashby Deering of the
Morning Telegraph
wrote that Dutrieu was vastly superior to “the feminine locust native to this continent,” a reference to Harriet Quimby and Matilde Moisant. Hélène stated that she was not a feminist, but she believed women should not remain inferior because of their sex. Admitting that she found men “all very interesting” as aviators, and that they had steadier nerves and a firmer grip, she added that women had a finesse, an inborn tact, and a sense of the fitness of things that “men lack utterly—some men that is.” Earlier, when questioned by French reporters on women in aviation, Hélène did not hesitate to say that women could fly as competently as men without losing the grace usually associated with females.

Besides a recalcitrant engine, there were other problems for the visitor. Dick Farman had arranged her contract in France, which guaranteed her two thousand dollars for her appearance, but, unbeknownst to her, she was not eligible for cash prizes unless she won more than her guarantee—an impossible feat. The management did not pay expenses, another unhappy surprise. Hélène's discontent was shared by others at the meet. American aviators claimed there was a bias favoring foreign visitors and that decisions were changed in their favor. Certainly, Claude Grahame–White and T.O.M. Sopwith garnered most of the prizes, but it may have been a reflection of the greater speed of foreign aeroplanes. Harriet Quimby departed for an appearance at the Trenton Inter–State Fair in New Jersey, since the majority of events were for men. As a result, the anticipated competition between four women pilots never materialized. At the meet's end, the tally of women's prizes was meager (Quimby, six hundred dollars; Dutrieu, five hundred dollars), in contrast with the winnings of male stars such as Grahame–White (forty-two hundred dollars) and Sopwith (forty–eight hundred dollars). The women's prizes were about what one would expect for a meet whose advertising featured male stars and women's events as curiosities.

Home in France again, Hélène capped her success of the previous year by winning the Coupe Fémina in December, extending her distance to 254.8 kilometers in two hours and fifty–eight minutes, to beat her nearest competitor, Jeanne Herveux. Each time she tried for the Coupe, Henry Farman was present with advice. Before she left for the United States, her first try resulted in a flight of 230 kilometers in two hours and forty–five minutes. Another record. Farman was on the ground giving encouragement as Hélène flew in a strong wind that reduced speed from 100 to an average of 84 kilometers per hour. A clattering screw in the engine did not bode well, and the wind's strength made the pilot apprehensive for her machine. Prudence counseled her to land, but there would be no record, and she flew on. At last, with a great sigh of relief, she saw Farman's signal from the ground—she had broken both distance and duration records for women; she could land.

In 1912 honors rained on Hélène. She received the Médaille d'Or from the Aero Club of France; the Grande Plaque of the Belgian Aero Club, presented by King Albert I; and later in the year the Médaille de l'Aviation from the Sorbonne. Not content to rest on her honors, by summer Hélène was busy testing a hydro–aeroplane that Farman had built for her. The pilot was as interested in developing this new machine as Farman was. Tests were made at Lake Enghien with Farman handling the machine first and Hélène as passenger before she took over the controls. The new aeroplane required getting used to, and, as always, a new motor could be difficult. One day in a flight from Geneva to Lausanne, the motor suddenly stopped. Hélène was thrown from her seat as the machine dropped and floated in the water like so much flotsam. Hélène was none the worse for the adventure—a motorboat soon picked her up—but the machine had to be rebuilt.

Earlier that summer, she had experienced another near miss when she misjudged distance on landing. Dropping down rapidly to the ground, she smashed into two monoplanes parked ahead. All three machines were badly smashed, but Hélène was only slightly injured.

In September, the pilot was traveling by automobile from Roanne to Lapalisse when her vehicle crashed trying to avoid a farmer's cart. The driver swerved to the right, but the speed of the auto propelled it into a tree. The driver had leaped from the car an instant before the crash, but Hélène was seriously injured, the farmer slightly so. The aviatr ix was taken to the hospital in Lapalisse. It was déjá vu all over again; she spent weeks recuperating.

The French government, realizing her place in aviation and her role in demonstrating French technology abroad, announced early in 1913 that she would be named a chevalier of the Legion of Honor. She would wear the red ribbon, the first woman aviator ever! Reportedly, President Raymond Poincaré protested that she was too young for such an honor, but several prominent women convinced him it was appropriate. It was pointed out to him that “women pilots hardly have time to grow old.”

The
New York Times
acknowledged her distinction in aviation, noting that of all the women flying, “she is the only one who has kept pace with the leading aviators, and in many instances surpassed them in her achievements.” It was a grand exit line.

The year 1913 was a quiet one for Hélène. There is no mention of activities in the air. Perhaps she was having second thoughts about how many lives she had. A year later the increasing tension in Europe curbed civilian flying, and once the war began, flying ended. Hélène drove Red Cross ambulances to the front, where she helped run a surgical hospital for the wounded. She was reported to have taken part in the aerial defense of Paris against zeppelin attacks, but there is no verification of this. She never mentioned it, and her friends knew nothing of such activity. We do know that the military, generally, opposed allowing women in the air in wartime.

A beaming Dutrieu learns in 1913 that she will be named a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor by the French government for her accomplishments. She was the first woman aviator to receive this prestigious award.
LA VIE AU GRAND AIR

In 1915, Hélène returned to America under the auspices of the French Red Cross to promote American aid. She stayed for a month in New York City, living at the Knickerbocker Hotel and lecturing to interested groups. By all accounts, she was “an excellent propagandist.” New York City press reports credited her with making unofficial flights to warn Paris of the Germans' approach. The articles made exciting reading but weren't based on fact. Hélène organized ambulance work and served as director of a military hospital in the later war years.

When peace finally came, like many of the early pioneer fliers, Hélène realized that technology had progressed beyond her former expertise. It would take time and money to learn new skills, and there were already too many aviators just when the demand for them had ended. Hélène became engaged, and the responsibilities of marriage to Pierre Mortier, a member of the French Assembly and a publisher, overshadowed aviation. For many years, Hélène took an active role in her husband's publishing business and public–health concerns.

In 1955, she received the insignia of the Légion d'Honneur, witnessed by Henry Farman and Gabriel Voisin, of the Aero Club of France. Her continued interest in aviation led her to establish the Coupe Franco-Belge Hélène Dutrieu–Mortier to promote interest in aviation among women. The rules set the competition, from January 1 to December 31 of each year, for the longest flight, touching down in three designated airports of the countries involved, by a licensed private pilot. The machine had to be a certain size with standard equipment, all properly inspected; the stops at the three airports had to meet certain conditions; and the pilot had to fly alone (this had to be verified on stopping). The first prize was ten thousand francs; second prize was four thousand francs. It was a gallant offer to a new generation of women.

This remarkable woman died on June 27, 1961, at her home in Paris. A. Van Hoorebeeck, the aviation journalist, observed:
“Elle a rejoint le Paradis des Pionniers.”

A legendary figure almost from birth, Marie Marvingt puts most of us to shame with her lifetime of achievements. “Wonder Woman” is perhaps an apt description for someone who tried almost everything in the worlds of sports, aeronautics, the sciences, and literature, and did each one well.

Marie Félicie Elisabeth Marvingt was born in Aurillac in the Cantal on February 20, 1875. Her parents, Felix Marvingt and Elisabeth Brusquin, had met and married in Metz in 1861 before the German annexation of that region in the Franco–Prussian War sent them fleeing to Aurillac, where Felix was in charge of the local post office.

Felix and Elisabeth's marriage was a happy one, despite the deaths of three infant sons before Marie was born. It was a hopeful sign when the new baby cried with energy and thrived. Three years later, another son, Eugène, was born, a baby delicate from birth. Marie at three years was the constant companion of her father, who enjoyed sports of all kinds, and who delighted in the child's enthusiastic response to his instructions.