FOREWARNING OF THE POLAR CONTROVERSY—BANQUET AT EGGEDESMINDE—ON BOARD THE HANS EGEDE—CABLEGRAMS SENT FROM LERWICK—THE OVATION AT COPENHAGEN—BEWILDERED AMIDST THE GENERAL ENTHUSIASM—PEARY'S FIRST MESSAGES—EMBARK ON OSCAR II FOR NEW YORK

XXXI
At the Danish Metropolis

At Eggedesminde was given the first banquet in my honor. At the table were about twenty people. Knud Rassmussen, the writer, among others spoke. In an excited talk in Danish, mixed with English and German, he foretold the return of Mr. Peary and prophesied discord. This made little impression at the time and was recalled only by later events.

At this point I wish to express my gratitude and appreciation of the universal courtesy of which I was the recipient at every Danish settlement in my southward progress along the coast of Greenland.

At Eggedesminde Inspector Daugaard-Jensen endeavored to secure an idle walrus schooner for me. By this I hoped to get to Labrador and thence to New York. This involved considerable official delay, and I estimated I could make better time by going to Copenhagen on the Hans Egede. Although every berth on this boat, when it arrived, was engaged, Inspector Daugaard-Jensen, with the same characteristic kindness and courtesy shown me by all the Danes, secured for me comfortable quarters.

On board were a number of scientific men and Danish correspondents. As the story of my quest had spread along the Greenland coast, and as conflicting reports might be sent out, Inspector Daugaard-Jensen suggested that I cable a first account to the world.

The anxiety of the newspaper correspondents on board gave me the idea that my story might have considerable financial value. I was certainly in need of money. I had only forty or fifty dollars and I needed clothing and money for my passage from Copenhagen to New York.

The suggestions and assistance of Inspector Daugaard-Jensen were very helpful. Iceland and the Faroe Islands, frequent ports of call for the Danish steamers, because of a full passenger list and the absence of commercial needs, were not visited by the Hans Egede on this return trip. The captain decided to put into Lerwick, in the Shetland Islands, so that I could send my message.

I prepared a story of about 2,000 words, and went ashore at Lerwick. No one but myself and a representative of the captain was allowed to land. We swore the cable operator to secrecy, sent several official and private messages, and one to James Gordon Bennett briefly telling of my discovery. As the operator refused to be responsible for the press message, it was left with the Danish consul. To Mr. Bennett I cabled: "Message left in care of Danish consul, 2,000 words. For it $3,000 expected. If you want it, send for it."

Our little boat pulled back to the Hans Egede, and the ship continued on her journey to Copenhagen. Two days passed. On board we talked of my trip as quite a commonplace thing. I made some appointments for a short stay in Copenhagen.

Off the Skaw, the northernmost point of Denmark, a Danish man-of-war came alongside us. There was a congratulatory message from the Minister of State. This greatly surprised me.

Meanwhile a motor boat puffed over the unsteady sea and a half dozen seasick newspaper men, looking like wet cats, jumped over the rails. They had been permitted to board on the pretext that they had a message from the American Minister, Dr. Egan. I took them to my cabin and asked whether the New York Herald had printed my cable. The correspondent of the Politiken drew out a Danish paper in which I recognized the story. I talked with the newspaper men for five minutes and my prevailing impression was that they did not know what they wanted. They told me Fleet Street had moved to Copenhagen. I confess all of this seemed foolish at the time.

They told me that dinners and receptions awaited me at Copenhagen. That 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 NordenskjÖld 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.