MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN.
“What power must have been required to shatter and to sweep away
the missing parts of this pyramid; for we do not see it
surrounded by heaps of fragments; one only sees other
peaks—themselves rooted to the ground—whose sides, equally rent,
indicate an immense mass of débris, of which we do not see any
trace in the neighbourhood. Doubtless this is that débris which,
in the form of pebbles, boulders, and sand, covers our valleys
and our plains.”
DE SAUSSURE.
Two summits amongst those in the Alps which yet remained virgin had
especially excited my admiration. One of these had been attacked
numberless times by the best mountaineers without success; the other,
surrounded by traditional inaccessibility, was almost untouched. These
mountains were the Weisshorn and the Matterhorn.
After visiting the great tunnel of the Alps in 1861, I wandered for ten
days in the neighbouring valleys, intending, presently, to attempt the
ascent of these two peaks. Rumours were floating about that the former had
been conquered, and that the latter was shortly to be attacked, and they
were confirmed on arrival at Chatillon, at the entrance of the Val
Tournanche. My interest in the Weisshorn consequently abated, but it was
raised to the highest pitch on hearing that Professor Tyndall was at
Breil, and intending to try to crown his first victory by another and
still greater one.
Up to this time my experience with guides had not been fortunate, and I
was inclined, improperly, to rate them at a low value. They represented to
me pointers out of paths, and large consumers of meat and drink, but
little more; and, with the recollection of Mont Pelvoux, I should have
greatly preferred the company of a couple of my countrymen to any number
of guides. In answer to inquiries at Chatillon, a series of men came
forward, whose faces expressed malice, pride, envy, hatred, and roguery of
every description, but who seemed to be destitute of all good qualities.
The arrival of two gentlemen with a guide, who they represented was the
embodiment of every virtue, and exactly the man for the Matterhorn,
rendered it unnecessary to engage any of the others. My new guide in
_physique_ was a combination of Chang and Anak; and although in acquiring
him I did not obtain exactly what was wanted, his late employers did
exactly what _they_ wanted, for I obtained the responsibility, without
knowledge, of paying his back fare, which must have been a relief at once
to their minds and to their purses.
When walking up towards Breil,(31) we inquired for another man of all the
knowing ones, and they, with one voice, proclaimed that Jean-Antoine
Carrel, of the village of Val Tournanche, was the cock of his valley. We
sought, of course, for Carrel; and found him a well-made, resolute-looking
fellow, with a certain defiant air which was rather taking. Yes, he would
go. Twenty francs a day, whatever was the result, was his price. I
assented. But I must take his comrade. “Why so?” Oh, it was absolutely
impossible to get along without another man. As he said this, an evil
countenance came forth out of the darkness and proclaimed itself the
comrade. I demurred, the negotiations broke off, and we went up to Breil.
This place will be frequently mentioned in subsequent chapters, and was in
full view of the extraordinary peak, the ascent of which we were about to
attempt.
It is unnecessary to enter into a minute description of the Matterhorn,
after all that has been written about that famous mountain. Those by whom
this book is likely to be read will know that that peak is nearly 15,000
feet high, and that it rises abruptly, by a series of cliffs which may
properly be termed precipices, a clear 5000 feet above the glaciers which
surround its base. They will know too that it was the last great Alpine
peak which remained unscaled,—less on account of the difficulty of doing
so, than from the terror inspired by its invincible appearance. There
seemed to be a _cordon_ drawn around it, up to which one might go, but no
farther. Within that invisible line gins and effreets were supposed to
exist—the Wandering Jew and the spirits of the damned. The superstitious
natives in the surrounding valleys (many of whom still firmly believe it
to be not only the highest mountain in the Alps, but in the world) spoke
of a ruined city on its summit wherein the spirits dwelt; and if you
laughed, they gravely shook their heads; told you to look yourself to see
the castles and the walls, and warned one against a rash approach, lest
the infuriate demons from their impregnable heights might hurl down
vengeance for one’s derision. Such were the traditions of the natives.
Stronger minds felt the influence of the wonderful form, and men who
ordinarily spoke or wrote like rational beings, when they came under its
power seemed to quit their senses, and ranted, and rhapsodised, losing for
a time all common forms of speech. Even the sober De Saussure was moved to
enthusiasm when he saw the mountain, and—inspired by the spectacle—he
anticipated the speculations of modern geologists, in the striking
sentences which are placed at the head of this chapter.
The Matterhorn looks equally imposing from whatever side it is seen; it
never seems commonplace; and in this respect, and in regard to the
impression it makes upon spectators, it stands almost alone amongst
mountains. It has no rivals in the Alps, and but few in the world.
The seven or eight thousand feet which compose the actual peak have
several well-marked ridges and numerous others.(32) The most continuous is
that which leads towards the north-east; the summit is at its higher, and
the little peak, called the Hörnli, is at its lower end. Another one that
is well-pronounced descends from the summit to the ridge called the Furgen
Grat. The slope of the mountain that is between these two ridges will be
referred to as the eastern face. A third, somewhat less continuous than
the others, descends in a south-westerly direction, and the portion of the
mountain that is seen from Breil is confined to that which is comprised
between this and the second ridge. This section is not composed, like that
between the first and second ridge, of one grand face; but it is broken up
into a series of huge precipices, spotted with snow-slopes, and streaked
with snow-gullies. The other half of the mountain, facing the Z’Mutt
glacier, is not capable of equally simple definition. There are
precipices, apparent, but not actual; there are precipices absolutely
perpendicular; there are precipices overhanging: there are glaciers, and
there are hanging glaciers; there are glaciers which tumble great _séracs_
over greater cliffs, whose débris, subsequently consolidated, becomes
glacier again; there are ridges split by the frost, and washed by the rain
and melted snow into towers and spires: while, everywhere, there are
ceaseless sounds of action, telling that the causes are still in operation
which have been at work since the world began; reducing the mighty mass to
atoms, and effecting its degradation.
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-EAST.]
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS.
(10,899 FEET)]
Most tourists obtain their first view of the mountain either from the
valley of Zermatt or from that of Tournanche. From the former direction
the base of the mountain is seen at its narrowest, and its ridges and
faces seem to be of prodigious steepness. The tourist toils up the valley,
looking frequently for the great sight which is to reward his pains,
without seeing it (for the mountain is first perceived in that direction
about a mile to the north of Zermatt), when, all at once, as he turns a
rocky corner of the path, it comes into view; not, however, where it is
expected; the face has to be raised up to look at it; it seems overhead.
Although this is the impression, the fact is that the summit of the
Matterhorn from this point makes an angle with the eye of less than 16º,
while the Dom, from the same place, makes a larger angle, but is passed by
unobserved. So little can dependence be placed on unaided vision. The view
of the mountain from Breil, in the Val Tournanche, is not less striking
than that on the other side; but, usually, it makes less impression,
because the spectator grows accustomed to the sight while coming up or
down the valley. From this direction the mountain is seen to be broken up
into a series of pyramidal wedge-shaped masses; on the other side it is
remarkable for the large, unbroken extent of cliffs that it presents, and
for the simplicity of its outline. It was natural to suppose that a way
would more readily be found to the summit on a side thus broken up than in
any other direction. The eastern face, fronting Zermatt, seemed one
smooth, inaccessible cliff, from summit to base. The ghastly precipices
which face the Z’Mutt glacier forbade any attempt in _that_ direction.
There remained only the side of Val Tournanche; and it will be found that
nearly all the earliest attempts to ascend the mountain were made upon the
southern side.
The first efforts to ascend the Matterhorn of which I have heard, were
made by the guides, or rather by the chasseurs, of Val Tournanche.(33)
These attempts were made in the years 1858-9, from the direction of Breil,
and the highest point that was attained was perhaps as far as the place
which is now called the “Chimney” (cheminée), a height of about 12,650
feet. Those who were concerned in these expeditions were Jean-Antoine
Carrel, Jean Jacques Carrel, Victor Carrel, the Abbé Gorret, and Gabrielle
Maquignaz. I have been unable to obtain any further details respecting
them.
The next attempt was a remarkable one; and of it, too, there is no
published account. It was made by the Messrs. Alfred, Charles, and
Sandbach Parker, of Liverpool, in July 1860. These gentlemen, _without
guides_, endeavoured to storm the citadel by attacking its eastern
face(34)—that to which reference was just now made as a smooth,
impracticable cliff. Mr. Sandbach Parker informs me that he and his
brothers went along the ridge between the Hörnli and the peak until they
came to the point where the ascending angle is considerably increased.
This place is marked on Dufour’s map of Switzerland 3298 mètres (10,820
feet). They were then obliged to bear a little to the left to get on to
the face of the mountain, and, afterwards, they turned to the right, and
ascended about 700 feet farther, keeping as nearly as was practicable to
the crest of the ridge, but, occasionally, bearing a little to the
left—that is, more on to the face of the mountain. The brothers started
from Zermatt, and did not sleep out. Clouds, a high wind, and want of
time, were the causes which prevented these daring gentlemen from going
farther. Thus, their highest point was under 12,000 feet.
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS.]
The third attempt upon the mountain was made towards the end of August
1860, by Mr. Vaughan Hawkins,(35) from the side of the Val Tournanche. A
vivid account of his expedition has been published by him in _Vacation
Tourists_;(36) and it has been referred to several times by Professor
Tyndall in the numerous papers he has contributed to Alpine literature. I
will dismiss it, therefore, as briefly as possible.
Mr. Hawkins had inspected the mountain in 1859, with the guide J. J.
Bennen, and he had formed the opinion that the south-west ridge(37) would
lead to the summit. He engaged J. Jacques Carrel, who was concerned in the
first attempts, and, accompanied by Bennen (and by Professor Tyndall, whom
he had invited to take part in the expedition), he started for the gap
between the little and the great peak.(38)
[Illustration: J. J. BENNEN (1862).]
Bennen was a guide who was beginning to be talked about. During the chief
part of his brief career he was in the service of Wellig, the landlord of
the inn on the Æggischhorn, and was hired out by him to tourists. Although
his experience was limited, he had acquired a good reputation; and his
book of certificates, which is lying before me,(39) shows that he was
highly esteemed by his employers. A good-looking man, with courteous,
gentlemanly manners, skilful and bold, he might, by this time, have taken
a front place amongst guides if he had only been endowed with more
prudence. He perished miserably, in the spring of 1864, not far from his
home, on a mountain called the Haut de Cry, in the Valais.(40)
Mr. Hawkins’ party, led by Bennen, climbed the rocks abutting against the
Couloir du Lion, on its south side, and attained the Col du Lion, although
not without difficulty. They then followed the south-west ridge, passed
the place at which the earliest explorers had turned back (the
Chimney),(41) and ascended about 300 feet more. Mr. Hawkins and J. J.
Carrel then stopped, but Bennen and Professor Tyndall mounted a few feet
higher. They retreated, however, in less than half-an-hour, finding that
there was too little time; and, descending to the Col by the same route as
they had followed on the ascent, proceeded thence to Breil, down the
Couloir instead of by the rocks. The point at which Mr. Hawkins stopped is
easily identified from his description. Its height is 12,992 feet above
the sea. I think that Bennen and Tyndall could not have ascended more than
50 or 60 feet beyond this in the few minutes they were absent from the
others, as they were upon one of the most difficult parts of the mountain.
This party therefore accomplished an advance of about 350 or 400 feet.
Mr. Hawkins did not, as far as I know, make another attempt; and the next
was made by the Messrs. Parker, in July 1861. They again started from
Zermatt; followed the route they had struck out on the previous year, and
got a little higher than before; but they were defeated by want of time,
shortly afterwards left Zermatt on account of bad weather, and did not
again renew their attempts. Mr. Parker says—“In neither case did we go as
high as we could. At the point where we turned we saw our way for a few
hundred feet farther; but, beyond that, the difficulties seemed to
increase.” I am informed that both attempts should be considered as
excursions undertaken with the view of ascertaining whether there was any
encouragement to make a more deliberate attack on the north-east side.
My guide and I arrived at Breil on the 28th of August 1861, and we found
that Professor Tyndall _had_ been there a day or two before, but had done
nothing. I had seen the mountain from nearly every direction, and it
seemed, even to a novice like myself, far too much for a single day. I
intended to sleep out upon it, as high as possible, and to attempt to
reach the summit on the following day. We endeavoured to induce another
man to accompany us, but without success. Matthias zum Taugwald and other
well-known guides were there at the time, but they declined to go on any
account. A sturdy old fellow—Peter Taugwalder by name—said he would go!
His price? “Two hundred francs.” “What, whether we ascend or not?”
“Yes—nothing less.” The end of the matter was, that all the men who were
more or less capable showed a strong disinclination, or positively
refused, to go (their disinclination being very much in proportion to
their capacity), or else asked a prohibitive price. This, it may be said
once for all, was the reason why so many futile attempts were made upon
the Matterhorn. One first-rate guide after another was brought up to the
mountain, and patted on the back, but all declined the business. The men
who went had no heart in the matter, and took the first opportunity to
turn back.(42) For they were, with the exception of one man, to whom
reference will be made presently, universally impressed with the belief
that the summit was entirely inaccessible.
We resolved to go alone, and anticipating a cold bivouac, begged the loan
of a couple of blankets from the innkeeper. He refused them; giving the
curious reason, that we had bought a bottle of brandy at Val Tournanche,
and had not bought any from him! No brandy, no blankets, appeared to be
his rule. We did not require them that night, as it was passed in the
highest cow-shed in the valley, which is about an hour nearer to the
mountain than is the hotel. The cowherds, worthy fellows, seldom troubled
by tourists, hailed our company with delight, and did their best to make
us comfortable; brought out their little stores of simple food, and, as we
sat with them round the great copper pot which hung over the fire, bade us
in husky voice, but with honest intent, to beware of the perils of the
haunted cliffs. When night was coming on, we saw, stealing up the
hill-side, the forms of Jean-Antoine Carrel and the comrade. “Oh ho!” I
said, “you have repented?” “Not at all; you deceive yourself.” “Why then
have you come here?” “Because we ourselves are going on the mountain
to-morrow.” “Oh, then it is _not_ necessary to have more than three.” “Not
for _us_.” I admired their pluck, and had a strong inclination to engage
the pair; but, finally, decided against it. The comrade turned out to be
the J. J. Carrel who had been with Mr. Hawkins, and was nearly related to
the other man.
[Illustration: JEAN-ANTOINE CARREL (1869).]
Both were bold mountaineers; but Jean-Antoine was incomparably the better
man of the two, and he is the finest rock-climber I have ever seen. He was
the only man who persistently refused to accept defeat, and who continued
to believe, in spite of all discouragements, that the great mountain was
not inaccessible, and that it could be ascended from the side of his
native valley.
The night wore away without any excitement, except from the fleas, a party
of whom executed a spirited fandango on my cheek, to the sound of music
produced on the drum of my ear, by one of their fellows beating with a
wisp of hay. The two Carrels crept noiselessly out before daybreak, and
went off. We did not start until nearly seven o’clock, and followed them
leisurely, leaving all our properties in the cow-shed; sauntered over the
gentian-studded slopes which intervene between the shed and the Glacier du
Lion, left cows and their pastures behind, traversed the stony wastes, and
arrived at the ice. Old, hard beds of snow lay on its right bank (our left
hand), and we mounted over them on to the lower portion of the glacier
with ease. But, as we ascended, crevasses became numerous, and we were at
last brought to a halt by some which were of very large dimensions; and,
as our cutting powers were limited, we sought an easier route, and turned,
naturally, to the lower rocks of the Tête du Lion, which overlook the
glacier on its west. Some good scrambling took us in a short time on to
the crest of the ridge which descends towards the south; and thence, up to
the level of the Col du Lion, there was a long natural staircase, on which
it was seldom necessary to use the hands. We dubbed the place “The Great
Staircase.” Then the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, which rise above the
Couloir, had to be skirted. This part varies considerably in different
seasons, and in 1861 we found it difficult; for the fine steady weather of
that year had reduced the snow-beds abutting against it to a lower level
than usual, and the rocks which were left exposed at the junction of the
snow with the cliffs, had few ledges or cracks to which we could hold. But
by half-past ten o’clock we stood on the Col, and looked down upon the
magnificent basin out of which the Z’Mutt glacier flows. We decided to
pass the night upon the Col, for we were charmed with the capabilities of
the place, although it was one where liberties could not be taken. On one
side a sheer wall overhung the Tiefenmatten glacier. On the other, steep,
glassy slopes of hard snow descended to the Glacier du Lion, furrowed by
water and by falling stones. On the north there was the great peak of the
Matterhorn,(43) and on the south the cliffs of the Tête du Lion. Throw a
bottle down to the Tiefenmatten—no sound returns for more than a dozen
seconds.
* * * “how fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!”
[Illustration: THE COL DU LION: LOOKING TOWARDS THE TÊTE DU LION.]
But no harm could come from that side. Neither could it from the other.
Nor was it likely that it would from the Tête du Lion, for some jutting
ledges conveniently overhung our proposed resting-place. We waited for a
while, basked in the sunshine, and watched or listened to the Carrels, who
were sometimes seen or heard, high above us, upon the ridge leading
towards the summit; and, leaving at mid-day, we descended to the cow-shed,
packed up the tent and other properties, and returned to the Col, although
heavily laden, before six o’clock. This tent was constructed on a pattern
suggested by Mr. Francis Galton, and it was not a success. It looked very
pretty when set up in London, but it proved thoroughly useless in the
Alps. It was made of light canvas, and opened like a book; had one end
closed permanently and the other with flaps; it was supported by two
alpenstocks, and had the canvas sides prolonged so as to turn in
underneath. Numerous cords were sewn to the lower edges, to which stones
were to be attached; but the main fastenings were by a cord which passed
underneath the ridge and through iron rings screwed into the tops of the
alpenstocks, and were secured by pegs. The wind, which playfully careered
about the surrounding cliffs, was driven through our gap with the force of
a blow-pipe; the flaps of the tent would not keep down, the pegs would not
stay in, and it exhibited so marked a desire to go to the top of the Dent
Blanche, that we thought it prudent to take it down and to sit upon it.
When night came on we wrapped ourselves in it, and made our camp as
comfortable as the circumstances would allow. The silence was impressive.
No living thing was near our solitary bivouac; the Carrels had turned back
and were out of hearing; the stones had ceased to fall, and the trickling
water to murmur—
“The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.”(44)
It was bitterly cold. Water froze hard in a bottle under my head. Not
surprising, as we were actually on snow, and in a position where the
slightest wind was at once felt. For a time we dozed, but about midnight
there came from high aloft a tremendous explosion, followed by a second of
dead quiet. A great mass of rock had split off, and was descending towards
us. My guide started up, wrung his hands, and exclaimed, “O my God, we are
lost!” We heard it coming, mass after mass pouring over the precipices,
bounding and rebounding from cliff to cliff, and the great rocks in
advance smiting one another. They seemed to be close, although they were
probably distant, but some small fragments, which dropped upon us at the
same time from the ledges just above, added to the alarm, and my
demoralised companion passed the remainder of the night in a state of
shudder, ejaculating “terrible,” and other adjectives.
We put ourselves in motion at daybreak, and commenced the ascent of the
south-west ridge. There was no more sauntering with hands in the pockets;
each step had to be earned by downright climbing. But it was the most
pleasant kind of climbing. The rocks were fast and unencumbered with
débris; the cracks were good, although not numerous, and there was nothing
to fear except from one’s-self. So we thought, at least, and shouted to
awake echoes from the cliffs. Ah! there is no response. Not yet; wait a
while, everything here is upon a superlative scale; count a dozen, and
then the echoes will return from the walls of the Dent d’Hérens, miles
away, in waves of pure and undefiled sound; soft, musical, and sweet. Halt
a moment to regard the view! We overlook the Tête du Lion, and nothing
except the Dent d’Hérens, whose summit is still a thousand feet above us,
stands in the way. The ranges of the Graian Alps—an ocean of mountains—are
seen, at a glance, governed by their three great peaks, the Grivola, Grand
Paradis, and Tour de St. Pierre. How soft, and yet how sharp, they look in
the early morning! The mid-day mists have not begun to rise; nothing is
obscured; even the pointed Viso, all but a hundred miles away, is
perfectly defined.
Turn to the east, and watch the sun’s slanting rays coming across the
Monte Rosa snow-fields. Look at the shadowed parts, and see how even
they—radiant with reflected light—are more brilliant than man knows how to
depict. See, how—even there—the gentle undulations give shadows within
shadows; and how—yet again—where falling stones or ice have left a track,
there are shadows upon shadows, each with a light and a dark side, with
infinite gradations of matchless tenderness. Then, note the sunlight as it
steals noiselessly along, and reveals countless unsuspected forms;—the
delicate ripple-lines which mark the concealed crevasse, and the waves of
drifted snow; producing each minute more lights and fresh shadows;
sparkling on the edges and glittering on the ends of the icicles; shining
on the heights and illuminating the depths, until all is aglow, and the
dazzled eye returns for relief to the sombre crags.
Hardly an hour had passed since we left the Col before we arrived at the
“Chimney.” It proved to be the counterpart of the place to which reference
has been made at p. 3; a smooth, straight slab of rock was fixed, at a
considerable angle, between two others equally smooth.(45) My companion
essayed to go up, and, after crumpling his long body into many ridiculous
positions, he said that he would not, for he could not, do it. With some
little trouble I got up it unassisted, and then my guide tied himself on
to the end of our rope, and I endeavoured to pull him up. But he was so
awkward that he did little for himself, and so heavy that he proved too
much for me, and after several attempts he untied himself, and quietly
observed that he should go down. I told him he was a coward, and _he_
mentioned his opinion of me. I requested him to go to Breil, and to say
that he had left his “monsieur” on the mountain, and he turned to go;
whereupon I had to eat humble pie and ask him to come back; for, although
it was not very difficult to go up, and not at all dangerous with a man
standing below, it was quite another thing to come down, as the lower edge
overhung in a provoking manner.
The day was perfect; the sun was pouring down grateful warmth; the wind
had fallen; the way seemed clear, no insuperable obstacle was in sight;
yet what could one do alone? I stood on the top, chafing under this
unexpected contretemps, and remained for some time irresolute; but as it
became apparent that the Chimney was swept more frequently than was
necessary (it was a natural channel for falling stones), I turned at last,
descended with the assistance of my companion, and returned with him to
Breil, where we arrived about mid-day.
The Carrels did not show themselves, but we were told that they had not
got to any great height,(46) and that the “comrade,” who for convenience
had taken off his shoes and tied them round his waist, had managed to let
one of them slip, and had come down with a piece of cord fastened round
his naked foot. Notwithstanding this, they had boldly glissaded down the
Couloir du Lion, J. J. Carrel having his shoeless foot tied up in a pocket
handkerchief.
The Matterhorn was not assailed again in 1861. I left Breil with the
conviction that it was little use for a single tourist to organise an
attack upon it, so great was its influence on the morals of the guides,
and persuaded that it was desirable at least two should go, to back each
other when required: and departed with my guide(47) over the Col Théodule,
longing, more than before, to make the ascent, and determined to return,
if possible with a companion, to lay siege to the mountain until one or
the other was vanquished.