You could hardly find a more jumbled and heterogeneous collection of humanity anywhere than you can find any bright winter afternoon on the slopes of Holmenkollen. I have just been out for an hour or so, taking an “inventory” of the sport-seekers. It was an average crowd, and I must describe its appearance as it slid by my place of inspection, by the roadside.
First came three girls, each clad in most brilliant sweaters, and each on a separate sled, dragging behind her a pole twenty-five or thirty feet long, which served as rudder and also as brake. After a little pause a very buxom, oldish woman appeared around the bend in the course. She had two little children on the sled with her, who were fairly chortling with delight. A solemn old man next passed by. I have seldom seen a face which exhibited such profundity of thought and such deep concentration on his occupation as the face of this old man showed. He was dragging his feet so hard that he barely crept along. He gave the appearance of being absorbed in a very dangerous undertaking, which he was going to “see through” if it killed him.
While he was trundling by, a pair of skiers appeared, flying at tremendous speed. They were a man and a woman, and the most graceful pair you can imagine. They swirled around the corner, and when they came to the old man went one on either side, making a bridge over him with their hands. He continued on his precarious course without the slightest indication that he had seen them.
The next in the procession was a man on a sled, smoking a pipe as he went and actually reading a paper. But a very self-conscious smile betrayed his suspicion that he was being watched. I fear he was guilty of an attempt to “show off.” Next came two tottering English girls on skis. They fell every few yards, and as they passed me one of them reeled and tremblingly cried: “Oh dear, I’m going again.” She did “go,” and I had the opportunity of rescuing her. She said “tak tak” very sweetly, which was probably all the Norwegian she knew, and I was so delighted to have palmed myself off as a native that I said nothing for fear of spoiling her illusion. After this several men went sailing by on skis. They turned down a very steep side path and whirled out of sight like lightning. There is nothing like the beauty and grace of a ski artist who is absolutely sure of himself. His knees do not totter, he doesn’t reel about, he takes the turns smoothly and easily with a confidence which is wonderful to behold. A good skier seems to me nearer to a bird than a good aëronaut.
All this which I have described passed by my station of inspection in about two minutes, and the kaleidoscope continued hour after hour.
The greatest sporting day of the year is what is called Holmenkollen Day. Then all Christiania adjourns to the neighboring hill. The shops are closed, and it is virtually a holiday for all. It usually comes early in March, and on it are held annually the greatest contests in Norway, and perhaps the greatest in all Europe. All the best ski runners and ski jumpers from all over Europe assemble for the test. The most coveted prize is the King’s Prize, which is given for the best aggregate of marks for any single competitor in the two big events, the fifteen-kilometer ski race and the ski jump. No one who does not compete in both these events is eligible for the King’s Prize. The fifteen-kilometer race is held on the day before the big jumping contest and is comparatively uninteresting. The competitors start at intervals of thirty seconds, and each one is timed separately. There is no excitement at the finish, and for all the spectator can tell the last man in may be the winner.
On the big day the crowds begin to assemble about eleven o’clock, though the contest does not begin for two hours. Boxes are built all along the side of the jump to accommodate the wealthy aristocrats who can afford to pay for them. Some forty thousand “plebs” take their stand around the great “horseshoe,” which is roped off as a landing and stopping place for the jumpers.
Ski Jumping. An Absolutely Perfect Jump.
Promptly at one o’clock a tremendous cheering announces the arrival of King Haakon, Queen Maud, and little Crown Prince Olaf. This trio constitutes the first real royalty of their own that the Norwegians have had for five or six centuries, and they go wild with enthusiasm whenever any one of the party appears at a public gathering. Little Prince Olaf is all but worshiped by his future subjects, and if they don’t look out I fear they will some day have a spoiled crown prince on their hands. However, he seems to be at present a very natural and normal boy.