The People of the Polar North/Chapter 25
THE WEST GREENLANDERS
Our country has wide borders; there is no man born has travelled round it.
And it bears secrets in its bosom of which no white man dreams.
Up here we live two different lives; in the Summer, under the torch of the Warm Sun; in the Winter, under the lash of the North Wind.
But it is the dark and cold that make us think most.
And when the long Darkness spreads itself over the country, many hidden things are revealed, and men's thoughts travel along devious paths.
BLIND AMBROSIUS,
surnamed "THE DIAPHRAGM."
Autumn is here, and the first snow has fallen. Outside the fresh north wind is blowing, and in the early morning everything is white with hoar-frost. The cold is returning, and the winter drawing the earth, little by little, within its chill embrace. The summer has gone; it has fled from us, as the light nights of summer flee from the young.
But men have an uncontrollable impulse to dwell upon that which is past and can never return. And now, as, clad in my robe made of bird-skins, I sit and feel the cold working up to me through the floor, my thoughts turn to those days when the sun shone warmest and—the gnats were most unmerciful.
It was on one of our first expeditions after arriving in this country. Count Moltke and I waved farewell to our comrades one warm summer day at the end of June, and set out over the fjord towards the colony and fishing village of Kangeq. The place was not more than a few miles from Godthaab, but the ice which lay closely packed over the whole fjord made the passage to the other side a matter of almost a day's journey. Slowly we punted our way across, our kayak-men picking the way for us. I had taken one of the oars, and let the Greenlander I had relieved sit down in the bottom of the boat and tell us tales, legends, his own adventures, anything that came into his head.
In this way we idled the day away. Meanwhile we were coming to more and more ice. Occasionally the boat stuck fast, jammed between large floes, and then we had to jump out on the ice and break it up with boat-hooks.
A south-west wind had sprung up and the floes were increasing in number. A kayak which we met, coming from Kangeq, further announced to us that the sea round about the colony was impassable for boats. So a council was held, and it was decided that the first thing to be done was to try and reach some spot from which we could observe. From it we saw a lead, wide enough for us to slip through; and so we poled our way on.
By eight o'clock at night we had pitched camp, and the same evening we paid a visit to the official of the place, the "Udligger," as the principal inhabitant, generally a trader, is called in these out-of-the-way places. He was of mixed Danish and Greenlandic race, almost Danish in appearance, but wholly Greenlandic in manners. The house was furnished in Eskimo fashion. An abundant meal of cod was placed before us, and we were finally served, with great ceremony, with a real Danish "snaps,"[1] which is a rare treat up here. We did not need to be invited twice to partake, and when, towards midnight, we took our leave of our new friends, the stage of banal formalities had long been left behind.
Quite early next morning we were informed that Jörgen Brönlund, the young catechist of the place—the man who later joined our expedition party—was going to hold morning service at Baletikka's at eight o'clock. After a hasty toilet in the brook which ran past our tent, we went up to the house. It was a fairly large earthen hut of the ordinary Greenlandic type, with flat roof, and long, low and narrow entrance passage, all built of earth and stone. When we had crept through the passage, we found the house already filled with worshippers. Inside, on the roomy sleeping-place to the side, sat or lounged groups of people. The heat was suffocating.
All about the walls hung decorated egg-shells, as ornaments, and in the midst of them all stood out, in quite striking relief, a large oleograph of Fridtjof Nansen. This was the pride of the family.
Service commenced. The catechist said the Lord's Prayer and sang to us. The hymn-singing was part-singing. The 
After the sermon there was a christening. The font was an old chest of drawers; the basin, a coffee slop-basin: primitive but practical—for those who have nothing else; and impressive, by reason of the reverence which the catechist and the congregation infused into the ceremony.
Towards midday the "Expedition" gave a large concert in the house of the "Udligger." The programme courted every taste, and the "performance was received with ovations." Wagner's "Pilgrims' Chorus" had to be repeated several times "da capo," and the most enthusiastic of the listeners expressed a wish to have it incorporated among the Christmas hymns of the Greenlandic church. But the lighter music was not less well received, and many of the melodies probably still survive on the local harmonica there, as a "gift" from the Expedition. For every one who teaches a new, or hitherto unknown melody, is regarded as a "giver" up there. Tunes—as well as stories for that matter—have their lords and owners. Thus, a Greenlander related to me one day with great pride that he had taken a tune as his godfather's gift to a christening. He had "made" it himself, and had played it for the first time at the opening of the christening dance. The tune was exceedingly well received and promptly learnt by all present. And before long the composer had the satisfaction of knowing that the kayak-men were carrying it from place to place, so that even outlying colonies were annexing it as a popular dancing air.
But to return to our concert! For it really was a performance which we were justified in expecting to impress our audience. Long orchestral overtures, for instance, had never before been heard at Kangeq. And then the enigmatic and miraculous manner in which it was all produced! "A fast little machine and an ordinary little funnel which could sing, whistle, laugh, weep, play orchestral selections, and speak every possible language in the world, even Greenlandic!" That was the description I overheard a Greenlander give of our phonograph.
At first it was the speeches, especially the Greenlandic ones, that seemed to them most nearly connected with "the black art." No one quite liked to stand very near to the funnel.
"Take care that he does not spit on you," I heard one say; and another, of a more comfortable frame of mind, proposed at the end that, as some slight recognition for the exertion, they should give "the man inside" a little tobacco to chew.
During the performance some explanation of the phenomenon was of course given—which rendered their astonishment even greater. Orchestral selections that had been played in New York or in Copenhagen long ago they were now sitting listening to in a Greenlandic hut at Kangeq! And the notes—"the music-holders" as they called them—were no bigger than fly-marks! We showed them the portrait of Edison; it was gazed at with great reverence.
"Such a work of art, I suppose, could not be done any better in Heaven," one of them remarked.
"If the chatterer belonged to me," said another, "I should make it play for me day and night, forget everything else, and at last die of hunger!"
Very soon after midday, preparations were commenced for the christening dance, which was to be held in the open. The "Udligger," whose beautiful daughters were greatly interested in the festival, lent rough boards; a magnificent dancing-floor was soon knocked together, and placed upon a large, flat rock. The dancers would not, in sooth, feel much firm ground beneath their feet, for the floor was as much alive as they were, and gave to every movement of their feet; moreover it creaked and cracked under one like thin ice. But that only added to the fun.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the first notes of music summoned the Kangeq people to the dance. The music, a harmonica and a three-stringed violin, played to a tightly packed throng of listeners assembled close to the dancing rock. The young girls came laughing and shouting out of the houses All the ball guests had been collected at once, and the musicians rattled off their gay dancing tunes. But it was a long time before the dance began. Greenlandic coquetry must first have its fling. Since the day before every one had been looking forward to the dance, and no one had talked of anything else all day; but now that the great moment had arrived there must be coquettish dallying. No one would be the first to dance. The girls hid themselves behind each other; the men looked indifferent.
"I never said I wanted to dance."
"Ah! who wants to swing round such a ball of fat in this heat?"
This is how they talked, and yet every heart was beating eagerly, anxious to begin. But traditional custom prescribes that very nearly an hour shall be "wasted"; and, in the meantime, the musicians sat patiently, grinding out their melodies to the empty air.
It was a lovely afternoon. The sea shone like molten lead (Greenlandic simile), the sun scorched pitilessly down, and the ice, which lay packing close in to the land, glistened brightly. The water round the floes glittered pale green in amongst the dark blue holes and hollows that the sea had eaten away.
Our industrious artist had been out to make a sketch, and I, who am always the frivolous member of the party, had dragged him back from his work to the dance. We had stopped on a cliff and looked down on the dancing and out over the sea. Neither spoke; we only looked at each other and shook our heads.
The artist's face was shining with enthusiasm and working ardour, and I had some suspicion of what was going on in his mind. But before he had time to think, I had seized him vigorously by the shoulder and flown with him from the spot which would otherwise have tempted him to be false to the promise he had given the pretty daughter of the "Udligger."
We each "drew" a girl, and swung out on the swaying dancing-floor. And the dancing mood was awakened in a trice. They jumped about, tramped round, and wore their shoes through in the "reels." The women tittered and laughed and the men shouted, to put spirit into the dancing.
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Round dances are for a rest, and demand no special exertion; but the stamping and sprawling in a reel are work worthy of a man, think the Greenlanders. And they danced all afternoon and evening till midnight. Then they stopped, for by then the harmonica man's first finger had become absolutely numb.
Early next day we went on an egg-collecting cruise to the Cook Islands, islets to the number of a few hundred which The umiaq set our course towards the ice, the kayak-man found the leads, and without great difficulty we reached the islets.
A umiaq is not a specially trustworthy craft when the field-ice is packed, for its simple build will not stand close contact with the ice. It consists only of a thin wooden framework covered with skin and strained so tightly that you can see the water through it. When the waves run high the boat twists and gives to the pressure of the sea, but will stand a great deal, as nothing is nailed fast, only lashed together in such wise that it can bend without breaking. As a rule, on long umiaq journeys, people take with them a lump of blubber which can be used as a temporary plug, should a hole make its appearance.
We rowed from isle to isle and collected sea-swallows' eggs for our midday meal. The sea-swallows flew, terrified, over our heads and protested loudly. The air quivered with their shrieks.
When we had enough for a good, big dinner, we rowed across to a more luxuriant island where there were both twigs. and water in plenty. And while the eggs were boiling and the coffee warming, Jua told us tales.
He gesticulated and contorted his indiarubber face in the most whimsical grimaces, shouted and laughed till the oarswomen rolled about in their mirth and enjoyment.
All afternoon we rowed in and out amongst the islands. Eider-ducks whistled about the boat, sea-swallows screamed and threatened us from above, and black guillemots dived and played hide and seek with us, whenever we came near them.
Towards evening we encamped on Angisoq Isle. I had followed the umiaq in a kayak, and a little leak in the bottom had drenched my nether garments. As it was imperative to get them dried before night, the Greenlanders came to my rescue in a manner as practical as it was effective. Large fires were lighted, and when they had burnt up well, a few flat stones were laid over the fire and my clothes placed upon them. They were dry at once. Still, I should hesitate to recommend the method.
The day's catch—eider-ducks, black guillemots and gulls—were then prepared in genuine Greenlandic fashion: "Cooked on stones, à la mousse." The birds were wrapped in the moss, which was fresh-gathered and dripping with wet, and then boiled, or more accurately, roasted, on flat stones, without getting burnt, the smoke, which rose from them all the time, giving them a smoky taste which was most agreeable.
We had only brought one little tent with us, and in this all thirteen of us slept, men and women, together. Fresh seaweed took the place of bed-clothes.
Early next morning I went inland to inspect some old pagan graves. While it was still half dark, the painter had gone up the hills to paint. The graves were very interesting, and the examination of one only of them brought me in as result nine skulls and some bones, which, to the great horror of the Greenlanders, we carried down to the tents.
The Eskimos of old time devoted great labour to the making of their graves. Huge blocks of granite had been collected and piled up in cairns on the top of a little height, just facing the sea. Their surroundings imparted a desolate and lugubrious appearance to them, and it was a unique and peculiarly sinister and deserted atmosphere which seemed in the twilight to brood over these great, cold blocks of granite, covering the mouldering remains.
Meanwhile a wind was rising, a fresh sou'-wester, which packed the ice in towards the land. And our steersman, Sebat, who had been up to look out, announced that we must get back to Kangeq before evening, if the return were not cut off for us already.
But an Eskimo ruin, close to our camp, had first to be investigated. The story-teller, who knew all about it, gave out that it was the house of a legendary hero, Kagnagssuaq. But, while time was passing in these interesting investigations, more and more ice was drifting in from Davis Strait. And when we put the umiaq into the water at last, we had to pass through narrow defiles so closely packed with ice that we had to cut our way through.
Angisoq Island, where we had spent the night, was one of the outermost islands in the large group, so that it was evening before we reached the Sound which led across to Kangeq. There was a slight sea on, and the umiaq writhed and twisted, but we managed to keep up good speed, for their longing to be home again lent strength to the arms of our oarswomen.
We were just talking about a little festival that the Udligger had promised us on our return when the "stroke" of the boat, Abraham's wife, Elina, sprang to her feet and pointed ahead.
"A buoy!" she called out.
And, a long way out, we saw something come dancing towards us, now and again disappearing in the waves. There was silence in the boat and all the laughing ceased. A buoy without an owner always presages death up there. The kayak-man paddled after it and brought it back with him. All recognised it, and the silence in the boat fell deeper still; the buoy was the property of Samuel, Elina's son, and the thong of it was broken.
No one spoke, not even Elina. But the women bent to their oars as if they meant it.
As soon as we neared the land, Elina rose in the boat and called out to ask whether Samuel had returned.
Samuel had not returned. She uttered a hoarse cry, which seemed doubly uncanny and harsh by contrast with the long silence, fell, and was carried into her house.
A few old women hurried forward, uttering wild cries, and ran, moaning, down to Elina's to mourn with her. Their screams re-echoed from the rocks and filled the little colony with dreariness.
Samuel's elder brother, Andrew, ran restlessly in and out among the houses like a man demented. He clambered up the rocks, looked out to sea, and gave vent to long, monotonous howls. Then he ran down to the houses again, lifted his little four-year-old brother in his arms, kissed him and fondled him, pressed him convulsively to him, and shouted into his ears that Samuel had gone away and would never come back again. The little one, who did not in the least understand what it all meant, was frightened at his brother, and burst into tears.
A murmur rose among the people standing on the beach—
"Abraham, Abraham! there comes his father!"
Abraham was rowing round the point, unsuspecting of disaster. But he soon caught sight of Andrew, running to meet him, and seemed to grasp what had happened. He gave a great groan, like a man stunned by a blow, and lurched heavily forward in the kayak. It all but capsized with his unconscious body in it, but he was dragged ashore by the others and carried up to his house.
For several days none of the family showed their faces amongst the rest, and neither father nor son went out fishing.
Only when the instinct of self-preservation roused them from their sorrow, will they have gone once more in search of food, out on the sea which gives and takes so much.
- ↑ A liqueur of spirits, usually a gin of Danish manufacture, called Akvavit, and manufactured at Aalborg.