RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.
“’Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try, try, try again.
If at first you don’t succeed,
Try, try, try again.
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere
You will conquer, never fear.
Try, try, try again.”
HICKSON.
The year 1862 was still young, and the Matterhorn, clad in its wintry
garb, bore but little resemblance to the Matterhorn of the summer, when a
new force came to do battle with the mountain, from another direction. Mr.
T. S. Kennedy of Leeds conceived the extraordinary idea that the peak
might prove less impracticable in January than in June, and arrived at
Zermatt in the former month to put his conception to the test. With stout
Peter Perrn and sturdy Peter Taugwalder he slept in the little chapel at
the Schwarzensee, and on the next morning, like the Messrs. Parker,
followed the ridge between the peak called Hörnli and the great mountain.
But they found that snow in winter obeyed the ordinary laws, and that the
wind and frost were not less unkind than in summer. “The wind whirled up
the snow and spiculæ of ice into our faces like needles, and flat pieces
of ice a foot in diameter, carried up from the glacier below, went flying
past. Still no one seemed to like to be the first to give in, till a gust
fiercer than usual forced us to shelter for a time behind a rock.
Immediately it was tacitly understood that our expedition must now end;
but we determined to leave some memento of our visit, and, after
descending a considerable distance, we found a suitable place with loose
stones of which to build a cairn. In half-an-hour a tower six feet high
was erected; a bottle, with the date, was placed inside, and we retreated
as rapidly as possible.”(48) This cairn was placed at the spot marked upon
Dufour’s Map of Switzerland 10,820 feet (3298 mètres), and the highest
point attained by Mr. Kennedy was not, I imagine, more than two or three
hundred feet above it.
Shortly after this Professor Tyndall gave, in his little tract
_Mountaineering in 1861_, an account of the reason why he had left Breil,
in August 1861, without doing anything.(49) It seems that he sent his
guide Bennen to reconnoitre, and that the latter made the following report
to his employer:—“Herr, I have examined the mountain carefully, and find
it more difficult and dangerous than I had imagined. There is no place
upon it where we could well pass the night. We might do so on yonder Col
upon the snow, but there we should be almost frozen to death, and totally
unfit for the work of the next day. On the rocks there is no ledge or
cranny which could give us proper harbourage; and starting from Breuil it
is certainly impossible to reach the summit in a single day.” “I was
entirely taken aback,” says Tyndall, “by this report. I felt like a man
whose grip had given way, and who was dropping through the air.... Bennen
was evidently dead against any attempt upon the mountain. ‘We can, at all
events, reach the lower of the two summits,’ I remarked. ‘Even that is
difficult,’ he replied; ‘but when you have reached it, what then? The peak
has neither name nor fame.’”(50)
I was more surprised than discouraged by this report by Bennen. One half
of his assertions I knew to be wrong. The Col to which he referred was the
Col du Lion, upon which we had passed a night less than a week after he
had spoken so authoritatively; and I had seen a place not far below the
“Chimney,”—a place about 500 feet above the Col—where it seemed possible
to construct a sleeping-place. Bennen’s opinions seem to have undergone a
complete change. In 1860 he is described as having been enthusiastic to
make an attempt, and in 1861 he was dead against one. Nothing dismayed by
this, my friend Mr. Reginald Macdonald, our companion on the Pelvoux—to
whom so much of our success had been due, agreed to join me in a renewed
assault from the south; and, although we failed to secure Melchior
Anderegg and some other notable guides, we obtained two men of repute,
namely, Johann zum Taugwald and Johann Kronig, of Zermatt. We met at that
place early in July, but stormy weather prevented us even from passing to
the other side of the chain for some time. We crossed the Col Théodule on
the 5th, in thoroughly unsettled weather—rain was falling in the valleys,
and snow upon the mountains. Shortly before we gained the summit we were
made extremely uncomfortable by hearing mysterious, rushing sounds, which
sometimes seemed as if a sudden gust of wind was sweeping along the snow,
and, at others, almost like the swishing of a long whip: yet the snow
exhibited no signs of motion, and the air was perfectly calm. The dense,
black storm-clouds made us momentarily expect that our bodies might be
used as lightning-conductors, and we were well satisfied to get under
shelter of the inn at Breil, without having submitted to any such
experience.(51)
We had need of a porter, and, by the advice of our landlord, descended to
the chalets of Breil in search of one Luc Meynet. We found his house a
mean abode, encumbered with cheese-making apparatus, and tenanted only by
some bright-eyed children; but as they said that uncle Luc would soon be
home, we waited at the door of the little chalet and watched for him. At
last a speck was seen coming round the corner of the patch of firs below
Breil, and then the children clapped their hands, dropped their toys, and
ran eagerly forward to meet him. We saw an ungainly, wobbling figure stoop
down and catch up the little ones, kiss them on each cheek, and put them
into the empty panniers on each side of the mule, and then heard it come
on carolling, as if this was not a world of woe: and yet the face of
little Luc Meynet, the hunchback of Breil, bore traces of trouble and
sorrow, and there was more than a touch of sadness in his voice when he
said that he must look after his brother’s children. All his difficulties
were, however, at length overcome, and he agreed to join us to carry the
tent.
In the past winter I had turned my attention to tents, and that which we
had brought with us was the result of experiments to devise one which
should be sufficiently portable to be taken over the most difficult
ground, and which should combine lightness with stability. Its base was
just under six feet square, and a cross-section perpendicular to its
length was an equilateral triangle, the sides of which were six feet long.
It was intended to accommodate four persons. It was supported by four
ash-poles, six feet and a half long, and one inch and a quarter thick,
tapering to the top to an inch and an eighth; these were shod with iron
points. The order of proceeding in the construction of the tent was as
follows:—Holes were drilled through the poles about five inches from their
tops, for the insertion of two wrought-iron bolts, three inches long and
one quarter of an inch thick. The bolts were then inserted, and the two
pairs of poles were set out (and fixed up by cords), to the proper
dimensions. The roof was then put on. This was made of the rough,
unbleached calico called forfar, which can be obtained in six-feet widths,
and it was continued round for about two feet, on each side, on to the
floor. The width of the material was the length of the tent, and seams
were thus avoided in the roof. The forfar was sewn round each pole;
particular care being taken to avoid wrinkles, and to get the whole
perfectly taut. The flooring was next put in and sewn down to the forfar.
This was of the ordinary plaid mackintosh, about nine feet square; the
surplus three feet being continued up the sides to prevent draughts. It is
as well to have two feet of this surplus on one side, and only one foot on
the other; the latter amount being sufficient for the side occupied by the
feet. One end was then permanently closed by a triangular piece of forfar,
which was sewn down to that which was already fixed. The other end was
left open, and had two triangular flaps that overlapped each other, and
which were fastened up when we were inside by pieces of tape. Lastly, the
forfar was nailed down to the poles to prevent the tent getting out of
shape. The cord which was used for climbing served for the tent; it was
passed over the crossed poles and underneath the ridge of the roof, and
the two ends—one fore and the other aft—were easily secured to pieces of
rock. Such a tent costs about four guineas, and its weight is about
twenty-three pounds; or, if the lightest kind of forfar is used, it need
not exceed twenty pounds. When it was fastened up for transport it
presented the appearance shown in the portrait of Meynet at p. 234, and it
could be unrolled and set up by two persons in three minutes; a point of
no small importance during extreme weather.
[Illustration: Diagram to show manner of fastening tent-poles]
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR’S MOUNTAIN TENT.]
This tent is intended, and adapted, for camping out at high altitudes, or
in cold climates. It is not pretended that it is perfectly waterproof, but
it can be made so by the addition of mackintosh to the roof; and this
increases the weight by only two and a half pounds. It is then fit for
general use.(52) It may be observed that the pattern of this tent is
identical in all essential points with that arrived at (after great
experience) by Sir Leopold M’Clintock for Arctic work, and frequent use by
many persons, under varied conditions, has shown that the pattern is both
practical and substantial.
Sunday, the 6th of July, was showery, and snow fell on the Matterhorn, but
we started on the following morning with our three men, and pursued my
route of the previous year. I was requested to direct the way, as none
save myself had been on the mountain before. I did not distinguish myself
upon this occasion, and led my companions nearly to the top of the small
peak before the mistake was discovered. The party becoming rebellious, a
little exploration was made towards our right, and we found that we were
upon the top of the cliff overlooking the Col du Lion. The upper part of
the small peak is of a very different character to the lower part; the
rocks are not so firm, and they are usually covered, or intermixed, with
snow, and glazed with ice: the angle too is more severe. While descending
a small snow-slope, to get on to the right track, Kronig slipped on a
streak of ice, and went down at a fearful pace. Fortunately he kept on his
legs, and, by a great effort, succeeded in stopping just before he arrived
at some rocks that jutted through the snow, which would infallibly have
knocked him over. When we rejoined him a few minutes later, we found that
he was incapable of standing, much less of moving, with a face corpse-like
in hue, and trembling violently. He remained in this condition for more
than an hour, and the day was consequently far advanced before we arrived
at our camping-place on the Col. Profiting by the experience of last year,
we did not pitch the tent actually on the snow, but collected a quantity
of débris from the neighbouring ledges, and after constructing a rough
platform of the larger pieces, levelled the whole with the dirt and mud.
Meynet had proved invaluable as a tent-bearer; for—although his legs were
more picturesque than symmetrical, and although he seemed to be built on
principle with no two parts alike—his very deformities proved of service;
and we quickly found he had spirit of no common order, and that few
peasants are more agreeable companions, or better climbers, than little
Luc Meynet, the hunchback of Breil. He now showed himself not less
serviceable as a scavenger, and humbly asked for gristly pieces of meat,
rejected by the others, or for suspicious eggs; and seemed to consider it
a peculiar favour, if not a treat, to be permitted to drink the
coffee-grounds. With the greatest contentment he took the worst place at
the door of the tent, and did all the dirty work which was put upon him by
the guides, as gratefully as a dog—who has been well beaten—will receive a
stroke.
A strong wind sprang up from the east during the night, and in the morning
it was blowing almost a hurricane. The tent behaved nobly, and we remained
under its shelter for several hours after the sun had risen, uncertain
what it was best to do. A lull tempted us to move, but we had scarcely
ascended a hundred feet before the storm burst upon us with increased
fury. Advance or return was alike impossible; the ridge was denuded of its
débris; and we clutched our hardest when we saw stones as big as a man’s
fist blown away horizontally into space. We dared not attempt to stand
upright, and remained stationary, on all fours, glued, as it were, to the
rocks. It was intensely cold, for the blast had swept along the main chain
of the Pennine Alps, and across the great snow-fields around Monte Rosa.
Our warmth and courage rapidly evaporated, and at the next lull we
retreated to the tent; having to halt several times even in that short
distance. Taugwald and Kronig then declared that they had had enough, and
refused to have anything more to do with the mountain. Meynet also
informed us that he would be required down below for important
cheese-making operations on the following day. It was therefore needful to
return to Breil, and we arrived there at 2.30 P.M., extremely chagrined at
our complete defeat.
Jean-Antoine Carrel, attracted by rumours, had come up to the inn during
our absence, and after some negotiations agreed to accompany us, with one
of his friends named Pession, on the first fine day. We thought ourselves
fortunate; for Carrel clearly considered the mountain a kind of
_preserve_, and regarded our late attempt as an act of _poaching_. The
wind blew itself out during the night, and we started again, with these
two men and a porter, at 8 A.M. on the 9th, with unexceptionable weather.
Carrel pleased us by suggesting that we should camp even higher than
before; and we accordingly proceeded, without resting at the Col, until we
overtopped the Tête du Lion. Near the foot of the “Chimney,” a little
below the crest of the ridge, and on its eastern side, we found a
protected place; and by building up from ledge to ledge (under the
direction of our leader, who was a mason by profession), we at length
constructed a platform of sufficient size and of considerable solidity.
Its height was about 12,550 feet above the sea; and it exists, I believe,
at the present time.(53) We then pushed on, as the day was very fine, and,
after a short hour’s scramble, got to the foot of the Great Tower upon the
ridge (that is to say, to Mr. Hawkins’ farthest point), and afterwards
returned to our bivouac. We turned out again at 4 A.M., and at 5.15
started upwards once more, with fine weather and the thermometer at 28°.
Carrel scrambled up the Chimney, and Macdonald and I after him. Pession’s
turn came, but when he arrived at the top he looked very ill, declared
himself to be thoroughly incapable, and said that he must go back. We
waited some time, but he did not get better, neither could we learn the
nature of his illness. Carrel flatly refused to go on with us alone. We
were helpless. Macdonald, ever the coolest of the cool, suggested that we
should try what we could do without them; but our better judgment
prevailed, and, finally, we returned together to Breil. On the next day my
friend started for London.
Three times I had essayed the ascent of this mountain, and on each
occasion had failed ignominiously. I had not advanced a yard beyond my
predecessors. Up to the height of nearly 13,000 feet there were no
extraordinary difficulties; the way so far might even become “a matter of
amusement.” Only 1800 feet remained; but they were as yet untrodden, and
might present the most formidable obstacles. No man could expect to climb
them by himself. A morsel of rock only seven feet high might at any time
defeat him, if it were perpendicular. Such a place might be possible to
two, or a bagatelle to three men. It was evident that a party should
consist of three men at least. But where could the other two men be
obtained? Carrel was the only man who exhibited any enthusiasm in the
matter; and he, in 1861, had absolutely refused to go unless the party
consisted of at least _four_ persons. Want of men made the difficulty, not
the mountain.
The weather became bad again, so I went to Zermatt on the chance of
picking up a man, and remained there during a week of storms.(54) Not one
of the better men, however, could be induced to come, and I returned to
Breil on the 17th, hoping to combine the skill of Carrel with the
willingness of Meynet on a new attempt, by the same route as before; for
the Hörnli ridge, which I had examined in the meantime, seemed to be
entirely impracticable. Both men were inclined to go, but their ordinary
occupations prevented them from starting at once.(55)
My tent had been left rolled up at the second platform, and whilst waiting
for the men it occurred to me that it might have been blown away during
the late stormy weather; so I started off on the 18th to see if this were
so or not. The way was by this time familiar, and I mounted rapidly,
astonishing the friendly herdsmen—who nodded recognition as I flitted past
them and the cows—for I was alone, because no man was available. But more
deliberation was necessary when the pastures were passed, and climbing
began, for it was needful to mark each step, in case of mist, or surprise
by night. It is one of the few things which can be said in favour of
mountaineering alone (a practice which has little besides to commend it),
that it awakens a man’s faculties, and makes him observe. When one has no
arms to help, and no head to guide him except his own, he must needs take
note even of small things, for he cannot afford to throw away a chance;
and so it came to pass, upon my solitary scramble, when above the
snow-line, and beyond the ordinary limits of flowering plants, when
peering about, noting angles and landmarks, that my eyes fell upon the
tiny straggling plants—oftentimes a single flower on a single
stalk—pioneers of vegetation, atoms of life in a world of desolation,
which had found their way up—who can tell how?—from far below, and were
obtaining bare sustenance from the scanty soil in protected nooks; and it
gave a new interest to the well-known rocks to see what a gallant fight
the survivors made (for many must have perished in the attempt) to ascend
the great mountain. The Gentian, as one might have expected, was there;
but it was run close by Saxifrages, and by _Linaria alpina_, and was
beaten by _Thlaspi rotundifolium_, which latter plant was the highest I
was able to secure, although it too was overtopped by a little white
flower which I knew not, and was unable to reach.(56)
The tent was safe, although snowed up; and I turned to contemplate the
view, which, when seen alone and undisturbed, had all the strength and
charm of complete novelty. The highest peaks of the Pennine chain were in
front—the Breithorn (13,685 feet), the Lyskamm (14,889), and Monte Rosa
(15,217); then, turning to the right, the entire block of mountains which
separated the Val Tournanche from the Val d’Ayas was seen at a glance,
with its dominating summit the Grand Tournalin (11,155). Behind were the
ranges dividing the Val d’Ayas from the Valley of Gressoney, backed by
higher summits. More still to the right, the eye wandered down the entire
length of the Val Tournanche, and then rested upon the Graian Alps with
their innumerable peaks, and upon the isolated pyramid of Monte Viso
(12,643) in the extreme distance. Next, still turning to the right, came
the mountains intervening between the Val Tournanche and the Val
Barthélemy: Mont Rouss (a round-topped snowy summit, which seems so
important from Breil, but which is in reality only a buttress of the
higher mountain, the Château des Dames), had long ago sunk, and the eye
passed over it, scarcely heeding its existence, to the Becca Salle (or, as
it is sometimes called, Bec de Sale),—a miniature Matterhorn—and to other,
and more important heights. Then the grand mass of the Dent d’Hérens
(13,714) stopped the way; a noble mountain, encrusted on its northern
slopes with enormous hanging glaciers, which broke away at mid-day in
immense slices, and thundered down on to the Tiefenmatten glacier; and
lastly, most splendid of all, came the Dent Blanche (14,318), soaring
above the basin of the great Z’Muttgletscher. Such a view is hardly to be
excelled in the Alps, and _this_ view is very rarely seen, as I saw it,
perfectly unclouded.(57)
Time sped away unregarded, and the little birds which had built their
nests on the neighbouring cliffs had begun to chirp their evening hymn
before I thought of returning. Half mechanically I turned to the tent,
unrolled it, and set it up; it contained food enough for several days, and
I resolved to stay over the night. I had started from Breil without
provisions, or telling Favre—the innkeeper, who was accustomed to my
erratic ways—where I was going. I returned to the view. The sun was
setting, and its rosy rays, blending with the snowy blue, had thrown a
pale, pure violet far as the eye could see; the valleys were drowned in
purple gloom, whilst the summits shone with unnatural brightness: and as I
sat in the door of the tent, and watched the twilight change to darkness,
the earth seemed to become less earthy and almost sublime; the world
seemed dead, and I, its sole inhabitant. By and by, the moon as it rose
brought the hills again into sight, and by a judicious repression of
detail rendered the view yet more magnificent. Something in the south hung
like a great glow-worm in the air; it was too large for a star, and too
steady for a meteor; and it was long before I could realise the incredible
fact that it was the moonlight glittering on the great snow-slope on the
north side of Monte Viso, at a distance, as the crow flies, of 98 miles.
Shivering, at last I entered the tent and made my coffee. The night was
passed comfortably, and the next morning, tempted by the brilliancy of the
weather, I proceeded yet higher in search of another place for a platform.
[Illustration: Climbing claw]
Solitary scrambling over a pretty wide area had shown me that a single
individual is subjected to many difficulties which do not trouble a party
of two or three men, and that the disadvantages of being alone are more
felt while descending than during the ascent. In order to neutralise these
inconveniences, I devised two little appliances, which were now brought
into use for the first time. One was a claw—a kind of grapnel—about five
inches long, made of shear steel, one-fifth of an inch thick. This was of
use in difficult places, where there was no hold within arm’s length, but
where there were cracks or ledges some distance higher. The claw could be
stuck on the end of the alpenstock and dropped into such places, or, on
extreme occasions, flung up until it attached itself to something. The
edges that laid hold of the rocks were serrated, which tended to make them
catch more readily: the other end had a ring to which a rope was fastened.
It must not be understood that this was employed for hauling one’s-self up
for any great distance, but that it was used in ascending, at the most,
for only a few yards at a time. In descending, however, it could be
prudently used for a greater distance at a time, as the claws could be
planted firmly; but it was necessary to keep the rope taut, and the pull
constantly in the direction of the length of the implement, otherwise it
had a tendency to slip away. The second device was merely a modification
of a dodge practised by all climbers. It is frequently necessary for a
single man (or for the last man of a party) during a descent, to make a
loop in the end of his rope, to pass it over some rocks, and to come down
holding the free end. The loop is then jerked off, and the process may be
repeated. But as it sometimes happens that there are no rocks at hand
which will allow a loose loop to be used, a slip-knot has to be resorted
to, and the rope is drawn in tightly. Consequently it will occur that it
is not possible to jerk the loop off, and the rope has to be cut and left
behind. To prevent this, I had a wrought-iron ring (two and a quarter
inches in diameter and three-eighths of an inch thick) attached to one end
of my rope. A loop could be made in a moment by passing the other end of
the rope through this ring, which of course slipped up and held tightly as
I descended holding the free end. A strong piece of cord was also attached
to the ring, and, on arriving at the bottom, this was pulled; the ring
slid back again, and the loop was whipped off readily. By means of these
two simple appliances I was able to ascend and descend rocks, which
otherwise would have been completely impassable for a single person. The
combined weight of these two things amounted to less than half-a-pound.
[Illustration: Rope and rin]
It has been mentioned (p. 55) that the rocks of the south-west ridge are
by no means difficult for some distance above the Col du Lion. This is
true of the rocks up to the level of the Chimney, but they steepen when
that is passed, and remaining smooth and with but few fractures, and still
continuing to dip outwards, present some steps of a very uncertain kind,
particularly when they are glazed with ice. At this point (just above the
Chimney) the climber is obliged to follow the southern (or Breil) side of
the ridge, but, in a few feet more, one must turn over to the northern (or
Z’Mutt) side, where, in most years, nature kindly provides a snow-slope.
When this is surmounted, one can again return to the crest of the ridge,
and follow it, by easy rocks, to the foot of the Great Tower. This was the
highest point attained by Mr. Hawkins in 1860, and it was also our highest
on the 9th of July.
This Great Tower is one of the most striking features of the ridge. It
stands out like a turret at the angle of a castle. Behind it a
battlemented wall leads upwards to the citadel.(58) Seen from the Théodule
pass, it looks only an insignificant pinnacle, but as one approaches it
(on the ridge) so it seems to rise, and, when one is at its base, it
completely conceals the upper parts of the mountain. I found here a
suitable place for the tent; which, although not so well protected as the
second platform, possessed the advantage of being 300 feet higher up; and
fascinated by the wildness of the cliffs, and enticed by the perfection of
the weather, I went on to see what was behind.
The first step was a difficult one. The ridge became diminished to the
least possible width—it was hard to keep one’s balance—and just where it
was narrowest, a more than perpendicular mass barred the way. Nothing
fairly within arm’s reach could be laid hold of; it was necessary to
spring up, and then to haul one’s-self over the sharp edge by sheer
strength. Progression directly upwards was then impossible. Enormous and
appalling precipices plunged down to the Tiefenmatten glacier on the left,
but round the right-hand side it was just possible to go. One hindrance
then succeeded another, and much time was consumed in seeking the way. I
have a vivid recollection of a gully of more than usual perplexity at the
side of the Great Tower, with minute ledges and steep walls; of the ledges
dwindling down and at last ceasing; and of finding myself, with arms and
legs divergent, fixed as if crucified, pressing against the rock, and
feeling each rise and fall of my chest as I breathed; of screwing my head
round to look for hold, and not seeing any, and of jumping sideways on to
the other side. ’Tis vain to attempt to describe such places. Whether they
are sketched with a light hand, or wrought out in laborious detail, one
stands an equal chance of being misunderstood. Their enchantment to the
climber arises from their calls on his faculties, in their demands on his
strength, and on overcoming the impediments which they oppose to his
skill. The non-mountaineering reader cannot feel this, and his interest in
descriptions of such places is usually small, unless he supposes that the
situations are perilous. They are not necessarily perilous, but I think
that it is impossible to avoid giving such an impression if the
difficulties are particularly insisted upon.
About this part there was a change in the quality of the rock, and there
was a change in the general appearance of the ridge. The rocks (talcose
gneiss) below this spot were singularly firm; it was rarely necessary to
test one’s hold; the way led over the living rock, and not up rent-off
fragments. But here, all was decay and ruin. The crest of the ridge was
shattered and cleft, and the feet sank in the chips which had drifted
down; while above, huge blocks, hacked and carved by the hand of time,
nodded to the sky, looking like the grave-stones of giants. Out of
curiosity I wandered to a notch in the ridge, between two tottering piles
of immense masses, which seemed to need but a few pounds on one or the
other side to make them fall; so nicely poised that they would literally
have rocked in the wind, for they were put in motion by a touch; and based
on support so frail that I wondered they did not collapse before my eyes.
In the whole range of my Alpine experience I have seen nothing more
striking than this desolate, ruined, and shattered ridge at the back of
the Great Tower. I have seen stranger shapes,—rocks which mimic the human
form, with monstrous leering faces—and isolated pinnacles, sharper and
greater than any here; but I have never seen exhibited so impressively the
tremendous effects which may be produced by frost, and by the
long-continued action of forces whose individual effects are barely
perceptible.
It is needless to say that it is impossible to climb by the crest of the
ridge at this part; still one is compelled to keep near to it, for there
is no other way. Generally speaking, the angles on the Matterhorn are too
steep to allow the formation of considerable beds of snow, but here there
is a corner which permits it to accumulate, and it is turned to
gratefully, for, by its assistance, one can ascend four times as rapidly
as upon the rocks.
The Tower was now almost out of sight, and I looked over the central
Pennine Alps to the Grand Combin, and to the chain of Mont Blanc. My
neighbour, the Dent d’Hérens, still rose above me, although but slightly,
and the height which had been attained could be measured by its help. So
far, I had no doubts about my capacity to descend that which had been
ascended; but, in a short time, on looking ahead, I saw that the cliffs
steepened, and I turned back (without pushing on to them, and getting into
inextricable difficulties), exulting in the thought that they would be
passed when we returned together, and that I had, without assistance, got
nearly to the height of the Dent d’Hérens, and considerably higher than
any one had been before.(59) My exultation was a little premature.
About 5 P.M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as at
Breil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had
smoothened all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the Chimney,
however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off, and left
behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great
nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached to
the bâton, but was a separate affair,—an old navy boarding-axe. While
cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the bâton trailed behind
fastened to the rope; and, when climbing, the axe was carried behind, run
through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently out of the way.
But in descending, when coming down face outwards (as is always best where
it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon caught frequently
against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me. So, out of laziness
if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly for the imprudence.
The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me on
the “Great Staircase,” down which one can run. But on arriving at an angle
of the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, while skirting the upper edge of the
snow which abuts against them, I found that the heat of the two past days
had nearly obliterated the steps which had been cut when coming up. The
rocks happened to be impracticable just at this corner, so nothing could
be done except make the steps afresh. The snow was too hard to beat or
tread down, and at the angle it was all but ice. Half-a-dozen steps only
were required, and then the ledges could be followed again. So I held to
the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the snow with the point of my
stick until a good step was made, and then, leaning round the angle, did
the same for the other side. So far well, but in attempting to pass the
corner (to the present moment I cannot tell how it happened) I slipped and
fell.
[Illustration: “THE CHIMNEY.”
(ON THE SOUTH-WEST RIDGE OF THE MATTERHORN).]
The slope was steep on which this took place, and was at the top of a
gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses towards the Glacier
du Lion—which was just seen, a thousand feet below. The gully narrowed and
narrowed, until there was a mere thread of snow lying between two walls of
rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the top of a precipice that
intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine a funnel cut in half
through its length, placed at an angle of 45 degrees, with its point below
and its concave side uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the
place.
The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks
about a dozen feet below; they caught something and tumbled me off the
edge, head over heels, into the gully; the bâton was dashed from my hands,
and I whirled downwards in a series of bounds, each longer than the last;
now over ice, now into rocks; striking my head four or five times, each
time with increased force. The last bound sent me spinning through the
air, in a leap of fifty or sixty feet, from one side of the gully to the
other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of my left side.
They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on to the snow with
motion arrested. My head fortunately came the right side up, and a few
frantic catches brought me to a halt, in the neck of the gully, and on the
verge of the precipice. Bâton, hat, and veil skimmed by and disappeared,
and the crash of the rocks—which I had started—as they fell on to the
glacier, told how narrow had been the escape from utter destruction. As it
was, I fell nearly 200 feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would
have taken me in one gigantic leap of 800 feet on to the glacier below.
The situation was sufficiently serious. The rocks could not be left go for
a moment, and the blood was spirting out of more than twenty cuts. The
most serious ones were in the head, and I vainly tried to close them with
one hand, whilst holding on with the other. It was useless; the blood
jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. At last, in a moment of
inspiration, I kicked out a big lump of snow, and stuck it as a plaster on
my head. The idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished. Then,
scrambling up, I got, not a moment too soon, to a place of safety, and
fainted away. The sun was setting when consciousness returned, and it was
pitch dark before the Great Staircase was descended; but, by a combination
of luck and care, the whole 4800 feet of descent to Breil was accomplished
without a slip, or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the
cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the
state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn
stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. But Favre met me in
the passage, demanded “Who is it?” screamed with fright when he got a
light, and aroused the household. Two dozen heads then held solemn council
over mine, with more talk than action. The natives were unanimous in
recommending that hot wine (syn. vinegar), mixed with salt, should be
rubbed into the cuts. I protested, but they insisted. It was all the
doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was to be attributed
to that simple remedy, or to a good state of health, is a question; they
closed up remarkably quickly, and in a few days I was able to move
again.(60)
[Illustration: “IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL.”]
[Illustration: AT BREIL (GIOMEIN).]
It was sufficiently dull during this time. I was chiefly occupied in
meditating on the vanity of human wishes, and in watching my clothes being
washed in the tub which was turned by the stream in the front of the
house; and I vowed that if an Englishman should at any time fall sick in
the Val Tournanche, he should not feel so solitary as I did at this dreary
time.(61)
The news of the accident brought Jean-Antoine Carrel up to Breil, and,
along with the haughty chasseur, came one of his relatives, a strong and
able young fellow named Cæsar. With these two men and Meynet I made
another start on the 23rd of July. We got to the tent without any trouble,
and on the following day had ascended beyond the Tower, and were picking
our way cautiously over the loose rocks behind (where my traces of the
week before were well apparent) in lovely weather, when one of those
abominable and almost instantaneous changes occurred, to which the
Matterhorn is so liable on its southern side. Mists were created out of
invisible vapours, and in a few minutes snow fell heavily. We stopped, as
this part was of excessive difficulty, and, unwilling to retreat, remained
on the spot several hours, in hopes that another change would occur; but,
as it did not, we at length went down to the base of the Tower, and
commenced to make a third platform, at the height of 12,992 feet above the
sea. It still continued to snow, and we took refuge in the tent. Carrel
argued that the weather had broken up, and that the mountain would become
so glazed with ice as to render any attempt futile; and I, that the change
was only temporary, and that the rocks were too hot to allow ice to form
upon them. I wished to stay until the weather improved, but my leader
would not endure contradiction, grew more positive, and insisted that we
must go down. We went down, and when we got below the Col his opinion was
found to be wrong; the cloud was confined to the upper 3000 feet, and
outside it there was brilliant weather.
Carrel was not an easy man to manage. He was perfectly aware that he was
the cock of the Val Tournanche, and he commanded the other men as by
right. He was equally conscious that he was indispensable to me, and took
no pains to conceal his knowledge of the fact. If he had been commanded,
or if he had been entreated to stop, it would have been all the same. But,
let me repeat, he was the only first-rate climber I could find who
believed that the mountain was not inaccessible. With him I had hopes, but
without him none; so he was allowed to do as he would. His will on this
occasion was almost incomprehensible. He certainly could not be charged
with cowardice, for a bolder man could hardly be found; nor was he turning
away on account of difficulty, for nothing to which we had yet come seemed
to be difficult to _him_; and his strong personal desire to make the
ascent was evident. There was no occasion to come down on account of food,
for we had taken, to guard against this very casualty, enough to last for
a week; and there was no danger, and little or no discomfort, in stopping
in the tent. It seemed to me that he was spinning out the ascent for his
own purposes, and that although he wished very much to be the first man on
the top, and did not object to be accompanied by any one else who had the
same wish, he had no intention of letting one succeed too soon,—perhaps to
give a greater appearance of _éclat_ when the thing was accomplished. As
he feared no rival, he may have supposed that the more difficulties he
made the more valuable he would be estimated; though, to do him justice,
he never showed any great hunger for money. His demands were fair, not
excessive; but he always stipulated for so much per day, and so, under any
circumstances, he did not do badly.
Vexed at having my time thus frittered away, I was still well pleased when
he volunteered to start again on the morrow, if it should be fine. We were
to advance the tent to the foot of the Tower, to fix ropes in the most
difficult parts beyond, and to make a push for the summit on the following
day.
The next morning (Friday the 25th) when I arose, good little Meynet was
ready and waiting, and he said that the two Carrels had gone off some time
before, and had left word that they intended marmot-hunting, as the day
was favourable for that sport.(62) My holiday had nearly expired, and
these men clearly could not be relied upon; so, as a last resort, I
proposed to the hunchback to accompany me alone, to see if we could not
get higher than before, though of reaching the summit there was little or
no hope. He did not hesitate, and in a few hours we stood—for the third
time together—upon the Col du Lion. It was the first time Meynet had seen
the view unclouded. The poor little deformed peasant gazed upon it
silently and reverently for a time, and then, unconsciously, fell on one
knee in an attitude of adoration, and clasped his hands, exclaiming in
ecstasy, “Oh, beautiful mountains!” His actions were as appropriate as his
words were natural, and tears bore witness to the reality of his emotion.
Our power was too limited to advance the tent, so we slept at the old
station, and starting very early the next morning, passed the place where
we had turned back on the 24th, and, subsequently, my highest point on the
19th. We found the crest of the ridge so treacherous that we took to the
cliffs on the right, although most unwillingly. Little by little we fought
our way up, but at length we were both spread-eagled on the all but
perpendicular face, unable to advance, and barely able to descend. We
returned to the ridge. It was almost equally difficult, and infinitely
more unstable; and at length, after having pushed our attempts as far as
was prudent, I determined to return to Breil, and to have a light ladder
made to assist us to overcome some of the steepest parts.(63) I expected,
too, that by this time Carrel would have had enough marmot-hunting, and
would deign to accompany us again.
We came down at a great pace, for we were now so familiar with the
mountain, and with each other’s wants, that we knew immediately when to
give a helping hand, and when to let alone. The rocks also were in a
better state than I have ever seen them, being almost entirely free from
glaze of ice. Meynet was always merriest on the difficult parts, and, on
the most difficult, kept on enunciating the sentiment, “We can only die
once,” which thought seemed to afford him infinite satisfaction. We
arrived at the inn early in the evening, and I found my projects summarily
and unexpectedly knocked on the head.
Professor Tyndall had arrived while we were absent, and he had engaged
both Cæsar and Jean-Antoine Carrel. Bennen was also with him, together
with a powerful and active friend, a Valaisan guide, named Anton Walter.
They had a ladder already prepared, provisions were being collected, and
they intended to start on the following morning (Sunday). This new arrival
took me by surprise. Bennen, it will be remembered, refused point-blank to
take Professor Tyndall on the Matterhorn in 1861. “He was dead against any
attempt on the mountain,” says Tyndall. He was now eager to set out.
Professor Tyndall has not explained in what way this revolution came about
in his guide. I was equally astonished at the faithlessness of Carrel, and
attributed it to pique at our having presumed to do without him. It was
useless to compete with the Professor and his four men, who were ready to
start in a few hours, so I waited to see what would come of their
attempt.(64)
Everything seemed to favour it, and they set out on a fine morning in high
spirits, leaving me tormented with envy and all uncharitableness. If they
succeeded, they carried off the prize for which I had been so long
struggling; and if they failed, there was no time to make another attempt,
for I was due in a few days more in London. When this came home clearly to
me, I resolved to leave Breil at once; but, when packing up, found that
some necessaries had been left behind in the tent. So I went off about
midday to recover them; caught the army of the Professor before it reached
the Col, as they were going very slowly; left them there (stopping to take
food), and went on to the tent. I was near to it when all at once I heard
a noise aloft, and, on looking up, perceived a stone of at least a foot
cube flying straight at my head. I ducked, and scrambled under the lee
side of a friendly rock, while the stone went by with a loud buzz. It was
the advanced guard of a perfect storm of stones, which descended with
infernal clatter down the very edge of the ridge, leaving a trail of dust
behind, with a strong smell of sulphur, that told who had sent them. The
men below were on the look-out, but the stones did not come near them, and
breaking away on one side went down to the Glacier du Lion.(65)
I waited at the tent to welcome the Professor, and when he arrived went
down to Breil. Early next morning some one ran to me saying that a flag
was seen on the summit of the Matterhorn. It was not so, however, although
I saw that they had passed the place where we had turned back on the 26th.
I had now no doubt of their final success, for they had got beyond the
point which Carrel, not less than myself, had always considered to be the
most questionable place on the whole mountain. Up to it there was no
choice of route,—I suppose that at no one point between it and the Col was
it possible to diverge a dozen paces to the right or left, but beyond it
it was otherwise, and we had always agreed, in our debates, that if it
could be passed success was certain. The accompanying outline from a
sketch taken from the door of the inn at Breil will help to explain. The
letter *A* indicates the position of the Great Tower; *C* the “cravate”
(the strongly-marked streak of snow referred to on p. 76, and which we
just failed to arrive at on the 26th); *B* the place where we now saw
something that looked like a flag. Behind the point B a nearly level ridge
leads up to the foot of the final peak, which will be understood by a
reference to the outline facing p. 44, on which the same letters indicate
the same places. It was just now said, we considered that if the point *C*
could be passed, success was certain. Tyndall was at *B* very early in the
morning, and I did not doubt that he would reach the summit, although it
yet remained problematical whether he would be able to stand on the very
highest point. The summit was evidently formed of a long ridge, on which
there were two points nearly equally elevated—so equally that one could
not say which was the highest—and between the two there seemed to be a
deep notch, marked *D* on the outlines, which might defeat one at the very
last moment.
[Illustration: A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862).]
[Illustration: The Matterhorn from Breil]
My knapsack was packed, and I had taken a parting glass of wine with
Favre, who was jubilant at the success which was to make the fortune of
his inn; but I could not bring myself to leave until the result was heard,
and lingered about, as a foolish lover hovers round the object of his
affections, even after he has been contemptuously rejected. The sun had
set before the men were descried coming over the pastures. There was no
spring in their steps—they, too, were defeated. The Carrels hid their
heads, and the others said, as men will do when they have been beaten,
that the mountain was horrible, impossible, and so forth. Professor
Tyndall told me they had arrived _within a stone’s throw of the summit_,
and admonished me to have nothing more to do with the mountain. I
understood him to say that he should not try again, and ran down to the
village of Val Tournanche, almost inclined to believe that the mountain
was inaccessible; leaving the tent, ropes, and other matters in the hands
of Favre, to be placed at the disposal of any person who wished to ascend
it, more, I am afraid, out of irony than from generosity. There may have
been those who believed that the Matterhorn could be ascended, but,
anyhow, their faith did not bring forth works. No one tried again in 1862.
Business took me into Dauphiné before returning to London, and a week
after Tyndall’s defeat I lay one night, after a sultry day, half-asleep,
tossing about in one of the abominations which serve for beds in the inn
kept by the Deputy-Mayor of La Ville de Val Louise; looking at a strange
ruddiness on the ceiling, which I thought might be some effect of
electricity produced by the irritation of the myriads of fleas; when the
great bell of the church, close at hand, pealed out with loud and hurried
clangour. I jumped up, for the voices and movements of the people in the
house made me think of fire. It _was_ fire; and I saw from my window, on
the other side of the river, great forked flames shooting high into the
sky, black dots with long shadows hurrying towards the place, and the
crests of the ridges catching the light and standing out like spectres.
All the world was in motion, for the neighbouring villages—now
aroused—rang out the alarm. I pulled on my shirt, and tore over the
bridge. Three large chalets were on fire, and were surrounded by a mass of
people, who were bringing all their pots and pans, and anything that would
hold water. They formed themselves into several chains, each two deep,
leading towards the nearest stream, and passed the water up one side, and
the empty utensils down the other. My old friend the mayor was there, in
full force, striking the ground with his stick, and vociferating, “Work!
work!” but the men, with much presence of mind, chiefly ranged themselves
on the sides of the empty buckets, and left the real work to their better
halves. Their efforts were useless, and the chalets burnt themselves out.
The next morning I visited the still smouldering ruins, and saw the
homeless families sitting in a dismal row in front of their charred
property. The people said that one of the houses had been well insured,
and that its owner had endeavoured to forestall luck. He had arranged the
place for a bonfire, set the lower rooms on fire in several places, and
had then gone out of the way, leaving his wife and children in the upper
rooms, to be roasted or not as the case might be. His plans only partially
succeeded, and it was satisfactory to see the scoundrel brought back in
the custody of two stalwart gensdarmes. Three days afterwards I was in
London.
[Illustration: “BUT WHAT IS THIS?”]