puzzled me, and when I thought of my clothes I became distressed. I wore
a dirty, oily suit. I had only one set of clean linen and one cap. After
consulting with the Inspector we guessed at my measurements, and a
telegram was written to a tailor at Copenhagen to have some clothing
ready for me. At Elsinore cables began to arrive, and thence onward I
became a helpless leaf on a whirlwind of excitement. I let the people
about plan and think for me, and had a say in nothing. A cable from Mr.
Bennett saying that he had never paid $3,000 so willingly gave me
pleasure. There was relief in this, too, for my expenses at the hotel in
Eggedesminde and on the _Hans Egede_ were unpaid.
At Elsinore many people came aboard with whom I shook hands and muttered
inanities in response to congratulations. Reporters who were not seasick
thronged the ship, each one insisting on a special interview. Why should
I be interviewed? It seemed silly to make such a fuss.
Cablegrams and letters piled in my cabin. With my usual methodical
desire to read and answer all communications I sat down to this task,
which soon seemed hopeless. I was becoming intensely puzzled, and a
not-knowing-where-I-was-at sensation confused me. I did not have a
minute for reflection, and before I could approximate my situation, we
arrived at Copenhagen.
Like a bolt from the blue, there burst about me the clamor of
Copenhagen's ovation. I was utterly bewildered by it. I found no reason
in my mind for it. About the North Pole I had never felt such
exultation. I could not bring myself to feel what all this indicated,
that I had accomplished anything extraordinarily marvelous. For days I
could not grasp the reason for the world-excitement.
When I went on deck, as we approached the city, I saw far in the
distance flags flying. Like a darting army of water bugs, innumerable
craft of all kind were leaping toward us on the sunlit water. Tugs and
motors, rowboats and sailboats, soon surrounded and followed us. The
flags of all nations dangled on the decorated craft. People shouted, it
seemed, in every tongue. Wave after wave of cheering rolled over the
water. Horns blew, there was the sound of music, guns exploded. All
about, balancing on unsteady craft, their heads hooded in black, were
the omnipresent moving-picture-machine operators at work. All this
passed as a moving picture itself, I standing there, dazed, simply
dazed.
Amidst increasing cheering the _Hans Egede_ dropped anchor. Prince
Christian, the crown prince, Prince Waldemar, King Frederick's brother,
United States Minister Egan, and many other distinguished gentlemen in
good clothes greeted me. That they were people who wore good clothes was
my predominant impression. Mentally I compared their well-tailored
garments with my dirty, soiled, bagged-at-the-knees suit. I doffed my
old dirty cap, and as I shook hands with the Prince Christian and Prince
Waldemar, tall, splendid men, I felt very sheepish. While all this was
going on, I think I forgot about the North Pole. I was most
uncomfortable.
For a while it was impossible to get ashore. Along the pier to which we
drew, the crowd seemed to drag into the water. About me was a babel of
sound, of which I heard, the whole time, no intelligible word. I was
pushed, lifted ashore, the crown prince before me, William T. Stead, the
English journalist, behind. I almost fell, trying to get a footing. On
both sides the press of people closed upon us. I fought like a swimmer
struggling for life, and, becoming helpless, was pushed and carried
along. I walked two steps on the ground and five on the air. Somebody
grabbed my hat, another pulled off a cuff, others got buttons; but
flowers came in exchange. At times Stead held me from falling. I was
weak and almost stifled. On both sides of me rushed a flood of blurred
human faces. I was in a delirium. I ceased to think, was unable to
think, for hours.
We finally reached the Meteorological building. I was pushed through the
iron gates. I heard them slammed behind me. I paused to breathe.
Somebody mentioned something about a speech. "My God!" I muttered. I
could no more think than fly. I was pushed onto a balcony. I remember
opening my mouth, but I do not know a word I said. There followed a lot
of noise. I suppose it was applause. Emerging from the black, lonely
Arctic night, the contrast of that rushing flood of human faces
staggered me. Yes, there was another sensation--that of being a stranger
among strange people, in a city where, however much I might be honored,
I had no old-time friend. This curiously depressed me.
Through a back entrance I was smuggled into an automobile. The late
Commander Hovgaard, a member of the Nordenskjoeld expedition, took charge
of affairs, and I was taken to the Phoenix Hotel. Apartments had also
been reserved for me at the Bristol and Angleterre, but I had no voice
in the plans, for which I was glad.
I was shown to my room and, while washing my face and hands, had a
moment to think. "What the devil is it all about?" I remember repeating
to myself. I was simply dazed. A barber arrived; I submitted to a shave.
Meanwhile a manicure girl appeared and took charge of my hands. Through
the bewildered days that followed, the thought of this girl, like the
obsession of a delirious man, followed me. I had not paid or tipped her,
and with the girl's image a perturbed feeling persisted, "Here is some
one I have wronged." I repeated that over and over again. This shows the
overwrought state of my mind at the time.
Next the bedroom was a large, comfortable reception room, already filled
with flowers. Beyond that was a large room in which I found many suits
of clothes, some smaller, some bigger than the estimated size wired from
the ship. At this moment there came Mr. Ralph L. Shainwald--an old
friend and a companion of the first expedition to Mt. McKinley. He
selected for me suitable things. Hastily I fell into one of these, and
mechanically put on clean linen--or rather, the clothing was put on by
my attendants.
Now I was carried to the American Legation, where I lunched with
Minister Egan, and I might have been eating sawdust for all the
impression food made on me. For an hour, I have been told since, I was
plied with questions. It is a strange phenomenon how our bodies will act
and our lips frame words when the mind is blank. I had no more idea of
my answers than the man in the moon.
Upon my brain, with the quick, nervous twitter of moving-picture
impressions, swam continually the scenes through which I moved. I have a
recollection, on my return to the hotel, of going through hundreds of
telegrams. Just as a man looks at his watch and puts it in his pocket
without noting the time, so I read these messages of congratulation.
Tremendous offers of money from publishers, and for lecture engagements,
and opportunities by which I might become a music-hall attraction
excited no interest one way or another.
My desire to show appreciation of the hospitality of the Danes by
returning to America on a Danish steamer prevented my even considering
some of these offers. If I had planned to deceive the world for money,
is it reasonable to believe I should have thrown away huge sums for this
simple show of courtesy?
Having lunched with Minister Egan, I spent part of the afternoon of the
day of my arrival hastily scanning a voluminous pile of correspondence.
Money offers and important messages were necessarily pushed aside. I had
been honored by a summons to the royal presence, and shortly before five
o'clock repaired to the royal palace.
I still retain in my mental retina a picture of the king. It is a
gracious, kindly memory. Surrounded by the queen and his three
daughters, Princesses Ingeborg, Thyra, and Dagmar, he rose, a
gray-haired, fatherly old man, and with warmness of feeling extended his
hand. Out of that human sea of swirling white faces and staring eyes, in
which I had struggled as a swimmer for life, I remember feeling a sense
of security and rest. We talked, I think, of general topics.
I returned to the hotel. Into my brain came the words, from some one,
that the newspaper correspondents, representing the great dailies and
magazines of the world, were waiting for me. Would I see them? I went
downstairs and for an hour was grilled with questions. They came like
shots, in many tongues, and only now and then did familiar English words
strike me and quiver in my brain cells.
I have been told I was self-possessed and calm. Had I gone through
30,000 square miles of land? Was I competent to take observations? Could
I sit down and invent observations? Had I been fully possessed, I
suppose, these sudden doubts expressed would have caused some
wonderment; doubtless I was puzzled below the realm of consciousness,
where, they say, the secret service of the mind grasps the most elusive
things. I have since read my replies and marveled at the lucidity of
certain answers; only my bewilderment, unless I were misquoted, can
explain the absurdity of others.
My impression of the banquet that night in the City Hall is very vague.
I talked aimlessly. There were speeches, toasts were drunk; I replied.
The North Pole was, I suppose, the subject, but so bewildered was I at
the time, that nothing was further from my mind than the North Pole. If
an idea came now and then it was the feeling that I must get away
without offending these people. I felt the atmosphere of excitement
about me for days, pressing me, crushing me.
My time was occupied with consultations, receptions, lunches, and
dinners, between which there was a feverish effort to answer
increasingly accumulating telegrams. Mr. E. G. Wyckoff, an old friend,
now came along and took from me certain business cares. By day there was
excitement; by night excitement; there was excitement in my dreams. I
slept no more than five hours a night--if I could call it sleep.
As a surcease from this turmoil came the evening at King Frederick's
summer palace, where I dined with the royal family and many notable
guests. All were so kindly, the surroundings were so unostentatious,
that for a short while my confusion passed.
I remember being cornered near a piano after dinner by the young members
of the family and plied with questions. I felt for once absolutely at
ease and told them of the wild animals and exciting hunts of the north.
Otherwise we talked of commonplace topics, and rarely was the North Pole
mentioned.
Until after midnight, on my return to my hotel, I sat up with the late
Commander Hovgaard and Professor Olafsen, secretary of the Geographical
Society. I clearly recall an afternoon when Professor Torp, rector of
the university, and Professor Elis Stromgren, informed me that the
university desired to honor me with a decoration. Professor Stromgren
asked me about my methods of observation and I explained them freely. He
believed my claim. The question of certain, absolute and detailed proofs
never occurred to me. I was sure of the verity of my claim. I knew I had
been as accurate in my scientific work as anyone could be.
My first public account of my exploit was delivered before the
Geographical Society on the evening of September 7, and in the presence
of the king and queen, Prince and Princess George of Greece, most of the
members of the royal family, and the most prominent people of
Copenhagen. I had outlined my talk and written parts of it. With the
exception of these, which I read, I spoke extempore. Because of the
probability of the audience not understanding English, I confined
myself to a brief narrative. The audience listened quietly and their
credence seemed but the undemonstrative acceptance of an every-day fact.
Not knowing that a medal was to be presented to me at that time, I
descended from the platform on concluding my speech. I met the crown
prince, who was ascending, and who spoke to me. I did not understand him
and proceeded to the floor before the stage. Embarrassed by my
misunderstanding, he unfolded his papers and began a presentation
speech. Confused, I remained standing below. Whether I ascended the
stage and made a reply or received the medal from the floor, I do not
now remember.
During the several days that followed I spent most of my time answering
correspondence and attending to local obligations. An entire day was
spent autographing photographs for members of the royal family. After
much hard work I got things in such shape that I saw my way clear to go
to Brussels, return to Copenhagen, and make an early start for home.
I had delivered my talk before the Geographical Society. The reporters
had seen me, and assailed me with questions, and had packed their suit
cases. Tired to death and exhausted with want of sleep, I viewed the
prospect of a departure with relief. Because of my condition I refused
an invitation to attend a banquet which the newspaper _Politiken_ gave
to the foreign correspondents at the Tivoli restaurant.
They insisted that I come, if only for five minutes, and promised that
there would be no attempt at interviewing. I went and listened wearily
to the speeches, made in different languages, and felt no stir at the
applause. While the representative of the _Matin_ was speaking in
French, some one tiptoed up to me and placed a cablegram under my plate.
From all sides attendants appeared with cables which were quietly placed
under the plates of the various reporters. The _Matin_ man stopped; we
looked at the cables. A deadly lull fell in the room. You could have
heard a pin drop. It was Peary's first message--"Stars and Stripes
nailed to the Pole!"
My first feeling, as I read it, was of spontaneous belief. Well, I
thought, he got there! On my right and left men were arguing about it.
It was declared a hoax. I recognized the characteristic phrasing as
Peary's. I knew that the operators along the Labrador coast knew Peary
and that it would be almost impossible to perpetrate a joke. I told this
to the dinner party. The speeches continued. No reference was made to
the message, but the air seemed charged with electricity.
My feeling at the news, as I analyze it, was not of envy or chagrin. I
thought of Peary's hard, long years of effort, and I was glad; I felt no
rivalry about the Pole; I did feel, aside from the futility of reaching
the Pole itself, that Peary's trip possibly might be of great scientific
value; that he had probably discovered new lands and mapped new seas of
ice. "There is glory enough for all," I told the reporters.
At the hotel a pile of telegrams six inches high, from various papers,
awaited me. I picked eight representative papers and made some
diplomatic reply, expressing what I felt. That Peary would contest my
claim never entered my head. It did seem, and still seems, in itself too
inconsequential a thing to make such a fuss about. This may be hard to
believe to those who have magnified the heroism of such an achievement,
a thing I never did feel and could not feel.
While sitting at the farewell dinner of the Geographical Society the
following day, Mr. Peary's second message, saying that my Eskimos
declared I had not gone far out of sight of land, came to me. Those
about received it with indignation. Many advised me to reply in biting
terms. This I did not do; did not feel like doing.
Peary's messages caused me to make a change in my plans. Previously I
had accepted an invitation to go to Brussels, but now, as I was being
attacked, I determined to return home immediately and face the charges
in person. I took passage on the steamship _Oscar II_, sailing direct
from Copenhagen to New York.
COPENHAGEN TO THE UNITED STATES
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC--RECEPTION IN NEW YORK--BEWILDERING CYCLONE OF
EVENTS--INSIDE NEWS OF THE PEARY ATTACK--HOW THE WEB OF SHAME WAS
WOVEN
XXXII
PEARY'S UNDERHAND WORK AT LABRADOR
It seemed that, coming from the companionless solitude of the North,
destiny in the shape of crowds was determined to pursue me. I expected
to transfer from the _Melchior_ to the _Oscar II_ at Christiansaand,
Norway, quietly and make my way home in peace. At Christiansaand the
noise began. On a smaller scale was repeated the previous ovation of
Copenhagen.
On board the _Oscar II_ I really got more sleep than I had for months
previous or months afterwards. After several days of seasickness I
experienced the joys of comparative rest and slept like a child. My
brain still seemed numbed. There were on the boat no curiosity-seekers;
no crowds stifled me nor did applause thunder in my ears.
Every few minutes, before we got out of touch with the wireless, there
were messages; communications from friends, from newspapers and
magazines; repetitions of the early charges made against me; questions
concerning Peary's messages and my attitude toward him. When the boat
approached Newfoundland the wireless again became disturbing. Then came
the "gold brick" cable.
At this time, every vestige of pleasure in the thought of the thing I
had accomplished left me. Since then, and to this day, I almost view all
my efforts with regret. I doubt if any man ever lived in the belief of
an accomplishment and got so little pleasure, and so much bitterness,
from it. That my Eskimos had told Mr. Peary they had been but two days
out of sight of land seemed probable; it was a belief I had always
encouraged. That Mr. Peary should persistently attack me did arouse a
feeling of chagrin and injury.
I spent most of my time alone in my cabin or strolling on the deck. The
people aboard considered Peary's messages amusing. I talked little; I
tried to analyze the situation in my mind, but wearily I gave it up;
mentally I was still dazed.
During the trip Director Cold, chief of the Danish United Steamship
Company, helped me with small details in every way; Lonsdale, my
secretary, and Mr. Cold's secretary were busy copying my notes and my
narrative story, which I had agreed to give to the New York _Herald_. I
had made no plans; my one object was to see my family.
As we approached New York the wireless brought me news of the ovation
under way. This amazed and filled me with dismay. I had considered the
exaggerated reception of Copenhagen a manifestation of local excitement,
partly due to the interest of the Danes in the North. New York, I
concluded, was too big, too unemotional, too much interested in bigger
matters to bother much about the North Pole. This I told Robert M.
Berry, the Berlin representative of the Associated Press, who
accompanied me on the boat. He disagreed with me.
Having burned one hundred tons of coal in order to make time, the _Oscar
II_ arrived along American shores a day before that arranged for my
reception. So as not to frustrate any plans, we lay off Shelter Island
until the next day. It was my wish to send a message to Mrs. Cook and
ask her to come out. But the sea was rough; and, moreover, she was not
well. Now tugs bearing squads of reporters began to arrive. We agreed to
let no one aboard. The New York _Journal_, with characteristic
enterprise, had brought Anthony Fiala on its tug with a note from Mrs.
Cook. So an exception had to be made. An old friend and a letter from my
wife could not be sent away.
That night I slept little. Outside I heard the dull thud of the sea.
Voices exploded from megaphones every few minutes. Mingled emotions
filled me. The anticipation of meeting wife and children was sweet; that
again, after an absence of more than two years, I should step upon the
shores of my own land filled me with emotions too strong for words.
The next morning I was up with the rising of the sun. We arrived at
Quarantine soon after seven. About us on the waves danced a dozen tugs
with reporters. In the distance appeared a tug toward which I strained
my eyes, for I was told it bore my wife and children. With a feeling of
delight, which only long separation can give, I boarded this, and in a
moment they were in my arms. I was conscious of confusion about me; of
whistling and shrieking; uncanny magnified voices thundering from scores
of megaphones; of a band playing an American air. When the _Grand
Republic_, thrilling a metallic salute, steamed toward us, and the
cheers of hundreds rent the air, I remembered asking myself what it
could be all about. Why all this agitation?
Again the contagion of excitement bewildered me; the big boat drew near
to a tug, above me swirled a cloud of hundreds of faces; around me the
sunlit sea, with decorated craft, whirled and danced. As I giddily
ascended the gangplank and felt a wreath of roses flung about me I was
conscious chiefly of an unsuitable lack of appreciation. I spoke
briefly; friends and relatives greeted me; the shaking of thousands of
hands began; and all the while a deep hurt, a feeling of soreness,
oppressed me.
From that day on until after I left New York, my life was a
kaleidoscopic whirl of excitement, for which I found no reason. I had no
time to analyze or estimate public enthusiasm and any change of that
enthusiasm into doubt. I had no sense of perspective; involuntarily I
was swept through a cyclone of events. The bewilderment which came upon
me at Copenhagen returned, and with it a feeling of helplessness, of
puzzlement; I felt much as a child might when taking its first ride in a
carousel. Each day thereafter, from morning until morning there was a
continuous rush of excitement; at no time, until I fled from it, did I
get more than four hours' sleep at night--disturbed sleep at that. I
had not a moment for reflection, and even now, after recovering from the
lack of mental perception which inevitably followed, it is with
difficulty that I recall my impressions at the time. I suppose there are
those who think that I was having a good time, but it was the hardest
time of my life.
I remember standing in the pilot house of the _Grand Republic_, my
little ones by me, and watching thousands of men along the wharves of
the East River, going mad. The world seemed engaged in some frantic
revel. Factories became vocal and screamed hideously; boats became
hoarse with shrieking; the megaphone cry was maddening. Drawing up to a
gayly decorated pier, a thunder of voices assailed me. I felt crushed by
the unearthly din.
I was involuntarily shoved along, and found myself in an automobile--one
of many, all decorated with flags. Cameras clicked like rapid-fire guns.
A band played; roaring voices like beating sound waves rose and fell;
faces swam before me.
Through streets jammed with people we moved along. I hardly spoke a word
to my wife, who sat near. Out of the scene of tumult, familiar faces
peered now and again. I remember being touched by the sight of thousands
of school children, assembled outside of public schools and waving
American flags.
In the neighborhood of the new bridge, under the arch, I recall seeing
the eager face of my favorite boyhood school-teacher. It struck me at
the time that she hardly seemed aged a day. Something swelled up within
me, and I was conscious of a desire to lean out through the crowd and
draw her into the machine. Through the thick congestion it was
difficult to move; even the police were helpless. Now and again people
tried to climb into the machine and were torn away.
At the Bushwick Club I lunched in a small room with friends, and a
feeling of pleasure warmed my heart. During the reception words of
confidence were spoken and somehow filtered into my mind. I shook hands
until my arms were sore, bowed my head until my neck ached. I was forced
to retire. Later there was dinner at the club, after which I received
seven hundred singers. By this time I felt like a machine. My brain was
blank. About midnight, utterly exhausted, I arrived at the
Waldorf-Astoria, where I fought through a crowd in the lobby. I think I
sat and listened to Mrs. Cook telling me news of home and the family
until night merged into morning.
Next day the storm through which I was being swept began again. During
that and the days following I made many mistakes, did and said unwise
things. I want to show you, in telling of these events, just how
helpless I was; what a victim of circumstance; how unfitted to bear the
physical and mental demands of a ceaseless procession of public
functions, lectures, dinners, receptions, days and nights of traveling,
and how unable to cope with the many charges. In sixty days there were
not less than two hundred lectures, dinners, and receptions, not to
mention the unremitting train of press interviews. With no club of
friends or organization of any kind behind me, I stood the strain alone.