In the old days of mountaineering, Saas was a place more often talked about than visited. The beauty of the scenery around was indeed unquestionable, the number of expeditions of every degree of difficulty seemed almost without limit, first-rate guides could be obtained with ease, and yet there was never any difficulty in finding quarters in the hotels. In ascending the main valley from Visp the great stream of travellers divided at Stalden into a large stream that made its way to Zermatt and a little rivulet that meandered along the much finer valley towards Saas and the Mattmark. It thus fell out that, notwithstanding a small body of indefatigable mountaineers had explored the higher peaks and passes on both sides of the valley with tolerable completeness, there was left a considerable number of smaller expeditions capable of providing good amusement for the climber desirous of acquiring fame or of exploring the less known districts. In these days, when the soaring ambition of mountaineers has led them to climb heights far greater than any found in the Alps, an account of an expedition of an unimportant peak may seem out of place. Indeed, its details were so devoid of sensational incident that the recital may be dull; but, as will appear directly, that is not the writer’s [pg 252]fault; at any rate, he ventures to give it, for the same reason that invariably prompts youthful authors to write unnecessary books; that is, as they say in their preface, to supply a want long felt—a want, it may be stated, usually felt in their own pockets and nowhere else.
With every respect to the older generation of mountaineers, they are much to blame in one matter. The stock of Alpine jokes is scanty; indeed, a well-read author can get them all, with a little arrangement, into the compass of one short description of a day in the mountains. Again, the number of Alpine subjects lending themselves to facetiousness is but small. The supply has been proved beyond question entirely inadequate to meet the demand, but former writers have recklessly drawn on this limited stock and entirely exhausted the topics, if not the readers. Some allowance may therefore be made when the position is considered, and it is realised that the writer is endeavouring to patch together a fabric with materials almost too threadbare for use, and that he is compelled wholly to pass by such attractive topics as the early start and consequent ill-temper, the dirty porter, the bergschrund, the use of tobacco, or the flea. The last-mentioned beast is in fact now universally prohibited from intrusion into polite Alpine literature; he has had his day. But why? he has surely some right to the place. An eminent French [pg 253]composer6 has written a ballad in his honour; but though, as old Hans Andersen wrote, he was much thought of at one time, and occupied a high position, seeing that he was in the habit of mixing with the human race, and might even have royal blood in his veins, yet he is now deposed. I cannot forbear from paying a last tribute to the memory of a departing, though formerly constant, companion. To find oneself obliged to cut the acquaintance of a friend whom I have fed with my own hand must give rise to some qualms.
Unfortunately, too, the older writings are too well known of many to be dished up again in altered form, like a Sunday dinner in the suburbs; so that even the most common form of originality, videlicet, forgetfulness of the source from which you are borrowing, is forbidden. Plagiarism is a crime that seldom is allowed to pass undetected. There are many people in this world possessed of such a small amount of originality themselves, that they spend their whole time in searching for the want of that quality in others. The human inhabitants of the ark, unless they made the most of their unexampled opportunities for the study of natural history, must have become desperately bored with each other, and no doubt, when set free, said all the good things, each in their own independent nucleus of commencing society, which they had heard while immured. On the whole, it is [pg 254]fortunate for writers that the period known as the dark ages came to pass; it allowed those who commenced their career on this side of the hiatus to make, on the old lines, a perfectly fresh start.
A curious omission
Perhaps no country in the world has had the minute topography of its uninhabited districts so thoroughly worked out as Switzerland. Beyond question the orography is more accurately given than anywhere else; in this respect, indeed, no other country can compare with it. It might seem, even to those who have studied the matter, almost impossible to find any corner of the Alps that has not been described; and the discovery that a few superficial square yards of Swiss territory, arranged on an incline, had not been discussed in detail came upon the writer with somewhat of a shock. It was clearly somebody’s duty to rectify the omission and fill the gap; whether the expedition was of importance from any point of view, or whether any one in the wide world had the smallest desire to read a description of it, was a matter of no moment whatever. There was a vacuum, and it was a thing abhorrent. The mountain, to which reference is made above, lies east of Saas, and is known to such of the inhabitants as have any knowledge of geography as the Portienhorn. Substantially this peak is the highest point of a long rocky ridge running north and south, and called the Portien Grat.
[pg 255]
The chef’s masterpiece
One fine evening we sat outside the inn at Saas just before dinner, seriously discussing the prospect of climbing this mountain. The guides were of opinion that we ought to sleep out, and surmised that the rocks might be found much more difficult than they looked. With some reluctance on our part their views were allowed to prevail on the point, and they started off in triumph, promising to return and report when all the necessary preparations for starting should be completed, while we went in to prepare ourselves for the next day by an early dinner. The inn in those days was somewhat rude, and the cuisine was not remarkable save for the extraordinary faculty possessed by the chef for cooking anything that happened to come in his way, and reducing it all to the same level of tastelessness. On the present occasion, however, stimulated, no doubt, by certain critical rebukes, he had determined to surpass himself. Towards the end of the repast, as we sat chewing some little wooden toothpicks, which were found to have more flavour than anything else placed on the table, we heard the chef cross the yard and go into a certain little outhouse. A few minutes later a subtle and delicate aroma made its way into the apartment, leading us, after a few interrogative sniffs, to get up and close the window. Gradually the savour became more pronounced, and one of the party gave expression to his opinion that there was now [pg 256]satisfactory proof of the accuracy of his constant statement that the drains were out of order. Gradually intensifying, the savour assumed the decided character of a smell, and we looked out of window to see in which direction the cemetery lay. Stronger and stronger grew the perception as steps came mounting up the stairs; the door opened, and all doubt was set at rest as the chef entered, bearing proudly a large cheese. In a moment, to his dismay, he was left undisputed master of the apartment.
An evicted family
We left Saas equipped as for a serious expedition. A stout rustic, who was the most preternaturally ugly man I ever saw, led the way; he had a very large mouth and an odd-shaped face, so that he resembled a frog with a skewer wedged across inside his cheeks. On his back he bore a bag full of very spiky straw, which the guides said was a mattress. In about an hour’s time we arrived at a carelessly built chalet on the Almagel Alp, of which the outside was repulsive and the inside revolting. But the experienced mountaineer, on such occasions, is not easily put out, and exhibits very little astonishment at anything he may see, and none at anything that he may smell. The hut consisted of a single apartment, furnished with a fireplace and a bed. The fireplace was situated in the centre of the room; the couch was separated by a dilapidated hoarding from a shed tenanted by a cow of insatiable appetite—indeed, it may have been [pg 257]originally designed as a manger. The bed, which accommodated apparently the family of the tenant, was found on actual measurement to be forty-eight inches in length and twenty in width; nevertheless the two guides packed themselves into it, adopting in their recumbent position the theory that if you keep your head and your feet warm you are all right. By the flickering gleams of firelight it could be perceived through the smoke that these were the only portions of their frames actually in the bed owing to its excessive shortness; but guides share, with babies in perambulators, a happy faculty of being able to sleep peacefully whatever be the position of their heads. The dispossessed family of the tenant would not submit, notwithstanding strong remarks, to summary eviction, and watched our proceedings with much interest. It was pointed out to them that curiosity was a vicious quality, that it had been defined as looking over other people’s affairs and overlooking one’s own, and that, on the whole, they had better retire, which they did reluctantly, to a little shed in which was a large copper pot with other cheese-making accessories. Apparently they spent the night in scouring the copper pot.
The mattress proved to be so tightly packed that it was easier, on the whole, to lie awake under it than to sleep on the top of it, and less painful. About 4 A.M. one of the guides incautiously moved his head, [pg 258]and having thus disturbed his equilibrium fell heavily on to the floor. Thereupon he woke up and said it was time to start. We bade a cheerful adieu to our host, who was obtaining such repose as could be got by the process of leaning against the doorpost, and made our way upwards.
On the south side of the Portienhorn a long and rough rocky ridge, preserving a tolerably uniform height, extends as far as the Sonnighorn. Ultimately the ridge, still running in a southerly direction, curves slightly round to the west up to the Monte Moro, and thus forms the head of the Saas valley. There are several unimportant peaks in this ridge perhaps equally worthy, with the Portienhorn, of a place in literature; but of all the points south of the Weissmies this Portienhorn is perhaps the most considerable, and certainly the most difficult of access. At any rate, we climbed the peak, and this is how we did it.
A short cut after a knife
It was clear that the southern ridge was more feasible than the northern one, which drops to a col known as the Zwischbergen Pass, and then rises again to merge into the mass of the Weissmies. The whole of the western slope of the Portienhorn is covered by the Rothblatt Glacier, the ice of which is plastered up against its sides. We kept to the left of the termination of this glacier, and after a brief look round turned our steps away from the rock buttress [pg 259]forming the northern boundary of the glacier, though we were of opinion that we might by this line ascend the mountain; but we nevertheless selected the southern ridge, on the same principle that the sportsman, perfectly capable of flying across any obstacle, however high, sometimes, out of consideration no doubt for his horse, elects to follow somebody else through a gap. In good time we reached a point about halfway up the side of the mountain, and halted at the upper edge of a sloping patch of snow. It was fortunate that we had ample time to spare, for considerable delay was experienced here. Burgener had become newly possessed of a remarkable knife, which he was perpetually taking out of his pocket and admiring fondly; in fact, it provided material for conversation to the guides for the whole day. The knife was an intricate article, and strikingly useless, being weak in the joints; but nevertheless Burgener was vastly proud of the weapon, and valued it as much as an ugly man does a compliment. In the middle of breakfast the treasure suddenly slipped out of his hand, and started off down the slope. With a yell of anguish he bounded off after it, and went down the rocks in a manner and at a pace that only a guide in a state of excitement can exhibit. The incident was trivial, but it impressed on me the extraordinary powers of sure-footedness and quickness on rocks that a good guide possesses. An amateur might have [pg 260]climbed after these men the whole day, and have thought that he was nearly as good as they, but he could no more have gone down a couple of hundred feet as this guide did without committing suicide, than he could have performed a double-three backwards the first time he put on skates. He might, indeed, have gone backwards, but he would not have achieved his double-three. Turning northwards the moment we were on the arÊte, we made our way, with a good deal of scrambling, upwards. The rocks were firm and good, and, being dry, gave no great difficulty. Still they were far from easy, and now and again there were short passages sufficiently troublesome to yield the needed charm to a mountain climb, difficult enough at any rate to make us leave our axes behind and move one at a time. But how have the times altered since our expedition was made! Nowadays such a climb would be more fitly mentioned casually after dinner as “a nice little walk before church,”“a capital after-breakfast scramble,”“a stroll strongly recommended to persons of an obese habit,” and so forth. Nevertheless, there is a very distinct pleasure in climbing up a peak of this sort—greater, perhaps, than may be found on many of the more highly rated, formidable, and, if the truth be told, fashionable mountains; for the expedition was throughout interesting, and the contrast between the view to the west where the MischabelhÖrner reared up their massive [pg 261]forms, and to the east looking towards Domo d’Ossola and the Italian lake district, was one to repay a climber who has eyes as well as limbs. The crest was in places tolerably sharp, and we were forced at times to adopt the expedient, conventionally supposed to be the only safe one in such cases, of bestriding the rock edge. It should be stated, however, that, as usual on such occasions, when we desired to progress we discarded this position, and made our way onwards in the graceful attitude observed at the seaside in those who are hunting on the sand for marine specimens. And thus we arrived ultimately at the top, where we gave way to a properly regulated amount of subdued enthusiasm, proportionate to the difficulty and height of the vanquished mountain. No trace of previous travellers could be found on the summit. It was a maiden ascent. Doubtless the mythical and ubiquitous chamois-hunter had been up before us, for at the time I write of the district was noted for chamois; but even if he had, it makes no difference. We have found it long since necessary to look upon ascents stated to have been made by chamois-hunters as counting for nothing, and in the dearth of new peaks in the Alps, have to resort to strange devices and strained ideas for novelty. Thus, a mountain in the present day can be the means of bringing glory and honour to many climbers. For instance:—
[pg 262]
A
climbs it
First ascent.
B
ascends it
First recorded ascent.
C
goes up it
First ascent from the other side.
D
combines A and C’s expedition
First time that the peak has been “colled.”
E
scrambles up the wrong way
First ascent by the E.N.E. arÊte.
F
climbs it in the ordinary way
First ascent by an Englishman, or first ascent without guides.
G
is dragged up by his guides
First real ascent; because all the others were ignorant of the topographical details, and G’s peak is nearly three feet higher than any other point.
Many more might be added; probably in the future many more will, for, in modern mountaineering phrase, the Portienhorn “goes all over.” By 4 P.M. we were back again in the Saas valley.
It seems, as I write, only yesterday that all this happened. But a regular revolution has really taken place. There can be no question, I think, that fewer real mountaineers are to be found in the old “playground” than formerly. Still, there are not wanting climbers, all of them apparently of the first rank. For among the high Alps now, even as on the dramatic stage of to-day, there are no amateurs.
The amateur
A curious human fungus that has grown up [pg 263]suddenly of late is the emancipated schoolboy spoken of by a certain, principally feminine, clique of admirers as “such a wonderful actor, you know.” Very learned is he in the technicalities of the stage. The perspiring audience in the main drawing-room he alludes to as “those in front.” He knows what “battens” are, and “flies,” and “tormentors,” and “spider-traps.” He endeavours to imitate well-known actors, but does not imitate the laborious process by which these same artists arrive at successful results. But we all know him, and are aware also, at any rate by report, of his overweening vanity, and the manner in which he intrudes his conception of “Hamlet” or “Richelieu” on a longsuffering public. Without the slightest knowledge technically of how to walk, talk, sit down, go off, or come on, he rushes on the boards possessed solely of such qualifications for his task as may arise in a brain fermenting with conceit. Critics he regards as persons existing solely for the purpose of crushing him, and showing ill-tempered hostility born of envy. The judicious, if they accept and weakly avail themselves of orders, can but grieve and marvel that there should exist that curious state of folly which prompts a man to exhibit it before the world, or even to thrust it upon his fellow-creatures. Some men are born foolish—a pity, no doubt, but the circumstances are beyond their own control; some achieve a reputation for lack of wisdom, and even make it pay; but some [pg 264]thrust their folly on others, and to such no quarter need be given. The self-constituted exponent of a most difficult art is not a whit more ridiculous than the boy or man who rushes at a difficult peak before he has learnt the elements of mountaineering science. A man may become a good amateur actor if he will consent to devote his leisure to ascertaining what there is to learn, and trying to learn it; and a man may become a good mountaineer by adopting the same line of action. But this is rarely the case. Too often they forget that, as a late president of the Alpine Club remarked, “life is a great opportunity, not to be thrown away lightly.” It is said sometimes by unreflecting persons that such institutions as the Alpine Club are responsible for the misfortunes and calamities that have arisen from time to time, and may still arise. But there has been a good example set if recruits would only turn to it; for the mountaineers in the old style, speaking of a generation that climbs but little in these days, did what it is the fashion now to call their “work” thoroughly—too thoroughly and completely, perhaps, to please altogether their successors. Novelty in the mountains of Switzerland may be exhausted, but there are still too many expeditions of which, because they have been done once or twice, the danger is not adequately recognised. If these remarks, written in no captious spirit, but rather with the strongest desire to lay [pg 265]stress on truths that are too often ignored, should lead any aspiring but unpractised mountaineer to pause and reflect before he tries something beyond his strength and capabilities, some little good will at least have been done. It is not that the rules are unknown; they are simple, short, ready to hand, and intelligible; but the penalty that may be exacted for breaking any of them is a terribly heavy one—absit omen.
Long “waits” and entr’actes—The Mont Buet as an unknown mountain—We hire carriages—A digression on a stationary vehicle—A straggling start—The incomplete moralist—The niece to the moralist—A discourse on gourmets—An artistic interlude—We become thoughtful, and reach the height of sentiment and the top of the Mont Buet—Some other members of the party—The mountaineers perform—How glissading ambition did o’erleap itself—A vision on the summit—The moralist leaves us for a while—Entertainment at the BÉrard Chalet—View of the Aiguille Verte—The end of the journey.
A fair critic—in the matter of sex—discussing a recently published work with the author, remarked that it was the most charming book she had ever read. “I was told it would not interest me,” she remarked most seriously to him, “but really I found it delightful: there are such lovely wide margins to the pages, you know.” On much the same principle a highly intelligent lady, noted for her theatrical discrimination, once remarked that she liked those theatres best which afforded the longest entr’actes. So in the Alps we felt from time to time the necessity, between the more stirring episodes resulting from [pg 267]higher mountaineering, to interpose minor expeditions, on which no less care and thought was often lavished to make them worthy of pursuit. These were our entr’actes. Of such expeditions it is customary to say that they are the most enjoyable of any undertaken. Without going so far as this, it may be conceded that they have a pleasure of their own, and it is at least no more difficult to discover a novel form of sub-Alpine expedition than to vary the details of a big climb. One of these episodes, undertaken while we were barred from the higher mountains by a fall of snow, consisted in a night attack on the Mont Buet.
Mont Buet
Now the Mont Buet, although it lies close to the regular highway to Chamouni from the Rhone valley, is a peak but rarely even seen of the ordinary tourist; and, considering the numbers of our countrymen that flock to the village whence they imagine that they see the summit of Mont Blanc, the English folk who make the ascent are strangely few. Yet the walk is not a laborious one; not more fatiguing, for example, than the tramp from Martigny to Chamouni over the Col de Balme on a hot day. Fashion in the mountains is very conservative, and probably it is too late in the day now to hope that this mountain will ever gain all the reputation it deserves, for, though comparatively unknown, its praises have been by no means left unsung. Possibly the lowness of the guides’ [pg 268]tariff for the peak may have something to do with the matter, and may serve to explain why it is so much left out in the cold; for this is a very potent agent in determining the attractiveness of special localities. How many go to Chamouni, and never wander along one of the most beautiful sylvan paths in the Alps, that leads to the Glacier des Bossons through the woods, where the view, as the spectator suddenly finds himself confronted with the huge stream of pure glacier, topped by a most magnificent ice-fall, and backed by the crags of the Aiguille du Midi, compares by no means unfavourably with the more frequently photographed panorama from the Montanvert. Ask a dozen persons at haphazard who are staying at Chamouni where the Mont Buet is, and ten out of the number will be unable to answer you. But the pictures hung on the line are not invariably the best in an exhibition; and the Mont Buet is a masterpiece, so to speak, “skied.”
We hire carriages
Our party that summer at Chamouni was a large one, for we had stayed a long time in the hotel, and knew, as the phrase goes, a great many to speak to—quite a different thing to answering for them. We conceived the plan of so timing our modest expedition as to arrive on the summit of the Mont Buet about sunset. It was agreed by some members of the party that it would be “such fun, you know,” to come down in the dark. The inference to be gathered from this [pg 269]is that the party was not exclusively composed of the male sex. Two of us, reputed to be good at a bargain, were deputed to charter carriages to convey the members of the expedition up to ArgentiÈre, where the ascent commenced. The carriages of Chamouni, though no doubt practical and well suited to the mountain roads, were not found to be of uniform excellence. Availing ourselves of a proper introduction, we made the temporary acquaintance of an individual interested officially in vehicular traffic, who possessed that remarkable insight into character noticeable in all who are concerned with horses, and knew exactly what we wanted without any preliminary explanation on our part. “VoilÀ votre affaire,” he said, and indicated a machine that would have been out of date when the first char-À-banc was constructed. We inquired if the somewhat unsavoury load (it had, apparently, been in recent requisition for farming purposes) which the cart contained might be removed, and he said there was no objection to this. “See,” said the proprietor, “the seats have backs.”“But they tip up,” we remonstrated. “That is nothing,” rejoined the proprietor; “they can be tied down: the carriage is good, and has gone many miles. However, Monsieur is evidently particular; he shall be satisfied. Behold!” and the proprietor threw open the creaking door of a shed, and revealed to our gaze a pretentious landau with faded linings and [pg 270]wheels which did not seem to be circular. This “machine,” he assured us, it would be hard to equal for locomotive purposes. Two strange beasts were connected to it, chiefly, as it seemed, by bits of string. One of the animals was supported on two very puffy hind legs and two very tremulous fore-legs, and seemed perpetually on the point of going down on its knees to supplicate that it might be allowed to go no further. Its companion was a horse of the most gloomy nature, that no amount of chastisement could stir from a despondent and pensive frame of mind. Both these treasures had a capacity for detecting an upward incline that was marvellously acute. Then there was a structure like a magnified perambulator, of which one wheel was afflicted with a chronic propensity for squeaking, while the other described a curious serpentine track as it rolled along. Not being, however, in any particular hurry, we decided to avail ourselves of such assistance as these vehicles might afford, and did, as a matter of fact, ultimately reach our destination, if not in, at least with them.
The incomplete moralist
From ArgentiÈre we followed the familiar track of the TÊte Noire for some little distance, and then bore away to the left up the valley leading towards the BÉrard Chalet. The party, which had kept well together for the first few minutes after parting with the carriages, were soon straggling off in every direction, and the chief organiser of the expedition, desperately anxious [pg 271]lest some should go astray and be no more found, ran to and fro from one little group to another, and got into a highly excitable frame of mind, like a busily minded little dog when first taken out for a walk. Chief among the more erratic members was an elderly person who had, unwisely, been asked to join the party for no very definite reason, but because some one had said that it would be obviously incomplete without him. The old gentleman had no previous experience of mountain walks, but had very complete theories on the subject. He had made great preparations for his day’s climb, had carefully dieted himself the day previously, and was not a little proud of his equipment and attire. He was furnished with a spiked umbrella, a green tin box, and a particularly thin pair of boots; for he wished to prove the accuracy of a theory that man, being descended from the apes, might properly use his feet as prehensile members, and he held that this additional aid would prove valuable on rocks. It was currently reported, notwithstanding his loquacity, that he was a very wise person, and indeed he dropped hints himself, which he was much annoyed if we did not take, on the subject of a projected literary work. We were given to understand that the publishers were all hankering after the same, and he had a manner in conversation of tentatively quoting passages and watching eagerly for the effects. He was known to [pg 272]us as the incomplete moralist, and proved to be a very didactic person.
The niece to the moralist
But this was not all; there was one other member of the party, who may be described, as in the old-fashioned list of the “Dramatis PersonÆ,” as “niece to the moralist.” Somehow or another, she seemed to lead everything; instinctively all gave way to her wishes, and even the chief organiser looked to her for confirmation of his opinions before enunciating them with decision. Bright, impulsive, wilful, she led the moralist, subjectively speaking, whither she would, and he had no chance at all. “She ought not to have come at all on such an expedition,” he said, looking at the light, fragile form ahead; “but you know you can’t persuade a butterfly to take systematic exercise, and everything seems to give her so much pleasure;” and here the moralist looked rather wistful, and somehow the artificiality seemed to fade away from him for the moment. “Such of us,” he resumed, “as stay long enough in this world cease to have much hopefulness; and when that quality shows up too strong in the young, such as that child yonder, somehow I don’t think they often——” Here he paused abruptly, and, selecting a meat lozenge from a store in his tin box, put it into his mouth and apparently swallowed it at once; at any rate, he gulped down something. It must be allowed that the moralist had done his best to prevent his charge from accompanying the party. [pg 273]She had been reminded of what learned doctors had said, that she was not to exert herself; that certain persons, vaguely alluded to, would be very angry, and so forth. The moralist had been talked down in two minutes. He might as well have pointed out to the little budding leaflets the unwisdom of mistaking warm days in March for commencing summer; and, finally, he had surrendered at discretion, fencing himself in with some stipulations as to warm cloaks, “this once only,” and the like, which he knew would not be attended to. So she came, and her eager brightness shed a radiance over the most commonplace objects, and infected the most prosaic of the party, even a young lady of varied accomplishments, who distinguished herself later on. After all, if the flame burned a little more brightly at the expense of a limited stock of fuel, was there anything to regret? Tone down such brightness as hers was, and you have but an uncut diamond, or a plant that may possibly last a little longer because its blossom, its fruit, and with them its beauties, have been cut off to preserve the dull stem to the utmost. Check the natural characteristics and outflow of such natures, and you force them to the contemplation of what is painful and gloomy. You bring them back fully to this world, and it is their greatest privilege to be but half in it, and to have eyes blind to the seamy side. The Alpine rose-glow owes its fascination to the fact that [pg 274]we know it will soon fade. So is it with these natures. They are to be envied. We may hold it truth with him who sings, “Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.” But the parallel is not strictly true: the brightness will not fade, but will be there to the end, and the streak of sadness running through it all gives the fascination. So the wit that approaches nearest to pathos touches us most deeply, and is one of the rarest of intellectual talents. With what a thrill of mixed, but yet pleasurable, sensation do we recall the timely jest of a lost friend. But all this has nothing to do with a holiday expedition in the Alps. Still, it must be remembered, we were on a sentimental journey in the mountains.
Before long the chief organiser, seizing an opportunity when most of the stragglers were within earshot, announced at the top of his voice that luncheon would be served on certain flat rocks. This had the immediate effect of uniting our scattered forces. The first to arrive (the moralist was slow of foot) were some gallant members of the high mountaineering fraternity, who throughout the day evinced astounding activity, and an unwonted desire to carry burdens on their backs. Secretly they were burning with an ambition to display their prowess on some “mauvais pas,” or glissade, an ambition rewarded later on in a somewhat remarkable manner. The rock was spread, the moralist selected a comfortable place, and, stimu[pg 275]lated by the appearance of the viands, favoured us with certain extracts.
A discourse on gourmets
“There are many,” he observed, holding a large piece of pie to his mouth and eyeing it to select an appropriate place for the next bite, “who hold that the sense of taste is not one to which we should much minister. I do not hold with such;” and here he found the right spot, and for a minute or two the thread of his discourse was broken off. “The painter blends colours to please the sense of sight; the musician studies harmonies of sound to please the ear; each appeals to but one of our imperfect senses, and yet we think much of them for so doing; we compliment them, and give them the appellation of artists. Now the worthy person who dexterously compounded this article, of which, alas! I hold now but little in my hand, appeals not to a single but to a twofold sense; he ministers alike to taste and to smell, and I must own, after a toilsome walk, with commendable results. He is an artist in the highest sense of the word; his merits, to my thinking, are but inadequately recognised in this world. I am convinced that they will be more so in another. The gourmet’s paradise shall provide for him a cherubic state of existence; then shall he have all the pleasure that the palate can afford without any ill-omened presage of subsequent discomfort; for, thrice happy that he will be, digestion will be an anatomical [pg 276]impossibility.” It may be remarked parenthetically that the possession of a gigantic brain had not obviated, in the case of the moralist, the deleterious effects of sour wine. But the moralist was not, as yet, much of a cherub.
As the speaker showed unmistakable signs of continuing his discourse, which had been chiefly directed at a youth of whom we only knew that he was some one’s brother, if the opportunity were afforded, a sudden and general move was made, and the proposal that a short adjournment should take place previous to resuming our upward journey found instant favour. The chief organiser was by common consent left to pack up. Straightway the ladies all produced little sketch-books, and fell very vigorously to recording their impressions of the scenery around; whilst the moralist, already somewhat stiff, wandered from one group to the other and favoured them with his suggestions. The result of half an hour’s work with pencil and brush was to produce diagrams of certain objects which looked uncommonly like telegraph poles with cross bars attached, but which were coloured of a vivid green, and were thus obviously intended for fir trees. The moralist, not finding that his remarks were met with much favour by the artists, selected an ascetic who sat apart from the others, and delivered his next discourse into his inattentive but uncomplaining ear.
[pg 277]
An artistic interlude
“It seems strange to me,” he remarked, “that those who are wholly unable to depict, even in the most elementary manner, the commonplace objects around them, are for ever seen in the Alps striving after the most impossible art problems. If so great a stimulus is needed, a poor result may be confidently anticipated.” (Here the moralist made a fourth attempt to light a very curious native cigar.) “If it takes the sight of Nature in her sublimest phase, as seen in the Alps, to stimulate our friends here to show their art, why, then they haven’t much of it. A milestone should be sufficient for the purpose, but it seems that they require a Matterhorn; and it may be gathered, from what I have heard you and your companions say, that what is true of Alpine art is true also of Alpine climbing, and that the dilettanti will never take the trouble to learn how much there is to learn. Our friends here try to paint a glacier, and have not the most elementary idea of its anatomy. They represent vast panoramas, and know nothing of distance; they——” But here the moralist, in the excitement of his discourse, turned a little white, probably from the depth of his feelings; and, throwing away his cigar, walked off alone, and was discovered shortly after perspiring a good deal, and crumpled up in a somewhat limp and helpless state.
The books were packed up, for the sun was setting low, and the party wended their way up the steep [pg 278]grass slope till the first great dome of the Mont Buet came well into sight. Far ahead was the niece, seemingly unconscious of the effects that the exertion of climbing told on her slight frame. She was apparently unaware of any companions around, though watchful eyes and strong hands were always near lest any mischance should befall. She spoke to no one. Nature absorbed all her faculties as she went on with cheeks rather flushed, and bright, dilated eyes drinking in every object and every point of beauty. As an artist in the exercise of his craft makes the outside world acquainted with beauties ever present to his eyes, so did the effect on her of the wondrous lights and shades and colours around call up new thoughts and reveal fresh marvels in the panorama to others, though well acquainted with such Alpine scenes. The spell caught one after another, till the whole party, all held by the same unsuspected fascination, walked silently on, while the majestic splendour around inspired an awe in the mind that even those most familiar with the marvels of nature in the mountains had never felt before. The mere recognition of the fact that the same thought or emotion is passing simultaneously through the minds of many is in itself so striking, that the impression so caused will not ever be effaced from the mind. A crowded hall is waiting for the advent of the orator of the occasion, and there enters an old man whose name [pg 279]and work were familiar to all. Instantly, and as if by magic, all present rose to their feet in token of respect. No word was spoken, no signal given. The matter may seem slight, but the scene was one that those present will never forget. The most hideous part of the punishment in the old days to the criminal must have been the moment when, as he stepped through the last door, the sea of faces below him upturned simultaneously with a howl of execration. And all these thoughts were called up by the fact that one consumptive girl was a member of our mountain party. Well, such was the case, and it made the expedition different in many ways from any that we had ever undertaken, but not perhaps the less worthy of remembrance.
We become thoughtful
“It looks a long way off,” observed the moralist, gazing despondently upwards. “Do you say that the object of our expedition is to climb up to that eminence yonder? I fear lest some of the weaker members of the party should fail.” (The moralist was now the penultimate member of the party, the absolute rear being brought up by one of the guides, who was pushing him up with the head of his axe. The youth to whom he was in the habit of addressing his discourses had in a revengeful mood offered similar assistance; but the youth wore such a saturnine look when he made the suggestion, that it was declined hastily with thanks.) “I think that if I took a little [pg 280]wine”—here he took all that was left—“this feeling of disinclination to move might conceivably pass off, and I could then encourage some of the others on what is clearly to them an arduous expedition. Ah me! but these little stones are excessively sharp to the feet; let us turn off on to the snow. I have heard that it is possible to walk uphill on such a medium, and yet scarce recognise the fact.” By this time most of the party were well on to the first summit, and the glories of the sunset, from a point of view which it would be hard to match in all the mountains, were beginning to display themselves to the full. The higher we ascended the more did the eternal mass of white snow on the other side of the valley develop and tower above us. Two or three of the more active members were floundering in the deep snow along the ridge uniting the two summits, and finding it, if the truth be told, no small matter to keep pace with the niece, who skimmed lightly over the surface. Gallantry and the desire to keep up their reputation forbade that they should fall to the rear, or allow the rope to tighten unduly; but their superior mountaineering experience seemed not a little in danger of being counterbalanced by their superior weight. All over the rocks on the Sixt side a thin grey veil of mist seemed to hang, making the cliffs appear still more vertical than nature had moulded them, and tinting the crags at the same time with a deep purple colour.
A vision on a summit
A VISION ON A SUMMIT
[pg 281]
A vision on the summit
In the foreground, looking south, the long jagged line of the Aiguilles Rouges cut off the view into the Chamouni valley, and threw up still higher and more into relief the minor peaks of the Mont Blanc chain. We huddled together on the summit, while there seemed hardly time to turn to all points of the compass to survey the effects. The emotional members of the party came out strong, and the young lady of varied accomplishments, who was adjudged by the others to be of poetic temperament, as she was fond of alluding rather vaguely to unknown Italian geniuses, burst forth into ecstasies. However, one or two of us had rather lost faith in her historical knowledge and her profound acquaintance with mediÆval art on hearing her discourse learnedly to the vacuous youth on Savonarola as an artist of great repute, and on discovering that in the family circle she was held in submission by an Italianised English governess—discreetly left at the hotel. A formidable person, this preceptress, of austere demeanour, with a dyspeptic habit, highly pomatumed ringlets, and evangelistic tendencies—a triple combination not infrequently met with. Still, no one paid any attention to the accomplished young lady, for an object in the foreground of the great picture riveted the gaze of most of us. The niece had advanced a few steps from the rest of the party, and stood a little apart on the summit ridge of the mountain, her slight form [pg 282]brought out in strong relief against the many-tinted sky. The folds of her dress fluttered back in the light breeze, and the night wind as it came sighing over the crest had loosened her veil and tossed it upwards. Mechanically as she raised her hand to draw it back, the thin arm and hand seemed to point upwards to something beyond what we could see. Instinctively the others all drew back a few paces, and closed in together as they watched the motionless form. The sunset glories were more than we could realise, but somehow we felt that she was gazing with fixed eyes far, far beyond these—into a pure and passionless region, beyond the mental grasp of the profoundest theologian depending on his own acquired knowledge. As we looked, though she moved no limb, her breath came faster and faster. One or two of us made a start forwards, but at that moment the last red glow vanished from the belt of fleecy cloud hanging in mid-sky. Lower down, the limestone cliffs seemed strangely desolate as the icy hand of night spread over them. The breeze suddenly dropped and died away. She stamped her foot on the snow, and with a quick movement of the head seemed to come back again to the scene around. “Let us go,” she said, half petulantly. Silently the party arranged themselves in order as we wended our way back along the ridge. We had seen a sight that lingered in the mind, and that was not easily to be [pg 283]erased from the memory. As we walked along we gradually drew closer and closer together, prompted by some feeling that all seemed to share alike—as if the recollection of what we had just seen had dazed the mind, and brought us face to face with some influence beyond our ordinary thoughts, and as if with nearer union we should not feel so powerless and insignificant. But the glories of that sunset from the Mont Buet, a scene within the reach of all of very moderate walking ability, were far beyond the power of any language to describe, and beyond the province of any discreet writer to attempt. The twilight gathered in fast, and the snow already felt more crisp under foot. The roll-call was held, and it was discovered that the only absentees were the moralist and his propelling companion. At this point two of the skilled mountaineers of the party recognised their opportunity, and were not slow to seize it. Secretly they had felt that no suitable occasion had hitherto offered of displaying their prowess, so they volunteered to perform a glissade for the amusement and instruction of the others. The ladies clapped their hands gleefully, and the youth, who did not know how to glissade, looked sinister. Accordingly the skilful ones made their way to a steep snow slope, and started off with great speed and dexterity, amidst the admiring plaudits of the less acrobatically minded members. But the course of their true descent did [pg 284]not run entirely smooth, for before half the downward journey was accomplished the foremost member was observed suddenly to propel himself wildly into the air, performing a remarkable antic—similar to those known of street Arabs as cart-wheels—and the remainder of the journey to the foot of the slope was performed with about the grace of a floating log descending a mountain torrent. Nor was this all; the rearmost man, apparently also possessed by an identical frenzy, leaped forth into the air at precisely the same spot and in precisely the same manner. Had it not been that they were known to be highly skilful and adroit mountaineers the impression might have gained ground that the circumstances of this part of the descent were not wholly under their own control. Ever anxious to investigate the true cause of strange occurrences, to their credit be it said that when they had collected their wits and emptied their pockets of snow, they mounted up again to the scene of the disaster, and discovered the explanation in an entirely imaginary stone, which had, beyond doubt, tripped them up.
The mountaineers perform
Somewhat crestfallen, the energetic pair rejoined the rest of the troupe and a search was instituted for the moralist. This worthy was discovered, astonishingly weary of body but surprisingly active of mind, wedged in a narrow rocky niche, so that he looked like the figure of a little “Joss” in the carved model [pg 285]of a Japanese temple. It was found necessary to pull him vigorously by the legs, in order to straighten out those members sufficiently for him to progress upon them. However, he seemed to have more to say about the sunset than anybody else, and his description of the beauties thereof was so glowing and eloquent, that the idea crossed our minds that possibly some of the descriptions we had read in Alpine writings of similar scenes might be as authentic as that with which he favoured us. “A great point in the Alps,” remarked the moralist, after he had been securely fastened by a rope to a guide for fear we should lose him again, so that he looked like a dancing bear—“a great point in walking amongst the Alps is that we learn to use our eyes and look around us. I have observed that those who perambulate our native flagstones appear perpetually to be absorbed in the contemplation of what lies at their feet. Now here, stimulated by the beauties around, man holds, as he should do, his head erect, and steps out boldly.” At this point a little delay was occasioned owing to the abrupt disappearance of the speaker through a crust of snow. Some curious rumblings below our feet seemed to imply that he had descended to a considerable depth, and was in great personal discomfort. In the dim light we could scarcely see what had actually happened, but concluded to pull vigorously at the rope as the best means of getting our temporarily [pg 286]absent friend out of his difficulties. This we succeeded in doing, and a strenuous haul on the cord was rewarded by the sudden appearance of two boots through the snow-crust at our feet—a phenomenon so unexpected that we relaxed our efforts, with the result that the boots immediately disappeared again. A second attempt was more successful; an arm and a leg this time came to the surface simultaneously, and the moralist was delivered from the snowy recesses broadside on. We rearranged his raiment, shook the snow out of the creases of his clothes, tied a bath towel round his head, which, for some obscure reason, he had brought with him—the towel, not his head—and harnessed him this time securely between two members of the party. Possibly from the effects of his misadventure, he remained silent for some time, or his flow of conversation may have been hindered by the fact that his supporters ran him violently down steep places whenever he showed symptoms of commencing a fresh dissertation. It was no easy task to find the little hut in the darkness, and it was not until after we had blundered about a good deal that we caught sight of the beacon light, consisting of a very cheap dip exhibited in the window, as a sign that entertainment for man and beast might be found within. The moralist, who was always to the fore when the subject of refreshment was mentioned, discovered a milking-stool, and drawing it in great [pg 287]triumph to the best place in front of the stove, sat down on it, with the immediate result that he was precipitated backwards into the ash-pan. There we left him, as being a suitable place for repentance.
A banquet at the chalet
The rest of the party gathered for supper round the festive board, which was rather uncertain on its legs, and inclined to tip up. Owing to some miscarriage, the larder of the cabane was not well stocked, and all the entertainment that could be furnished consisted of one bent-up little sausage, exceeding black and dry, and a very large teapot. However, there was plenty of fresh milk provided after a short interval, though the latter article was not obtained without considerable difficulty, and remonstrances proceeding from an adjoining shed, probably due to somnolence on the part of the animal from which the supply was drawn. Presently a great commotion, as of numerous bodies rolling down a steep ladder, was heard, and there appeared at the door a large collection of small shock-headed children, who gaped at us in silent wonder. Anxious to ascertain the physical effects that might be induced by the consumption of the sausage, the moralist, who amongst his many talents had apparently a turn for experimental physiology, cut off a block and placed it in the open mouth of the eldest of the children. This unexpected favour led to the boy’s swallowing the morsel whole, and he shortly afterwards retired with a somewhat [pg 288]pained expression of countenance; the other members of the family followed shortly after in tears, in consequence of the Italianised young lady, who possessed a strong fund of human sympathy and a love for the picturesque, having made an attempt to conciliate their good-will by patting their respective heads, and asking them their names in a conjectural patois. We were now ready to start again, and demanded of our hostess what there was to pay. This request led her to go to the foot of the ladder, which represented a staircase, and call out for the proprietor. A little black-headed man in response instantly precipitated himself down the steps, shot into the apartment, and, without any preliminary calculation, named the exact price. On receiving his money he scuttled away again like a frightened rabbit, brought the change, jerked it down on the table, and darted off again to his slumbers. The whole transaction occupied some five-and-twenty seconds.
Part of the programme consisted in descending back to ArgentiÈre by lantern-light, but the resources of the establishment could only produce one battered machine, and it was no easy task with this illumination to keep the members of the party from straying away from the narrow path. Indeed, several members did part from the rest, curiously enough in pairs; but before long we left the narrow defile, and as we passed from under the shelter of the slope on our [pg 289]right, and could see across the Chamouni valley, we came suddenly in view of the great mass of the Aiguille Verte, so suddenly, indeed, that it made us start back for the moment; for, illumined by a grey ghostly light, the mountain seemed at first to hang right over us. There is, perhaps, no finer view of the Aiguille Verte to be obtained than from this point; certainly no finer effects of light and shade than were granted by the conditions under which we saw it, could have been devised to show the peak off to the best advantage. So long did we delay to dwell on the fairy-like scene, that the vacuous youth, accompanied by the young lady of varied accomplishments, caught us up and joined us quite suddenly, to their exceeding confusion. The youth, without being invited to do so, explained, blushing violently the while, that they had lost the path in the darkness, and had only been able to regain the track by lighting a series of lucifer matches—an entire fiction on his part, but condoned, as evincing more readiness of wit than we had previously given him credit for. We heard also that their way had been barred by a swamp and a mountain stream, which, like gossip, can have had no particular origin. The young lady, mindful of the absence of her preceptress and consequently heedless of grammar, described the situation neatly as being “awfully bogs.”
The end of the journey
If the expedition had shown us no more than this moonlight effect, the reward would have been ample. [pg 290]In truth, from first to last the expedition was one which it would be hard to match for variety of interest in all the sub-Alpine district. At ArgentiÈre we rejoined the carriages, and found the horses just a little more inclined for exertion than they had been in the morning; their joy at going home seemed to be tempered by the fact that they recognised that they would inevitably be called upon to start from the same point at no very distant period; and that to return home was but to go back to the starting-point for further laborious excursions. But their equine tempers seemed thoroughly soured. The Italianised young lady was taken in charge by her elder sister, who had completed her education, and knew consequently the hollowness of the world and the folly of younger sisters’ flirtations, and securely lodged in the landau. The youth, after an ineffectual attempt to find a place in the same carriage, climbed to the box seat of the other vehicle, and relieved his feelings by cracking the driver’s whip with great dexterity; in fact, we discovered that this was one of his principal accomplishments. Not the least satisfactory part of the climb, in the estimation of some members of the party, was the fact that the moralist had lost his note-book during his imprisonment in the crevasse.
[pg 291]
CHAPTER IX.
A FRAGMENT
An unauthentic MS.—Solitude on the mountain: its advantages to the historian of the Alps—A rope walk—The crossing of the Schrund—A novel form of avalanche and an airy situation—A towering obstacle—The issue of the expedition in the balance—A very narrow escape—The final rush—Victory!—The perils of the descent—I plunge in medias res—A flying descent.
The following account is somewhat of a puzzle. It appears to contain certain facts of so startling a nature, that the ascent to which they refer must unquestionably have been of a very exciting character. The details are not so wholly unlike descriptions which have passed the searching discrimination of editors, in publications relating more or less to Alpine matters, as to warrant the assumption that they are fabrications. They do not appear, as far as the writer can ascertain, to have been seen in print hitherto; but as all Alpine writings relate but rigid matters of fact and actual occurrences, there seems no objection to publishing the manuscript, notwithstanding that its authorship is only conjectural. It is unfortunate that its fragmentary nature leaves one somewhat in doubt as to the actual peak to which the description refers. [pg 292]It has been suggested by a plausible commentator, judging from internal evidence and the style of writing, that the manuscript of which the fragment consists formed part of an account originally intended for some work not published in this country, or even, possibly, was primarily designed to fill the columns of one of our own daily newspapers during the silly season.
I rise equal to the occasion
“... The day was cloudless, serene, and bright. Only in the immediate foreground did the heavy banks, betokening a tourmente, sweep around with relentless fury. Far above, the towering crags of the majestic peak pierced the sky. How to get there! And alone! The situation was sublime; yet more, it was fascinating; once again, it was enthralling. Far below lay the prostrate bodies of my companions, worn out, wearied, gorged with petit vin and sardines. A thought flashed across my mind. Why should I not scale alone these heights which had hitherto defied the most consummate intrÉpides? In a moment the resolution was taken. For me, for me alone, should the laurel wreaths be twined. For me should the booming cannon, charged with fifty centimes’ worth of uncertain powder, betoken victory. For me alone should the assortment of cheap flags which had done duty on many previous occasions of rejoicing, be dragged forth. What was the expense to a hero when the glow of so magnificent an achieve[pg 293]ment should swell his heart and loosen his purse-strings? The account might reach a sum of two and a half, nay, even five francs; but what of that? I girded myself with the trusty rope, and, attaching one end lightly to a projecting crag twenty feet above, hauled myself in a moment on to the eminence. Involuntarily I shot a glance downwards. The scene was fearful—one to make the most resolute quail. But there was no time for thought, still less for accurate description. A fearfully steep couloir, flanked by two yawning bergschrunds, stretched away horizontally right and left. How to cross them! It was the work of a moment. Unfastening the knot in the rope above me, I threw myself, heart and soul, into the work. Where heart and soul are, there must, in the ante-mortem state, be the body also. This is logic. Thus I entered the chasm. Battling desperately with the huge icicles that threatened me at every step, I forced my way through the snow bridge and breathed again. The first schrund was accomplished. Next the rope was fastened to my trusty axe, and with an herculean effort I threw it far above me; fortunately it caught in a notch, and in a few seconds I had climbed, with the agility of a monkey, up the tightened cord. Goodness gracious! (sapristi!) what do I hear? A sudden roar below betokened an immediate danger. Horror! sweeping and roaring up the slope from the [pg 294]glacier beneath, I beheld a huge avalanche. I will conceal nothing. I own that the appalling situation and its terribly dramatic nature forced me to ejaculate a cry. I do not claim originality for it. I said, ‘Oh! my mother!’ (Oh! ma mÈre!) This relieved me. Now was the time indeed for coolness. Fortunate, most fortunate, that I was alone. Thrusting the spike of the axe into the solid rock face like the spear of Ithuriel, in the twinkling of an eye I had fastened one end of the rope to the projecting head of the axe, and the other to my waist, and launched myself over the ridge into space. Fortunate, most fortunate again, as in the hurry of the moment I had attached the rope below my own centre of gravity, that I was light-headed. Had this not been the case, assuredly I should have dangled feet uppermost over the abyss. Not a moment too soon. The avalanche dashed up the slope, grinding the axe to powder, but by good luck entangling the rope between the massive blocks and carrying it up, with myself attached, nearly 100 metres—I should say 300 feet—above where I had previously stood. I had accomplished in a moment what might have cost hours of toil. Again it was sublime. The thought crossed my mind that the sublime often approaches the ridiculous. But the rocks, previously broken up, had been ground by the sweeping avalanche into a surface smooth as polished steel. How to descend these again! Banish the [pg 295]thought! The mountain was not yet climbed. Upwards, past yawning sÉracs, towering bergschrunds, slippery crevasses, gaping arÊtes, I made my way. For a few hundred feet I bounded upwards with great rapidity. Despite the rugged nature of the rocks everything went smoothly. Of a sudden a terrible obstacle was presented to my gaze. I felt that all my hopes seemingly were dashed. A stupendous cleft, riving the mountain’s side to an unfathomable depth, barred further progress. From top to bottom both sides of the chasm overhung; and far below, where they joined, the angle of meeting was so sharp that I felt that I must infallibly be wedged in without hope of extrication if I fell. For a few moments I hesitated, but only for a few. Close by was a tower of rock, smooth and vertical, some twelve feet high—the height of two men, in fact. No handhold save on the top. This was but a simple matter. Had any one else been with me, I should have stood on his shoulders; as it was I stood on my own head. Thus I climbed to the summit of the pointed obelisk of rock. Exactly opposite, on the farther side of the cleft, was a similar rock cone, but the distance was too great to spring across. I was in a dilemma—on one horn of it, in fact; how to get to the other! I adopted an ingenious plan. Taking my trusty axe, I placed the pointed end in a little notch in the rock, and then, with herculean strength, [pg 296]bent the staff and wedged the head also into a notch. The trusty axe was now bent like a bow. Again I hesitated before trusting myself to the bow; in fact, it was long before I drew it. But a former experience stood me in good stead. Once before, driven by a less powerful impetus—merely that of a human leg—I had flown through a greater distance. I made up my mind, and, summoning all my fortitude, placed my back against the arc and, lightly touching one end, released the spring. Instantly I felt myself propelled straight into mid-air, and before I had time to realise the success of my scheme, was flung against the pinnacle on the opposite side and embraced it. What were my feelings on finding that this huge pinnacle had no more stability than a ninepin, and as my weight came on to it slowly heeled over! Nor was this all. Slowly, like the pendulum of a metronome, it rolled back again, and I found to my horror that I was clinging to the apex of the rock, and dangling right over the chasm! I cannot recall that in all my adventures I had ever been in a precisely similar situation. However, a hasty calculation satisfied me that the rocking crag must again right itself. As I expected, it did so, and as the pinnacle of rock swung back once more to the perpendicular I sprang from it with all my force. The impetus landed me safe, but the crag toppled over into the abyss. Here I noted an interesting scientific fact. Taking out my watch, [pg 297]I was able to estimate, by the depth of the cleft, the height I had already climbed. The boulder took a minute and a half in falling before it reached anywhere. I own that the escape was a narrow one, and even my unblushing cheek paled a little at the thought of it. But I could not be far now, I hoped, from the summit; and, indeed, the condition of a dead bird which it so happened lay on the rocks—in a passive sense—convinced me that the summit of the lofty peak was close at hand. But few obstacles now remained. Another step or two revealed a glassy unbroken rock cone leading to the summit. It seemed impossible at first to surmount it, but my resources were not yet at an end. Dragging off my boots, I tore out with my teeth the long nails and drove them in one after another. By this means I ascended the first half of the final peak; but then the supply of nails was exhausted, and I felt that time would not permit me to draw out the lower nails and place them in succession above the others. Luckily I still carried with me a flask of the execrable petit vin supplied by Mons. —— of the inn below. I applied a little to the rock. The effect was magical. In a moment the hard face was softened to the consistence of cheese, and with my trusty axe I had no difficulty in scraping out small steps. The worst was now over. Just as the shades of night were gathering softly around, I stepped with the proud consciousness of victory on to [pg 298]the very highest point. This indeed was sublime. The toil of years was accomplished; it seemed almost a dream. Nerved to frenzy, with a mighty sweep of the axe I struck off a huge block from the summit to carry away as a token of conquest, and planting the weapon in the hole, tore off garment after garment to make a suitable flag; only did I desist on reflecting that it would become barely possible for me to descend if I acted thus. Intoxicated with victory, I shouted and sang for a while, and then turned to the descent. The night was fast closing in, but this mattered not, for I made light of all the obstacles, and they were so numerous that I succeeded perfectly by this means in seeing my way. Faster and faster I sped along, descending with ease over the blocks and fragments of the morning’s avalanche. Now and again the descent was assisted by fastening the rope securely to projecting crags, and then allowing myself to slide down to its full length. Then I went up again, untied the rope, fastened it anew below, and repeated the manoeuvre. Thus at midnight I reached the edge of the cliff, at the foot of which my companions had been left in the morning. I feared they might be anxious for my safety, the more especially that I had not yet paid them for their services. Peering over the edge of the vertical precipice into the murky darkness, I called out. There was no response. Then I said ‘Pst,’ and tapped the glassy slope with my pocket knife. Even [pg 299]this plan failed to attract their attention. I shouted with still more force. Finally, standing up on the edge of the cliff, I sent forth a shout so terribly loud that it must have waked even a sleeping adder. A fatal error! for the reverberation of my voice was echoed back with such fearful force from a neighbouring crag that the shock struck me backwards, and in a moment I was flying through mid-air—to annihilation.”
* * * * * *
“There is a blank in this narrative which I can never fill up. This only do I know; that when I came again to my senses, I was warmly ensconced in a blanket, whilst my companions stood around in a circle shivering, as they gazed at me with amazement. Their account, which I can scarcely credit, was that as they were engaged in stretching out and shaking a blanket preparatory to spreading their bed for the night, an apparently heaven-sent form had descended from above into the very middle of it; the shock tore the blanket from their grasp, and in a twinkling I lay wrapt up safe and comfortable at their feet.”
A highly coloured account
Such is the fragment. It has been thought better to present it as far as possible in its original form, and without any editing. That the account is a little highly coloured perhaps in parts may be allowed, but some licence may legitimately be accorded to an author who is no empty dreamer, but has evidently experienced some rather exciting episodes.
Mountaineers and their critics—The early days of the Alpine Club—The founders of mountaineering—The growth of the amusement—Novelty and exploration—The formation of centres—Narrowing of the field of mountaineering—The upward limit of mountaineering—De Saussure’s experience—Modern development of climbing—Mr. Whymper’s experience—Mr. Graham’s experience—The ascent of great heights—Mr. Grove’s views—Messrs. Coxwell and Glaisher’s balloon experiences—Reasons for dissenting from Mr. Glaisher’s views—The possibility of ascending Mount Everest—Physiological aspect of the question—Acclimatisation to great heights—The direction in which mountaineering should be developed—The results that may be obtained—Chamouni a century hence—A Rip van Winkle in the Pennine Alps—The dangers of mountaineering—Conclusion.
The critics
From time to time, when some accident has happened in the Alps, the press and the public have been pleased to take such unfortunate occurrence as a text, and to preach serious sermons to mountaineers. We have been called hard names in our time; we have been accused of fostering an amusement of no earthly-practical good, and one which has led to “miserable” waste of valuable life. Gentle expressions of animadversion, such as “criminal folly,”“reckless venture, which has no better purpose than the gratification of a caprice or the indulgence of a small ambition,”“a [pg 301]subject of humiliating interest,” and the like, have at times been freely used. But it is well known to authors and to dramatists that criticisms of a nature known as “smashing” are not, on the whole, always to be deplored, and are occasionally the best to enhance the success of the work. The novel or play, however unreservedly condemned by the reviewer, has got some chance of living if it be hinted that some of the situations in it are a little risquÉes; and to a great many the idea seems constantly present that mountaineering owes its principal attraction to the element of risk inseparable from its pursuit. As an absolute matter of fact such is not the case. Apart from this, however, mountaineers may be thankful that the critics in question have, when they noticed our doings at all, condemned us very heartily indeed, and thundered forth their own strictures on our folly in sonorous terms; in fact, attacks of this nature have by no means impaired the vitality of such associations as Alpine clubs, but rather, like attacks of distemper in dogs, have increased their value.
It would be easy enough, from the mountaineer’s point of view, and in a work which, at the best, can interest only those who have some sympathy with climbing as a pure pastime, to pass over these hard words, and to reckon them as merely the vapourings of envious mortals not initiated into [pg 302]the mysteries of the mountaineering craft; but such criticisms may lead or perhaps reflect public opinion, and are not, therefore, to be treated lightly. It might be held that for any notice to be taken at all is complimentary, and we might seek shelter in the epigrammatic saying that he who has no enemies has no character; that though hope may spring eternal in the human breast, jealousy is a trait still more constantly found. But this line of argument is not one to be adopted. The tu quoque style of defence is not one well calculated to gain a verdict. No doubt the question has been treated often enough before, and in discussing it the writer may seem but to be doing what nowadays the climber is forced to do in the Alps—namely, wander again, perhaps ramble, over ground that has been well trodden many times before. But the conditions have changed greatly since mountaineering first became a popular pastime, and since the first editions of “Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers” were rapidly sold out. It is, the writer fears, only too true in these latter days that mountaineers may be classified as Past and Present. Whether a third class may be added of “the Future” is a question—to be answered, I hope, in the affirmative.
Growth of the amusement
The Alpine Club was founded in 1857 by a few ardent devotees to what was then an entirely new form of pastime. The original members of that club could never have even dreamed of the wide [pg 303]popularity mountaineering was destined to acquire, or the influence that the establishment of the Alpine Club was to have on it; and, like the fish in an aquarium, they can hardly have known what they were in for. In the present day there are Alpine clubs in almost every country in Europe, and in some countries there are several, numbering their members in some cases by thousands. Nor is it only on the continent of Europe that there are mountaineering clubs. Not that the writer ventures to assert that every member of this multitude is devoted to the high Alps, or that it is in the least degree essential to climb high and difficult mountains in order to learn the fascination of their natural beauties. It may be pointed out, however, that the “miserable waste of valuable life” is in the greatest part not on the great peaks and passes, but on little hills. Every year we read of accidents on mountains such as the Faulhorn, the Monte Salvatore in the Alps, or Snowdon, Helvellyn and the like in our own country. Possibly these disasters might never have taken place had the experience of mountaineering craft gained in high regions been properly appreciated and utilised. The good surgeon is he who, utilising all his own and all his predecessors’ experience, recognises, and makes provision against, all the risks that may conceivably be involved in the most trifling operation he may be called upon to perform; and holiday ramblers in our [pg 304]own land and in sub-Alpine regions might, not without advantage, profit by the example.
Novelty and exploration
Five-and-twenty years ago in Switzerland there were numberless heights untrodden, passes uncrossed, and regions unexplored. Then, moreover, there were comparatively but few to cross the passes or climb the mountains; but those few did mighty deeds. Peak after peak fell before them, while slowly but surely they opened up new regions and brought unexpected beauties to light. In those days climbing as an art was but in its infancy, restricted to a few amateurs specially qualified to pursue it, and to a very limited number of guides—merely those, in fact (not such a numerous class as people seem generally to imagine), who had made chamois-hunting one of the principal objects of their lives. Gradually the art became more developed, and with the increase of power thus acquired came increase of confidence. From the fact that the training in the mountaineering art was gradual, it was necessarily thorough—a fact that a good many climbers would do well to bear in mind in these latter days. Then, of course, the charm of novelty, so dear to the mountaineer, was seldom absent; he could strike out right or left and find virgin soil; but in quest of novelty search had to be made before long in remote regions. It followed that exploration was not limited, and the early pioneers of mountaineering could, and did learn more [pg 305]of the geography and varied beauties of the Alps in a single season than their followers do, in the present day, in five or six.
After a while the fashion of mountaineering altered sensibly, and a strong conservatism sprang up. Certain districts became more and more frequented; certain peaks acquired special popularity, either because they were conveniently placed and ready of access; or because there was a certain touch of romance about them, as in the case of the Matterhorn; or because they had acquired the reputation of being difficult, and it was thought that a successful ascent would stamp the climber at once as a skilful person and a very daring creature. Thus places like Zermatt, Grindelwald, Chamouni, and the Æggischhorn became the great centres of mountaineering, and have remained so ever since. Independent exploration gradually gave way to the charm of meeting others bent on the same pursuit of climbing; but this feeling was not without its drawbacks, and tended to check what has been called cosmopolitanism in mountaineering. How few, even among those who visit the Alps regularly, know anything whatever of such large, important, and interesting districts as the Silvretta group, the Rheinwald group, or the Lepontine Alps! while districts like Zermatt are thronged and crowded, and the mountains absolutely done to death. Not that it [pg 306]is hard to understand how this narrowing of the field of mountaineering has been brought about. There comes a time of life to most men when they find more pleasure in meeting old friends than in making new acquaintances; and the same feeling would appear to extend to the mountains.
It must be confessed here that the writer is disposed to look upon mountaineering in the Alps, in the sense in which it has hitherto been known, as a pastime that will before long become extinct. In some soils trees grow with extraordinary rapidity and vigour, but do not strike their roots very deep, and so are prone to early decay. Still, it does not follow that, even should these pessimist forebodings prove true, and climbing be relegated to the limbo of archaic pursuits, the Alps will not attract their thousands as they have done for many years. The dearth of novelty is sometimes held to be the principal cause that will eventually lead to the decay of mountaineering. There is a reasonable probability, however, to judge from the Registrar-General’s reports, that the world will still be peopled some time hence, and possibly a generation will then arise of mountaineering revivalists who, never having tasted the flavour of novelty in Alpine climbing, will not perceive that its absence is any loss. Yet in the Alps alone many seem to forget that, while they are exhausting in every detail a few spots, there are numerous and [pg 307]varied expeditions of similar nature still to be accomplished, the scenes of which lie within a few hours of London. It is of course only to mountaineering as a semi-fashionable craze that these remarks apply. The knowledge of the art, acquired primarily in the Alps, which has led to the development of mountaineering as a science will not be wasted, and the training acquired in holiday expeditions, when amusement or the regaining of health was the principal object, can be turned to valuable practical account elsewhere. So shall there be a future for mountaineering. No doubt but few may be able to find the opportunity, unless indeed they make it somewhat of a profession, of exploring the great mountainous districts still almost untouched—such, for instance, as the Himalayas. But it is in some such direction as this that the force of the stream, somewhat tending to dry up in its original channel, will, it may be hoped, spread in the future.
The upward limit
It has already been shown, by the results of many modern expeditions, that the old views that obtained with respect to the upward limit of mountaineering must, to say the least, be considerably modified. From early times the question of the effects of rarefied air in high regions on mountaineers has attracted attention. As a matter of fact the subject is still barely in its infancy. A few remarks on this point [pg 308]may not perhaps be thought too technical, for they bear, I hope, on the mountaineering of the future.
It is matter of notoriety that in these days travellers seem less subject to discomfort in the high Alps than in former times. De Saussure, for instance, in the account of his famous ascent of Mont Blanc in 1787, speaks a good deal of the difficulty of respiration. At his bivouac on the Plateau, at an elevation of 13,300 feet, the effects of the rarefied air were much commented on; and these remarks are the more valuable, inasmuch as De Saussure was a man of science and a most acute observer; while his account, a thing too rare in these days, is characterised by extreme modesty of description. The frequency of the respirations, he observed, which ensued on any exertion caused great fatigue. Nowadays, however, pedestrians, often untrained, may be seen daily ascending at a very much faster pace than De Saussure seems to have gone, and yet the effects are scarcely felt. No one now expects much to suffer from this cause, and no one does. In recent times we hear accounts of ascents of mountains like Elbruz, 18,526 feet, by Mr. Grove and others; of Cotopaxi, 19,735 feet, and Chimborazo, 20,5177 feet, by Mr. Whymper; and the most recent, and by far the most remarkable, of [pg 309]Kabru in the Himalayas, about 24,000 feet, by Mr. Graham. In all these expeditions the travellers spent nights in bivouacs far above the level of the Grand Plateau where De Saussure encamped. We cannot suppose that in the Caucasus, the Andes, or the Himalayas the air differs much from that of the Alps with regard to its rarefaction effects on travellers. In fact, the Alpine traveller would in this respect probably be much better off, for the general conditions surrounding him would be more like those to which he was accustomed. He would not have, for instance, to contend with the effects of changed or meagre diet or unaccustomed climate.
Mr. Grove’s views
Mr. F. C. Grove, a very high authority on such a point, in his description of the ascent of Elbruz, in the course of some remarks on the rarity of the air, states his belief that at some height or another, less than that of the loftiest mountain, there must be a limit at which no amount of training and good condition will enable a man to live; and he says, “It may be taken for granted that no human being could walk to the top of Mount Everest.”8 This was written in 1875; but a great deal has happened since then, though the same opinion is still very generally entertained. But with this opinion I cannot coincide at all, for reasons that appear to me logically conclusive. In the first place, a party of three, composed of Mr. Graham, [pg 310]Herr Emil Boss, and the Swiss guide Kauffman, have ascended more than 5,000 feet higher than the top of Elbruz, and none of the party experienced any serious effect, or, indeed, apparently any effect at all other than those naturally incidental to severe exertion. It must be admitted that one result of their expedition was to prove, tolerably conclusively, that Mount Everest is not the highest mountain in the world. Still, until it is officially deposed, it may be taken, for argument’s sake, as the ultimate point. Now, it would seem to be beyond doubt that a man, being transported to a height much greater than Mount Everest, can still live. In Messrs. Coxwell and Glaisher’s famous balloon ascent from Wolverhampton on September 5, 1862, described in “Travels in the Air,” it was computed that the travellers reached a height of nearly 37,000 feet,9 and this in less than an hour from the time of leaving the earth. Deduct 5,000 feet from this computation, to allow for possible error, and we still have a height left of 32,000 feet, an elevation, that is, very considerably greater than the summit of Mount Everest—possibly a greater elevation than the summit of any mountain. Life then, it is proved, can be sustained at such a height, and the point that remains for consideration is whether the necessary exertion of walking or climbing to the same height would render the actual ascent impossible.
[pg 311]
Mr. Glaisher’s experiences
Since the days of De Saussure some 8,000 feet have been added to the height to which the possibility of ascending has been proved. It seems to me unreasonable to assume that another 5,000 feet may not yet be added, and arbitrary to conclude that at some point higher than Kabru but lower than Mount Everest the limit of human endurance must necessarily be reached. Mr. Glaisher himself does not appear to think that, from his experience, any such ascent as that we have been considering would be possible for an Alpine traveller (op. cit. p. 21 and elsewhere). But, with every deference to so great an authority, a few considerations may be submitted which tend most seriously to invalidate his conclusions and opinions, and which may serve to show also that the effects of rarefied air probably differ more widely in the two cases of the aËronaut and the mountaineer than is generally supposed. Writing in 1871, Mr. Glaisher says,10“At a height of three miles I never experienced any annoyance or discomfort; yet there is no ascent I think of Mont Blanc in which great inconvenience and severe pain have not been felt at a height of 13,000 feet; but then, as before remarked, this is an elevation attained only after two days of excessive toil.” Mr. Glaisher is here referring chiefly to Dr. Hamel’s ascent of Mont Blanc, and would seem apparently to be unaware that, long before he wrote, the ascent of Mont Blanc, from Chamouni and [pg 312]back to the same place, had been accomplished within twenty-four hours. In 1873, if my memory serves me right, Mr. Passingham started from Chamouni, ascended the mountain, and returned to his hotel in a little less than twenty hours.11 Compare such an ascent as this—not by any means an isolated instance—with De Saussure’s experience, and when we consider how remarkable has been the development of mountaineering in this direction, we may surely hold that to fix at present any absolute limit is unduly arbitrary. Further, the ascents of Chimborazo and the other mountains named above have all been accomplished since Mr. Glaisher wrote. Mr. Glaisher states that the aËronaut may acclimatise himself to great heights by repeated ascents; but how much more may the mountaineer then hope to do so! The aËronaut necessarily makes ascents rapidly12 and at rare intervals. The mountaineer can acclimatise himself to high regions by a constant and gradual process, a method obviously better calculated to extend the limits of his endurance.
Of course I am only discussing the actual possibility, not entering into the question for a moment of whether it is worth while to do it. It may be that [pg 313]to attempt an ascent of Mount Everest would prove almost as rash an undertaking as an endeavour to swim through the Niagara rapids—that is, if the mountaineering difficulties are so great as to make the two instances parallel. Two points have to be considered: one, that, granted the desirability of making such an ascent, we do not yet fully know the best manner of undertaking it; and another, that we are still very ignorant as to the physiological effects of rarefied air on the human frame.13
Mountain acclimatisation
With regard to the first point, we know indeed this much—that, granted good condition, a man can “acclimatise” himself to great heights, and when so acclimatised he can undergo much more exertion in very high regions with much less effect. The experience of Mr. Whymper in the Andes, and of Mr. Graham and others in the Himalayas, has shown this conclusively enough. Let a man sleep at a height, say, of 18,000 feet, and then ascend from that point another 3,000 or 4,000 feet; he may possibly feel the effects to be so great that an attempt to sleep again at the latter height would render him incapable of exertion the next day, as far as an ascent is concerned. Let him descend till he can bivouac, say at 20,000 feet, and then again try, starting afresh. After a while he would be able to [pg 314]accomplish still more than at his first attempt; and so on, until he reached the summit. But even supposing that no amount of acclimatisation enables him to accomplish his end, he has other weapons in his armoury.
Ascent of Mount Everest
The second point mentioned above is that the physiological effects of rarefied air on the human economy are but little known; were these understood the resources of science might be called in to obviate them. It may be said that no amount of science will obviate the very simple fact that exertion causes fatigue, but the answer is that we have no real idea of all the causes which lead to this fatigue. This is not the place to speculate on a somewhat abstruse and unquestionably complicated physiological problem, but the direction in which the question may be approached from the scientific side is worthy of being pointed out. This much may be said, however, that when we talk of strong heart and strong lungs in connection with the question of the possibility of ascending on foot to the greatest altitudes, we are only, from the physiological point of view, taking into account one or two factors, and perhaps not the most important ones. The cavillers may be reminded that physiology is not and never will become a finite science. To my mind at least, as far as human endurance is concerned, it would be no more surprising to me to hear that a man had succeeded [pg 315]in walking up Mount Everest than to know that a man can succeed in standing an arctic climate while on a sledging expedition. Objections like the difficulty of arranging for a supply of food, of expense, of risk, and so forth, are not taken into account—they are really beside the question: they have not proved insuperable obstacles in the case of arctic exploration; they will not prove insurmountable to the ambitious mountaineer we are contemplating. I do not for a moment say that it would be wise to ascend Mount Everest, but I believe most firmly that it is humanly possible to do so; and, further, I feel sure that, even in our own time, perhaps, the truth of these views will receive material corroboration. Mount Everest itself may offer insuperable mountaineering obstacles, but in the unknown, unseen district to the north there may be peaks of equal height presenting no more technical difficulties than Mont Blanc or Elbruz.
The value of mountaineering
From the purely athletic point of view, then, the mountaineering experience which has been gained almost exclusively in the Alps may, by a still further development in the future, enable the climber so to develop the art that he may reach the highest elevation on this world’s crust; and he may do this without running undue risk. Cui bono? it may be asked; and it is nearly as hard to answer the question as it is to explain to the supine and unaspiring person the good that may be expected to accrue to humanity by [pg 316]reaching the North Pole; yet the latter project, albeit to some it seems like a struggle of man against physical forces which make or mar worlds, is one that is held to be right and proper to be followed. At the least an observer, even of limited powers, may reasonably be expected, supposing he accomplished such a feat as the ascent of Mount Everest, to bring back results of equal scientific value with the arctic traveller, while the purely geographical information he should gain would have fiftyfold greater practical value. The art and science of mountaineering has been learned and developed in the Alps, and the acquirement of this learning has been a pleasure to many. If the holiday nature of mountaineering should in the future be somewhat dropped, and if a few of those who follow should take up the more serious side, and make what has been a pastime into a profession (and why should not some do so? That which is worth doing at all is worth developing to the utmost possible limit), good will come, unless it be argued that there is no gain in extending geographical knowledge; and no advantage in rectifying surveys and rendering them as accurate as possible. As has been remarked by Mr. Douglas Freshfield, the advantage of including in survey parties, such as are still engaged on our Indian frontier, the services of some who have made mountaineering a branch to be learnt in their profession, would be very distinct. Work done in the Alps [pg 317]would, in this direction, perhaps, bear the best fruit and reap the highest practical value which it might be hoped to attain. The value would be real. The search after truth, whether it be in the fields of natural science, of geography, or its to-be-adopted sister orography, can never fail to be right and good and beneficial. Enthusiasm all this! you say. Granted freely. Without some enthusiasm and energy the world would cease to turn, and the retarding section of mankind would be triumphant, save that they would be too languid to realise the victory of their principles.
But still, if properly qualified men are to be forthcoming to meet such a want, which undoubtedly seems to exist, the old training-ground must not be deserted; the playground of Europe must be regarded in relation to serious work in the same light that the playing-fields of Eton were regarded by one who was somewhat of an authority. The Great Duke’s remark is too well known to need quotation. English folk may find it hard to hold their own against their near relations in athletic pursuits, such as cricket and sculling, but in mountaineering they undoubtedly lead, and will continue to do so. In one phase indeed of the pursuit their supremacy is menaced. In the matter of recognising the practical value to be obtained from mountaineering in surveying and the like, they are already behind other countries. The roll of honorary [pg 318]members of the Alpine Club comprises a list of men, most of whom have utilised their mountaineering experience to good purpose in advancing scientific exploration. In this department it is to be hoped that we shall not suffer ourselves to be outstripped, nor allow a store of valuable and laboriously acquired experience to remain wasted. The threatening cloud may pass off; the future of Alpine mountaineering may not prove to be so gloomy as it sometimes seems to the writer in danger of gradually becoming. The depression is, possibly, only temporary, and a natural consequence of reaction; and the zigzagging line on the chart, though it may never perhaps rise again to the point it once marked, yet may keep well at the normal—better, perhaps, at such a level than at fever heat. The old cry that we know so well on the mountains, that meets always with a ready thrill of response, may acquire a wider significance, and men will be found to answer to the familiar call of “VorwÄrts, immer vorwÄrts!”
After all, a century hence the mountaineering centres of to-day will perhaps still attract as they do now. It may be possible to get to Chamouni without submitting to the elaborately devised discomfort of the present Channel passage, and without the terrors of asphyxiation in the carriages of the Chemin de Fer du Nord. Surely the charm of the mountains must always draw men to the Alps, even though the glaciers [pg 319]may have shrunk up and sunk down, though places like Arolla and the Grimsel may have become thriving towns, or radical changes such as a drainage system at Chamouni have been instituted. If the glaciers do shrink, there will be all the more scope for the rock climber and the more opportunity of perfecting an art which has already been so much developed.
An Alpine Rip van Winkle
A Rip van Winkle of our day, waking up in that epoch of the future, would for certain find much that was unaltered. The same types of humanity would be around him. Conceive this somnolent hero of fiction, clad in a felt wideawake that had once been white, in knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, of which the seams had at one time held together, supporting his bent frame and creaking joints on a staff with rusted spike and pick. He descends laboriously from a vehicle that had jolted impartially generations before him (for the carriages of the valley are as little liable to wear out, in the eyes of their proprietors, as the “wonderful one-hoss shay”). He finds himself on a summer evening by the HÔtel de Ville at Chamouni, and facing the newly erected Opera-house. He looks with wondering eyes around. A youth (great-great-great-great-grandson of Jacques Balmat) approaches and waits respectfully by his side, ready to furnish information.
“Why these flags and these rejoicings?” the old man asks.
[pg 320]
“To celebrate the tercentenary of the first ascent of Mont Blanc,” the boy answers.
The veteran gazes around, shading his eyes with his shrivelled hand. The travellers come in. First a triumphal procession of successful and intrepid mountaineers. Banners wave, cannon go off—or more probably miss fire—bouquets are displayed, champagne and compliments are poured out; both the latter expressions of congratulation equally gassy, and both about equally genuine.
“Who are these?” the old man inquires.
“Do you not see the number on their banner?” answers the youth; “they are the heroes of the forty-fifth section of the tenth branch of the northern division of the Savoy Alpine Club.”
“Ah!” the old man murmurs to himself, with a sigh of recollection, “I can remember that they were numerous even in my day.”
Then follows a sad-looking, dejected creature, stealing back to his hotel by byways, but with face bronzed from exposure on rocks, not scorched by sun-reflecting snow; his boots scored with multitudinous little cuts and scratches telling of difficult climbing; his hands as brown as his face; his finger-nails, it must be admitted, seriously impaired in their symmetry.
“And who is this? Has he been guilty of some crime?” the old man asks.
“Not so,” the answer comes; “he has just com[pg 321]pleted the thousandth ascent of the Aiguille...; he comes of a curious race which, history relates, at one time much frequented these districts; but that was a great while ago—long before the monarchy was re-established. You do well to look at him; that is the last of the climbing Englishmen. They always seem depressed when they have succeeded in achieving their ambition of the moment; it is a characteristic of their now almost extinct race.”
Mountaineering in the future
“And what about the perils of the expedition?” the old man asks, brightening up a little as if some old ideas had suddenly flashed across his mind. “I would fain know whether the journey is different now from what it was formerly; yet the heroes would mock me, perchance, if I were to interrogate them.”
“Not at all,” the youth replies. “There are but few of the first party who would not vouchsafe to give you a full account, and might even in their courtesy embellish the narrative with flowers of rhetoric. But it is unnecessary. They will print a detailed and full description of their exploits. It has all been said before, but so has everything else, I think.”
“That is true,” the old man murmurs to himself; “it was even so in my time, and two hundred years before I lived a French writer commenced his book with the remark, ‘Tout est dit.’ But what of the other, the dejected survivor? does he not too write?”
“Yes, indeed, but not in the same strain; he will [pg 322]but pour out a little gentle sarcasm and native spleen, in mild criticism of the fulsome periods he peruses in other tongues.”
“Ah me!” thinks the old man, “in one respect then I need not prove so much behind the time. If the memory of the Alpine literature of my day were still fresh, I could hold mine own with those I see around.”
May I be permitted, in conclusion, to come back to our own day, and to say a very few words on the subject of mountaineering accidents? Most heartily would I concur with any one who raised the objection that such remarks are out of place in a chapter on the mountaineering of the future. But perhaps we have been looking too far ahead, and there may be a period to follow between this our time and the future to be hoped for.
Dangers of the Alps
It has sometimes been stated and written that no one desires to remove from mountaineering all danger. The dangers of mountaineering have been divided by a well-known authority into real and imaginary. The supposed existence of the latter is, I grant, desirable, especially to the inexperienced climber; but I shall always contend that it ought to be the great object of every votary of the pursuit to minimise the former to the utmost of his ability. Now, it is only by true experience—that is, by learning gradually the art of mountaineering—that the climber will achieve this result. Few of those unacquainted with the subject [pg 323]can have any idea of the extraordinary difference between the risk run on a difficult expedition (that is, on one where difficulties occur: the name of the peak or pass has little to do with the matter) by a practised mountaineer who has learned something of the art, and an inexperienced climber who has nothing but the best intentions to assist his steps. The man of experience bears always in mind the simple axioms and rules of his craft; if he does not he is a bad mountaineer. If the plain truth be told, accidents in the Alps have almost invariably, to whomsoever they befell, been due to breaking one or more of these same well-known rules, or, in other words, to bad mountaineering. That such is no more than a simple statement of fact a former president of the Alpine Club, Mr. C. E. Mathews, has abundantly proved.14 Numbers of our countrymen, young and old, annually rush out to the Alps for the first time. Fired with ambition, or led on by the fascination of the pastime, with scarcely any preliminary training and no preliminary study of the subject, they at once begin to attack the more difficult peaks and passes. Success perhaps attends their efforts. Unfit, they go up a difficult mountain, trusting practically to the ability of the guides to do their employers’ share of the work as well as their own. They descend, and think to gauge [pg 324]their skill by the name of the expedition undertaken. The state of the weather and of the mountain determine whether such a performance be an act of simple or of culpable folly. For such the imaginary dangers are the most formidable. If they had taken the trouble to begin at the beginning, to learn the difference between the stem and stern of a boat before attempting to navigate an ironclad, they would have recognised, and profited by, the true risks run. As it is, they are probably inflated with conceit at overcoming visionary difficulties. They may make, indeed, in this way what in Alpine slang is called a good “book;” but by far the greater number fail to perceive that there is anything to learn. It is a pastime—an amusement; they do not look beyond this. But these same climbers would admit that in other forms of sport, such as cricket or rowing, proficiency is not found in beginners. It is in the study and development of the amusement that the true and deeper pleasure is to be found. A tyro in cricket would make himself an object of ridicule in a high-class match; the novice in the art of rowing would be loth to display his feeble powers if thrust into a racing four with three tried oarsmen; and yet the embryo climber can see nothing absurd in attacking mountains of recognised difficulty. Inexperience in the former instances at least could cause no harm, while ignorance of the elementary principles of moun[pg 325]taineering renders the climber a serious source of danger not only to himself but to others. There is no royal road to the acquirement of mountaineering knowledge. It is just as difficult to use the axe or alpenstock properly as the oar or the racquet; just as much patient, persevering practice is needed; but it is not on difficult expeditions that such inexperience can be best overcome.
The real mountaineer
A man of average activity could, probably, actually climb, without any particular experience, most of, or all, the more difficult rock peaks under good conditions of weather and the like. But how different from the really practical mountaineer, who strives to make an art of his pastime. Watch the latter. First and foremost, he knows when to turn back, and does not hesitate to act as his judgment directs. He bears in mind that there is pleasure to be obtained from mountaineering even though the programme may not be carried out in its entirety as planned, and realises to the full that
’Tis better to have climbed and failed
Than never to have climbed at all.
His companions are always safe with him, his climbing unselfish; he never dislodges a loose stone—except purposely—either with hands, feet, or the loose rope; he is always as firm as circumstances will permit, prepared to withstand any sudden slip; he never puts forth more strength at each step than is [pg 326]necessary, thus saving his powers, being always ready in an emergency, and never degenerating into that most dangerous of encumbrances, a tired member of a united party: not, of course, that the vast majority of amateurs can ever hope, with their imperfect practice, to attain to the level of even a second-rate guide; still, by bringing his intelligence to bear on this, as he does on any other amusement, the amateur can render himself something more than a thoroughly reliable companion on any justifiable expedition.
Conclusion
Let the spirit of competition lead young climbers to strive after excellence in this direction, rather than, as is too commonly the case, induce them to take “Times” as the criterion of mountaineering proficiency. There are instructors enough. Even from an inferior guide an infinite amount may be learnt; at the least such a one can recognise the real danger of the Alps, and in this respect possesses a faculty which is one of the chief the mountaineer has to acquire. Let the spirit in which the Alps are climbed be of some such nature as that I have attempted to indicate, and accidents such as those recorded in Mr. C. E. Mathews’ grim list will be of such rare occurrence that they will never be called up to discredit mountaineering. If, perchance, any words here written shall prompt in the future the climber to perfect his art more and more while frequenting [pg 327]the old haunts, and to extend and utilise mountaineering still more, then at least the writer may feel, like the mountain when it had brought forth the ridiculous mouse, that his labour has not been wholly in vain. Yet more: his gloomy forebodings shall be falsified, and with respect to the future of mountaineering the outlook will be bright enough.
LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET
