It was a formal denial by Mrs. Rasmussen that she had ever shown me a letter from her husband, or that he had ever written the words I had published.
That was a severe shock to me. I could not understand it, or indeed believe it. That very day Peter Freuchen and Mrs. Rasmussen had been my guests at lunch, and as friendly as possible. Probably some malicious journalist had invented the letter....
It was late at night, and I could not find either Peter Freuchen or Mrs. Rasmussen, nor did I ever see the lady again, because, on account of certain high influences, she disappeared from Copenhagen.
I remembered the bit of paper on which the words had been written down in Danish by Peter Freuchen and translated into English by Oscar Hansen. That document was very precious, and my only proof, but I couldn’t find it in my pockets or my room. My room at the hotel was a wreck of papers, but that one scrap evaded all search. At last, down on my hands and knees, I found it screwed up under the bed, and gave a cry of triumph.
My old friend and true comrade, Oscar Hansen, made an affidavit that he had translated Freuchen’s words, the editor of a news agency swore to Freuchen’s handwriting, and I issued an invitation to Mrs. Rasmussen to submit her husband’s letter to a committee of six, half appointed by herself and half by me. If they denied that the letter contained the words I had published, I would pay a certain heavy sum, which I named, to Danish charities. That invitation was not accepted, and my words were believed.
I have already described in a previous column of these memories the banquet to Doctor Cook which I attended in the dress clothes of my young friend the waiter. It was an historic evening, for, in the middle of that dinner came the famous message from Peary in which he announced his own arrival at the Pole and repudiated Cook’s claim.
I stood close to Doctor Cook when that message was handed to him, and I am bound to pay a tribute to his cool nerve. He read the message on the bit of flimsy, handed it back, and said, “If Peary says he reached the Pole, I believe him!”
His manner at all times, after that temporary breakdown on the Hans Egede was convincing. It was marvelous on the day when the doctor’s degree—the highest honor of the University—was conferred upon him, and before all the learned men there he ascended the pulpit of the University chapel and in a solemn oration stretched out his arms and said, “I show you my hands—they are clean!”
At that moment I was tempted to believe that Cook believed he had been to the North Pole. Sometimes, remembering the manner of the man, I am tempted to think so still—though now there is no doubt that he never went anywhere near his goal.
I used to meet him on neutral ground at the American Minister’s house in Copenhagen, where I handed round Miss Egan’s tea cakes. Doctor Cook would never accept any cake from me! Maurice Egan, the Minister, was immensely courteous and kind, and Miss Egan confided to me that if I proved to be right about Doctor Cook, in whom she believed, she would lose her faith in human nature. Since then, though I was proved right, she has regained her faith in human nature, as I know from her happy marriage in the United States.