The Last Viking

by Stephen Bown

  In Buenos Aires, their elderly patron, Christophersen, who had been such indispensable help in outfitting the Fram, was excited and pleased to welcome the famous ship and its now equally famous captain and crew in their moment of triumph. “This is just like a fairy tale,” he said. With the support of the Norwegian community in Buenos Aires, Christophersen organized a celebratory banquet for the crew with congratulatory speeches and many toasts. Amundsen was also honoured in an audience with the Argentine president and senior government officials. Until now, he had felt that everyone had abandoned him and his project after Peary’s discovery of the North Pole, and that only King Haakon, Nansen and Christophersen were resolute in their support. He had been frustrated and hurt by what he felt was tepid support from his own government, and now learned that the Norwegian parliament had wanted to order the Fram home before he reached Antarctica but were unable to do so only because the Fram was not carrying wireless communication technology. He must have smiled when he heard the news. Yet here was Christophersen, a private citizen living in a foreign land, taking on the role that Amundsen felt should have belonged to his country, showering him with praise and giving him financial support as well. Amundsen truly was grateful and remembered to thank Christophersen profusely decades later, when he wrote his autobiography, claiming that “his timely aid with funds, sound advice, and personal good offices more than once saved the expedition from failure.”

  Christophersen again ordered the Fram repaired and refitted at his expense, to make the ship seaworthy enough to continue with its original expedition, the north polar drift. In the letter he had written announcing his change of destination from North Pole to South Pole, Amundsen had promised Nansen and the Norwegian public that the race to the South Pole was merely a detour and that he would resume his original expedition once the southern race was over. Several of his men, including Hanssen, Lindsrøm and Wisting, agreed to accompany him north. But they would all have to wait while the Fram was reprovisioned. Amundsen retreated to one of Chistophersen’s estates to finish writing his book while most of his crew sailed home to Norway on commercial ships. He was now dutifully, but slowly, working toward the original goal.

  In the meantime, Amundsen’s publishers and lecture agents were persuading him to strike while the iron was hot rather than once again disappear into the Arctic wastes for an unknown number of years. Now was the time to capitalize on his years of work and investment, while the European and American publics were eager to see and hear from the man who had won the great international polar race. So Amundsen announced a change of plan: after finishing his book he would then embark on a multi-continent lecture tour before resuming the north polar drift the following year, in the summer of 1913.

  On April 1, 1912, while the Fram was en route to Buenos Aires, Scott’s ship the Terra Nova arrived in New Zealand from Antarctica. It brought the news that Amundsen had definitely beaten Scott to the South Pole but that Scott remained in Antarctica. It was believed that he would be exploring the southern continent for another season and would return the next year, when the ice would again allow the Terra Nova to sail into McMurdo Sound. In fact Scott was already dead by this time, but it would be another year before that news electrified the world. Editorials in the British newspapers still held hope that Amundsen had been beaten by Scott, some claiming in a huff that even if Amundsen had been the first to the South Pole, Scott “planned much scientific exploration while Amundsen was to make only the dash for the Pole” and similar sentiments. Amundsen suspected that something terrible had happened for Scott to have failed to return from the interior of Antarctica in time to catch the Terra Nova before it sailed; there were ominous rumours of scurvy and poor ice conditions, which did not bode well. But he knew he had to get on the lecture circuit while he still had the field to himself and was still heralded as a hero for his accomplishment. If indeed tragedy had struck the Scott expedition, Amundsen knew he had only until the next sailing season in Antarctica before that sensational news would overshadow his accomplishment.2

  In a small country like Norway, the curse, or the joy, of fame such as Amundsen achieved was that everyone looked to him as either the cause of or the solution to a great many of their problems—sometimes both. Amundsen was uncomfortable with the role. He wasn’t good at protocol and had to be constantly advised by Leon on what his public response should be to certain events and occurrences, such as the death or dishonour of old comrades, or business offers. Over the years, Leon managed his brother’s public response to many diplomatic scenarios, understanding that personal opinions and feelings were not what people wanted from a famous explorer; they expected him to be larger than life, to give diplomatic public commentary on a great many issues, providing quotable comments that were suitably lofty and respectable. The problem was that Amundsen’s opinions were often emotional and personal. He had to learn how to dissemble and provide morally elevated half-truths that gave the appearance of sincerity. His expeditions were merely one part of a large, ongoing business enterprise, and his public persona had to be managed with this in mind. It was a job for which Amundsen, unlike his compatriot Nansen, was not naturally suited, and this caused a certain frustration among his friends and family when he made missteps.

  Amundsen remained in the blessed peace of Argentina until his book was largely written, as if by avoiding Norway he could avoid the annoying problems that awaited him there. His brother Gustav was again demanding money and defaulting on numerous loans, blaming it all on Roald, who apparently didn’t show him enough respect or give him enough money when he had returned from the Northwest Passage; Roald and Leon already supported Gustav’s wife and had to bail out his creditors as well. At one point in mid-1913, Gustav threatened to kill himself if Roald didn’t buy him a house. Perhaps Roald also feared confronting Sigrid Castberg, who had refused to obtain a divorce and marry him before he had left Norway two years earlier. His ardour for her had cooled during the years of hardship and strain in Antarctica. Maybe Johansen was on his mind—the erratic man descending into alcoholism might start writing embarrassing articles or giving interviews, undermining the deals he and Leon had arranged for exclusive rights.

  But Amundsen could not hide in Buenos Aires forever. It had been nearly five months since he had announced his victory in Hobart. Reluctantly, he boarded a steamship and departed Argentina and the enthusiastic support of Christophersen, arriving anonymously in Christiania on July 31, just after his fortieth birthday. He had hardly spent any time at home before he was on the road again; he was a famous man, much in demand, even more so than he was after returning from his navigation of the Northwest Passage. The remaining months of 1912 were a whirlwind of public celebrations and events in Norway and around Europe. Amundsen had left anonymity behind long ago; the Norwegian parliament, having a change of heart now that he had succeeded, wanted to establish a professorship for him and vote him more money to undertake another Arctic expedition. He received notification from France that President Armand Fallieres would present him with the decoration of being made a Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour in October, when he would be in Paris speaking to the Geographical Society there. Prince Roland Bonaparte heartily congratulated him: “Your expedition has been among the greatest ever conceived and carried out by one man.” The king of Sweden bestowed an award, the Norwegian parliament voted him a life annuity, and other citations followed. The lecture tour began in Gothenburg, then proceeded to Copenhagen, Berlin, Paris, Rouen, Rome and many other cities.

  The excitement and novelty of talking about his accomplishments quickly wore off for Amundsen. As he had discovered after navigating the Northwest Passage, a lecture tour was work, not pleasure, and a type of work that he didn’t enjoy. He was not in control of his routine, he could not get exercise easily, he could not eat what he wanted: he was not a free man. But in those days the lecture tour was the only way, other than newspaper stories, to make money from a sensational feat. As one of his lecture agents put it, it was �
��the man” that people came to see, even when they already knew the story.

  So Amundsen persevered, being shuttled about, met at train stations by committees, delivering the same talk night after night in a series of well-attended lectures. In mid-November he finally arrived in London for something he had been both dreaming of and dreading for months, perhaps years: his address before the famed Royal Geographic Society.

  A New Battlefield

  The secret to my success has been due to self-control and willpower. Control yourselves, be your own masters, and at the same time develop determination. If you undertake anything, determine to accomplish your purpose and let no obstacle no matter what turn you back.

  AMUNDSEN’S RECEPTION in Britain after his conquest of the Northwest Passage had been muted. His lecture tour of the country in 1907 had not been especially well attended, which was a disappointment, since he had been hoping for recognition of his historic feat there. So it’s not surprising that in the anxious months before his second British lecture tour in the fall of 1912, Amundsen worried that his reception might again be tepid. Public sentiment was turning against him because he had beaten Scott. Lord George Nathaniel Curzon, the president of the Royal Geographical Society, made a public statement that Amundsen’s decision to give no advance warning to Scott about his plans to race to the South Pole was unethical, and now newspaper editorials were claiming that there never was a “race” to the South Pole, that Scott was only there on leave from his officer’s position in the Royal Navy to carry out a scientific mission. Amundsen, worried that he was becoming reviled simply for being a foreigner, sought Nansen’s advice as to whether he should cancel his trip to Britain altogether.

  Amundsen’s English lecture agent, Gerald Christy of The Lecture Agency, was horrified. In a series of letters to Leon, Christy repeatedly stressed that any sense of ill-feeling toward Amundsen was unfounded. “I think you will do well to put the notion of cancelling your brother’s visit altogether out of your mind. Of course I attach a great deal of importance to Dr. Nansen’s opinion, as he knows England well and I have known Dr. Nansen for so many years; but I venture to suggest, as I have stated above, that too much importance can be attached to one or two of the remarks that Lord Curzon made. The British people want to hear Captain Amundsen’s story, and you must bear in mind that they will feel a little aggrieved if he goes to every other country in the world before coming here.”

  By July, while Amundsen was still in Argentina, the matter had still not been resolved. Christy wrote again: “I have lectures booked that represent pretty well 2,000 guineas. Halls have been definitely booked, and these cannot be given up without a severe monetary loss. As a matter of fact, I cannot lay too much stress upon the disagreeable situation that will arise if your brother does not now come to this country. . . . About this I am certain: your brother will have no reason to complain of the treatment he will get from Englishmen, Scotsmen, Welshmen and Irishmen. I have booked him in lectures in the four countries, so you can see that the interest in his exploit is general. . . . I cannot think of anything that they would resent more keenly than this notion that they could be guilty of what they would call un-sportsmanlike conduct.” Even the king and queen of Norway urged Amundsen to go forward with his lecture tour of Britain: not to do so would cause international embarrassment and scandal.

  Amundsen’s lecture before the Royal Geographical Society took place on November 15 in Queen’s Hall, London. His fears proved false, as the event was well attended and well received. The celebrities and notables in attendance included Shackleton, Lord Robert Baden-Powell and Sir Francis Younghusband. “Captain Amundsen delivered his lecture in the great voice of a man accustomed to shout against the winds and swiftly carried his audience of savants into the very atmosphere of the explorer’s exploits,” was one reporter’s summary. In Amundsen’s mind, however, the lecture was tainted by the opening and closing addresses given by Lord Curzon, who hinted at Amundsen’s incredible luck and good weather, and then proposed a tribute to “those wonderful good-tempered, fascinating dogs, the true friends of man, without whom Captain Amundsen would never have got to the Pole.” Later in life, when writing his autobiography, Amundsen remembered the event slightly differently. He recalled Lord Curzon proposing “‘three cheers for the dogs!’ [and] clearly indicating the next moment the satirical and derogatory intention of the phrase by turning to me with an unnecessary calming gesture and, though I had made no move, urging me with great earnestness not to make a rejoinder to the thinly veiled insult.” The truth, no doubt, lies somewhere in between; it was subsequent events that coloured Amundsen’s later recollection. But on this tour of Britain, during the remainder of November and most of December, his modest and self-deprecatingly humorous talks were made to full houses and met with an enthusiastic response.

  His book The South Pole: An Account of the Norwegian Antarctic Expedition in the Fram, 1910–1912, was published in Britain in the fall of 1912, around the same time that he began his lecture tour. The South Pole presents a considerably different version of the adventure from the one revealed in Amundsen’s private journals. The book makes everything seem easy, as if the entire venture had occurred without a flaw, hitch or complication. Part of the reason that some could later claim Amundsen’s success was due merely to good luck was that he downplayed, and even removed, some references to hazardous weather and conditions—the extreme fog, blizzards and erratic snow conditions, crevasses and dangerous episodes such as the dash to Framheim that caused the rift with Johansen. He presented the journey as an amusing ski outing in which any challenges were easily overcome by the merry band. Amundsen wanted the adventurers to look perfect, as though they hadn’t struggled at all to achieve their goal. All interpersonal quarrelling and rivalry is excluded from the book, as are any decisions that might have made him or his party look bad. In this account, Amundsen lavished great attention upon the dogs and their antics, and didn’t shy away from the unpleasant aspects of their behaviour: the eating of their comrades, their fighting, their exasperating independence, their sneaky efforts to gain more food. He wrote about the dogs in a way that he couldn’t write about his crew. With respect to them, all is presented as a unified front: all the quarrels and his inner worries are absent from the final manuscript.

  It makes for a great story, but not an entirely honest account of the great adventure. The bonhomie of the jolly group going about their tasks without a care in the world is a pleasant fiction. As a result, the account lacks the vital ingredients of a thriller. Some have suggested that Amundsen was a poor writer, but the English translations of his books are infused with a lively jauntiness and lack of pretension that is refreshing for its simplicity. Amundsen didn’t write a book about a harrowing adventure in the howling wastes of the most inhospitable place on earth; rather, he wrote about a grand sporting event, and he has been criticized for portraying what he wanted it to be rather than what it was. If he had exaggerated the danger and conflict and downplayed his extensive planning, he would have been praised for penning a gritty real-life thriller. The book was a good one, but it told only part of the story; nevertheless the reviews upon its release were generally positive. The Times Literary Supplement claimed that while Amundsen and his Polar Party “advanced in blizzards which less hardy men would scarcely have ventured to face,” the book “conveys the impression that the whole affair was a sort of pleasure trip.”

  When he was finished lecturing in Britain, Amundsen boarded a steamship and crossed the Atlantic. On January 5, 1913, the New York Times published a review of the U.S. edition of his book: “An ancient Norseman’s saga sung in the language of the twentieth century; ‘Burnt Njal’ divested of its blood-feuds, but with all its humor and quaint gossip of primitive men, their friendships and love of adventure.” The paper also praised Amundsen for being “big-hearted” and the book for being “devoid of heroics; the exploit chronicled is apparently so easily within the grasp of the ordinary man.” The review was a go
od start to Amundsen’s American lecture tour, in which he was billed as the “Discoverer of the South Pole and Winner of the International Race for the Southern Extremity of the Earth.” Despite giving many dozens of presentations of the same lecture and slide show, Amundsen was upbeat about this tour. His American lecture agent, Lee Keedick, had advised him to cut out much of the science in his lectures, to dwell on humorous and lighthearted incidents and to keep practising his English.

  Amundsen liked the United States and its people. Newspaper accounts of his U.S. tour are different from those in Europe, peppered with quotes of him bantering with the press. In America, Amundsen seemed to have a more fluid and freewheeling relationship with the press. They seemed to respect him for his enthusiasm and stubborn self-motivation, and he was indulgent with questions that were only peripherally related to his adventures, whether they were about the merits of eating dogs, his friendship with Dr. Cook, his opinions on the future of exploration or his next expedition—the polar drift in the Fram that he had now delayed until the spring of 1914. “Although I have had offers of wireless installation for the Fram,” he said in one rambling interview, “that also I declined. I don’t care for it. It is very much better to be without news when you cannot be where the news comes from. We are always more contented if we get no news. A good book we like, we explorers. That is our best amusement and our best time killer.”

  Amundsen’s openness with the American press earned him many favourable columns of print. The articles devoted as much time to the dress, décor, meals and distinguished guests in attendance at his lectures as they did to the speeches and accomplishments of the explorers. Like the society or gossip pages that concern themselves with celebrities today, the reporters following Amundsen wrote approvingly of the suit he wore and his stately bearing, commenting that he “was a younger looking man than when he was here in 1906.” Amundsen was feted wherever he went, and treated to laudatory dinners after his lectures in dozens of cities and towns. His agents sold hastily printed souvenir books at his talks; his name and images from the expedition appeared in advertisements for floral design, bread, “Gentleman’s Toupees,” funeral homes, drug stores, shoes and countless other local businesses. In publicity pamphlets he was depicted as stern, rugged and handsome but always well groomed and well attired, and he was referred to as “the world’s greatest living explorer, in fact one of the five greatest in the world’s history.”