CHAPTER XVII

FROM LUXURY TO HUNGER

RECOLLECTIONS of a jail sentence in the Pantheon were enough to make any man leave town. The next morning I was riding through northern France gazing at the beautiful fields and gently rolling hills from the window of a third-class coach. I was bound for London. At Calais I filed by the immigration officials with the rest of the third-class passengers before I was allowed on board the ship sailing for Dover. This is an indignity which the American tourist who travels first- or second-class does not have to undergo.

The soft outline of England's shore appeared through the mist of the channel, and as I stood on the deck of the steamer I turned over in my mind the fact that my trip would soon be over. A few weeks' roaming in the British Isles and I thought I would be on my way across the Atlantic. But with a foot-loose traveller anything is likely to happen--and England proved no exception in having a surprise for me which upset my vague plans and entirely changed my course.

It is only a few hours from Dover to London and the road passes through picturesque country scenery. The green fields and meadows, the fat, wholesome sheep, peaceably grazing, the quaint windmills and zig-zag fences and the substantial village houses all made me fall in love with England at once. At dusk I was one of London's seven million. I was now in a land where the people speak a language I had not used very much for some time, and where I would be able to make myself understood without using my hands. I could also eat in almost true American style. England is the only country in Europe where one can get a real breakfast. It was certainly a pleasure to sit down to a bowl of porridge, bacon and eggs and even pancakes after the monotonous rolls and coffee, and occasional jam, of the continent.

That evening I sat in a comfortable arm-chair before a cheerful fire, in a cozy dormitory study of Lincoln College, Oxford. I was the guest of a California friend, an undergraduate of the University. It was a bit of luxury that I thought I had well earned and I looked forward with pleasure to a week of rest and comfort, which I badly needed after my illness in Paris. I felt that such a rest would put me in proper physical trim for resuming my travels.

For seven days I led the life of a plutocrat. I could hardly believe it. I arose each morning at nine o'clock and climbed into a tub of hot water, prepared by a servant; then (among other articles) into a pair of shoes polished by the same individual. After breakfast, served in my room, I would take a stroll about the college grounds with an English cap on my head, a brier pipe in my mouth and a walking stick in my hand.

Oxford is an ideal place in which to take the rest cure. Beside its academic atmosphere, which one feels immediately, the historic buildings of the several colleges with their graceful spires and sacred associations, the miles of green turf fields for sport and the winding river languidly pursuing its course among the drooping elms, made a scene to which it is easy to become passionately attached, and one in which I lost myself, or rather found myself, completely. Such environment would cure the most helpless invalid. It made a new being of me.

In the afternoon I would watch a game of football, hockey or tennis. I was much impressed by the universality of sport in England, and especially at Oxford. All the students take part in some form of athletics, and the University has provided dozens of hockey, cricket and football fields in addition to many boat houses and facilities for rowing and water sports. I attended the four hundredth meeting of the Davenant Society, a literary organisation of Lincoln College undergraduates, and heard a paper read by the Rev. Dr. Carlyle on William Morris. The members of the society took part in a free discussion of the subject afterwards and many admirable impromptu speeches were made. I heard a debate on Socialism in the Oxford Union, one of the speakers for the negative being a Hindu student. It was the close of the University term and several of the students were giving celebrations in their rooms. I was a guest at one of these at which the most striking feature was--to me--the large number of empty bottles that were lined up in rows on the centre-table at the close of the function. I was told that this room had been occupied by John Wesley, founder of the Methodist Society, when he was an Oxford undergraduate!

In the chapel of Magdalen College I heard the famous male choir, probably the best in England. I called, one afternoon, on the Cowley fathers--or Society of Saint John the Evangelist, a monastic order of the Church of England--at their mother house in Cowley, a suburb of Oxford. I visited the village of Iffley and saw the ancient church of Saint Mary the Virgin. This edifice is one of the few Norman churches in England, and is a typical example of the twelfth-century village church. I got an insight into English home life by making a trip to Shipton-under-Wychwood to visit relatives of a friend in America. Shipton-under-Wychwood is a representative English village of about eight hundred souls, with an ancient parish church, squire's court and park, and many quaint old English homes. My host lived in a substantial old house with the proper quota of servants. Everything was carried on with, what seemed to an American, an undue amount of ceremony. These good people shunned all modern conveniences, such as telephones, electric lights, and up-to-date plumbing appliances, considering them vulgar and commonplace.

My high living continued. My Oxford friend accompanied me to London and we both registered at the Inns of Court on Holborn street. This hotel, facing Lincoln Inn Fields, was a pleasant, moderate-priced establishment, and was the only hostelry in which I had stayed which could be ranked as first-class. Of course, I was living beyond my means, but it was out of the question for me to drag my Oxford friend down to my usual plane of living.

I once came across an American from the Middle West travelling in Europe and asked him if he had been to London. He replied that he had, and when I enquired how he liked the National Gallery he looked at me with the intelligence of a cow. I then ventured a query about Saint Paul's Cathedral--and he told me that he had not seen it. I thought I was on a safe footing when I asked for his impressions of Westminster Abbey and Houses of Parliament. He had missed these also.

"What did you see?" I asked.

"Oh, I spent about an hour walking up and down the main street, looking in the store windows."

If this was all there is to "seeing" a European city, why not stay at home on the farm?

My collegiate friend and I had our hands full with the many places we mapped out, and we were far from satisfied when we had leisurely taken them all in. The National, Tate and Wallace Galleries were on our list. We spent hours in the British Museum. We visited both the Abbey and Saint Paul's several times, as well as countless other churches. We saw the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Cathedral, Hyde Park and so forth. At night we visited the various halls and theatres and on Sundays went to church in the morning and evening, and in the afternoon attended the concerts given under the auspices of the Sunday Concert Society by the Queen's Hall Orchestra.

My money was getting low. Something had to happen--and happen soon. My Oxonian friend left for St. Malo, in northern France, to spend a month studying French. I decided to take stock and find how much money I had. Counting all my cash I found that I had but thirty-five dollars. Over five thousand miles from home, out of work, with no friends and only thirty-five dollars--it meant I was broke. Work in England under normal conditions would be hardly profitable, for I could at best earn only about twenty shillings a week. At this time work was impossible. A great coal strike was on and every line of business was in a very disorganised state, due to the consequent fuel famine. Trains were running intermittently. Factories were closed and the country was full of the starving and the unemployed. I had in mind purchasing a steerage ticket for America or obtaining a job as waiter or deckhand on a trans-Atlantic liner.

I drifted with the crowds along the Strand. I continued down Holborn Street and came to Ludgate Circus, where I went into the office of Thomas Cook and Son. There I found a letter from Norway. It was from Mr. Scott Turner, manager of the Arctic Coal Company, offering me a position in Tromso, Norway, and on the island of West Spitzbergen, at one hundred dollars a month and expenses.

This letter was the opening sentence in a volume of adventure.

I had foreseen that my funds would soon run out, and, while in Italy, had written several letters to a number of business concerns asking for work. One of these was to Mr. Scott Turner, whom I had known years ago in Seattle and of whose whereabouts I had lost track. On receipt of Turner's address from my brother in America, I wrote him for a job, telling him that I was working my way around the world, and that being a poor man there was little luxury in it. In his reply he said that he thought he could make use of a man of about my size and shape, and he outlined a most bewildering list of duties. I was to spend two months in Tromso arranging the company's files, running errands and doing general office work. On the first of June I was to sail for Spitzbergen at the expense of the company, where I was to have charge of the mine office, operate the store, look after the supplies in four warehouses and have charge of the commissary department, which fed two hundred and fifty men. Turner stated that these duties would take up about fifteen hours each day, and that if I was not needed in the mine I could have the rest of the time to myself.

After reading Turner's letter I at once looked up Tromso and Spitzbergen on a map. Tromso I found to be three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, or four hundred miles farther north than Nome; while Spitzbergen was about one thousand miles from the North Pole. The Arctic Coal Company was an American corporation mining coal on the island of West Spitzbergen and its purchasing office was in Tromso.

Fifteen minutes after reading this letter I was on my way to the Arctic Circle--in a third-class coach going to Newcastle. _En route_ I stopped off for a few days' visit with an uncle of mine, the vicar of the English church in a small village called Needham Market. He had not seen me since I was an infant in Canada, and I suppose that he was curious to see what sort of a specimen his tramp nephew would prove to be. I was, at the same time, anxious to make a good impression on the old gentleman, whom I knew to be full of aristocratic British ideas.

England turned out to be a land in which I was destined to live in luxury. That evening I sat at the vicarage dining table and put away a thoroughly good meal, which included wine and which was served with all the ceremony that an English household could muster. I had no evening clothes. My uncle thoughtfully dispensed with such garments himself out of consideration for me. I found him to be a high Churchman, a staunch Conservative and a man who gave the impression that he disliked everything American. He considered us a crude lot, with a few virtues but somewhat vulgar and best tolerated at a distance. The Monroe Doctrine was to him like a red rag to a bull. He argued that the population of America was made up of half castes through inter-marriage with negroes, and that our climate was so hot that it produced a lazy race of people. I laughed at such statements and tried to accept his hospitality in as gracious a manner as I could.

He lent me his bicycle and I rode to the neighbouring village of Stowmarket. Here I visited the parish church, obtaining the key of the edifice from the bar-keeper across the road. This obliging person was very courteous and kindly. He conducted me through the church, discoursing on its points of interest and displaying great pride in the building. On the walls of his saloon, behind the bar, were pictures of the church choir and building. He gave me a notice with a list of Lenten services. I bought a drink.

Upon leaving my uncle's he very kindly offered me some money to help defray the expenses of my trip. I did not, however, accept this well-intended assistance.

The road passes through many interesting places from Needham to Newcastle, and I regretted very much that I was compelled to get nothing but a train-window glimpse of the great cathedrals at Ely, Lincoln, York and Durham. After lodging at Newcastle in a cheap hotel I sailed for Norway as a steerage passenger on the _Jupiter_, a small steamer belonging to a Norwegian company with the overpowering name of _Det Nordenfjeldske Dampskilsselskab_. My steerage ticket cost me twenty-five dollars, which left but three dollars to see me through to my destination. I soon discovered that the price of this ticket did not include meals. The journey from Newcastle to Tromso requires seven days, and I was therefore confronted with the problem of stretching three dollars over a period of one week. With this sum I had to buy food from the steerage steward. When it gave out I had to fast.

There are few attractive features connected with Norwegian steerage accommodations, which rival those of Italian ships in their lack of conveniences. But ups and downs were a part of the game, and I recalled with pleasure--and regret--the good meals and beds I had enjoyed during my sojourn in England.

The first morning out, Stavenger, on the coast of southern Norway, hove in sight amid a cluster of snow-clad hills. We had little time for this small town, and after an hour's stop the _Jupiter_ turned her nose towards the north and resumed her journey. At Bergen I tramped down the gangway with my fellow passengers of the steerage and spent a few hours, during the time our ship was in the harbour, roaming the streets. I found my way in and out among the alleys of the fishy-smelling fish markets and ate some food which I bought, taking advantage of land prices. In Trondhjem I made my way through a snow storm to the Cathedral, returning to the ship by way of the main street, where I laid in a supply of cheese and bread.

The trip along the Norwegian coast is a beautiful one, and our boat slowly wound through the maze of narrow channels and picturesque fjords. For a few hours we would be hemmed in by an endless number of little snow-covered isles on one side, with the abrupt and rugged cliffs of the Norwegian mainland on the other. In a short time we would steam out into the open ocean. The first morning out from Trondhjem we crossed the Arctic Circle. A feeling of intense loneliness came over me and I almost imagined that I was going to another world. The snow-covered mountains and islands, the sharpness of the cold, the absence of any habitations along the coast, the incessant and silent plunging of the ship, the dreary surroundings of the steerage and the emptiness of my stomach, all filled me with the most lonely and forlorn thoughts. Where was I going and what put it into my head to wander to this out-of-the-way corner of the earth?

The problem of food had become a serious one. My money had given out and the supply of provisions I had laid in at Trondhjem had all been eaten. The steerage steward had taken a dislike to me, for I had rebelled at the small portions he dealt out in the beginning of the trip, when I had money with which to pay. I tried to make up to him in the hope of a "handout," but instead I nearly got a "kick-out." There was nothing to do but fast until I reached my journey's end.

Late one afternoon, couched in the centre of a vast desert of snow, a small village appeared. Our boat directed her nose towards this dreary and lonesome-looking settlement, and in a short time was alongside the pier. It was Tromso. How glad I was! As soon as the lines were tied and the ship made fast I descended the gangway and set out to find my friend Turner. I didn't have a cent of money and hadn't eaten for two days.