that the mountain was really easy? Were not the slabs above the Shoulder
roped? Did not processions go up it in the middle of the season? And yet
it was now only the first of July and there was a good deal of new snow
on the mountain. And why were the guides just a little doubtful? Perhaps
they were doubtful of me; and yet Joseph Pollinger had taken me up three
smaller peaks. I decided that I had hired him to do the thinking. But I
could not make him do it all.
The day I had spent upon the Wellenkuppe had been a time of imagination,
and I had seen the beauty of things. But from the Matterhorn I can
eliminate the element of beauty. I saw very little beauty in it or from
it. I had other things to do than to think of the sublime. But I could
think of the ridiculous, and at one o'clock in the morning, when we
started from the hut with a lantern, I said the whole proceeding was
folly. I was a fool to be there. And down below me, far below me,
glimmered the crevassed slopes of the Furgg Glacier. I grew callous and
absorbed, and I shrugged my shoulders as the dawn came up. I did not
care to turn my eyes to look upon the red rose glory of the lighted Dom
and Taschhorn. Let them glow!
At the upper ice-filled hut we rested. The vastness of the mountain
began to affect me. I saw by now that the Wellenkuppe was a little
thing. The three thousand extra feet made all the difference. This was
obviously beyond me, and I could never get to the summit. It was
ridiculous of the Pollingers to think I could. I told them so quite
crossly as we went on. Probably they had made a mistake; they would, no
doubt, find it out on the Shoulder. It seemed rather hard that I should
have to get there when it was so easy to turn back at once. But I said
nothing more and climbed. My heart did its work well, and my head did
not ache. This was a surprise to me, as I had looked for some sort of
_malaise_ above twelve thousand feet. As it did not come I stared at the
big world about me. I viewed it all with a kind of anger and alarmed
surprise. Where was I being taken to? I began to see they were taking me
out of the realm of the usual. I was rapidly ascending into the
unknown, and I did not like it in the least. If we fell from the
_arête_ we might not stop going for four thousand feet. Down below, a
thin, blue line was a _bergschrund_ that was capable of swallowing an
army corps. That patch of bluish patina was a tumbled mass of _séracs_.
The sloping glacier looked flat.
Then the guides said we were going slowly. I knew they meant that for
me, of course, and I felt very angry with them. They consoled me by
saying that we should soon be at the Shoulder, and that it would not
take long to reach the summit. I did not believe them and I said I
should never do it. But when we got to the Shoulder I was glad. I knew
many turned back at that point. We sat down to rest. The guides talked
their own German, not one word of which I could understand, so turned
from them and looked at the vast upper wedge of the Matterhorn. It
glowed red in the morning sun; it was red hot, vast, ponderous, and yet
the lower mountain held it up as lightly as an ashen shaft holds up a
bronze spear-head. It was so wonderfully shaped that it did not look
big. But it did look diabolic. There was some infernal wizardry of
cloud-making going on about that spear-head. The wind blew to us across
the Zmutt Valley. Nevertheless, the wind above the Roof, as they call
it, was blowing in every direction, and the live wisps of newborn cloud
went in and out like the shuttles of a loom. I came to the conclusion
that this was a particularly devilish, uncanny sort of show, and stared
at it open-eyed. But I was comforted by the thought that the Pollingers
were rapidly coming to the belief that this was not the sort of day to
go any higher. I was quite angry when they declared we could do it
easily. For I knew better, or my disturbed mind thought I did. This was
the absolutely unknown to me, and their experience was nothing to my
alarmed instincts. I was sure that my ancestors had lived on plains, and
now I was dragging them into dangers that they knew nothing of.
Nevertheless, I told the guides to go on. I spoke with a kind of eager
interest and desperation. For, indeed, it was most appallingly
interesting. We came to the slabs where the ropes made the Matterhorn so
easy, as I had been told. I wished that some of those who believed this
were with me.
But with the fixed ropes to lay hold of I climbed fast. I relinquished
such holds upon solidity with reluctance. That yonder was the top, said
my men, but for fully half a minute I declined to go any further. For it
was quite obvious to me that I should never get down again. But again I
shrugged my shoulders and went on. I might just as well do the whole
thing. And sensation followed sensation. My mind was like a slow plate
taking one photograph on top of the other. It was like wax, something
new stamped out the last minute's impression. I heard my guides telling
me that we must get to the summit because the people in Zermatt would be
looking through telescopes. I did not care how many people looked
through telescopes. So far as I was concerned the moon-men might be
doing the same. I was one of three balancing fools on a rope.
And then we came to the heavy snow on the little five-fold curving
_arête_ that is the summit. Within a stone's throw of the top I declared
again that I was quite high enough to satisfy me, but with a little more
persuasion I went across the last three-foot ridge of snow, reached the
top and sat down.
The folks at Zermatt were staring, no doubt, but I had nothing to do
with them. Let them look if they wished to. For it was impossible to
get to the top, and I was there. It was far more impossible to get down,
and we were going to try. That was interesting. I had never been so
interested before. For though I hoped we should succeed I did not think
it likely. So I took in what I could, while I could, and stared at the
visible anatomy of the Mischabel and the patina-stained floor of the
white world with intense, yet aloof, interest. After a mere five
minutes' rest we started on our ridiculous errand. But though I was as
sure in my mind that we should not get down as I had been that we should
not get up, there was an instant reversal of feeling. My instincts had
been trying to prevent my ascending; they were eagerly bent on
descending. I did not mind going down each difficult place, for I was
going back into the known. Every step took me nearer the usual. I was
going home to humanity. These mountains were cold company; they were
indifferent. I was close up against cold original causes, which did not
come to me mitigated and warmed by human contact or the breath of a
city. I had had enough of them.
There are gaps in my memory; strange lacunæ. I remember the Roof, the
slabs, the big snow patch above the Shoulder. Much that comes between I
know nothing of. But the snow-patch is burnt into my mind, for though it
was but a hundred _mètres_ across it took us half-an-hour's slow care to
get down it. Without the stakes set in it and the reserve rope it would
have been almost impossible. It only gradually dawned on me that this
care was needed to prevent the whole snow-field from coming away with
us. I breathed again on rock. But the little _couloirs_ that we had
crossed coming up were now dangerous. I threw a handful of snow into
several, and the snow that lay there quietly whispered, moved, rustled,
hissed like snakes, and went away. But I could hardly realise that there
was danger here or there. There was, of course, danger to come, yonder,
round the corner of some rock. But the guides were very careful and a
little anxious. It dawned on me, as I watched them with a set mind, that
this was rather a bad day for the Matterhorn.
The distances now seemed appalling. After hours of work I looked round
and saw the wedge stand up just over me. It made me irritable. When, in
the name of Heaven, were we coming to the upper hut? When we did at
last get there I began to feel that by happy chance we might really
reach Zermatt again after all.
Once more I had vowed a thousand times that I would never climb again.
But I know I shall, though I hardly know why. It is not that the fatigue
is so good for the body that can endure it. Nor is it the mere sight of
the wonders of Nature. The very thing that is terrifying is the
attraction, for the unknown calls us always.
But if there is a great pleasure, and a terrible pleasure, in coming
into (and out of) the unknown, it is intensified by the fact that one is
learning what is in one's self. It is a curious fact that writers seem
to have done a great deal of climbing. Many of the first explorers among
the higher Alps may not unjustly be classed among men of letters, and
some of them, no doubt, went on a double errand. They learnt something
of the unknown in two ways.
AN INTERNATIONAL SOCIALIST CONGRESS
All Zurich turned out to see the procession that was a mile long and
overlapped, and went past double, going opposite ways, and the skies
were blue as amethyst, and the lake was like the heavens, while
underfoot the white dust lay thick until the growing, hurrying crowd
sent it flying. All trades, with banners and bands and emblems, were
represented; there were iron workers, tin workers, gardeners, women and
children. One beautiful young girl in a cap of liberty waved a red
banner to Freedom among the applause of thousands. For there were eight
thousand in the procession, and the spectators were the half of this
busy Canton making Sunday holiday. At the end of the procession we
rested in the Cantonal Schulplatz, and Grealig spoke, and then Volders,
the violent, strong-voiced Belgian, who called for _la lutte_, and
looked most capable of fighting. He is now dead.
And on the morrow, at the opening of the many-tongued Congress, the
fighting and confusion began and lasted a long, long time. For after
some usual business and congratulations the usual fight about the
Anarchists commenced. It all turned on the invitation, which was worded
in a broad way, so broad as to catch the English Trades Unions, who fear
Socialism as they do the devil, and thus let in Anarchists claiming to
represent trades become corporate by union.
The long hall, decorated by Saint Marx and many flags, quickly filled
with an incongruous mass of four hundred delegates, and the gallery were
soon yelling. Bebel, who kept in the background and pulled the strings,
proposed a limiting amendment about "political action" which the
Anarchists maintained includes revolutionary force. This was the signal
for the fight. Landauer, a German, young, long, thin and enthusiastic,
made a fine speech in defence of the Anarchists. Then Mowbray of the
English backed him up. I was then in the gallery and saw the mass surge
here and there. Adler of the Austrians strove for peace with
outstretched arms among the crowd, dividing angry and bitter men. But
he was overborne and blows were struck. The Anarchists were expelled.
Only one man was seriously hurt, but those thrown out were bitter at
their expulsion, and on the morrow the row began again.
On the platform were the president and vice-president, and the
interpreters and others. These interpreters are mostly violent partisans
and don't conceal it. A speech they like they deliver with real energy,
rasping in the points. They are not above private interpretations; they
were as liberal as Sir Thomas Urquhart when he translated Rabelais not
in the interests of decency. When they hated a speaker they mangled and
compressed him. There was a great uproar when Gillies, a German, but one
of the English deputation, insisted on translating his first speech into
German. The interpreters and others vowed he would make another and
different one, but he stuck to his point and raised the very devil among
the Germans of the Parliamentary Socialist party who wanted to dispute
the Anarchist delegates' credentials and have them definitely "chucked."
They howled and roared and shook their fists, and the French president
shrieked for order. But at times his bell was a faint tinkle, like a
far sheep-bell on distant hills. He shouted unheard and looked in vain
for a break. For the Germans were accused of meanness; it was simply a
desire to keep out the younger, more open, most alive of the workers,
those who admired not their methods and looked on them as they did on
Eugene Richter.
Then at last the English delegation, who as a body were in favour of
turning the Anarchists out, rose and yelled for the closure, vowing they
would leave until real business was reached if some decision wasn't come
to; and that had some effect. The yells of "_Clôture, clôture!_"
dominated all else, and it was finally voted among frantic disorder, the
French and Dutch standing uproarious against eighteen nationalities. For
on important points they vote so. And in this there is great cunning,
for the organisers hold pocket boroughs among the Swiss, and Bulgarians,
and Servians and other European kidlings of the Balkans. So one delegate
may equal a hundred; Servia and Bulgaria may outvote France; a solitary
Russian hold ninety-two Germans in check.
Before this they turned out a Polish girl with unsigned credentials. She
made a good speech and was gallantly supported, but in the end failed.
And when all the putting out was done there was an appeal for
unanimity. No one laughed, however, and then Bebel came from behind with
a proposal that seeing so much time had been wasted the articles of the
agenda should be submitted to the various committees first. So this
morning is a morning off and there is peace at anyrate among the mass of
the delegates.
In all this it is excessively easy to be unjust, to misjudge and to go
wrong. The man who is ready with _à priori_ opinions about all forms and
means and ends of Socialism will smile if he be kindly and sneer if he
be not. But most of these people are in earnest. If they represent
nothing else, and however they disagree and quarrel, they do represent
an enormous amount of real discontent. "I protest" is often in their
mouths; as the president yells "Monsieur, vous n'avez pas la parole"
they stand in the benches and protest again in acute screams. It is
under extraordinary difficulties that the movement is being carried
forward. Marx, when he started this internationalism, can hardly have
recognised the supreme difficulties that the differing tongues alone
offer to united action. In many a large assembly there is frequent
misconception, but here are three main languages, and many of the
delegates understand neither English, German nor French.
And under the broad top currents of jealousy are the secret unmeasured
tendencies of enmity or rivalry of ancient jealousy. To explain one
man's vote we must remember that So-and-so threw a glass of absinthe in
his face ten years ago in a Paris restaurant; that another was kicked in
Soho; that another got work over the head of a friend.
So the thing goes on, but whether their outlook be wide or narrow,
personal or impersonal, they work in their way and something is really
done.
But for deadly earnestness commend me to the party with the unfortunate
name of Anarchists. The party headed by Landauer and Werner issued
invitations in the Tonhallé to the delegates and others, to come to the
Kasino Aussersehl, where they would protest against the non-reception of
their mandates. I went there with an English delegate. We entered a long
hall with a stage and scenery at the end. All the tables were full of a
very quiet crowd drinking most harmless red wine. I sat near Landauer.
He is a very nervous, keen, eager young fellow, with the thin,
well-marked eyebrows in a curve which perhaps show the revolutionary or
at the least the man in revolt. But his general aspect and that of his
immediate friends and colleagues is extremely gentle and mild; this no
one can help marking.
The proceedings began with a long speech by Werner and were continued by
a Dutch journalist, who took the contrary side but was listened to with
exemplary patience. He was controverted by Domela Niewenhuis, the leader
of the Dutch, who looks a mediæval saint but speaks with great vigour
and some humour.
The most noticeable feature of this revolutionary meeting was its
extreme peace and the great firmness with which every attempt at noise
or interruption was put down. The only really violent speech made during
the evening was by a fair Italian, who called the German Parliamentary
Socialist "Borghesi" and recommended their immediate extinction by all
means within the power of those who objected to their methods. Landauer,
their revolutionary leader, spoke after him, and though greatly excited
was not particularly violent. I talked with him the morning after and
endeavoured to explain to him why the English workers were more
conservative and more ready to trust to constitutional methods of
enforcing their views. For it is the triple combination of long hours,
low wages and militarism that makes the German violent and impatient of
the slow order of change recommended by the Parliamentarians, who, so
far, have done nothing.
AT LAS PALMAS
On a map the Canary Islands look like seven irregular fish scales, and
of these Grand Canary is a cycloid scale. For it is round and has deep
folds or barrancas in it, running from its highest point in the middle.
Like all the other islands it is a volcanic ash pile, or fire and cinder
heap, cut and scarped by its rain storms of winter till all valleys seem
to run to the centre. With a shovel of ashes and a watering-pot one
could easily make a copy in miniature of the island, and at the first
blush it seems when one lands at Las Palmas that one has come to the
cinder and sand dumping ground of all the world, an enlarged edition of
Mr Boffin's dust heaps, a kind of gigantic and glorified Harmony Jail.
There is no more disillusioning place in the world to land in by
daytime. The port is under the shelter of the Isleta, a barren cindery
satellite of Grand Canary joined to the main island by an isthmus of
yellow sand-dunes. The roads are dust; dust flies in a ceaseless wind;
unhappy palms by the roads are grey with dust; it would at first seem
impossible to eat anything but an egg without getting one's teeth full
of grit. And yet after all one sees that there are compensations in the
sun. I said to a man who managed a big hotel, "This is a hideous place;"
and he answered cheerfully, "Yes, isn't it?" And he added, "We have only
got the climate." So might a man say, "I've not much ready money, but
I've a million or two in Consols." I understood it by-and-by. And after
all Las Palmas is not all the island, nor is its evil-mannered port. The
country is a country of vines behind the sand and cinder ramparts of the
city, and if one sees no running water, or sees it rarely, the
hard-working Canarienses have built tanks to save the rain, and they
bring streams in flumes from the inner hills that rise six thousand feet
above the sea. They grow vines and sugar and cultivate the cochineal
insect, which looks like a loathsome disease (as indeed it is) upon the
swarth cactus or tunera which it feeds on. And the islands grow tobacco.
Las Palmas is after all only the emporium of Grand Canary and a coaling
station for steamers to South Africa and the West Coast and South
America. It also takes invalids and turns out good work even among
consumptives, for there is power in its sun and dry air.
Its people are Spanish, but Spanish with a difference. The ancient
Guanches, now utterly extinct as a people, have left traces of their
blood and influence and character. Even now the poor Canary folk
naturally live in caves. They dig a hole in a rock, or enlarge a hollow,
and hang a sack before the hole, and, behold, they possess a house. Not
fifty yards from the big old fort at the back of the town the cliffs are
all full of people as a sandstone quarry is sometimes full of sand
martins. The caves with doors pay taxes, it is said, but those with no
more than a sack escape anything in the shape of a direct tax. To escape
taxes altogether in any country under Spain is impossible. The _octroi_
or _fielato_ sees to that.
For the most part Las Palmas to English people is no more than a
sanatorium. They come to the Islands to get well and go away knowing as
much of the people as they knew before. And indeed the climate is one
that makes sitting in a big cane chair much easier than walking even a
hundred yards. But the English for that matter do not trouble greatly
about the customs or conditions of any foreigners. They _are_
foreigners, Spaniards, strangers. It is easy to sit in the garden of a
big hotel surrounded by one's own compatriots and ignore the fact that
the Canary Islands do not belong to us. That they do not is perhaps a
grievance of a sort. One is pleased to remember that Nelson made a bold
attempt to take the city of Santa Cruz in Teneriffe, even though he was
wounded and failed. For no more surprising piece of audacity ever
entered an English head. There was no more disgrace in his failing than
there would be in failing to take the moon. And after all, some day, no
doubt, the English will buy or steal a Canary Island. There is a
lingering suspicion among us all that no island ought to belong to any
other nation, unless indeed it is the United States. With an
enterprising people these cinder heaps would be less heavily taxed and
more prosperous. For the prosperity of Las Palmas itself is much a
matter of coaling. And the islands have had commercial crisis after
commercial crisis as wine rose in price and fell, as cochineal had its
vain struggle with chemical dyes. Now its chief hold is the banana.
My first walk at Las Palmas was through the port to the Isleta. I went
with a Scotchman who talked Spanish like a native and astounded two
small boys who volunteered to guide us where no guide was needed. The
begging, as in all Spanish places, is a pest, a nuisance, a very
desolation. "Give a penny, give a penny," varied by a tremendous rise to
"Give a shilling," is the cry of all the children. Among Spaniards it is
no disgrace to beg. While in the cathedral one day two of us were
surrounded by a gang of acolytes in their church dress who begged
ceaselessly, unreproved by any priest. These two boys on the Isleta
having met someone who spoke Spanish left us to our own devices after
having received a penny. And we went on until we were stayed by
sentries. For the Isleta is now a powerful fort. It was made so at the
time of the Spanish-American War, and no strangers are allowed to see
it. So we turned aside and walked miles by a barbed wire fence, among
fired rocks and cinders, where never a blade of grass grew. The Isleta
is the latest volcano in Grand Canary, and except in certain states of
the atmosphere it is utterly and barrenly hideous. Only when one sees it
from afar, when the sun is setting and the white sea is aflame, does it
become beautiful. Certainly Las Palmas is not lovely.