CHAPTER I.
On the 23d of July 1860, I started for my first tour in the Alps. As we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view, and recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence of ignorance, my brother4 and I, schoolboys both, had tried to scale that great chalk cliff. Not the head itself—where sea-birds circle, and where the flints are ranged so orderly in parallel lines—but at a place more to the east, where the pinnacle called the Devil’s Chimney had fallen down. Since that time we have been often in dangers of different kinds, but never have we more nearly broken our necks than upon that occasion.
In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of [pg 2]a house in the Quartier Latin—to an artist friend, who was engaged, at the moment of my entry, in combat with a little Jew. He hurled him with great good-will, and with considerable force, into some of his crockery, and then recommended me to go up the towers of Notre Dame. Half-an-hour later I stood on the parapet of the great west front, by the side of the leering fiend which for centuries has looked down upon the great city, and then took rail to Switzerland; saw the sunlight lingering on the giants of the Oberland; heard the echoes from the cow-horns in the Lauterbrunnen valley and the avalanches rattling off the Jungfrau; and crossed the Gemmi into the Valais.
I was bound for the valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the Alps on either side; far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of tourists. The view from the slopes of the Weissmies, on the eastern side of the valley, 5000 or 6000 feet above the village of Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of the three-peaked Mischabel (the highest mountain in Switzerland) is seen at one glance; 11,000 feet of dense forests, green alps, rocky pinnacles, and glittering glaciers. The peaks seemed to me then to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.
I next descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and went up the Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days. Numerous traces of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years before still remained; particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants had been terrified beyond measure at the destruction of their churches and houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a large part of the population was obliged to live under canvas for several months. It is remarkable that there was hardly a life lost [pg 3]on this occasion, although there were about fifty shocks, some of which were very severe.
At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad, and my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in attempts to sketch near the HÖrnli, and in futile endeavours to seize the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds peered out from above the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt by the usual path, and to cross the Gorner glacier to the Riffel hotel. After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snowbeds which skirt the base of the ThÉodule glacier, and wading through some of the streams which flow from it, at that time much swollen by the late rains, the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice about three hundred feet high. It seemed that it would be easy enough to cross the glacier if the cliff could be descended; but higher up, and lower down, the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another. At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock. Nothing, except the glacier, could be seen below. It was an awkward place, but I passed it at length by lying across the slab, putting the shoulders stiffly against one side, and the feet against the other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was seen, into which the point of the baton could be stuck, and I dropped down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself. The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little bay, on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the edge of the ice was higher [pg 4]than the opposite edge of rock; and worse, the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both directions, the ice did not touch it, but there was this marginal crevasse, seven feet wide, and of unknown depth.
All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower down; but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at last further progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of the ice; without one I saw there was no alternative but to return and face the jump.
Night was approaching, and the solemn stillness of the High Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks. If the jump should be successful,—well; if not, I fell into that horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself, “Can it be done?” It must be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it and the sketch-book to the ice, and first retreating as far as possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees.
The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel,5 which was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people obligingly suggested getting a man at the chalets, otherwise the path would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the chalets no man could be found, and the lights [pg 5]of Zermatt, shining through the trees, seemed to say, “Never mind a guide, but come along down, I’ll show you the way;” so off I went through the forest, going straight towards them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered. I was tripped up by pine-roots, tumbled over rhododendron bushes, fell over rocks. The night was pitch dark, and after a time the lights of Zermatt became obscure, or went out altogether. By a series of slides, or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through the forest was at length accomplished; but torrents of formidable character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly; by an exhaustive process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with dirt and scratches, re-entered the inn which I had quitted in the morning.
Illustration: The church in difficulties
Others besides tourists get into difficulties. A day or two afterwards, when on the way to my old station, near the HÖrnli, I met a stout curÉ who had essayed to cross the ThÉodule pass. His strength or his wind had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide; while the peasants stood by, with folded hands, their reverence for the church almost overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.
I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the slopes of the Dom,6 in order to see the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent. On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom (that [pg 6]is, immediately opposite) this Bies glacier seems to descend nearly vertically. It does not do so, although it is very steep. Its size is much less than formerly, and the lower portion, now divided into three tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached.
Illustration: At the St. Bernard
Arriving once more in the Rhone valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from thence ascended the Eggischorn; on which unpleasant eminence I lost my way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterwards. Then, after crossing the Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, passed on to Brienz, Interlachen, and Bern; and thence to Fribourg and Morat, NeuchÂtel, Martigny, and the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me enter. He wondered at the weight of my knapsack, and I at the hardness of his bread. The saying that the monks make the toast in the winter that they give to tourists in the following season is not founded on truth; the winter is their most busy time of the year. But it is true they have exercised so much hospitality, that at times they have not possessed the means to furnish the fuel for heating their chapel in the winter.7
Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val Pelline, in order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night had come on before Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the curÉ’s house before it was opened. An old woman, with querulous voice, and with a large goÎtre, [pg 7]answered the summons, and demanded rather sharply what was wanted; but became pacific—almost good-natured—when a five-franc piece was held in her face, and she heard that lodging and supper were requested in exchange.
My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the head of this valley, to Breil,8 in the Val Tournanche, and the old woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a guide. Presently she introduced a native, picturesquely attired in high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat, and [pg 8]indigo pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable slopes of hard steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavoured to prop myself up with my stick, and kept it outside, instead of holding it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have been done. The man enlightened me; but he had, properly, a very small opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any further and would return to Biona. All argument was useless; he stood still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long snow-slopes, which still intervened between us and the head of the valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently there were some cliffs down which we had to scramble. He called to me to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down; but instead of doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up the cliff, and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers of more money, and waited for half-an-hour, but he did not appear again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack. The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breil, risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to Breil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me, and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends, and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable sums.
My sketches from Breil were made under difficulties, for my materials had been carried off. Nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more [pg 9]silica than plumbago. However, they were made, and the pass9 was again crossed, this time alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and reproach of which I was master. The man smiled when called a liar, and shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife when spoken of as a pig.
The following night was spent at Courmayeur, and the day after I crossed the Col Ferret to OrsiÈres, and on the next the TÊte Noire to Chamounix. The Emperor Napoleon arrived on the same day, and access to the Mer de Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the Montanvert as the Imperial party [pg 10]was leaving: the same afternoon failing to get to the Jardin, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier.
From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana was reached. The inn was full, and I was tired, and about to go to bed, when some village stragglers entered and began to sing. They sang to Garibaldi! The tenor, a ragged fellow, whose clothes were not worth a shilling, took the lead with wonderful expression and feeling. The others kept their places, and sang in admirable time. For hours I sat enchanted; and, long after I retired, the sound of their melody could be heard, relieved at times by the treble of the girl who belonged to the inn.
The next morning I passed the little lakes, which are the sources of the Po, on my way into France. The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting the patois of some natives—who in reality pointed out the right way—I missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A gap that was occasionally seen, in the ridge connecting it with the mountains to the east, tempted me up; and, after a battle with a snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was [pg 11]not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction blew one back staggering. But on the side of Italy, the valleys were completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and there—where they felt the influence of the wind—they were cut off as level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them.
I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the Guil to Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La BessÉe, at the junction of the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in full view of Mont Pelvoux; and by chance I walked into a cabaret where a Frenchman was breakfasting, who, a few days before, had made an unsuccessful attempt to ascend that mountain with three Englishmen and the guide Michel Croz of Chamounix;10 a right good fellow, by name Jean Reynaud.
The same night I slept at BrianÇon, intending to take the courier on the following day to Grenoble; but all places had been secured several days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the next day for a seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad; and on the summit of the Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek shelter in the wretched little hospice. It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and with noxious vapours which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside, it was disagreeable, but grand; inside, it was disagreeable and mean.11 The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down—so intense was the darkness—to the village of La Grave, where the people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that they did so; for, during that night, blocks of rock fell at several places from the cliffs on to the road with such force that they made large pits in the macadam. I resumed [pg 12]the walk at half-past five the next morning, and proceeded, under steady rain, through Bourg d’Oysans to Grenoble, arriving at the latter place soon after seven P.M., having accomplished the entire distance from BrianÇon in about eighteen hours of actual walking.
This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of 1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the passion for mountain-scrambling, the development of which is described in the following chapters.
[pg 13]
CHAPTER II.
THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.
“Thus fortune on our first endeavour smiles.”
Virgil.
The district of which Mont Pelvoux and the neighbouring summits are the culminating points,12 is, both historically and topographically, one of the most interesting in the Alps. As the nursery and the home of the Vaudois, it has claims to permanent attention. The names of Waldo and of Neff will be remembered when men [pg 14]more famous in their time will be forgotten; and the memory of the heroic courage and the simple piety of their disciples will endure as long as history lasts.
This district contains the highest summits in France, and some of its finest scenery. It has not perhaps the beauties of Switzerland, but has charms of its own; its cliffs, its torrents, and its gorges are unsurpassed; its deep and savage valleys present pictures of grandeur, and even sublimity, and it is second to none in the boldness of its mountain forms.
The district includes a mass of valleys which vie with each other in singularity of character and dissimilarity of climate. Some the rays of the sun can never reach, they are so deep and narrow.13 In others the very antipodes may be found; the temperature more like that of the plains of Italy than of Alpine France. This great range of climate has a marked effect on the flora of these valleys. Sterility reigns in some; stones take the place of trees; dÉbris and mud replace plants and flowers: in others, in the space of a few miles, one passes vines, apple, pear, and cherry trees, the birch, alder, walnut, ash, larch, and pine, alternating with fields of rye, barley, oats, beans, and potatoes.
The valleys are for the most part short and erratic. They are not, apparently, arranged on any definite plan. They are not disposed, as is frequently the case elsewhere, either at right angles to, or parallel with, the highest summits; but they wander hither and thither, take one direction for a few miles, then double back, and then perhaps resume their original course. Thus, long perspectives are rarely to be seen, and it is difficult to form a general idea of the disposition of the peaks.
The highest summits are arranged almost in a horse-shoe form. The highest of all, which occupies a central position, is the Pointe [pg 15]des Ecrins; the second in height, the Meije,14 is on the north; and the Mont Pelvoux, which gives its name to the entire block, stands almost detached by itself on the outside.
The district is still very imperfectly known; there are probably many valleys, and there are certainly many summits which have never been trodden by the feet of tourists or travellers; but in 1861 it was even less known. Until quite recently there was, practically, no map of it;15 General Bourcet’s, which was the best that was published, was completely wrong in its delineation of the mountains, and was frequently incorrect in regard to paths or roads.
The mountainous regions of DauphinÉ, moreover, are not supplied, like Switzerland, Tyrol, or even the Italian valleys, with accommodation for travellers. The inns, when they exist, are often filthy beyond description; rest is seldom obtained in their beds, or decent food found in their kitchens, and there are no local guides worth having. The tourist is thrown very much on his own resources, and it is not therefore surprising that these districts are less visited and less known than the rest of the Alps.
Most of the statements current in 1861 respecting these mountains had been derived from two authors16—M. Elie de Beaumont [pg 16]and the late Principal J. D. Forbes. Their works, however, contained numerous errors in regard to the identification of the peaks, and, amongst others, they referred the supremacy to the Mont Pelvoux, the highest point of which they termed the Pointe des Arcines, or des Ecrins. Principal Forbes erroneously identified the high peak seen from the valley of St. Christophe, with that seen from the valley of the Durance, and spoke of both as the Mont Pelvoux, and M. de Beaumont committed similar mistakes. In point of fact, at the time when M. de Beaumont and Forbes wrote their respective memoirs, the proper relation of the Mont Pelvoux to the neighbouring summits had been determined by the engineers employed on the survey for the map of France, but their observations were not then accessible to the public, although they had evidently been seen by M. de Beaumont. This party of surveyors, led by Captain Durand, made the ascent of Mont Pelvoux from the side of the Val d’Ailefroide—that is, from the direction of Val Louise—in 1828. According to the natives of the Val Louise, they got to the top of the second peak in height, and remained upon it, lodged in a tent for several days, at a height of 12,904 feet. They took numerous porters to carry wood for fires, and erected a large cairn on the summit, which has caused the name of Pic de la Pyramide to be given to their summit.
In 1848, M. Puiseux made the ascent from the same direction, but his Val Louisan guide stopped short of the summit, and allowed this courageous astronomer to proceed by himself.17
In the middle of August 1860, Messrs. Bonney, Hawkshaw, and Mathews, with Michel Croz of Chamounix, tried to ascend the Pelvoux, likewise from the same direction. These gentlemen spent [pg 17]several days and nights upon the mountain; and, encountering bad weather, only attained a height of 10,430 feet.
M. Jean Reynaud, of whom mention has been made in the preceding chapter, accompanied the party of Mr. Mathews, and he was of opinion that the attempt had been made too late in the season. He said that the weather was usually good enough for high mountain ascents only during the last few days of July, and the first ones of August,18 and suggested that we should attempt to ascend the mountain in the following year at that time. The proposition was a tempting one, and Reynaud’s cordial and modest manner made it irresistible, although there seemed small chance that we should succeed where a party such as that of Mr. Mathews had been beaten.
At the beginning of July 1861, I despatched to Reynaud from Havre, blankets (which were taxed as “prohibited fabrics”), rope, and other things desirable for the excursion, and set out on the tour of France; but, four weeks later, at NÎmes, found myself completely collapsed by the heat, then 94° Faht. in the shade, and took a night train at once to Grenoble.
Grenoble is a town upon which a volume might be written. Its situation is probably the finest of any in France, and the views from its high forts are superb. I lost my way in the streets of this picturesque and noisome town, and having but a half-hour left in which to get a dinner and take a place in the diligence, was not well pleased to hear that an Englishman wished to see me. It turned out to be my friend Macdonald, who confided to me that he was going to try to ascend a mountain called Pelvoux in the course of ten days. On hearing of my intentions, he agreed to join us at La BessÉe on the 3rd of August. In a few moments [pg 18]more I was perched in the banquette en route for Bourg d’Oysans, in a miserable vehicle which took nearly eight hours to accomplish less than 30 miles.
At five on a lovely morning I shouldered my knapsack and started for BrianÇon. Gauzy mists clung to the mountains, but melted away when touched by the sun, and disappeared by jerks (in the manner of views when focussed in a magic lantern), revealing the wonderfully bent and folded strata in the limestone cliffs behind the town. Then I entered the Combe de Malval, and heard the Romanche eating its way through that wonderful gorge, and passed on to Le Dauphin, where the first glacier came into view, tailing over the mountain-side on the right. From this place until the summit of the Col de Lautaret was passed, every gap in the mountains showed a glittering glacier or a soaring peak; the finest view was at La Grave, where the Meije rises by a series of tremendous precipices 8000 feet above the road.19 The finest distant view of the pass is seen after crossing the Col, near MonÊtier. A mountain, commonly supposed to be Monte Viso, appears at the end of the vista, shooting into the sky;20 in the middle distance, but still ten miles off, is BrianÇon with its interminable forts, and in the foreground, leading down to the Guisane, and rising high up the neighbouring slopes, are fertile fields, studded with villages and church spires. The next day I walked over from BrianÇon to La BessÉe, to my worthy friend Jean Reynaud, the surveyor of roads of his district.
All the peaks of Mont Pelvoux are well seen from La BessÉe—the highest point, as well as that upon which the engineers erected their cairn. Neither Reynaud nor any one else knew this. The natives knew only that the engineers had ascended one peak, and had seen from that one a still higher point, which they called the [pg 19]Pointe des Arcines or des Ecrins. They could not say whether this latter could be seen from La BessÉe, nor could they tell the peak upon which the cairn had been erected. We were under the impression that the highest point was concealed by the peaks which we saw, and would be gained by passing over them. They knew nothing of the ascent of Monsieur Puiseux, and they confidently asserted that the highest point of Mont Pelvoux had not been attained by any one. It was this point we wished to reach.
Nothing prevented our starting at once but the absence of Macdonald and the want of a bÂton. Reynaud suggested a visit to the postmaster, who possessed a bÂton of local celebrity. Down we went to the bureau; but it was closed: we halloed through the slits, but no answer. At last the postmaster was discovered endeavouring (with very fair success) to make himself intoxicated. He was just able to ejaculate, “France! ’tis the first nation in the world!” which is a phrase used by a Frenchman at times when [pg 20]a Briton would begin to shout, “We won’t go home till morning”—national glory being uppermost in the thoughts of one, and home in those of the other. The bÂton was produced; it was a branch of a young oak, about five feet long, gnarled and twisted in several directions. “Sir,” said the postmaster, as he presented it, “France! ’tis the first—the first nation in the world, by its”—he stuck. “BÂtons?” I suggested. “Yes, yes, sir; by its bÂtons, by its—its,” and here he could not get on at all. As I looked at this young limb, I thought of my own; but Reynaud, who knew everything about everybody in the village, said there was not a better one, so off we went with it, leaving the official staggering in the road and muttering, “France! ’tis the first nation in the world!”
The 3rd of August came, and Macdonald did not appear, so we started for the Val Louise; our party consisting of Reynaud, myself, and a porter, Jean Casimir Giraud, nicknamed “little nails,” the shoemaker of the place. An hour and a half’s smart walking took us to La Ville de Val Louise, our hearts gladdened by the glorious peaks of Pelvoux shining out without a cloud around them. I renewed acquaintance with the mayor of “La Ville.” His aspect was original, and his manners were gracious, but the odour which proceeded from him was dreadful.
Reynaud kindly undertook to look after the commissariat, and I found to my annoyance, when we were about to leave, that I had given tacit consent to a small wine-cask being carried with us, which was a great nuisance from the commencement. It was excessively awkward to handle; one man tried to carry it, and then another, and at last it was slung from one of our bÂtons, and was carried by two of us, which gave our party the appearance of a mechanical diagram to illustrate the uses of levers.
At “La Ville” the Val Louise splits into two branches—the Val d’Entraigues on the left and the Vallon d’Alefred (or Ailefroide) on the right; our route was up the latter, and we moved steadily forwards to the village of La Pisse, where Pierre SÉmiond lived, who [pg 21]was reputed to know more about the Pelvoux than any other man. He looked an honest fellow, but unfortunately he was ill and could not come. He recommended his brother, an aged creature, whose furrowed and wrinkled face hardly seemed to announce the man we wanted; but having no choice, we engaged him and again set forth. Walnut and a great variety of other trees gave shadow to our path and fresh vigour to our limbs; while below, in a sublime gorge, thundered the torrent, whose waters took their rise from the snows we hoped to tread on the morrow.
The Pelvoux could not be seen at La Ville, owing to a high intervening ridge; we were now moving along the foot of this to get to the chÂlets of Alefred, or, as they are sometimes called, AlÉfroide, where the mountain actually commences. From these chÂlets the subordinate, but more proximate, peaks appear considerably higher than the loftier ones behind, and sometimes completely conceal them. But the whole height of the peak, which in these valleys goes under the name of the “Grand Pelvoux,” is seen at one glance from its summit to its base, six or seven thousand feet of nearly perpendicular cliffs.
The chÂlets of Alefred are a cluster of miserable wooden huts [pg 22]at the foot of the Grand Pelvoux, and are close to the junction of the streams which descend from the glacier de SapeniÈre (or du SelÉ) on the left, and the glaciers Blanc and Noir on the right. We rested a minute to purchase some butter and milk, and SÉmiond picked up a disreputable-looking lad to assist in carrying, pushing, and otherwise moving the wine-cask.
Our route now turned sharply to the left, and all were glad that the day was drawing to a close, so that we had the shadows from the mountains. A more frightful and desolate valley it is scarcely possible to imagine; it contains miles of boulders, dÉbris, stones, sand, and mud; few trees, and they placed so high as to be almost out of sight; not a soul inhabits it; no birds are in the air, no fish in its waters; the mountain is too steep for the chamois, its slopes too inhospitable for the marmot, the whole too repulsive for the eagle. Not a living thing did we see in this sterile and savage valley during four days, except some few poor goats which had been driven there against their will.
It was a scene in keeping with the diabolical deed perpetrated here about four hundred years ago—the murder of the Vaudois of Val Louise, in the cavern which was now in sight, though high above us. Their story is very sad. Peaceful and industrious, for more than three centuries they had inhabited these retired valleys in tranquil obscurity. The Archbishops of Embrun endeavoured, though with little success, to get them within the pale of their church. Their efforts were aided by others, who commenced by imprisonments and torture,21 and at last adopted the method of burning them by hundreds at the stake.22
In the year 1488, Albert CattanÉe, Archdeacon of Cremona and [pg 23]legate of Pope Innocent VIII., would have anticipated the barbarities which at a later date roused the indignation of Milton and the fears of Cromwell;23 but, driven everywhere back by the Waldenses of Piedmont, he left their valleys and crossed the Mont GenÈvre to attack the weaker and more thinly populated valleys of the Vaudois in DauphinÉ. At the head of an army which is said to have been composed of vagabonds, robbers, and assassins (who had been tempted to his banner by promises of absolution beforehand, of being set free from the obligation of vows which they might have made, and by the confirmation of property to them which they might have wrongfully acquired), as well as regular troops, CattanÉe poured down the valley of the Durance. The inhabitants of the Val Louise fled before a host that was ten times their number, and took up their abode in this cavern, where they had collected provisions sufficient for two years. But intolerance is ever painstaking; their retreat was discovered. CattanÉe had a captain who combined the resources of a Herod to the cruelty of a Pelissier, and, lowering his men by ropes, fired piles of brushwood at the entrance to the cavern, suffocated the majority, and slew the remainder. The Vaudois were relentlessly exterminated, without distinction of age or sex. More than three thousand persons, it is said, perished in this frightful massacre; the growth of three hundred and fifty years was destroyed at one blow, and the valley was completely depopulated. Louis XII. caused it to be re-peopled, and, after another three centuries and a half, behold the result—a race of monkeys.24
[pg 24] We rested a little at a small spring, and then hastened onwards till we nearly arrived at the foot of the SapeniÈre glacier, when SÉmiond said we must turn to the right, up the slopes. This we did, and clambered for half-an-hour through scattered firs and fallen boulders. Then evening began to close in rapidly, and it was time to look for a resting-place. There was no difficulty in getting one, for all around there was a chaotic assemblage of rocks. We selected the under side of a boulder which was more than fifty feet long by twenty high, cleared out the rubbish, and then collected wood for a fire.
I have a pleasant recollection of that camp-fire. The wine-cask had got through all its troubles; it was tapped, and the Frenchmen seemed to derive some consolation from its execrable contents. Reynaud chanted scraps of French songs, and each contributed his share of joke, story, or verse. The weather was perfect, and our prospects for the morrow were good. My companions’ joy culminated when a packet of red fir was thrown into the flames. It hissed and bubbled for a moment or two, and then broke out into a grand flare. The effect of the momentary light was magnificent; the mountains all around were illuminated for a second, and then relapsed into their solemn gloom. One by one our party dropped off to sleep, and at last I got into my blanket-bag. It was hardly necessary, for although we were at a height of at least 7000 feet, the minimum temperature was above 40° Fahrenheit.
We roused at three, and made a start at half-past four. Giraud had been engaged as far as this rock only, but as he wished to go on, we allowed him to accompany us. We mounted the slopes and quickly got above the trees, then had a couple of hours’ clambering over bits of precipitous rock and banks of dÉbris, and, at a quarter to seven, got to a narrow glacier—Clos de l’Homme—which streamed out of the plateau on the summit, [pg 25]and nearly reached the glacier de SapeniÈre. We worked as much as possible to the right, in hopes that we should not have to cross it, but were continually driven back, and at last we found that over we must go. Old SÉmiond had a strong objection to the ice, and made explorations on his own account to endeavour to avoid it; but Reynaud and I preferred to cross it, and Giraud stuck to us. It was narrow—in fact, one could throw a stone across—and it was easily mounted on the side; but in the centre swelled into a steep dome, up which we were obliged to cut. Giraud stepped forward and said he should like to try his hand, and having got hold of the axe, would not give it up; and here, as well as afterwards when it was necessary to cross the gullies filled with hard snow, which abound on the higher part of the mountain, he did all the work, and did it admirably.
Old SÉmiond of course came after us when we got across. We then zigzagged up some snow-slopes, and shortly afterwards commenced to ascend the interminable array of buttresses which are the great peculiarity of the Pelvoux.25 They were very steep in many places, yet on the whole afforded good hold, and no climbing should be called difficult which does that. Gullies abounded among them, sometimes of great length and depth. They were frequently rotten, and would have been difficult for a single man to pass. The uppermost men were continually abused for dislodging rocks and for harpooning those below with their bÂtons. However, without these incidents the climbing would have been dull—they helped to break the monotony.
We went up chimneys and gullies by the hour together, and always seemed to be coming to something, although we never got to it. The outline sketch will help to explain the situation. We stood at the foot of a great buttress—perhaps about 200 feet high—and looked up. It did not go to a point as in the diagram, because we could not see the top; although we felt convinced [pg 26]that behind the fringe of pinnacles we did see there was a top, and that it was the edge of the plateau we so much desired to attain. Up we mounted, and reached the pinnacles; but, lo! another set was seen,—and another,—and yet more—till at last we reached the top, and found it was only a buttress, and that we must descend 40 or 50 feet before we could commence to mount again. When this operation had been performed a few dozen times, it began to be wearisome, especially as we were in the dark as to our whereabouts. SÉmiond, however, encouraged us, and said he knew we were on the right route,—so away we went once more.
It was now nearly mid-day, and we seemed no nearer the summit of the Pelvoux than when we started. At last we all joined together and held a council. “SÉmiond, old friend, do you know where we are now?” “Oh yes, perfectly, to a yard and a half.” “Well, then, how much are we below this plateau?” He affirmed we were not half-an-hour from the edge of the snow. “Very good; let us proceed.” Half-an-hour passed, and then another, but we were still in the same state,—pinnacles, buttresses, and gullies were in profusion, but the plateau was not in sight. So we called him again—for he had been staring about latterly, as if in doubt—and repeated the question. “How far below are we now?” Well, he thought it might be half-an-hour more. “But you said that just now; are you sure we are going right?” Yes, he believed we were. Believed! that would not do. “Are you sure we are going right for the Pic des Arcines?” “Pic des Arcines!” he ejaculated in astonishment, as if he had heard the words for the first time. “Pic des Arcines; no! but for the pyramid, the celebrated pyramid he had helped the great Capitaine Durand,” &c.
Here was a fix;—we had been talking about it to him for a [pg 27]whole day, and now he confessed he knew nothing about it. I turned to Reynaud, who seemed thunderstruck. “What did he suggest?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” we said, after explaining our minds pretty freely to SÉmiond, “the sooner we turn back the better, for we have no wish to see your pyramid.”
We halted for an hour, and then commenced the descent. It took us nearly seven hours to come down to our rock; but I paid no heed to the distance, and do not remember anything about it. When we got down we made a discovery which affected us as much as the footprint in the sand did Robinson Crusoe: a blue silk veil lay by our fireside. There was but one explanation,—Macdonald had arrived; but where was he? We soon packed our baggage, and tramped in the dusk, through the stony desert, to Alefred, where we arrived about half-past nine. “Where is the Englishman?” was the first question. He was gone to sleep at La Ville.
We passed that night in a hay-loft, and in the morning, after settling with SÉmiond, posted down to catch Macdonald. We had already determined on the plan of operation, which was to get him to join us, return, and be independent of all guides, simply taking the best man we could get as a porter. I set my heart on Giraud,—a good fellow, with no pretence, although in every respect up to the work. We were disappointed; he was obliged to go to BrianÇon.
The walk soon became exciting. The natives inquired the result of our expedition, and common civility obliged us to stop. But I was afraid of losing my man, for it was said he would wait only till ten o’clock, and that time was near at hand. At last I dashed over the bridge,—time from Alefred an hour and a quarter. A cantonnier stopped me, saying that the Englishman had just started for La BessÉe. I rushed after him, turned angle after angle of the road, but could not see him; at last, as I came round a corner, he was also just turning another, going very fast. I [pg 28]shouted, and luckily he heard me. We returned, reprovisioned ourselves at La Ville, and the same evening saw us passing our first rock, en route for another. I have said we determined to take no guide; but, on passing La Pisse, old SÉmiond turned out and offered his services. He went well, in spite of his years and disregard of truth. “Why not take him?” said my friend. So we offered him a fifth of his previous pay, and in a few seconds he closed with the offer. This time he came in an inferior position,—we were to lead, he to follow. Our second follower was a youth of twenty-seven years, who was not all that could be desired. He drank Reynaud’s wine, smoked our cigars, and quietly secreted the provisions when we were nearly starving. Discovery of his proceedings did not at all disconcert him, and he finished up by getting several items added to our bill at La Ville, which, not a little to his disgust, we disallowed.
This night we fixed our camp high above the tree-line, and indulged ourselves in the healthy employment of carrying our fuel up to it. The present rock was not so comfortable as the first, and, before we could settle down, we were obliged to turn out a large mass which was in the way. It was very obstinate, but moved at length; slowly and gently at first, then faster and faster, at last taking great jumps in the air, striking a stream of fire at every touch, which shone out brightly as it entered the gloomy valley below, and long after it was out of sight, we heard it bounding downwards, and then settle with a subdued crash on the glacier beneath. As we turned back from this curious sight, Reynaud asked if we had ever seen a torrent on fire, and told us that in the spring the Durance, swollen by the melting of the snow, sometimes brings down so many rocks that, where it passes through a narrow gorge at La BessÉe, no water whatever is seen, but only boulders rolling over and over, grinding each other into powder, and striking so many sparks that the stream looks as if it were on fire.
We had another merry evening with nothing to mar it; the [pg 29]weather was perfect, and we lay backward in luxurious repose, looking at the sky spangled with its ten thousand brilliant lights.
... “The ranges stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Their snows were flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black,
Against the whiteness at their back.”26 Illustration: Portrait of the late R. J. S. Macdonald
Macdonald related his experiences over the cafÉ noir. He had travelled day and night for several days in order to join us, but had failed to find our first bivouac, and had camped a few hundred yards from us under another rock, higher up the mountain. The next morning he discerned us going along a ridge at a great height above him, and as it was useless to endeavour to overtake us, he lay down and watched with a heavy heart until we had turned the corner of a buttress, and vanished out of sight.
Nothing but the heavy breathing of our already sound asleep comrades broke the solemn stillness of the night. It was a silence to be felt. Nothing? Hark! what is that dull booming sound above us? Is that nothing? There it is again, plainer—on it comes, nearer, clearer; ’tis a crag escaped from the heights above! What a fearful crash! We jump to our feet. Down it comes with awful fury; what power can withstand its violence? Dancing, leaping, flying; dashing against others; roaring as it descends. Ah, it has passed! No; there it is again, and we hold our breath, as, with resistless force and explosions like artillery, it darts past, with an avalanche of shattered fragments trailing in its rear! ’Tis [pg 30]gone, and we breathe more freely as we hear the finale on the glacier below.27
We retired at last, but I was too excited to sleep. At a quarter-past four every man once more shouldered his pack and started. This time we agreed to keep more to the right, to see if it were not possible to get to the plateau without losing any time by crossing the glacier. To describe our route would be to repeat what has been said before. We mounted steadily for an hour and a half, sometimes walking, though more frequently climbing, and then found, after all, that it was necessary to cross the glacier. The part on which we struck came down a very steep slope, and was much crevassed. The word crevassed hardly expresses its appearance—it was a mass of formidable sÉracs. We found, however, more difficulty in getting on than across it; and, thanks to the rope, it was passed in safety. Then the interminable buttresses began again. Hour after hour we proceeded upwards, frequently at fault, and obliged to descend. The ridge behind us had sunk long ago, and we looked over it, and all others, till our eyes rested on the majestic Viso. Hour after hour passed, and monotony was the order of the day. When twelve o’clock came we lunched, and contemplated the scene with satisfaction; all the summits in sight, with the single exception of the Viso, had given in, and we looked over an immense expanse—a perfect sea of peaks and snow-fields. Still the pinnacles rose above us, and opinions were freely uttered that we should see no summit of Pelvoux that day. Old SÉmiond had become a perfect bore to all; whenever one rested for a moment to look about, he would say, with a complacent chuckle, “Don’t be afraid, follow me.” We came at last to a very bad piece, rotten and steep, and no hold. Here Reynaud and Macdonald confessed to being tired, and talked of going to sleep. A way was discovered out of the difficulty; then some one called out, “Look at the Viso!” and we saw that we [pg 31]almost looked over it. We worked away with redoubled energy, and at length caught sight of the head of the glacier as it streamed out of the plateau. This gave us fresh hopes; we were not deceived; and with a simultaneous shout we greeted the appearance of our long-wished-for snows. A large crevasse separated us from them; but a bridge was found; we tied ourselves in line, and moved safely over it. Directly we got across, there rose before us a fine snow-capped peak. Old SÉmiond cried, “The pyramid! I see the pyramid!” “Where, SÉmiond, where?” “There; on the top of that peak.”
Illustration: Outline to show route up Mont Pelvoux
There, sure enough, was the cairn he had helped to erect more than thirty years before. Where was the Pic des Arcines which we were to see? It was nowhere visible—there was only a great expanse of snow, bordered by three lower peaks. Somewhat sadly we moved towards the pyramid, sighing that there was no other to conquer; but hardly had we gone two hundred paces, before there rose a superb white cone on the left, which had been hidden before by a slope of snow. We shouted, “The Pic des Arcines!” and [pg 32]inquired of SÉmiond if he knew whether that peak had been ascended. As for him, he knew nothing, except that the peak before us was called the pyramid, from the cairn he had, etc. etc., and that it had not been ascended since. “All right then—face about,” and we immediately turned at right angles for the cone, the porter making faint struggles for his beloved pyramid. Our progress was stopped, in the sixth of a mile, by the edge of the ridge connecting the two peaks, and we perceived that it curled over in a lovely volute. We involuntarily retreated. SÉmiond, who was last in the line, took the opportunity to untie himself, and refused to come on; said we were running dangerous risks, and talked vaguely of crevasses. We tied him up again, and proceeded. The snow was very soft; we were always knee-deep, and sometimes floundered in up to the waist; but a simultaneous jerk before and behind always released one. By this time we had arrived at the foot of the final peak. The left-hand ridge seemed easier than that upon which we stood, so we curved round to get to it. Some rocks peeped out 150 feet below the summit, and up these we crawled, leaving our porter behind, as he said he was afraid. I could not resist the temptation, as we went off, to turn round and beckon him onwards, saying, “Don’t be afraid—follow me,” but he did not answer to the appeal, and never went to the top. The rocks led to a short ridge of ice—our plateau on one side, and a nearly vertical precipice on the other. Macdonald cut up it, and at a quarter to two we stood shaking hands on the loftiest summit of the conquered Pelvoux.
The day still continued everything that could be desired, and, far and near, countless peaks burst into sight, without a cloud to hide them. The mighty Mont Blanc, full seventy miles away, first caught our eyes, and then, still farther off, the Monte Rosa group; while, rolling away to the east, one unknown range after another succeeded in unveiled splendour; fainter and fainter in tone, but still perfectly defined, till at last the eye was unable to distinguish sky from mountain, and they died away in the far-off horizon. [pg 33]Monte Viso rose up grandly, but it was less than forty miles away, and we looked over it to a hazy mass we knew must be the plains of Piedmont. Southwards a blue mist seemed to indicate the existence of the distant Mediterranean; to the west we looked over to the mountains of Auvergne. Such was the panorama; a view extending in nearly every direction for more than one hundred miles. It was with some difficulty we wrenched our eyes from the more distant objects to contemplate the nearer ones. Mont Dauphin was very conspicuous, but La BessÉe was not readily perceived. Besides these places not a habitation could be seen; all was rock, snow, or ice; and, large as we knew were the snow-fields of DauphinÉ, we were surprised to find that they very far surpassed our most ardent imagination. Nearly in a line between us and the Viso, immediately to the south of Chateau Queyras, was a splendid group of mountains of great height. More to the south an unknown peak seemed still higher; while close to us we were astonished to discover that there was a mountain which appeared even higher than that on which we stood. At least this was my opinion; Macdonald thought that it was not so high, and Reynaud that it was much about the same elevation as our own peak.
This mountain was distant a couple of miles or so, and was separated from us by a tremendous abyss, the bottom of which we could not see. On the other side rose this mighty wall-sided peak, too steep for snow, black as night, with sharp ridges and pointed summit. We were in complete ignorance of its whereabouts, for none of us had been on the other side. We imagined that La BÉrarde was in the abyss at our feet, although it was in reality beyond the other mountain.28
[pg 34] We left the summit at last, and descended to the rocks and to our porter, where I boiled some water, obtained by melting snow. After we had fed, and smoked our cigars (lighted without difficulty from a common match), we found it was ten minutes past three, and high time to be off. We dashed, waded, and tumbled for twenty-five minutes through the snow, and then began the long descent of the rocks. It was nearly four o’clock, and, as it would be dark at eight, it was evident that there was no time to be lost, and we pushed on to the utmost. Nothing remarkable occurred going down. We kept rather closer to the glacier, and crossed at the same point as in the morning. Getting off it was like getting on it—rather awkward. Old SÉmiond had got over—so had Reynaud; Macdonald came next, but, as he made a long stretch to get on to a higher mass, he slipped, and would have been in the bowels of a crevasse in a moment had he not been tied.
It was nearly dark by the time we had crossed, yet I still hoped that we should be able to pass the night at our rock. Macdonald was not so sanguine, and he was right; for at last we found ourselves quite at fault, and wandered helplessly up and down for an hour, while Reynaud and the porter indulged in a little mutual abuse. The dreary fact, that, as we could not get down, we must stay where we were, was now quite apparent.
We were at least 10,500 feet high, and if it commenced to rain or snow, as the gathering clouds and rising wind seemed to threaten, we might be in a sore plight. We were hungry, having eaten little since 3 A.M., and a torrent we heard close at hand, but could not discover, aggravated our thirst. SÉmiond endeavoured to get some water from it. Although he succeeded in doing so, he was wholly unable to return, and we had to solace him by shouting at intervals through the night.
A more detestable locality for a night out of doors it is difficult to imagine. There was not shelter of any kind; it was perfectly exposed to the chilly wind which began to rise, and it was too steep to promenade. Loose rubbly stones covered the ground, and [pg 35]had to be removed before we could sit with any comfort. This was an advantage, although we hardly thought so at the time, as it gave us some employment, and, after an hour’s active exercise of that interesting kind, I obtained a small strip about nine feet long, on which it was possible to walk. Reynaud was furious at first, and soundly abused the porter, whose opinion as to the route down had been followed rather than that of our friend, and at last settled down to a deep dramatic despair, and wrung his hands with frantic gesture, as he exclaimed, “Oh, malheur, malheur! Oh misÉrables!”
Thunder commenced to growl, and lightning to play among the peaks above, and the wind, which had brought the temperature down to nearly freezing-point, began to chill us to the bones. We examined our resources. They were six and a half cigars, two boxes of vesuvians, one-third of a pint of brandy-and-water, and half-a-pint of spirits of wine: rather scant fare for three fellows who had to get through seven hours before daylight. The spirit-lamp was lighted, and the remaining spirits of wine, the brandy and some snow, were heated by it. It was a strong liquor, and we wished for more of it. When it was consumed, Macdonald endeavoured to dry his socks by the lamp, and then the three lay down under my plaid to pretend to sleep. Reynaud’s woes were aggravated by toothache; Macdonald somehow managed to close his eyes.
The longest night must end, and ours did at last. We got down to our rock in an hour and a quarter, and found the lad not a little surprised at our absence. He said he had made a gigantic fire to light us down, and shouted with all his might; we neither saw the fire nor heard his shouts. He said we looked a ghastly crew, and no wonder; it was our fourth night out.
We feasted at our cave, and performed some very necessary ablutions. The persons of the natives are infested by certain agile creatures—rapid of motion, numerous, and voracious. It is dangerous to approach too near, and one has to study the wind, [pg 36]so as to get on their weather-side. In spite of all such precautions my unfortunate companion and myself were being rapidly devoured alive. We only expected a temporary lull of our tortures, for the interiors of the inns are like the exteriors of the natives, swarming with this species of animated creation.
It is said that once, when these tormentors were filled with an unanimous desire, an unsuspecting traveller was dragged bodily from his bed! This needs confirmation. One word more, and I have done with this vile subject. We returned from our ablutions, and found the Frenchmen engaged in conversation. “Ah!” said old SÉmiond, “as to fleas, I don’t pretend to be different to anyone else,—I have them.” This time he certainly spoke the truth.
We got down to La Ville in good time, and luxuriated there for several days; played many games of bowls with the natives, and were invariably beaten by them. At last it was necessary to part, and I walked to Abries, by way of Mont Dauphin and the gorge of the Guil towards Monte Viso, while Macdonald went to BrianÇon.
I have not attempted to conceal that the ascent of Mont Pelvoux is of a rather monotonous character; the view from its summit can, however, be confidently recommended. A glance at a map will show that, with the single exception of the Viso, whose position is unrivalled, it is better situated than any other mountain of considerable height for viewing the whole of the Western Alps.
Our discovery that the peak which is to be called the Pointe des Ecrins was a separate and distinct mountain from Mont Pelvoux—and not its highest point—gave us satisfaction, although it was also rather of the nature of a disappointment.
On our return to La BessÉe we wrongly identified it with the peak which is seen from thence to the left of the Pelvoux. The two mountains bear a considerable resemblance to each other, so the mistake is not, perhaps, unpardonable. Although the latter [pg 37]mountain is one that is considerably higher than the Wetterhorn or Monte Viso, it has no name; we called it the Pic Sans Nom.
It has been observed by others that it is improbable the French surveyors should have remained for several days upon the Pic de la Pyramide without visiting the other and loftier summit. If they did, it is strange that they did not leave some memorial of their visit. The natives who accompanied them asserted that they did not pass from one to the other; we therefore claimed to have made the ascent of the loftiest point for the first time. The claim, however, cannot be sustained, on account of the ascent of M. Puiseux. It is a matter of little moment; the excursion had for us all the interest of a first ascent; and I look back upon this, my first serious mountain scramble, with more satisfaction, and with as much pleasure as upon any that is recorded in this volume.
A few days later, I left Abries to seek a quiet bundle of hay at Le Chalp—a village some miles nearer to the Viso. On approaching the place, the odour of sanctity became distinctly perceptible; and on turning a corner the cause was manifested—there was the priest of the place, surrounded by some of his flock. I advanced humbly, hat in hand, but almost before a word could be said, he broke out with, “Who are you?” “What are you?” “What do you want?” I endeavoured to explain. “You are a deserter; I know you are a deserter; go away, you can’t stay here; go to Le Monta, down there; I won’t have you here,” and he literally drove me away. The explanation of his strange behaviour was, that Piedmontese soldiers who were tired of the service had not unfrequently crossed the Col de la Traversette into the valley, and trouble had arisen from harbouring them. However, I did not know this at the time, and was not a little indignant that I, who was marching to the attack, should be taken for a deserter.
So I walked away, and shortly afterwards, as it was getting [pg 38]dark, encamped in a lovely hole—a cavity or kind of basin in the earth, with a stream on one side, a rock to windward, and some broken fir branches close at hand. Nothing could be more perfect: rock, hole, wood, and water. After making a roaring fire, I nestled in my blanket bag (an ordinary blanket sewn up double round the legs, with a piece of elastic riband round the open end), and slept, but not for long. I was troubled with dreams of the Inquisition; the tortures were being applied—priests were forcing fleas down my nostrils and into my eyes—and with red-hot pincers were taking out bits of flesh, and then cutting off my ears and tickling the soles of my feet. This was too much; I yelled a great yell and awoke, to find myself covered with innumerable crawling bodies. They were ants; I had camped by an ant-hill, and, after making its inhabitants mad with the fire, had coolly lain down in their midst.
The night was fine, and as I settled down in more comfortable quarters, a brilliant meteor sailed across full 60° of the cloudless [pg 39]sky, leaving a trail of light behind which lasted for several seconds. It was the herald of a splendid spectacle. Stars fell by hundreds; and not dimmed by intervening vapours, they sparkled with greater brightness than Sirius in our damp climate.
The next morning, after walking up the valley to examine the Viso, I returned to Abries, and engaged a man from a neighbouring hamlet, an inveterate smoker, and thirsty in proportion, whose pipe never left his mouth except to allow him to drink. We returned up the valley together, and slept in a hut of a shepherd, whose yearly wage was almost as small as that of the herdsman spoken of in Hyperion by Longfellow; and the next morning, in his company, proceeded to the summit of the pass which I had crossed in 1860. We were baffled in our attempt to get closer to the mountain. A deep notch29 with precipitous cliffs cut us off from it. The snow-slope, too, which existed in the preceding year on the Piedmontese side of the pass, was now wanting, and we were unable to descend the rocks which lay beneath. A fortnight afterwards the mountain was ascended for the first time by Messrs. Mathews and Jacomb, with the two Croz’s of Chamounix. Their attempt was made from the southern side, and the ascent, which was formerly considered a thing totally impossible, has become one of the most common and favourite excursions of the district.
The night of the 14th of August found me at St. Veran, a village made famous by Neff, but in no other respect remarkable, saving that it is one of the highest in Europe. The poor inn gave the impression of great poverty. There was no meat, no bread, [pg 40]no butter or cheese; almost the only things that could be obtained were eggs. The manners of the natives were primitive. The woman of the inn, without the least sense of impropriety, stayed in the room until I was fairly in bed, and her bill for supper, bed, and breakfast, amounted to one and sevenpence.
In this neighbourhood, and indeed all round about the Viso, the chamois still remain in considerable numbers. They said at St. Veran that six had been seen from the village on the day I was there, and the innkeeper declared that he had seen fifty together in the previous week! I myself saw in this and in the previous season several small companies round about the Viso. It is perhaps as favourable a district as any in the Alps for a sportsman who [pg 41]wishes to hunt the chamois, as the ground over which they wander is by no means of excessive difficulty.
The next day I descended the valley to Ville Vieille, and passed near the village of Molines, but on the opposite side of the valley, a remarkable natural pillar, in form not unlike a champagne bottle, about sixty feet high, which had been produced by the action of the weather, and, in all probability, chiefly by rain. These natural pillars are among the most remarkable examples of the potent effects produced by the long-continued action of quiet-working forces. They are found in several other places in the Alps, as well as elsewhere.
The village of Ville Vieille boasts of an inn with the sign of the Elephant; which, in the opinion of local amateurs, is a proof that Hannibal passed through the gorge of the Guil. I remember the place, because its bread, being only a month old, was unusually soft, and, for the first time during ten days, it was possible to eat some, without first of all chopping it into small pieces and soaking it in hot water, which produced a slimy paste on the outside, but left a hard untouched kernel.
The same day I crossed the Col Isoard to BrianÇon. It was the 15th of August, and all the world was en fÊte; sounds of revelry proceeded from the houses of ServiÈres as I passed over the bridge upon which the pyrrhic dance is annually performed,30 and natives in all degrees of inebriation staggered about the paths. It was late before the lights of the great fortress came into sight; but unchallenged I passed through the gates, and once more sought shelter under the roof of the Hotel de l’Ours.
