EASTER ON LES AVANTS.
We nearly lost our Naturalist between Paris and Lausanne. It was felt at
the time, more especially by the latest additions to the party, that
this would have been a great calamity. Habits, long acquired, of
stopping by the roadside and minutely examining weeds or bits of stone,
are not to be eradicated in a night's journey by rail. Accordingly,
wherever the train stopped the Naturalist was, at the last moment,
discovered to be absent, and search parties were organised with a
promptness that, before we reached Dijon, had become quite creditable.
But the success achieved begat a condition of confidence that nearly
proved fatal. In travelling on a French line there is only one thing
more remarkable than the leisurely way in which an express train gets
under way after having stopped at a station, and that is the excitement
that pervades the neighbourhood ten minutes before the train starts. Men
in uniform go about shrieking _"En voiture, messieurs, en voiture!"_ in
a manner that suggests to the English traveller that the train is
actually in motion, and that his passage is all but lost.
It was this habitude that led to our excitement at Melun. We had, after
superhuman efforts, got the Naturalist into the carriage, and had
breathlessly fallen back in the seat, expecting the train to move
forthwith. Ten minutes later it slowly steamed out of the station,
accompanied by the sound of the tootling horn and enveloped in thick
clouds of poisonous smoke. This sort of thing happening at one or two
other stations, we were induced to give our Naturalist an extra five
minutes to gather some fresh specimen of a rare grass growing between
the rails or some curious insect embedded in the bookstall. It was at
Sens that, growing bolder with success, we nearly did lose him,
dragging him in at the last moment, amid a scene of excitement that
could be equalled elsewhere only on the supposition that the station
was on fire and that five kegs of gunpowder were in the booking-office.
Shortly after leaving Dijon a conviction began to spread that perhaps if
the fates had proved adverse, and we had lost him somewhere under
circumstances that would have permitted him to come on by a morning
train, we might have borne up against the calamity. Amongst a
miscellaneous and imposing collection of scientific instruments, he was
the pleased possessor of an aneroid. This I am sure is an excellent and
even indispensable instrument at certain crises. But when you have been
so lucky as to get to sleep in a railway carriage on a long night
journey, to be awakened every quarter of an hour to be informed "how
high you are now" grows wearisome before morning.
It was the Chancery Barrister who was partly responsible for this. He
found it impossible to sleep, and our Naturalist, fastening upon him,
kept him carefully posted up in particulars of the increasing altitude.
This was the kind of thing that broke in upon our slumbers all through
the night:--
Our Naturalist: "1200 feet above the level of the sea."
The Chancery Barrister (in provokingly sleepy tone): "Ah!"
Then we turn over, and fall asleep again. A quarter of an hour later:
Our Naturalist: "1500 feet now."
Chancery Barrister: "Really!"
Another fitful slumber, broken by a strong presentiment that the
demoniacal aneroid is being again produced.
Our Naturalist (exultantly, as if he had privately arranged the incline,
and was justly boastful of his success): "2100 feet."
Chancery Barrister (evidently feeling that something extra is expected of
him): "No, _really_ now!"
This kind of thing through what should be the silent watches of the
night is to be deprecated, as tending to bring science into disrepute.
There was a good deal of excitement about the baggage. We were a
personally conducted party to the extent that the Hon. Member who had
suggested the trip, had undertaken the general direction, or had had
the office thrust upon him. Feeling his responsibility, he had,
immediately on arriving at Calais, changed some English money. This
was found very convenient. Nobody had any francs except the Member, so
we freely borrowed from him to meet trifling exigencies.
With the object of arriving at the best possible means of dealing with
the vexed question of luggage, a variety of expedients had been tried.
The Chancery Barrister, having read many moving narratives of raids made
upon registered luggage in the secrecy of the luggage van, had adopted a
course which displayed a profound knowledge of human nature. He had
argued with himself (as if he were a judge in chambers) that what proved
an irresistible temptation to foreign guards and other railway officials
was the appearance of boxes and portmanteaux iron-clasped,
leather-strapped, and double-locked. The inference naturally was that
they contained much that was valuable. Now, he had pointed out to
himself, if you take a directly opposite course, and, as it were, invite
the gentleman in charge of your luggage to open your portmanteau, he
will think you have nothing in it worth his attention, and will pass on
to others more jealously guarded. You can't very well leave your box
open, as the things might tumble out. So, as a happy compromise, he had
duly locked and strapped his portmanteau, and then tied the key to the
handle.
As he observes, with the shrewd perception that will inevitably lead him
to the Woolsack, "You are really helpless, and can do nothing to prevent
these gentlemen from helping themselves. If you leave the key there,
there is a fair chance of their treating your property as the Levite
treated the Good Samaritan. If not, your box will be decently opened
instead of having the lock broken or the hinges wrenched off."
That was a good idea, and proved triumphantly successful; for, on
arrival at Montreux, the Chancery Barrister's portmanteau turned up all
right, the key innocently reposing on the handle, and, as subsequent
investigation showed, the contents untouched.
Our Manufacturer had a still better way, though, as was urged, he comes
from Yorkshire, and we of the southern part of the island have no chance
in competition with the race. He lost his luggage somewhere between
Dover and Paris, and has ever since been free from all care on the
subject.
Perhaps it was the influence of these varied incidents that led to a
scene of some excitement on our arrival at Montreux station. There,
what was left of our luggage was disgorged, and of fourteen packages
registered, only nine were visible to the naked eye. It was then the
Patriarch came to the front and displayed some of those qualities which
subsequently found a fuller field amid the solitude of the Alps.
We call him the Patriarch because he is a grandfather. In other respects
he is the youngest of the party, the first on the highest peak, the
first down in the afternoon with his ready order for "tea for ten," of
which, if the party is late in arriving and he finds time hang heavy on
his hands, he will genially drink five cups himself. With the care of
half a dozen colossal commercial undertakings upon his mind, he is as
merry as a boy and as playful as a kitten. But when once aroused his
anger is terrible.
His thunder and lightning played around the station-master at Montreux
on the discovery of the absence of five packages. The Patriarch has a
wholesome faith in the all-sufficiency of the English language. The
station-master's sole lingual accomplishment was French. This
concatenation of circumstances might with ordinary persons have led to
some diminution of the force of adjuration. But probably the
station-master lost little of the meaning the Patriarch desired to
convey. This tended in the direction of showing the utter incapacity
of the Swiss or French nature to manage a railway, and the discreditable
incompetency of the officials of whatever grade. The station-master was
properly abashed before the torrent of indignant speech. But he had his
turn presently. Calmer inspection disclosed the fact that all the
fourteen packets were delivered. It was delightful to see how the
station-master, immediately assuming the offensive, followed the
Patriarch about with gesticulation indicative of the presence of the
baggage, and with taunting speech designed to make the Patriarch
withdraw his remarks--whatever they might have been. On this point
the station-master was not clear, but he had a shrewd suspicion that
they were not complimentary. The Patriarch, however, now retired upon
his dignity.
It was, as he said, no use arguing with fellows like this.
Les Avants sit high up among the mountains at the back of Montreux.
It seems madness to go there at a time when fires are still cheerful
and when the leaves have not yet put forth their greenness. But, as
was made apparent in due time, Les Avants, at no time inconveniently
cold, would be, but for the winds that blow over the snow-clad hills
surprisingly hot. To build an hotel here seems a perilously bold
undertaking. It is not on the way to anywhere, and people going from
the outer world must march up the hill, and, when they are tired of it,
must needs, like the Duke of York in his famous military expedition,
march down again. None but a Swiss would build an hotel here, and few
but English would frequent it. Yet the shrewdness of the proprietor has
been amply justified, and Les Avants is becoming in increasing degree
a favourite pilgrimage.
The hotel was built nearly twenty years ago. Previously the little
valley it dominates had been planted with one or two chalets which
for more than half a century have looked out upon the deathless snows
of the Dent du Midi. There is one which has rudely carved over the
lintel of its door the date 1816. Noting which, the Chancery Barrister,
with characteristic accuracy, observed that "five centuries look down
upon us."
Our landlord is an enterprising man. His business in life is to keep an
hotel, and the height of his ambition is to keep it well. Only a
fortnight ago he returned from a grand tour of the winter
watering-places, from the Bay of Biscay to the Bay of Genoa. The
ordinary attractions of the show places from Biarritz to Bordighera had
no lure for him. What he studied were the hotels and their various modes
of management. He told us, with a flush of pride on his sun-tanned
cheek, that he travelled as an ordinary tourist. There was no hint of
his condition or the object of his journey, no appeal to confraternity
with a view to getting bed and breakfast at trade prices, or some
reduction on the _table d'hôte_ charges. He travelled as a sort of Haroun
al Raschid among innkeepers, haughtily paying his bills, and possibly
feeing the waiters. He is a very good sort of a fellow, attentive and
obliging, and it is odd how we all agree in the hope that he was from
time to time over-charged.
It is a fair prospect looked out upon from the bedroom window on our
arrival. Almost at our feet, it seems, is the Lake of Geneva, though
we remember the wearisome climb up the hill, and know it must be miles
away. On the other side are the snow-clad hills that reach down to
Savoy on the east, and are crowned by the heights of the Dent du Midi
on the west. On the left, flanking our own place of abode, rise up the
grim heights of the Roches de Naye, and, still farther back, the Dent
du Jaman--a terrible tooth this, which draws attention from all the
country round, and excites the wildest ambition of the tourist. The man
or woman resting within a circuit of ten miles of Montreux, who has not
touched the topmost heights of the Dent du Jaman, goes home a crushed
person. A very small proportion do it, but every one talks of doing
it---which, unless the weather be favourable, is perhaps the wiser
thing to do. It fills a large place in the conversation as well as in
the landscape, and it will be a bad thing for the Lake of Geneva if
this tooth should ever be drawn.
Lovely as was the scene in the fresh morning air, with the glistening
snow, the dark pines on the lower hills, the blue lake, and the
greyish upland, they did but serve to frame the picture of the
Patriarch as he sat upon the bench in the front of the hotel. A short
jacket of blue serge, knickerbockers of the same material, displaying
the proportions of a notable pair of legs, the whole crowned by a
chimney-pot hat, went to make up a remarkable figure. The Patriarch
had in his hand a blue net for catching butterflies. The Naturalist
had excited his imagination by stories of the presence of the
"Camberwell Beauty," a rare and beautiful species of butterfly, of
which he was determined to take home a specimen. In later days he
was fair to see with his hat thrown back on his brow, his net in his
hand: and his stout legs twinkling in their haste to come up with a
butterfly.
The Alps have witnessed many strange sights since first they uplifted
their heads to heaven. But it is calculated that the Patriarch was
the first who brought under their notice the chimney-pot hat of the
civilised Englishman.
This haste to be up on the first morning was a faithful precursor of
the indomitable vitality of the Patriarch. He was always first up and
first off, and, amongst many charming peculiarities, was his
indifference as to which way the road lay. We generally had a guide
with us, and nothing was more common in toiling up a mountain side
than to discover the guide half a mile to the left and the Patriarch
half a mile to the right, something after the fashion of the letter Y,
we being at the stem. We saw a good deal more of the country than we
otherwise should have done, owing to the constant necessity of going
after the Patriarch and bringing him back. Sometimes he got away by
himself, at others he deluded some hapless member of the company into
following him. One young man, just called to the bar, had a promising
career almost cut short on the second day. In the innocence of his
heart he had followed the Patriarch, who led him through an apparently
impassable pine forest on to the crest of a remote hill, whence he
crawled down an hour late for luncheon, the Patriarch having arrived
ten minutes before him, and having already had his knife into every
receptacle for food that was spread out, from the loaf of bread to the
box of sardines, from the preserved peaches to the cup without a handle
that held the butter.
Walking up the hill behind the hotel on the way to the Jaman, the Member
had a happy idea. "Why," he asked, "should not the Parliamentary Session
be movable, like a reading party? Say the Bankruptcy Bill is referred
to a grand committee. What is to prevent them coming right off here and
settling down for a fortnight or three weeks, or in fact whatever time
might be necessary thoroughly to discuss the measure?"
They might do worse, we agreed, as we walked on, carefully selecting
the shady side of the road, and thinking of dear friends shivering in
England. The blue haze under which we know the lake lies; the Alps all
around, their green sides laced with snow and their heads covered with
it; the fleckless blue sky; the brown rocks, and over all and through
all the murmuring music of the invisible stream, as it trickles on its
way down the gorge, would be better accompaniments to a good grind at a
difficult Bill than any to be found within the precincts of Westminster.
"You remember what Virgil says?" the Chancery Barrister strikes in.
Divers things of diverse character we have discovered invariably remind
the Chancery Barrister of Virgil or Horace, occasionally perchance of
an English poet. This is very pleasant, and none the less so because
the reminiscences come slowly, gathering strength as they advance, like
the Chancery Barrister's laugh, which begins like the pattering of rain
on leaves, and ends in the roar of a thunderstorm. The Chancery
Barrister takes his jokes gently to begin with: he sees them afar off,
and, closing one eye, begins to smile. The smile broadens to a grin, the
grin becomes a cachinnation, then, as he hugs the fun, the cachinnation
deepens to a roar of laughter, and the thing is complete.
It is thus with his quotations, though these are not always
completed--at least, not in accordance with recognised authorities. As
one of the ladies says, with that kindliness peculiar to the sex, "The
Chancery Barrister is most original when he is making a quotation."
"What's that Wolsey says about the pomps and vanities of this world?"
"'Vain pomps and vanities of this world,'" the Chancery Barrister
begins, and we know we are in for a quotation. "No, not pomps and
vanities. 'Vain pomps and glories of this world' (that's it)--"
"'Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye.
I feel my heart new opened. O how wretched
Is the poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is betwixt the smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.'"
It's odd how one thing leads to another. By the time the Chancery
Barrister has got his quotation right, the Patriarch is half a mile
ahead in the wrong direction, and we all have to go and look for him.
The Col de Jaman is the salvation of many tourists. Not being regular
Alpine climbers, they start over the Dent and get as far as the Col,
rest awhile just under the great mountain molar, and come down. We had
a splendid day for our expedition. It had been freezing hard in the
night, and when we reached the snow region we found the pines frosted.
On the Col a beneficent commune has built some chalets furnished with
plentiful supply of firewood. Out of the sun it was bitterly cold, and
we were glad to light a fire, which crackled and roared up the broad
chimney and made a pretty accompaniment to the Chancery Barrister's
song about the Jolly Young Waterman. He sang it all in one key, and
that the wrong one. But it was a well-meant effort, and we all joined
in the chorus.
There's some talk to-day of a startling episode at an hotel up the
Rhone Valley. A Russian gentleman was sitting sipping his tea, when
there approached him a lady, who addressed him in three languages.
His replies not being satisfactory she shot him. This is cited by the
Chancery Barrister as showing the advantage of an early acquaintance
with foreign languages, and the desirableness of a pure accent.
It is quite agreed that if our Naturalist had been in the Russian's
place he would have been shot after the first question. This morning,
on ringing for his bath, he was answered by a chambermaid with a "Pas
encore." Why "not just yet" our Naturalist did not know. He was not
unusually early. But he had done his duty. He had tried to get up and
have his bath; it was not ready, so he might go back to bed with a
quiet conscience. Presently came another knock, and our Naturalist,
carefully robing himself, opened the door, and discovered the
chambermaid standing there with a plate, a knife, and a breakfast roll.
"What the dev----I mean _qu'c'est qu'c'est_?" he asked.
"_Monsieur a demandé le petit pain_," the girl replied, astonished at
his astonishment.
With great presence of mind he accepted the situation, took in the
bread, and did without his bath. The Member says that, coming upon him
suddenly amid the silence of the snow, he heard him practising the
slightly different sounds of _pain_ and _bain_.
Nothing but snow between the Col and the Dent du Jaman, but snow at its
very best, hard and dry. Just before we reach the top we come upon a
huge drift frozen hard and slippery. We might have gone round, but we
decided to try and climb. The Patriarch of course was first, and
achieved the task triumphantly. Others followed, and then came the
Chancery Barrister. Another step, and he would have safely landed.
But unhappily a quotation occurred to him.
"This is jolly," he said, turning half round, with the proud
consciousness that he was at the crest and that with another stride all
would be well; "what's that Horace says about enjoying what you have?"
"'Me pascant olivae,
Me cichorea, levesque malvae,
Frui paratis, et valido mihi,
Latoe, dones, et, precor, integra
Cum----'"
Here the most terrible contortion appeared on the generally pleasant
countenance of the Chancery Barrister. He clutched desperately at the
ice; but his suspicion was too true. He had begun to move downwards
("When he got to _cum_ he came," the Member, who makes bad jokes, says),
and with increasing impetus he slid down the bank. His face during the
terrible moments when he was not quite certain where he would stop, or
indeed whether he would ever stop, passed through a series of
contortions highly interesting to those on the bank above.
"_Me pascant olivae_!" cried the Member. "Olives are evidently no use as
a support in a case like yours, and diachylon would be more use to you
now than soft mallows."
The Chancery Barrister, who had happily reached the bottom, walked round
by a more accessible path, and nothing further either from Horace or
Virgil occurred to him for more than an hour.
Perhaps the difference in the weather had something to do with it, but
we found the Dent du Jaman not nearly so difficult to climb as the
Roches de Naye. After the scamper across the snow and the climb over
this little ice-collar down which the Chancery Barrister had slipped,
there is no more snow. We climb up by steps worn by the feet of many
adventurers. The top is a level cone with an area not much greater
than that of a moderate-sized dining-room. There was not a breath of
wind, and the sun beat down with a warmth made all the more delicious
by the recollection of the frozen region through which we had passed.
The Dent is only a trifle above six thousand feet high, but the prospect
as seen from it stretches far. Below is the Canton de Vaud, a portion of
the Jura chain of mountains, the far-reaching Alps of the Savoy, a bit
of the lake gleaming like an emerald under the white tops of the
mountains, a cloud on the southern horizon that the guide tells us are
the mountains of the Valais, and, still to the south just touched by the
sun, glitter the snow summits of the Great St. Bernard.
Coming down, we bivouac in the _châlet_, lighting up the fire again.
Here, twelve hundred feet lower down, it is bitterly cold, in spite
of, perhaps because of, the fire. The _châlet_ is built with commendable
deference to the necessity for ventilation. The wind, smelling fire,
comes rushing over the snow, and we are glad to put on coat and caps.
The conversation turns to legal topics, and certain eminent personages
are discussed with great severity. Of one it is roundly asserted that
he is mad.
"I am quite sure of it," said the Chancery Barrister, who has recovered
his spirits with his footing, "and I'll tell you why. He seconded me
for the Reform Club, and----"
We all agree that this is quite enough; but the Chancery Barrister
insists on proceeding with his narrative, of which it seems this was
merely the introduction.
We found our Naturalist of very little use. We had expected he would
mount with us whatever heights we sought, and had pleasing views of
his explaining the flora as we went along. But he always had some
excuse that kept him on lower levels. One morning he declared he had
passed a sleepless night owing to the efforts of two Scotch lads who
occupied the room next to him. They had some taste for carpentering,
and were addicted to getting up in the dead of the night and doing odd
jobs about the room. At half-past five a.m. they left their couch and
began playing Cain and Abel. Only the Naturalist protested there is no
authority in Scripture for the fearful row Abel made when Cain got him
down on his back.
At other times our Naturalist had heard of a "Camberwell Beauty" in
the neighbourhood, and must needs go and catch it, which, by the way,
he never did. On the whole, we conclude our Naturalist is an impostor.
We reserved the Roches de Naye till the last day. It was rather a
stupendous undertaking, the landlord assuring us that four guides were
necessary. One led a horse that no one would ride, one carried the
indispensable luncheon-basket, and two fared forth at early morn to cut
steps in the snow. The sun was shining when we started on this desperate
enterprise, and it was hot enough as we toiled along the lower heights.
But when we reached the snow level, the sun had gone in, having just
shone long enough to make the snow wet. Then a cold bleak wind set in,
and we began to think that, after all, there was more in the Naturalist
than met the eye. Whilst we were toiling along, sometimes temporarily
despairing, and generally up to our waists in snow, he was enjoying the
comforts of the hotel, or strolling about in languid search of fabulous
butterflies.
Picking our way round a hill in which had been cut in the snow a ledge
about two feet wide, we came in face of the slope we were to climb. Up
at the top, looking like black ants, were the guides cutting a zigzag
path in the snow. The Member observed that if any one were to offer
him a sovereign and his board on condition of his climbing up this
slope, he would prefer to remain in indigent circumstances. As we
were getting nothing for the labour, were indeed paying for the
privilege of undertaking it, we stuck at it, and after a steady climb
reached the top, when the wind was worse than ever. It was past
luncheon time, and every one was ferociously hungry; but it was agreed
that if we camped here and lunched, we should never get to the top. So
on we went, through the sloppy snow, pursued by the keen blast that
cut through all possible clothing.
It was a hard pull and not much to see for it, since clouds had rolled
up from the west and hid the promised panorama. The wind was terrible,
and there was no shelter. But we could hold out no longer, and the
luncheon being laid upon the sloppy grass, the Patriarch, with his
accustomed impartiality, went round with his knife.
By this time we had induced him to take the sardines last, which he
obligingly did.
We ran most of the way back to the side of the hill where the snow had
been cut. The exercise made us a little warmer; and the genial influence
of the cold fowl, the hard-boiled eggs, the sardines and the thin red
wine beginning to work, we were able to enjoy the spectacle of the
Patriarch leading the first party down the perilous incline. We had
ropes, but didn't think it worth while to be tied. The party was divided
into two sections, half a dozen holding on to a rope. It must have been
a beautiful sight from many a near mountain height to watch the
Patriarch's chimney-pot hat slowly move downwards on the zigzag path.
"What's that Virgil says about ranging mountain tops?" said the Chancery
Barrister:
"Me Parnassi deserta per ardua dulcis
Raptat amor: juvat ire jugis, qua nulla priorum
Castaliam molli divertitur orbita clivo."
He had got in the centre of the second party, and with two before him,
three behind, and a firm grip on the rope, he thought it safe to quote
poetry.
We had eight days at Les Avants, of which this devoted to the ascent of
the Roches was the only one the sun did not shine upon. Whether on
mountain or in valley, what time the sun was shining it was delightfully
warm. The narcissi were not yet out, but the fields were thick with
their buds. How the place would look when their glory had burst forth on
all the green Alps we could only imagine. But already everywhere bloomed
the abundant marigolds, the hepaticae, the violets, the oxlips, the
gentians, the primroses, and the forget-me-nots.