The Northern Lights, page 11
With such evidence Birkeland was convinced that his detractors would have to concede that his Northern Lights theory was correct.
BIRKELAND had very little time to socialize during these months of frenetic activity. He thought nothing of working fourteen-hour days, including on the weekend. Only Amund Helland was his equal in industriousness. Consequently, Helland was the one best able to coax Birkeland away from his office for the occasional evening gathering at his home, because he did not expect formal attire or follow complicated and time-consuming rules of etiquette. Birkeland could arrive when he wished, empty-handed and casually dressed, speak or not speak once there, and leave when he felt tired. The Mohns, due to their lifelong friendship, were also expert at persuading Birkeland to spend an evening with them. His visits to their house were rare at this busy time, but he would see them every three or four months. On most of these evenings, Ida would also be invited and the two would sit near each other during dinner. At times their conversations were quite heated, as when Birkeland explained that he had invented an electromagnetic cannon. Once Ida had understood the full implications of the machine, she was appalled and told Birkeland so without demur. Ida was a devout Christian; her father was the priest for several parishes, and she had been brought up with an unquestioning faith and a strong belief in doing unto others what you would have them do unto you. So emphatic was her disapproval of Birkeland’s plans that the meal was rather awkward and the next time he dined with the Mohns, Ida was not present. Birkeland did not comment on her absence although it was clear to Henrik and Julie that she was missed.
When Birkeland told Mohn that he had received sufficient money to make the expedition possible, the meteorologist was delighted and asked him to come by to discuss his plans for meteorological observations and the instruments he would need. On the appointed day in late March Birkeland arrived straight from his office, covered in a thin layer of chalk. The two men closeted themselves in Mohn’s office among the maps and globes and instruments, until Julie called them to eat. When they arrived at the dining table, they found Ida sitting next to her aunt. During the evening Mohn carefully described to the women Birkeland’s plan to mount a year-long expedition to dangerous climates in the cause of science. Perhaps Mohn was trying to rehabilitate the friendship between Ida and Birkeland by obliterating memories of the cannon; if so, the tactic worked. Birkeland enjoyed talking to Ida again after so many months; her thinking was uncompromising and independent and, because she had met him as a young boy, she was a rare link with his past. She treated him as a younger brother, part of the family, and was not intimidated by his intelligence or greatly interested in his researches. The Mohns clearly thought that Ida would be pleased to receive attention from a gentleman with prospects, particularly at her age, but she seemed unconcerned with such matters. She appeared fulfilled by her work as a teacher at a school in Lillestrøm, just east of Christiania. As only one of her sisters, Julie, was married with children, Ida felt no sibling pressure to find a husband, and her parents certainly implied that it was better to remain a respectable spinster than to marry unsuitably. Julie’s marriage had caused a number of unspoken but serious rifts in the family. Ida’s parents had moved to Raade in 1888, just at the time when the daughters were looking for eligible suitors; Ida was twenty-five, her oldest sister, Caroline, was twenty-seven, and the youngest, Helga, fifteen. Raade was an agricultural area and the Hammer children were better educated than their peers. To be the vicar’s daughter also conferred a degree of social elevation far above that of a farm-hand—they were as close to an “aristocracy” as Norway possessed. Julie had married a farmer who, despite a comfortable income, was not considered a suitable match. She now had five children while her sisters had abandoned hope of marriage and had forged careers for themselves as teachers and nurses or had stayed home to look after their parents.
When Ida rose to leave at the end of the evening, Birkeland offered to accompany her to the tram stop and, for the first time since they had met on his return from Haldde Mountain, nearly two years before, they left the house together. As the tram pulled into the stop, blaring bright with electric lights and bells, she shook Birkeland’s hand and wished him a safe trip.
7
Mad Dogs
July 1902
Archangelsk, Russia
The scientist is a builder. Collecting scientific data can be compared to gathering stones for a house; a stack of data is no more “science” than a heap of stones is a house. Unstudied scientific results are just a dead heap of stones.
KRISTIAN BIRKELAND, letter to the Ministry of Church and
Education, 26 September 1903
ON 1 JULY 1902 Birkeland boarded a train at Christiania’s new railway terminus, bound for Sweden. He was waved off by a small crowd of well-wishers including Helland, the Mohns, Ida, and Sem Sæland. The three men chosen by Birkeland and Sæland to run the observatory on Novaya Zemlya had left two weeks earlier and Birkeland was joining them in Archangelsk, from which a steamer would take them on the seven-day journey to the remote island of Novaya Zemlya. Once satisfied that the observatory was running smoothly, Birkeland would travel by steamship from the White Sea along the Kola Coast to Varanger in eastern Finnmark, to the base in Kaafjord, where he would lead the observations.
After a day’s journey by rail across southern Sweden, Birkeland arrived at the Stockholm rail terminus, built by the same engineering firm as the Christiania station, S. Eyde’s Engineering Office. He could imagine he was back home, so similar were the two buildings with their iron-girded green-glass roofs and soaring arches. He took a cab to the harbor, then caught a ship for the twenty-four-hour journey across the Gulf of Finland to Helsingfors, capital of the Russian dependency of Finland, and on to St. Petersburg.
He was met at the ferry dock by the two scientists of L’Observatoire Physique Centrale who had written him letters of recommendation for the expedition, General Rykatchev and Professor Wild. On the way to the observatory their carriage trundled along the embankment of the Neva River until they reached the Winter Palace, where the carriage paused for Birkeland to look at the ornate, baroque building decorated in pale green and white with double-headed gilt eagles, symbol of the imperial czar’s mastery of east and west. Across the Neva River from the palace stood the Peter and Paul Fortress, within which the cathedral, the tallest building in the city, marked Russia’s exit to the Baltic Sea. One hundred twenty-two meters high, its gilded spire glowed in the midday sun like a column of fire. As he watched, a cannon was fired from the fortress walls and the professors (and nearly all the men Birkeland could see near their carriage) checked their pocket watches. Wild explained that his observatory gave a signal to the fortress every day at noon so the guardsmen knew exactly when to fire the gun. The whole city now relied on the gunshot to set their timepieces.
Across the expansive, colonnaded Palace Square, the carriage continued into the city. All horsecab drivers in St. Petersburg had to pass a two-year course in navigational astronomy, French, geography, history, and polite manners before they were allowed to accept passengers and Birkeland’s driver volunteered a smattering of historical facts as they passed important monuments. The carriage took them along the grand shopping street of Nevsky Prospect, across canals and through vast squares with monumental equestrian statues of czars and generals, sharp and perfect under the pale splendor of the afternoon sunlight. Birkeland was struck by the gold onion domes of the Orthodox churches, the like of which he had never seen before.
St. Petersburg enjoyed “white nights” around the summer solstice, when the night sky never grew dark as the sun dipped only a few degrees below the horizon. The phenomenon was receding by the time Birkeland reached the city, but the day was still around sixteen hours long and it was not until late afternoon that the professors took Birkeland to their observatory. Over dinner, the three men discussed the expedition. The two Russian professors had supported Birkeland’s project with letters of recommendation without being wholly convinced by his theories. After meeting Birkeland, though, Wild and Rykatchev were almost won over by his arguments, which were based on a brilliant understanding of the forces of electromagnetism far exceeding their own. They offered him every assistance for his expedition and gave him the names of two friends in Archangelsk who would help him in any way possible.
After a few days Birkeland left St. Petersburg for the 3,000-kilometer journey to the White Sea. He caught the night train to Moscow, which arrived around lunchtime the following day, then traveled across the city to the northern terminus to catch the connecting train. The railway to Archangelsk had opened four years earlier. The sleeper carriage allocated to Birkeland was fitted with hot and cold taps and small electric lights by which he could shave and read.
The following morning the train pulled into Vologda station, the halfway point, after which the view from the windows was of forests, broken occasionally by rivers flowing to the White Sea. The main river in the area was the Dvina, a major transport route that took wood, flour, pearl barley, leather, linen, wool cloth, and various Russian household articles, including wooden spoons and lacquered boxes, to Archangelsk, the main port in northwest Russia. Here, the Pomor, Russians who lived along the White Sea coast, enjoyed a lively trade with northern Norway, sending at least three hundred ships a year to the ports of Tromsø, Vadsø, and Hammerfest; these returned with full loads of fish and fish oil.
Archangelsk station was one of the few stone buildings in a city with the largest number of timber structures in the world. Forests surrounded the city and there were no local quarries for stone. At the platform, Hans Riddervold, the man he had chosen to lead the expedition to Novaya Zemlya, met Birkeland. A twenty-six-year-old science graduate from Christiania University, Riddervold was tall and slim with tightly curled blond hair and a wispy mustache and beard. His unusually long, delicate fingers looked like those of a pianist rather than those of a hardy Arctic researcher. Two assistants, Hans Thomas Schaaning and Johan Koren, who were close friends, accompanied him. They had spent two years in the remote forests of Pasvik on Norway’s border with Russia, collecting birds and animals for museums. Both had been engaged on the understanding that they could speak Russian, although in fact neither of them could. Koren had bought a phrase book and was practicing a few sentences with enthusiasm, but Schaaning planned to make up for his linguistic shortcomings with his culinary skills. Though he was the youngest of the group, the twenty-two-year-old Koren had already taken part in an expedition to Antarctica from 1897 to 1899, aboard the Belgica. The crew, among whom was Roald Amundsen, were the first to overwinter in such southerly latitudes.
Archangelsk was a cosmopolitan town where people of many nationalities, including Germans and Norwegians, had their own quarters, newspapers, and clubs. In the middle of July the city was teeming with merchants and tradesmen from many different countries, as most trading took place in the summer months. The harbor, at the heart of Archangelsk, bustled with vessels being loaded and unloaded while a bevy of small boats scuttled between them with goods and passengers. As the carriages carrying Birkeland and his entourage crossed the waters of the Dvina to the pension where they would be staying, great rafts of logs were steered to the waiting boats by women in ankle-length skirts and headscarves who wielded long punts. The wooden Pomor houses lining the streets were adapted to withstand the harsh winter climate, with living areas on the second floor so that doors and windows wouldn’t be blocked by high snowdrifts and the main entrance to the side of the house, for protection from the wind that whipped down the Archangelsk thoroughfares. Birkeland was surprised at the grandeur of many of the houses; the business possibilities in the town were clearly more favorable than he had imagined.
The governor, Rimski Korsakoff, invited Birkeland and his assistants to his house, where they were joined by Surkow and Makarow, the two men recommended by the St. Petersburg scientists. Birkeland explained his scientific mission to the Russians as a silver samovar brewed tea and rich fruitcake was passed around. Surkow was an influential merchant and factory owner who had been born in Moscow and kept a house there but ran his business from Archangelsk. He was educated in technology and basic scientific principles and enjoyed the opportunity to discuss scientific matters with the eminent professor. Makarow, his friend, was also a trader and the only one to have been to Novaya Zemlya. He had links with a small group of Samoyed there, hunters from whom he bought seal pelts and polar bear skins. The Samoyed had been forced to live there by the authorities to reinforce Russian ownership of the island, over which erupted frequent disputes with Norwegians who were able to hunt there earlier in the spring than Russians, because the little ice formed in the Barents Sea melted sooner than the thick ice of the White Sea. Makarow seemed personally unconcerned by the situation and was friendly toward the Norwegian scientists. He described the barren island and warned them about the ferocious and changeable weather. Tea became dinner and not until the early hours of the morning, after many shots of vodka, did the four Norwegians stumble back to their pension. Birkeland later wrote in his account of the expedition:
The governor, Rimski Korsakoff, has shown us great goodwill in many ways and has arranged for us to be carried free of charge, with all our baggage, in the steamer Wladimir. We have received permission, if necessary, to make use of a depot that is intended for shipwrecked sailors who may come ashore there. There is already a weather-vane hut and a thermometer hut so all we will have to do is put in the thermometer-screen. The weather is inclement, rarely more than ten degrees, almost always cloudy with the sun seldom visible . . . and this is high summer.
On the morning of their departure to the island, a young man from the Samoyed family living on Novaya Zemlya arrived at Birkeland’s pension. Makarow had found him trading in the Pomor market the day before and had suggested that he be their guide. He stood at the foot of the steps beside a large sled loaded with odd-shaped bundles and parcels. Seeing the young man dressed in the traditional Samoyed clothes of reindeer skin gave Birkeland the idea of having a group portrait taken together with his assistants and their guide in full Arctic clothing. Birkeland was thinking of the interest the expedition would attract if he could show that the intrepid scientists faced climates and landscapes just as dangerous as those faced by the more famous “pole chasers.” They went to Mr. Litovsky’s studio, near the harbor, where the photographer arranged the five men against a backdrop of stormy clouds. Birkeland had not equipped himself with Samoyed clothing and wore instead a good suit and hat, tipped at a jaunty angle. He was seated on a bench while behind him stood his three assistants and guide, clad in skins and furs from head to toe.
As the group left the photographer’s studio they did not at first notice the stray dog struggling through the mud with its head strangely bent forward. Riddervold nearly tripped over it as he crossed the road and the dog began to snarl viciously, pulling back its lips to reveal yellowing teeth, a few of which were streaked with blood. There were many dogs in Archangelsk that belonged to the Samoyed, who used them for driving their sleds, but this one had no mark of ownership, its coat was matted and its expression odd. The Samoyed guide spoke quietly to the animal in the same way he spoke to his own dog team but the creature seemed not to hear him and was fixated on Riddervold. Without warning it lunged at the young man, who lashed out with his thick reindeer boot. The dog then went for the one member of the group not protected by reindeer skin. Sharp teeth penetrated the fine material of Birkeland’s best suit, deep into his calf. Litovsky, who had seen the commotion from his window, ran toward them with a pistol and fired into the body of the dog. Birkeland’s assistants helped him back to the pension while Litovsky phoned the doctor and the governor.
Within an hour the doctor arrived. He swabbed Birkeland’s wound with iodine, then dressed it with lint. Once the governor and Surkow arrived, the doctor explained that, in case the dog was rabid, Birkeland should travel immediately to Moscow for treatment at a small outpost of the Pasteur Institute that had been established there. The governor and Surkow left immediately to obtain Birkeland’s train ticket. Surkow also arranged for Birkeland to stay in his own house and instructed his servants to take care of him. Riddervold volunteered to accompany him, but the professor protested that all three men were needed to set up the observatory on Novaya Zemlya and that he did not want to cause delay, particularly as the sea between Archangelsk and the island could freeze any time from mid-September on. He told Riddervold to leave that afternoon, as planned, but to send a telegram to Sem Sæland, asking him to go to Novaya Zemlya in Birkeland’s stead to check that the station was properly set up. That evening Korsakoff and Surkow put Birkeland on the train to Moscow. Riddervold, Schaaning, and Koren had said goodbye a few hours earlier and were now on the Wladimir, leaving the port to steam north across the White Sea.
Birkeland had a contradictory attitude toward his health. On the one hand, he did nothing to preserve it, eating and sleeping little, working too hard and exposing himself to dangerous substances such as radium and mercury. On the other hand, he bordered on the hypochondriacal when suffering from headaches, colds, or ear infections. These frequent afflictions would send him to the State Hospital Pharmacy on St. Olav’s Place, round the corner from his old apartment in Christiania, where he would describe his symptoms to the pharmacist in minute detail. Rest and nourishing food were never a satisfactory remedy for him; he always wanted a pill or potion to aid his recovery. But, despite the numerous colds and bouts of insomnia he had suffered since childhood, Birkeland had never been in as potentially serious a situation as he was then.
